As he concluded these words, he felt his hand seized, and affectionately pressed in a strong, robust grip.

“You are a true de Buxieres!” exclaimed Claudet, choking with emotion.  “I accept—­thanks—­but, what have I to give you in exchange?—­nothing but my friendship; but that will be as firm as my grip, and will last all my life.”

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     Amusements they offered were either wearisome or repugnant
     Dreaded the monotonous regularity of conjugal life
     Fawning duplicity
     Had not been spoiled by Fortune’s gifts
     Hypocritical grievances
     I am not in the habit of consulting the law
     It does not mend matters to give way like that
     Opposing his orders with steady, irritating inertia
     There are some men who never have had any childhood
     To make a will is to put one foot into the grave
     Toast and white wine (for breakfast)
     Vague hope came over him that all would come right

A WOODLAND QUEEN

(’Reine des Bois’)

By Andre Theuriet

BOOK 2.

CHAPTER IV

THE DAWN OF LOVE

Winter had come, and with it all the inclement accompaniments usual in this bleak and bitter mountainous country:  icy rains, which, mingled with sleet, washed away whirlpools of withered leaves that the swollen streams tossed noisily into the ravines; sharp, cutting winds from the north, bleak frosts hardening the earth and vitrifying the cascades; abundant falls of snow, lasting sometimes an entire week.  The roads had become impassable.  A thick, white crust covered alike the pasture-lands, the stony levels, and the wooded slopes, where the branches creaked under the weight of their snowy burdens.  A profound silence encircled the village, which seemed buried under the successive layers of snowdrifts.  Only here and there, occasionally, did a thin line of blue smoke, rising from one of the white roofs, give evidence of any latent life among the inhabitants.  The Chateau de Buxieres stood in the midst of a vast carpet of snow on which the sabots of the villagers had outlined a narrow path, leading from the outer steps to the iron gate.  Inside, fires blazed on all the hearths, which, however, did not modify the frigid atmosphere of the rudely-built upper rooms.

Julien de Buxieres was freezing, both physically and morally, in his abode.  His generous conduct toward Claudet had, in truth, gained him the affection of the ‘grand chasserot’, made Manette as gentle as a lamb, and caused a revulsion of feeling in his favor throughout the village; but, although his material surroundings had become more congenial, he still felt around him the chill of intellectual solitude.  The days also seemed longer since Claudet had taken upon himself the management of all details.  Julien found that re-reading his favorite books was not sufficient occupation for the weary hours that dragged slowly along between the rising and the setting of the sun.  The gossipings of Manette, the hunting stories of Claudet had no interest for young de Buxieres, and the acquaintances he endeavored to make outside left only a depressing feeling of ennui and disenchantment.