"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.

"I? Not frank with you! Ah, that is a good joke, Monsieur de Buxieres!
Naturally, I should not go proclaiming on the housetops that I have a
tender feeling for Mademoiselle Vincart, but, all the same, I should have
told you had you asked me sooner. I am not reserved; but, you must
excuse my saying it, you are walled in like a subterranean passage. One
can not get at the color of your thoughts. I never for a moment imagined
that you were interested in Reine, and you never have made me
sufficiently at home to entertain the idea of confiding in you on that
subject."

Julien remained silent. He had reseated himself at the table, where,
leaning his head in his hands, he pondered over what Claudet had said.
He placed his hand so as to screen his eyes, and bit his lips as if a