14 The name suggests two very different early-eighteenth-century ecclesiastics: Claude Fleury (1640–1723) was confessor to Louis XV and a Church historian, principal author of the thirty-six-volume Histoire écclésiastique; André-Hercule, Cardinal de Fleury (1653–1743), was a skillful politician who served as de facto prime minister for Louis XV from 1726 until his death.
Chapter Three: A Priest
Monsieur Appert understood that he was dealing with a high-minded man: he followed the venerable priest, went to the prison, the old people's home, the poorhouse, asked a great many questions and, in spite of some extraordinary responses, did not allow himself the slightest indication of criticism. These visits lasted several hours. The priest invited Monsieur Appert to dine with him, but the gentleman from Paris pretended to have letters to write: besides, he did not want to compromise his generous companion-in-arms. About three o'clock the two men went to inspect the Pauper's Bureau, then returned to the prison. There, they found the jailer standing at the door, a tall, bow-legged giant of a man; fright had transformed his ugly face into something truly hideous. "Ah! Monsieur," he said to the priest, the moment he saw them, "this gentleman I see here with you, isn't he Monsieur Appert?" "And?" said the priest. "It's just that, as of yesterday, I have the most precise orders, sent by the chief of police and delivered by a gendarme who had to gallop all night, that Monsieur Appert mustn't be allowed into the prison." "Let me inform you, Monsieur Noiroud," said the priest, "that this traveler, here with me, is Monsieur Appert. Remember that I have the right to enter the prison at any hour, day or night, accompanied by whomever I choose." "Yes, Father," said the jailer, his voice low, bowing his head like a bulldog obliged to do as he is told, but reluctantly, for fear of the stick. "It's just, Father, I've got a wife and kids, and if anyone squeals on me I'll be a beggar. All I've got to live on is my job." "I'd be just as sorry to lose mine," said the good priest, his voice increasingly emotional. "But what a difference!" the jailer answered quickly. "You, Father, everyone knows you've got an income of eight hundred francs a year, good land under the warm sun..." These are the things that, for two days—gossiped about, exaggerated twenty different ways—stirred up malignant passions all over the little town of Verrières. Just now, they were serving as the text for a little discussion Monsieur de Rênal was having with his wife. That morning, accompanied by Monsieur Valenod, director of the Pauper's Bureau, he had gone to see the parish priest, bearing witness to the liveliest sort of dissatisfaction. No one was there to shield Father Chélan; he alone bore the weight of these gentlemen's remarks. "Well then, gentlemen! At eighty years of age, I'll become the third parish priest to be dismissed in this district. I've been here fifty-six years; I've baptized virtually everyone living in the town, which was no more than a farmers' market when I arrived. Day after day I marry all the young people, just as I've long since married their grandparents. Verrières is my family— but what I said to myself, seeing this stranger from Paris, was: 'Perhaps this man is in fact a liberal, we see all too many of them. But what harm can he do our poor folk and our prisoners?'" Monsieur de Rênal's harsh words, and especially those of Monsieur Valenod, as director of the Pauper's Bureau, grew more and more strident. "Well then, gentlemen, dismiss me," the old priest cried, his voice trembling. "I'm still going to live here. Everyone knows that, forty-eight years ago, I inherited land that brings in eight hundred francs. I will live on that. I don't put away anything from my salary, which may be why I'm never frightened when there's talk of taking it away from me." Monsieur de Rênal got on very well with his wife, but he had not known how to reply when she'd asked, timidly, "What harm can this gentleman from Paris do to the prisoners?" He was about to grow angry when, suddenly, she choked back a cry. Her second son had just climbed to the top of the wall around the terrace, and was running along it, although it soared
The Red and the Black
more than twenty feet above the vineyard on the other side. Fear of frightening her child, and causing him to tumble down, had kept her from calling out. Finally, laughing at his success, the boy looked over at his mother, saw how pale she was, and, jumping down to the walkway, ran over to her. He got a good scolding. This minor episode changed the whole course of their conversation. "I've really got to bring that Sorel into the house," said Monsieur de Rênal. "The sawmill operator's son. He'll keep an eye on the children: they're getting to be too much for you. He's a young priest, or very nearly, an expert Latinist, and he'll help the children make good progress, because Father Chélan tells me he's a solid sort. I'll give him three hundred francs and his board. "I had some doubts on the question of morality, because Sorel was the favorite of that old surgeon, the one who was a member of the Legion of Honor and who came to live with the Sorels, under the pretense that he was actually related to the family. The man might very well have been, after all, a secret agent for the liberals. He used to say that our mountain air was good for his asthma, but who knows if that was true or not? He was with Buonoparté15 on all his Italian campaigns, and once, I've heard, he even voted against the Empire.16 This liberal taught Latin to young Sorel, and left him all the books he'd brought with him. "Also, I would never have dreamed of having someone right out of a sawmill here in the house, around our children, but Father Chélan—actually, just the night before the quarrel that has estranged us forever—told me Sorel had been studying theology for three years, planning to enter the seminary, so he's no liberal: he's a Latinist. "This would be a sensible arrangement in more ways than one," Monsieur de Rênal continued, while watching his wife with a diplomatic air. "Valenod's terribly proud of that pair of Normands he just bought, for pulling his fancy carriage. But his children don't have a tutor." "He might very well steal ours." "So you like my plan?" said Monsieur de Rênal, thanking his wife, with a smile, for the excellent idea she'd just had. "All right, then. It's decided." "Ah, good Lord! My dear, how quickly you make up your mind!" "It's because, me, I know what I'm doing—and our parish priest has seen that. Let's be completely open about it: we're surrounded by liberals, here. All these calico dealers are jealous of me, I'm quite sure of it; two or three have gotten rich—well now! I'm going to be powerfully pleased when they see Monsieur de Rênal's children passing by, on their way to the walkway, accompanied by their tutor. That's going to make an impression. My grandfather always used to tell us how, in his youth, he had a tutor. This one will cost me a hundred gold crowns,17 but we must see this expense as something necessary to preserve our social standing." This sudden decision left Madame de Rênal distinctly pensive. She was a tall, well-made woman, who had been the local beauty, as people in these mountains put it. There was a distinct straightforwardness about her, and in the youthful spring of her walk: indeed, to the