sed by his hopeless
passion, and plunged into a condition of complete moral and physical
disintegration. It mingled with his blood, his nerves, his thoughts,
and possessed him altogether, dwelling within him like an adored and
tyrannical mistress. Reine appeared constantly before him as he
had contemplated her on the outside steps of the farmhouse, in her
never-to-be-forgotten negligee of the short skirt and the half-open
bodice. He again beheld the silken treasure of her tresses, gliding
playfully around her shoulders, the clear, honest look of her limpid
eyes, the expressive smile of her enchanting lips, and with a sudden
revulsion of feeling he reflected that perhaps before a month was over,
all these charms would belong to Claudet. Then, almost at the same
moment, like a swallow, which, with one rapid turn of its wing, changes
its course, his thoughts went in the opposite direction, and he began
to imagine what would have happened if, instead of replying in the
affirmative, Reine had objected to marrying Claudet. He could picture
himself kneeling before her as before the Madonna, and in a low voice
confessing his love. He would have taken her hands so respectfully,
and pleaded so eloquently, that she would have allowed herself to be
convinced. The little, hands would have remained prisoners in his own;
he would have lifted her tenderly, devotedly, in his arms, and under the
influence of this feverish dream, he fancied he could feel the beating
heart of the young girl against his own bosom. Suddenly he would wake up
out of his illusions, and bite his lips with rage on finding himself in
the dull reality of his own dwelling.

One day he heard footsteps on the gravel; a sonorous and jovial voice
met his ear. It was Claudet, starting for La Thuiliere. Julien bent
forward to see him, and ground his teeth as he watched his joyous
departure. The sharp sting of jealousy entered his soul, and he rebelled
against the evident injustice of Fate. How had he deserved that life
should present so dismal and forbidding an aspect to him? He had had
none of the joys of infancy; his youth had been spent wearily under the
peevish discipline of a cloister; he had entered on his young manhood
with all the awkwardness and timidity of a night-bird that is made
to fly in the day. Up to the age of twenty-seven years, he had known
neither love nor friendship; his time had been given entirely to earning
his daily bread, and to the cultivation o