source of great
mystification to Manette. She suspected some amorous mystery in all
these events, commented somewhat uncharitably on every minor detail,
and took care to carry her comments all over the village. Very soon
the entire parish, from the most insignificant woodchopper to the
Abbe Pernot himself, were made aware that there was something going on
between M. de Buxieres and the daughter of old M. Vincart.

In the mean time, Julien, quite unconscious that his love for Reine was
providing conversation for all the gossips of the country, was cursing
the untoward event that kept him stretched in his invalid-chair. At
last, one day, he discovered he could put his foot down and walk a
little with the assistance of his cane; a few days after, the doctor
gave him permission to go out of doors. His first visit was to La
Thuiliere.

He went there in the afternoon and found Reine in the kitchen, seated
by the side of her paralytic father, who was asleep. She was reading a
newspaper, which she retained in her hand, while rising to receive her
visitor. After she had congratulated him on his recovery, and he had
expressed his cordial thanks for her timely aid, she showed him the
paper.

"You find me in a state of disturbance," said she, with a slight degree
of embarrassment, "it seems that we are going to have war and that our
troops have entered Italy. Have you any news of Claudet?"

Julien started. This was the last remark he could have expected.
Claudet's name had not been once mentioned in their interview at
Maigrefontaine, and he had nursed the hope that Reine thought no longer
about him.

All his mistrust returned in a moment on hearing this name come from
the young girl's lips the moment he entered the house, and seeing the
emotion which the news in the paper had caused her.

"He wrote me a few days ago," replied he.

"Where is he?"

"In Italy, with his battalion, which is a part of the first army corps.
His last letter is dated from Alexandria."

Reine's eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she gazed absently at the
distant wooded horizon.

"Poor Claudet!" murmured she, sighing, "what is he doing just now, I
wonder?"

"Ah!" thought Julien, his visage darkening, "perhaps she loves him
still!"

Poor Claudet! At the very time they are thus talking about him at the
farm, he is camping with his battalion near Voghera, on the banks of one
of the obscure tributaries of the river Po, in a country rich in wav