1 Charles de Valois (1573–1650).

"He'll be a Danton!" she added, after a long, vague reverie. "Well! So the Revolution starts up again. What roles will Croisenois and my brother be playing? It's been written out in advance: sublime resignation. They'll be heroic sheep, they'll let themselves be swallowed up without a word. Their only fear, as they die, will still be to do everything in good taste. My little Julien would blow out the brains of the Jacobin who comes to arrest him, no matter how small his hope of getting away. He's not afraid of being in bad taste, not him." This last observation made her thoughtful; it roused painful memories and wiped away all her boldness. It brought back the jests of Messieurs de Caylus, de Croisenois, de Luz, and her brother. These gentlemen had unanimously reproved Julien for his priestly airs: humble and hypocritical. "But," she suddenly responded, her eyes bright with happiness, "the bitterness and frequency of these jests proves that, despite themselves, he's the most distinguished man we've seen all winter. What do his faults matter, his absurdities? He has grandeur, and they're shocked by it, these young men so good and so forgiving in other respects. He's poor, yes, and he's studied to be a priest; they're squadron chiefs, and they don't need to study anything. It's all very easy, for them. "For all the drawbacks of his eternal black suit, and his priestlike expression—which he truly needs, the poor boy, to keep from dying of hunger—what makes them afraid is how fine he is. It couldn't be more obvious. And that priestly look, he doesn't have it anymore, once we've been alone together for even a moment. And when these gentlemen say something that seems to them subtle and unexpected, don't they immediately look toward Julien? I've often seen it. And still they know very well that he never speaks to them unless they ask him a question. He only speaks to me, he thinks I have a noble soul. When they object to something, he says only enough to be polite. Then he quickly turns respectful. But he talks to me for hours, and he doesn't insist when I have even a slight objection. And all winter long, there haven't been any duels: it's only by his words that he's been drawing attention to himself. And my father, a superior man who's doing wonderful things for the family fortune, he respects Julien. Everybody else hates him, but no one despises him, except my mother's pious friends." Count de Caylus had, or pretended to have, a great passion for horses; he spent his life in his stables, and often had his lunch there. This great passion, together with his habit of never laughing, made him highly regarded among his friends: he was the eagle of their little circle. The next day, when they met behind Madame de La Mole's easy chair, Julien not being present, Monsieur de Caylus, supported by de Croisenois and by Norbert, strongly criticized Mademoiselle de La Mole's high opinion of Julien, without any preliminaries, and virtually at the moment he saw her. She knew at once what he was up to, and found it delightful. "There they are, all banded together," she said to herself, "against a man of genius who doesn't have an income of thirty francs, and who can only answer them when they ask him a question. They're afraid of what's under that black suit. How would it be if he wore epaulettes?" Her wit had never shone so brightly. As her attack got under way, she showered de Caylus and his allies with sarcastic jests. When their witty counterfire had been thoroughly snuffed out: "If, tomorrow, some gentlemanly country bumpkin, in the Franche-Comté mountains, were to make it known that Julien is his natural child, and give him his name and some thousands of francs, in six weeks he'd have mustaches exactly like yours, gentlemen; in six months he'd be a cavalry officer, exactly like you, gentlemen. And then the grandeur of his character would no longer be subject to your ridicule. I can imagine you forced to retreat, Monsieur Duke-to-be, to this old and empty argument: the superiority of court nobility to