1 Denis Diderot (1713–84), with Voltaire and Rousseau, was one of the greatest of the philosophes. Diderot was founder of the Encyclopédie; novelist; playwright; author of Jacques the Fatalist and His Master, Rameau's Nephew, and the scandalous The Nun. This quote is not to be found in his writings.
Chapter Twenty-Seven: First Experience of Life
some noble post where you will be in charge, beyond anyone's control, permanently in power, where the government pays a third of your salary, and the faithful, molded by your teaching, the other two-thirds." Leaving his classroom, Father Castaneda stopped in the courtyard. "It is truly said of a parish priest that whatever the man is worth will decide how much his post is worth," he said to the students standing in a circle around him. "I have myself known, I who here speak to you, of mountain parishes where the supplemental fees were worth far more than those of parish priests in the city. The nominal salaries were the same, but without counting the fat capons, the eggs, the fresh butter, and a thousand other details, equally attractive. And in the mountains the parish priest ranks highest, no doubt about it. There's no good dinner to which he won't be invited, no celebration, etc." Father Castaneda had hardly gone up to his room when the students divided into groups. Julien was not in any of them: he was ignored, a black sheep. In every group, he saw someone toss a coin in the air, and if heads or tails was guessed correctly, everyone said the coin tosser would soon have a parish rich in supplemental fees. Then they swapped stories. A certain young priest, ordained barely a year, had given a pet rabbit to the old parish priest's maidservant. He was asked to serve in that parish and, not more than a month later, when the parish priest died a quick death, the young one inherited the parish. Another young priest had managed to be named successor to the parish priest of a big, wealthy town, because he'd sat at table, every meal, with the paralyzed old parish priest, and gracefully cut up his chicken for him. Like young people in all walks of life, the seminarians dramatized the effects of these little maneuvers, which are colored in unusual hues and strike the imagination. "I've got to participate in these conversations," Julien told himself. "When they're not talking about sausages and good old priests, they chatter about the worldly side of Church doctrine, like quarrels between bishops and governors, or between mayors and parish priests." Julien saw the concept of a second God emerging, but a new God far more frightening and more powerful than the other one. This second God was the pope. They would say, but in low voices and when they were very sure Father Pirard could not hear them, that the pope didn't bother naming all the governors and mayors in France, only because he'd given this responsibility to the French king when he'd declared him the Church's elder son. It was just about this time when Julien thought, using de Maistre's book On the Pope, he might be able to get himself into one of the groups. He truly astonished his classmates—but it was still a disaster. He annoyed them by presenting their opinions better than they did. Father Chélan had been as careless of Julien's welfare as he had been of his own. Having trained him to think clearly, and not let himself settle for empty verbiage, he'd neglected to explain that, for someone not well respected, this habit is criminal, for in any case logical thinking is always offensive. Julien's elegant rhetoric thus gave rise to a new crime. On further reflection, his classmates compressed into a single phrase all the horror he inspired in them: they nicknamed him "Martin Luther"—above all, they said, because of this diabolic logic, of which he was so proud. A number of young seminarians had fresher complexions, and might have been considered better looking than Julien, but he had pale hands and could never hide certain delicate habits. This apparent advantage was nothing of the kind, in this sad dwelling into which fate had thrown him. The unwashed peasants with whom he lived said he was clearly of loose morals.
The Red and the Black
We do not wish to bore the reader by reciting our hero's thousand misfortunes. For example, the strongest of his classmates regularly tried beating him up: he took as a weapon a double-pointed metal protractor and notified them, by gestures rather than words, that he'd use it. When spies write up their reports, it's hard to make as much out of gestures as words.
Chapter Twenty-Eight: A Procession
Chapter Twenty-Eight: A Procession Every heart was moved. God's presence seemed to have descended into the narrow, Gothic streets, extending in every direction and well sanded by the efforts of the faithful. —Young1 Julien had tried in vain to make himself small and stupid: he could not be liked; he was far too different. "But," he told himself, "all our professors are notable people and one in a thousand. Why aren't they happy about my humility?" Just one of them seemed willing to waste his kindness by believing in and being fooled by everything. This was Father Chas- Bernard, director of ceremonials at the cathedral, where for fifteen years he'd been led to expect a post as canon,2 and where, while he waited, he taught sacred eloquence at the seminary. In Julien's blind period, this was one of the classes where he was regularly the top student. Father Chas had demonstrated affection for this prize pupil; when class was over, he would take Julien's arm and walk in the garden with him. "What's he after?" Julien asked himself. He noted, with astonishment, that for hours on end Father Chas would talk to him about the vestments owned by the cathedral. There were seventeen chasubles, all trimmed with lace, not to mention mourning garments. They were expecting more from President3 de Rubempré's widow. Now ninety years old, this lady had, for at least seventy years, preserved her wedding clothes, superb Lyons silk, brocaded in gold. It was universally believed, in Besançon, that by the terms of the president's will the cathedral's treasures would be enriched by more than ten chasubles, not counting four or five long mantles for high festivals. "I'd go even further," added Father Chas, lowering his voice. "I have reason to believe the president left us eight magnificent candlesticks, of gilded silver, which are said to have been bought in Italy by Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, a favorite minister of whose was one of the president's ancestors." "But what's he after, with all this old-clothes stuff?" thought Julien. "He's been building this up, like a master, for a hundred years, and there's still nothing in sight. It's got to be that he really mistrusts me! He's smarter than all the others: in two weeks you can easily figure out their secret goal. But I understand: this fellow has been putting up with it for fifteen years!" One evening, in the middle of a fencing lesson, Julien was summoned by Father Pirard, who said: "Tomorrow's the Feast of Corpus Christi.4 Father Chas-Bernard needs your assistance in decorating the cathedral. Go, and obey him." Then Father Pirard called him back. "You can decide for yourself, if you want to make this an occasion for wandering around the city." "Incedo per ignes, I have secret enemies," Julien thought. Early the next day, Julien made his way to the cathedral, walking with lowered eyes. It felt good to see the streets and the bustle beginning everywhere in the city. Everywhere, they were hanging handsome cloth across house fronts. All the time he'd spent in the seminary seemed to him no more than a mere flicker. His thoughts were of Vergy, and of pretty Amanda Binet: