A Woodland Queen ('Reine des Bois') — Complete. André Theuriet

can it be helped?” replied she, smiling, “it must be done; when there is no man in the house to give orders, the women must take a hand themselves. My father was not very strong when my mother died, and since he had that attack he has become quite helpless, and I have had to take his place.”

      While she spoke, Claudet took hold of the bundle, and, lifting it as if it had been a feather, threw it over his shoulder. They walked on, side by side, in the direction of La Thuliere; the sun had set, and a penetrating moisture, arising from the damp soil of the adjacent pasture lands, encircled them in a bluish fog.

      “So he is worse, your father, is he?” said Claudet, after a moment’s silence.

      “He can not move from his armchair, his mental faculties are weakening, and I am obliged to amuse him like a child. But how is it with yourself, Claudet?” she asked, turning her frank, cordial gaze upon him. “You have had your share of trouble since we last met, and great events have happened. Poor Monsieur de Buxieres was taken away very suddenly!”

      The close relationship that united Claudet with the deceased was a secret to no one; Reine, as well as all the country people, knew and admitted the fact, however irregular, as one sanctioned by time and continuity. Therefore, in speaking to the young man, her voice had that tone of affectionate interest usual in conversing with a bereaved friend on a death that concerns him.

      The countenance of the ‘grand chasserot’, which had cleared for a time under her influence, became again clouded.

      “Yes;” sighed he, “he was taken too soon!”

      “And now, Claudet, you are sole master at the chateau?”

      “Neither—master—nor even valet!” he returned, with such bitterness that the young girl stood still with surprise.

      “What do you mean?” she exclaimed, “was it not agreed with Monsieur de Buxieres that you should inherit all his property?”

      “Such was his intention, but he did not have time to put it in execution; he died without leaving any will, and, as I am nothing in the eye of the law, the patrimony will go to a distant relative, a de Buxieres whom Monsieur Odouart did not even know.”

      Reine’s dark eyes filled with tears.

      “What a misfortune!” she exclaimed, “and who could have expected such a thing? Oh! my poor Claudet!”

      She was so moved, and spoke with such sincere compassion, that Claudet was perhaps misled, and thought he read in her glistening eyes a tenderer sentiment than pity; he trembled, took her hand, and held it long in his.

      “Thank you, Reine! Yes,” he added, after a pause, “it is a rude shock to wake up one morning without hearth or home, when one has been in the habit of living on one’s income.”

      “What do you intend to do?” inquired Reine, gravely.

      Claudet shrugged his shoulders.

      “To work for my bread—or, if I can find no suitable trade, enlist in a regiment. I think I should not make a bad soldier. Everything is going round and round in my head like a millwheel. The first thing to do is to see about my mother, who is lamenting down there at the house—I must find her a comfortable place to live.”

      The young girl had become very thoughtful.

      “Claudet,” replied she, “I know you are very proud, very sensitive, and could not wish to hurt your feelings. Therefore, I pray you not to take in ill part that which I am going to say-in short, if you should get into any trouble, you will, I hope, remember that you have friends at La Thuiliere, and that you will come to seek us.”

      The ‘grand chasserot’ reddened.

      “I shall never take amiss what you may say to me, Reine!” faltered he; “for I can not doubt your good heart—I have known it since the time when we played together in the cure’s garden, while waiting for the time to repeat the catechism. But there is no hurry as yet; the heir will not arrive for several weeks, and by that time, I trust, we shall have had a chance to turn round.”

      They had reached the boundary of the forest where the fields of La Thuiliere begin.

      By the last fading light of day they could distinguish the black outline of the ancient forge, now become a grange, and a light was twinkling in one of the low windows of the farm.

      “Here you are at home,” continued Claudet, laying the bundle of nuts on the flat stone wall which surrounded the farm buildings; “I wish you good-night.”

      “Will you not come in and get warm?”

      “No; I must go back,” replied he.

      “Good-night, then, Claudet; au revoir and good courage!”

      He gazed at her for a moment in the deepening twilight, then, abruptly pressing her hands:

      “Thank you, Reine,” murmured he in a choking voice, “you are a good girl, and I love you very much!”

      He left the young mistress of the farm precipitately, and plunged again into the woods.