May 4th.

Lampron has gone to the country to pass a fortnight in an out-of-the-way place with an old relative, where he goes into hiding when he wishes to finish an engraving.

But Madame Lampron was at home.  After a little hesitation I told her all, and I am glad I did so.  She found in her simple, womanly heart just the counsel that I needed.  One feels that she is used to giving consolation.  She possesses the secret of that feminine deftness which is the great set-off to feminine weakness.  Weak?  Yes, women perhaps are weak, yet less weak than we, the strong sex, for they can raise us to our feet.  She called me, “My dear Monsieur Fabien,” and there was balm in the very way she said the words.  I used to think she wanted refinement; she does not, she only lacks reading, and lack of reading may go with the most delicate and lofty feelings.  No one ever taught her certain turns of expression which she used.  “If your mother was alive,” said she, “this is what she would say.”  And then she spoke to me of God, who alone can determinate man’s trials, either by the end He ordains, or the resignation He inspires.  I felt myself carried with her into the regions where our sorrows shrink into insignificance as the horizon broadens around them.  And I remember she uttered this fine thought, “See how my son has suffered!  It makes one believe, Monsieur Fabien, that the elect of the earth are the hardest tried, just as the stones that crown the building are more deeply cut than their fellows.”

I returned from Madame Lampron’s, softened, calmer, wiser.

CHAPTER IX

A VISIT FROM MY UNCLE

May 5th.

A letter from M. Mouillard breathing fire and fury.  Were I not so low spirited I could laugh at it.

He would have liked me, after taking my degree at two in the afternoon, to take the train for Bourges the same evening, where my uncle, his practice, and provincial bliss awaited me.  M. Mouillard’s friends had had due notice, and would have come to meet me at the station.  In short, I am an ungrateful wretch.  At least I might have fixed the hour of my imminent arrival, for I can not want to stop in Paris with nothing there to detain me.  But no, not a sign, not a word of returning; simply the announcement that I have passed.  This goes beyond the bounds of mere folly and carelessness.  M. Mouillard, his most elementary notions of life shaken to their foundations, concludes in these words: 

“Fabien, I have long suspected it; some creature has you in bondage. 
I am coming to break the bonds!

“BrutusMouillard.”

I know him well; he will be here tomorrow.

May 6th. 
No uncle as yet.

May 7th. 
No more uncle than yesterday.

May 8th. 
Total eclipse continues.  No news of M. Mouillard.  This is very strange.

May 9th. 

This evening at seven o’clock, just as I was going out to dine, I saw, a few yards away, a tall, broad-brimmed hat surmounting a head of lank white hair, a long neck throttled in a white neckcloth, a frock-coat flapping about a pair of attenuated legs.  I lifted up my voice: