11 Danton (see note for p. 1, Epigraph) was arrested and executed on charges of embezzlement that, after his death, proved to be true. Mirabeau likewise was proven, after his death, guilty of accepting bribes (see note for p. 220, l. 2). Napoleon's looting in Italy was standard for the leader of a revolutionary army, and the government of the Directory profited more than Napoleon did personally. Jean-Charles Pichegru (1761–1804) rose through the ranks to become commander of the Army of the North. He conquered Holland in 1795, but was accused—probably truthfully—of accepting bribes from royalist agents and was forced to resign in 1796. Elected by the Royalists to the Council of the Five Hundred, under the Directory in 1797, he was soon exiled to Guyana after an antiroyalist sweep of the government by Barras. He later escaped to England and soon joined in the anti-Bonapartist plots among the émigrés in London. In 1804 he traveled secretly to Paris to take part in a British-sponsored plot to kidnap First Consul Bonaparte. Betrayed by a fellow conspirator, Pichegru was arrested and emprisoned in the Temple. He was found there, strangled by his own silk scarf; the official government report of suicide was never fully accepted. The Marquis de Lafayette's personal integrity was one character trait not even his worst enemies challenged.
The Red and the Black
"In fact," he told himself, after meditating a long time, "if these Spanish liberals had compromised the people's cause by committing crimes, they would not have been so easily swept away. These were arrogant children, and mere talkers...like me!" he suddenly exclaimed, as if waking with a start. "What difficult things have I ever done, to give myself the right to judge these poor devils, who in the end, once in their lifetimes, actually dared, actually started to act? I'm like a man who, rising from the table, cries out: 'I won't eat dinner, tomorrow; it would only keep me from being as strong and happy as I am today.' Who knows how you'll deal with some grand deed, once it's under way?..." These lofty thoughts were disturbed by the arrival of Mademoiselle de La Mole, who came walking into the library. Julien had gotten so excited, admiring the great qualities of Danton, and Mirabeau, and Carnot,12 who had known how to escape defeat, that his eyes were checked by Mademoiselle de La Mole's appearance, though he was not thinking of her at all, and barely saw her. When his wide-open eyes realized she was there, their glow faded away. Mademoiselle de La Mole noticed it, bitterly. It was no good, asking him for a volume of de Vély's History of France, which was sitting as high on the shelves as books could go, and which required Julien to go looking for the taller of the two library ladders. He went up the ladder, he found the book, he brought it down to her, still without being able to think of her. While putting the ladder back, he was so preoccupied that his elbow crashed into one of the glass shelf doors; the shattered pieces, falling to the floor, finally woke him up. He apologized to Mademoiselle de La Mole, hurriedly; he meant to be polite, but that was all he was. It was obvious to Mathilde that he was unsettled, and that, rather than talking to her, he would much prefer to keep thinking about whatever had been occupying his mind before she came. She looked at him most carefully, then slowly went away. Julien watched her walk off. He took a good deal of pleasure in the contrast between how she was dressed at the moment, and her elegant magnificence, the night before. The difference between the face she now wore, and the one she'd worn then, was almost equally striking. This young woman, who had seemed so haughty at the Duke de Retz's ball, right now looked almost like a suppliant. "Really," Julien said to himself, "this black dress makes her beautiful figure even more apparent. She carries herself like a queen. But why is she wearing mourning? "But if I ask someone this question, I may just be blundering all over again." Julien had now emerged from the depths of his rapture. "I'll have to reread the letters I've written this morning: God only knows all the words I've misspelled, and the mistakes I'll find." As he read over the letters, concentrating hard, he heard just behind him the rustle of a silk dress. He turned around rapidly. Mademoiselle de La Mole was no more than two feet away, and she laughed. This second interruption annoyed him. Mathilde had just become vividly aware that, to this young man, she did not matter a bit. She'd laughed in order to hide her embarrassment, and in that she succeeded. "You're obviously thinking the most interesting thoughts, Monsieur Sorel. Might it be some strange tale of the conspiracy that sent Count Altamira to us, here in Paris? Tell me, please, if that's what it is; I'm most anxious to know; I'll be discreet, I promise you!" Hearing