17 Suggests the César Vichard, Abbé de Saint-Réal (1639–92), historian, novelist, and diplomat. He was

17 Suggests the César Vichard, Abbé de Saint-Réal (1639–92), historian, novelist, and diplomat. He was criticized for novelizing history; one of his novels, The Spanish Conspiracy Against Venice, was in fact long believed to be a work of history. The statement given is not found in his writings.

Chapter Thirteen: Fishnet Stockings

still, he called wealth. He was by no means possessed of a fully elaborated philosophy, but he had enough insight to feel himself different, after his short trip up the mountain. He was struck by the signs of deep disturbance, as Madame de Rênal listened to the brief recital of his journey, an account she had requested of him. Fouqué had had marriage plans, he had had unfortunate love affairs; long, intimate confidences on this subject had filled the two friends' conversation. After finding happiness far too soon, Fouqué had become aware that he was not his lover's only love. All these stories had astonished Julien: he learned a good many new things. His solitary existence, all his fancies and defiant mistrust, had kept him shut away from everything that might have illuminated him. While he'd been away, Madame de Rênal's life had been nothing but a string of ever- changing tortures, all of them unbearable; she had been truly ill. "Above all," Madame Derville told her, when she saw Julien returning, "sick as you are, you must not go down to the garden tonight. The dampness will make your illness a great deal worse." Madame Derville had seen with great surprise that her friend, always criticized by Monsieur de Rênal for the plainness with which she dressed, had begun to wear fishnet stockings and delightful little shoes, fresh from Paris. For the last three days, Madame de Rênal's only amusement had been to cut out and have sewn by Elisa, in great haste, a summer dress made from a pretty little fabric, eminently fashionable. The dress had been finished only moments after Julien's return; Madame de Rênal immediately put it on. There was no more reason for her friend to wonder. "She's in love, the poor thing!" Madame Derville said to herself. She understood, now, all the peculiar symptoms of her friend's illness. She saw her speaking to Julien. Madame de Rênal's surging color gave way to pallor. Her eyes, fixed on those of the young tutor, clearly showed anxiety. She expected that, at any moment, he was going to declare himself and announce whether he was leaving the house or staying. Julien had no interest in saying anything on this subject, which had not crossed his mind. After frightful struggles, Madame de Rênal at last had the courage to say, in a trembling voice in which all her passion could be heard: "Will you be leaving your students, for a place somewhere else?" Julien was struck by Madame de Rênal's shaky voice, and by the look in her eyes. "This woman loves me," he told himself. "But after this transitory weakness, of which her pride disapproves, once she's no longer afraid of my leaving, she'll go back to being proud and haughty." This insight into their respective positions was, for Julien, as quick as lightning. He answered, hesitantly: "I would be sorry to leave such pleasant children, so well born, but it may be necessary. There is also the duty one owes oneself." Speaking the words so well born (one of the aristocratic phrases Julien had recently acquired), he conveyed a sense of deep resentment. "In this woman's eyes, of course," he told himself, "I'm simply not well born." As she stood listening to him, Madame de Rênal was admiring his mind, his beauty; her heart was pierced through by the possibility of his leaving, which he had conjured up for her to see. All their Verrières friends who'd come to dinner, while Julien was away, had complimented her, enviously, on the amazing man her husband had been fortunate enough to dig up. It was not that they hadn't understood the children's progress. Knowing the Bible by heart, and in Latin, had struck the inhabitants of Verrières with such wonder that it might well last for a century. Julien, who spoke to no one, had no knowledge of all this. Had Madame de Rênal retained even a bit of composure, she would have complimented him on the reputation he had won,

The Red and the Black

which would have comforted his pride and made him mild and friendly to her—even more so, because the new dress was wonderfully becoming. Madame de Rênal, who was also pleased by her pretty dress, and what Julien had said to her about it, wanted to walk about in the garden, but soon had to admit she was in no condition to continue. She had taken the traveler's arm and, far from strengthening her, the feeling of her arm touching his had completely drained her. It was night. They'd just seated themselves when Julien, exercising his former privilege, was bold enough to set his lips on his pretty neighbor's arm and take her hand. He thought of Fouqué's daring and how well it had worked with his mistresses; he did not think of Madame de Rênal. The words well born still weighed heavily on his heart. He was supposed to squeeze her hand; it gave him not the slightest pleasure. Rather than feeling proud, or at least recognizing the signs of her emotion, betrayed that night by perfectly obvious signs, neither her beauty, her elegance, nor her freshness made much impression on him. Her soul's innocence, and the fact that she had never experienced hatred, had surely helped prolong her youthfulness. It is in the face that age first shows itself, in most women. Julien was sullen and moody all night. He had only been angry, before, at fate and at society; now that Fouqué had offered him a vulgar way of achieving comfort, he was out of sorts with himself. Totally wrapped in his own thoughts, though from time to time he addressed a few words to the ladies, Julien ended by letting go of Madame de Rênal's hand, not even knowing he'd done so. This shook the poor woman's soul; it seemed to her a demonstration of her fate. Had she been sure of Julien's affection, perhaps her virtue could have summoned the strength to resist him. Shaking from fear of losing him, her passion came to the point of reaching for his hand, which in his self-absorption he had left lying along the back of a chair, and taking it in hers. This revived his youthful ambition. He would have preferred that what she had done be witnessed by all those terribly proud, noble folk who, with patronizing smiles, had looked down at him, seated with her children at the foot of her husband's table. "This woman can't really despise me, not now. In that case," he said to himself, "I ought to be impressed by her beauty. I owe it to myself to be her lover." Such a thought would never have occurred to him, before his friend's ingenuous confidences. The sudden decision he'd just taken provided a pleasant distraction. He said to himself: "I have to have one of these two women." It would be distinctly nicer, he noted, paying court to Madame Derville, not because she would be more enjoyable, but because what she had seen was a tutor honored for his learning—not simply a workman, a carpenter, carrying a ratteen jacket under his arm, as Madame de Rênal had first seen him. And it was indeed precisely as a young workman, blushing to the whites of his eyes, standing at the front door of the house and not daring to pull on the knocker, that Madame de Rênal fancied he was at his most charming. Continuing this review of his situation, Julien realized that he could not dream of a conquest of Madame Derville, who was more than likely aware of the fondness Madame de Rênal had shown for him. Obliged to return to the latter of the two women, he asked himself: "What do I know about this woman's nature? Just this: Before my trip, I took her hand; she withdrew it. Today, I withdraw my hand, and she grasps it and squeezes it. What a wonderful opportunity to repay her for all the contempt she's shown me. God only knows how many lovers she's had! Perhaps she picked me only because it's so easy to meet." This, alas! is the curse of overcivilization! At age twenty, a young man's soul, given some degree of education, is a million miles from spontaneity, without which love is often the most boring of responsibilities.

Chapter Fourteen: English Scissors