“Yes;” he repeated, mournfully to himself, “that must have been the way it happened.”  And with this kind of explanation of Reine’s actions, his irritation seemed to lessen.  Not that his grief was less poignant, but the first burst of rage had spent itself like a great wind-storm, which becomes lulled after a heavy fall of rain; the bitterness was toned down, and he was enabled to reason more clearly.

Julien—­well, what was the part of Julien in all this disturbance?  “If what I imagine is true,” thought he, “Monsieur de Buxieres knows that Reine loves him, but has he any reciprocal feeling for her?  With a man as mysterious as my cousin, it is not easy to find out what is going on in his heart.  Anyhow, I have no right to complain of him; as soon as he discovered my love for Reine, did he not, besides ignoring his own claim, offer spontaneously to take my message?  Still, there is something queer at the bottom of it all, and whatever it costs me, I am going to find it out.”

At this moment, through the misty air, he heard faintly the village clock strike eleven.  “Already so late! how the time flies, even when one is suffering!” He bent his course toward the chateau, and, breathless and excited, without replying to Manette’s inquiries, he burst into the hall where his cousin was pacing up and down, waiting for breakfast.  At this sudden intrusion Julien started, and noted Claudet’s quick breathing and disordered state.

“Ho, ho!” exclaimed he, in his usual, sarcastic tone, “what a hurry you are in!  I suppose you have come to say the wedding-day is fixed at last?”

“No!” replied Claudet, briefly, “there will be no wedding.”

Julien tottered, and turned to face his cousin.

“What’s that?  Are you joking?”

“I am in no mood for joking.  Reine will not have me; she has taken back her promise.”

While pronouncing these words, he scrutinized attentively his cousin’s countenance, full in the light from the opposite window.  He saw his features relax, and his eyes glow with the same expression which he had noticed a few days previous, when he had referred to the fact that Reine had again postponed the marriage.

“Whence comes this singular change?” stammered de Buxieres, visibly agitated; “what reasons does Mademoiselle Vincart give in explanation?”

“Idle words:  her father’s health, disinclination to leave him.  You may suppose I take such excuses for what they are worth.  The real cause of her refusal is more serious and more mortifying.”

“You know it, then?” exclaimed Julien, eagerly.

“I know it, because I forced Reine to confess it.”

“And the reason is?”

“That she does not love me.”

“Reine—­does not love you!”

Again a gleam of light irradiated the young man’s large, blue eyes.  Claudet was leaning against the table, in front of his cousin; he continued slowly, looking him steadily in the face: