The Red and the Black: A Chronicle of 1830
ought to accept the hand of M. de Luz. "He is a nervous man, not too
much of a Jesuit, and will doubtless be a candidate," he said to her.
"He has a more sinister and persevering ambition than poor Croisenois,
and as there has never been a dukedom in his family, he will be only
too glad to marry Julien Sorel's widow."
"A widow, though, who scorns the grand passions," answered Mathilde
coldly, "for she has lived long enough to see her lover prefer to
her after six months another woman who was the origin of all their
unhappiness."
"You are unjust! Madame de Rênal's visits will furnish my advocate
at Paris, who is endeavouring to procure my pardon, with the subject
matter for some sensational phrases; he will depict the murderer
honoured by the attention of his victim. That may produce an
impression, and perhaps some day or other, you will see me provide the
plot of some melodrama or other, etc., etc."
A furious and impotent jealousy, a prolonged and hopeless unhappiness
(for even supposing Julien was saved, how was she to win back his
heart?), coupled with her shame and anguish at loving this unfaithful
lover more than ever had plunged mademoiselle de la Mole into a gloomy
silence, from which all the careful assiduity of M. de Frilair was as
little able to draw her as the rugged frankness of Fouqué.
As for Julien, except in those moments which were taken up by
Mathilde's presence, he lived on love with scarcely a thought for the
future.
"In former days," Julien said to her, "when I might have been so happy,
during our walks in the wood of Vergy, a frenzied ambition swept my
soul into the realms of imagination. Instead of pressing to my heart
that charming arm which is so near my lips, the thoughts of my future
took me away from you; I was engaged in countless combats which I
should have to sustain in order to lay the foundations of a colossal
fortune. No, I should have died without knowing what happiness was if
you had not come to see me in this prison."
Two episodes ruffled this tranquil life. Julien's confessor, Jansenist
though he was, was not proof against an intrigue of the Jesuits, and
became their tool without knowing it.
He came to tell him one day that unless he meant to fall into the awful
sin of suicide, he ought to take every possible step to procure his
pardon. Consequently, as the clergy have a great deal of influence with
the minister of Justice at Paris, an easy means presented itself; he
ought to become converted with all publicity.
"With publicity," repeated Julien. "Ha, Ha! I have caught you at it--I
have caught you as well, my father, playing a part like any missionary."
"Your youth," replied the Jansenist gravely, "the interesting
appearance which Providence has given you, the still unsolved mystery
of the motive for your crime, the heroic steps which mademoiselle de
la Mole has so freely taken on your behalf, everything, up to the
surprising affection which your victim manifests towards you, has
contributed to make you the hero of the young women of Besançon.
They have forgotten everything, even politics, on your account. Your
conversion will reverberate in their hearts and will leave behind it a
deep impression. You can be of considerable use to religion, and I was
about to hesitate for the trivial reason that in a similar circumstance
the Jesuits would follow a similar course. But if I did, even in the
one case which has escaped their greedy clutches they would still be
exercising their mischief. The tears which your conversation will
cause to be shed will annul the poisonous effect of ten editions of
Voltaire's works."
"And what will be left for me," answered Julien, coldly, "if I despise
myself? I have been ambitious; I do not mean to blame myself in any
way. Further, I have acted in accordance with the code of the age. Now
I am living from day to day. But I should make myself very unhappy
if I were to yield to what the locality would regard as a piece of
cowardice...."
Madame de Rênal was responsible for the other episode which affected
Julien in quite another way. Some intriguing woman friend or other had
managed to persuade this naïve and timid soul that it was her duty
to leave for St. Cloud, and go and throw herself at the feet of King
Charles X.
She had made the sacrifice of separating from Julien, and after
a strain as great as that, she no longer thought anything of the
unpleasantness of making an exhibition of herself, though in former
times she would have thought that worse than death.
"I will go to the king. I will confess freely that you are my lover.
The life of a man, and of a man like Julien, too, ought to prevail over
every consideration. I will tell him that it was because of jealousy
that you made an attempt upon my life. There are numerous instances of
poor young people who have been saved in such a case by the clemency of
the jury or of the king."
"I will leave off seeing you; I will shut myself up in my prison,"
exclaimed Julien, "and you can be quite certain that if you do not
promise me to take no step which will make a public exhibition of us
both, I will kill myself in despair the day afterwards. This idea of
going to Paris is not your own. Tell me the name of the intriguing
woman who suggested it to you.
"Let us be happy during the small number of days of this short life.
Let us hide our existence; my crime was only too self-evident.
Mademoiselle de la Mole enjoys all possible influence at Paris. Take
it from me that she has done all that is humanly possible. Here in
the provinces I have all the men of wealth and prestige against me.
Your conduct will still further aggravate those rich and essentially
moderate people to whom life comes so easy.... Let us not give the
Maslons, the Valenods, and the thousand other people who are worth more
than they, anything to laugh about."
Julien came to find the bad air of the cell unbearable. Fortunately,
nature was rejoicing in a fine sunshine on the day when they announced
to him that he would have to die, and he was in a courageous vein.
He found walking in the open air as delicious a sensation as the
navigator, who has been at sea for a long time, finds walking on the
ground. "Come on, everything is going all right," he said to himself.
"I am not lacking in courage."
His head had never looked so poetical as at that moment when it was on
the point of falling. The sweet minutes which he had formerly spent in
the woods of Vergy crowded back upon his mind with extreme force.
Everything went off simply, decorously, and without any affectation on
his part.
Two days before he had said to Fouqué: "I cannot guarantee not to
show some emotion. This dense, squalid cell gives me fits of fever in
which I do not recognise myself, but fear?--no! I shall not be seen to
flinch."
He had made his arrangements in advance for Fouqué to take Mathilde and
madame de Rênal away on the morning of his last day.
"Drive them away in the same carriage," he had said. "Do you see that
the post-horses do not leave off galloping. They will either fall into
each other's arms, or manifest towards each other a mortal hatred.
In either case the poor women will have something to distract them a
little from their awful grief."
Julien had made madame de Rênal swear that she would live to look after
Mathilde's son.
"Who knows? Perhaps we have still some sensations after our death," he
had said one day to Fouqué. "I should like to rest, for rest is the
right word, in that little grotto in the great mountain which dominates
Verrières. Many a time, as I have told you, I have spent the night
alone in that grotto, and as my gaze would plunge far and wide over the
richest provinces of France, ambition would inflame my heart. In those
days it was my passion.... Anyway, I hold that grotto dear, and one
cannot dispute that its situation might well arouse the desires of the
philosopher's soul.... Well, you know! those good priests of Besançon
will make money out of everything. If you know how to manage it, they
will sell you my mortal remains."
Fouqué succeeded in this melancholy business. He was passing the night
alone in his room by his friend's body when, to his great surprise, he
saw Mathilde come in. A few hours before he had left her ten leagues
from Besançon. Her face and eyes looked distraught.
"I want to see him," she said.
Fouqué had not the courage either to speak or get up. He pointed with
his finger to a big blue cloak on the floor; there was wrapped in it
all that remained of Julien.
She threw herself on her knees. The memory of Boniface de la Mole, and
of Marguerite of Navarre gave her, no doubt, a superhuman courage. Her
trembling hands undid the cloak. Fouqué turned away his eyes.
He heard Mathilde walking feverishly about the room. She lit several
candles. When Fouqué could bring himself to look at her, she had placed
Julien's head on a little marble table in front of her, and was kissing
it on the forehead.
Mathilde followed her lover to the tomb which he had chosen. A great
number of priests convoyed the bier, and, alone in her draped carriage,
without anyone knowing it, she carried on her knees the head of the man
whom she had loved so much.
When they arrived in this way at the most elevated peak of the high
mountains of the Jura, twenty priests celebrated the service of the
dead in the middle of the night in this little grotto, which was
magnificently illuminated by a countless number of wax candles.
Attracted by this strange and singular ceremony, all the inhabitants
of the little mountain villages which the funeral had passed through,
followed it.
Mathilde appeared in their midst in long mourning garments, and had
several thousands of five-franc pieces thrown to them at the end of the
service.
When she was left alone with Fouqué, she insisted on burying her
lover's head with her own hands. Fouqué nearly went mad with grief.
Mathilde took care that this wild grotto should be decorated with
marble monuments that had been sculpted in Italy at great expense.
Madame de Rênal kept her promise. She did not try to make any attempt
upon her life; but she died embracing her children, three days after
Julien.
THE END.
The inconvenience of the reign of public opinion is that though, of
course, it secures liberty, it meddles with what it has nothing to do
with--private life, for example. Hence the gloominess of America and
England. In order to avoid infringing on private life, the author has
invented a little town--Verrières, and when he had need of a bishop,
a jury, an assize court, he placed all this in Besançon, where he has
never been.
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
CHAPTER I A SMALL TOWN
CHAPTER II A MAYOR
CHAPTER III THE POOR FUND
CHAPTER IV A FATHER AND A SON
CHAPTER V A NEGOTIATION
CHAPTER VI ENNUI
CHAPTER VII THE ELECTIVE AFFINITIES
CHAPTER VIII LITTLE EPISODES
CHAPTER IX AN EVENING IN THE COUNTRY
CHAPTER X A GREAT HEART AND A SMALL FORTUNE
CHAPTER XI AN EVENING
CHAPTER XII A JOURNEY
CHAPTER XIII THE OPEN WORK STOCKINGS
CHAPTER XIV THE ENGLISH SCISSORS
CHAPTER XV THE COCK'S SONG
CHAPTER XVI THE DAY AFTER
CHAPTER XVII THE FIRST DEPUTY
CHAPTER XVIII A KING AT VERRIÈRES
CHAPTER XIX THINKING PRODUCES SUFFERING
CHAPTER XX ANONYMOUS LETTERS
CHAPTER XXI DIALOGUE WITH A MASTER
CHAPTER XXII MANNERS OF PROCEDURE IN 1830
CHAPTER XXIII SORROWS OF AN OFFICIAL
CHAPTER XXIV A CAPITAL
CHAPTER XXV THE SEMINARY
CHAPTER XXVI THE WORLD, OR WHAT THE RICH LACK
CHAPTER XXVII FIRST EXPERIENCE OF LIFE