“Nay, nay; we both think it better to postpone the wedding until the harvest is in.”

“You are wrong.  A wedding should not be postponed.  Besides, this prolonged love-making, these daily visits to the farm—­all that is not very proper.  It is compromising for Mademoiselle Vincart!”

Julien shot out these remarks with a degree of fierceness and violence that astonished Claudet.

“You think, then,” said he, “that we ought to rush matters, and have the wedding before winter?”

“Undoubtedly!”

The next day, at La Thuiliere, the grand chasserot, as he stood in the orchard, watching Reine spread linen on the grass, entered bravely on the subject.

“Reine,” said he, coaxingly, “I think we shall have to decide upon a day for our wedding.”

She set down the watering-pot with which she was wetting the linen, and looked anxiously at her betrothed.

“I thought we had agreed to wait until the later season.  Why do you wish to change that arrangement?”

“That is true; I promised not to hurry you, Reine, but it is beyond me to wait—­you must not be vexed with me if I find the time long.  Besides, they know nothing, around the village, of our intentions, and my coming here every day might cause gossip and make it unpleasant for you.  At any rate, that is the opinion of Monsieur de Buxieres, with whom I was conferring only yesterday evening.”

At the name of Julien, Reine frowned and bit her lip.

“Aha!” said she, “it is he who has been advising you?”

“Yes; he says the sooner we are married, the better it will be.”

“Why does he interfere in what does not concern him?” said she, angrily, turning her head away.  She stood a moment in thought, absently pushing forward the roll of linen with her foot.  Then, shrugging her shoulders and raising her head, she said slowly, while still avoiding Claudet’s eyes: 

“Perhaps you are right—­both of you.  Well, let it be so!  I authorize you to go to Monsieur le Cure and arrange the day with him.”

“Oh, thanks, Reine!” exclaimed Claudet, rapturously; “you make me very happy!”

He pressed her hands in his, but though absorbed in his own joyful feelings, he could not help remarking that the young girl was trembling in his grasp.  He even fancied that there was a suspicious, tearful glitter in her brilliant eyes.

He left her, however, and repaired at once to the cure’s house, which stood near the chateau, a little behind the church.

The servant showed him into a small garden separated by a low wall from the cemetery.  He found the Abbe Pernot seated on a stone bench, sheltered by a trellised vine.  He was occupied in cutting up pieces of hazel-nuts to make traps for small birds.