Mme. de Renal, wealthy heiress of a pious aunt and married at sixteen to a fine gentleman, had never experienced or seen anything that bore the least resemblance to love. Scarcely anyone had ever spoken to her about love except good Father Chelan, and then only in connection with Valenod's advances; yet he had painted such a disgusting picture of it that to her mind the word stood for nothing but debauchery of the lowest sort. She regarded such as she had found it in the few novels chance had put in her way, as exceptional, or even extra-natural. Thanks to her ignorance, Mme. de Renal was perfectly happy, incessantly concerned about Julien, and far from love, blaming herself the least bit.