by Stendhal
“No, he has not the adroit, cunning genius of an attorney who never loses a minute or an opportunity. He is very far from being a character like Louis XI. On the other hand, I have seen him quote the most ungenerous maxims . . . it is beyond me. Can it be that he simply repeats these maxims in order to use them as a dam against his passions?
“However, one thing comes to the surface; he cannot bear contempt, that’s my hold on him.
“He has not, it is true, the religious reverence for high birth. He does not instinctively respect us. . . . That is wrong; but after all, the only things which are supposed to make the soul of a seminary student impatient are lack of enjoyment and lack of money. He is quite different, and cannot stand contempt at any price.”
Pressed as he was by his daughter’s letter, M. de la Mole realised the necessity for making up his mind. “After all, the great question is this:—Did Julien’s audacity go to the point of setting out to make advances to my daughter because he knows I love her more than anything else in the world, and because I have an income of a hundred thousand crowns?”
Mathilde protests to the contrary.... “No, Monsieur Julien, that is a point on which I am not going to be under any illusion.
“Is it really a case of spontaneous and authentic love? or is it just a vulgar desire to raise himself to a fine position? Mathilde is far-seeing; she appreciated from the first that this suspicion might ruin him with me—hence that confession of hers. It was she who took upon herself to love him the first.
“The idea of a girl of so proud a character so far forgetting herself as to make physical advances! To think of pressing his arm in the garden in the evening! How horrible! As though there were not a hundred other less unseemly ways of notifying him that he was the object of her favour.
“Qui s’excuse s’accuse; I distrust Mathilde.” The marquis’s reasoning was more conclusive to-day than it was usually. Nevertheless, force of habit prevailed, and he resolved to gain time by writing to his daughter, for a correspondence was being carried on between one wing of the hôtel and the other. M. de la Mole did not dare to discuss matters with Mathilde and to see her face to face. He was frightened of clinching the whole matter by yielding suddenly.
“Mind you commit no new acts of madness; here is a commission of lieutenant of Hussars for M. the chevalier, Julien Sorel de la Vernaye. You see what I am doing for him. Do not irritate me. Do not question me. Let him leave within twenty-four hours and present himself at Strasbourg where his regiment is. Here is an order on my banker. Obey me.”
Mathilde’s love and joy were unlimited. She wished to profit by her victory and immediately replied.
“If M. de la Vernaye knew all that you are good enough to do for him, he would be overwhelmed with gratitude and be at your feet. But amidst all this generosity, my father has forgotten me; your daughter’s honour is in peril. An indiscretion may produce an everlasting blot which an income of twenty thousand crowns could not put right. I will only send the commission to M. de la Vernaye if you give me your word that my marriage will be publicly celebrated at Villequier in the course of next month. Shortly after that period, which I entreat you not to prolong, your daughter will only be able to appear in public under the name of Madame de la Vernaye. How I thank you, dear papa, for having saved me from the name of Sorel, etc., etc.”
The reply was unexpected:
“Obey or I retract everything. Tremble, you imprudent young girl. I do not yet know what your Julien is, and you yourself know less than I. Let him leave for Strasbourg, and try to act straightly. I will notify him from here of my wishes within a fortnight.”
Mathilde was astonished by this firm answer. I do not know Julien. These words threw her into a reverie which soon finished in the most fascinating suppositions; but she believed in their truth. My Julien’s intellect is not clothed in the petty mean uniform of the salons, and my father refuses to believe in his superiority by reason of the very fact which proves it.
All the same, if I do not obey this whim of his, I see the possibility of a public scene; a scandal would lower my position in society, and might render me less fascinating in Julien’s eyes. After the scandal . . . ten years of poverty; and the only thing which can prevent marrying for merit becoming ridiculous is the most brilliant wealth. If I live far away from my father, he is old and may forget me . . . Norbert will marry some clever, charming woman; old Louis XIV. was seduced by the Duchess of Burgundy.
She decided to obey, but refrained from communicating her father’s letter to Julien. It might perhaps have driven that ferocious character to some act of madness.
Julien’s joy was unlimited when she informed him in the evening that he was a lieutenant of Hussars. Its extent can be imagined from the fact that this had constituted the ambition of his whole life, and also from the passion which he now had for his son. The change of name struck him with astonishment.
“After all,” he thought, “I have got to the end of my romance, and I deserve all the credit. I have managed to win the love of that monster of pride,” he added, looking at Mathilde. “Her father cannot live without her, nor she without me.”
LXV. A Storm
My God, give me mediocrity.—Mirabeau
His mind was engrossed; he only half answered the eager tenderness that she showed to him. He remained gloomy and taciturn. He had never seemed so great and so adorable in Mathilde’s eyes. She was apprehensive of some subtle twist of his pride which would spoil the whole situation.
She saw the Abbé Pirard come to the hôtel nearly every morning. Might not Julien have divined something of her father’s intentions through him? Might not the marquis himself have written to him in a momentary caprice? What was the explanation of Julien’s stern manner following on so great a happiness? She did not dare to question.
She did not dare—she—Mathilde! From that moment her feelings for Julien contained a certain vague and unexpected element which was almost panic. This arid soul experienced all the passion possible in an individual who has been brought up amid that excessive civilisation which Paris so much admires.
Early on the following day Julien was at the house of the Abbé Pirard. Some post-horses were arriving in the courtyard with a dilapidated chaise which had been hired at a neighbouring station.
“A vehicle like that is out of fashion,” said the stern Abbé to him morosely. “Here are twenty thousand francs which M. de la Mole makes you a gift of. He insists on your spending them within a year, but at the same time wants you to try to look as little ridiculous as possible.” (The priest regarded flinging away so substantial a sum on a young man as simply an opportunity for sin).
“The marquis adds this: ‘M. Julien de la Vernaye will have received this money from his father, whom it is needless to call by any other name. M. de la Vernaye will perhaps think it proper to give a present to M. Sorel, a carpenter of Verrières, who cared for him in his childhood....’ I can undertake that commission,” added the Abbé. “I have at last prevailed upon M. de la Mole to come to a settlement with that Jesuit, the Abbé de Frilair. His influence is unquestionably too much for us. The complete recognition of your high birth on the part of this man, who is in fact the governor of B——will be one of the unwritten terms of the arrangement.” Julien could no longer control his ecstasy. He embraced the Abbé. He saw himself recognised.
“For shame,” said M. Pirard, pushing him away. “What is the meaning of this worldly vanity? As for Sorel and his sons, I will offer them in my own name a yearly allowance of five hundred francs, which will be paid to each of them as long as I am satisfied with them.”
Julien was already cold and haughty. He expressed his thanks, but in the vaguest terms which bound him to nothing. “Could it be possible,” he said to himself, “that I am the natural son of some great nobleman who was exiled to our mountains by the terrible Napoleon?” This idea seemed less and less improbable every minute. . . . . “My hatred of my father would be a proof of this..... In that case, I sh
ould not be an unnatural monster after all.”
A few days after this soliloquy the Fifteenth Regiment of Hussars, which was one of the most brilliant in the army, was being reviewed on the parade ground of Strasbourg. M. the Chevalier de La Vernaye sat the finest horse in Alsace, which had cost him six thousand francs. He was received as a lieutenant, though he had never been sub-lieutenant except on the rolls of a regiment of which he had never heard.
His impassive manner, his stern and almost malicious eyes, his pallor, and his invariable self-possession, founded his reputation from the very first day. Shortly afterwards his perfect and calculated politeness, and his skill at shooting and fencing, of which, though without any undue ostentation, he made his comrades aware, did away with all idea of making fun of him openly. After hesitating for five or six days, the public opinion of the regiment declared itself in his favour. “This young man has everything,” said the facetious old officers, “except youth.”
Julien wrote from Strasbourg to the old curé of Verrières, M. Chélan, who was now verging on extreme old age.
“You will have learnt, with a joy of which I have no doubt, of the events which have induced my family to enrich me. Here are five hundred francs which I request you to distribute quietly, and without any mention of my name, among those unfortunate ones who are now poor as I myself was once, and whom you will doubtless help as you once helped me.”
Julien was intoxicated with ambition, and not with vanity. He nevertheless devoted a great part of his time to attending to his external appearance. His horses, his uniform, his orderlies’ liveries, were all kept with a correctness which would have done credit to the punctiliousness of a great English nobleman. He had scarcely been made a lieutenant as a matter of favour (and that only two days ago) than he began to calculate that if he was to become commander-in-chief at thirty, like all the great generals, then he must be more than a lieutenant at twenty-three at the latest. He thought about nothing except fame and his son.
It was in the midst of the ecstasies of the most reinless ambition that he was surprised by the arrival of a young valet from the Hôtel de la Mole, who had come with a letter.
“All is lost,” wrote Mathilde to him: “Rush here as quickly as possible, sacrifice everything, desert if necessary. As soon as you have arrived, wait for me in a fiacre near the little garden door, near No.———of the street ——. I will come and speak to you: I shall perhaps be able to introduce you into the garden. All is lost, and I am afraid there is no way out; count on me; you will find me staunch and firm in adversity. I love you.”
A few minutes afterwards, Julien obtained a furlough from the colonel, and left Strasbourg at full gallop: But the awful anxiety which devoured him did not allow him to continue this method of travel beyond Metz. He flung himself into a post-chaise, and arrived with an almost incredible rapidity at the indicated spot, near the little garden door off the Hôtel de la Mole. The door opened, and Mathilde, oblivious of all human conventions, rushed into his arms. Fortunately, it was only five o’clock in the morning, and the street was still deserted.
“All is lost. My father, fearing my tears, left Thursday night. Nobody knows where for. But here is his letter: read it.” She climbed into the fiacre with Julien.
“I could forgive everything except the plan of seducing you because you are rich. That, unhappy girl, is the awful truth. I give you my word of honour that I will never consent to a marriage with that man. I will guarantee him an income of 10,000 francs if he will live far away beyond the French frontiers, or better still, in America. Read the letter which I have just received in answer to the enquiries which I have made. The impudent scoundrel had himself requested me to write to Madame de Rênal. I will never read a single line you write concerning that man. I feel a horror for both Paris and yourself. I urge you to cover what is bound to happen with the utmost secrecy. Be frank, have nothing more to do with the vile man, and you will find again the father you have lost.”
“Where is Madame de Rênal’s letter?” said Julien coldly.
“Here it is. I did not want to show it to you before you were prepared for it.”
LETTER
“My duties to the sacred cause of religion and morality, oblige me, Monsieur, to take the painful course which I have just done with regard to yourself: an infallible principle orders me to do harm to my neighbour at the present moment, but only in order to avoid an even greater scandal. My sentiment of duty must overcome the pain which I experience. It is only too true, Monsieur, that the conduct of the person about whom you ask me to tell you the whole truth may seem incredible or even honest. It may possibly be considered proper to hide or to disguise part of the truth: that would be in accordance with both prudence and religion. But the conduct about which you desire information has been in fact reprehensible to the last degree, and more than I can say. Poor and greedy as the man is, it is only by the aid of the most consummate hypocrisy, and by seducing a weak and unhappy woman, that he has endeavoured to make a career for himself and become someone in the world. It is part of my painful duty to add that I am obliged to believe that M. Julien has no religious principles. I am driven conscientiously to think that one of his methods of obtaining success in any household is to try to seduce the woman who commands the principal influence. His one great object, in spite of his show of disinterestedness, and his stock-in-trade of phrases out of novels, is to succeed in doing what he likes with the master of the household and his fortune. He leaves behind him unhappiness and eternal remorse, etc., etc., etc.”
This extremely long letter, which was almost blotted out by tears, was certainly in Madame de Rênal’s handwriting; it was even written with more than ordinary care.
“I cannot blame M. de la Mole,” said Julien, “after he had finished it. He is just and prudent. What father would give his beloved daughter to such a man? Adieu!” Julien jumped out of the fiacre and rushed to his post-chaise, which had stopped at the end of the street. Mathilde, whom he had apparently forgotten, took a few steps as though to follow him, but the looks she received from the tradesmen, who were coming out on the thresholds of their shops, and who knew who she was, forced her to return precipitately to the garden.
Julien had left for Verrières. During that rapid journey he was unable to write to Mathilde as he had intended. His hand could only form illegible characters on the paper.
He arrived at Verrières on a Sunday morning. He entered the shop of the local gunsmith, who overwhelmed him with congratulations on his recent good fortune. It constituted the news of the locality.
Julien had much difficulty in making him understand that he wanted a pair of pistols. At his request the gunsmith loaded the pistols.
The three peals sounded; it is a well-known signal in the villages of France, and after the various ringings in the morning announces the immediate commencement of Mass.
Julien entered the new church of Verrières. All the lofty windows of the building were veiled with crimson curtains. Julien found himself some spaces behind the pew of Madame de Rênal. It seemed to him that she was praying fervently. The sight of the woman whom he had loved so much made Julien’s arm tremble so violently that he was at first unable to execute his project. “I cannot,” he said to himself. “It is a physical impossibility.”
At this moment the young priest, who was officiating at the Mass, rang the bell for the elevation of the host. Madame de Rênal lowered her head, which, for a moment became entirely hidden by the folds of her shawl. Julien did not see her features so distinctly: he aimed a pistol shot at her, and missed her: he aimed a second shot, she fell.
LXVI. Sad Details
Do not expect any weakness on my part. I have avenged myself. I have deserved death, and here I am. Pray for my soul.—Schiller
Julien remained motionless. He saw nothing more. When he recovered himself a little he noticed all the faithful rushing from the church. The priest had left the altar. Julien started fairly slowly to follow some women who wer
e going away with loud screams. A woman who was trying to get away more quickly than the others, pushed him roughly. He fell. His feet got entangled with a chair, knocked over by the crowd; when he got up, he felt his neck gripped. A gendarme, in full uniform, was arresting him. Julien tried mechanically to have recourse to his little pistol; but a second gendarme pinioned his arms.
He was taken to the prison. They went into a room where irons were put on his hands. He was left alone. The door was doubly locked on him. All this was done very quickly, and he scarcely appreciated it at all.
“Yes, upon my word, all is over,” he said aloud as he recovered himself. “Yes, the guillotine in a fortnight . . . or killing myself here.”
His reasoning did not go any further. His head felt as though it had been seized in some violent grip. He looked round to see if anyone was holding him. After some moments he fell into a deep sleep.
Madame de Rênal was not mortally wounded. The first bullet had pierced her hat. The second had been fired as she was turning round. The bullet had struck her on the shoulder, and, astonishing to relate, had ricocheted off the shoulder bone (which it had, however, broken) against a gothic pillar, from which it had loosened an enormous splinter of stone.
When, after a long and painful bandaging, the solemn surgeon said to Madame de Rênal, “I answer for your life as I would for my own,” she was profoundly grieved.
She had been sincerely desirous of death for a long time. The letter which she had written to M. de la Mole in accordance with the injunctions of her present confessor, had proved the final blow to a creature already weakened by an only too permanent unhappiness. This unhappiness was caused by Julien’s absence; but she, for her own part, called it remorse. Her director, a young ecclesiastic, who was both virtuous and enthusiastic, and had recently come to Dijon, made no mistake as to its nature.
