“If you fear the ordeal,” said de Buxieres, with a visible effort, “would you like me to present the matter for you?”

“I should be very glad.  It would be doing me a great service.  It would be adding one more kindness to those I have already received, and some day I hope to make it all up to you.”

The next morning, according to agreement, Julien accompanied Claudet to Auberive, where Maitre Arbillot drew up the deed of gift, and had it at once signed and recorded.  Afterward the young men adjourned to breakfast at the inn.  The meal was brief and silent.  Neither seemed to have any appetite.  As soon as they had drunk their coffee, they turned back on the Vivey road; but, when they had got as far as the great limetree, standing at the entrance to the forest, Julien touched Claudet lightly on the shoulder.

“Here,” said he, “we must part company.  You will return to Vivey, and I shall go across the fields to La Thuiliere.  I shall return as soon as I have had an interview with Mademoiselle Vincart.  Wait for me at the chateau.”

“The time will seem dreadfully long to me,” sighed Claudet; “I shall not know how to dispose of my body until you return.”

“Your affair will be all settled within two or three hours from now.  Stay near the window of my room, and you will catch first sight of me coming along in the distance.  If I wave my hat, it will be a sign that I bring a favorable answer.”

Claudet pressed his hand; they separated, and Julien descended the newly mown meadow, along which he walked under the shade of trees scattered along the border line of the forest.

The heat of the midday sun was tempered by a breeze from the east, which threw across the fields and woods the shadows of the white fleecy clouds.  The young man, pale and agitated, strode with feverish haste over the short-cropped grass, while the little brooklet at his side seemed to murmur a flute-like, soothing accompaniment to the tumultuous beatings of his heart.  He was both elated and depressed at the prospect of submitting his already torn and lacerated feelings to so severe a trial.  The thought of beholding Reine again, and of sounding her feelings, gave him a certain amount of cruel enjoyment.  He would speak to her of love—­love for another, certainly—­but he would throw into the declaration he was making, in behalf of another, some of his own tenderness; he would have the supreme and torturing satisfaction of watching her countenance, of anticipating her blushes, of gathering the faltering avowal from her lips.  He would once more drink of the intoxication of her beauty, and then he would go and shut himself up at Vivey, after burying at La Thuiliere all his dreams and profane desires.  But, even while the courage of this immolation of his youthful love was strong within him, he could not prevent a dim feeling of hope from crossing his mind.  Claudet was not certain that he was beloved; and possibly Reine’s answer would be a refusal.  Then he should have a free field.