28 A soldier (1775–1827) of the Revolution who became one of the leading orators of the liberal opposition under the Restoration.
Chapter Forty-Three
And when Mathilde at last left, together with the lawyer, he felt a good deal friendlier to him than to her. Chapter Forty-Three An hour later, as he was sleeping deeply, he was awakened by tears falling on his hand. "Ah! It's Mathilde again," he thought, only half awake. "She's come, faithful to her theory, attacking my decision with tenderness." Bored by the prospect of yet another scene of the pathetic variety, he did not open his eyes. La Fontaine's lines about Belphégor29 fleeing from his wife came into his mind. He heard an odd sigh, and opened his eyes. It was Madame de Rênal. "Ah! I'm seeing you before I die. Is this an illusion?" he cried, throwing himself at her feet. "But excuse me, madame. To you, I'm only a murderer," he said quickly, getting control of himself. "Sir, I come to beg that you appeal. I know you do not wish to—" Her sobs choked her; she could not speak. "Can you forgive me?" "If you want me to forgive you," she said, rising and throwing herself into his arms, "appeal the death sentence—at once." Julien covered her with kisses. "Will you come and see me every day, for the next two months?" "I swear it. Every day, unless my husband forbids it." "I'll sign!" Julien cried. "Really? You forgive me? Is it possible!" He held her tightly; he was wild with joy. She gave a faint cry. "It's nothing," she said. "You hurt me." "Your shoulder!" exclaimed Julien, bursting into tears. He stepped back a bit, covering her hand with burning kisses. "Who could have told me all this, the last time I saw you, in your room, in Verrières?" "Who could have told me, then, I'd write Monsieur de La Mole that scandalous letter?" "Believe me, I've always loved you, I've never loved anyone else." "Is that really true?" cried Madame de Rênal, equally overjoyed. She leaned against Julien, who was on his knees, and for a long time they wept in silence. Julien had never known anything like it, never in all his life. Much later, when they could speak: "And that young Madame Michelet," said Madame de Rênal. "Or, rather, Mademoiselle de La Mole, because I'm beginning to believe this strange story." "It's only true on the surface," Julien replied. "She's my wife, but she's not my beloved..." And interrupting each other, a hundred times over, they each managed, though with difficulty, to tell the other what had not been known. The letter sent to Monsieur de La Mole had been composed by the young priest, now her confessor, and she had copied it out. —"The horror that religion has made me commit!" she told him. "But, still, I toned down the most ghastly parts of that letter..." Julien's ecstasy, and his happiness, proved to her how completely she had been forgiven. He had never been so wildly in love. "Still, I consider myself pious," Madame de Rênal told him, as they were talking. "I believe most sincerely in God, and I believe, just as fervently, that the sin I'm committing is frightful—