The Red and the Black (67 page)

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. M
^me
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

-438-

next with gathering up all the letters from M
^me
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 M
^me
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 M
^me
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. M
^me
de Fervaques

-439-

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.

-440-

So this is the fine miracle of your civilization! You have turned love into an ordinary matter.

BARNAVE

JULIEN ran to M
^me
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
.
^*

M
^lle
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

-441-

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 M
^me
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, M
^me
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:

-442-

'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.

-443-

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 M
^lle
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

-444-