Among all the persons he had met since his arrival at Vivey, only one had impressed him as being sympathetic and attractive:  Reine Vincart—­and even her energy was directed toward matters that Julien looked upon as secondary.  And besides, Reine was a woman, and he was afraid of women.  He believed with Ecclesiastes the preacher, that “they are more bitter than death . . . and whoso pleaseth God shall escape from them.”  He had therefore no other refuge but in his books or his own sullen reflections, and, consequently, his old enemy, hypochondria, again made him its prey.

Toward the beginning of January, the snow in the valley had somewhat melted, and a light frost made access to the woods possible.  As the hunting season seldom extended beyond the first days of February, the huntsmen were all eager to take advantage of the few remaining weeks to enjoy their favorite pastime.  Every day the forest resounded with the shouts of beaters-up and the barking of the hounds.  From Auberive, Praslay and Grancey, rendezvous were made in the woods of Charbonniere or Maigrefontaine; nothing was thought of but the exploits of certain marksmen, the number of pieces bagged, and the joyous outdoor breakfasts which preceded each occasion.  One evening, as Julien, more moody than usual, stood yawning wearily and leaning on the corner of the stove, Claudet noticed him, and was touched with pity for this young fellow, who had so little idea how to employ his time, his youth, or his money.  He felt impelled, as a conscientious duty, to draw him out of his unwholesome state of mind, and initiate him into the pleasures of country life.

“You do not enjoy yourself with us, Monsieur Julien,” said he, kindly; “I can’t bear to see you so downhearted.  You are ruining yourself with poring all day long over your books, and the worst of it is, they do not take the frowns out of your face.  Take my word for it, you must change your way of living, or you will be ill.  Come, now, if you will trust in me, I will undertake to cure your ennui before a week is over.”

“And what is your remedy, Claudet?” demanded Julien, with a forced smile.

“A very simple one:  just let your books go, since they do not succeed in interesting you, and live the life that every one else leads.  The de Buxieres, your ancestors, followed the same plan, and had no fault to find with it.  You are in a wolf country—­well, you must howl with the wolves!”

“My dear fellow,” replied Julien, shaking his head, “one can not remake one’s self.  The wolves themselves would discover that I howled out of tune, and would send me back to my books.”

“Nonsense! try, at any rate.  You can not imagine what pleasure there is in coursing through the woods, and suddenly, at a sharp turn, catching sight of a deer in the distance, then galloping to the spot where he must pass, and holding him with the end of your gun!  You have no idea what an appetite one gets with such exercise, nor how jolly it is to breakfast afterward, all together, seated round some favorite old beech-tree.  Enjoy your youth while you have it.  Time enough to stay in your chimney-corner and spit in the ashes when rheumatism has got hold of you.  Perhaps you will say you never have followed the hounds, and do not know how to handle a gun?”