The Red and the Black: A Chronicle of the Nineteenth Century

by Stendhal

  'At that time', Julien volunteered, his eyes ablaze, 'you didn't know the game; now...'

  'I'd let heads roll, you mean, and I wouldn't be a Girondin * as you insinuated to me the other day...? I'll answer that one', said Altamira with a look of sadness, 'when you've killed a man in a duel, which I may say is far less nasty than having him put to death by an executioner.'

  'I'm telling you!' said Julien, 'the ends justify the means; if instead of being an atom I had some sort of power, I'd have three men hanged to save the lives of four.'

  His eyes shone with the fire of conscience and scorn for the idle judgements of men; they met Mlle de La Mole's right next to him, and instead of changing into a gracious and civil look, his scorn seemed to intensify.

  She was deeply shocked at it; but it was no longer in her power to forget Julien. She moved away in mortification, dragging her brother with her.

  I must drink some punch and dance a lot, she told herself; I'll pick the best of the crowd, and make an impression at all costs. Good, here comes that impertinent celebrity the Comte de Fervaques. She accepted his invitation; they danced. It's a matter of seeing, she thought, which of the two of us will be the more impertinent; but so that I can make proper fun of

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  him, I must get him talking. Soon all the rest of the quadrille only danced for appearances' sake. No one wished to miss any of Mathilde's stinging repartee. M. de Fervaques was getting flustered, and as he could only produce elegant phrases instead of ideas, he was making faces; Mathilde, who was in a bad mood, was merciless to him and made an enemy out of him. She danced until daybreak and at length withdrew in a state of terrible fatigue. But in the carriage she went and used up the small amount of strength she had left on making herself sad and miserable. She'd been despised by Julien and couldn't despise him.

  Julien was on top of the world. Swept off his feet unawares by the music, the flowers, the beautiful women, the elegance of it all, and more than anything, by his imagination, which dreamed of distinctions for himself and liberty for everyone.

  'What a fine ball!' he remarked to the count; 'there's nothing missing.'

  'Yes there is: thought,' replied Altamira.

  And his face betrayed the kind of scorn that is all the more scathing because obvious efforts of politeness are being made to conceal it.

  'You're right there, my lord. It's true, isn't it, that thought still turns to conspiracy?'

  'I am here for the sake of my name. But everyone hates thought in your salons. It must never rise above the wit of a vaudeville couplet: then it is rewarded. But the man who thinks, and puts any energy and novelty into his sallies, gets termed a cynic by you people. Wasn't that what one of your judges called Courier? * You put him in prison, just like Béranger. * Anyone with any claim to distinction for his intellect, in your country, is booted into the police courts by the Congregation; and right-minded folk applaud.

  'You see, your antiquated society puts appearances before everything else... You will never rise above military bravery; you will have men like Murat, * but never a single Washington. All I detect in France is vanity. A man who comes up with new ideas while speaking is bound to let slip the odd rash remark, and his host considers himself dishonoured.'

  As he spoke, the count's carriage, which was taking Julien

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  home, drew up in front of the Hôtel de La Mole. Julien was starry-eyed about his conspirator. Altamira had paid him a fine compliment, obviously out of deep conviction: 'You haven't got the flippancy of the French, you understand the principle of utility.' It so happened that only two days before, Julien had seen Marino Faliero, a tragedy by Casimir Delavigne. *

  Doesn't Israel Bertuccio have more character than all those noble Venetians? reflected our rebellious plebeian; and yet they are people whose lineage can be traced back unequivocally to the year 700, a century before Charlemagne, whereas the cream of the nobility at M. de Retz's ball this evening only goes back, and haltingly at that, as far as the thirteenth century. Well! in the midst of these nobles from Venice, with all the distinction of their birth, Israel Bertuccio is the man you remember!

  A conspiracy wipes out all the titles conferred by the whims of society. A member of it immediately steps into the rank assigned him by his attitude towards death. Intelligence itself loses its power...

  What would Danton be today, in this age of Valenods and Rênals? not even the crown prosecutor's deputy...

  What am I saying! he'd have sold himself to the Congregation; he'd be a minister, for the great Danton did after all steal. Mirabeau was another one who sold himself. Napoleon had stolen millions in Italy, otherwise he'd have been stopped in his tracks by poverty, like Pichegru. * La Fayette was the only one who never stole. Do you have to steal, do you have to sell yourself? Julien wondered. This question stopped him in his tracks. He spent the rest of the night reading the history of the Revolution.

  The next day as he wrote his letters in the library his thoughts were still on the conversation with Count Altamira.

  In point of fact, he said to himself after daydreaming for a long while, if those liberal Spaniards * had compromised the people by committing crimes, they wouldn't have been so easy to sweep aside. They were proud and talkative children... just like me! exclaimed Julien suddenly as if waking up with a start.

  What difficult thing have I ever done to give me the right to

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  judge poor devils who, after all, for once in their lives, have shown nerve and begun to act? I'm like a man who, on rising from table, exclaims: 'Tomorrow I shall go without dinner; and it won't stop me being as strong and cheerful as I am today.' Who knows what it feels like to be right in the midst of a great action...? These lofty thoughts were disturbed by the unexpected appearance of Mlle de La Mole coming into the library. He was so fired up by his admiration for the great qualities of Danton, Mirabeau and Carnot, * who managed not to be beaten, that his eyes alighted on Mlle de La Mole without thinking about her, without greeting her, almost without seeing her. When at length his big, wide-open eyes registered her presence, the look of fire in them died away. Mlle de La Mole was galled to observe it.

  It was to no avail that she asked him for a volume of Vély History of France * that was sitting on the top shelf, thus obliging Julien to go and fetch the bigger of the two ladders. Julien had brought up the ladder; he had fetched the book and handed it to her, but he was still incapable of turning his thoughts to her. As he carried the ladder away, he was so preoccupied that he put his elbow through the front of a bookcase; the pieces of broken glass falling on to the floor brought him to himself at last. He hastened to make his excuses to Mlle de La Mole; he tried to be polite, but he was nothing more than polite. It was crystal clear to Mathilde that she had disturbed him, and that rather than talk to her, he would have preferred to go on thinking about what was on his mind before she appeared.

  She looked intently at him and moved slowly away. Julien watched her go. He savoured the contrast between the simplicity of what she was wearing and the magnificent elegance of her attire the day before. The difference between the two facial expressions was almost as striking. The young lady who had been so haughty at the Duc de Retz's ball had now an almost pleading look. I really think, Julien said to himself, that this black dress enhances the beauty of her figure even more. She has the bearing of a queen; but why is she in mourning?

  If I ask someone the reason for her mourning, I'll find myself committing yet one more piece of ineptitude. Julien

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  had completely emerged from the depths of his enthusiasm. I must reread all the letters I did this morning; God knows what I'll find in the way of words left out and blunders. While he was reading the first of these letters with studied attention, he heard the rustle of a silk dress right next to him; he looked round sharply: Mlle de La Mole was standing two feet from his table, laughing. This second interruption annoyed Julien.

  Mathilde herself had just bec
ome acutely aware that she meant nothing to this young man; her laughter was designed to hide her embarrassment, and she succeeded.

  'It's obvious you're thinking about something really interesting, Monsieur Sorel. Could it be some curious anecdote about the conspiracy responsible for bringing Count Altamira here to Paris? Tell me what's going on: I'm dying to know. I'll be discreet, I swear I will!' She was astonished at this word as she heard herself uttering it. Good grief! was she pleading with an inferior? As her embarrassment grew, she added somewhat flippantly:

  'What can possibly have turned you, who are usually so cold, into a being inspired--a sort of Michelangelo prophet?'

  This sharp and indiscreet interrogation wounded Julien deeply and threw him back into his deranged state.

  'Was Danton right to steal?' he asked her brusquely, with a look in his eyes that grew wilder every minute. 'Should the Piedmontese * or Spanish revolutionaries have compromised the common people by committing crimes? Have given away all the posts in the army, and all the military crosses, even to people who didn't deserve them? Wouldn't the people who had worn these crosses have feared the return of the king? Should they have plundered the Turin treasures? In short, mademoiselle,' he said, stepping up to her with a terrible expression, 'must a man who wants to wipe ignorance and crime from the face of the earth sweep over it like a tempest and wreak evil more or less at random?'

  Mathilde was alarmed, and could not withstand his gaze; she stepped back two paces. She looked at him for an instant; then, ashamed of her alarm, she tripped lightly out of the library.

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  CHAPTER 10

  Queen Marguerite

  O love! what madness is so great that you cannot persuade us to find pleasure in it.

  Letters from a PORTUGUESE NUN. *

  JULIEN reread his letters. When the dinner bell sounded: How ridiculous I must have been in the eyes of that Parisian doll! he said to himself; what madness to tell her straight what I was thinking about! But perhaps not such madness after all. On this occasion the truth was worthy of me.

  Anyway, why did she come and question me about private things! It was an indiscreet question coming from her. She offended against etiquette. My thoughts about Danton aren't part of the service her father pays me for.

  When he reached the dining-room Julien was distracted from his bad temper by the sight of Mlle de La Mole in her full mourning, which he found all the more striking as no other member of the family was in black.

  When dinner was over he found himself completely recovered from the fit of enthusiasm which had gripped him all day. By a stroke of fortune, the academician who knew Latin was one of the company. He's the man who'll be least inclined to laugh at me, Julien told himself, if, as I assume, my question about Mlle de La Mole's mourning is a sign of ineptitude.

  Mathilde was looking at him with a strange expression. Isn't this just what Mlle de Rênal told me about the flirtatiousness of the women in this part of the world? thought Julien. I wasn't nice to her this morning, I didn't give in to her whim to engage in conversation. It puts me up in her esteem. I dare say there'll be all hell to pay. Later on her disdainful haughtiness will find a way of taking revenge. I defy her to do her worst. What a contrast with what I've lost! What delightful spontaneity! What simplicity! I used to know her thoughts before she did; I saw them taking shape; my only opponent in

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  her heart was her fear of her children dying; it was a reasonable and natural feeling, one I cherished even, though I suffered on account of it. I was a fool. The ideas I dreamed up about Paris prevented me from appreciating this sublime woman.

  What a difference, my God! What do I find here? Arid and haughty vanity, all the shades of pride and nothing more.

  They were leaving the table. I mustn't let my academician get caught by someone else, Julien told himself. He went up to him as they were moving into the garden, put on a gentle and submissive air and joined in his fury at the success of Hemam. *

  'If only we were still in the days of lettres de cachet... !' * he said.

  'Then he wouldn't have dared,' exclaimed the academician with a gesture like Talma. *

  Remarking on a flower, Julien quoted a few words from Virgil Georgics, and declared that nothing could match the poetry of the Abbé Delille. In short, he flattered the academician in all ways possible. After which, with an air of total indifference:

  'I suppose', he asked him, 'that Mlle de La Mole must have received an inheritance from some uncle or other, and be in mourning for him?'

  'Goodness! you're a member of the household', said the academician, stopping in his tracks, 'and you don't know about her folly? As a matter of fact, it's strange that her mother allows her to do things like this; but between ourselves, strength of character isn't exactly what the members of this family are renowned for. Mlle Mathilde has enough for all of them put together, and she rules them all. Today is the 30th of April!' And the academician stopped and gave Julien a knowing look. Julien smiled with the most intelligent expression he could muster.

  What connection can there possibly be between ruling a whole household, wearing a black dress and the 30th of April? he wondered. I must be even more obtuse than I thought.

  'I'll confess to you...' he said to the academician, keeping the questioning look in his eye.

  'Let's take a turn round the garden,' said the academician,

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  thrilled to glimpse an opportunity to indulge in lengthy and elegant narrative. 'Come now! Is it really possible that you don't know what happened on the 30th of April 1574?'

  'Where do you mean?' asked Julien in astonishment. 'In the Place de Gréve.' *

  Julien was so astonished that this answer did not put him in the picture. Curiosity, and the expectation of some tragic interest, which were so in keeping with his character, gave him those shining eyes that a story-teller so likes to see in his listener. The academician, thrilled to find a virgin ear, related to Julien at length how on the 30th of April 1574 the handsomest man of his time, Boniface de La Mole, * and his friend Hannibal de Coconasso, a Piedmontese gentleman, had had their heads cut off in the Place de Gréve. La Mole was the adored lover of Queen Marguerite of Navarre; * 'And note', added the academician, 'that Mlle de La Mole is called Mathilde-Marguerite. La Mole was also the Duc d'Alençon's * favourite and the intimate friend of his mistress's husband, the King of Navarre, later to become Henri IV. On Shrove Tuesday of that year 1574, the Court was at Saint-Germain with poor King Charles IX, who was in the throes of dying. La Mole determined to abduct his princely friends, who were being kept prisoners at Court by Queen Catherine de Medici. * He brought two hundred horses up beneath the walls of SaintGermain; the Duc d'Alençon lost his nerve, and La Mole was thrown to the executioner.

  'But what Mlle Mathilde finds so moving, something she revealed to me herself some seven or eight years ago when she was twelve, for she has a mind of her own, she does...!' And the academician raised his eyes to heaven. 'What struck her imagination in this political catastrophe was that Queen Marguerite of Navarre hid in a house on the Place de Gréve and had the courage to send someone to the executioner to request the head of her lover. And at midnight on the following evening she took this head in her carriage, and went off to bury it herself in a chapel at the foot of Montmartre.'

  'Really?' Julien exclaimed, genuinely moved.

  'Mlle Mathilde despises her brother because, as you can see, he never spares a single thought for all this ancient history,

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  and never wears mourning on the 30th of April. Ever since this famous execution, in memory of La Mole's close friendship with Coconasso who, like the good Italian he was, was called Hannibal, all the men in this family are given this name. And,' added the academician lowering his voice, 'this Coconas so, according to Charles IX himself, was one of the cruellest assassins of the 24th of August 1572. * But how can it be, my dear Sorel, that you are ignorant of these things, when you sit at the fami
ly table?'

  'So that's why twice at dinner Mlle de La Mole called her brother Hannibal. I thought I must have misheard.'

  'It was a reproach. It's strange that the Marquise puts up with such follies... The man who marries that tall girl has got some pretty rich things coming to him!'

  This comment was followed by five or six satirical remarks. The delight and the familiarity shining in the academician's eyes shocked Julien. We're just like two servants busy running down their masters, he thought. But nothing should surprise me coming from this Academy man.

  One day Julien had surprised him on his knees before the Marquise de La Mole; he was asking her for a tobacconist's licence for a nephew in the provinces. That evening, one of Mlle de La Mole's little chambermaids, who was pursuing Julien just as Elisa had once done, gave him the idea that her mistress's mourning was not put on to attract attention. It was a quirk which stemmed from the depths of her character. She genuinely loved this La Mole, the beloved lover of the wittiest queen of her century--a man who lost his life for attempting to restore freedom to his friends. And what friends too! The First Prince of the Blood * and Henri IV.

  Accustomed as he was to the perfect spontaneity which was the mark of all of Mlle de Renâl's behaviour, Julien saw nothing but affectation in all the women in Paris; and he only had to feel the least bit melancholy to find nothing at all to say to them. Mlle de La Mole was an exception.