wards," she persisted. "It was an obligation, and a de Montbard does not forget. Was it"—her eyes met his like the points of two stilettos—"was it by any chance Jean Villjean?"
"Why, since you mention him, I remember that it was," assented Raoul with patent artlessness. "He"
"Oh!" exclaimed Celestine, tearing herself free, "but this transcends the possible limit! It is not enough that I must endure Jean Villjean's lips pressed against my face. His arm, down even to the extremities of the fingers—admittedly the most delicate organs of the touch—may now insinuate themselves around my waist. What next, I wonder? I refuse to contemplate the eventuality! The arm from which I tear myself is not that of Raoul de Montbard, to whose memory I shall remain faithful for ever, but the arm of Jean Villjean. Adieu, composite monster!"
With that, Célestine Bon departed from the recuperation camp yet again. This time she did not even wait for official permission, so that with unauthorised absence from duty the incident of her service for the Allied cause regretfully closed. But on that score Mlle. Bon has no misgivings. It was merely impossible for her to act otherwise. Any woman—certainly any Frenchwoman—will understand and will tender her a silent and respectful sympathy.
It is quite true that once more, in the calm atmosphere of her domestic round, Célestine's heart has begun to soften towards the absent warrior, but she is practical enough to be warned by experience. The same sort of thing occurred before, and what happened then? She could endure—nay, treasure—a Raoul reduced by valour to the mere truncation of a man, his features battered beyond recognition, but not one who, before her eyes, is
