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
peasants of the richer class. Her wavy, brown hair, simply parted in
front, fell in rebellious curls from under the border of her cap, of
which the only decoration was a bow of black ribbon; the end floating
gracefully over her shoulders. The sharp November air had imparted a
delicate rose tint to her pale complexion, and additional vivacity to
her luminous, dark eyes.

"Good-morning, Monsieur de Buxieres," said she, in her clear, pleasantly
modulated voice; "I think you may remember me? It is not so long since
we saw each other at the farm."

"Mademoiselle Vincart!" exclaimed Julien. "Why, certainly I remember
you!"

He drew a chair toward the fire, and offered it to her. This charming
apparition of his cordial hostess at La Thuiliere evoked the one
pleasant remembrance in his mind since his arrival in Vivey. It shot,
like a ray of sunlight, across the heavy fog of despair which had
enveloped the new master of the chateau. It was, therefor