It happened one night, after they had taken supper together, and Julien’s ill-humor had been more evident than usual.  Provoked at his persistent taciturnity, and more than ever convinced that it was his presence that young de Buxieres objected to, Claudet resolved to force an explanation.  Instead, therefore, of quitting the dining-room after dessert, and whistling to his dog to accompany him in his habitual promenade, the ‘grand chasserot’ remained seated, poured out a small glass of brandy, and slowly filled his pipe.  Surprised to see that he was remaining at home, Julien rose and began to pace the floor, wondering what could be the reason of this unexpected change.  As suspicious people are usually prone to attribute complicated motives for the most simple actions, he imagined that Claudet, becoming aware of the jealous feeling he had excited, had given up his promenade solely to mislead and avert suspicion.  This idea irritated him still more, and halting suddenly in his walk, he went up to Claudet and said, brusquely: 

“You are not going out, then?”

“No;” replied Claudet, “if you will permit me, I will stay and keep you company.  Shall I annoy you?”

“Not in the least; only, as you are accustomed to walk every evening, I should not wish you to inconvenience yourself on my account.  I am not afraid of being alone, and I am not selfish enough to deprive you of society more agreeable than mine.”

“What do you mean by that?” cried Claudet, pricking up his ears.

“Nothing,” muttered Julien, between his set teeth, “except that your fancied obligation of keeping me company ought not to prevent you missing a pleasant engagement, or keeping a rendezvous.”

“A rendezvous,” replied his interlocutor, with a forced laugh, “so you think, when I go out after supper, I go to seek amusement.  A rendezvous!  And with whom, if you please?”

“With your mistress, of course,” replied Julien, sarcastically, “from what you said to me, there is no scarcity here of girls inclined to be good-natured, and you have only the trouble of choosing among them.  I supposed you were courting some woodman’s young daughter, or some pretty farmer girl, like—­like Reine Vincart.”

“Refine Vincart!” repeated Claudet, sternly, “what business have you to mix up her name with those creatures to whom you refer?  Mademoiselle Vincart,” added he, “has nothing in common with that class, and you have no right, Monsieur de Buxieres, to use her name so lightly!”

The allusion to Reine Vincart had agitated Claudet to such a degree that he did not notice that Julien, as he pronounced her name, was as much moved as himself.

The vehemence with which Claudet resented the insinuation increased young de Buxieres’s irritation.

“Ha, ha!” said he, laughing scornfully, “Reine Vincart is an exceedingly pretty girl!”

“She is not only pretty, she is good and virtuous, and deserves to be respected.”