26 Quintus Ennius (239–169B .C.), a Roman poet whose work survives largely through quotations in the works of other writers, such as Cicero.
Chapter Five: A Negotiation
This question embarrassed old Sorel, who felt that if he spoke about such matters he might say something rash: he grew fiercely angry at Julien, piling insult after insult on him, accusing him of being a glutton, and then ended by walking away to consult with his other sons. Julien saw them, before too long, leaning on their axes and conferring. After watching them for a long time, and realizing that he could not predict what would happen, he went and set himself on the far side of the saw, to keep from being surprised. He wished he were capable of thinking about this unexpected news, which was going to change his destiny, but he felt unable to think sensibly. His mind was entirely absorbed in trying to imagine what he would find inside Monsieur de Rênal's fine mansion. "I've got to get away from all this," he said to himself. "I'd sooner run off than be reduced to eating with the servants. My father will try to force me; I'd rather die. I've saved up more than fifteen francs, I'll escape tonight; in two days, using back roads where I won't have to worry about gendarmes, I'll be at Besançon, and there I'll sign up as a soldier, and if I have to I'll cross over into Switzerland. But that will be the end of getting ahead in the world: no more ambition for me, no more of that fine priestly status, which can lead to everything." The horror of eating with the servants was not something natural to Julien; to make his fortune he would have done other things equally unpalatable. He had learned his repugnance from Rousseau's Confessions,28 which was the only book that in any way helped him imagine the great world. That, plus a collection of Grand Army bulletins29 and Memories of Napoleon on Saint-Helena, completed his personal Koran. He would have died for these three books. He would never believe in any others. As the old surgeon-major had once said, he considered every other book in the world a pack of lies, written by swindlers trying to get ahead. Together with his fiery soul, Julien possessed one of those stunning memories so often linked to stupidity. To win over Chélan, the old parish priest, on whom he saw very clearly his future depended, he had learned by heart the entire New Testament in Latin; he also knew Monsieur de Maistre's On the Pope30—and had no more belief in the one than in the other. That day, as if by mutual agreement, Sorel and his son avoided speaking to each other. In the evening, Julien went to the parish priest for his theology lesson, but it seemed to him risky to say anything about the strange proposal made to his father. "Maybe it's a trap," he said to himself. "I'd better act as if I'd forgotten all about it." Early the next day, Monsieur de Rênal summoned old Sorel, who first kept the mayor waiting for an hour or two, then at last appeared, and as he came through the door made a hundred excuses, mixed with as many shows of respect. By pressing all sorts of objections, Sorel learned that his son would be eating with the master and mistress of the house; on days when they had company he would dine with the children, in a separate room. Always inclined to quibble, in exact proportion as he sensed His Honor the Mayor anxious to really move forward, and also bristling with defiance and genuine astonishment, Sorel asked to see the