Marcel had stronger hopes of Julien's mental cure than of Julie's. He saw him as infrequently and for as short a time as possible. One day, when he was obliged to go to report to his aunt concerning a small matter which she had placed in his hands, he found her alone.
"Where is Julien?" he asked; "in his studio?"
"No, he is turning his attention to gardening. Since he has had this little plot of land to dig and plant, he is more easily consoled for everything. He has had a great sorrow, Marcel! a sorrow of which you know nothing. He loved Madame d'Estrelle; I was not mistaken; and, more than that——"
"Yes, yes!" said Marcel, who desired to avoid any sentimental scene; "that has gone by, hasn't it? that is all over?"
"Yes," replied the widow, "I think so. If he were deceiving me—But no! after the hopes he has had it is not possible, is it, my boy? You can't cheat the eyes of a mother who adores you?"
"No, of course not. Sleep in peace, dear aunt! I will go to bid Julien good-day.—If he is really deceiving his mother after the failure of his hopes," he thought as he looked for Julien among the shrubbery, "he must be a devilishly strong fellow!"
Julien was digging a little hole in which to transplant a tree. He wore a linen blouse and his head was bare. Standing in the loose earth, with his hands resting on the handle of his spade, like a laborer taking breath, he was musing so deeply that he did not hear his cousin's step, and Marcel, who saw his profile only, was profoundly impressed by the expression of his face. That manly countenance did not as yet bear the marks of sorrow which were already impairing Julie's beauty; but it had the tense, drawn look of despair which Marcel had had an opportunity to study on her face.
Julien spied his cousin, did not start at sight of him, and greeted him with a smile. It was precisely the same smile of lifeless affability with which Julie greeted him, a sweet but terrible smile, like that which we sometimes see playing about the lips of a dying man.
"This looks bad!" thought Marcel. "He is devilishly strong, no doubt, but he is probably the sicker of the two."
Marcel in his distress had not the strength to conceal his emotion. He loved Julien dearly; his prudence deserted him.