The Red and the Black (21 page)

be oozing blood; the artist had surpassed himself. His dying eyes,
still full of grace, were half closed. The beginnings of a moustache
adorned his charming mouth which, half closed too, still seemed to be
in prayer. At this sight the girl next to Julien shed copious tears;
one of her tears fell onto Julien's hand.

After a moment of prayer in the most profound silence, broken only by
the distant sound of bells from all the villages in a radius of ten
leagues, the Bishop of Agde asked the king's permission to speak. He
ended a brief, very moving speech with some simple words which were
all the more effective.

'Never
forget, young Christians,' he said, addressing the girls, 'that you
have seen one of the greatest kings on earth kneeling before the
servants of this dread and almighty God. These servants are weak,
persecuted and put to death on earth, as you can see from St Clement's
ever-bleeding wound, but theirs is the triumph in heaven. You will,
young Christians, 'won't you, always remember this day? You will abhor
the ungodly. You will be ever faithful to this God who is so
mighty, so dread, and yet so loving.'

At these words the bishop rose authoritatively.

'Do you promise me you will?' he said, holding out his arm as one inspired.

'We promise we will,' said the girls, breaking down in tears.

'I receive your promise in the name of the dread and mighty God!'
added the bishop in a thundering voice. And the ceremony was ended.

The king himself was weeping. Not until much later did Julien feel
composed enough to ask where the saint's bones were that had been sent
from Rome to Philip the Good,
^*
Duke of Burgundy. He learned that they were concealed in the charming wax statue.

His Majesty deigned to allow the maidens who had waited on him in the
chapel to wear a red ribbon embroidered with the words: HATRED TO THE
UNGODLY, ETERNAL ADORATION.

M. de La
Mole had ten thousand bottles of wine given out to the peasants. That
evening in Verrières the liberals found a pretext for laying on
infinitely better illumination than the royalists. Before leaving, the
king paid a visit to M. de Moirod.

-115-

The grotesque side of day-to-day events stops you seeing the real misery of passions.

BARNAVE

As he was putting back the everyday furniture in the room that M. de
La Mole had used, Julien found a sheet of very stiff paper folded in
four. He read at the bottom of the first page:

'To the Most Hon. the Marquis de La Mole, Peer of France, Knight of the King's orders' etc., etc.

It was a petition in large handwriting, like a cook's.

My Lord Marquis,

All my life I have had religious principles. I faced the bombs at Lyon when it was under siege in '93 of cursed memory.
^*
I take communion; I go to Mass every Sunday at the parish church. I
have never failed in my paschal duty, even in '93 of cursed memory. My
cook, before the Revolution I had servants, my cook uses no meat or
fat on Fridays. In Verrières I enjoy widespread and, if I may say so,
deserved respect. I walk under the canopy at processions, next to our
Reverend Father and his worship the mayor. I carry a big candle on
grand occasions bought with my own money, for all of which there are
certificates in Paris at the Ministry of Finance. I ask your lordship
to grant me the lottery office
^*
in Verrières, which cannot fail to fall vacant soon one way or
another, as the present holder is very ill, and anyway votes the wrong
way at elections, etc.

DE CHOLIN

In the margin of this petition was a note of support signed
De Moirod
, which began with this line:

'I had the honour of speaking to you
yesserdy
^*
about the worthy citizen making this request', etc.

So, even this idiot Cholin shows me the path I must follow, said Julien to himself.

A week after the King of -----'s visit to Verrières, what surfaced
from the innumerable lies, silly interpretations, ridiculous discussions
etc., etc. which had focused successively on

-116-

the king, the Bishop of Agde, the Marquis de La Mole, the ten
thousand bottles of wine, poor old fall-in-the-mud Moirod who, in the
hope of getting a cross, did not venture outside his house until a
month after his fall--what surfaced was the sheer indecency of having
catapulted
Julien Sorel, a carpenter's son, into the guard of honour. You should
have heard the rich manufacturers of painted cloth on the subject,
men who grew hoarse in the café morning and evening preaching
equality. That haughty woman, M
^me
de Rênal, was the author
of this abomination. And the reason for it? The lovely eyes and
glowing cheeks of the little abbé Sorel made it abundantly plain.

Shortly after the return to Vergy, Stanislas-Xavier the youngest child threw a fever; M
^me
de Rênal was suddenly overcome by terrible remorse. It was the first
time she had reproached herself for her love with any consistency; she
seemed to understand, as if by a miracle, how gross was the
immorality she had allowed herself to get caught up in. In spite of
her deeply religious nature, up until then she had not considered the
enormity of her crime in the eyes of God.

In the past, at the convent of the Sacred Heart, she had loved God
with passion; she started to fear him likewise in her new situation.
The battles which ravaged her soul were all the more terrible because
there was nothing rational in her fear. Julien discovered that any
attempt at rationalization aggravated rather than soothed her: she
took it as the language of hell. However, since Julien himself was
very fond of little Stanislas, he was more welcome when he talked to
her of the boy's illness. This soon took a very serious turn. Then
unremitting remorse deprived M
^me
de Rênal even of the
ability to sleep; she retreated into a desperate silence: had she
opened her mouth, it would have been to confess her crime to God and
to mankind.

'I entreat you,' Julien
would say to her as soon as they found themselves alone, 'don't say
anything to anyone; let me be the only recipient of your troubles. If
you still love me, don't say anything: your words can't take the fever
away from our little Stanislas.'

But his endeavours to console her had no effect; he did not

-117-

know that M
^me
de Rênal had taken it into her head that to appease the wrath of the
jealous Almighty, she had to hate Julien or else see her son die. It
was because she felt she could not hate her lover that she was so
wretched.

'Keep away from me!' she
said one day. 'In the name of God, leave this house: it's your
presence here that's killing my son.'

'God is punishing me,' she added in a low voice, 'he is just. I
worship his justice; my crime is horrendous, and there I was living
without remorse! It was the first sign of abandoning God: I must be
doubly punished.'

Julien was deeply
touched. He could not detect any hypocrisy or exaggeration in this. She
thinks she's killing her son by loving me, and yet, poor thing, she
loves me more than her son. This is the source, I'm convinced, of the
remorse that's killing her; these are truly noble sentiments. But how
did I manage to inspire a love like this: I'm so poor, so badly
brought up, so ignorant, even sometimes so crude in my ways?

One night, the child's fever was at its height. Around two in the
morning M. de Rênal came to see him. The child, racked with fever, was
exceedingly flushed and failed to recognize his father. Suddenly M
^me
de Rênal flung herself at her husband's feet: Julien saw that she was
going to confess everything and ruin herself for ever.

By good luck M. de Rênal was very put out by this strange gesture.

'Goodnight! goodnight!' he said as he turned to leave.

'No, listen to me!' exclaimed his wife kneeling before him and trying
to hold him back. 'You must learn the whole truth. It's my fault that
my son is dying. I gave life to him, and I am taking it from him.
Heaven is punishing me, in the eyes of God I'm guilty of murder. I
must bring about my own downfall and my own humiliation; perhaps this
sacrifice will appease the Lord.'

If M. de Rênal had been a man of any imagination, he would have understood everything.

'Romantic nonsense,' he exclaimed pushing away his wife who was
trying to clasp his knees. 'This is all a whole lot of romantic
nonsense! Julien, summon the doctor at daybreak.'

-118-

And off he went to bed. M
^me
de Rênal fell on her knees, half unconscious, thrusting Julien away
with a convulsive gesture when he tried to come to her aid. Julien
stood amazed.

So this is adultery! he
said... Could it possibly be that those two-faced priests... are
right? That men who commit so many sins are privileged to know the
real workings of sin? What a peculiar state of affairs!

For twenty minutes now since M. de Rênal had withdrawn, Julien had
watched the woman he loved kneeling with her head resting on the
child's little bed, motionless and almost unconscious. Here's a woman
of superior genius plunged in the very depths of misery because of
knowing me, he said.

Time is racing
by. What can I do for her? I must make up my mind. In this situation
it isn't a question of what I want any more. What do I care about
other people and their insipid little comedies? What can I do for
her... leave her? But I'd be leaving her alone in the grip of the most
appalling grief. Her automaton of a husband is more of a hindrance
than a help to her. He'll say some harsh word to her through being so
crude; she may go mad and fling herself out of the window.

If I leave her, if I stop watching over her, she'll confess
everything to him. And who knows, perhaps in spite of the inheritance
she's due to bring him he'll cause a scandal. She may tell all, great
heavens! to that b... idiot of a Father Maslon, who uses a
six-year-old's illness an as excuse for not budging from this house,
and with an ulterior motive too. In her grief and her fear of God she
forgets everything she knows about the man; she only sees the priest.

'Go away!' said Mme de Rênal to him all of a sudden, opening her eyes.

'I'd lay down my life over and over again to know what would be of
greatest help to you,' Julien replied. 'I've never loved you so much,
my darling angel, or rather it's only now that I begin to adore you as
you deserve. What will become of me far away from you, with the
knowledge that you're unhappy through my fault! But let's not think
about my suffering. All right, I'll go, my love. But if I leave you,
if I cease to watch over you, to be constantly there between you

-119-

and your husband, you'll tell him all, you'll ruin yourself. Just
think how ignominiously he'll drive you from his house; the whole of
Verrières, the whole of Besançon will talk of this scandal. You'll be
made into the guilty party; you'll never get over the shame of it...'

'That's what I want,' she exclaimed, rising to her feet. 'I shall suffer: so much the better.'

'But you'll also bring about his own ruin with this abominable scandal!'

'But I'll be humiliating myself, I'll be flinging myself into the
mire; and perhaps in so doing I shall save my son. Perhaps this
humiliation in front of everyone is a form of public penitence? As far
as I can judge in my weakness, isn't this the greatest sacrifice I
can make to God?... Perhaps he will deign to accept my humiliation and
leave me my son! Show me another more painful sacrifice and I'm ready
for it.'

'Let me punish myself. I'm
guilty too. Do you want me to retreat to the Trappist monastery? The
austerity of life there may appease your God... Oh heavens! Why can't I
take Stanislas's illness upon myself...?'

'Oh, you really love him, you do!' said M
^me
de Rênal, getting up and flinging herself into his arms.

At the same moment she pushed him away in horror.

'I believe you! I believe you!' she went on, sinking to her knees
again. 'Oh my only friend! Oh why aren't you Stanislas's father? Then
it wouldn't be a horrible crime to love you more than your son.'

'Will you allow me to stay, and to love you from now on just like a
brother? It's the only only expiation that makes sense; it may appease
the wrath of the Almighty.'

'And
what about me?' she cried, getting up and clasping Julien's head in
both hands, and gazing at it at arm's length, 'what about me, am I to
love you like a brother? Is it in my power to love you like a
brother?'

Tears were starting to run down Julien's face.

'I shall obey you,' he said falling at her feet. 'I shall obey you
whatever you order me to do; it's all that's left for me. My mind is
struck blind; I can't see what to do. If I leave you, you'll tell your
husband everything; you'll ruin yourself and

-120-

him too. There's no way, after this ridicule, that he'll ever be
chosen for the National Assembly. If I stay, you'll think me the cause
of your son's death, and you'll die of grief. Do you want to try out
the effect of my departure? If you like, I'll punish myself for our
wrongdoing by leaving you for a week. I'll go and spend it in a
retreat of your choosing. In the abbey at Bray-le-Haut, for instance:
but swear to me that during my absence you won't confess anything to
your husband. Just think that I won't ever be able to come back if you
say anything.'

She promised, he left, but was recalled after two days.

'It's impossible for me to keep my oath without you. I shall tell my
husband if you aren't there constantly to order me with your eyes to
keep silent. Each hour of this abominable life seems to me to last a
whole day.'

At last heaven took pity
on this wretched mother. Gradually Stanislas emerged from danger. But
the illusion was shattered, her reason had grasped the extent of her
sin; she was unable to regain her stability. Her remorse remained, and
it was as you would expect in a heart of such sincerity. Her life was
heaven and hell: hell when she did not have Julien with her, heaven
when she was at his feet. 'I don't have any illusions left,' she said
to him even at times when she dared to indulge her love to the full.
'I'm damned, damned beyond remission. You are young, you yielded to my
seduction, heaven may forgive you; but I am damned. I know from a
sure sign: I'm afraid. Who wouldn't be afraid at the sight of hell?
But deep down I don't repent. I'd commit my sin again if it had to be
committed. If heaven would just refrain from punishing me in this
world and through my children, then I shall have more than I deserve.
But what about you at least, my own Julien,' she exclaimed at other
moments, 'are you happy? Do I love you enough for your liking?'

Julien's mistrustfulness and his touchy pride, which were
particularly in need of a love full of sacrifices, did not hold out in
the face of a sacrifice so total, so indubitable and so constantly
renewed. He adored M
^me
de Rênal. For all that she's a
noblewoman, and I'm a workman's son, she still loves me... I'm not a
valet she uses to fulfil the functions of a

-121-