by Stendhal
Despite all her fine resolve, her woman's pride would daily prevent her from saying to Julien: 'It was because I was talking to you that I took pleasure in describing my weakness in not withdrawing my hand when M. de Croisenois, as he rested his on a marble table, happened to brush gently against mine.'
Today, one of these gentlemen had hardly to speak to her for a few moments before she found she had a question to ask Julien, and this was a pretext for keeping him by her side.
She discovered she was pregnant and announced it delightedly to Julien.
'Will you still have doubts about me now? Isn't this a guarantee? I'm your wife for ever.'
This announcement filled Julien with deep astonishment. He was on the verge of forgetting the principle governing his behaviour. How can I be deliberately cold and offensive towards this poor girl who's ruining herself for me? If she looked at all unwell, even on days when the terrible voice of wisdom made itself heard, he found he did not have the heart any more to utter one of those cruel remarks to her that were so essential, in his experience, to make their love last.
'I want to write to my father,' Mathilde said to him one day; 'he's more than a father to me; he's a friend, and as such, I should find it unworthy of you and me to try to deceive him, even for a moment.'
'My God! What are you about to do? said Julien in alarm.
'My duty,' she replied, her eyes shining with joy.
She was more magnanimous, it appeared, than her lover.
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'But he'll turn me out of the house in ignominy!'
'He has every right to, and we must accept this. I shall give you my arm and we'll leave by the carriage door, in broad daylight.'
The astonished Julien begged her to postpone this step for a week.
'That I cannot do,' she replied, 'honour calls; I've seen where my duty lies, and I must follow it, right away, too.'
'All right then! I order to you to postpone it,' Julien said at length. 'Your honour is safe, I'm your husband. Both of our situations are going to be changed by this crucial step. I too am acting within my rights. Today is Tuesday; next Tuesday is the Duc de Retz's day; in the evening, when M. de La Mole comes home, the porter will hand him the fateful letter . . . All he thinks about is making you a duchess, I'm sure of it; just imagine his grief!'
'Do you mean: "just imagine his thirst for revenge"?'
'I am entitled to pity my benefactor, to be upset about hurting him; but I do not and never will fear anyone.'
Mathilde gave in. This was the first time since she had announced her new situation to Julien that he had spoken authoritatively to her; never had he loved her so much. It was a source of happiness for the tender side of his nature to seize upon Mathilde's state to excuse him from the need to say cruel things to her. The thought of confessing to M. de La Mole disturbed him deeply. Was he going to be separated from Mathilde? And however painful it might be for her to see him go, when a month had passed by would she still be thinking about him?
He was in almost equal dread of the just reproaches he was liable to incur from the marquis.
That evening, he imparted this second source of grief to Mathilde, and then led astray by his love, he also confessed the first.
She changed colour.
'Do you really mean', she said 'that spending six months apart from me would cause you misery?'
'Tremendous misery, it's the only misfortune in the world I contemplate with terror.'
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Mathilde was happy indeed. Julien had played his part so assiduously that he had succeeded in making her think that of the tow of them, she was the one who loved the most.
The fateful Tuesday came round. At midnight, on returning home, the marquis found a letter addressed in such a way as to make him open it himself, and only when no witnesses were present.
Dear Papa,
All social ties are broken off between us, all that remains are ties of nature. After my husband, you are and always will be the person who is dearest to me. Tears are welling up in my eyes as I think of the suffering I am causing you, but to avoid my shame becoming public, to give you time to take thought and to act, I could not any longer postpone the confession I owe you. If your friendship towards me, which I know to be deep, is willing to grant me a small allowance, I shall go and settle wherever you wish, in Switzerland, for instance, with my husband. His name is so obscure that no one will recognize your daughter in Mme Sorel, the daughter-in-law of a carpenter from Verrières. This is the name it has cost me so much to put in writing. I fear for Julien the consequences of your anger, which is justified at first sight. I shall not be a duchess, papa; but I knew this when I fell in love with him; for I was the first to love--I did the seducing. I have inherited from you too lofty a character to waste my attention on anything that is or strikes me as vulgar. To please you, I tried to entertain thought of M. de Croisenois, but it was no use. Why had you put true worth before my eyes? You said as much to me yourself on my return from Hyères: 'young Sorel is the only person I find amusing.' The poor fellow is as wretched as I am, if that is possible, at the suffering this letter is causing you. I cannot prevent you from feeling angered as father; but please continue to love me as a friend.
Julien respected me. If he spoke to me from time to time, it was exclusively on account of his deep gratitude towards you: for the dignity inherent in his character inclines him only ever to respond officially to anything that is so far above him. He has an acute, innate sense of differences in social status. I was the one--I confess it with a blush to my closet friend, and never will such a confession be made to anyone else--I was the one who squeezed his arm one day in the garden.
In twenty-four hours' time, why should you be angry with him? My lapse is irreparable. If you insist on it, I shall be the intermediary for his assurances of profound respect and despair at incurring your
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displeasure. You will see no more of him; but I shall go and join him wherever he wishes. That is his right, and my duty; he is the father of my child. If your kindness is willing to grant us six thousand francs to live on, I shall accept them gratefully: if not, Julien intends to settle in Besançon, where he will embark on a career as teacher of Latin and literature. However low his starting-point, I am convinced that he will rise high. With him, I have no fear of remaining in obscurity. If there is a revolution, I am sure that his will be a leading role. Could you say as much for any of the men who have asked for my hand? They have fine estates! I cannot see this circumstance alone as a reason for admiration. My Julien would rise to a high position even under the present regime, if he had a million and my father's protection . . .
Mathilde, knowing the marquis to be a man who acted on first impulse, had written eight pages.
What's to be done? Julien wondered while the Marquis de La Mole was reading this letter; where lies 1) my duty, 2) My interest? My debt to him is enormous: but for him, I'd have been a subordinate rogue, and not enough of a rogue to escape being hated and persecuted by others. He's given me a place in high society. My necessary acts of roguery will be 1) more infrequent, 2) less infamous. That counts for more than if he'd given me a million. I owe him this cross and the reputation for diplomatic services that put me above other people.
If he had his pen in his hand to lay down my conduct, what would he write . . .?
Julien was brusquely interrupted by M. de La Mole's old manservant.
'The marquis wants to see you at once, dressed or undressed.'
The manservant added in a low voice as he walked along beside Julien:
'He's beside himself with rage, watch out.'
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CHAPTER 33
The infernal torment of weakness
In cutting this diamond, a careless jeweller removed some of its brightest glints. In the Middle Ages--what am I saying?--even under Richelieu, a Frenchman had strength of will.
MIRABEAU
JULIEN found the marquis in a fury: for the first
time in his life, perhaps, this nobleman was vulgar; he assailed Julien with all the insults that came to his lips. Our hero was astonished and irritated, but his gratitude was not shaken. Just think how many wonderful plans which the poor man has been cherishing in his inmost thoughts are falling in ruins at a stroke before his very eyes! But I owe it to him to reply; my silence would increase his anger. Tartuffe's part supplied the reply.
'I am no angel * ... I have served you well, you have rewarded me generously... I was grateful, but I'm twenty-two... In this household, my thoughts were only understood by you and this delightful person...'
'You monster!!' exclaimed the marquis. 'Delightful! Delightful! The day you first found her delightful you ought to have fled.'
'I tried to; that was the time I asked you to let me leave for the Languedoc.'
Weary of striding up and down in fury, the marquis flung himself into an armchair, overcome with sorrow; Julien heard him mutter to himself: 'Really he isn't a wicked man.'
'No, I'm not, where you are concerned,' Julien exclaimed, falling down at the marquis's knees. But he was excessively ashamed of this gesture and very soon got up again.
The marquis was genuinely out of his mind. At the sight of this gesture, he again began to assail Julien with dreadful insults worthy of a cab-driver. The novelty of these swearwords was perhaps a distraction.
'What! my daughter's to be called Mme Sorel! What! my daughter's not going to be a duchess!' Every time these ideas
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came to him as clearly as this, M. de La Mole went through torture, and his instinctive reactions were no longer under the control of his will. Julien was afraid of being thrashed.
In his lucid phases, and as he began to get used to the idea of his misfortune, the marquis's reproaches to Julien were quite reasonable:
'You should have fled, sir,' he said to him... 'It was your duty to flee... You're the lowest of the low.'
Julien went over to the table and wrote:
My life has long been unbearable to me; I am ending it. I beg my lord Marquis to accept both my protestations of boundless gratitude and my apologies for the embarrassment that my death in his house may cause.
'I humbly beg your lordship to deign to cast an eye over this paper... Kill me,' said Julien, 'or have your manservant do it. It's one o'clock in the morning, I'll go and walk up and down in the garden near the far wall.'
'Oh go to hell!' the marquis shouted after him as he left.
I understand, thought Julien; he wouldn't be displeased if I spared his manservant the business of seeing to my death... Let him kill me, fair enough, I'll offer him this by way of satisfaction... But, damn it all, I love life... my duty is to my son.
This idea, which struck his imagination with such clarity for the first time, absorbed him totally after the first few minutes of walking up and down, during which he had been aware of nothing but danger.
This interest, which was so new to him, turned him into a creature of caution. I need advice on how to behave towards this impetuous man... His reason is gone, he's capable of anything. Fouqué is too far away, and besides, he wouldn't understand what moves the heart of someone like the marquis.
Count Altamira... Can I be sure of silence for ever? Seeking advice mustn't constitute an action that complicates my position. Alas! the only person left is the dour Abbé Pirard... His mind has been narrowed by Jansenism... A Jesuit rogue would have some worldly wisdom, and would fit the bill better...
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M. Pirard is capable of thrashing me at the mere mention of the misdeed.
The genius of Tartuffe came to Julien's rescue: Right, then, I'll go and make confession to him. This was the final decision he took in the garden after walking about for a good two hours. He no longer believed he might be surprised by a gunshot; he was succumbing to sleep.
Very early the next morning, Julien was several leagues away from Paris, knocking at the stern Jansenist's door. He found, much to his astonishment, that the latter was not unduly surprised by his revelation.
I ought perhaps to blame myself, the priest thought, more concerned than angry. 'I had suspected this love. My friendship for you, you wretched boy, prevented me from warning the father...'
'What's he going to do?' Julien asked eagerly.
(He felt great warmth towards the priest at that moment, and would have found a scene very painful.)
'I can see three courses of action,' Julien went on: '1) M. de La Mole can have me killed;' and he told of the suicide note he had left with the marquis; '2) he can have me shot pointblank by Count Norbert, who would challenge me to a duel.'
'Would you accept?' said the priest, getting up in fury.
'You're not letting me finish. I should most certainly never shoot at my benefactor's son.
'3) He can send me away. If he says to me: "Go to Edinburgh or New York", I shall obey. Then Mlle de La Mole's situation can be concealed; but I shall not allow my son to be done away with.'
'And that, make no doubt about it, will be the first thing that corrupt man thinks of...'
Back in Paris Mathilde was in despair. She had seen her father at about seven o'clock. He had shown her Julien's letter, and she was in in fear and trembling lest he had decided that the noble way was to put an end to his life: And without my permission? she said to herself with anguish that was in fact a form of anger.
'If he is dead, I shall die,' she told her father. 'You will be the cause of my death... You will perhaps be glad of it... But
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this I swear to his spirit: I shall first of all go into mourning, and be M. Sorel's widow in public; I shall send out announcements, you can count on that... You won't find me fainthearted or cowardly.'
Her love reached the proportions of folly. It was M. de La Mole's turn to be astounded.
He began to view events with some sort of reason. Mathilde did not appear at lunch. The marquis was relieved of a tremendous weight on his mind, and was in particular most flattered when he observed that she had said nothing to her mother.
Julien was just dismounting from his horse. Mathilde summoned him and flung herself into his arms almost in front of her chambermaid. Julien was not very grateful for this passionate demonstration; he had emerged in a highly diplomatic and calculating frame of mind from his long conference with Father Pirard. His imagination was dulled from calculating possible moves. With tears in her eyes, Mathilde informed him that she had seen his suicide note.
'My father may change his mind; be so good as to set off this very instant for Villequier. Get back on your horse and leave the house before they get up from lunch.'
As Julien's look of cold astonishment remained unaltered, she had a fit of tears.
'Leave me to run our affairs, darling,' she exclaimed passionately, clasping him in her arms. 'You know perfectly well that I'm not undertaking this separation from you voluntarily. Write to me via my chambermaid, make sure the address is in an unknown hand; and I shall write reams back. Farewell! You must flee.'
Her last words wounded Julien; he obeyed all the same. There's something inevitable about it, he thought: even in their best moments, these people have the knack of rubbing me up the wrong way.
Mathilde strongly resisted all the prudent courses of action suggested by her father. She was never willing to engage in negotiations on any basis other than this: she would be Mme
Sorel, and would live in poverty with her husband in Switzer-
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land, or in her father's house in Paris. She utterly rejected the suggestion of a clandestine confinement.
'That would lay me open to slander and dishonour. Two months after our wedding, I shall go on a journey with my husband, and it'll be easy for us to assume that my son was born after a respectable interval.'
Greeted at first by outbursts of anger, this firmness eventually succeeded in instilling doubts into the marquis.
In a moment of tenderness:
'Well now!' he said to
his daughter, 'here is a certificate for an annuity of ten thousand pounds; send it to your Julien, and let him hurry up and make it impossible for me to take it back.
To obey Mathilde, whose love of being in command was familiar to him, Julien had made an unnecessary journey of forty leagues: he was at Villequier, settling the farmers' accounts: this benefaction from the marquis was a pretext for him to return. He went to seek asylum with Father Pirard, who, in his absence, had become Mathilde's most useful ally. Every time Father Pirard was questioned by the marquis, he demonstrated to him that any course of action other than a public marriage would be a crime in the sight of God.
'And fortunately,' the priest added, 'wordly wisdom is in agreement on this occasion with religion. Could one count for a moment, with Mlle de La Mole's impetuous character, on her maintaining secrecy if she hadn't imposed it on herself? If you don't accept the open step of a public marriage, society will talk for far longer about this strange misalliance. You must tell all in one go, without there being the slightest mystery--in appearance or in reality.'
'That's right,' said the marquis thoughtfully. 'In this scenario, talk of their marriage three days after the event will be nothing but the burbling of people without an idea in their heads. The thing to do is take advantage of some great antiJacobin measure by the Government so that the whole thing can slip by unnoticed in the aftermath.'
Two or three of M. de La Mole's friends shared Father Pirard's way of thinking. The great obstacle, to their minds, was Mathilde's resolute character. But after all these fine arguments, the marquis in his heart of hearts could not get
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used to the idea of renouncing the hope of a footstool * for his daughter.
His memory and his imagination were full of the rakish and treacherous deeds of all kinds that had still been possible in his youth. To give in to necessity, to fear the law struck him as an absurd and demeaning thing for a man of his rank. He was paying dearly now for the bewitching dreams he had indulged in for the past ten years about the future of this beloved daughter.
