BoredomSacrificing oneself to one's passions is one thing; but to passionsthat one doesn't have! O sad nineteenth century!

　　GIRODETAfter having read without pleasure at first Julien's long letters, Madame de Fervaques began to take an interest in them; but one thing distressed her: 'What a pity that M. Sorel is not really a priest! One couldadmit him to a sort of intimacy: with that Cross and what is almost alayman's coat, one is exposed to cruel questions, and how is one to answer them?' She did not complete her thought: 'some malicious friendmay suppose and indeed spread the report that he is some humble littlecousin, one of my father's family, some tradesman decorated by the National Guard.'

　　Until the moment of her first meeting Julien, Madame de Fervaques'sgreatest pleasure had been to write the word Marechale before her ownname. Thenceforward the vanity of an upstart, morbid and easily offended, had to fight a nascent interest.

　　'It would be so easy for me,' the Marechale said to herself, 'to make aVicar-General of him in some diocese not far from Paris! But M. Sorel byitself, and to add to that a mere secretary of M. de La Mole! It isdeplorable.'

　　For the first time, this spirit which dreaded everything was stirred by aninterest apart from its own pretensions to rank and to social superiority.

　　Her old porter noticed that, when he brought her a letter from that handsome young man, who wore such a melancholy air, he was certain to seevanish the distracted and irritated expression which the Marechale always took care to assume when any of her servants entered the room.

　　The boredom of a mode of life whose sole ambition was to create aneffect on the public, without there being at the bottom of her heart any real enjoyment of this kind of success, had become so intolerable sinceshe had begun to think of Julien, that, if her maids were not to be ill-treated throughout the whole of a day, it was enough that during theprevious evening she should have spent an hour with this strange youngman. His growing credit survived anonymous letters, very well composed. In vain did little Tanbeau supply MM. de Luz, de Croisenois, deCaylus, with two or three most adroit calumnies which those gentlementook pleasure in spreading abroad, without stopping to consider thetruth of the accusations. The Marechale, whose mind was not framed towithstand these vulgar methods, reported her doubts to Mathilde, andwas always comforted.

　　One day, after having inquired three times whether there were any letters, Madame de Fervaques suddenly decided to write to Julien. Thiswas a victory gained by boredom. At the second letter, the Marechalewas almost brought to a standstill by the unpleasantness of writing withher own hand so vulgar an address as: 'a M. Sorel, chez M. le Marquis deLa Mole'.

　　'You must,' she said to Julien that evening in the driest of tones, 'bringme some envelopes with your address written on them.'

　　'So now I am to combine the lover and the flunkey,' thought Julien,and bowed, amusing himself by screwing up his face like Arsene, theMarquis's old footman.

　　That same evening he brought a supply of envelopes, and next day,early in the morning, he received a third letter: he read five or six lines atthe beginning, and two or three towards the end. It covered four pagesin a small and very close script.

　　Gradually she formed the pleasant habit of writing almost every day.

　　Julien replied with faithful copies of............