“What do you mean by policy, mother?”

“I mean—­letting things drag quietly on—­not breaking all the windows at the first stroke.  The lad is as dazed as a young bird that has fallen from its nest.  What we have to do is to help him to get control of himself, and accustom him not to do without us.  As soon as we have made ourselves necessary to him, he will be at our feet.”

“Would you wish me to become the servant of the man who has cheated me out of my inheritance?” protested Claudet, indignantly.

“His servant—­no, indeed! but his companion—­why not?  And it would be so easy if you would only make up your mind to it, Claude.  I tell you again, he is not ill-natured-he looks like a man who is up to his neck in devotion.  When he once feels we are necessary to his comfort, and that some reliable person, like the curate, for example, were to whisper to him that you are the son of Claudet de Buxieres, he would have scruples, and at last, half on his own account, and half for the sake of religion, he would begin to treat you like a relative.”

“No;” said Claudet, firmly, “these tricky ways do not suit me.  Monsieur Arbillot proposed yesterday that I should do what you advise.  He even offered to inform this gentleman of my relationship to Claude de Buxieres.  I refused, and forbade the notary to open his mouth on the subject.  What! should I play the part of a craven hound before this younger son whom my father detested, and beg for a portion of the inheritance?  Thank you!  I prefer to take myself out of the way at once!”

“You prefer to have your mother beg her bread at strangers’ doors!” replied Manette, bitterly, shedding tears of rage.

“I have already told you, mother, that when one has a good pair of arms, and the inclination to use them, one has no need to beg one’s bread.  Enough said!  I am going to Auberive to notify the justice and the notary.”

While Claudet was striding across the woods, the boy carried the luggage of the newly arrived traveller into the chamber on the first floor, and Zelie, the small servant, put the sheets on the bed, dusted the room, and lighted the fire.  In a few minutes, Julien was alone in his new domicile, and began to open his boxes and valises.  The chimney, which had not been used since the preceding winter, smoked unpleasantly, and the damp logs only blackened instead of burning.  The boxes lay wide open, and the room of the deceased Claude de Buxieres had the uncomfortable aspect of a place long uninhabited.  Julien had seated himself in one of the large armchairs, covered in Utrecht velvet, and endeavored to rekindle the dying fire.  He felt at loose ends and discouraged, and had no longer the courage to arrange his clothes in the open wardrobes, which stood open, emitting a strong odor of decaying mold.