t, 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 toward the duties of daily
life than toward meditation or contemplative studies. The ideal did
not worry him in the least; and when he had said his mass, read his
breviary, confessed the devout sinners and visited the sick,