The kitchen was bright with sunshine, and the industrious bees were
buzzing around the flowers on the window-sills, while Reine was
listlessly attending to culinary duties, and preparing her father’s
meal. The humiliating disclosures made by the Abbe Pernot weighed
heavily upon her mind. She foresaw that Claudet would shortly be at La
Thuiliere in order to hear the result of the cure’s visit; but she did
not feel sufficiently mistress of herself to have a decisive interview
with him at such short notice, and resolved to gain at least one day
by absenting herself from the farm. It seemed to her necessary that she
should have that length of time to arrange her ideas, and evolve some
way of separating Claudet and herself without his suspecting the real
motive of rupture. So, telling La Guite to say that unexpected business
had called her away, she set out for the woods of Maigrefontaine.
Whenever she had felt the need of taking counsel with herself before
deciding on any important matter, the forest had been her refuge and her
inspiration. The refreshing solitude of the valleys, watered by living
streams, acted as a strengthening balm to her irresolute will; her soul
inhaled the profound peace of these leafy retreats. By the time she had
reached the inmost shade of the forest her mind had become calmer,
and better able to unravel the confusion of thoughts that surged like
troubled waters through her brain. The dominant idea was, that her
self-respect had been wounded; the shock to her maidenly modesty, and
the shame attendant upon the fact, affected her physically, as if she
had been belittled and degraded by a personal stain; and this
downfall caused her deep humiliation. By slow degrees, however, and
notwithstanding this state of abject despair, she felt, cropping
up somewhere in her heart, a faint germ of gladness, and, by close
examination, discovered its origin: she was now loosed from her
obligations toward Claudet, and the prospect of being once more free
afforded her immediate consolation.
She had so much regretted, during the last few weeks, the feeling of
outraged pride which had incited her to consent to this marriage; her
loyal, sincere nature had revolted at the constraint she had imposed
upon herself; her nerves had been so severely taxed by having to receive
her fiance with sufficient warmth to satisfy his expectations, and yet
not afford any encouragement to his demonstrative tendencies, that the
certainty of her newly acquired freedom created a sensation of relief
and well-being. But, hardly had she analyzed and acknowledged this
sensation when she reproached herself for harboring it when she was
about to cause Claudet such affliction.
Poor Claudet! what a cruel blow was in store for him! He was so
guilelessly in love, and had such unbounded confidence in the success of
his projects! Reine was overcome by tender reminiscences. She had always
experienced, as if divining by instinct the natural bonds which united
them, a sisterly affection for Claudet. Since their earliest infancy, at
the age when they learned their catechism under the church porch, they
had been united in a bond of friendly fellowship. With Reine, this
tender feeling had always remained one of friendship, but, with Claudet,
it had ripened into love; and now, after allowing the poor young fellow
to believe that his love was reciprocated, she was forced to disabuse
him. It was useless for her to try to find some way of softening the
blow; there was none. Claudet was too much in love to remain satisfied
with empty words; he would require solid reasons; and the only
conclusive one which would convince him, without wounding his self-love,
was exactly the one which the young girl could not give him. She was,
therefore, doomed to send Claudet away with the impression that he had
been jilted by a heartless and unprincipled coquette. And yet something
must be done. The grand chasserot had been too long already in the
toils; there was something barbarously cruel in not freeing him from his
illusions.
In this troubled state of mind, Reine gazed appealingly at the silent
witnesses of her distress. She heard a voice within her saying to the
tall, vaulted ash, “Inspire me!” to the little rose-colored centaurea
of the wayside, “Teach me a charm to cure the harm I have done!” But
the woods, which in former days had been her advisers and instructors,
remained deaf to her invocation. For the first time, she felt herself
isolated and abandoned to her own resources, even in the midst of her
beloved forest.
It is when we experience these violent mental crises, that we become
suddenly conscious of Nature’s cold indifference to our sufferings. She
really is nothing more than the reflex of our own sensations, and can
only give us back what we lend her. Beautiful but selfish, she allows
herself to be courted by novices, but presents a freezing, emotionless
aspect to those who have outlived their illusions.
Reine did not reach home until the day had begun to wane. La Guite
informed her that Claudet had waited for her during part of the
afternoon, and that he would come again the next day at nine o’clock.
Notwithstanding her bodily fatigue, she slept uneasily, and her sleep
was troubled by feverish dreams. Every time she closed her eyes, she
fancied herself conversing with Claudet, and woke with a start at the
sound of his angry voice.
She arose at dawn, descended at once to the lower floor, to get through
her morning tasks, and as soon as the big kitchen clock struck nine, she
left the house and took the path by which Claudet would come. A feeling
of delicate consideration toward her lover had impelled her to choose
for her explanation any other place than the one where she had first
received his declaration of love, and consented to the marriage. Very
soon he came in sight, his stalwart figure outlined against the gray
landscape. He was walking rapidly; her heart smote her, her hands became
like ice, but she summoned all her fortitude, and went bravely forward
to meet him.
When he came within forty or fifty feet, he recognized Reine, and took a
short cut across the stubble studded with cobwebs glistening with dew.
“Aha! my Reine, my queen, good-morning!” cried he, joyously, “it is
sweet of you to come to meet me!”
“Good-morning, Claudet. I came to meet you because I wish to speak
with you on matters of importance, and I preferred not to have the
conversation take place in our house. Shall we walk as far as the
Planche-au-Vacher?”
He stopped short, astonished at the proposal and also at the sad and
resolute attitude of his betrothed. He examined her more closely,
noticed her deep-set eyes, her cheeks, whiter than usual.
“Why, what is the matter, Reine?” he inquired; “you are not yourself; do
you not feel well?”
“Yes, and no. I have passed a bad night, thinking over matters that are
troubling me, and I think that has produced some fever.”
“What matters? Any that concern us?”
“Yes;” replied she, laconically.
Claudet opened his eyes. The young girl’s continued gravity began to
alarm him; but, seeing that she walked quickly forward, with an absent
air, her face lowered, her brows bent, her mouth compressed, he lost
courage and refrained from asking her any questions. They walked on
thus in silence, until they came to the open level covered with
juniper-bushes, from which solitary place, surrounded by hawthorn
hedges, they could trace the narrow defile leading to Vivey, and the
faint mist beyond.
“Let us stop here,” said Reine, seating herself on a flat, mossy stone,
“we can talk here without fear of being disturbed.”
“No fear of that,” remarked Claudet, with a forced smile, “with the
exception of the shepherd of Vivey, who comes here sometimes with his
cattle, we shall not see many passers-by. It must be a secret that you
have to tell me, Reine?” he added.
“No;” she returned, “but I foresee that my words will give you pain, my
poor Claudet, and I prefer you should hear them without being annoyed by
the farm-people passing to and fro.”
“Explain yourself!” he exclaimed, impetuously. “For heaven’s sake, don’t
keep me in suspense!”
“Listen, Claudet. When you asked my hand in marriage, I answered yes,
without taking time to reflect. But, since I have been thinking over our
plans, I have had scruples. My father is becoming every day more of an
invalid, and in his present state I really have no right to live for any
one but him. One would think he was aware of our intentions, for since
you have been visiting at the farm, he is more agitated and suffers
more. I think that any change in his way of living would bring on a
stroke, and I never should forgive myself if I thought I had shortened
his life. That is the reason why, as long as I have him with me, I do
not see that it will be possible for me to dispose of myself. On the
other hand, I do not wish to abuse your patience. I therefore ask you to
take back your liberty and give me back my promise.”
“That is to say, you won’t have me!” he exclaimed.
“No; my poor friend, it means only that I shall not marry so long as
my father is living, and that I can not ask you to wait until I am
perfectly free. Forgive me for having entered into the engagement too
carelessly, and do not on that account take your friendship from me.”
“Reine,” interrupted Claudet, angrily, “don’t turn your brain inside out
to make me believe that night is broad day. I am not a child, and I see
very well that your father’s health is only a pretext. You don’t want
me, that’s all, and, with all due respect, you have changed your mind
very quickly! Only the day before yesterday you authorized me to arrange
about the day for the ceremony with the Abbe Pernot. Now that you have
had a visit from the cure, you want to put the affair off until the week
when two Sundays come together! I am a little curious to know what that
confounded old abbe has been babbling about me, to turn you inside out
like a glove in such a short time.”
Claudet’s conscience reminded him of several rare frolics, chance
love-affairs, meetings in the woods, and so on, and he feared the priest
might have told Reine some unfavorable stories about him. “Ah!” he
continued, clenching his fists, “if this old poacher in a cassock has
done me an ill turn with you, he will not have much of a chance for
paradise!”
“Undeceive yourself,” said Reine, quickly, “Monsieur le Cure is your
friend, like myself; he esteems you highly, and never has said anything
but good of you.”
“Oh, indeed!” sneered the young man, “as you are both so fond of me, how
does it happen that you have given me my dismissal the very day after
your interview with the cure?”
Reine, knowing Claudet’s violent disposition, and wishing to avoid
trouble for the cure, thought it advisable to have recourse to evasion.
“Monsieur le Cure,” said she, “has had no part in my decision. He has
not spoken against you, and deserves no reproaches from you.”
“In that case, why do you send me away?”
“I repeat again, the comfort and peace of my father are paramount with
me, and I do not intend to marry so long as he may have need of me.”
“Well,” said Claudet, persistently, “I love you, and I will wait.”
“It can not be.”
“Why?”
“Because,” replied she, sharply, “because it would be kind neither to
you, nor to my father, nor to me. Because marriages that drag along in
that way are never good for anything!”
“Those are bad reasons!” he muttered, gloomily.
“Good or bad,” replied the young girl, “they appear valid to me, and I
hold to them.”
“Reine,” said he, drawing near to her and looking straight into her
eyes, “can you swear, by the head of your father, that you have given me
the true reason for your rejecting me?”
She became embarrassed, and remained silent.
“See!” he exclaimed, “you dare not take the oath!”
“My word should suffice,” she faltered.
“No; it does not suffice. But your silence says a great deal, I tell
you! You are too frank, Reine, and you don’t know how to lie. I read it
in your eyes, I do. The true reason is that you do not love me.”
She shrugged her shoulders and turned away her head.
“No, you do not love me. If you had any love for me, instead of
discouraging me, you would hold out some hope to me, and advise me to
have patience. You never have loved me, confess now!”
By dint of this persistence, Reine by degrees lost her self-confidence.
She could realize how much Claudet was suffering, and she reproached
herself for the torture she was inflicting upon him. Driven into a
corner, and recognizing that the avowal he was asking for was the only
one that would drive him away, she hesitated no longer.
“Alas!” she murmured, lowering her eyes, “since you force me to tell you
some truths that I would rather have kept from you, I confess you have
guessed. I have a sincere friendship for you, but that is all. I have
concluded that to marry a person one ought to love him differently,
more than everything else in the world, and I feel that my heart is not
turned altogether toward you.”
“No,” said Claudet, bitterly, “it is turned elsewhere.”
“What do you mean? I do not understand you.”
“I mean that you love some one else.”
“That is not true,” she protested.
“You are blushing--a proof that I have hit the nail!”
“Enough of this!” cried she, imperiously.
“You are right. Now that you have said you don’t want me any longer, I
have no right to ask anything further. Adieu!”
He turned quickly on his heel. Reine was conscious of having been too
hard with him, and not wishing him to go away with such a grief in his
heart, she sought to retain him by placing her hand upon his arm.
“Come, Claudet,” said she, entreatingly, “do not let us part in anger.
It pains me to see you suffer, and I am sorry if I have said anything
unkind to you. Give me your hand in good fellowship, will you?”
But Claudet drew back with a fierce gesture, and glancing angrily at
Reine, he replied, rudely:
“Thanks for your regrets and your pity; I have no use for them.” She
understood that he was deeply hurt; gave up entreating, and turned away
with eyes full of tears.
He remained motionless, his arms crossed, in the middle of the road.
After some minutes, he turned his head. Reine was already nothing more
than a dark speck against the gray of the increasing fog. Then he went
off, haphazard, across the pasture-lands. The fog was rising slowly, and
the sun, shorn of its beams, showed its pale face faintly through it.
To the right and the left, the woods were half hidden by moving white
billows, and Claudet walked between fluid walls of vapor. This hidden
sky, these veiled surroundings, harmonized with his mental condition. It
was easier for him to hide his chagrin. “Some one else! Yes; that’s it.
She loves some other fellow! how was it I did not find that out the very
first day?” Then he recalled how Reine shrank from him when he solicited
a caress; how she insisted on their betrothal being kept secret, and
how many times she had postponed the date of the wedding. It was evident
that she had received him only in self-defence, and on the pleading of
Julien de Buxieres. Julien! the name threw a gleam of light across his
brain, hitherto as foggy as the country around him. Might not Julien be
the fortunate rival on whom Reine’s affections were so obstinately set?
Still, if she had always loved Monsieur de Buxieres, in what spirit of
perversity or thoughtlessness had she suffered the advances of another
suitor?
Reine was no coquette, and such a course of action would be repugnant to
her frank, open nature. It was a profound enigma, which Claudet, who had
plenty of good common sense, but not much insight, was unable to solve.
But grief has, among its other advantages, the power of rendering our
perceptions more acute; and by dint of revolving the question in his
mind, Claudet at last became enlightened. Had not Reine simply followed
the impulse of her wounded feelings? She was very proud, and when the
man whom she secretly loved had come coolly forward to plead the
cause of one who was indifferent to her, would not her self-respect
be lowered, and would she not, in a spirit of bravado, accept the
proposition, in order that he might never guess the sufferings of her
spurned affections? There was no doubt, that, later, recognizing that
the task was beyond her strength, she had felt ashamed of deceiving
Claudet any longer, and, acting on the advice of the Abbe Pernot, had
made up her mind to break off a union that was repugnant to her.
“Yes;” he repeated, mournfully to himself, “that must have been the way
it happened.” And with this kind of explanation of Reine’s actions, his
irritation seemed to lessen. Not that his grief was less poignant, but
the first burst of rage had spent itself like a great wind-storm, which
becomes lulled after a heavy fall of rain; the bitterness was toned
down, and he was enabled to reason more clearly.
Julien--well, what was the part of Julien in all this disturbance? “If
what I imagine is true,” thought he, “Monsieur de Buxieres knows that
Reine loves him, but has he any reciprocal feeling for her? With a man
as mysterious as my cousin, it is not easy to find out what is going on
in his heart. Anyhow, I have no right to complain of him; as soon as
he discovered my love for Reine, did he not, besides ignoring his own
claim, offer spontaneously to take my message? Still, there is something
queer at the bottom of it all, and whatever it costs me, I am going to
find it out.”
At this moment, through the misty air, he heard faintly the village
clock strike eleven. “Already so late! how the time flies, even when one
is suffering!” He bent his course toward the chateau, and, breathless
and excited, without replying to Manette’s inquiries, he burst into the
hall where his cousin was pacing up and down, waiting for breakfast.
At this sudden intrusion Julien started, and noted Claudet’s quick
breathing and disordered state.
“Ho, ho!” exclaimed he, in his usual, sarcastic tone, “what a hurry
you are in! I suppose you have come to say the wedding-day is fixed at
last?”
“No!” replied Claudet, briefly, “there will be no wedding.”
Julien tottered, and turned to face his cousin.
“What’s that? Are you joking?”
“I am in no mood for joking. Reine will not have me; she has taken back
her promise.”
While pronouncing these words, he scrutinized attentively his cousin’s
countenance, full in the light from the opposite window. He saw his
features relax, and his eyes glow with the same expression which he had
noticed a few days previous, when he had referred to the fact that Reine
had again postponed the marriage.
“Whence comes this singular change?” stammered de Buxieres, visibly
agitated; “what reasons does Mademoiselle Vincart give in explanation?”
“Idle words: her father’s health, disinclination to leave him. You may
suppose I take such excuses for what they are worth. The real cause of
her refusal is more serious and more mortifying.”
“You know it, then?” exclaimed Julien, eagerly.
“I know it, because I forced Reine to confess it.”
“And the reason is?”
“That she does not love me.”
“Reine--does not love you!”
Again a gleam of light irradiated the young man’s large, blue eyes.
Claudet was leaning against the table, in front of his cousin; he
continued slowly, looking him steadily in the face:
“That is not all. Not only does Reine not love me, but she loves some
one else.”
Julien changed color; the blood coursed over his cheeks, his forehead,
his ears; he drooped his head.
“Did she tell you so?” he murmured, at last, feebly.
“She did not, but I guessed it. Her heart is won, and I think I know by
whom.”
Claudet had uttered these last words slowly and with a painful effort,
at the same time studying Julien’s countenance with renewed inquiry. The
latter became more and more troubled, and his physiognomy expressed both
anxiety and embarrassment.
“Whom do you suspect?” he stammered.
“Oh!” replied Claudet, employing a simple artifice to sound the obscure
depth of his cousin’s heart, “it is useless to name the person; you do
not know him.”
“A stranger?”
Julien’s countenance had again changed. His hands were twitching
nervously, his lips compressed, and his dilated pupils were blazing with
anger, instead of triumph, as before.
“Yes; a stranger, a clerk in the iron-works at Grancey, I think.”
“You think!--you think!” cried Julien, fiercely, “why don’t you have
more definite information before you accuse Mademoiselle Vincart of such
treachery?”
He resumed pacing the hall, while his interlocutor, motionless, remained
silent, and kept his eyes steadily upon him.
“It is not possible,” resumed Julien, “Reine can not have played us
such a trick! When I spoke to her for you, it was so easy to say she was
already betrothed!”
“Perhaps,” objected Claudet, shaking his head, “she had reasons for not
letting you know all that was in her mind.”
“What reasons?”
“She doubtless believed at that time that the man she preferred did not
care for her. There are some people who, when they are vexed, act in
direct contradiction to their own wishes. I have the idea that Reine
accepted me only for want of some one better, and afterward, being too
openhearted to dissimulate for any length of time, she thought better of
it, and sent me about my business.”
“And you,” interrupted Julien, sarcastically, “you, who had been
accepted as her betrothed, did not know better how to defend your rights
than to suffer yourself to be ejected by a rival, whose intentions,
even, you have not clearly ascertained!”
“By Jove! how could I help it? A fellow that takes an unwilling bride
is playing for too high stakes. The moment I found there was another she
preferred, I had but one course before me--to take myself off.”
“And you call that loving!” shouted de Buxieres, “you call that losing
your heart! God in heaven! if I had been in your place, how differently
I should have acted! Instead of leaving, with piteous protestations,
I should have stayed near Reine, I should have surrounded her with
tenderness. I should have expressed my passion with so much force that
its flame should pass from my burning soul to hers, and she would have
been forced to love me! Ah! If I had only thought! if I had dared! how
different it would have been!”
He jerked out his sentences with unrestrained frenzy. He seemed hardly
to know what he was saying, or that he had a listener. Claudet stood
contemplating him in sullen silence: “Aha!” thought he, with bitter
resignation; “I have sounded you at last. I know what is in the bottom
of your heart.”
Manette, bringing in the breakfast, interrupted their colloquy, and both
assumed an air of indifference, according to a tacit understanding that
a prudent amount of caution should be observed in her presence. They
ate hurriedly, and as soon as the cloth was removed, and they were
again alone, Julien, glancing with an indefinable expression at Claudet,
muttered savagely:
“Well! what do you decide?”
“I will tell you later,” responded the other, briefly.
He quitted the room abruptly, told Manette that he would not be home
until late, and strode out across the fields, his dog following. He had
taken his gun as a blind, but it was useless for Montagnard to raise
his bark; Claudet allowed the hares to scamper away with out sending a
single shot after them. He was busy inwardly recalling the details
of the conversation he had had with his cousin. The situation now was
simplified Julien was in love with Reine, and was vainly combating his
overpowering passion. What reason had he for concealing his love?
What motive or reasoning had induced him, when he was already secretly
enamored of the girl, to push Claudet in front and interfere to procure
her acceptance of him as a fiance? This point alone remained obscure.
Was Julien carrying out certain theories of the respect due his position
in society, and did he fear to contract a misalliance by marrying a mere
farmer’s daughter? Or did he, with his usual timidity and distrust of
himself, dread being refused by Reine, and, half through pride, half
through backward ness, keep away for fear of a humiliating rejection?
With de Buxieres’s proud and suspicious nature, each of these
suppositions was equally likely. The conclusion most undeniable was,
that notwithstanding his set ideas and his moral cowardice, Julien had
an ardent and over powering love for Mademoiselle Vincart. As to Reine
herself, Claudet was more than ever convinced that she had a secret
inclination toward somebody, although she had denied the charge. But
for whom was her preference? Claudet knew the neighborhood too well to
believe the existence of any rival worth talking about, other than his
cousin de Buxieres. None of the boys of the village or the surrounding
towns had ever come courting old Father Vincart’s daughter, and de
Buxieres himself possessed sufficient qualities to attract Reine.
Certainly, if he were a girl, he never should fix upon Julien for a
lover; but women often have tastes that men can not comprehend, and
Julien’s refinement of nature, his bashfulness, and even his reserve,
might easily have fascinated a girl of such strong will and somewhat
peculiar notions. It was probable, therefore, that she liked him,
and perhaps had done so for a long time; but, being clear-sighted and
impartial, she could see that he never would marry her, because her
condition in life was not equal to his own. Afterward, when the man
she loved had flaunted his indifference so far as to plead the cause of
another, her pride had revolted, and in the blind agony of her wounded
feelings, she had thrown herself into the arms of the first comer, as if
to punish herself for entertaining loving thoughts of a man who could so
disdain her affection.
So, by means of that lucid intuition which the heart alone can furnish,
Claudet at last succeeded in evolving the naked truth. But the fatiguing
labor of so much thinking, to which his brain was little accustomed,
and the sadness which continued to oppress him, overcame him to such an
extent that he was obliged to sit down and rest on a clump of brushwood.
He gazed over the woods and the clearings, which he had so often
traversed light of heart and of foot, and felt mortally unhappy. These
sheltering lanes and growing thickets, where he had so frequently
encountered Reine, the beautiful hunting-grounds in which he had taken
such delight, only awakened painful sensations, and he felt as if he
should grow to hate them all if he were obliged to pass the rest of his
days in their midst. As the day waned, the sinuosities of the forest
became more blended; the depth of the valleys was lost in thick vapors.
The wind had risen. The first falling leaves of the season rose and fell
like wounded birds; heavy clouds gathered in the sky, and the night was
coming on apace. Claudet was grateful for the sudden darkness, which
would blot out a view now so distasteful to him. Shortly, on the
Auberive side, along the winding Aubette, feeble lights became visible,
as if inviting the young man to profit by their guidance. He arose,
took the path indicated, and went to supper, or rather, to a pretence of
supper, in the same inn where he had breakfasted with Julien, whence the
latter had gone on his mission to Reine. This remembrance alone would
have sufficed to destroy his appetite.
He did not remain long at table; he could not, in fact, stay many
minutes in one place, and so, notwithstanding the urgent insistence
of the hostess, he started on the way back to Vivey, feeling his way
through the profound darkness. When he reached the chateau, every one
was in bed. Noiselessly, his dog creeping after him, he slipped into his
room, and, overcome with fatigue, fell into a heavy slumber.
The next morning his first visit was to Julien. He found him in a
nervous and feverish condition, having passed a sleepless night.
Claudet’s revelations had entirely upset his intentions, and planted
fresh thorns of jealousy in his heart. On first hearing that the
marriage was broken off, his heart had leaped for joy, and hope had
revived within him; but the subsequent information that Mademoiselle
Vincart was probably interested in some lover, as yet unknown, had
grievously sobered him. He was indignant at Reine’s duplicity, and
Claudet’s cowardly resignation. The agony caused by Claudet’s betrothal
was a matter of course, but this love-for-a-stranger episode was an
unexpected and mortal wound. He was seized with violent fits of rage;
he was sometimes tempted to go and reproach the young girl with what he
called her breach of faith, and then go and throw himself at her feet
and avow his own passion.
But the mistrust he had of himself, and his incurable bashfulness,
invariably prevented these heroic resolutions from being carried out. He
had so long cultivated a habit of minute, fatiguing criticism upon every
inward emotion that he had almost incapacitated himself for vigorous
action.
He was in this condition when Claudet came in upon him. At the noise of
the opening door, Julien raised his head, and looked dolefully at his
cousin.
“Well?” said he, languidly.
“Well!” retorted Claudet, bravely, “on thinking over what has been
happening during the last month, I have made sure of one thing of which
I was doubtful.”
“Of what were you doubtful?” returned de Buxieres, quite ready to take
offence at the answer.
“I am about to tell you. Do you remember the first conversation we had
together concerning Reine? You spoke of her with so much earnestness
that I then suspected you of being in love with her.”
“I--I--hardly remember,” faltered Julien, coloring.
“In that case, my memory is better than yours, Monsieur de Buxieres.
To-day, my suspicions have become certainties. You are in love with
Reine Vincart!”
“I?” faintly protested his cousin.
“Don’t deny it, but rather, give me your confidence; you will not be
sorry for it. You love Reine, and have loved her for a long while.
You have succeeded in hiding it from me because it is hard for you to
unbosom yourself; but, yesterday, I saw it quite plainly. You dare not
affirm the contrary!”
Julien, greatly agitated, had hidden his face in his hands. After a
moment’s silence, he replied, defiantly: “Well, and supposing it is so?
What is the use of talking about it, since Reine’s affections are placed
elsewhere?”
“Oh! that’s another matter. Reine has declined to have me, and I really
think she has some other affair in her head. Yet, to confess the truth,
the clerk at the iron-works was a lover of my own imagining; she never
thought of him.”
“Then why did you tell such a lie?” cried Julien, impetuously.
“Because I thought I would plead the lie to get at the truth. Forgive me
for having made use of this old trick to put you on the right track. It
wasn’t such a bad idea, for I succeeded in finding out what you took so
much pains to hide from me.”
“To hide from you? Yes, I did wish to hide it from you. Wasn’t that
right, since I was convinced that Reine loved you?” exclaimed Julien,
in an almost stifled voice, as if the avowal were choking him. “I have
always thought it idle to parade one’s feelings before those who do not
care about them.”
“You were wrong,” returned poor Claudet, sighing deeply, “if you had
spoken for yourself, I have an idea you would have been better received,
and you would have spared me a terrible heart-breaking.”
He said it with such profound sadness that Julien, notwithstanding the
absorbing nature of his own thoughts, was quite overcome, and almost
on the point of confessing, openly, the intensity of his feeling toward
Reine Vincart. But, accustomed as he was, by long habit, to concentrate
every emotion within himself, he found it impossible to become, all
at once, communicative; he felt an invincible and almost maidenly
bashfulness at the idea of revealing the secret sentiments of his soul,
and contented himself with saying, in a low voice:
“Do you not love her any more, then?”
“I? oh, yes, indeed! But to be refused by the only girl I ever wished to
marry takes all the spirit out of me. I am so discouraged, I feel like
leaving the country. If I were to go, it would perhaps be doing you a
service, and that would comfort me a little. You have treated me as a
friend, and that is a thing one doesn’t forget. I have not the means to
pay you back for your kindness, but I think I should be less sorry to
go if my departure would leave the way more free for you to return to La
Thuiliere.”
“You surely would not leave on my account?” exclaimed Julien, in alarm.
“Not solely on your account, rest assured. If Reine had loved me, it
never would have entered my head to make such a sacrifice for you, but
she will not have me. I am good for nothing here. I am only in your
way.”
“But that is a wild idea! Where would you go?”
“Oh! there would be no difficulty about that. One plan would be to go
as a soldier. Why not? I am hardy, a good walker, a good shot, can stand
fatigue; I have everything needed for military life. It is an occupation
that I should like, and I could earn my epaulets as well as my neighbor.
So that perhaps, Monsieur de Buxieres, matters might in that way be
arranged to suit everybody.”
“Claudet!” stammered Julien, his voice thick with sobs, “you are a
better man than I! Yes; you are a better man than I!”
And, for the first time, yielding to an imperious longing for expansion,
he sprang toward the grand chasserot, clasped him in his arms, and
embraced him fraternally.
“I will not let you expatriate yourself on my account,” he continued;
“do not act rashly, I entreat!”
“Don’t worry,” replied Claudet, laconically, “if I so decide, it will
not be without deliberation.”
In fact, during the whole of the ensuing week, he debated in his mind
this question of going away. Each day his position at Vivey seemed
more unbearable. Without informing any one, he had been to Langres
and consulted an officer of his acquaintance on the subject of the
formalities required previous to enrolment.
At last, one morning he resolved to go over to the military division and
sign his engagement. But he was not willing to consummate this sacrifice
without seeing Reine Vincart for the last time. He was nursing, down in
the bottom of his heart, a vague hope, which, frail and slender as the
filament of a plant, was yet strong enough to keep him on his native
soil. Instead of taking the path to Vivey, he made a turn in the
direction of La Thuiliere, and soon reached the open elevation whence
the roofs of the farm-buildings and the turrets of the chateau could
both alike be seen. There he faltered, with a piteous sinking of the
heart. Only a few steps between himself and the house, yet he hesitated
about entering; not that he feared a want of welcome, but because he
dreaded lest the reawakening of his tenderness should cause him to
lose a portion of the courage he should need to enable him to leave.
He leaned against the trunk of an old pear-tree and surveyed the forest
site on which the farm was built.
The landscape retained its usual placidity. In the distance, over the
waste lands, the shepherd Tringuesse was following his flock of sheep,
which occasionally scattered over the fields, and then, under the
dog’s harassing watchfulness, reformed in a compact group, previous to
descending the narrow hill-slope. One thing struck Claudet: the pastures
and the woods bore exactly the same aspect, presented the same play of
light and shade as on that afternoon of the preceding year, when he had
met Reine in the Ronces woods, a few days before the arrival of
Julien. The same bright yet tender tint reddened the crab-apple and the
wild-cherry; the tomtits and the robins chirped as before, among
the bushes, and, as in the previous year, one heard the sound of the
beechnuts and acorns dropping on the rocky paths. Autumn went through
her tranquil rites and familiar operations, always with the same
punctual regularity; and all this would go on just the same when Claudet
was no longer there. There would only be one lad the less in the
village streets, one hunter failing to answer the call when they were
surrounding the woods of Charbonniere. This dim perception of how small
a space man occupies on the earth, and of the ease with which he is
forgotten, aided Claudet unconsciously in his effort to be resigned,
and he determined to enter the house. As he opened the gate of the
courtyard, he found himself face to face with Reine, who was coming out.
The young girl immediately supposed he had come to make a last assault,
in the hope of inducing her to yield to his wishes. She feared a renewal
of the painful scene which had closed their last interview, and her
first impulse was to put herself on her guard. Her countenance darkened,
and she fixed a cold, questioning gaze upon Claudet, as if to keep him
at a distance. But, when she noted the sadness of her young relative’s
expression, she was seized with pity. Making an effort, however, to
disguise her emotion, she pretended to accost him with the calm and
cordial friendship of former times.
“Why, good-morning, Claudet,” said she, “you come just in time. A
quarter of an hour later you would not have found me. Will you come in
and rest a moment?”
“Thanks, Reine,” said he, “I will not hinder you in your work. But I
wanted to say, I am sorry I got angry the other day; you were right, we
must not leave each other with ill-feeling, and, as I am going away for
a long time, I desire first to take your hand in friendship.”
“You are going away?”
“Yes; I am going now to Langres to enroll myself as a soldier. And true
it is, one knows when one goes away, but it is hard to know when one
will come back. That is why I wanted to say good-by to you, and make
peace, so as not to go away with too great a load on my heart.”
All Reine’s coldness melted away. This young fellow, who was leaving
his country on her account, was the companion of her infancy, more than
that, her nearest relative. Her throat swelled, her eyes filled with
tears. She turned away her head, that he might not perceive her emotion,
and opened the kitchen-door.
“Come in, Claudet,” said she, “we shall be more comfortable in the
dining-room. We can talk there, and you will have some refreshment
before you go, will you not?”
He obeyed, and followed her into the house. She went herself into the
cellar, to seek a bottle of old wine, brought two glasses, and filled
them with a trembling hand.
“Shall you remain long in the service?” asked she.
“I shall engage for seven years.”
“It is a hard life that you are choosing.”
“What am I to do?” replied he, “I could not stay here doing nothing.”
Reine went in and out of the room in a bewildered fashion. Claudet, too
much excited to perceive that the young girl’s impassiveness was only on
the surface, said to himself: “It is all over; she accepts my departure
as an event perfectly natural; she treats me as she would Theotime, the
coal-dealer, or the tax-collector Boucheseiche. A glass of wine, two or
three unimportant questions, and then, good-by-a pleasant journey, and
take care of yourself!”
Then he made a show of taking an airy, insouciant tone.
“Oh, well!” he exclaimed, “I’ve always been drawn toward that kind of
life. A musket will be a little heavier than a gun, that’s all; then I
shall see different countries, and that will change my ideas.” He tried
to appear facetious, poking around the kitchen, and teasing the magpie,
which was following his footsteps with inquisitive anxiety. Finally,
he went up to the old man Vincart, who was lying stretched out in his
picture-lined niche. He took the flabby hand of the paralytic old man,
pressed it gently and endeavored to get up a little conversation with
him, but he had it all to himself, the invalid staring at him all the
time with uneasy, wide-open eyes. Returning to Reine, he lifted his
glass.
“To your health, Reine!” said he, with forced gayety, “next time we
clink glasses together, I shall be an experienced soldier--you’ll see!”
But, when he put the glass to his lips, several big tears fell in, and
he had to swallow them with his wine.
“Well!” he sighed, turning away while he passed the back of his hand
across his eyes, “it must be time to go.”
She accompanied him to the threshold.
“Adieu, Reine!”
“Adieu!” she murmured, faintly.
She stretched out both hands, overcome with pity and remorse. He
perceived her emotion, and thinking that she perhaps still loved him
a little, and repented having rejected him, threw his arms impetuously
around her. He pressed her against his bosom, and imprinted kisses, wet
with tears, upon her cheek. He could not leave her, and redoubled his
caresses with passionate ardor, with the ecstasy of a lover who suddenly
meets with a burst of tenderness on the part of the woman he has
tenderly loved, and whom he expects never to fold again in his arms.
He completely lost his self-control. His embrace became so ardent that
Reine, alarmed at the sudden outburst, was overcome with shame and
terror, notwithstanding the thought that the man, who was clasping her
in his arms with such passion, was her own brother.
She tore herself away from him and pushed him violently back.
“Adieu!” she cried, retreating to the kitchen, of which she hastily shut
the door.
Claudet stood one moment, dumfounded, before the door so pitilessly shut
in his face, then, falling suddenly from his happy state of illusion to
the dead level of reality, departed precipitately down the road.
When he turned to give a parting glance, the farm buildings were no
longer visible, and the waste lands of the forest border, gray, stony,
and barren, stretched their mute expanse before him.
“No!” exclaimed he, between his set teeth, “she never loved me. She
thinks only of the other man! I have nothing more to do but go away and
never return!”