He did not realize his longing.  The enchanting image of the woodland queen, as he had beheld her in the dusky light of the charcoal-man’s hut, was ever before him.  He put his hands over his eyes.  She was there still, with her deep, dark eyes and her enticing cherry lips.  Even the odor of the honeysuckle arising from the garden assisted the reality of the vision, by recalling the sprig of the same flower which Reine was twisting round her fingers at their last interview.  This sweet breath of flowers in the night seemed like an emanation from the young girl herself, and was as fleeting and intangible as the remembrance of vanished happiness.  Again and again did his morbid nature return to past events, and make his present position more unbearable.

“Why,” thought he, “did I ever entertain so wild a hope?  This wood-nymph, with her robust yet graceful figure, her clear-headedness, her energy and will-power, could she ever have loved a being so weak and unstable as myself?  No, indeed; she needs a lover full of life and vigor; a huntsman, with a strong arm, able to protect her.  What figure should I cut by the side of so hearty and well-balanced a fellow?”

In these fits of jealousy, he was not so angry with Claudet for being loved by Reine as for having so carefully concealed his feelings.  And yet, while inwardly blaming him for this want of frankness, he did not realize that he himself was open to a similar accusation, by hiding from Claudet what was troubling him so grievously.

Since the evening of the inauguration festival, he had become sullen and taciturn.  Like all timid persons, he took refuge in a moody silence, which could not but irritate his cousin.  They met every day at the same table; to all appearance their intimacy was as great as ever, but, in reality, there was no mutual exchange of feeling.  Julien’s continued ill-humor was a source of anxiety to Claudet, who turned his brain almost inside out in endeavoring to discover its cause.  He knew he had done nothing to provoke any coolness; on the contrary, he had set his wits to work to show his gratitude by all sorts of kindly offices.

By dint of thinking the matter over, Claudet came to the conclusion that perhaps Julien was beginning to repent of his generosity, and that possibly this coolness was a roundabout way of manifesting his change of feeling.  This seemed to be the only plausible solution of his cousin’s behavior.  “He is probably tired,” thought he, “of keeping us here at the chateau, my mother and myself.”

Claudet’s pride and self-respect revolted at this idea.  He did not intend to be an incumbrance on any one, and became offended in his turn at the mute reproach which he imagined he could read in his cousin’s troubled countenance.  This misconception, confirmed by the obstinate silence of both parties, and aggravated by its own continuance, at last produced a crisis.