“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.