He never went out, fearing to meet Reine Vincart. He fancied that the
sight of her might aggravate the malady from which he suffered and for
which he eagerly sought a remedy.

But, notwithstanding the cloistered retirement to which he had condemned
himself, his wound remained open. Instead of solitude having a healing
effect, it seemed to make his sufferings greater. When, in the evening,
as he sat moodily at his window, he would hear Claudet whistle to his
dog, and hurry off in the direction of La Thuiliere, he would say to
himself: "He is going to keep an appointment with Reine." Then a feeling
of blind rage would overpower him; he felt tempted to leave his room and
follow his rival secretly--a moment afterward he would be ashamed of his
meanness. Was it not enough that he had once, although involuntarily,
played the degrading part of a spy! What satisfaction could he derive
from such a course? Would he be much benefited when he returned home
with rage in his heart and senses, after watching a love-scene between
the young pair? This consideration kept him in his seat, but his
imagination ran riot instead; it went galloping at the heels of Claudet,
and accompanied him down the winding paths, moistened by the evening dew.
As the moon rose above the trees, illuminating the foliage with her mild
bluish rays, he pictured to himself the meeting of the two lovers on the
flowery turf bathed in the silvery light. His brain seemed on fire.
He saw Reine in white advancing like a moonbeam, and Claudet passing his
arm around the yielding waist of the maiden. He tried to substitute
himself in idea, and to imagine the delight of the first words of
welcome, and the ecstasy of the prolonged embrace. A shiver ran through
his whole body; a sharp pain transfixed his heart; his throat closed
convulsively; half fainting, he leaned against the window-frame, his eyes
closed, his ears stopped, to shut out all sights or sounds, longing only