"I am listening, mademoiselle," stammered the curé.

"I am rich, M. le Curé, and, to speak the truth, I like my money very
much. I like it selfishly, so to say, for the joy and pleasure I have in
giving. I have always said to myself, 'My husband must be worthy of
sharing this fortune,' and I have also said, 'I want to love the man who
will be my husband!' And now I am coming to my confession.... Here is a
man who for two months has done all he could to hide from me that he
loves me.... Jean, do you love me?"

"Yes," murmured Jean, his eyes cast down like a criminal, "I love you."

"I knew it." Bettina lost a little of her assurance; her voice trembled
slightly. She continued, however, with an effort. "M. le Curé, I do not
blame you entirely for what has happened, but certainly it is partly
your fault."

"My fault?"

"Yes, your fault. I am certain you have spoken to Jean too much of me,
much too much. And then you have told me too much of him. No, not too
much, but quite enough! I had so much confidence in you that I began to
consider him a little more closely. I began to compare him with those
who, for more than a year, have sought my hand. It seemed to me that he
was their superior in every way. Then, there came a day... an evening...
three weeks ago, the eve of your departure, Jean, and I found I loved
you. Yes, Jean, I love you!... I beg you, Jean, be still; do not come
near me.... I have still something to say, more important than all. I
know that you love me, but if you are to marry me I want your reason to