“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.” “How you uphold her! One can see that you are interested in her.” “I uphold her because you are unjust toward her. But I wish you to understand that she has no need of any one standing up for her--her good name is sufficient to protect her. Ask any one in the village--there is but one voice on that question.” “Come,” said Julien, huskily, “confess that you are in love with her.” “Well! suppose I am,” said Claudet, angrily, “yes, I love her! There, are you satisfied now?” Although de Buxieres knew what he had to expect, he was not the less affected by so open an avowal thrust at him, as it were. He stood for a moment, silent; then, with a fresh burst of rage: “You love her, do you? Why did you not tell me before? Why were you not more frank with me?” As he spoke, gesticulating furiously, in front of the open window, the deep red glow of the setting sun, piercing through the boughs of the ash-trees, threw its bright reflections on his blazing eyeballs and convulsed features. His interlocutor, leaning against the opposite corner of the window-frame, noticed, with some anxiety, the extreme agitation of his behavior, and wondered what could be the cause of such emotion.