6 The first Bourbon king (born 1553, reigned 1589–1610). He brought an end to the Wars of Religion when he converted to Catholicism in order to claim the throne. Legend has him declaring "Paris is well worth a mass!" He imposed his authority on fractious nobles, divorced his adulterous wife, Marguerite de Valois (see note for p. 289, ll. 9–10)to marry Marie de Médici—mother of Louis XIII—and was assassinated by the fanatical Ravaillac. This political martyrdom—plus his military skills and his rough-hewn ways—helped contribute to the legend of a great and popular king, which survived even the Revolution.
The Red and the Black
"You mean, now I'd cut off those heads, and I wouldn't be the Girondin7 you made me out to be the other day? ... I'll answer you," said Altamira sadly, "after you've killed a man in a duel, which is at least not so ugly as having him killed by an executioner." "My Lord!" said Julien. "The man who desires a goal, also desires the way of accomplishing it. If I had any power, instead of being, as I am, a mere atom, I'd have three men killed if I could save the lives of four." His glance glowed with moral fire, and with contempt for men's senseless decisions. His eyes met those of Mademoiselle de La Mole, so extremely close by, and his contempt, far from shifting to graciousness and civility, became even stronger. She was profoundly shocked, but she was not capable, not anymore, of disregarding Julien. She went away, resentfully, dragging her brother behind her. "I need a glass of punch, and I have to dance and dance," she told herself. "I'll pick the best dancer here and, no matter what, I'll make an impression. Fine: There's that notoriously rude fellow, the Count de Fervaques." She accepted his invitation; they danced. "It's still an open question," she thought, "which of us will be the rudest: if I intend to really show him up, I need to make him talk." All the rest of them, soon, were simply walking through the steps: no one wanted to risk losing any of Mathilde's keen-edged responses. Monsieur de Fervaques grew restless. He could not summon up neatly elegant phrases and, instead of ideas, resorted to letting himself look as angry as he felt. Mathilde, who was in a foul mood, treated him so savagely that she made herself an enemy. She danced until dawn, and finally left, incredibly weary. But as her carriage rolled away, whatever strength she had left was busily making her sad and miserable. She had been scorned by Julien, and she could not reply in kind. Julien was as happy as he could be, in his ignorance thrilled by the music, the flowers, the beautiful women, the universal elegance and, above all else, by his imagination, which dreamed of all the honors he would receive, and of freedom for everyone. "What a gorgeous ball!" he said to the count as the carriage drove away. "There's nothing missing." "Except thought," responded Altamira. And his face showed his scorn, which was no less barbed because it was obvious that politeness obliged him to mask it. "But you're here, my dear count. And isn't any thought as good as a conspiracy?" "I'm here because of the name I bear. But in these drawing rooms, thought is utterly hateful. They don't dare rise above the level of a vaudeville song: that's what pays, here. But a thinking man, if his insights are forceful and original, gets labeled a cynic. Isn't that the way one of your judges spoke of the great Hellenist, Courier?8 He was sent to prison, just like Béranger. The Congregation of the Holy Virgin sees to it, in France, that everyone whose mind is worth anything gets thrown into the criminal courts, and all the really good people applaud. "That's because this withered old society of yours always puts propriety first...France will never lift itself any higher than bravery in battle. You'll always have Murats, but never a