30 Joseph-Marie de Maistre (1753–1821) was a leading writer of the counterrevolutionary movement; his royalism was heavily influenced by his deeply mystical Catholicism. His 1819 book, Du Pape, was an argument in favor of papal infallibility.
The Red and the Black
room where his son would be sleeping. It was large, furnished most properly, but into which they were already moving beds for three children. This was like a flash of light to the old peasant: he immediately, and with great confidence, asked to see the clothing his son was to be given. Monsieur de Rênal opened his desk and took out a hundred francs. "With this, your son can go to Monsieur Durand, the tailor, and get a complete black suit." "And even if I took him away from you," said the peasant, suddenly forgetting his fawning and scraping, "he'd still keep his black suit?" "Of course." "Fine, fine," said Sorel languidly. "So there's only one thing left, to have everything arranged: how much you're going to pay him." "What!" cried Monsieur de Rênal indignantly. "We agreed on that yesterday. I'll pay him three hundred francs, which seems to me quite enough—and perhaps too much." "That was what you offered, I can't deny it," said old Sorel, speaking even more slowly— and then, with a stroke of genius that would astonish only those who do not know the peasants of Franche-Comté, he added, looking fixedly at Monsieur de Rênal: "We can do better elsewhere." At these words, the mayor's face registered immense shock. He recovered himself and, after a weighty conversation that lasted two full hours, in which not a single word was casually uttered, the peasant's shrewdness prevailed against that of the rich man, who did not need to be shrewd to make his living. All the many conditions and stipulations that would regulate Julien's new existence were settled, and not only was his salary set at four hundred francs a year, but it was to be paid in advance on the first day of each month. "Good!" said Monsieur de Rênal. "I'll give him thirty-five francs." "To round the sum off, for a man as rich and generous as Your Honor the Mayor," said the peasant coaxingly, "why not make it thirty-six francs?" "So be it," said Monsieur de Rênal, "but that's enough." The mayor suddenly sounded decisive. The peasant saw that no more could be gotten out of him. Then it was Monsieur de Rênal's turn to push ahead. He flatly refused to give the first month's thirty-six francs to old Sorel, who was anxious to have it on his son's behalf. Monsieur de Rênal realized, too, that he was going to have to inform his wife what he had agreed to. "Let me have back that hundred francs," he said pleasantly. "I have a certain credit on Monsieur Durand's books. I'll go with your son, to get the black suit." After this forceful gesture, Sorel prudently returned to his fawning formulas; this occupied a full quarter of an hour. Finally, seeing there was absolutely nothing more to be gained, he left. His last respectful declaration was completed by these words: "I'll send my son to the château." This was how those who served in the mayor's administration referred to his house, when they wanted to please him. When he got back to his factory, Sorel could not find his son. Worried about what might happen to him, Julien had gone off in the middle of the night. He wanted a safe place to leave his books and his Legion of Honor medal. So he had brought them to a young timber merchant, a friend named Fouqué, who lived up on the high mountain towering above Verrières. And when he came back:
Chapter Five: A Negotiation
"God knows, you cursed lazy dog," his father told him, "if you'll ever be honorable enough to pay me the price of your raising, all I've spent on you for so many years! Take your rags and go to the mayor's house." Amazed not to be beaten, Julien left as quickly as he could. But as soon as he was out of his terrible father's sight, he began to walk more slowly. He thought that making a stop at church would be important to his hypocrisy. The word surprises you? Before arriving at so horrible a conclusion, the young peasant's soul had traveled a long road. In his early childhood, he'd seen dragoons from the Sixth Cavalry, home from the war in Italy, with their long white cloaks, wearing helmets that dangled plumes of black horsehair, and watching them tie their horses to the window grille, at his father's house, made him desperate to be a soldier. Later, he listened in ecstasy as the old surgeon-major told him tales of the battles at Lodi bridge, at Arcoli, and at Rivoli.31 He was struck by the old man's passionate glances at his Legion of Honor medal. But when Julien was fourteen, they began to build a church at Verrières, and one that could be called magnificent in such a small town. There were four marble columns, the sight of which especially fascinated him; they became famous all over the region, for the mortal hatred they caused between the justice of the peace and the young vicar, considered a spy for the Congregation of the Holy Virgin.32 The justice of the peace was about to be dismissed—or so most people thought. Hadn't he dared to quarrel with a priest who, just about every second week, traveled to the regional capital, Besançon, and there reported (it was said) to His Grace the Bishop? In the meantime, the justice of the peace, father of a large family, was responsible for several punitive sentences that seemed unjust; all of them were against readers of the liberal newspaper, The Constitutional.33 Those who were on God's side had won. True, it was all about trifling sums, no more than three or five francs, but one of these petty fines had to be paid by a nail maker, Julien's godfather. In his anger, the man exclaimed, "What a changed man! And for more than twenty years we thought the justice of the peace was such a decent fellow!" By this point the surgeon-major, Julien's friend, was dead. All of a sudden, Julien stopped talking about Napoleon, declaring he would become a priest; in his father's sawmill he could be seen, day after day, memorizing a Latin Bible lent him by the old parish priest. That good man, amazed at the youngster's progress, spent whole evenings teaching him theology. In his presence, Julien expressed nothing but pious sentiments. Who could have imagined that this girlish face, sweet and pale, concealed an ineradicable determination to risk a thousand deaths rather than fail to make its fortune! For Julien, making his fortune meant, first of all, leaving Verrières: he hated his hometown. Everything he saw there chilled his imagination.