DRE THEURIET

BOOK 2.

CHAPTER IV

THE DAWN OF LOVE

Winter had come, and with it all the inclement accompaniments usual in
this bleak and bitter mountainous country: icy rains, which, mingled with
sleet, washed away whirlpools of withered leaves that the swollen streams
tossed noisily into the ravines; sharp, cutting winds from the north,
bleak frosts hardening the earth and vitrifying the cascades; abundant
falls of snow, lasting sometimes an entire week. The roads had become
impassable. A thick, white crust covered alike the pasture-lands, the
stony levels, and the wooded slopes, where the branches creaked under the
weight of their snowy burdens. A profound silence encircled the village,
which seemed buried under the successive layers of snowdrifts. Only here
and there, occasionally, did a thin line of blue smoke, rising from one
of the white roofs, give evidence of any latent life among the
inhabitants. The Chateau de Buxieres stood in the midst of a vast carpet
of snow on which the sabots of the villagers had outlined a narrow path,
leading from the outer steps to the iron gate. Inside, fires blazed on
all the hearths, which, however, did not modify the frigid atmosphere of
the rudely-built upper rooms.

Julien de Buxieres was freezing, both physically and morally, in his
abode. His generous conduct toward Claudet had, in truth, gained him the
affection of the 'grand chasserot', made Manette as gentle as a lamb, and
caused a revulsion of feeling in his favor throughout the village; but,
although his material surroundings had become more congenial, he still
felt around him the chill of intellectual solitude. The days also seemed
longer since Claudet had taken upon himself the management of all
details. Julien found that re-reading his favorite books was not
sufficient occupation for the weary hours that dragged slowly along
between the rising and the setting of the sun. The gossipings of Manette,
the hunting stories of Claudet had no interest for young de Buxieres, and
the acquaintances he endeavored to make outside left only a depressing
feeling of ennui and disenchantment.

His first visit had been made to the cure of Vivey, where he hoped to
meet with some intellectual resources, and a tone of conversation more in
harmony with his tastes. In this expectation, also, he had been
disappointed. The Abbe Pernot was an amiable quinquagenarian, and a 'bon
vivant', whose mind inclined more naturally to