ce were it
not for his brother's confession. He attributed such stupidity on his
part to the gravity of his occupations, his labors, the absorption in
which his mind was held by certain elevated thoughts which prevented
his taking due notice of the petty details of life." He made the vicar
observe, but without appearing to censure the conduct of a man whose
age and connections deserved all respect, that "in former days,
recluses thought little about their food and lodging in the solitude
of their retreats, where they were lost in holy contemplations," and
that "in our days, priests could make a retreat for themselves in the
solitude of their own hearts." Then, reverting to Birotteau's affairs,
he added that "such disagreements were a novelty to him. For twelve
years nothing of the kind had occurred between Mademoiselle Gamard and
the venerable Abbe Chapeloud. As for himself, he might, no doubt, be
an arbitrator between the vicar and their landlady, because his
friendship for that person had never gone beyond the limits imposed by
the Church on her faithful servants; but if so, justice demanded that
he should hear both sides. He certainly saw no change in Mademoiselle
Gamard, who seemed to him the same as ever; he had always submitted to
a few of her caprices, knowing that the excellent woman was kindness
and gentleness itself; the slight fluctuations of her temper should be
attributed, he thought, to sufferings caused by a pulmonary affection,
of which she said little, resigning herself to bear them in a truly
Christian spirit." He ended by assuring the vicar that "if he stayed a
few years longer in Mademoiselle Gamard's house he would learn to
understand her better and acknowledge the real value of her excellent
nature."

Birotteau left the room confounded. In the direful necessity of
consulting no one, he now judged Mademoiselle Gamard as he would
himself, and the poor man fancied that if he left her house for a few
days he might extinguish, for want of fuel, the dislike the old maid
felt for him. He accordingly resolved to spend, as he formerly did, a
week or so at a country-house where Madame de Listomere passed her
autumns, a season when the sky is usually pure and tender in Touraine.
Poor man! in so doing he did the thing that was most desired by his
terrible enemy, whose plans could only have been brought to nought by
the resistant patience of a monk. But the vicar, unable to divine
them, not understanding even