7 Seventeenth-century mathematician whose name became a byword for mathematical accuracy.
The Red and the Black
bother him, busy as he was elsewhere in the building. His soul had very nearly deserted its mortal shell, which was slowly walking down the north aisle, assigned to him for surveillance. He was still more tranquil because he'd made sure that all there was in the confessional booths was a scattering of pious women. His eyes looked but did not see. However, his abstraction was half broken by the sight of two women, extremely well dressed and on their knees, one already in a confessional, and the other close by, on a prayer stool. He was looking without seeing, but still, whether from some vague sense of his responsibilities, or perhaps admiring the two ladies' fine, simple clothes, he noticed that there was no priest in the confessional. "Strange," he thought. "Why aren't these fine ladies on their knees at some temporary altar, if they're in fact so devout? Or else set advantageously in the front row of a balcony, if they're worldly women? How well designed that dress is! How charming!" He slowed down, trying to see it better. The woman who was on her knees, inside the confessional, turned her head a bit, hearing—in the midst of all the deep silence—the sound of Julien's steps. Suddenly, she cried out and fainted. As she began to fall, tumbling backward, her friend, who was close by, hurried to her assistance. At the same time, Julien saw the neck and shoulders of the fallen woman. A twisted rope of fine, large pearls, terribly familiar to him, caught his eye. Who can say what he felt, recognizing Madame de Rênal's hair! And it was she. The lady trying to hold up her head, and keep her from falling full on the ground, was Madame Derville. Quite beyond thought, Julien ran to them: Madame de Rênal's fall might well have carried down her friend had Julien not kept them both from the floor. He saw Madame de Rênal's pallor, her blank face, loose against his shoulder. He helped Madame Derville support this charming head on a straw-bottomed chair; he was on his knees. Madame Derville turned and recognized him: "Leave, sir, leave!" she said, intensely angry. "Above all, don't let her see you again. The sight of you surely shocked and horrified her: she'd been so happy, until you appeared. Your behavior is abominable. Leave—go away, if there is any decency left in you." She spoke with such authority, and at that moment Julien felt so weak, that he went away. "She always hated me," he said of Madame Derville. Just then, the nasal chanting of the lead priests resounded in the church. The procession was returning. Father Chas-Bernard called Julien, then called again; Julien did not at first hear him. Finally, the priest came and touched his arm, having found Julien behind a pillar where he had hidden himself, half dead. Father Chas had meant to present him to the bishop. "You're ill, my child," the priest said, seeing him pale and almost unable to walk. "You've worked too hard." He gave Julien his arm to lean on. "Come, sit down on this little bench, behind me. It's for the giving of blessings, with holy water. I'll stand in front of you, so you won't be seen." They were standing near the main entrance. "Calm yourself. We still have twenty solid minutes before the bishop appears. Try to get a grip on yourself. When he comes by, I'll help you up, because I'm good and strong, despite my age." But when the bishop came past, Julien was shaking so hard that Father Chas gave up the idea of presenting him. "Don't worry," he said to Julien. "I'll find another opportunity." That night, he sent the seminary chapel ten pounds of the candles he'd saved up, he said, because Julien had been so careful, and so quick, in snuffing them out. Nothing could have been less truthful. The poor young fellow was himself snuffed out. There had been absolutely nothing in his head since he'd seen Madame de Rênal.
Chapter Twenty-Nine: The First Forward Step
Chapter Twenty-Nine: The First Forward Step He knew his own time, he knew his own district, and he's rich. —The Precursor [Newspaper]1 Julien had not yet recovered from the profound trance, brought on by what had happened in the cathedral, when one morning harsh Father Pirard summoned him. "I have here a very favorable letter about you, from Father Chas-Bernard. All in all, I'm basically pleased by your behavior. You are extremely reckless, even harebrained, though you don't appear to be. To this point, however, your heart's been good, even generous. Your mind is superior. In sum, I see a spark in you that must not be neglected. "After fifteen years as director, I am about to leave this institution. My crime has been allowing our students freedom to make decisions for themselves, rather than championing or assisting that secret society, about which you spoke when you knelt in the confessional. Before I go, I want to do something for you. I would have done it two months sooner, because you deserve it, had it not been for the denunciation based on Amanda Binet's address, found in your possession. I hereby make you assistant master for both the New and the Old Testaments." Overwhelmed with gratitude, Julien thought of dropping to his knees and thanking God, but he yielded to a more genuine gesture: he went to Father Pirard, took his hand, and brought it to his lips. "What's this?" exclaimed the director as if annoyed. But Julien's eyes spoke even more clearly than his deed. Father Pirard looked at him, astonished, like a man who many years ago lost the habit of dealing with tender feelings. His face, his whole manner, betrayed him; his voice became different. "Well then! Yes, my child, I am fond of you. Heaven knows it's entirely in spite of myself. I've been charged with being fair, and not manifesting either dislike or affection for anyone. Your career will be painful. I see something in you which offends coarse souls. Jealousy and slander will hound you. Wherever Providence may place you, your colleagues will never see you without hating you, and they will pretend to love you, the better to betray you. For which there is just one remedy: put all your hope in God, for He has caused you to be hated, in punishment for your vanity. Let your behavior be pure: it is the only resource I see for you. If you hold to the truth, with an unyielding grip, sooner or later your enemies will be confounded." It had been so long since Julien heard a friendly voice, he was forced to forgive himself his weakness: he dissolved in tears. Father Pirard threw open his arms; it was a wonderfully sweet moment for them both. Julien was wild with happiness. This was the first promotion he'd gotten; the advantages were immense. To properly understand, you must be condemned for months on end never to know solitude, placed in close contact with colleagues, at best tiresome, for the most part unendurable. Their loud voices would be enough to upset a delicate constitution. The noisy delight of these well-nourished, well-fed peasants could not be contained, or even believed in, unless they yelled as loud as their lungs would let them. Julien now ate by himself, or very nearly so, an hour later than the other seminarians. He had a key to the garden and could walk there during the hours when no one else was about.