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 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, therefore, with real sincerity that he repeated: