It was this robust and manly cavalier, in whose face, as in an open book, one read uprightness, courage, and goodness.
The moment Jean perceived the Cure, he would put his horse to a gallop, and go to have a little chat with his godfather.

The horse would turn his head toward the Cure, for he knew very well there was always a piece of sugar for him in the pocket of that old black soutane--rusty and worn--the morning soutane.

The Abbe Constantin had a beautiful new one, of which he took great care, to wear in society--when he went into society.
The trumpets of the regiment sounded as they passed through the village, and all eyes sought Jean--"little Jean"-for to the old people of Longueval he was still little Jean.

Certain wrinkled, broken-down, old peasants had never been able to break themselves of the habit of saluting him when he passed with, "Bonjour, gamin, ca va bien ?" He was six feet high, this gamin, and Jean never crossed the village without perceiving at one window the old furrowed parchment skin of Clemence, and at another the smiling countenance of Rosalie.

The latter had married during the previous year; Jean had given her away, and joyously on the wedding-night had he danced with the girls of Longueval.
Such was the lieutenant of artillery, who, on Saturday, May 28, 1881, at half-past four in the afternoon, sprang from his horse before the door of the vicarage of Longueval.