The Red and the Black

by Stendhal

  They went out riding every day; the prince was mad on Julien. Not knowing how else to manifest his sudden friendship, he finished up by offering him the hand of one of his cousins, a rich Moscow heiress; “and once married,” he added, “my influence and that cross of yours will get you made a Colonel within two years.”

  “But that cross was not given me by Napoleon, far from it.”

  “What does it matter?” said the prince, “didn’t he invent it? It is still the first in Europe by a long way.”

  Julien was on the point of accepting; but his duty called him back to the great personage. When he left Korasoff he promised to write. He received the answer to the secret note which he had brought, and posted towards Paris; but he had scarcely been alone for two successive days before leaving France, and Mathilde seemed a worse punishment than death. “I will not marry the millions Korasoff offers me,” he said to himself, “and I will follow his advice.

  “After all the art of seduction is his specialty. He has thought about nothing else except that alone for more than fifteen years, for he is now thirty.

  “One can’t say that he lacks intelligence; he is subtle and cunning; enthusiasm and poetry are impossible in such a character. He is an attorney: an additional reason for his not making a mistake.

  “I must do it, I will pay court to Madame de Fervaques.

  “It is very likely she will bore me a little, but I will look at her beautiful eyes which are so like those other eyes which have loved me more than anyone in the world.

  “She is a foreigner; she is a new character to observe.

  “I feel mad, and as though I were going to the devil. I must follow the advice of a friend and not trust myself.”

  LV. The Ministry of Virtue

  But if I take this pleasure with so much prudence and circumspection I shall no longer find it a pleasure.—Lope de Vega

  As soon as our hero had returned to Paris and had come out of the study of the Marquis de la Mole, who seemed very displeased with the despatches that were given him, he rushed off for the Comte Altamira. This noble foreigner combined, with the advantage of having once been condemned to death, a very grave demeanour together with the good fortune of a devout temperament; these two qualities, and more than anything, the comte’s high birth, made an especial appeal to Madame de Fervaques who saw a lot of him.

  Julien solemnly confessed to him that he was very much in love with her.

  “Her virtue is the purest and the highest,” answered Altamira, “only it is a little Jesuitical and dogmatic.

  “There are days when, though I understand each of the expressions which she makes use of, I never understand the whole sentence. She often makes me think that I do not know French as well as I am said to. But your acquaintance with her will get you talked about; it will give you weight in the world. But let us go to Bustos,” said Count Altamira who had a methodical turn of mind; “he once paid court to Madame la Maréchale.”

  Don Diego Bustos had the matter explained to him at length, while he said nothing, like a barrister in his chambers. He had a big monk-like face with black moustaches and an inimitable gravity; he was, however, a good carbonaro.

  “I understand,” he said to Julien at last. “Has the Maréchale de Fervaques had lovers, or has she not? Have you consequently any hope of success? That is the question. I don’t mind telling you, for my own part, that I have failed. Now that I am no more piqued I reason it out to myself in this way; she is often bad-tempered, and as I will tell you in a minute, she is quite vindictive.

  “I fail to detect in her that bilious temperament which is the sign of genius, and shows as it were a veneer of passion over all its actions. On the contrary, she owes her rare beauty and her fresh complexion to the phlegmatic, tranquil character of the Dutch.”

  Julien began to lose patience with the phlegmatic slowness of the imperturbable Spaniard; he could not help giving vent to some monosyllables from time to time.

  “Will you listen to me?” Don Diego Bustos gravely said to him.

  “Forgive the furia franchese; I am all ears,” said Julien.

  “The Maréchale de Fervaques then is a great hater; she persecutes ruthlessly people she has never seen—advocates, poor devils of men of letters who have composed songs like Collé, you know?

  “Jai la marotte

  D’aimer Marote, etc.”

  And Julien had to put up with the whole quotation. The Spaniard was very pleased to get a chance of singing in French. That divine song was never listened to more impatiently. When it was finished Don Diego said—“The maréchale procured the dismissal of the the author of the song:

  “Un jour l’amour au cabaret.”

  Julien shuddered lest he should want to sing it. He contented himself with analysing it. As a matter of fact, it was blasphemous and somewhat indecent.

  “When the maréchale became enraged against that song,” said Don Diego, “I remarked to her that a woman of her rank ought not to read all the stupid things that are published. Whatever progress piety and gravity may make, France will always have a cabaret literature.

  “‘Be careful,’ I said to Madame de Fervaques when she had succeeded in depriving the author, a poor devil on half-pay, of a place worth eighteen hundred francs a year, ‘you have attacked this rhymester with your own arms, he may answer you with his rhymes; he will make a song about virtue. The gilded salons will be on your side; but people who like to laugh will repeat his epigrams.’ Do you know, Monsieur, what the maréchale answered? ‘Let all Paris come and see me walking to my martyrdom for the sake of the Lord. It will be a new spectacle for France. The people will learn to respect the quality. It will be the finest day of my life.’ Her eyes never looked finer.”

  “And she has superb ones,” exclaimed Julien.

  “I see that you are in love. Further,” went on Don Diego Bustos gravely, “she has not the bilious constitution which causes vindictiveness. If, however, she likes to do harm, it is because she is unhappy, I suspect some secret misfortune. May it not be quite well a case of a prude tired of her rôle?”

  The Spaniard looked at him in silence for a good minute.

  “That’s the whole point,” he added gravely, “and that’s what may give you ground for some hope. I have often reflected about it during the two years that I was her very humble servant. All your future, my amorous sir, depends on this great problem. Is she a prude tired of her rôle and only malicious because she is unhappy?”

  “Or,” said Altamira emerging at last from his deep silence, “can it be as I have said twenty times before, simply a case of French vanity? The memory of her father, the celebrated cloth merchant, constitutes the unhappiness of this frigid melancholy nature. The only happiness she could find would be to live in Toledo and to be tortured by a confessor who would show her hell wide open every day.”

  “Altamira informs me you are one of us,” said Don Diego, whose demeanour was growing graver and graver to Julien as he went out. “You will help us one day in re-winning our liberty, so I would like to help you in this little amusement. It is right that you should know the maréchale’s style; here are four letters in her hand-writing.”

  “I will copy them out,” exclaimed Julien, “and bring them back to you.”

  “And you will never let anyone know a word of what we have been saying.”

  “Never, on my honour,” cried Julien.

  “Well, God help you,” added the Spaniard, and he silently escorted Altamira and Julien as far as the staircase.

  This somewhat amused our hero; he was on the point of smiling. “So we have the devout Altamira,” he said to himself, “aiding me in an adulterous enterprise.”

  During Don Diego’s solemn conversation Julien had been attentive to the hours struck by the clock of the Hôtel d’ Aligre.

  The dinner hour was drawing near; he was going to see Mathilde again. He went in and dressed with much care.

  “Mistake No. 1,” he said to himself as he descend
ed the staircase: “I must follow the prince’s instructions to the letter.”

  He went up to his room again and put on a travelling suit which was as simple as it could be. “All I have to do now,” he thought, “is to keep control of my expression.” It was only half-past five and they dined at six. He thought of going down to the salon which he found deserted. He was moved to the point of tears at the sight of the blue sofa. “I must make an end of this foolish sensitiveness,” he said angrily, “it will betray me.” He took up a paper in order to keep himself in countenance and passed three or four times from the salon into the garden.

  It was only when he was well concealed by a large oak and was trembling all over, that he ventured to raise his eyes to Mademoiselle de la Mole’s window. It was hermetically sealed; he was on the point of falling and remained for a long time leaning against the oak; then with a staggering step he went to have another look at the gardener’s ladder.

  The chain which he had once forced asunder—in, alas, such different circumstances—had not yet been repaired. Carried away by a moment of madness, Julien pressed it to his lips.

  After having wandered about for a long time between the salon and the garden, Julien felt horribly tired; he was now feeling acutely the effects of a first success. My eyes will be expressionless and will not betray me! The guests gradually arrived in the salon; the door never opened without instilling anxiety into Julien’s heart.

  They sat down at table. Mademoiselle de la Mole, always faithful to her habit of keeping people waiting, eventually appeared. She blushed a great deal on seeing Julien, she had not been told of his arrival. In accordance with Prince Korasoff’s recommendation, Julien looked at his hands. They were trembling. Troubled though he was beyond words by this discovery, he was sufficiently happy to look merely tired.

  M. de la Mole sang his praises. The marquise spoke to him a minute afterwards and complimented him on his tired appearance. Julien said to himself at every minute, “I ought not to look too much at Mademoiselle de la Mole, I ought not to avoid looking at her too much either. I must appear as I was eight days before my unhappiness——.” He had occasion to be satisfied with his success and remained in the salon. Paying attention for the first time to the mistress of the house, he made every effort to make the visitors speak and to keep the conversation alive.

  His politeness was rewarded; madame la Maréchale de Fervaques was announced about eight o’clock. Julien retired and shortly afterwards appeared dressed with the greatest care. Madame de la Mole was infinitely grateful to him for this mark of respect and made a point of manifesting her satisfaction by telling Madame de Fervaques about his journey. Julien established himself near the maréchale in such a position that Mathilde could not notice his eyes. In this position he lavished in accordance with all the rules in the art of love, the most abject admiration on Madame de Fervaques. The first of the 53 letters with which Prince Korasoff had presented him commenced with a tirade on this sentiment.

  The maréchale announced that she was going to the Opera-Bouffe. Julien rushed there. He ran across the Chevalier de Beauvoisis who took him into a box occupied by messieurs the Gentlemen of the Chamber, just next to Madame de Fervaques’ box. Julien constantly looked at her. “I must keep a siege-journal,” he said to himself as he went back to the hôtel, “otherwise I shall forget my attacks.” He wrote two or three pages on this boring theme, and in this way achieved the admirable result of scarcely thinking at all about Mademoiselle de la Mole.

  Mathilde had almost forgotten him during his journey. “He is simply a commonplace person after all,” she thought, “his name will always recall to me the greatest mistake in my life. I must honestly go back to all my ideas about prudence and honour; a woman who forgets them has everything to lose.” She showed herself inclined to allow the contract with the Marquis de Croisenois, which had been prepared so long ago, to be at last concluded. He was mad with joy; he would have been very much astonished had he been told that there was an element of resignation at the bottom of those feelings of Mathilde which made him so proud.

  All Mademoiselle de la Mole’s ideas changed when she saw Julien. “As a matter of fact he is my husband,” she said to herself. “If I am sincere in my return to sensible notions, he is clearly the man I ought to marry.”

  She was expecting importunities and airs of unhappiness on the part of Julien; she commenced rehearsing her answers, for he would doubtless try to address some words to her when they left the dinner table. Far from that, he remained stubbornly in the salon and did not even look in the direction of the garden, though God knows what pain that caused him!

  “It is better to have this explanation out all at once,” thought Mademoiselle de la Mole; she went into the garden alone, Julien did not appear. Mathilde went and walked near the salon window. She found him very much occupied in describing to Madame de Fervaques the old ruined châteaux which crown the banks along the Rhine and invest them with so much atmosphere. He was beginning to acquit himself with some credit in that sentimental picturesque jargon which is called wit in certain salons. Prince Korasoff would have been very proud if he had been at Paris. This evening was exactly what he had predicted.

  He would have approved the line of conduct which Julien followed on the subsequent days.

  An intrigue among the members of the secret government was going to bestow a few blue ribbons; madame Maréchale de Fervaques was insisting on her great uncle being made a chevalier of the order. The Marquis de la Mole had the same pretensions for his father-in-law; they joined forces and the maréchale came to the Hôtel de la Mole nearly every day. It was from her that Julien learned that the marquis was going to be a minister. He was offering to the Camarilla a very ingenious plan for the annihilation of the charter within three years without any disturbance.

  If M. de la Mole became a minister, Julien could hope for a bishopric: but all these important interests seemed to be veiled and hazy. His imagination only perceived them very vaguely, and so to speak, in the far distance. The awful unhappiness which was making him into a madman could find no other interest in life except the character of his relations with Mademoiselle de la Mole. He calculated that after five or six careful years he would manage to get himself loved again.

  This cold brain had been reduced, as one sees, to a state of complete disorder. Out of all the qualities which had formerly distinguished him, all that remained was a little firmness. He was literally faithful to the line of conduct which Prince Korasoff had dictated, and placed himself every evening near Madame Fervaque’s armchair, but he found it impossible to think of a word to say to her.

  The strain of making Mathilde think that he had recovered exhausted his whole moral force, and when he was with the maréchale he seemed almost lifeless; even his eyes had lost all their fire, as in cases of extreme physical suffering.

  As Madame de la Mole’s views were invariably a counterpart of the opinions of that husband of hers who could make her into a Duchess, she had been singing Julien’s praises for some days.

  LVI. Moral Love

  There also was of course in Adeline

  That calm patrician polish in the address,

  Which ne’er can pass the equinoctial line

  Of anything which Nature would express;

  Just as a Mandarin finds nothing fine.

  At least his manner suffers not to guess

  That anything he views can greatly please.

  Don Juan, c. xiii. st. 84.

  “There is an element of madness in all this family’s way of looking at things,” thought the maréchale; “they are infatuated with their young Abbé, whose only accomplishment is to be a good listener, though his eyes are fine enough, it is true.”

  Julien, on his side, found in the maréchale’s manners an almost perfect instance of that patrician calm which exhales a scrupulous politeness; and, what is more, announces at the same time the impossibility of any violent emotion. Madame de Fervaqués would have been as much sca
ndalised by any unexpected movement or any lack of self-control, as by a lack of dignity towards one’s inferiors. She would have regarded the slightest symptom of sensibility as a kind of moral drunkenness which puts one to the blush and was extremely prejudicial to what a person of high rank owed to herself. Her great happiness was to talk of the King’s last hunt; her favourite book was the Memoirs of the Duke de Saint Simon, especially the genealogical part.

  Julien knew the place where the arrangement of the light suited Madame de Fervaques’ particular style of beauty. He got there in advance, but was careful to turn his chair in such a way as not to see Mathilde.

  Astonished one day at this consistent policy of hiding himself from her, she left the blue sofa and came to work by the little table near the maréchale’s armchair. Julien had a fairly close view of her over Madame de Fervaques’ hat.

  Those eyes, which were the arbiters of his fate, frightened him, and then hurled him violently out of his habitual apathy. He talked, and talked very well.

  He was speaking to the maréchale, but his one aim was to produce an impression upon Mathilde’s soul. He became so animated that eventually Madame de Fervaques did not manage to understand a word he said.

  This was a prime merit. If it had occurred to Julien to follow it up by some phrases of German mysticism, lofty religion, and Jesuitism, the maréchale would have immediately given him a rank among the superior men whose mission it was to regenerate the age.

  “Since he has bad enough taste,” said Mademoiselle de la Mole, “to talk so long and so ardently to Madame de Fervaques, I shall not listen to him any more.” She kept her resolution during the whole latter part of the evening, although she had difficulty in doing so.

  At midnight, when she took her mother’s candle to accompany her to her room, Madame de la Mole stopped on the staircase to enter into an exhaustive eulogy of Julien. Mathilde ended by losing her temper. She could not get to sleep. She felt calmed by this thought: “the very things which I despise in a man may none the less constitute a great merit in the eyes of the maréchale.”