10 Tobias George Smollett (1721–71), versatile English writer known for his satirical novels and a multivolume

"I plan to write to my father," Mathilde told him one day. "He's been more than merely a father to me; he's been a friend. How unworthy I would feel, both of you and of myself, if I tried to deceive him even for an instant." "My God!" said Julien, terrified. "What are you doing?" "My duty," she replied, her eyes shining with joy. She felt she was being nobler than her lover. "But he'll dismiss me, most disgracefully!" "That's his right: we need to respect it. I'll give you my arm and we'll leave by the front door, in full daylight." Stunned, Julien begged her to wait a week. "I can't," she answered. "Honor calls. I have seen my duty and I must observe it—and immediately." "Very well! I order you to wait," Julien finally said. "Your honor is protected: I'm your husband. This truly major step will change everything, for both of us. I too am within my rights. Today is Tuesday; next Tuesday will be the Duke de Retz's day to receive visitors.11 That evening, when Monsieur de La Mole returns, the porter will hand him the fatal letter...All he thinks about is making you a duchess: I know it. Think how miserable he'll be!" "Do you mean: think what vengeance he'll take?" "I am capable of commiserating with my benefactor, and being deeply sorrowful at hurting him. But I neither am, nor will I ever be, afraid of anyone." Mathilde yielded. This was the first time, since she had told him of her new state, that he had spoken to her authoritatively. He had never loved her so deeply. The tender part of his heart accepted her present condition, most happily, as good reason not to speak to her harshly. But her confession to Monsieur de La Mole made him exceedingly nervous. Would he be separated from Mathilde? And no matter what sadness his departure might cause her, would she still think of him, a month afterward? His dread was almost as severe as the thoroughly justified reproaches the marquis might direct at him. That evening, he confessed to Mathilde how concerned he was, on this second score— and then, swept on by love, he also admitted the first. She changed color. "Really?" she asked. "Six months away from me would be misery?" "Immensely—the only sorrow I can imagine that absolutely terrorizes me." Mathilde was happy. Julien had played his role so studiously that, by now, she'd come to believe her love greater than his. The fatal Tuesday came. At midnight, on his return, the marquis was given a letter that had been marked for him alone to open, and for him to read only when alone: MY FATHER, All merely social connections have been broken, as between us: all that remain are those created by Nature. After my husband, you are and always will be most dearest to me. My eyes fill with tears, I imagine the pain I cause you, but to keep my shame from becoming public I could no longer withhold the confession I owe you, so you will have the opportunity to think, and to act. If your affection for me, which I know is strong, leads you to grant me some small allowance, I will go and live wherever you like, perhaps in Switzerland, with my husband. His name is so little known that no one will recognize your daughter as Madame Sorel, daughter-