“But still,” said he, “you are lamenting his loss.”
A melancholy smile flitted for an instant over Reine’s pure, rosy lips.
“Are you jealous of my tears?” said she, softly.
“Oh, yes!” he exclaimed, with sudden exultation, “I love you so entirely that I can not help envying Claudet his share in your affections! If his death causes you such poignant regret, he must have been nearer and dearer to you than those that survive.”
“You might reasonably suppose otherwise,” replied she, almost in a whisper, “since I refused to marry him.”
He shook his head, seemingly unable to accept that positive statement.
Then Reine began to reflect that a man of his distrustful and despondent temperament would, unless the whole truth were revealed to him, be forevermore tormented by morbid and injurious misgivings. She knew he loved her, and she wished him to love her in entire faith and security. She recalled the last injunctions she had received from the Abbe Pernot, and, leaning toward Julien, with tearful eyes and cheeks burning with shame, she whispered in his ear the secret of her close relationship to Claudet.
This painful and agitating confidence was made in so low a voice as to be scarcely distinguished from the soft humming of the insects, or the gentle twittering of the birds.
The sun was shining everywhere; the woods were as full of verdure and blossoms as on the day when the young man had manifested his passion with such savage violence. Hardly had the last words of her avowal expired on Reine’s lips, when Julien de Buxieres threw his arms around her and fondly kissed away the tears from her eyes.
This time he was not repelled.