“You have acted as was your duty,” murmured Reine, sadly, “and I thank you, Monsieur le Cure!”

“And will you promise me to dismiss Claudet at once—­today?”

“I promise you.”

The Abbe Pernot advanced to take her hand, and administer some words of consolation; but she evaded, with a stern gesture, the good man’s pious sympathy, and escaped toward the dwelling.

The spacious kitchen was empty when she entered.  The shutters had been closed against the sun, and it had become cool and pleasant.  Here and there, among the copper utensils, and wherever a chance ray made a gleam of light, the magpie was hopping about, uttering short, piercing cries.  In the recess of the niche containing the colored prints, sat the old man Vincart, dozing, in his usual supine attitude, his hands spread out, his eyelids drooping, his mouth half open.  At the sound of the door, his eyes opened wide.  He rather guessed at, than saw, the entrance of the young girl, and his pallid lips began their accustomed refrain:  “Reine!  Rei-eine!”

Reine flew impetuously toward the paralytic old man, threw herself on her knees before him, sobbing bitterly, and covered his hands with kisses.  Her caresses were given in a more respectful, humble, contrite manner than ever before.

“Oh! father—­father!” faltered she; “I loved you always, I shall love you now with all my heart and soul!”

CHAPTER VIII

LOVE’S SAD ENDING

The kitchen was bright with sunshine, and the industrious bees were buzzing around the flowers on the window-sills, while Reine was listlessly attending to culinary duties, and preparing her father’s meal.  The humiliating disclosures made by the Abbe Pernot weighed heavily upon her mind.  She foresaw that Claudet would shortly be at La Thuiliere in order to hear the result of the cure’s visit; but she did not feel sufficiently mistress of herself to have a decisive interview with him at such short notice, and resolved to gain at least one day by absenting herself from the farm.  It seemed to her necessary that she should have that length of time to arrange her ideas, and evolve some way of separating Claudet and herself without his suspecting the real motive of rupture.  So, telling La Guite to say that unexpected business had called her away, she set out for the woods of Maigrefontaine.

Whenever she had felt the need of taking counsel with herself before deciding on any important matter, the forest had been her refuge and her inspiration.  The refreshing solitude of the valleys, watered by living streams, acted as a strengthening balm to her irresolute will; her soul inhaled the profound peace of these leafy retreats.  By the time she had reached the inmost shade of the forest her mind had become calmer, and better able to unravel the confusion of thoughts that surged like troubled waters through her brain.  The dominant idea was, that her self-respect