“Monsieur de Buxieres, do you know that you are at this present time giving occasion for the tongues of my parishioners to wag more than is at all reasonable?  Oh!” continued he, replying to a remonstrating gesture of his companion, “it is unpremeditated on your part, I am sure, but, all the same, they talk about you—­and about Reine.”

“About Mademoiselle Vincart?” exclaimed Julien, indignantly, “what can they say about her?”

“A great many things which are displeasing to me.  They speak of your having sprained your ankle while in the company of Reine Vincart; of your return home in her wagon; of your frequent visits to La Thuiliere, and I don’t know what besides.  And as mankind, especially the female portion, is more disposed to discover evil than good, they say you are compromising this young person.  Now, Reine is living, as one may say, alone and unprotected.  It behooves me, therefore, as her pastor, to defend her against her own weakness.  That is the reason why I have taken upon myself to beg you to be more circumspect, and not trifle with her reputation.”

“Her reputation?” repeated Julien, with irritation.  “I do not understand you, Monsieur le Cure!”

“You don’t, hey!  Why, I explain my meaning pretty clearly.  Human beings are weak; it is easy to injure a girl’s reputation, when you try to make yourself agreeable, knowing you can not marry her.”

“And why could I not marry her?” inquired Julien, coloring deeply.

“Because she is not in your own class, and you would not love her enough to overlook the disparity, if marriage became necessary.”

“What do you know about it?” returned Julien, with violence.  “I have no such foolish prejudices, and the obstacles would not come from my side.  But, rest easy, Monsieur,” continued he, bitterly, “the danger exists only in the imagination of your parishioners.  Reine has never cared for me!  It was Claudet she loved!”

“Hm, hm!” interjected the cure, dubiously.

“You would not doubt it,” insisted de Buxieres, provoked at the Abbe’s incredulous movements of his head, “if you had seen her, as I saw her, melt into tears when I told her of Sejournant’s death.  She did not even wait until I had turned my back before she broke out in her lamentations.  My presence was of very small account.  Ah! she has but too cruelly made me feel how little she cares for me!”

“You love her very much, then?” demanded the Abbe, slyly, an almost imperceptible smile curving his lips.

“Oh, yes!  I love her,” exclaimed he, impetuously; then coloring and drooping his head.  “But it is very foolish of me to betray myself, since Reine cares nothing at all for me!”

There was a moment of silence, during which the curb took a pinch of snuff from a tiny box of cherry wood.

“Monsieur de Buxieres;” said he, With a particularly oracular air, “Claudet is dead, and the dead, like the absent, are always in the wrong.  But who is to say whether you are not mistaken concerning the nature of Reine’s unhappiness?  I will have that cleared up this very day.  Good-night; keep quiet and behave properly.”