4 A port on the Mediterranean, west of Marseilles. Stendhal may have been thinking of the Cardinal de Retz, who had begun his career as Bishop of Adge. Retz (1613–79) is a notorious figure in French history. His libertinism and ambition are frankly discussed in his Mémoires, which recount his career, especially his participation in the Fronde, the aristocratic rebellion during the minority of Louis XIV (see note for p. 453, l. 3).
The Red and the Black
"It's not set too far back? That would look rather silly. But it won't do, either, to wear it down over the eyes, like a policeman's cap." "It looks exactly right, to me." "The King of ——— is accustomed to older priests, and surely more somber ones. I would not want—especially because of my age—to seem too frivolous." And the bishop set himself to walking, once more, and to the giving of benedictions. "It's obvious," Julien told himself, finally daring to face the fact. "He's practicing how to make the sign of the cross." A little later: "I'm ready," said the bishop. "Go, sir, and alert the dean and the gentlemen of the chapter." Soon Father Chélan, followed by two very old priests, entered the hall by way of a great, sculpted doorway that Julien had not noticed. But now he remained where his rank placed him, last of them all, unable to see the bishop except above the shoulders of all the priests crowding through the door. The bishop came slowly down the hall; when he reached the doorway, the priests fell into line. After a brief moment of disorder, the procession began, the marchers intoning a psalm. The bishop was at the rear, between Father Chélan and another exceedingly old priest. Down the long corridors of the Upper Bray church they went; in spite of the bright sunshine outside, they walked in dark and dampness. Finally they reached the portal leading into the cloister. Julien was thrilled by such a beautiful ceremony. The ambition quickened in him by the bishop's youth was at war, in his heart, with the delicacy and exquisite politeness of the young prelate. This politeness was utterly unlike that of Monsieur de Rênal, even at his very best. "The more you ascend toward the highest rungs of society," Julien said to himself, "the more charming become the manners you find." They entered the cloister through a side door. Suddenly a terrible noise shook the church's ancient vaults; Julien thought they might collapse. But it was the old cannon, once again. Pulled by eight galloping horses, it had just arrived, and, barely on the ground, had been quickly maneuvered into position by the cannoneers of Leipzig, who were firing five times a minute, just as if they were facing the Prussians. But this wonderfully worthy sound no longer had any effect on Julien; he was no longer dreaming of Napoleon or of military glory. "So young," he thought, "to be Bishop of Agde! But where is Agde? And how much does the job bring in? Maybe two or three hundred thousand francs." The bishop's servants appeared, with a splendid dais. Father Chélan grasped one of the supporting rods, but in fact it was Julien who did the carrying. The bishop seated himself. He had actually begun to look older: admiration for our heroes knows no bounds. "What couldn't be accomplished, with skills like that!" Julien thought. The king entered. Julien had the pleasure of seeing him up close. The bishop made an elegant, impressive speech, not forgetting a touch of exceedingly polite agitation, as a mark of respect for His Majesty. There is no need to go into the details of the ceremony at Upper Bray: for two weeks it filled the columns of every newspaper in the province. From the bishop's speech, Julien learned that the king was descended from Charles the Bold. One of Julien's subsequent duties was to audit the ceremony's accounts. Monsieur de La Mole, having secured a diocese for his nephew, also wanted, courteously, to pay the expenses. The ceremony at Upper Bray, all by itself, had cost three thousand eight hundred francs.
Chapter Eighteen: A King In Verrières
After the bishop's speech, and the king's response, His Majesty ascended the dais, after which he showed his deep devotion by kneeling on a pillow near the altar. The choir encircled the stalls, which were raised a good two steps above the floor. It was on the higher of these steps that Julien was seated, at the feet of Father Chélan, and alongside a train bearer, similarly posted at the feet of a cardinal from Rome's Sistine Chapel. There was a Te Deum, and waves of incense, and endless volleys of muskets and artillery; the peasants were drunk with happiness and piety. A day like this undid the work of a hundred issues of Jacobin newspapers. Julien was six paces away from the king, who in fact was praying fervently. Then he noticed, for the first time, a little man with a spiritual face, wearing virtually no ornaments. But there was a sky blue decoration underneath his very plain garments. Julien was closer to him than he was to most of the other lords, whose clothing was so heavily ornamented that— as Julien put it—the cloth itself could not be seen. This little man, as he soon learned, was Monsieur de La Mole. He struck Julien as proud and even arrogant. "This marquis can't be as polite as my nice bishop," he thought. "Ah! Being a cleric makes you sweet and wise. But the king is here to venerate the holy relic, and I don't see any relic. Where would they keep Saint Clemens?" A low-ranking priest, his neighbor, informed him that the venerable relic was housed high in the church, in a burning chapel. "What is a burning chapel?" Julien asked himself. But he did not want to seek an explanation. He redoubled his attention. When it was a sovereign ruler who paid a visit, protocol specified that canons not accompany the bishop. But as they started toward the burning chapel, the bishop summoned Father Chélan, and Julien boldly followed along. Having climbed a long staircase, they came to an exceedingly small door, but with a Gothic frame, magnificently gilded. The paint looked as if it had been applied just the night before. Assembled in front of the door, on their knees, were twenty-four young girls, from Verrières's most distinguished families. Before opening the door, the bishop knelt in the middle of these pretty girls. As he prayed in a firm voice, they seemed unable to help admiring his beautiful lacework, his graceful bearing, his young and very gentle face. Whatever remained of our hero's rationality left him, as he saw this spectacle. At that moment, he would have gone to war for the Inquisition, and with deep conviction. Suddenly, the door opened. The small chapel seemed to be covered in light. On the altar stood more than a thousand candles, divided into eight rows separated from one another by bouquets of flowers. The sweet smell of the purest incense swept through the doorway like a whirlwind. Newly gilded, the chapel was very small indeed, but wonderfully exalted. Julien noticed that some of the altar candles were more than fifteen feet high. The girls could not restrain a cry of admiration. The only ones allowed into the chapel's tiny vestibule were the twenty-four girls, the two priests, and Julien. Soon the king arrived, followed only by Monsieur de La Mole and his high steward. The guards stayed outside, on their knees, and presenting arms. The king knelt so hastily that his knees fairly thumped on the prayer stool. Only then was Julien, glued to the gilded door, able to make out, underneath one of the girls' bare arm, the charming figurine of Saint Clemens. He was lying on the altar, dressed as a young Roman soldier. There was a large wound in his neck, from which blood seemed actually to be flowing. The artist had surpassed himself: the dying eyes, brimming with grace, were half closed. A budding mustache decorated the delightful mouth, half shut but seeming still to be praying. Seeing the statue, a girl standing next to Julien wept hot tears, one of which fell on his hand.
The Red and the Black
After a moment of the most profoundly silent prayer, disrupted only by the distant sound of bells, from villages thirty miles around, the Bishop of Agde asked the king's permission to speak. He delivered a brief sermon, deeply moving for its plain language; the effect was obvious. "Never forget, young Christian ladies, that you've seen one of the greatest kings in the world down on his knees, here among the servants of God the All-Powerful and Awesome. These feeble servants, persecuted, murdered on earth, as you can see by the still-bleeding wound of Saint Clemens, have their triumph in heaven. Isn't this a sight, young ladies, you'll remember all the rest of your days? Hate the impious. Be forever faithful to this God—so great, so awesome, but so good." At these words the bishop rose, authoritatively. "Do you promise me that?" he said, holding out his arms as if inspired. "We promise," said the girls, weeping. "I receive your promise in the name of God Himself!" the bishop continued, in a voice of thunder. And the ceremony was over. Even the king was weeping. It was a long time before Julien had the nerve to ask where the saint's bones were, those bones sent from Rome to Philip the Good, Duke of Burgundy.5 He was told they were hidden in the charming wax figurine. His Majesty graciously permitted the young ladies who had accompanied him into the chapel to wear a red ribbon, inscribed Hate The Impious, Eternal Adoration. Monsieur de La Mole had ten thousand bottles of wine distributed among the peasants. That evening, in Verrières, the liberals had ten thousand times more reason to light up their houses than did the royalists. Before his departure, the king paid a visit to Monsieur de Moirod.