Julien changed color; the blood coursed over his cheeks, his forehead, his ears; he drooped his head.
“Did she tell you so?” he murmured, at last, feebly.
“She did not, but I guessed it. Her heart is won, and I think I know by whom.”
Claudet had uttered these last words slowly and with a painful effort, at the same time studying Julien’s countenance with renewed inquiry. The latter became more and more troubled, and his physiognomy expressed both anxiety and embarrassment.
“Whom do you suspect?” he stammered.
“Oh!” replied Claudet, employing a simple artifice to sound the obscure depth of his cousin’s heart, “it is useless to name the person; you do not know him.”
“A stranger?”
Julien’s countenance had again changed. His hands were twitching nervously, his lips compressed, and his dilated pupils were blazing with anger, instead of triumph, as before.
“Yes; a stranger, a clerk in the iron-works at Grancey, I think.”
“You think!—you think!” cried Julien, fiercely, “why don’t you have more definite information before you accuse Mademoiselle Vincart of such treachery?”