A day's march for the artillery is twenty or thirty miles, with an hour's halt for luncheon.

It was the Abbe Constantin who had taught her that; when going their rounds in the morning among the poor, Bettina overwhelmed the Cure with questions on military affairs, and particularly on the artillery.
Twenty or thirty miles under this pouring rain! Poor Jean! Bettina thought of young Turner, young Norton, of Paul de Lavardens, who would sleep calmly till ten in the morning, while Jean was exposed to this deluge.
Paul de Lavardens! This name awoke in her a painful memory, the memory of that waltz the evening before.

To have danced like that, while Jean was so obviously in trouble! That waltz took the proportions of a crime in her eyes; it was a horrible thing that she had done.
And then, had she not been wanting in courage and frankness in that last interview with Jean?
He neither could nor dared say anything; but she might have shown more tenderness, more expansiveness.

Sad and suffering as he was, she should never have allowed him to go back on foot.

She ought to have detained him at any price.