remained in the chateau, and was evidently exerting her influence to keep
her son also with her. The fawning duplicity of this woman was
unbearable to Julien; he had not the energy necessary either to subdue
her, or to send her away, and she appeared every morning before him with
a string of hypocritical grievances, and opposing his orders with steady,
irritating inertia. It seemed as if she were endeavoring to render his
life at Vivey hateful to him, so that he would be compelled finally to
beat a retreat.

One morning in November he had reached such a state of moral fatigue and
depression that, as he sat listlessly before the library fire, the
question arose in his mind whether it would not be better to rent the
chateau, place the property in the hands of a manager, and take himself
and his belongings back to Nancy, to his little room in the Rue
Stanislaus, where, at any rate, he could read, meditate, or make plans
for the future without being every moment tormented by miserable, petty
annoyances. His temper was becoming soured, his nerves were unstrung,
and his mind was so disturbed that he fancied he had none but enemies
around him. A cloudy melancholy seemed to invade his brain; he was
seized with a sudden fear that he was about to have an attack of
persecution-phobia, and began to feel his pulse and interrogate his
sensations to see whether he could detect any of the premonitory
symptoms.

While he was immersing himself in this unwholesome atmosphere of
hypochondria, the sound of a door opening and shutting made him start;
he turned quickly around, saw a young woman approaching and smiling at
him, and at last recognized Reine Vincart.

She wore the crimped linen cap and the monk's hood in use among the