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?"
He resumed pacing the hall, while his interlocutor, motionless, remained silent, and kept his eyes steadily upon him.
"It is not possible," resumed Julien, "Reine can not have played us such a trick! When I spoke to her for you, it was so easy to say she was already betrothed!"
"Perhaps," objected Claudet, shaking his head, "she had reasons for not letting you know all that was in her mind."