e, the idea
still haunted and tormented him. Sometimes, in the effort to rid himself
of the persistence of his own imagination, he would try to exorcise the
demon who had got hold of him, and this exorcism consisted in despoiling
the image of his temptress of the veil of virginal purity with which his
admiration had first invested her. Who could assure him, after all, that
this girl, with her independent ways, living alone at her farm,
running through the woods at all hours, was as irreproachable as he
had imagined? In the village, certainly, she was respected by all; but
people were very tolerant--very easy, in fact--on the question of morals
in this district, where the gallantries of Claude de Buxieres were
thought quite natural, where the illegitimacy of Claudet offended
no one's sense of the proprieties, and where the after-dinner
conversations, among the class considered respectable, were such as
Julien had listened to with repugnance. Nevertheless, even in his most
suspicious moods, Julien had never dared broach the subject to Claudet.

Every time that the name of Reine Vincart had come to his lips, a
feeling of bashfulness, in addition to his ordinary timidity, had
prevented him from interrogating Claudet concerning the character of
this mysterious queen of the woods. Like all novices in love-affairs
Julien dreaded that his feelings should be divined, at the mere mention
of the young girl's name. He preferred to remain isolated, concentrating
in himself his desires, his trouble and his doubts.

Yet, whatever efforts he made, and however firmly he adhered to his
resolution of silence, the hypochondria from which he suffered could
not escape the notice of the 'grand chasserot'. He was not clear-sighted
enough to discern the causes, but he could observe the effects. It
provoked him to find that all his efforts to enliven his cousin had
proved futile. He had cudgelled his brains to comprehend whence came
these fits of terrible melancholy, and, judging Julien by himself, came
to the conclusion that his ennui proceeded from an excess of strictness
and good behavior.

"Monsieur de Buxieres," said he, one evening when they were walking
silently, side by side, in the avenues of the park, which resounded with
the song of the nightingales, "there is one thing that troubles me, and
that is that you do not confide in me."

"What makes you think so, Claudet?" demanded Julien, with surprise.

"Paybleu! the way you act. You