The Red and the Black: A Chronicle of 1830
Julien had sufficient self-possession to enquire "where were the bones
of the Saint that had been sent from Rome to Philip the Good, Duke of
Burgundy?" He was told that they were hidden in the charming waxen
figure.
His Majesty deigned to allow the young ladies who had accompanied him
into the chapel to wear a red ribbon on which were embroidered these
words, "HATE OF THE INFIDEL. PERPETUAL ADORATION."
Monsieur de la Mole had ten thousand bottles of wine distributed among
the peasants. In the evening at Verrières, the Liberals made a point of
having illuminations which were a hundred times better than those of
the Royalists. Before leaving, the king paid a visit to M. de Moirod.
CHAPTER XIX
THINKING PRODUCES SUFFERING
The grotesqueness of every-day events conceals the real
unhappiness of the passions.--_Barnave_.
As he was replacing the usual furniture in the room which M. de la
Mole had occupied, Julien found a piece of very strong paper folded in
four. He read at the bottom of the first page "To His Excellency M.
le Marquis de la Mole, peer of France, Chevalier of the Orders of the
King, etc. etc." It was a petition in the rough hand-writing of a cook.
"Monsieur le Marquis, I have had religious principles
all my life. I was in Lyons exposed to the bombs at
the time of the siege, in '93 of execrable memory. I
communicate, I go to Mass every Sunday in the parochial
church. I have never missed the paschal duty, even in
'93 of execrable memory. My cook used to keep servants
before the revolution, my cook fasts on Fridays. I am
universally respected in Verrières, and I venture to
say I deserve to be so. I walk under the canopy in the
processions at the side of the curé and of the mayor. On
great occasions I carry a big candle, bought at my own
expense.
"I ask Monsieur the marquis for the lottery appointment
of Verrières, which in one way or another is bound to
be vacant shortly as the beneficiary is very ill, and
moreover votes on the wrong side at elections, etc. De
Cholin."
In the margin of this petition was a recommendation signed "de Moirod"
which began with this line, "I have had the honour, the worthy person
who makes this request."
"So even that imbecile de Cholin shows me the way to go about things,"
said Julien to himself.
Eight days after the passage of the King of ---- through Verrières,
the one question which predominated over the innumerable falsehoods,
foolish conjectures, and ridiculous discussions, etc., etc., which had
had successively for their object the king, the Marquis de la Mole,
the ten thousand bottles of wine, the fall of poor de Moirod, who,
hoping to win a cross, only left his room a week after his fall, was
the absolute indecency of having _foisted_ Julien Sorel, a carpenter's
son, into the Guard of Honour. You should have heard on this point the
rich manufacturers of printed calico, the very persons who used to bawl
themselves hoarse in preaching equality, morning and evening in the
café. That haughty woman, Madame de Rênal, was of course responsible
for this abomination. The reason? The fine eyes and fresh complexion of
the little abbé Sorel explained everything else.
A short time after their return to Vergy, Stanislas, the youngest of
the children, caught the fever; Madame de Rênal was suddenly attacked
by an awful remorse. For the first time she reproached herself for her
love with some logic. She seemed to understand as though by a miracle
the enormity of the sin into which she had let herself be swept. Up to
that moment, although deeply religious, she had never thought of the
greatness of her crime in the eyes of God.
In former times she had loved God passionately in the Convent of
the Sacred Heart; in the present circumstances, she feared him with
equal intensity. The struggles which lacerated her soul were all the
more awful in that her fear was quite irrational. Julien found that
the least argument irritated instead of soothing her. She saw in the
illness the language of hell. Moreover, Julien was himself very fond of
the little Stanislas.
It soon assumed a serious character. Then incessant remorse deprived
Madame de Rênal of even her power of sleep. She ensconced herself in a
gloomy silence: if she had opened her mouth, it would only have been to
confess her crime to God and mankind.
"I urge you," said Julien to her, as soon as they got alone, "not to
speak to anyone. Let me be the sole confidant of your sufferings. If
you still love me, do not speak. Your words will not be able to take
away our Stanislas' fever." But his consolations produced no effect.
He did not know that Madame de Rênal had got it into her head that, in
order to appease the wrath of a jealous God, it was necessary either to
hate Julien, or let her son die. It was because she felt she could not
hate her lover that she was so unhappy.
"Fly from me," she said one day to Julien. "In the name of God leave
this house. It is your presence here which kills my son. God punishes
me," she added in a low voice. "He is just. I admire his fairness.
My crime is awful, and I was living without remorse," she exclaimed.
"That was the first sign of my desertion of God: I ought to be doubly
punished."
Julien was profoundly touched. He could see in this neither hypocrisy
nor exaggeration. "She thinks that she is killing her son by loving me,
and all the same the unhappy woman loves me more than her son. I cannot
doubt it. It is remorse for that which is killing her. Those sentiments
of hers have real greatness. But how could I have inspired such a love,
I who am so poor, so badly-educated, so ignorant, and sometimes so
coarse in my manners?"
One night the child was extremely ill. At about two o'clock in the
morning, M. de Rênal came to see it. The child consumed by fever, and
extremely flushed, could not recognise its father. Suddenly Madame de
Rênal threw herself at her husband's feet; Julien saw that she was
going to confess everything and ruin herself for ever.
Fortunately this extraordinary proceeding annoyed M. de Rênal.
"Adieu! Adieu!" he said, going away.
"No, listen to me," cried his wife on her knees before him, trying to
hold him back. "Hear the whole truth. It is I who am killing my son. I
gave him life, and I am taking it back. Heaven is punishing me. In the
eyes of God I am guilty of murder. It is necessary that I should ruin
and humiliate myself. Perhaps that sacrifice will appease the the Lord."
If M. de Rênal had been a man of any imagination, he would then have
realized everything.
"Romantic nonsense," he cried, moving his wife away as she tried to
embrace his knees. "All that is romantic nonsense! Julien, go and fetch
the doctor at daybreak," and he went back to bed. Madame de Rênal fell
on her knees half-fainting, repelling Julien's help with a hysterical
gesture.
Julien was astonished.
"So this is what adultery is," he said to himself. "Is it possible
that those scoundrels of priests should be right, that they who commit
so many sins themselves should have the privilege of knowing the true
theory of sin? How droll!"
For twenty minutes after M. de Rênal had gone back to bed, Julien saw
the woman he loved with her head resting on her son's little bed,
motionless, and almost unconscious. "There," he said to himself, "is
a woman of superior temperament brought to the depths of unhappiness
simply because she has known me."
"Time moves quickly. What can I do for her? I must make up my mind. I
have not got simply myself to consider now. What do I care for men and
their buffooneries? What can I do for her? Leave her? But I should be
leaving her alone and a prey to the most awful grief. That automaton
of a husband is more harm to her than good. He is so coarse that he is
bound to speak harshly to her. She may go mad and throw herself out of
the window."
"If I leave her, if I cease to watch over her, she will confess
everything, and who knows, in spite of the legacy which she is bound to
bring him, he will create a scandal. She may confess everything (great
God) to that scoundrel of an abbé who makes the illness of a child
of six an excuse for not budging from this house, and not without a
purpose either. In her grief and her fear of God, she forgets all she
knows of the man; she only sees the priest."
"Go away," said Madame de Rênal suddenly to him, opening her eyes.
"I would give my life a thousand times to know what could be of most
use to you," answered Julien. "I have never loved you so much, my dear
angel, or rather it is only from this last moment that I begin to adore
you as you deserve to be adored. What would become of me far from you,
and with the consciousness that you are unhappy owing to what I have
done? But don't let my suffering come into the matter. I will go--yes,
my love! But if I leave you, dear; if I cease to watch over you, to be
incessantly between you and your husband, you will tell him everything.
You will ruin yourself. Remember that he will hound you out of his
house in disgrace. Besançon will talk of the scandal. You will be said
to be absolutely in the wrong. You will never lift up your head again
after that shame."
"That's what I ask," she cried, standing up. "I shall suffer, so much
the better."
"But you will also make him unhappy through that awful scandal."
"But I shall be humiliating myself, throwing myself into the mire, and
by those means, perhaps, I shall save my son. Such a humiliation in the
eyes of all is perhaps to be regarded as a public penitence. So far as
my weak judgment goes, is it not the greatest sacrifice that I can make
to God?--perhaps He will deign to accept my humiliation, and to leave
me my son. Show me another sacrifice which is more painful and I will
rush to it."
"Let me punish myself. I too am guilty. Do you wish me to retire to the
Trappist Monastery? The austerity of that life may appease your God.
Oh, heaven, why cannot I take Stanislas's illness upon myself?"
"Ah, do you love him then," said Madame de Rênal, getting up and
throwing herself in his arms.
At the same time she repelled him with horror.
"I believe you! I believe you! Oh, my one friend," she cried falling on
her knees again. "Why are you not the father of Stanislas? In that case
it would not be a terrible sin to love you more than your son."
"Won't you allow me to stay and love you henceforth like a brother? It
is the only rational atonement. It may appease the wrath of the Most
High."
"Am I," she cried, getting up and taking Julien's head between her two
hands, and holding it some distance from her. "Am I to love you as if
you were a brother? Is it in my power to love you like that?" Julien
melted into tears.
"I will obey you," he said, falling at her feet. "I will obey you in
whatever you order me. That is all there is left for me to do. My mind
is struck with blindness. I do not see any course to take. If I leave
you you will tell your husband everything. You will ruin yourself
and him as well. He will never be nominated deputy after incurring
such ridicule. If I stay, you will think I am the cause of your son's
death, and you will die of grief. Do you wish to try the effect of my
departure. If you wish, I will punish myself for our sin by leaving you
for eight days. I will pass them in any retreat you like. In the abbey
of Bray-le-Haut, for instance. But swear that you will say nothing to
your husband during my absence. Remember that if you speak I shall
never be able to come back."
She promised and he left, but was called back at the end of two days.
"It is impossible for me to keep my oath without you. I shall speak to