To Julien himself there was something insane, or at all events inexplicable, in that sudden passion which had taken possession of him, who was so sensible in all other respects; but as there is a cause for every effect, it is our place to seek it, and not be too free to admit the improbability of actual occurrences. Marcel came very often, with or without his wife, to pass a portion of the evening with his aunt Thierry. Julien and he were much attached to each other, and although they often disagreed, Marcel considering Julien too romantic, and Julien considering Marcel too practical, they would have died for each other. Marcel talked freely about his practice, which was rapidly increasing. When Julien asked him: "Is your office flourishing?" he would answer: "It is budding, my boy, it is budding! I often have clients who bring me more honor than profit, and they are not the ones of whom I think the least."--Among those clients who were not fond of litigation, but to whom he owed pleasant or profitable connections, Marcel placed the Comtesse d'Estrelle in the first rank. He mentioned her so often and in such enthusiastic terms, he thought and spoke so severely of the lovely widow's unworthy husband, he inveighed so bitterly against the inhuman avarice of the family, he took such a profound interest in Julie's gentle and noble character, he involuntarily extolled her charms so warmly, that Julien was curious to see her; he saw her and loved her, if indeed he did not love her before he saw her. Julien had never loved before. He had led a very virtuous life, he had experienced a great sorrow, he was at the height of his physical and mental development; his susceptibility was overstrained by the courageous efforts he had made, by a constant exchange of fervent affection with his loving mother, by a tendency to enthusiasm which he derived from long association with an enthusiastic father. He lived in seclusion, he denied himself all diversion and worked with intense eagerness to preserve the honor of his name and to save his mother from want. All this must inevitably find a vent, and that generous heart discharge its surplus emotion. We will say no more about it; indeed we have already said far too much in explanation of that impossible phenomenon which we see every day--a persistent, violent, boundless aspiration toward an object which is known to be unattainable. Long, long before, La Fontaine had written this refrain, which had passed into a proverb: "Love, love! when thou dost hold us, Well may we say: 'Prudence, farewell!'" II Now, while the countess was talking to Madame Thierry, and Julien to himself, Marcel Thierry was talking not far away with his uncle Antoine, the old bachelor, the ex-armorer, the rich man of the family.