He appeared with her on the same day. Julie, preferring not to see her heartless enemy again, locked herself into her boudoir, leaving the doors of all the other rooms open. The Marquise d'Estrelle was a shrewish Norman. In Madame d'Ancourt's circle she was called _Madame de Pimbeche, Orbeche_, etc. She was accused of borrowing money by the year to lend secretly at usurious rates. This may have been an exaggeration; but it is certain that, if she expended a considerable sum to set Julie free, she proposed to recoup herself on the details. The promptness with which she came to make this sort of expert inspection demonstrated that purpose. She went through the house, examined everything with a keen, unerring eye, made her comments and her deductions on account of the slightest crumbling of the walls, cried down the furniture and the fixtures as much as she possibly could, and talked and acted with a cynicism born of avarice and aversion, which fairly sickened Marcel and made the notary blush more than once. When she came to the boudoir where Julie had taken refuge, she demanded that the door be opened. It was opened instantly. Julie had heard her approaching, and being unwilling to undergo the supreme affront of receiving a hateful visitor against her will, she had gone out through the garden, bidding Camille open the door as soon as the demand was made. Camille was proud, she could point to sheriffs among her ancestors! She could not resist the temptation to give the dowager a lesson: she walked to a chest of drawers in which she had hastily and designedly placed a few trifles, and said in a tone of sarcastic resignation: "Perhaps madame desires to count the linen? There are some of my mistress's ribbons and neckerchiefs here." The dowager cared little for the chatter of a lady's maid; but her hatred of Julie was lashed into fury. She cast a rapid glance through the window and saw Madame d'Estrelle crossing the garden toward the pavilion. Doubtless that was a great mistake on Julie's part; but she too was exasperated. She felt as if she were driven from her house, from her bedroom, from her most sacred retreat, by the shamelessness of persecution. She longed for a refuge, her brain was in a whirl, and she bent her steps, without reflection, as if by instinct, toward Madame Thierry and Julien. "She will not come to their house to rout me out," she thought; "she will not dare. I am still the owner of the place, and I alone have the right to enter the premises of my lessees. Moreover, it is time for me to acknowledge my friendly relations with Madame Thierry, and after to-day I propose to go to her house as I go to the houses of other women who have sons or brothers." As she resolutely entered the pavilion, the marchioness, impelled by a no less sudden resolution, rushed from the boudoir into the garden.