22 Civil wars brought about by the power vaccuum of the minority of Louis XIV, from 1648 to 1653. Resentment against the late Cardinal de Richelieu and his political heir, Mazarin, spurred a quest for power among the great nobles and the parlements. In an era filled with larger-than-life figures, the Duchesses de Chevreuse and de Longueville stood out. The former (1600–79) was a lifelong plotter and political schemer, and was an ally of the Cardinal de Retz (see note for p. 101, l. 11), who was also her unmarried daughter's acknowledged lover. The Duchesse de Longueville (1619–79) was a Princess of the Blood Royal, cousin of Louis XIV, and one of the most beautiful women of the age. She brought her lover, the Duke de La Rochefoucauld—future author of the Maximes —into the party of her brother, the Grand Condé (see note for p. 38, l. 33), and had many picaresque adventures of her own in the course of the war. The word Fronde means slingshot, given to this conflict by contemporaries because of its opera bouffe qualities, but they inflicted five years of civil war on France.
The Red and the Black
Chapter Forty: Tranquillity It's because I was foolish, then, that I'm wise today. Oh you philosopher, seeing nothing but the things of this moment, how shortsighted you are! Your eye was not made for tracing the subterranean labor of the passions. —Madame Goethe23 Their time together was interrupted by an interrogatory, followed by a conference with the lawyer responsible for Julien's defense. These were the only truly unpleasant moments in a life without cares, filled with tender daydreams. "It was murder, and premeditated," Julien said to the judge as well as to the lawyer. "I'm sorry, gentlemen," he added, smiling, "but this reduces your job to a very small affair." "After all," Julien said to himself, when he had freed himself from both of them, "I have to be brave—and apparently braver than either of these two. They take as the height of all misfortune, as the king of all terrors, this duel that has an unfortunate ending, and I will only take it seriously when the day arrives. "It's because I've known greater misery," Julien continued, philosophizing with himself. "I was suffering far more, on my first trip to Strasbourg, when I thought I'd been abandoned by Mathilde...And how I longed, with such passion, for that perfect intimacy which, today, leaves me so cold! ... In fact, I am happier alone than when this wonderfully beautiful girl shares my solitude..." The defense lawyer, a man of rules and formalities, thought Julien was crazy; like the public at large, he thought it was jealousy that had made him pick up his pistols. He tried, one day, to make Julien understand that such a plea, whether true or false, would serve him very well in the trial. But the accused was instantly transformed back into a fiery and mordant creature. "On your life, sir," cried Julien, beside himself, "be careful, never utter that abominable lie again!" The cautious lawyer was afraid, for just a moment, that he might be killed, too. He polished his address to the court, because the decisive time was fast approaching. Besançon and the entire region talked about nothing but this celebrated case. Julien paid no attention: he had requested that things of this sort never be mentioned to him. That day, Fouqué and Mathilde wanted to tell him about some much-discussed rumors, quite likely, according to them, to raise his hopes. Julien had stopped them at the first word. "Let me live my imaginary life. Your petty concerns, your details of real existence, all of them more or less irritating to me, pull me away from heaven. Each of us has to die as best we can: me, I prefer to think about death exclusively in my own way. What do other people mean to me? My relationships to other people are going to be abruptly cut off. Please, don't talk to me anymore about such people. It's more than enough, having to see the judge and the lawyer." "Indeed," he said to himself, "it seems my destiny is to die dreaming. An unknown, like me, certain of being forgotten in less than two weeks, would be a real fool, wouldn't he, if he tried being dramatic... "How strange, all the same, that I never learned the art of enjoying life until I could see its end closing in on me." He spent these final days walking on the narrow terrace, at the very top of the tower, smoking some first-rate cigars Mathilde had brought for him, by courier, from Holland; more