While thus lamenting his fate, the march of time went steadily on, with its pitiless dropping out of seconds, minutes, and hours.  The worst part of winter was over; the March gales had dried up the forests; April was tingeing the woods with its tender green; the song of the cuckoo was already heard in the tufted bowers, and the festival of St. George had passed.

Taking advantage of an unusually clear day, Julien went to visit a farm, belonging to him, in the plain of Anjeures, on the border of the forest of Maigrefontaine.  After breakfasting with the farmer, he took the way home through the woods, so that he might enjoy the first varied effects of the season.

The forest of Maigrefontaine, situated on the slope of a hill, was full of rocky, broken ground, interspersed with deep ravines, along which narrow but rapid streams ran to swell the fishpond of La Thuiliere.  Julien had wandered away from the road, into the thick of the forest where the budding vegetation was at its height, where the lilies multiply and the early spring flowers disclose their umbellshaped clusters, full of tiny, white stars.  The sight of these blossoms, which had such a tender meaning for him, since he had identified the name with that of Reine, brought vividly before him the beloved image of the young girl.  He walked slowly and languidly on, heated by his feverish recollections and desires, tormented by useless self-reproach, and physically intoxicated by the balmy atmosphere and the odor of the flowering shrubs at his feet.  Arriving at the edge of a somewhat deep pit, he tried to leap across with a single bound, but, whether he made a false start, or that he was weakened and dizzy with the conflicting emotions with which he had been battling, he missed his footing and fell, twisting his ankle, on the side of the embankment.  He rose with an effort and put his foot to the ground, but a sharp pain obliged him to lean against the trunk of a neighboring ash-tree.  His foot felt as heavy as lead, and every time he tried to straighten it his sufferings were intolerable.  All he could do was to drag himself along from one tree to another until he reached the path.

Exhausted by this effort; he sat down on the grass, unbuttoned his gaiter, and carefully unlaced his boot.  His foot had swollen considerably.  He began to fear he had sprained it badly, and wondered how he could get back to Vivey.  Should he have to wait on this lonely road until some woodcutter passed, who would take him home?  Montagnard, his faithful companion, had seated himself in front of him, and contemplated him with moist, troubled eyes, at the same time emitting short, sharp whines, which seemed to say: 

“What is the matter?” and, “How are we going to get out of this?”

Suddenly he heard footsteps approaching.  He perceived a flutter of white skirts behind the copse, and just at the moment he was blessing the lucky chance that had sent some one in that direction, his eyes were gladdened with a sight of the fair visage of Reine.