The Red and the Black (44 page)

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?

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:

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 descended 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.

“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 scandalised 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.”

As for Julien, he had done something, he was less unhappy; his eyes chanced to fall on the Russian leather portfolio in which Prince Korasoff had placed the fifty-three love letters which he had presented to him. Julien saw a note at the bottom of the first letter: No. 1 is sent eight days after the first meeting.

“I am behind hand,” exclaimed Julien. “It is quite a long time since I met Madame de Fervaques.” He immediately began to copy out this first love letter. It was a homily packed with moral platitudes and deadly dull. Julien was fortunate enough to fall asleep at the second page.

Some hours afterwards he was surprised to see the broad daylight as he leant on his desk. The most painful moments in his life were those when he woke up every morning to realise his unhappiness. On this particular day he finished copying out his letter in a state verging on laughter. “Is it possible,” he said to himself, “that there ever lived a young man who actually wrote like that?” He counted several sentences of nine lines each. At the bottom of the original he noticed a penciled note. “These letters are delivered personally, on horseback, black cravat, blue tail-coat. You give the letter to the porter with a contrite air; expression of profound melancholy. If you notice any chambermaid, dry your eyes furtively and speak to her.”

All this was duly carried out.

“I am taking a very bold course!” thought Julien as he came out of the Hôtel de Fervaques, “but all the worse for Korasoff. To think of daring to write to so virtuous a celebrity. I shall be treated with the utmost contempt, and nothing will amuse me more. It is really the only comedy that I can in any way appreciate. Yes, it will amuse me to load with ridicule that odious creature whom I call myself. If I believed in myself, I would commit some crime to distract myself.”

The moment when Julien brought his horse back to the stable was the happiest he had experienced for a whole month. Korasoff had expressly forbidden him to look at the mistress who had left him, on any pretext whatsoever. But the step of that horse, which she knew so well, and Julien's way of knocking on the stable door with his riding-whip to call a man, sometimes attracted Mathilde to behind the window-curtain. The muslin was so light that Julien could see through it. By looking under the brim of his hat in a certain way, he could get a view of Mathilde's figure without seeing her eyes. “Consequently,” he said to himself, “she cannot see mine, and that is not really looking at her.”

In the evening Madame de Fervaques behaved towards him, exactly as though she had never received the philosophic mystical and religious dissertation which he had given to her porter in the morning with so melancholy an air. Chance had shown Julien on the preceding day how to be eloquent; he placed himself in such a position that he could see Mathilde's eyes. She, on her side, left the blue sofa a minute after the maréchale's arrival; this involved abandoning her usual associates. M. de Croisenois seemed overwhelmed by this new caprice: his palpable grief alleviated the awfulness of Julien's agony.

This unexpected turn in his life made him talk like an angel, and inasmuch as a certain element of self-appreciation will insinuate itself even into those hearts which serve as a temple for the most august virtue, the maréchale said to herself as she got into her carriage, “Madame de la Mole is right, this young priest has distinction. My presence must have overawed him at first. As a matter of fact, the whole tone of this house is very frivolous; I can see nothing but instances of virtue helped by oldness, and standing in great need of the chills of age. This young man must have managed to appreciate the difference; he writes well, but I fear very much that this request of his in his letter for me to enlighten him with my advice, is really nothing less than an, as yet, unconscious sentiment.

“Nevertheless how many conversions have begun like that! What makes me consider this a good omen is the difference between his style and that of the young people whose letters I have had an opportunity of seeing. One cannot avoid recognising unction, profound seriousness, and much conviction in the prose of this young acolyte; he has no doubt the sweet virtue of a Massillon.”