The Red and the Black

by Stendhal

  She had never been more brilliant; hardly had Caylus and his allies opened their attack than she riddled them with sarcastic jests. When the fire of these brilliant officers was at length extinguished, she said to M. de Caylus,

  “Suppose that some gentleman in the Franche-Comté mountains finds out to-morrow that Julien is his natural son and gives him a name and some thousands of francs; why in six months he will be an officer of hussars like you, gentlemen; in six weeks he will have moustaches like you gentlemen. And then his greatness of character will no longer be an object of ridicule. I shall then see you reduced, monsieur the future duke, to this tale and bad argument, the superiority of the court nobility over the provincial nobility. But where will you be if I choose to push you to extremities and am mischievous enough to make Julien’s father a Spanish duke, who was a prisoner of war at Besançon in the time of Napoleon, and who out of conscientious scruples acknowledges him on his death bed?” MM. de Caylus, and de Croisenois found all these assumptions of illegitimacy in rather bad taste. That was all they saw in Mathilde’s reasoning.

  His sister’s words were so clear that Norbert, in spite of his submissiveness, assumed a solemn air, which one must admit did not harmonise very well with his amiable, smiling face. He ventured to say a few words.

  “Are you ill, my dear?” answered Mathilde with a little air of seriousness. “You must be very bad to answer jests by moralizing.”

  “Moralizing from you! Are you soliciting a job as prefect?”

  Mathilde soon forgot the irritation of the Comte de Caylus, the bad temper of Norbert, and the taciturn despair of M. de Croisenois. She had to decide one way or the other a fatal question which had just seized upon her soul.

  “Julien is sincere enough with me,” she said to herself, “a man at his age, in an inferior position, and rendered unhappy as he is by an extraordinary ambition, must have need of a woman friend. I am perhaps that friend, but I see no sign of love in him. Taking into account the audacity of his character he would surely have spoken to me about his love.”

  This uncertainty and this discussion with herself which henceforth monopolised Mathilde’s time, and in connection with which she found new arguments each time that Julien spoke to her, completely routed those fits of boredom to which she had been so liable.

  Daughter as she was of a man of intellect who might become a minister, Mademoiselle de la Mole had been, when in the convent of the Sacred Heart, the object of the most excessive flattery. This misfortune can never be compensated for. She had been persuaded that by reason of all her advantages of birth, fortune, etc., she ought to be happier than anyone else. This is the cause of the boredom of princes and of all their follies.

  Mathilde had not escaped the deadly influence of this idea. However intelligent one may be, one cannot at the age of ten be on one’s guard against the flatteries of a whole convent, which are apparently so well founded.

  From the moment that she had decided that she loved Julien, she was no longer bored. She congratulated herself every day on having deliberately decided to indulge in a grand passion. “This amusement is very dangerous,” she thought. “All the better, all the better, a thousand times. Without a grand passion I should be languishing in boredom during the finest time of my life, the years from sixteen to twenty. I have already wasted my finest years: all my pleasure consisted in being obliged to listen to the silly arguments of my mother’s friends who, when at Coblenz in 1792, were not quite so strict, so they say, as their words of to-day.”

  It was while Mathilde was a prey to these great fits of uncertainty that Julien was baffled by those long looks of hers which lingered upon him. He noticed, no doubt, an increased frigidity in the manner of Comte Norbert, and a fresh touch of haughtiness in the manner of MM. de Caylus, de Luz and de Croisenois. He was accustomed to that. He would sometimes be their victim in this way at the end of an evening when, in view of the position he occupied, he had been unduly brilliant. Had it not been for the especial welcome with which Mathilde would greet him, and the curiosity with which all this society inspired him, he would have avoided following these brilliant moustachioed young men into the garden, when they accompanied Mademoiselle de la Mole there, in the hour after dinner.

  “Yes,” Julien would say to himself, “it is impossible for me to deceive myself, Mademoiselle de la Mole looks at me in a very singular way. But even when her fine blue open eyes are fixed on me, wide open with the most abandon, I always detect behind them an element of scrutiny, self-possession and malice. Is it possible that this may be love? But how different to Madame de Rênal’s looks!”

  One evening after dinner, Julien, who had followed M. de la Mole into his study, was rapidly walking back to the garden. He approached Mathilde’s circle without any warning, and caught some words pronounced in a very loud voice. She was teasing her brother. Julien heard his name distinctly pronounced twice. He appeared. There was immediately a profound silence and abortive efforts were made to dissipate it. Mademoiselle de la Mole and her brother were too animated to find another topic of conversation. MM. de Caylus, de Croisenois, de Luz, and one of their friends, manifested an icy coldness to Julien. He went away.

  XLIII. A Plot

  Disconnected remarks, casual meetings, become transformed in the eyes of an imaginative man into the most convincing proofs, if he has any fire in his temperament.—Schiller

  The following day he again caught Norbert and his sister talking about him. A funereal silence was established on his arrival as on the previous day. His suspicions were now unbounded. “Can these charming young people have started to make fun of me? I must own this is much more probable, much more natural than any suggested passion on the part of Mademoiselle de la Mole for a poor devil of a secretary. In the first place, have those people got any passions at all? Mystification is their strong point. They are jealous of my poor little superiority in speaking. Being jealous again is one of their weaknesses. On that basis everything is explicable. Mademoiselle de la Mole simply wants to persuade me that she is marking me out for special favour in order to show me off to her betrothed.”

  This cruel suspicion completely changed Julien’s psychological condition. The idea found in his heart a budding love which it had no difficulty in destroying. This love was only founded on Mathilde’s rare beauty, or rather on her queenly manners and her admirable dresses. Julien was still a parvenu in this respect. We are assured that there is nothing equal to a pretty society woman for dazzling a peasant who is at the same time a man of intellect, when he is admitted to first class society. It had not been Mathilde’s character which had given Julien food for dreams in the days that had just passed. He had sufficient sense to realise that he knew nothing about her character. All he saw of it might be merely superficial.

  For instance, Mathilde would not have missed mass on Sunday for anything in the world. She accompanied her mother there nearly every time. If, when in the salon of the Hôtel de la Mole, some indiscreet man forgot where he was, and indulged in the remotest allusion to any jest against the real or supposed interests of Church or State, Mathilde immediately assumed an icy seriousness. Her previously arch expression re-assumed all the impassive haughtiness of an old family portrait.

  But Julien had assured himself that she always had one or two of Voltaire’s most philosophic volumes in her room. He himself would often steal some tomes of that fine edition which was so magnificently bound. By moving each volume a little distance from the one next to it he managed to hide the absence of the one he took away, but he soon noticed that someone else was reading Voltaire. He had recourse to a trick worthy of the seminary and placed some pieces of hair on those volumes which he thought were likely to interest Mademoiselle de la Mole. They disappeared for whole weeks.

  M. de la Mole had lost patience with his bookseller, who always sent him all the spurious memoirs, and had instructed Julien to buy all the new books, which were at all stimulating. But in order to prevent the poison spreading over the
household, the secretary was ordered to place the books in a little book-case that stood in the marquis’s own room. He was soon quite certain that although the new books were hostile to the interests of both State and Church, they very quickly disappeared. It was certainly not Norbert who read them.

  Julien attached undue importance to this discovery, and attributed to Mademoiselle de la Mole a Machiavellian rôle. This seeming depravity constituted a charm in his eyes, the one moral charm, in fact, which she possessed. He was led into this extravagance by his boredom with hypocrisy and moral platitudes.

  It was more a case of his exciting his own imagination than of his being swept away by his love.

  It was only after he had abandoned himself to reveries about the elegance of Mademoiselle de la Mole’s figure, the excellent taste of her dress, the whiteness of her hand, the beauty of her arm, the disinvoltura of all her movements, that he began to find himself in love. Then in order to complete the charm he thought her a Catherine de Médici. Nothing was too deep or too criminal for the character which he ascribed to her. She was the ideal of the Maslons, the Frilairs, and the Castenèdes whom he had admired so much in his youth. To put it shortly, she represented in his eyes the Paris ideal.

  Could anything possibly be more humorous than believing in the depth or in the depravity of the Parisian character?

  “It is impossible that this trio is making fun of me,” thought Julien. The reader knows little of his character if he has not begun already to imagine his cold and gloomy expression when he answered Mathilde’s looks. A bitter irony rebuffed those assurances of friendship which the astonished Mademoiselle de la Mole ventured to hazard on two or three occasions.

  Piqued by this sudden eccentricity, the heart of this young girl, though naturally cold, bored and intellectual, became as impassioned as it was naturally capable of being. But there was also a large element of pride in Mathilde’s character, and the birth of a sentiment which made all her happiness dependent on another, was accompanied by a gloomy melancholy.

  Julien had derived sufficient advantage from his stay in Paris to appreciate that this was not the frigid melancholy of ennui. Instead of being keen as she had been on at-homes, theatres, and all kinds of distractions, she now shunned them.

  Music sung by Frenchmen bored Mathilde to death, yet Julien, who always made a point of being present when the audience came out of the Opera, noticed that she made a point of getting taken there as often as she could. He thought he noticed that she had lost a little of that brilliant neatness of touch which used to be manifest in everything she did. She would sometimes answer her friends with jests rendered positively outrageous through the sheer force of their stinging energy. He thought that she made a special butt of the Marquis de Croisenois. That young man must be desperately in love with money not to give the go-by to that girl, however rich she may be, thought Julien. And as for himself, indignant at these outrages on masculine self-respect, he redoubled his frigidity towards her. Sometimes he went so far as to answer her with scant courtesy.

  In spite of his resolution not to become the dupe of Mathilde’s signs of interest, these manifestations were so palpable on certain days, and Julien, whose eyes were beginning to be opened, began to find her so pretty, that he was sometimes embarrassed.

  “These young people of society will score in the long run by their skill and their coolness over my inexperience,” he said to himself. “I must leave and put an end to all this.” The marquis had just entrusted him with the administration of a number of small estates and houses which he possessed in Lower Languedoc. A journey was necessary; M. de La Mole reluctantly consented. Julien had become his other self, except in those matters which concerned his political career.

  “So, when we come to balance the account,” Julien said to himself, as he prepared his departure, “they have not caught me. Whether the jests that Mademoiselle de la Mole made to those gentlemen are real, or whether they were only intended to inspire me with confidence, they have simply amused me.

  “If there is no conspiracy against the carpenter’s son, Mademoiselle de la Mole is an enigma, but at any rate, she is quite as much an enigma for the Marquis de Croisenois as she is to me. Yesterday, for instance, her bad temper was very real, and I had the pleasure of seeing her snub, thanks to her favour for me, a young man who is as noble and as rich as I am a poor scoundrel of a plebeian. That is my finest triumph; it will divert in my post-chaise as I traverse the Languedoc Plains.”

  He had kept his departure a secret, but Mathilde knew, even better than he did himself, that he was going to leave Paris the following day for a long time. She developed a maddening headache, which was rendered worse by the stuffy salon. She walked a great deal in the garden, and persecuted Norbert, the Marquis de Croisenois, Caylus, de Luz, and some other young men who had dined at the Hôtel de la Mole, to such an extent by her mordant witticisms, that she drove them to take their leave. She kept looking at Julien in a strange way.

  “Perhaps that look is a pose,” thought Julien, “but how about that hurried breathing and all that agitation? Bah,” he said to himself, “who am I to judge of such things? We are dealing with the cream of Parisian sublimity and subtlety. As for that hurried breathing which was on the point of affecting me, she no doubt studied it with Léontine Fay, whom she likes so much.”

  They were left alone; the conversation was obviously languishing. “No, Julien has no feeling for me,” said Mathilde to herself, in a state of real unhappiness.

  As he was taking leave of her, she took his arm violently.

  “You will receive a letter from me this evening,” she said to him in a voice that was so changed that its tone was scarcely recognisable.

  This circumstance affected Julien immediately.

  “My father,” he continued, “has a proper regard for the services you render him. You must not leave to-morrow; find an excuse.” And she ran away.

  Her figure was charming. It was impossible to have a prettier foot. She ran with a grace which fascinated Julien, but will the reader guess what he began to think about after she had finally left him? He felt wounded by the imperious tone with which she had said the words, “you must.” Louis XV. too, when on his death-bed, had been keenly irritated by the words “you must,” which had been tactlessly pronounced by his first physician, and yet Louis XV. was not a parvenu.

  An hour afterwards a footman gave Julien a letter. It was quite simply a declaration of love.

  “The style is too affected,” said Julien to himself, as he endeavoured to control by his literary criticism the joy which was spreading over his cheeks and forcing him to smile in spite of himself.

  At last his passionate exultation was too strong to be controlled. “So I,” he suddenly exclaimed, “I, the poor peasant, get a declaration of love from a great lady.”

  “As for myself, I haven’t done so badly,” he added, restraining his joy as much as he could. “I have managed to preserve my self-respect. I did not say that I loved her.” He began to study the formation of the letters. Mademoiselle de la Mole had a pretty little English handwriting. He needed some concrete occupation to distract him from a joy which verged on delirium.

  “Your departure forces me to speak.... I could not bear not to see you again.”

  A thought had just struck Julien like a new discovery. It interrupted his examination of Mathilde’s letter, and redoubled his joy. “So I score over the Marquis de Croisenois,” he exclaimed. “Yes, I who could only talk seriously! And he is so handsome. He has a moustache and a charming uniform. He always manages to say something witty and clever just at the psychological moment.”

  Julien experienced a delightful minute. He was wandering at random in the garden, mad with happiness.

  Afterwards he went up to his desk, and had himself ushered in to the Marquis de la Mole, who was fortunately still in. He showed him several stamped papers which had come from Normandy, and had no difficulty in convincing him that he was obliged to put of
f his departure for Languedoc in order to look after the Normandy lawsuits.

  “I am very glad that you are not going,” said the marquis to him, when they had finished talking business. “I like seeing you.” Julien went out; the words irritated him.

  “And I—I am going to seduce his daughter! and perhaps render impossible that marriage with the Marquis de Croisenois to which the marquis looks forward with such delight. If he does not get made a duke, at any rate his daughter will have a coronet.” Julien thought of leaving for Languedoc in spite of Mathilde’s letter, and in spite of the explanation he had just given to the marquis. This flash of virtue quickly disappeared.

  “How kind it is of me,” he said to himself, “me . . . a plebeian, takes pity on a family of this rank! Yes, me, whom the Duke of Chaulnes calls a servant! How does the marquis manage to increase his immense fortune? By selling stock when he picks up information at the castle that there will be a panic of a coup d’état on the following day. And shall I, who have been flung down into the lowest class by a cruel providence—I, whom providence has given a noble heart but not an income of a thousand francs, that is to say, not enough to buy bread with, literally not enough to buy bread with—shall I refuse a pleasure that presents itself? A limpid fountain which will quench my thirst in this scorching desert of mediocrity which I am traversing with such difficulty! Upon my word, I am not such a fool! Each man for himself in that desert of egoism which is called life.”

  And he remembered certain disdainful looks which Madame de la Mole, and especially her lady friends, had favoured him with.

  The pleasure of scoring over the Marquis de Croisenois completed the rout of this echo of virtue.