13 Or ecus, 150 francs.
Chapter Ten: A Large Heart and a Small Fortune
Julien felt like laughing; he stood where he was, stunned. His anger had vanished. "I can't feel too much scorn for this beast," he told himself. "Surely, here's the most extravagant apology so vulgar a soul could possibly utter." The children, who had been listening to this scene, openmouthed, ran down to the garden to tell their mother that Monsieur Julien had really been angry, but he was going to get fifty francs a month. Strictly from habit, Julien followed after them, without a glance at Monsieur de Rênal; he left him deeply annoyed. "That's a hundred and sixty-eight francs," the mayor told himself, "Monsieur Valenod has cost me. I've really got to say a couple of strong words to him, about his contract for supplying the foundlings." The next minute, Julien came back into the room: "I've got to make my confession to Father Chélan: I have the honor to inform you that I will be away for several hours." "Eh, my dear Julien!" said Monsieur de Rênal, laughing terribly insincerely. "Take the whole day, if you like—the whole day tomorrow, my good friend. Take the gardener's horse, for traveling to Verrières." "Off he goes," Monsieur de Rênal said to himself, "to give Valenod his answer. He hasn't made me any promises, but it's better to let this young man's head cool down a bit." Julien escaped quickly, proceeding up the wide wood through which one went from Vergy to Verrières. He did not want to get to Father Chélan's house too early. Far from wanting to commit himself to a new hypocritical scene, he needed to be ready to see clearly into his soul, and to pay attention to the thronging feelings that were shaking it. "I've won a battle," he said to himself as soon as he was well into the wood, where no one could see him. "I've really won a battle!" These words nicely summed up his whole position, and gave his soul a modicum of peace and calm. "So now I've got a salary of fifty francs a month: Monsieur de Rênal must have really been afraid of something. But of what?" Thinking about what could have frightened this man, only an hour earlier so happily powerful in dealing with him that he fairly boiled with anger, helped clear Julien's soul. He became almost aware of the ravishing beauty of the wood through which he was walking. Some enormous chunks of bare rock had fallen down the mountainside, right into the middle of the forest. There were huge beeches, reaching almost to the height of these boulders, and their shade gave off a delightful freshness, barely three steps away from places where the sun's powerful rays would have made it impossible to pause. Julien caught his breath, for a moment, in the shadow of these great rocks, then set himself to climbing once more. Soon, following a narrow path, plainly almost never used except by goatherds, he found himself standing on a huge boulder: without any question, now, he was separated from all other men. To be in this position, physically, made him smile, for it was exactly where he so desperately yearned to be, morally. The pure air of these high mountains breathed serenity and even joy into his soul. In his eyes, the mayor of Verrières had always represented all the rich and insolent men on earth. But despite the violence he had displayed, he felt that the hate which had so recently stirred him was in no way personal. If he could stop seeing Monsieur de Rênal, in a week he would have forgotten him—him, his château, his dogs, his children, and all his family. "I forced him, God alone knows how, to make the greatest of all sacrifices. Hah: more than fifty gold crowns a year! And yet, just a moment before I pulled back from the most awful jeopardy. So: two victories in a single day;
The Red and the Black
there is no merit attached to the second one, which I still need to understand. Well, such a painful investigation can wait for tomorrow." Standing on his huge rock, Julien looked out at the sky, lit by an August sun. Crickets sang in the field below; when they were quiet, he was surrounded by absolute silence. He could look over twenty leagues of countryside. From time to time he saw sparrow hawks launch themselves from the rocks over his head, and watched their noiseless circling. His eyes followed the birds of prey, mechanically. The hawks' quiet, powerful movements impressed him; he envied their strength; he envied their utter isolation. That had been Napoleon's destiny. Would it be his, one day? Chapter Eleven: An Evening Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind, And tremulously gentle her small hand Withdrew itself from his, but left behind A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland And slight, so very slight that to the mind 'Twas but a doubt. BYRON, DON JUAN, CANTO 1, STANZA 71 Yet he had to show himself in Verrières. As he was leaving Father Chénal, it was Julien's good luck to meet Monsieur Valenod, to whom he quickly conveyed the good news of his increased salary. Returning to Vergy, he didn't go into the garden until darkness had settled down. His soul was weary, after all the powerful emotions he had been experiencing that day. "What will I say to them?" he thought uncomfortably, wondering about the two ladies. He had no idea that his soul functioned precisely at the level of petty events, which usually so preoccupy women. Often, Julien made no sense to Madame Derville, and even to her friend, and he himself understood no more than half of what they said to him. This was due to the power and, if I may speak in those terms, the grandeur that had been turning this young, ambitious man's soul upside down. For this strange creature, almost every day was a stormy season. Walking into the garden that evening, Julien was quite prepared to listen to the pretty cousins. They had been waiting impatiently for him. He took his usual place beside Madame de Rênal. The darkness had long since deepened. He'd wanted to take the white hand he'd been watching as it lay, near him, along the back of a chair. The hand had hesitated a bit, but in the end had been withdrawn, and in such a fashion that the lady's vexation had been demonstrated. Julien was willing to let it go, and to continue happily chatting, when he heard Monsieur de Rênal approaching. Julien could still hear, as if ringing in his ears, the vulgar words spoken to him that morning. "Now," he asked himself, "wouldn't it be a way of laughing in this creature's face, this man so stuffed with all the advantages of wealth, if I took possession of his wife's hand, precisely in his presence? Yes, I'll do it, I will, so he can see my scorn." And, at that very moment, the calm so unnatural to Julien was swept away: he desperately wanted—with such anxiety that he could think of nothing else—for Madame de Rênal to give him her hand. Monsieur de Rênal talked politics, and angrily: two or three Verrières industrialists, grown far richer than he, planned to oppose him in the next election. Madame Derville was listening. Julien, annoyed at this bland bluster, came nearer to Madame de Rênal's chair. Darkness hid his movements. He was bold enough to put his hand very near the pretty arm
Chapter Eleven: An Evening
that her dress left uncovered. He was so upset he hardly knew what he was doing: putting his cheek against the pretty arm, he ventured to set his lips against it. Madame de Rênal quivered. Her husband was four steps distant; hurriedly, she gave Julien her hand, and simultaneously pushed him away a little. As Monsieur de Rênal went on insulting worthless men, Jacobins who were enriching themselves, Julien covered the hand he was holding with passionate kisses—or, at least, kisses that seemed passionate to Madame de Rênal. But now the poor woman had the proof, that fatal evening, that the man she'd silently adored was in love with her! The whole time he'd been away, she'd been seized by a dreadful illness, which had forced her to ponder. "My God, I've been in love," she said to herself, "I've experienced love! Me, a married woman, in love! But," she told herself, "I've never felt this sort of melancholy madness for my husband; I can't stop thinking about Julien. After all, he's just a boy; what he feels for me is immense respect! This craziness will pass. What difference does it make to my husband that I can have these feelings for a young man? Monsieur de Rênal would be bored by my conversations with Julien, all about matters of the imagination. He's busy thinking about business. I'm not taking anything away from him and giving it to Julien." No hypocrisy intruded on the purity of this naïve soul, distracted by a passion it had never experienced. She was deceived, but all unawares, although a virtuous instinct took fright. These were the struggles still shaking her when Julien appeared in the garden. She heard his voice almost at the same moment she saw him sit down beside her. And her soul felt itself soaring, lifted by the bewitching happiness that, for two weeks, had seduced but had, even more, astonished her. For her, it was all unknown. However, a few moments later she asked herself: "Is Julien's presence enough to wipe away all his wrongdoing?" She was frightened; that was when he had taken her hand. His passionate kisses, the like of which she had never experienced, made her suddenly forget that perhaps he loved another woman. In her eyes, he was no longer guilty. Throbbing sadness, daughter of suspicion, died away, and a happiness, about which she had never so much as dreamed, brought her love's ecstasies and a wild gaiety. It was a charming evening for them all, except for His Honor the Mayor, who could not forget those industrialists, grown so terribly rich. Julien was no longer thinking of his black ambitions, nor of his painfully difficult plans. For the first time in his life, he was carried away by the power of beauty. Lost in a vague, sweet reverie utterly foreign to his nature, he was pressing the hand that seemed to him loveliness incarnate; he half heard the rustling of the lime leaves, stirred by a light night breeze, and the dogs of a mill along the Doubs, barking in the distance. But this was pleasure, not passion. When he got back to his room, he did not think only of his happiness: he picked up his favorite book. At age twenty, the sense of the great world and what could be achieved there was all that mattered. But soon he set down his book. In thinking about Napoleon's victories, he had discovered something new about his own. "Yes, I've won a battle," he said to himself. "But I must consolidate my gains, I must crush the pride of this proud gentleman while he is still retreating. This is unadulterated Napoleonism. I need to ask for a three-day leave so I can visit my friend Fouqué. If he says no, I'll demand his consent. But he'll agree." Madame de Rênal could not close her eyes. She felt as if, till that moment, she had never lived. She could not stop thinking about the happiness of feeling Julien cover her hand with burning kisses. Suddenly, a word frightened her: adulteress. She could see it. The worst things that the vilest debauchery could stamp on the notion of sensual love swarmed into her mind. These ideas were trying to stain the glow of the tender, divine image she had constructed, both of
The Red and the Black
Julien himself and the happiness of loving him. The future was painted in ghastly colors. She saw herself as contemptible. This was deeply frightening; her soul had penetrated unknown places. She had tasted, that evening, a brand-new happiness; now she found herself plunged, all of a sudden, into atrocious misery. She knew nothing of such suffering, which threatened to unhinge her mind. For a moment, she thought she would confess to her husband, tell him she was afraid of falling in love with Julien. At least, she would be talking about him. Luckily, she remembered a warning her aunt had given her the night before her marriage. It was about the dangers of confiding in a husband, who was after all a woman's master. Racked by pain, she wrung her hands. She was caught up, completely at random, by contradictory and miserable images. As much as she feared never being loved, the frightful idea of sin tortured her just as if, the next day, she were to be exposed on the public pillory, in the central square at Verrières, wearing a sign that identified her adultery for all who passed by. Madame de Rênal had no experience of life. Even in the full light of day, and with complete control of her faculties, she could not have seen any distinction between being guilty in God's eyes and being branded, in public, with the most burning general contempt. When the horrible idea of adultery—and of all the scorn that, as far as she was concerned, this sin brought in its wake—allowed her a few moments of rest, and she began to daydream of the sweetness of living innocently alongside Julien, as they had been doing, she found herself lurching into the equally horrible idea that he loved another woman. She could still see how pale he became, when he was afraid of losing that woman's portrait, or of compromising her by letting anyone see it. It was the first time Madame de Rênal had ever seen fear on that calm, that noble face. He had never shown such emotion for her or for her children. This new sorrow pushed her to the boundary of misery sustainable by the human soul. Without realizing it, she screamed so loudly that her chambermaid awoke. Suddenly, Madame de Rênal saw a light shining near her bed, and she recognized Elisa. "Is it you he loves?" she screamed in her madness. Overwhelmed by her mistress's frightful disorder, and her obviously troubled mind, the chambermaid, most fortunately, paid no attention to these strange words. Madame de Rênal became aware of her imprudence. "I have a fever," she said, "and I think I've been a bit delirious. Stay with me." Completely wakened by having to contradict her own words, she felt better: reason gave her back the self-control taken away in her half-waking sleep. To escape from the attentive, watching eyes of her chambermaid, she directed her to read the day's newspaper, and the girl did so, in a droning monotone, sounding out a long article from The Legitimist,14 while Madame de Rênal made up her mind, most virtuously, to treat Julien, when next she saw him, with absolute coldness. Chapter Twelve: A Journey In Paris one finds elegant people; in the provinces one can find people of character. —Sieyès15