1 A Jansenist, used here as a sort of generic epithet, refers to the seventeenth-century Catholic sect known for their austere and strict devotion, as illustrated by Father Pirard. Similar to the Calvinists, believing like them in predestination and the need for divine grace, they were strictly Catholic in their belief in the papal hierarchy, relics, miracles, etc. The Jansenists were great enemies of the more political and indulgent Jesuits, and Stendhal plays on that historical rivalry in The Red and the Black.
Chapter Eighteen: A King In Verrières
honor was set in motion. The glittering uniforms were admired; everyone recognized a parent, a friend. Monsieur de Moirod's fear was laughed at: he rode with his wary hand ready, at any moment, to clutch at his saddlebow. But one sighting made everyone forget all the others: the lead horseman in the ninth rank was a very handsome young fellow, very slender, and at first totally unrecognized. Soon a cry of indignation from some quarters, and silent astonishment from others, proclaimed universal astonishment. The horseman, mounted on one of Monsieur Valenod's Normand steeds, was perceived to be young Sorel, the carpenter's son. With a single voice, all of them, and especially the liberals, cried out against the mayor. Just because this little workman, disguised as an ecclesiastic, tutored his brats, he'd had the audacity to include him in the guard of honor, to the prejudice of so-and-so and so-and-so, wealthy industrialists! These gentlemen, declared a lady banker, really ought to publicly snub this impudent little meddler, who'd been born on a dung heap. "He's a sneaky sort, and he's wearing a sword," said a man nearby. "He's vicious enough to slash them across the face." The aristocracy's remarks were deadlier. The ladies wondered if it had been the mayor all by himself who'd perpetrated this gross impropriety. Most of them knew the mayor's contempt for those of low birth. While he was the subject of so much chatter, Julien was the happiest of men. Naturally bold, he handled himself better on horseback than did most of the young men of this mountain town. He could tell from the women's eyes that they were talking about him. His silver shoulder-pieces shone more brightly, since they were new. His horse kept rearing and bucking; he was overflowing with joy. But his happiness knew no bounds when, as they passed beneath the walls of the old fort, the sound of the little cannon made his horse jump out of line. By great good luck, he did not fall, and from that moment he felt himself a hero. He was an artillery officer in Napoleon's army, he was charging at an enemy battery. There was one person still happier. She had first seen him as he passed the town hall's casement windows. Then, riding in a light carriage, and quickly making a large detour, she arrived just in time to shudder as his horse drove out of the line. Finally, her carriage dashing at full gallop, heading out one of the other town gates, she managed to reappear at the spot where the king was to pass, and proceeded on just behind the slowly advancing lines, no more then twenty paces distant, in the middle of all the noble dust. Ten thousand peasants shouted when the mayor had the honor of speechifying for His Majesty: "Long live the king!" Another hour afterward, when all the speeches had been listened out to the very last word, the king actually entered the town and the little cannon began to fire like mad. Alas, then came an accident—not to the cannoneers, who had proven their worth at Leipzig and Montmirail,2 but to the future first deputy, Monsieur de Moirod. His horse threw him off, and he landed, gently, right in the only pool of mud along the whole route, which was scandalous, because he had to be hauled out of there before the king's carriage went by. His Majesty descended in front of the beautiful new church, which that day was decked out with its crimson banners. The king then had to eat his dinner, and immediately thereafter get back into his carriage so he could venerate the relic of Saint Clemens. The king had barely reached the church when Julien came galloping toward Monsieur de Rênal's house. There, with regret, he took off his lovely sky blue outfit, his sword, and his silver shoulder-pieces, in order to reassume his usual shabby black garments. Climbing back onto the horse, he was