3 The fool or clown Pulcinella was a stock character in European theatre, opera, etc.

3 The fool or clown Pulcinella was a stock character in European theatre, opera, etc.

Carlino's director, perhaps his divine voice might not have been known and admired for another ten years. Really, I'd much rather be a Géronimo than a de Rênal. The singer's not so honored in Italian society, but he doesn't have to experience the misery of auctions, like the one earlier today, and his life is merry." One thing surprised Julien: the solitary weeks in Verrières, at Monsieur de Rênal's house, had been a period of happiness. He'd encountered disgust and distressing thoughts only at the dinners they gave for him. Couldn't he read, and write, and reflect without being troubled, here in this empty house? He was not constantly being pulled away from shining dreams by the cruel necessity of studying a base soul's behavior, and then to deceive him by hypocritical actions or words. "Will happiness be something so close to home? ... That sort of life is not expensive: if I chose to, I could marry Miss Elisa, or go into partnership with Fouqué...The traveler who's just climbed a steep mountain sits down at the top, and finds perfect pleasure in resting. Would he be as happy, if were he forced to do nothing but rest?" Madame de Rênal's mind had reached some fateful conclusions. In spite of all her resolutions, she'd confessed to Julien the whole business behind the auction. "He makes me forget all my vows!" she thought. She would have sacrificed her life without hesitation, to save her husband's, and she had seen him in danger. Hers was one of those noble, romantic souls, for whom seeing the possibility of some generous deed, and not doing it, creates remorse every bit as strong as committing a crime. All the same, there had been deadly days when she could not keep from picturing the enormous happiness she'd taste if, having become a widow, she was able to marry Julien. He loved her children more than their father did; in spite of his strict ways, they adored him. She was keenly aware that, in marrying Julien, she would be bound to leave this Vergy, a shady place very dear to her. She pictured herself living in Paris, continuing to provide her children with an education that all the world admired. Her children, and she, and Julien: they'd all be perfectly happy. What strange effects marriage has, in the form practiced by the nineteenth century! The boredom of married life certainly kills love, if love has preceded marriage. But, says a philosopher, for those sufficiently wealthy not to need employment, marriage soon leads to a profound boredom with all balanced, calm pleasures. Nor is it only dried-up souls, among women, who have no passion for love. These philosophical thoughts lead me to excuse Madame de Rênal—but she found no forgiveness in Verrières, and the whole town, though she was not aware of it, was devoted to nothing but the scandal of her love affair. That autumn, because of this intense business, the town did not suffer so much from boredom. Autumn, and the first part of winter, went by rather quickly. It became time to leave the woods of Vergy. Verrières's high society became indignant, finding that their social excommunication had very little effect on Monsieur de Rênal. Less than a week later, certain sober folk, who like to compensate for their habitual seriousness by accomplishing this sort of task, expressed to him the most intensely cruel suspicions, though they phrased them in the most measured terms. Monsieur Valenod, who had been playing everything close to the vest, had placed Elisa with an aristocratic family of high repute, which included five women. Elisa had been afraid, she'd said, of not finding a place all winter, so she asked these people for only two-thirds of what she'd been receiving at the mayor's house. Of her own volition, the girl had the excellent

Chapter Twenty-Three: A Civil Servant's Sorrows

notion of making her confession to the former parish priest, Father Chélan, as well as to the new priest, in order to tell both of them all the details of Julien's love affair. The day after his arrival, at six in the morning, Father Chélan had summoned Julien. "I have no questions for you," the old priest said. "I ask you, and if I need to I will order you, to say nothing to me. I expect you, within three days, either to leave for the seminary in Besançon or for your friend Fouqué's home, he being still of a mind to arrange a magnificent place for you. I have anticipated everything, arranged everything, but you must leave and not return to Verrières for an entire year." Julien made no reply. He was considering: Might his honor be thought offended by Father Chélan's efforts on his behalf? The old priest was not, after all, his father. "Tomorrow, at this same hour," he finally said, "I will have the honor of seeing you once again." Father Chélan, who had expected to effect matters with a high hand in dealing with this young man, said a great deal. Wrapped in a stance and a facial appearance of the deepest humility, Julien did not open his mouth. Julien finally left, and hurried to warn Madame de Rênal; he found her in a state of despair. Her husband had just been speaking to her rather frankly. His natural weakness having been propped up by the expectation of the Besançon inheritance, he had decided to consider her completely innocent. He had approached her in order to acknowledge the strange condition of public opinion in Verrières. They were wrong, they were being misled by the envious—but what should be done? Madame de Rênal had a fleeting notion that Julien could accept Monsieur Valenod's offer, and remain in Verrières. But she was no longer the simple, shy woman she had been the year before: her fatal passion, and her remorse, had instructed her. She soon experienced the sadness of acknowledging to herself, all the while listening to her husband, that at least some momentary separation had become inevitable. "Away from me, Julien will fall back into his ambitious plans, so natural when you have nothing. And me, great God, I'm rich! And so uselessly, when it comes to my happiness! He'll forget me. Lovable as he is, he will be loved, he will love. Ah, miserable woman...But what am I complaining about? Heaven is just. I haven't had the worthiness to stop sinning, and my sin destroys my judgment. To win Elisa over, all I had to do was pay her: nothing would have been easier. I didn't bother to stop and think, not for a moment: crazy love thoughts took up all my time. I will perish." One thing struck Julien, when he told Madame de Rênal the terrible news that he was leaving: she made absolutely no selfish objection. She was obviously trying hard not to cry. "We need to be strong, my dear." She cut off a lock of her hair. "I don't know what I'll do," she told him, "but if I die, promise me you'll never forget my children. Whether you're far or near, try to make them decent people. If there's another revolution, all the aristocracy will have their throats cut; their father will emigrate, perhaps because of that peasant, killed on a roof.4 Watch over my family...Give me your hand. Farewell, my dear! These are our last moments. That great sacrifice having been made, I hope that, in public, I'll have the courage to think of my reputation." Julien had expected despair. The straightforwardness of her farewell moved him. "No, I won't accept your farewell like this. I'll leave; they want me to; you yourself want it. But three days after my departure, I'll come to see you, at night."

4

Madame de Rênal's life was changed. Julien loved her deeply, for it was he who'd had the idea of seeing her again! Her frightful sorrow was transformed into one of the liveliest floods of joy she had ever known. Everything became easy for her. The certainty of seeing her lover again wiped away, at these last moments, all the things that had been tearing them apart. Beginning at that moment Madame de Rênal's face, as well as her behavior, became noble, firm, and perfectly decorous. Monsieur de Rênal soon returned; he was beside himself. He finally spoke to his wife about the anonymous letter received two months before. "I'll bring it to the casino, to show everyone that it's from that disgraceful Valenod, the fellow I plucked out of poverty and made one of the richest bourgeois in Verrières. I'll shame him in public, and then I'll fight with him. This is simply too much." "I might become a widow, good Lord!" thought Madame de Rênal. But at almost the same moment, she told herself: "If I don't stop this duel, as I certainly can, I'll be my husband's murderer." Never had she managed her husband's vanity with such skill. In less than two hours she made him see, and always on rational grounds he had himself brought to light, that he had to show even more friendliness than ever to Monsieur Valenod, and even had to bring Elisa back to the house. It took courage for Madame de Rênal to decide on seeing this girl, who was the cause of all her misfortune. But the idea had come from Julien. At last, having started three or four times to leave for the casino, Monsieur de Rênal realized, entirely by himself, that the very worst thing for him, fiscally, as well as the most personally disagreeable, would be for Julien, in the face of the excitement and babble going on all over Verrières, to remain in town as tutor to Monsieur Valenod's children. Obviously, the most rewarding thing for Julien was to accept Valenod's offer. But it would bring glory to Monsieur de Rênal, should Julien leave Verrières to enter the Besançon seminary, or the one at Dijon. But how could Julien be brought to make that decision, and how would he be able to live there, if he did? Monsieur de Rênal, seeing the imminence of fiscal sacrifice, was more in despair than his wife. After that long conversational struggle, she was in the position of the man who, weary of life, has taken a dose of stramonium: he no longer reacts except by reacting, so to speak, and no longer feels any sense of direct interest in anything. Thus it happened to Louis XIV, when he was dying, and said: "When I was king." What a wonderful remark! The next day, early in the morning, Monsieur de Rênal received an anonymous letter. It was in the most insulting style. The grossest words that could be applied to his situation appeared in every line. It was the work of some envious underling. This letter brought him back to thoughts of fighting with Monsieur Valenod. His courage soon reached the point of immediate action. He left the house alone and went to a gunsmith's shop to buy several revolvers, which he loaded. "To bring things down to brass tacks," he said to himself: "if the harsh administration of the Emperor Napoleon were to return to the world, there's not a single stolen penny to hold against me. The most I've done is close my eyes, but I've got the proper letters in my desk, authorizing everything." Madame de Rênal was frightened by her husband's cold anger; it recalled the fatal idea of widowhood she had tried so hard to push away. She shut herself in with him. For hours she talked to him, in vain: the new anonymous letter had decided him. Finally, she got to the point of transforming the courage required to give Monsieur Valenod a box on the ear, into an offer of six hundred francs to Julien, for a year's room and board as a seminarian. Monsieur de

Chapter Twenty-Three: A Civil Servant's Sorrows

Rênal, cursing a thousand times over the day he had the fatal idea of bringing a tutor into the house, forgot about the anonymous letter. He took some consolation in an idea he did not pass on to his wife: by means of his mature skill, and wielding it to overcome the young man's romantic notions, he hoped to get him to agree (for a small sum) not to accept Monsieur Valenod's offer. Madame de Rênal found it very difficult to prove to Julien that, in acting according to her husband's convenience, and sacrificing the salary of eight hundred francs offered by the Pauper's Bureau director, he could without shame accept a bit of compensation. "But," Julien kept saying, "I've never, not for a single second, intended to accept that offer. You've gotten me too accustomed to genteel living: the vulgarity of the people over there would kill me." Cruel necessity, with its iron hand, forced Julien to bend his will. His pride offered him the illusion that he was accepting Monsieur de Rênal's offer only as a loan, and he gave the mayor a note pledging reimbursement in five years, with interest. Madame de Rênal had kept thousands of francs, hidden in the little cave up on the mountain. Trembling, she offered the money to him, feeling very sure he would angrily refuse. "Is it your intention," said Julien, "to turn the memory of our love into an abomination?" At last, Julien left Verrières. Monsieur de Rênal was extremely pleased: at the fatal moment, when it came to actually accepting the money, Julien found the sacrifice too great. He flatly refused. Monsieur de Rênal fell on his shoulder, tears in his eyes. Julien having requested a certificate of good conduct, the mayor's enthusiasm bubbled over into language magnificently exalting the tutor's behavior. Our hero had saved up a hundred francs, and expected to ask Fouqué for as much again. He was deeply moved. But by the time he was two or three miles from Verrières, where he had left so much love, he was no longer thinking of anything but seeing the capital city, the great military center, that was Besançon. During this brief three-day separation, Madame de Rênal fell victim to one of love's most cruel deceptions. Her life was bearable: all that existed between her and deep depression was the final meeting she'd have with Julien. She counted the hours, the minutes, that kept them apart. Finally, the third night, she heard from afar the agreed-upon signal. Having made his way through a thousand dangers, Julien appeared in front of her. From that moment, she had only a single thought: "This is the last time I'll see him." Far from responding to her lover's eagerness, she was like a faintly animated corpse. When she forced herself to say she loved him, it was spoken so awkwardly that what it manifested was virtually the exact opposite. Nothing could free her from the cruel concept of eternal separation. For a brief moment, Julien's mistrustful nature made him believe he'd already been forgotten. The biting words with which he said this were met with nothing but silently streaming tears, and a clutching at his hand that was very nearly convulsive. "But, good God! What do you want me to think?" Julien replied to his beloved's stiff protestations. "You'd show a hundred times more warmth to Madame Derville, who's just an acquaintance." Petrified, all Madame de Rênal could say was: "No one could ever be more wretched...I hope I die...I feel my heart freezing over..." These were the fullest responses he could get from her. When the coming dawn made departure necessary, Madame de Rênal's tears suddenly stopped. She watched him tying a knotted rope to the window, but said not a word, never kissed him. Julien's words accomplished nothing:

Chapter Twenty-Four: A Capital City

Chapter Twenty-Four: A Capital City Such noise, so many people doing business! Notions of the future in a twenty-year-old head! What a way to keep from thinking about love! —Barnave1 He finally saw it, set on a distant mountain; its walls were black. This was the fortress of Besançon. "What a difference for me," he said with a sigh, "if I were coming to this great military center as a second lieutenant, serving in one of the regiments sent to defend it!" Besançon isn't simply one of the prettiest towns in France: it holds an abundance of passionate, spirited people. But Julien was only a little peasant, who had no way of approaching these distinguished men. When he'd been at Fouqué's, he'd taken to dressing as a bourgeois, and it was thus costumed that he crossed over the drawbridges. Knowing quite well the history of the siege of 1674,2 he wanted to see, before he closed himself up in the seminary, the ramparts and the citadel. Two or three times, he came close to being stopped by the sentries: he got into places forbidden to the general public, on grounds of military security, but in fact so the armies could sell hay, for twelve or fifteen francs a year. The walls' great height, the depth of the surrounding ditches, the frightening appearance of the cannons, had held his attention for some hours, by the time he went past the huge café on the rampart walkway. He stood looking at it, motionless in wonder. He could quite readily read the wordCAF é, written in large letters above the two great doors; he could not believe his eyes. Shyness held him back, and then he risked going in, and found himself in a room thirty or forty feet long, with a ceiling at least twenty feet high. That day, it was all magical to him. Two games of billiards were being played. Waiters called out the scores; the players hurried around the tables, about which spectators crowded. Billows of tobacco smoke, pouring from every mouth, wrapped them in a blue cloud. The men's height, their rounded shoulders, their heavy step, their enormous beards, the long frock coats they wore—everything attracted Julien's notice. These noble sons of ancient Besançon spoke only at the top of their lungs; they thought of themselves as terrifying warriors. Julien stood there, wondering: his mind was full of the immensity, the magnificence, of a great capital like Besançon. He did not feel entirely capable of ordering a cup of coffee, not from one of these gentlemen with their haughty looks, shouting out the billiard scores. But the barmaid had spotted his charming face, this young bourgeois from the countryside, standing three steps from the stove, with his little bundle under his arm, contemplating a bust of the king in handsome white plaster. This tall Franche-Comté girl, with a good figure and dressed very fashionably (to enhance the café's reputation), had already twice said to him, in a soft voice meant for his ears alone, "Monsieur! Monsieur!" Julien's glance met her blue eyes, big and compassionate, and saw she'd been talking to him. He went over to the bar, and to the pretty girl, quick-stepping exactly as he would have marched toward a hostile army. But in performing this notable maneuver, he dropped his bundle. What pity for our country bumpkin would have sprung in the hearts of Paris high school students, who at fifteen already know how to make a polished, terribly distinguished entrance to a café. Yet these children, so eminently accomplished at fifteen, at eighteen turn common. The passionate shyness one finds in the provinces sometimes rises above itself, and then it