by Stendhal
'It's probably on account of my pride', Julien went on, 'that you favoured me for a brief while; it's certainly on account of my courageous firmness befitting a man that you respect me at this moment. I may feel love for the maréchale...'
Mathilde shuddered; her eyes took on a strange expression. She was about to hear her sentence pronounced. This reflex did not escape Julien; he felt his courage weaken.
Ah! he said to himself as he listened to the sound of the idle words his mouth was uttering just as he would have done an extraneous noise; if only I could smother those pale cheeks with kisses, and you not feel it!
'I may feel love for the maréchale,' he went on... and his voice faltered even more; 'but I certainly don't have any decisive proof of her interest in me...'
Mathilde looked at him: he withstood this look, or at any rate he hoped his face hadn't given him away. He felt himself imbued with love right into the innermost recesses of his heart.
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Never had he adored her to this extent; he was almost as crazy as Mathilde. If she had been able to muster enough composure and courage to engineer it, he would have fallen at her feet, renouncing all idle role-playing. He had enough strength to enable him to carry on talking. Ah! Korasov, he exclaimed inwardly, why aren't you here! How much I'm in need of some word to guide my conduct! Meanwhile his voice was saying:
'In the absence of any other sentiment, gratitude would be enough to make me feel affection for the maréchale; she was indulgent towards me, she consoled me when I was being scorned elsewhere... I may indeed not have unlimited faith in certain appearances which are no doubt extremely flattering, but perhaps also very short-lived.'
'Oh! Good God!' exclaimed Mathilde.
'Well, what guarantee can you give me?' Julien went on in an urgent, firm voice that seemed to dispense for a moment with the cautious cloak of diplomacy. 'What guarantee, what god can vouch for it that the position you seem inclined to reinstate me in at this moment will last more than a couple of days?'
'The extremity of my love, and of my unhappiness if you don't love me any more,' she said to him, grasping his hands and turning towards him.
The brusque movement she had just made had caused her cape to slip a little: Julien could see her lovely shoulders. Her slightly dishevelled hair conjured up a blissful memory for him...
He was about to yield. One rash word, he said to himself, and I start up another long sequence of days spent in despair. Mme de Rênal used to find reasons for doing what her heart dictated: this girl from high society only lets her heart be moved when she has proved to herself with sound reasons that it ought to be moved.
He saw this truth in a flash, and in a flash too he found courage once more.
He withdrew his hands that Mathilde was squeezing in hers, and with marked respect he moved a little away from her. A man's courage cannot do more than this. He busied himself
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next with gathering up all the letters from Mme de Fervaques that were lying scattered on the sofa, and it was with a show of extreme politeness--so cruel at that moment--that he added:
' Mademoiselle de La Mole will deign to allow me to think all this over.' He walked quickly away and left the library; she heard him shut all the doors in turn.
The monster is totally unmoved, she said to herself...
But what am I saying, monster! He's wise, prudent and good; I'm the one with more wrong on my side than can possibly be imagined.
This frame of mind persisted. Mathilde was almost happy that day, for she was entirely given over to love; it was as if her inner self had never been in turmoil from pride, and what pride it was!
She shuddered with horror when, that evening in the drawing-room, a footman announced Mme de Fervaques; the man's voice struck her as sinister. She could not bear the sight of the maréchale, and rapidly moved away. Julien, feeling little pride in his painfully won victory, had not trusted the look in his own eyes, and had not dined at the Hôtel de La Mole.
His love and happiness increased swiftly as the moment of battle receded; he had already reached the point of blaming himself. How could I have resisted her, he said to himself; what if she were to stop loving me! An instant can change that proud spirit, and it has to be admitted that I've treated her abominably.
That evening, he felt he simply had to put in an appearance in Mme de Fervaques's box at the Opera Bouffe. She had expressly invited him: Mathilde would not fail to learn of his presence or his rude absence. In spite of the cogency of this argument, he did not have the strength, at the beginning of the evening, to immerse himself in the social scene. Talking would deprive him of half his happiness.
Ten o'clock struck: he absolutely had to show his face.
By a piece of good fortune he found the maréchale's box fun of women, and he was relegated to a position near the door, completely hidden by all the hats. This saved him from making a fool of himself; the divine strains of Caroline's despair in the Matrimonio Segreto * reduced him to tears. Mme de Fervaques
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saw these tears; they formed such a contrast with the masculine firmness of his usual countenance that this great lady's soul, long since saturated with all that is most corrosive in a social climber's pride, was actually touched by them. What little was left in her of a woman's heart drove her to speak. She wanted at that moment to enjoy the sound of his voice.
'Have you seen the La Mole ladies?' she asked him, 'they're in a box on the third row.' Julien at once leant out over the stalls, supporting himself rather impolitely on the front of the box: he saw Mathilde; her eyes were glistening with tears.
And yet it isn't their day for the opera, Julien thought; what keenness!
Mathilde had persuaded her mother to come to the Opera Bouffe, although the box which one of the lady devotees of the family had hastened to offer them was in a most unsuitable row. She wanted to see if Julien would spend that evening with the maréchale.
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CHAPTER 31
Frightening her
So this is the fine miracle of your civilization! You have turned love into an ordinary matter.
BARNAVE
JULIEN ran to Mme de La Mole's box. The first sight to meet his gaze was Mathilde's tear-filled eyes; she was crying quite openly. There were only people of subordinate rank there: the friend who had lent her box and some men of her acquaintance. Mathilde put her hand on Julien's; she seemed to have forgotten all fear of her mother. Almost choking with tears, the only word she said to him was: 'Guarantees!'
Whatever happens I mustn't speak to her, Julien told himself, deeply moved for his own part, and trying as best he could to conceal his eyes behind his hand, using the chandelier which dazzles the third row of boxes as his excuse. If I speak, she won't be able to doubt the intensity of my emotion any more: the sound of my voice will betray me, everything may yet be lost.
His struggles were far more painful than in the morning; he had had time to become stirred to the depths of his being. He was afraid of seeing Mathilde get piqued through vanity. Intoxicated with love and desire, he took it upon himself not to speak to her.
This, in my opinion, is one of the finest traits of his character; an individual capable of taking such a hold over himself can go far, si fata sinant. *
Mlle de La Mole insisted on driving Julien home. Fortunately it was raining heavily. But the marquise had seated him opposite her and talked to him continuously, preventing him from saying a word to her daughter. It was as if the marquise was taking care of Julien's happiness; no longer fearful of losing everything through the intensity of his emotion, he gave himself over to it in frenzy.
Shall I dare to relate that on returning to his room Julien
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flung himself on to his knees and planted kisses all over the love letters donated by Prince Korasov?
O great man! how much I owe you! he exclaimed in his frenzy.
Gradually he regained a degree of composure. He compared himself
to a general who has half won a great battle. The advantage is certain, and very considerable, he said to himself; but what will happen tomorrow? everything can be lost in an instant.
With a passionate gesture he opened the Memoirs dictated on St Helena by Napoleon, * and for two long hours he forced himself to read them; only his eyes were reading, but no matter, he forced himself to do it. During this strange reading process, his head and his heart had ascended to the sphere of all that is loftiest, and were working away unknown to him. This heart is quite unlike Mme de Rênal's, he said to himself, but he did not go any further.
FRIGHTEN HER, he exclaimed suddenly, flinging the book away. The enemy will only obey me in so far as I frighten her, and then she won't dare despise me.
He walked up and down his little room, wild with joy. In all truth, this happiness stemmed more from self-satisfaction than from love.
Frighten her! he repeated to himself proudly, and he was right to feel proud. Even in her happiest moments, Mme de Rênal always doubted that my love was equal to hers. Here, I've got a demon to subjugate, so I must subjugate.
He knew perfectly well that the next day Mathilde would be in the library from eight in the morning; he did not put in an appearance until nine, burning with love, but keeping his heart firmly under the control of his head. Not a single minute passed maybe without his repeating to himself. Keep this great doubt always nagging at her: Does he love me? Her brilliant position, the flatteries of everyone who speaks to her, incline her a little too readily to reassure herself.
He found her sitting on the sofa, pale and calm, but apparently in no state to make a single movement. She held out her hand to him:
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'Julien, I've offended you, it's true; you may be angry with me...?'
Julien was not expecting so straightforward a tone as this. He was on the verge of betraying himself.
'You want guarantees, my dear,' she added after a silence she had hoped would be broken; 'that is fair. Abduct me, let's leave for London... I shall be ruined for ever, dishonoured'... She had the strength of will to withdraw the hand she had held out to Julien, and to cover her eyes with it. All her inner feelings of restraint and feminine virtue had returned to her 'Go on! dishonour me,' she said at length with a sigh, 'it's a guarantee.'
Yesterday I was happy because I had the guts to be strict with myself, Julien thought. After a brief moment's silence, he had enough hold over his emotions to say in icy tones:
'Once we're on the road for London, once you're dishonoured, to use your expression, who can vouch that you will love me? That my presence in the post-chaise won't seem unwelcome to you? I'm not a monster; to have ruined you in the eyes of public opinion will be just one more misfortune for me. It's not your position in society that's the obstacle, it's unfortunately your character. Can you vouch to yourself that you will love me in a week's time?'
(Ah! let her love me for a week, just a week, Julien murmured to himself, and I'll die of happiness. What do I care about the future, what do I care about life? and this divine happiness can start this instant if I want, it's entirely up to me!)
Mathilde saw he was plunged in thought.
'So I'm utterly unworthy of you,' she said taking his hand.
Julien kissed her, but instantly the iron hand of duty gripped his heart. If she sees how much I adore her, I'll lose her. And, before withdrawing from her embrace, he had resumed all the dignity befitting a man.
That day and the following days he managed to hide the intensity of his bliss; there were moments when he refused himself even the pleasure of clasping her in his arms.
At other moments, delirious happiness got the better of any advice prudence could give.
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There was a honeysuckle bower, designed to hide the ladder, where he had been accustomed to station himself in the garden to keep a distant watch on Mathilde's shutters and to weep at her inconstancy. A very big oak stood close by, and the trunk of this tree prevented indiscreet eyes from seeing him.
As he walked with Mathilde by this very spot which reminded him so vividly of the intensity of his misery, the contrast between past despair and present bliss was too much for his temperament; tears flooded his eyes and, raising his loved one's hand to his lips: 'This is where I lived with my thoughts on you; from here I would look at those shutters, I would wait for hours on end for the lucky moment when I would see this hand of yours opening them...'
His weakness was total. He depicted to her in true colours that cannot be invented the intensity of the despair he had felt then. Brief interjections bore witness to his present happiness which had put an end to this terrible suffering...
What am I doing, my God! Julien said to himself, suddenly coming to his senses. I'm ruining everything.
In the excess of his alarm, he thought he could already detect less love in Mlle de La Mole's eyes. It was an illusion; but Julien's face changed swiftly and became deathly pale. His eyes grew dull for an instant and an expression of arrogance not untainted with cruelty soon replaced the look of most genuine and most unrestrained love.
'What's the matter with you, my dearest?' Mathilde asked him with tenderness and anxiety.
'I'm lying,' said Julien in annoyance, 'and I'm lying to you. I blame myself for it, and yet heaven knows I have enough esteem for you not to lie. You love me, you are devoted to me, and I don't need to talk in flowery phrases to please you.'
'My God! Are all the ravishing things you've been saying to me for the last two minutes just flowery phrases?'
'And I blame myself acutely for them, my dearest. I composed them once for a woman who loved me and bored me... It's the flaw in my character, I'm denouncing myself to you of my own accord, please forgive me.'
Bitter tears poured down Mathilde's cheeks.
'As soon as some slight thing that has shocked me forces me
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into a moment's daydreaming', Julien went on, 'my loathsome memory, which I curse at this very moment, offers me its resources, and I misuse them.'
'So I've unwittingly just done something that must have displeased you?' Mathilde said with charming simplicity.
'One day, I remember, as you passed by these honeysuckle bushes, you picked a flower: M. de Luz took it from you, and you let him have it. I was right there.'
' M. de Luz? That's impossible,' Mathilde replied, with the peremptoriness that came so naturally to her: 'I don't behave like that.'
'I'm sure you did,' Julien retorted sharply.
'Oh well! it's true, my dearest,' said Mathilde, sadly lowering her eyes. She knew for certain that for some months now she hadn't allowed M. de Luz to do any such thing.
Julien looked at her with indescribable tenderness: No, he said to himself, she doesn't love me any the less.
That evening, she reproached him jokingly with his fondness for Mme de Fervaques: 'a bourgeois loving a social climber! Hearts of that sort are maybe the only ones that my Julien can't drive mad. She had turned you into a real dandy,' she said, fondling his hair.
During the time he thought Mathilde despised him, Julien had become one of the most elegantly dressed men in Paris. But he had an additional advantage over people of that sort: once he was ready attired, he did not give his appearance another thought.
One thing vexed Mathilde: Julien continued to copy out the Russian letters and send them to the maréchale.
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CHAPTER 32
The tiger
Alas! why then things and not others?
BEAUMARCHAIS *
AN English traveller tells of living at close quarters with a tiger; he had reared it and used to stroke it, but he always kept a loaded pistol on his table.
Julien only abandoned himself to the intensity of his happiness at moments when Mathilde could not see it reflected in his eyes. He was punctilious in his duty of addressing a harsh word to her from time to time.
When Mathilde's gentleness, which he observed with astonishment, and
her excessive devotion were on the point of robbing him of all control over himself, he had the strength of purpose to leave her company forthwith.
For the first time ever, Mathilde felt what it was to love.
Life, which for her had always plodded along like a tortoise, was now on the wing.
Since, however, it was necessary for pride to surface in some way or another, she was anxious to expose herself with temerity to all the dangers her love might put in her way. Julien was the one to show caution; and it was only when there was some question of danger that she did not yield to his will; but while submissive and almost humble with him, she behaved that much more arrogantly towards all those members of the household who had dealings with her, whether family or servants.
In the evening in the drawing-room, in a gathering of sixty people, she would call Julien over in order to talk to him personally and at length.
When little Tanbeau settled down beside them one day, she begged him to go to the library to fetch her the volume of Smollett containing the revolution of 1688; and as he hesitated: 'And don't be in any hurry over it,' she added with an
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expression of insulting arrogance which was balm to Julien's soul.
'Did you notice the little monster's look?' he asked her.
'His uncle has put in ten or twelve years' service in this salon, otherwise I'd have him booted out on the spot.'
Her behaviour towards Messrs de Croisenois, de Luz, etc., while perfectly polite in a formal sense, was hardly less provocative in substance. Mathilde bitterly regretted confiding so much in Julien early on, all the more so since she did not dare confess to him that she had exaggerated the almost totally innocent displays of interest with which these gentlemen had been favoured.
