7 Opera by Domenico Cimarosa (see note for p. 341, l. 3); Stendhal's favorite opera.
The Red and the Black
Mathilde had talked her mother into coming, in spite of the unsuitability of the box that an amiable patron had been urged to offer them. She wanted to see if Julien would indeed spend the evening with Madame de Fervaques. Chapter Thirty-One: Make her afraid So there's your civilization's fine miracle! You've turned love into something ordinary. —Barnave Julien hurried off to Madame de La Mole's box. The first thing he saw was Mathilde's tear- filled eyes. She wept without restraint: the other people in the box were of no consequence, being only the woman who had lent them the box and some others the woman knew. Mathilde set her hand on Julien's; she had apparently lost all fear of her mother. Nearly suffocated by her tears, she said only one word to him: "Guarantees!" "At least, let me say nothing to her," Julien told himself, deeply moved, and hiding his eyes, as well as he could, behind his hand, as if to shield them from the glare of the chandelier, which, on the third level, shone directly into the box. "If I speak, she can't help but know how strongly I feel. The sound of my voice would betray me. And, once again, everything would be ruined." His struggles were more painful than they had been that morning; his heart had had time to be roused. He was afraid of seeing Mathilde's vanity awakened. Drunk with love and sensual ecstasy, he forced himself to say nothing. As far as I'm concerned, reader, this is one of the finest traits of his character. Anyone capable of compelling himself to make such an effort can go far— si fata sinat, if the fates grant it. Mademoiselle de La Mole insisted on taking Julien back with them. Luckily, it was raining hard. But the marquise put him across from her, spoke to him without stopping, and made sure he could not say a word to her daughter. It might have seemed she was showing concern for Julien's happiness, but no longer fearful he would ruin everything by showing how deeply he'd been moved, he readily surrendered himself. Do I dare say that, returning to his room, Julien threw himself on his knees and covered Prince Korasoff's gift of love letters with kisses? "Oh, great man! How could I have doubted you?" he silently exclaimed, in his madness. Gradually, his calm came back. He compared himself to a general who had just half won a great battle. "My advantage is clear, it's immense," he said to himself. "But what will happen tomorrow? One moment can destroy everything." With a passionate gesture, he opened Montholon's Memories of Napoleon on Saint- Helena,8 and for two long hours forced himself to read: only his eyes were really reading, but that made no difference, he kept them at it. All during this strange sort of reading, both his head and his heart, climbing as high as they could go, worked without his being at all aware. "This woman's heart is certainly different from Madame de Rênal's," he said to himself, but he let his mind go no further. "Make her afraid!" he suddenly cried, tossing his book away. "The enemy will obey me only if I make him afraid. And then there'll be no more contempt shown me." He paced up and down his little room, drunk with joy. Truthfully, there was more pride in this happiness than there was love.