Reine, as he entered the
garden of La Thuiliere, one June afternoon.

He had received official notice the evening before, through the
mayor, of the decease of "Germain-Claudet Sejournant, volunteer in the
seventeenth battalion of light infantry, killed in an engagement with
the enemy, May 20, 1859."

Reine was standing between two hedges of large peasant-roses. At
the first words that fell from M. de Buxieres's lips, she felt a
presentiment of misfortune.

"Claudet?" murmured she.

"He is dead," replied Julien, almost inaudibly, "he fought bravely and
was killed at Montebello."

The young girl remained motionless, and for a moment de Buxieres
thought she would be able to bear, with some degree of composure, this
announcement of the death in a foreign country of a man whom she had
refused as a husband. Suddenly she turned aside, took two or three
steps, then leaning her head and folded arms on the trunk of an adjacent
tree, she burst into a passion of tears. The convulsive movement of her
shoulders and stifled sobs denoted the violence of her emotion. M. de
Buxieres, alarmed at this outbreak, which he thought exaggerated, felt
a return of his old misgivings. He was jealous now of the dead man whom
she was so openly lamenting. Her continued weeping annoyed him; he tried
to arrest her tears by addressing some consolatory remarks to her;
but, at the very first word, she turned away, mounted precipitately
the kitchen-stairs, and disappeared, closing the door behind her. Some
minutes after, La Guite brought a message to de Buxieres that Reine
wished to be alone, and begged him to excuse her.

He took his departure, disconcerted, downhearted, and ready to weep
himself, over the crumbling of his hopes. As he was nearing the first
outlying houses of the village, he came across the Abbe Pernot, who was
striding along at a great rate, toward the chateau.

"Ah!" exclaimed the priest, "how are you, Monsieur de Buxieres, I was
just going over to see you. Is it true that you have received bad news?"

Julien nodded his head affirmatively, and informed the cure of the sad
notice he had received. The Abbe's countenance lengthened, his mouth
took on a saddened expression, and during the next few minutes he
maintained an attitude of condolence.

"Poor fellow!" he sighed, with a slight nasal intonation, "he did not
have a fair chance! To have to leave us at twenty-six years of age,
and in full health, it is very hard. And such a