الفصل الفصل 38 · WHAT IS THE DECORATION WHICH CONFERS DISTINCTION?

. WHAT IS THE DECORATION WHICH CONFERS DISTINCTION?

"Thy water refreshes me not," said the transformed genie.

"'Tis nevertheless the freshest well in all Diar-Békir"--_Pellico_.

One day Julien had just returned from the charming estate of Villequier

on the banks of the Seine, which was the especial subject of M. de la

Mole's interest because it was the only one of all his properties which

had belonged to the celebrated Boniface de la Mole.

He found the marquise and her daughter, who had just come back from

Hyères, in the hotel. Julien was a dandy now, and understood the art of

Paris life. He manifested a perfect coldness towards mademoiselle de la

Mole. He seemed to have retained no recollection of the day when she

had asked him so gaily for details of his fall from his horse.

Mademoiselle de la Mole thought that he had grown taller and paler.

There was no longer anything of the provincial in his figure or his

appearance. It was not so with his conversation. Too much of the

serious and too much of the positive element were still noticeable. In

spite of these sober qualities, his conversation, thanks to his pride,

was destitute of any trace of the subordinate. One simply felt that

there were still too many things which he took seriously. But one saw

that he was the kind of man to stick to his guns.

"He lacks lightness of touch, but not brains," said mademoiselle de la

Mole to her father, as she rallied him on the cross that he had given

Julien. "My brother has been asking you for it for sixteen months, and

he is a La Mole."

"Yes, but Julien has surprises, and that's what the de la Mole, whom

you were referring to, has never been guilty of."

M. the duc de Retz was announced.

Mathilde felt herself seized by an irresistible attack of yawning. She

knew so well the old gildings and the old habitués of her father's

salon. She conjured up an absolutely boring picture of the life which

she was going to take up at Paris, and yet, when at Hyères, she had

regretted Paris.

"And yet I am nineteen," she thought. "That's the age of happiness, say

all those gilt-edged ninnies."

She looked at eight or ten new volumes of poetry which had accumulated

on the table in the salon during her journey in Provence. She had the

misfortune to have more brains than M.M. de Croisnois, de Caylus, de

Luz, and her other friends. She anticipated all that they were going to

tell her about the fine sky of Provence, poetry, the South, etc., etc.

These fine eyes, which were the home of the deepest ennui, and worse

still, of the despair of ever finding pleasure, lingered on Julien. At

any rate, he was not exactly like the others.

"Monsieur Sorel," she said, in that short, sharp voice, destitute of

all femininity, which is so frequent among young women of the upper

class.

"Monsieur Sorel, are you coming to-night to M. de Retz's ball?"

"Mademoiselle, I have not had the honour of being presented to M. the

duke." (One would have said that these words and that title seared the

mouth of the proud provincial).

"He asked my brother to take you there, and if you go, you could

tell me some details about the Villequier estate. We are thinking of

going there in the spring, and I would like to know if the château is

habitable, and if the neighbouring places are as pretty as they say.

There are so many unmerited reputations."

Julien did not answer.

"Come to