began to injure his health. One morning, as he put on his mottled blue
stockings, he noticed a marked dimunition in the circumference of his
calves. Horrified by so cruel and undeniable a symptom, he resolved to
make an effort and appeal to the Abbe Troubert, requesting him to
intervene, officially, between Mademoiselle Gamard and himself.

When he found himself in presence of the imposing canon, who, in order
to receive his visitor in a bare and cheerless room, had hastily
quitted a study full of papers, where he worked incessantly, and where
no one was ever admitted, the vicar felt half ashamed at speaking of
Mademoiselle Gamard's provocations to a man who appeared to be so
gravely occupied. But after going through the agony of the mental
deliberations which all humble, undecided, and feeble persons endure
about things of even no importance, he decided, not without much
swelling and beating of the heart, to explain his position to the Abbe
Troubert.

The canon listened in a cold, grave manner, trying, but in vain, to
repress an occasional smile which to more intelligent eyes than those
of the vicar might have betrayed the emotions of a secret
satisfaction. A flame seemed to dart from his eyelids when Birotteau
pictured with the eloquence of genuine feeling the constant bitterness
he was made to swallow; but Troubert laid his hand above those lids
with a gesture very common to thinkers, maintaining the dignified
demeanor which was usual with him. When the vicar had ceased to speak
he would indeed have been puzzled had he sought on Troubert's face,
marbled with yellow blotches even more yellow than his usually bilious
skin, for any trace of the feelings he must have excited in that
mysterious priest.