Under these conditions it is not to be supposed he was in a mood to relate any of the details of such meagre lovemaking.  His self-love was wounded by Reine’s coldness.  Having always been “cock-of-the-walk,” he could not understand why he had such poor success with the only one about whom he was in earnest.  He kept quiet, therefore, hiding his anxiety under the mask of careless indifference.  Moreover, a certain primitive instinct of prudence made him circumspect.  In his innermost soul, he still entertained doubts of Julien’s sincerity.  Sometimes he doubted whether his cousin’s conduct had not been dictated by the bitterness of rejected love, rather than a generous impulse of affection, and he did not care to reveal Reine’s repulse to one whom he vaguely suspected of being a former lover.  His simple, ardent nature could not put up with opposition, and he thought only of hastening the day when Reine would belong to him altogether.  But, when he broached this subject, he had the mortification to find that she was less impatient than himself.

“There is no hurry,” she replied, “our affairs are not in order, our harvests are not housed, and it would be better to wait till the dull season.”

In his first moments of joy and effervescence, Claudet had evinced the desire to announce immediately the betrothal throughout the village.  This Reine had opposed; she thought they should avoid awakening public curiosity so long beforehand, and she extracted from Claudet a promise to say nothing until the date of the marriage should be settled.  He had unwillingly consented, and thus, during the last month, the matter had been dragging on indefinitely: 

With Julien de Buxieres, this interminable delay, these incessant comings and goings from the chateau to the farm, as well as the mysterious conduct of the bridegroom-elect, became a subject of serious irritation, amounting almost to obsession.  He would have wished the affair hurried up, and the sacrifice consummated without hindrance.  He believed that when once the newly-married pair had taken up their quarters at La Thuiliere, the very certainty that Reine belonged in future to another would suffice to effect a radical cure in him, and chase away the deceptive phantoms by which he was pursued.

One evening, as Claudet was returning home, more out of humor and silent than usual, Julien asked him, abruptly: 

“Well! how are you getting along?  When is the wedding?”

“Nothing is decided yet,” replied Claudet, “we have time enough!”

“You think so?” exclaimed de Buxieres, sarcastically; “you have considerable patience for a lover!”

The remark and the tone provoked Claudet.

“The delay is not of my making,” returned he.

“Ah!” replied the other, quickly, “then it comes from Mademoiselle Vincart?” And a sudden gleam came into his eyes, as if Claudet’s assertion had kindled a spark of hope in his breast.  The latter noticed the momentary brightness in his cousin’s usually stormy countenance, and hastened to reply: