After a moment’s hesitation, she held out her hand; but, hardly had he touched it when he completely lost control of himself, and slipping the arm which remained free around Reine’s waist, he drew her toward him and lightly touched with his lips her neck, the beauty of which had so magnetized him.

The young girl was stronger than he; in the twinkling of an eye she tore herself from his audacious clasp, threw him violently backward, and with one bound reached the door of the hut.  She stood there a moment, pale, indignant, her eyes blazing, and then exclaimed, in a hollow voice: 

“If you come a step nearer, I will call the charcoalmen!”

But Julien had no desire to renew the attack; already sobered, cowed, and repentant, he had retreated to the most obscure corner of the dwelling.

“Are you mad?” she continued, with vehemence, “or has the wine got into your head?  It is rather early for you to be adopting the ways of your deceased cousin!  I give you notice that they will not succeed with me!” And, at the same moment, tears of humiliation filled her eyes.  “I did not expect this of you, Monsieur de Buxieres!”

“Forgive me!” faltered Julien, whose heart smote him at the sight of her tears; “I have behaved like a miserable sinner and a brute!  It was a moment of madness—­forget it and forgive me!”

“Nobody ever treated me with disrespect before,” returned the young girl, in a suffocated voice; “I was wrong to allow you any familiarity, that is all.  It shall not happen to me again!”

Julien remained mute, overpowered with shame and remorse.  Suddenly, in the stillness around, rose the voices of the dancers returning and singing the refrain of the rondelay: 

          I had a rose—­
          On my heart it lay
          Will those who are young
          Be married, or nay? 
          Yea, yea!

“There are our people,” said Reine, softly, “I am going to them; adieu—­do not follow me!” She left the but and hastened toward the furnace, while Julien, stunned with the rapidity with which this unfortunate scene had been enacted, sat down on one of the benches, a prey to confused feelings of shame and angry mortification.  No, certainly, he did not intend to follow her!  He had no desire to show himself in public with this young girl whom he had so stupidly insulted, and in whose face he never should be able to look again.  Decidedly, he did not understand women, since he could not even tell a virtuous girl from a frivolous coquette!  Why had he not been able to see that the good-natured, simple familiarity of Reine Vincart had nothing in common with the enticing allurements of those who, to use Claudet’s words, had “thrown their caps over the wall.”  How was it that he had not read, in those eyes, pure as the fountain’s source, the candor and uprightness of a maiden heart which had nothing to conceal.  This cruel evidence of his inability to conduct himself properly in the