1 This quote cannot be identified with any known Latin author named Gratius.
The Red and the Black
in fashion and wonderfully trim. His face, noble and empty, indicated that his ideas were proper, and very rare: he was the absolute model of the amiable good fellow, horrified by the unexpected and by all witty remarks; he was steeped in sobriety. The lieutenant of the Ninety-sixth having explained that keeping a man waiting so long, especially after having thrown your card in his face, was yet another insult, Julien stalked into Monsieur de Beauvoisis's rooms. He meant to be insolent, though at the same time he wished to preserve good form. He was so startled by Monsieur de Beauvoisis's gentle good manners, his demeanor at once formal, weighty, and pleased with himself, and by the admirable elegance which surrounded him, that in the twinkling of an eye he dropped all thought of insolence. This was not the man he'd encountered the night before. He was so stunned to find someone thus distinguished, instead of the coarse fellow he'd met in the café, that he was unable to say a thing. He handed over one of the cards that had been thrown at him. "It is my name," said the stylish man, in whom Julien's black garments and the wickedly early hour of seven in the morning inspired very little respect. "But I don't understand, on my honor..." The way he pronounced these last words partially restored Julien's annoyance. "I'm here to fight with you, monsieur." And he quickly explained the whole thing. Monsieur Charles de Beauvoisis, after more mature reflection, was satisfied by the cut of Julien's black clothing. "That's from Staub,2 I see it quite clearly," he said to himself while he listened. "That vest is in good taste; his boots are fine. But on the other hand, those black clothes at this hour of the morning! ... They'll give him a better chance of dodging the bullet," said the Chevalier de Beauvoisis to himself. Having determined these matters, he resumed his perfect politeness, and treated Julien almost as if they were equals. It was rather a long conversation, and a delicate business, but in the end Julien could not deny the evidence. The very well-born young man he was facing did not in any way resemble the coarse person who, the night before, had so insulted him. Julien found it very hard to leave; he felt obliged to prolong the discussion. He noted the Chevalier de Beauvoisis's self-sufficiency—and he had carefully described himself as "chevalier," in speaking to Julien, shocked at having been addressed simply as "monsieur." Our hero admired the sobriety, mixed with a certain modest conceit, that de Beauvoisis never discarded for an instant. Julien was startled to see the odd way his tongue moved, as he pronounced his words...But in the end, no matter what, there was not the slightest reason to quarrel with him. With immense courtesy, the young diplomat offered nevertheless to do battle, but the former lieutenant of the Ninety-sixth, having sat there for an hour, his legs parted, his hands on his legs, his elbows akimbo, had decided that his friend Monsieur Sorel had no interest whatever in picking a German-style quarrel with a man, because someone else had stolen that man's calling cards. Julien left in a bad mood. The Chevalier de Beauvoisis's carriage was waiting in the courtyard, in front of the steps. By chance, Julien looked up and recognized the coachman as his man from the night before. Seeing him, grasping at his heavy coat, throwing him down from the driver's seat, and covering him with blows from his own whip, was a moment's work. Two servants decided to defend their comrade; they hit at Julien and, at the same time, Julien drew one of his pistols and fired at them; they ran off. All this, too, took only a moment.