17 The jealous false friend of Othello, who persuades him of the innocent Desdemona's betrayal. Julien implies that he is using sincerely the words Iago used to stoke the Moor's suspicions.
Chapter Thirty-Six: Somber Details
J.S. Only after having sent this letter, and for the first time, was Julien, now a bit more himself, very miserable. All the expectations and hopes of ambition had to be yanked out of his heart, one after the other, by those immense words: I am going to die. Death did not seem to him, in and of itself, horrible. His whole life had been nothing but a long prelude to misery, nor did he have to worry that he might forget what commonly passed as the greatest event of all. "Well then!" he told himself. "Suppose in sixty days I had to fight a duel against a truly magnificent swordsman, would I be so weak-minded that I'd never think of anything else, terror-stricken at heart?" He spent more than an hour trying to learn where he stood on this matter. When he could see clearly into his soul, and the truth was as plain as the prison's stone pillars, which he saw very clearly indeed, he turned to thoughts of remorse! "Why should I be remorseful? I was atrociously offended against. I killed, I deserve death, but that's all there is to it. I die, having first settled my accounts with humankind. I'm leaving no obligations unsatisfied, I owe no one anything: the only shameful aspect of my death is the instrument which will cause it. That alone, of course, will do more than nicely for the Verrières bourgeoisie, but from an intellectual perspective what could be more contemptible! In their eyes, all I have left is a single road to importance—and that would be to scatter pieces of gold among the crowd, as I go to the gallows. Thus joined to the idea of gold, my memory would be, for them, a truly resplendent thing." A minute after this internal discussion, which seemed to him quite obvious: "I have nothing more to do on this earth," Julien told himself, and fell deeply asleep. Toward nine, that night, the jailor woke him, bringing in his supper. "What's being said, in Verrières?" "Monsieur Julien, the oath I took in front of the holy cross, right in the king's courtroom the day I was installed in my place here, forces me to remain silent." He was silent, but he did not leave. This coarse hypocrisy amused Julien. "I have to keep him waiting a long time," he thought, "for the five francs he wants, so he can sell me his conscience." The jailer saw the meal concluded without any attempt at bribery: "My regard for you, Monsieur Julien," he said, smoothly hypocritical, "compels me to speak, even if they say it's not in the interests of justice, because maybe it would let you better settle your defense... Monsieur Julien, who's a good fellow, will be very glad to hear Madame de Rênal's getting better." "What! She's not dead?" cried Julien, beside himself. "Ah, you didn't know that?" said the jailer stupidly; in another moment he had turned happily greedy. "It would only be fair if Monsieur Julien felt like giving something to the surgeon, who according to law and justice should never say anything. But just to please you, sir, I went to see him, and he let me know everything, strictly in confidence..." "You mean, the wound wasn't fatal?" Julien said impatiently. "You'd stake your life on that?" The jailer, a giant of a man, was afraid, and backed toward the door. Julien saw he'd taken the wrong road to get at the truth; calming himself, he threw a five-franc gold piece to Monsieur Noiroud. As the jailer's account began to convince Julien that Madame de Rênal's wound had not been fatal, he felt himself overwhelmed by tears. "Get out," he said sharply.
The Red and the Black
The jailer left. The door had barely closed behind him: "Good God! She's not dead!" Julien exclaimed. And he fell to his knees, weeping hot tears. At that supreme moment, he was a true believer. "What difference does priestly hypocrisy make! Are they capable of depriving the idea of God of its truth and sublimity?" Only then did Julien begin to repent the crime he'd committed. Purely by coincidence, he escaped from despair: beginning at that very moment, he no longer felt physically inflamed and half mad, the state into which he had been plunged after his departure from Paris. His tears had sprung from a noble source; he had not the slightest doubt about the sentence awaiting him. "So she'll live!" he was saying to himself..."She'll live, so she can forgive me, and so she can love me..." The jailer woke him, late the next morning: "You've got to have a first-rate heart, Monsieur Julien," he said. "I've been here twice, and I didn't want to wake you up. Here's two bottles of good wine, that our good parish priest, Father Maslon, sends you..." "Really? That rascal's still here?" said Julien. "Yes, sir," answered the jailer, lowering his voice. "But don't speak so loud. It might not be good for you." Julien had a good laugh. "From where I'm standing, my friend, you're the only one who could hurt me, if you stopped being gentle and humane...You'll be well paid," Julien said, breaking off and resuming his imperious air. And he justified himself, immediately thereafter, by a golden gift. Monsieur Noiroud told him, once again, and in much greater detail, everything he had learned about Madame de Rênal, but he never said a word about Mademoiselle Elisa's visit. The man was as deferential and tame as he could possibly be. An idea came into Julien's head: "This deformed giant earns, at most, three or four hundred francs a year, because this jail's not a very busy place. I could guarantee him ten thousand, if he were willing to save himself, and me, by going to Switzerland. ...The problem would be convincing him I really meant it." The thought of the long discussion he'd have to endure, with such a vile creature, disgusted Julien. He turned his mind to other things. There was no more time for such diversions, after that night. At midnight, a mail coach arrived to take him away. He was very pleased with the policemen who made the trip with him. In the morning, when he arrived at the Besançon prison, they were kind enough to lodge him on the upper floor of a Gothic tower. He estimated the date of construction to be early fourteenth century; he admired the tower's grace, and the striking lightness of its design. Through a narrow space between two walls, on the far side of a great courtyard, he had a glimpse of the superb view. He was interrogated the next day, after which, for several days, he was left in peace. His soul was calm. All he could see in the whole affair was perfectly simple: "I wanted to kill; I ought to be killed." There was no point to even thinking about it, beyond this. The trial, the boredom of having to appear in public, his defense—all of those things seemed to him trivial embarrassments, boring ceremonies he need not think about, until the day came. The moment of his death hardly concerned him any more than these matters: "I'll think about it after the trial's over." He did not find life boring: he found himself considering things from a new perspective. He had no more ambition. He seldom thought of Mademoiselle de La Mole. Remorse preoccupied him, and often presented him with the image of Madame de Rênal,
Chapter Thirty-Seven: the Tower
especially during the nighttime silence, only disturbed, in his high tower, by the shrieking of an osprey. He thanked heaven he had not fatally wounded her. "Astonishing!" he said to himself. "I felt that her letter to Monsieur de La Mole had destroyed, and forever, all my future happiness, and now, less than fifteen days after the date of that letter, I no longer think of what was then filling my mind... An income of two or three thousand francs, to live peacefully up in the mountains, some place like Vergy...I was happy, then...I didn't realize how happy I was!" Other times, he leaped up from his chair. "If I had fatally wounded Madame de Rênal, I would have committed suicide...I need to know that without a doubt, so I'm not horrified by myself. "Kill myself! That's the really big question," he told himself. "These terribly formalist judges, so relentless toward the poor accused, who'd have the worthiest of citizens strung up on a rope so they could earn themselves a medal...I'd take myself out of their control, to the insults they frame in their awful French, which the regional newspapers will call eloquence... "Anyway, I like being alive. This vacation resort is peaceful. There aren't any boring people in here," he added, laughing, and began noting the books he'd like sent on to him, from Paris. Chapter Thirty-Seven: the Tower A friend's tomb. —Sterne18 He heard a loud noise in the corridor. It wasn't the right time for people to be visiting the prison. The osprey flew off, screaming, the door opened, and old Father Chélan, trembling all over, walking cane in hand, flung himself into his arms. "Ah, Lord in heaven! Is it possible. My child...You monster, I really ought to say." And the good old man could not manage another word. Julien was afraid he'd collapse. He had to lead him to a chair. Time's hand lay heavily on this man, once so energetic. He seemed to Julien no more than a shadow of himself. When the old man could breathe again: "I got your letter, from Strasbourg, just the day before yesterday, and the five hundred francs for the poor in Verrières. They've taken me up to the mountains, where my nephew Jean lives, and I'm staying up there. Yesterday I heard about the catastrophe...Oh heaven! Is it possible?" And he was not crying anymore; he seemed blank, and went on, mechanically: "You'll need your five hundred francs. Here." "What I need is seeing you, my Father!" exclaimed Julien, deeply moved. "I've still got money." But there was no coherent response. Now and then Father Chélan dropped a few tears, which crawled slowly down his cheeks; then the old man looked at Julien, and seemed astonished to see his hands clasped in Julien's, and lifted to Julien's lips. His once-lively face, which had portrayed so many noble feelings, and with such vivid energy, remained apathetic. A peasantlike man came looking for him. "We mustn't let him get too tired," he told Julien, who realized this was the nephew. This ghostly visit left Julien profoundly upset; he wept. Everything struck him as gloomy and comfortless; he felt his heart frozen in his breast.
18
The Red and the Black
This was the hardest moment he'd experienced since his crime. He had just seen death, in all its ugliness. All his illusions of soulful heights and nobility of feeling were blown away, like clouds in a wind. This horrible situation lasted for several hours. After having been morally poisoned, he needed physical remedies, and some good wine. Julien felt it was cowardly to fall back on such measures. Toward the end of this ghastly day, spent walking up and down his narrow tower: "What a fool I am!" he cried. "If I were to die as other people do, then seeing this poor old man ought to throw me into this frightful misery. But to die quickly, and in the flower of my life, is exactly what preserves me from this sad decrepitude." But whatever arguments he set forth, Julien felt himself full of pity, like some chicken- livered fellow, and so was made miserable by the visit. There was nothing rough and grandiose left in him, nothing of high Roman stoicism. Death seemed to be descending on him from some immense height, and was no longer so easily faced. "This will be my thermometer," he told himself. "Tonight I'm ten degrees below the courage that can carry me to the guillotine. This morning, I had that courage. Nothing else matters, except lifting myself back, when I need to be there!" He found this metaphoric thermometer an amusing notion, and was at last able to turn his thoughts elsewhere. When he woke, the next day, he felt shamed by what had taken place the day before. "My happiness, my peace of mind, are threatened." He was almost resolved to write to the prosecutor and ask that nobody at all be permitted to visit. "And Fouqué?" he thought. "If he decides to come to Besançon, how painful that would be!" It was two months, probably, since he'd thought of Fouqué. "I was a stupendous idiot, at Strasbourg: my mind stopped when it got to the collar on my coat." He lingered over his memories of Fouqué, which left him feeling more tender. He walked nervously up and down. "By now I'm definitely twenty degrees below my death-level...If this weakness gets worse, it would be better to kill myself. What pleasure I'd give the likes of Father Maslon and Monsieur de Valenod if I die like a slob!" Fouqué came. This simple, good man was frantic with grief. His only idea—if he had an idea—was to sell everything he owned, to bribe the jailer and save Julien. He spoke at length about Count de Lavalette's19 escape from the guillotine, in 1815. "You're upsetting me," Julien told him. "Monsieur de Lavalette was innocent, and me, I'm guilty. You don't mean to, but you're making me think about the difference... "But really?" he continued. "Really? You'd sell everything?" Suddenly, Julien was once again watchful, suspicious. Thrilled to see his friend responding to his great idea, Fouqué went into immense detail, down to the last hundred francs, of what he could get for each bit of property. "What a sublime effort for a country landowner!" Julien thought. "What scraping and saving, what petty scrimping—which used to make me blush when I'd see him do it—he'd sacrifice for me! One of those handsome young fellows I saw at the de La Moles, wallowing in René,20 wouldn't do all the ridiculous things that Fouqué does. But except for the terribly young ones who came into all their money by inheriting it, and have no idea what money is worth, which of those young Parisians would be capable of such a sacrifice?"