ny
but the original writer. Julien became completely bewildered among these
various documents, the explanations in which were harder to understand
than conundrums. Although greatly averse to following the notary's advice
as to seeking Claudet's assistance, he found himself compelled to do so,
but was met by such laconic and surly answers that he concluded it would
be more dignified on his part to dispense with the services of one who
was so badly disposed toward him. He therefore resolved to have recourse
to the debtors themselves, whose names he found, after much difficulty,
in the books. These consisted mostly of peasants of the neighborhood, who
came to the chateau at his summons; but as soon as they came into
Julien's presence, they discovered, with that cautious perception which
is an instinct with rustic minds, that before them stood a man completely
ignorant of the customs of the country, and very poorly informed on
Claude de Buxieres's affairs. They made no scruple of mystifying this
"city gentleman," by means of ambiguous statements and cunning reticence.
The young man could get no enlightenment from them; all he clearly
understood was, that they were making fun of him, and that he was not
able to cope with these country bumpkins, whose shrewdness would have
done honor to the most experienced lawyer.

After a few days he became discouraged and disgusted. He could see
nothing but trouble ahead; he seemed surrounded by either open enemies or
people inclined to take advantage of him. It was plain that all the
population of the village looked upon him as an intruder, a troublesome
master, a stranger whom they would like to intimidate and send about his
business. Manette Sejournant, who was always talking about going, still
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