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26. “‘Maestro,’ I said, ‘I repent of all my faults. I will never go out of
the Conservatoire by passing through the iron grill. I will redouble
my diligence.’
“‘If I were not frightened of spoiling the finest bass voice I have
ever heard, I would put you in prison for a fortnight on bread and
water, you rascal.’
“‘Maestro,’ I answered, ‘I will be the model boy of the whole
school, credete a me, but I would ask one favour of you. If anyone
comes and asks permission for me to sing outside, refuse. As a
favour, please say that you cannot let me.’
“‘And who the devil do you think is going to ask for a ne’er-do-well
like you? Do you think I should ever allow you to leave the
Conservatoire? Do you want to make fun of me? Clear out! Clear
out!’ he said, trying to give me a kick, ‘or look out for prison and dry
bread.’”
One thing astonished Julien. The solitary weeks passed at
Verrières in de Rênal’s house had been a period of happiness for
him. He had only experienced revulsions and sad thoughts at the
dinners to which he had been invited. And was he not able to read,
write and reflect, without being distracted, in this solitary house? He
was not distracted every moment from his brilliant reveries by the
cruel necessity of studying the movement of a false soul in order to
deceive it by intrigue and hypocrisy.
“To think of happiness being so near to me—the expense of a life
like that is small enough. I could have my choice of either marrying
Mademoiselle Elisa or of entering into partnership with Fouqué. But
it is only the traveller who has just scaled a steep mountain and sits
down on the summit who finds a perfect pleasure in resting. Would
he be happy if he had to rest all the time?”
Madame de Rênal’s mind had now reached a state of desperation.
In spite of her resolutions, she had explained to Julien all the details
of the auction. “He will make me forget all my oaths!” she thought.
She would have sacrificed her life without hesitation to save that
of her husband if she had seen him in danger. She was one of those
27. noble, romantic souls who find a source of perpetual remorse equal
to that occasioned by the actual perpetration of a crime, in seeing
the possibility of a generous action and not doing it. None the less,
there were deadly days when she was not able to banish the
imagination of the excessive happiness which she would enjoy if she
suddenly became a widow, and were able to marry Julien.
He loved her sons much more than their father did; in spite of his
strict justice they were devoted to him. She quite realised that if she
married Julien, it would be necessary to leave that Vergy, whose
shades were so dear to her. She pictured herself living at Paris, and
continuing to give her sons an education which would make them
admired by everyone. Her children, herself, and Julien! They would
be all perfectly happy!
Strange result of marriage such as the nineteenth century has
made it! The boredom of matrimonial life makes love fade away
inevitably, when love has preceded the marriage. But none the less,
said a philosopher, married life soon reduces those people who are
sufficiently rich not to have to work, to a sense of being utterly
bored by all quiet enjoyments. And among women, it is only arid
souls whom it does not predispose to love.
The philosopher’s reflection makes me excuse Madame de Rênal,
but she was not excused in Verrières, and without her suspecting it,
the whole town found its sole topic of interest in the scandal of her
intrigue. As a result of this great affair, the autumn was less boring
than usual.
The autumn and part of the winter passed very quickly. It was
necessary to leave the woods of Vergy. Good Verrières society began
to be indignant at the fact that its anathemas made so little
impression on Monsieur de Rênal. Within eight days, several serious
personages who made up for their habitual gravity of demeanour by
their pleasure in fulfilling missions of this kind, gave him the most
cruel suspicions, at the same time utilising the most measured
terms.
28. M. Valenod, who was playing a deep game, had placed Elisa in an
aristocratic family of great repute, where there were five women.
Elisa, fearing, so she said, not to find a place during the winter, had
only asked from this family about two-thirds of what she had
received in the house of the mayor. The girl hit upon the excellent
idea of going to confession at the same time to both the old curé
Chélan, and also to the new one, so as to tell both of them in detail
about Julien’s amours.
The day after his arrival, the abbé Chélan summoned Julien to him
at six o’clock in the morning.
“I ask you nothing,” he said. “I beg you, and if needs be I insist,
that you either leave for the Seminary of Besançon, or for your
friend Fouqué, who is always ready to provide you with a splendid
future. I have seen to everything and have arranged everything, but
you must leave, and not come back to Verrières for a year.”
Julien did not answer. He was considering whether his honour
ought to regard itself offended at the trouble which Chélan, who,
after all, was not his father, had taken on his behalf.
“I shall have the honour of seeing you again to-morrow at the
same hour,” he said finally to the curé.
Chélan, who reckoned on carrying so young a man by storm,
talked a great deal. Julien, cloaked in the most complete
humbleness, both of demeanour and expression, did not open his
lips.
Eventually he left, and ran to warn Madame de Rênal whom he
found in despair. Her husband had just spoken to her with a certain
amount of frankness. The weakness of his character found support
in the prospect of the legacy, and had decided him to treat her as
perfectly innocent. He had just confessed to her the strange state in
which he had found public opinion in Verrières. The public was
wrong; it had been misled by jealous tongues. But, after all, what
was one to do?
Madame de Rênal was, for the moment, under the illusion that
Julien would accept the offer of Valenod and stay at Verrières. But
29. she was no longer the simple, timid woman that she had been the
preceding year. Her fatal passion and remorse had enlightened her.
She soon realised the painful truth (while at the same time she
listened to her husband), that at any rate a temporary separation
had become essential.
When he is far from me, Julien will revert to those ambitious
projects which are so natural when one has no money. And I, Great
God! I am so rich, and my riches are so useless for my happiness.
He will forget me. Loveable as he is, he will be loved, and he will
love. You unhappy woman. What can I complain of? Heaven is just.
I was not virtuous enough to leave off the crime. Fate robs me of my
judgment. I could easily have bribed Elisa if I had wanted to;
nothing was easier. I did not take the trouble to reflect for a
moment. The mad imagination of love absorbed all my time. I am
ruined.
When Julien apprised Madame de Rênal of the terrible news of his
departure, he was struck with one thing. He did not find her put
forward any selfish objections. She was evidently making efforts not
to cry.
“We have need of firmness, my dear.” She cut off a strand of her
hair. “I do no know what I shall do,” she said to him, “but promise
me if I die, never to forget my children. Whether you are far or near,
try to make them into honest men. If there is a new revolution, all
the nobles will have their throats cut. Their father will probably
emigrate, because of that peasant on the roof who got killed. Watch
over my family. Give me your hand. Adieu, my dear. These are our
last moments. Having made this great sacrifice, I hope I shall have
the courage to consider my reputation in public.”
Julien had been expecting despair. The simplicity of this farewell
touched him.
“No, I am not going to receive your farewell like this. I will leave
you now, as you yourself wish it. But three days after my departure I
will come back to see you at night.”
30. Madame de Rênal’s life was changed. So Julien really loved her,
since of his own accord he had thought of seeing her again. Her
awful grief became changed into one of the keenest transports of
joy which she had felt in her whole life. Everything became easy for
her. The certainty of seeing her lover deprived these last moments of
their poignancy. From that moment, both Madame de Rênal’s
demeanour and the expression of her face were noble, firm, and
perfectly dignified.
M. de Rênal soon came back. He was beside himself. He
eventually mentioned to his wife the anonymous letter which he had
received two months before.
“I will take it to the Casino, and shew everybody that it has been
sent by that brute Valenod, whom I took out of the gutter and made
into one of the richest tradesmen in Verrières. I will disgrace him
publicly, and then I will fight him. This is too much.”
“Great Heavens! I may become a widow,” thought Madame de
Rênal, and almost at the same time she said to herself,
“If I do not, as I certainly can, prevent this duel, I shall be the
murderess of my own husband.”
She had never expended so much skill in honoring his vanity.
Within two hours she made him see, and always by virtue of reasons
which he discovered himself, that it was necessary to show more
friendship than ever to M. Valenod, and even to take Elisa back into
the household.
Madame de Rênal had need of courage to bring herself to see
again the girl who was the cause of her unhappiness. But this idea
was one of Julien’s. Finally, having been put on the track three or
four times, M. de Rênal arrived spontaneously at the conclusion,
disagreeable though it was from the financial standpoint, that the
most painful thing that could happen to him would be that Julien, in
the middle of the effervescence of popular gossip throughout
Verrières, should stay in the town as the tutor of Valenod’s children.
It was obviously to Julien’s interest to accept the offer of the director
of the workhouse. Conversely, it was essential for M. de Rênal’s
31. prestige that Julien should leave Verrières to enter the seminary of
Besançon or that of Dijon. But how to make him decide on that
course? And then how is he going to live?
M. de Rênal, seeing a monetary sacrifice looming in the distance,
was in deeper despair than his wife. As for her, she felt after this
interview in the position of a man of spirit who, tired of life, has
taken a dose of stramonium. He only acts mechanically so to speak,
and takes no longer any interest in anything. In this way, Louis XIV.
came to say on his death-bed, “When I was king.” An admirable
epigram.
Next morning, M. de Rênal received quite early an anonymous
letter. It was written in a most insulting style, and the coarsest
words applicable to his position occurred on every line. It was the
work of some jealous subordinate. This letter made him think again
of fighting a duel with Valenod. Soon his courage went as far as the
idea of immediate action. He left the house alone, went to the
armourer’s and got some pistols which he loaded.
“Yes, indeed,” he said to himself, “even though the strict
administration of the Emperor Napoleon were to become fashionable
again, I should not have one sou’s worth of jobbery to reproach
myself with; at the outside, I have shut my eyes, and I have some
good letters in my desk which authorise me to do so.”
Madame de Rênal was terrified by her husband’s cold anger. It
recalled to her the fatal idea of widowhood which she had so much
trouble in repelling. She closeted herself with him. For several hours
she talked to him in vain. The new anonymous letter had decided
him. Finally she succeeded in transforming the courage which had
decided him to box Valenod’s ears, into the courage of offering six
hundred francs to Julien, which would keep him for one year in a
seminary.
M. de Rênal cursed a thousand times the day that he had had the
ill-starred idea of taking a tutor into his house, and forgot the
anonymous letter.
32. He consoled himself a little by an idea which he did not tell his
wife. With the exercise of some skill, and by exploiting the romantic
ideas of the young man, he hoped to be able to induce him to refuse
M. Valenod’s offer at a cheaper price.
Madame de Rênal had much more trouble in proving to Julien that
inasmuch as he was sacrificing the post of six hundred francs a year
in order to enable her husband to keep up appearances, he need
have no shame about accepting the compensation. But Julien would
say each time, “I have never thought for a moment of accepting that
offer. You have made me so used to a refined life that the
coarseness of those people would kill me.”
Cruel necessity bent Julien’s will with its iron hand. His pride gave
him the illusion that he only accepted the sum offered by M. de
Rênal as a loan, and induced him to give him a promissory note,
repayable in five years with interest.
Madame de Rênal had, of course, many thousands of francs which
had been concealed in the little mountain cave.
She offered them to him all a tremble, feeling only too keenly that
they would be angrily refused.
“Do you wish,” said Julien to her, “to make the memory of our love
loathsome?”
Finally Julien left Verrières. M. de Rênal was very happy, but when
the fatal moment came to accept money from him the sacrifice
proved beyond Julien’s strength. He refused point blank. M. de Rênal
embraced him around the neck with tears in his eyes. Julien had
asked him for a testimonial of good conduct, and his enthusiasm
could find no terms magnificent enough in which to extol his
conduct.
Our hero had five louis of savings and he reckoned on asking
Fouqué for an equal sum.
He was very moved. But one league from Verrières, where he left
so much that was dear to him, he only thought of the happiness of
seeing the capital of a great military town like Besançon.
33. During the short absence of three days, Madame de Rênal was the
victim of one of the cruellest deceptions to which love is liable. Her
life was tolerable, because between her and extreme unhappiness
there was still that last interview which she was to have with Julien.
Finally during the night of the third day, she heard from a distance
the preconcerted signal. Julien, having passed through a thousand
dangers, appeared before her. In this moment she only had one
thought—“I see him for the last time.” Instead of answering the
endearments of her lover, she seemed more dead than alive. If she
forced herself to tell him that she loved him, she said it with an
embarrassed air which almost proved the contrary. Nothing could rid
her of the cruel idea of eternal separation. The suspicious Julien
thought for the moment that he was already forgotten. His pointed
remarks to this effect were only answered by great tears which
flowed down in silence, and by some hysterical pressings of the
hand.
“But,” Julien would answer his mistress’s cold protestations, “Great
Heavens! How can you expect me to believe you? You would show
one hundred times more sincere affection to Madame Derville to a
mere acquaintance.”
Madame de Rênal was petrified, and at a loss for an answer.
“It is impossible to be more unhappy. I hope I am going to die. I
feel my heart turn to ice.”
Those were the longest answers which he could obtain.
When the approach of day rendered it necessary for him to leave
Madame de Rênal, her tears completely ceased. She saw him tie a
knotted rope to the window without saying a word, and without
returning her kisses. It was in vain that Julien said to her.
“So now we have reached the state of affairs which you wished for
so much. Henceforward you will live without remorse. The slightest
indisposition of your children will no longer make you see them in
the tomb.”
“I am sorry that you cannot kiss Stanislas,” she said coldly.
34. Julien finished by being profoundly impressed by the cold
embraces of this living corpse. He could think of nothing else for
several leagues. His soul was overwhelmed, and before passing the
mountain, and while he could still see the church tower of Verrières
he turned round frequently.
35. [1] C’est pigeon qui vole. A reference to a contemporary animal
game with a pun on the word “vole.”
CHAPTER XXIV
A CAPITAL
What a noise, what busy people! What
ideas for the
future in a brain of twenty! What distraction
offered by
love.—Barnave.
Finally he saw some black walls near a distant mountain. It was
the citadel of Besançon. “How different it would be for me,” he said
with a sigh, “if I were arriving at this noble military town to be sub-
lieutenant in one of the regiments entrusted with its defence.”
Besançon is not only one of the prettiest towns in France, it abounds
in people of spirit and brains. But Julien was only a little peasant,
and had no means of approaching distinguished people.
He had taken a civilian suit at Fouqué’s, and it was in this dress
that he passed the drawbridge. Steeped as he was in the history of
the siege of 1674, he wished to see the ramparts of the citadel
before shutting himself up in the seminary. He was within an ace
two or three times of getting himself arrested by the sentinel. He
was penetrating into places which military genius forbids the public
to enter, in order to sell twelve or fifteen francs worth of corn every
year.
The height of the walls, the depth of the ditches, the terrible
aspect of the cannons had been engrossing him for several hours
36. when he passed before the great café on the boulevard. He was
motionless with wonder; it was in vain that he read the word café,
written in big characters above the two immense doors. He could
not believe his eyes. He made an effort to overcome his timidity. He
dared to enter, and found himself in a hall twenty or thirty yards
long, and with a ceiling at least twenty feet high. To-day, everything
had a fascination for him.
Two games of billiards were in progress. The waiters were crying
out the scores. The players ran round the tables encumbered by
spectators. Clouds of tobacco smoke came from everybody’s mouth,
and enveloped them in a blue haze. The high stature of these men,
their rounded shoulders, their heavy gait, their enormous whiskers,
the long tailed coats which covered them, everything combined to
attract Julien’s attention. These noble children of the antique
Bisontium only spoke at the top of their voice. They gave themselves
terrible martial airs. Julien stood still and admired them. He kept
thinking of the immensity and magnificence of a great capital like
Besançon. He felt absolutely devoid of the requisite courage to ask
one of those haughty looking gentlemen, who were crying out the
billiard scores, for a cup of coffee.
But the young lady at the bar had noticed the charming face of
this young civilian from the country, who had stopped three feet
from the stove with his little parcel under his arm, and was looking
at the fine white plaster bust of the king. This young lady, a big
Franc-comtoise, very well made, and dressed with the elegance
suitable to the prestige of the café, had already said two or three
times in a little voice not intended to be heard by any one except
Julien, “Monsieur, Monsieur.” Julien’s eyes encountered big blue eyes
full of tenderness, and saw that he was the person who was being
spoken to.
He sharply approached the bar and the pretty girl, as though he
had been marching towards the enemy. In this great manœuvre the
parcel fell.
What pity will not our provincial inspire in the young lycée scholars
of Paris, who, at the early age of fifteen, know already how to enter
37. a café with so distinguished an air? But these children who have
such style at fifteen turn commonplace at eighteen. The impassioned
timidity which is met with in the provinces, sometimes manages to
master its own nervousness, and thus trains the will. “I must tell her
the truth,” thought Julien, who was becoming courageous by dint of
conquering his timidity as he approached this pretty girl, who
deigned to address him.
“Madame, this is the first time in my life that I have come to
Besançon. I should like to have some bread and a cup of coffee in
return for payment.”
The young lady smiled a little, and then blushed. She feared the
ironic attention and the jests of the billiard players might be turned
against this pretty young man. He would be frightened and would
not appear there again.
“Sit here near me,” she said to him, showing him a marble table
almost completely hidden by the enormous mahogany counter which
extended into the hall.
The young lady leant over the counter, and had thus an
opportunity of displaying a superb figure. Julien noticed it. All his
ideas changed. The pretty young lady had just placed before him a
cup, some sugar, and a little roll. She hesitated to call a waiter for
the coffee, as she realised that his arrival would put an end to her
tête-à-tête with Julien.
Julien was pensively comparing this blonde and merry beauty with
certain memories which would often thrill him. The thought of the
passion of which he had been the object, nearly freed him from all
his timidity. The pretty young woman had only one moment to save
the situation. She read it in Julien’s looks.
“This pipe smoke makes you cough; come and have breakfast to-
morrow before eight o’clock in the morning. I am practically alone
then.”
“What is your name?” said Julien, with the caressing smile of
happy timidity.
“Amanda Binet.”
38. “Will you allow me to send you within an hour’s time a little parcel
about as big as this?”
The beautiful Amanda reflected a little.
“I am watched. What you ask may compromise me. All the same,
I will write my address on a card, which you will put on your parcel.
Send it boldly to me.”
“My name is Julien Sorel,” said the young man. “I have neither
relatives nor acquaintances at Besançon.”
“Ah, I understand,” she said joyfully. “You come to study law.”
“Alas, no,” answered Julien, “I am being sent to the Seminary.”
The most complete discouragement damped Amanda’s features.
She called a waiter. She had courage now. The waiter poured out
some coffee for Julien without looking at him.
Amanda was receiving money at the counter. Julien was proud of
having dared to speak: a dispute was going on at one of the billiard
tables. The cries and the protests of the players resounded over the
immense hall, and made a din which astonished Julien. Amanda was
dreamy, and kept her eyes lowered.
“If you like, Mademoiselle,” he said to her suddenly with
assurance, “I will say that I am your cousin.”
This little air of authority pleased Amanda. “He’s not a mere
nobody,” she thought. She spoke to him very quickly, without looking
at him, because her eye was occupied in seeing if anybody was
coming near the counter.
“I come from Genlis, near Dijon. Say that you are also from Genlis
and are my mother’s cousin.”
“I shall not fail to do so.”
“All the gentlemen who go to the Seminary pass here before the
café every Thursday in the summer at five o’clock.”
“If you think of me when I am passing, have a bunch of violets in
your hand.”
Amanda looked at him with an astonished air. This look changed
Julien’s courage into audacity. Nevertheless, he reddened
39. considerably, as he said to her. “I feel that I love you with the most
violent love.”
“Speak in lower tones,” she said to him with a frightened air.
Julien was trying to recollect phrases out of a volume of the
Nouvelle Héloise which he had found at Vergy. His memory served
him in good stead. For ten minutes he recited the Nouvelle Héloise
to the delighted Mademoiselle Amanda. He was happy on the
strength of his own bravery, when suddenly the beautiful Franc-
comtoise assumed an icy air. One of her lovers had appeared at the
café door. He approached the bar, whistling, and swaggering his
shoulders. He looked at Julien. The latter’s imagination, which
always indulged in extremes, suddenly brimmed over with ideas of a
duel. He paled greatly, put down his cup, assumed an assured
demeanour, and considered his rival very attentively. As this rival
lowered his head, while he familiarly poured out on the counter a
glass of brandy for himself, Amanda ordered Julien with a look to
lower his eyes. He obeyed, and for two minutes kept motionless in
his place, pale, resolute, and only thinking of what was going to
happen. He was truly happy at this moment. The rival had been
astonished by Julien’s eyes. Gulping down his glass of brandy, he
said a few words to Amanda, placed his two hands in the pockets of
his big tail coat, and approached the billiard table, whistling, and
looking at Julien. The latter got up transported with rage, but he did
not know what to do in order to be offensive. He put down his little
parcel, and walked towards the billiard table with all the swagger he
could muster.
It was in vain that prudence said to him, “but your ecclesiastical
career will be ruined by a duel immediately on top of your arrival at
Besançon.”
“What does it matter. It shall never be said that I let an insolent
fellow go scot free.”
Amanda saw his courage. It contrasted prettily with the simplicity
of his manners. She instantly preferred him to the big young man
with the tail coat. She got up, and while appearing to be following
40. with her eye somebody who was passing in the street, she went and
quickly placed herself between him and the billiard table.
“Take care not to look askance at that gentleman. He is my
brother-in-law.”
“What does it matter? He looked at me.”
“Do you want to make me unhappy? No doubt he looked at you,
why it may be he is going to speak to you. I told him that you were
a relative of my mother, and that you had arrived from Genlis. He is
a Franc-contois, and has never gone beyond Dôleon the Burgundy
Road, so say what you like and fear nothing.”
Julien was still hesitating. Her barmaid’s imagination furnished her
with an abundance of lies, and she quickly added.
“No doubt he looked at you, but it was at a moment when he was
asking me who you were. He is a man who is boorish with everyone.
He did not mean to insult you.”
Julien’s eye followed the pretended brother-in-law. He saw him
buy a ticket for the pool, which they were playing at the further of
the two billiard tables. Julien heard his loud voice shouting out in a
threatening tone, “My turn to play.”
He passed sharply before Madame Amanda, and took a step
towards the billiard table. Amanda seized him by the arm.
“Come and pay me first,” she said to him.
“That is right,” thought Julien. “She is frightened that I shall leave
without paying.” Amanda was as agitated as he was, and very red.
She gave him the change as slowly as she could, while she repeated
to him, in a low voice,
“Leave the café this instant, or I shall love you no more, and yet I
do love you very much.”
Julien did go out, but slowly. “Am I not in duty bound,” he
repeated to himself, “to go and stare at that coarse person in my
turn?” This uncertainty kept him on the boulevard in the front of the
café for an hour; he kept looking if his man was coming out. He did
not come out, and Julien went away.
41. He had only been at Besançon some hours, and already he had
overcome one pang of remorse. The old surgeon-major had formerly
given him some fencing lessons, in spite of his gout. That was all the
science which Julien could enlist in the service of his anger. But this
embarrassment would have been nothing if he had only known how
to vent his temper otherwise than by the giving of a blow, for if it
had come to a matter of fisticuffs, his enormous rival would have
beaten him and then cleared out.
“There is not much difference between a seminary and a prison,”
said Julien to himself, “for a poor devil like me, without protectors
and without money. I must leave my civilian clothes in some inn,
where I can put my black suit on again. If I ever manage to get out
of the seminary for a few hours, I shall be able to see Mdlle.
Amanda again in my lay clothes.” This reasoning was all very fine.
Though Julien passed in front of all the inns, he did not dare to
enter a single one.
Finally, as he was passing again before the Hôtel des
Ambassadeurs, his anxious eyes encountered those of a big woman,
still fairly young, with a high colour, and a gay and happy air. He
approached her and told his story.
“Certainly, my pretty little abbé,” said the hostess of the
Ambassadeurs to him, “I will keep your lay clothes for you, and I will
even have them regularly brushed. In weather like this, it is not
good to leave a suit of cloth without touching it.” She took a key, and
conducted him herself to a room, and advised him to make out a
note of what he was leaving.
“Good heavens. How well you look like that, M. the abbé Sorel,”
said the big woman to him when he came down to the kitchen. I will
go and get a good dinner served up to you, and she added in a low
voice, “It will only cost twenty sous instead of the fifty which
everybody else pays, for one must really take care of your little
purse strings.”
“I have ten louis,” Julien replied with certain pride.
42. “Oh, great heavens,” answered the good hostess in alarm. “Don’t
talk so loud, there are quite a lot of bad characters in Besançon.
They’ll steal all that from you in less than no time, and above all,
never go into the cafés, they are filled with bad characters.”
“Indeed,” said Julien, to whom those words gave food for thought.
“Don’t go anywhere else, except to my place. I will make coffee
for you. Remember that you will always find a friend here, and a
good dinner for twenty sous. So now you understand, I hope. Go
and sit down at table, I will serve you myself.”
“I shan’t be able to eat,” said Julien to her. “I am too upset. I am
going to enter the seminary, as I leave you.” The good woman,
would not allow him to leave before she had filled his pockets with
provisions. Finally Julien took his road towards the terrible place.
The hostess was standing at the threshold, and showed him the
way.
CHAPTER XXV
THE SEMINARY
Three hundred and thirty-six dinners at eighty-five centimes.
Three hundred and thirty-six suppers at fifty centimes.
Chocolate to those who are entitled to it. How much profit can
be made on the contract?—Valenod of Besançon.
He saw in the distance the iron gilt cross on the door. He
approached slowly. His legs seemed to give way beneath him. “So
here is this hell upon earth which I shall be unable to leave.”
Finally he made up his mind to ring. The noise of the bell
reverberated as though through a solitude. At the end of ten
43. minutes a pale man, clothed in black, came and opened the door.
Julien looked at him, and immediately lowered his eyes. This porter
had a singular physiognomy. The green projecting pupils of his eyes
were as round as those of a cat. The straight lines of his eyebrows
betokened the impossibility of any sympathy. His thin lips came
round in a semicircle over projecting teeth. None the less, his
physiognomy did not so much betoken crime as rather that perfect
callousness which is so much more terrifying to the young. The one
sentiment which Julien’s rapid gaze surmised in this long and devout
face was a profound contempt for every topic of conversation which
did not deal with things celestial. Julien raised his eyes with an
effort, and in a voice rendered quavering by the beating of his heart
explained that he desired to speak to M. Pirard, the director of the
Seminary. Without saying a word the man in black signed to him to
follow. They ascended two stories by a large staircase with a
wooden rail, whose warped stairs inclined to the side opposite the
wall, and seemed on the point of falling. A little door with a big
cemetery cross of white wood painted black at the top was opened
with difficulty, and the porter made him enter a dark low room,
whose whitewashed walls were decorated with two big pictures
blackened by age. In this room Julien was left alone. He was
overwhelmed. His heart was beating violently. He would have been
happy to have ventured to cry. A silence of death reigned over the
whole house.
At the end of a quarter of an hour, which seemed a whole day to
him, the sinister looking porter reappeared on the threshold of a
door at the other end of the room, and without vouchsafing a word,
signed to him to advance. He entered into a room even larger than
the first, and very badly lighted. The walls also were whitened, but
there was no furniture. Only in a corner near the door Julien saw as
he passed a white wooden bed, two straw chairs, and a little
pinewood armchair without any cushions. He perceived at the other
end of the room, near a small window with yellow panes decorated
with badly kept flower vases, a man seated at a table, and covered
with a dilapidated cassock. He appeared to be in a temper, and took
44. one after the other a number of little squares of paper, which he
arranged on his table after he had written some words on them. He
did not notice Julien’s presence. The latter did not move, but kept
standing near the centre of the room in the place where the porter,
who had gone out and shut the door, had left him.
Ten minutes passed in this way: the badly dressed man kept on
writing all the time. Julien’s emotion and terror were so great that he
thought he was on the point of falling. A philosopher would have
said, possibly wrongly, “It is a violent impression made by ugliness
on a soul intended by nature to love the beautiful.”
The man who was writing lifted up his head. Julien only perceived
it after a moment had passed, and even after seeing it, he still
remained motionless, as though struck dead by the terrible look of
which he was the victim. Julien’s troubled eyes just managed to
make out a long face, all covered with red blotches except the
forehead, which manifested a mortal pallor. Two little black eyes,
calculated to terrify the most courageous, shone between these red
cheeks and that white forehead. The vast area of his forehead was
bounded by thick, flat, jet black hair.
“Will you come near, yes or no?” said the man at last, impatiently.
Julien advanced with an uneasy step, and at last, paler than he
had ever been in his life and on the point of falling, stopped three
paces from the little white wooden table which was covered with the
squares of paper.
“Nearer,” said the man.
Julien advanced still further, holding out his hand, as though trying
to lean on something.
“Your name?”
“Julien Sorel.”
“You are certainly very late,” said the man to him, as he rivetted
again on him that terrible gaze.
Julien could not endure this look. Holding out his hand as though
to support himself, he fell all his length along the floor.
45. The man rang. Julien had only lost the use of his eyes and the
power of movement. He heard steps approaching.
He was lifted up and placed on the little armchair of white wood.
He heard the terrible man saying to the porter,
“He has had an epileptic fit apparently, and this is the finishing
touch.”
When Julien was able to open his eyes, the man with the red face
was going on with his writing. The porter had disappeared. “I must
have courage,” said our hero to himself, “and above all, hide what I
feel.” He felt violently sick. “If anything happens to me, God knows
what they will think of me.”
Finally the man stopped writing and looked sideways at Julien.
“Are you in a fit state to answer me?”
“Yes, sir,” said Julien in an enfeebled voice.
“Ah, that’s fortunate.”
The man in black had half got up, and was looking impatiently for
a letter in the drawer of his pinewood table, which opened with a
grind. He found it, sat down slowly, and looking again at Julien in a
manner calculated to suck out of him the little life which he still
possessed, said,
“You have been recommended to me by M. Chélan. He was the
best curé in the diocese; he was an upright man if there ever was
one, and my friend for thirty years.”
“Oh. It’s to M. Pirard then that I have the honour of speaking?”
said Julien in a dying voice.
“Apparently,” replied the director of the seminary, as he looked at
him disagreeably.
The glitter of his little eyes doubled and was followed by an
involuntary movement of the muscles of the corner of the mouth. It
was the physiognomy of the tiger savouring in advance the pleasure
of devouring its prey.
“Chélan’s letter is short,” he said, as though speaking to himself.
“Intelligenti pauca. In the present time it is impossible to write too
46. little.” He read aloud:—
“I recommend to you Julien Sorel of this parish, whom I
baptized nearly twenty years ago, the son of a rich carpenter
who gives him nothing. Julien will be a remarkable worker in the
vineyard of the Lord. He lacks neither memory nor intelligence;
he has some faculty for reflection. Will he persevere in his
calling? Is he sincere?”
“Sincere,” repeated the abbé Pirard with an astonished air, looking
at Julien. But the abbé’s look was already less devoid of all humanity.
“Sincere,” he repeated, lowering his voice, and resuming his reading:
—
“I ask you for a stipend for Julien Sorel. He will earn it by
passing the necessary examinations. I have taught him a little
theology, that old and good theology of the Bossuets, the
Arnaults, and the Fleury’s. If the person does not suit you, send
him back to me. The director of the workhouse, whom you
know well, offers him eight hundred to be tutor to his children.
My inner self is tranquil, thanks to God. I am accustoming
myself to the terrible blow, ‘Vale et me ama.’”
The abbé Pirard, speaking more slowly as he read the signature,
pronounced with a sigh the word, “Chélan.”
“He is tranquil,” he said, “in fact his righteousness deserves such a
recompense. May God grant it to me in such a case.” He looked up
to heaven and made the sign of the cross. At the sight of that sacred
sign Julien felt an alleviation of the profound horror which had
frozen him since his entry into the house.
“I have here three hundred and twenty-one aspirants for the most
holy state,” said the abbé Pirard at last, in a tone, which though
severe, was not malicious; “only seven or eight have been
recommended to me by such men as the abbé Chélan; so you will
be the ninth of these among the three hundred and twenty-one. But
47. my protection means neither favour nor weakness, it means doubled
care, and doubled severity against vice. Go and lock that door.”
Julian made an effort to walk, and managed not to fall. He noticed
that a little window near the entrance door looked out on to the
country. He saw the trees; that sight did him as much good as the
sight of old friends.
“‘Loquerisne linquam latinam?’” (Do you speak Latin?) said the
abbé Pirard to him as he came back.
“‘Ita, pater optime,’” (Yes, excellent Father) answered Julien,
recovering himself a little. But it was certain that nobody in the
world had ever appeared to him less excellent than had M. Pirard for
the last half hour.
The conversation continued in Latin. The expression in the abbé’s
eyes softened. Julien regained some self-possession. “How weak I
am,” he thought, “to let myself be imposed on by these appearances
of virtue. The man is probably nothing more than a rascal, like M.
Maslon,” and Julien congratulated himself on having hidden nearly all
his money in his boots.
The abbé Pirard examined Julien in theology; he was surprised at
the extent of his knowledge, but his astonishment increased when
he questioned him in particular on sacred scriptures. But when it
came to questions of the doctrines of the Fathers, he perceived that
Julien scarcely even knew the names of Saint Jerome, Saint
Augustin, Saint Bonaventure, Saint Basile, etc., etc.
“As a matter of fact,” thought the abbé Pirard, “this is simply that
fatal tendency to Protestantism for which I have always reproached
Chélan. A profound, and only too profound knowledge of the Holy
Scriptures.”
(Julien had just started speaking to him, without being questioned
on the point, about the real time when Genesis, the Pentateuch,
etc., has been written).
“To what does this never-ending reasoning over the Holy
Scriptures lead to?” thought the abbé Pirard, “if not to self-
examination, that is to say, the most awful Protestantism. And by the
48. side of this imprudent knowledge, nothing about the Fathers to
compensate for that tendency.”
But the astonishment of the director of the seminary was quite
unbounded when having questioned Julien about the authority of
the Pope, and expecting to hear the maxims of the ancient Gallican
Church, the young man recited to him the whole book of M. de
Maistre “Strange man, that Chélan,” thought the abbé Pirard. “Did he
show him the book simply to teach him to make fun of it?”
It was in vain that he questioned Julien and endeavoured to guess
if he seriously believed in the doctrine of M. de Maistre. The young
man only answered what he had learnt by heart. From this moment
Julien was really happy. He felt that he was master of himself. After
a very long examination, it seemed to him that M. Pirard’s severity
towards him was only affected. Indeed, the director of the seminary
would have embraced Julien in the name of logic, for he found so
much clearness, precision and lucidity in his answers, had it not
been for the principles of austere gravity towards his theology pupils
which he had inculcated in himself for the last fifteen years.
“Here we have a bold and healthy mind,” he said to himself, “but
corpus debile” (the body is weak).
“Do you often fall like that?” he said to Julien in French, pointing
with his finger to the floor.
“It’s the first time in my life. The porter’s face unnerved me,”
added Julien, blushing like a child. The abbé Pirard almost smiled.
“That’s the result of vain worldly pomp. You are apparently
accustomed to smiling faces, those veritable theatres of falsehood.
Truth is austere, Monsieur, but is not our task down here also
austere? You must be careful that your conscience guards against
that weakness of yours, too much sensibility to vain external graces.”
“If you had not been recommended to me,” said the abbé Pirard,
resuming the Latin language with an obvious pleasure, “If you had
not been recommended by a man, by the abbé Chélan, I would talk
to you the vain language of that world, to which it would appear you
are only too well accustomed. I would tell you that the full stipend
49. which you solicit is the most difficult thing in the world to obtain. But
the fifty-six years which the abbé Chélan has spent in apostolic work
have stood him in poor stead if he cannot dispose of a stipend at the
seminary.”
After these words, the abbé Pirard recommended Julien not to
enter any secret society or congregation without his consent.
“I give you my word of honour,” said Julien, with all an honest
man’s expansion of heart. The director of the seminary smiled for
the first time.
“That expression is not used here,” he said to him. “It is too
reminiscent of that vain honour of worldly people, which leads them
to so many errors and often to so many crimes. You owe me
obedience by virtue of paragraph seventeen of the bull Unam
Eccesiam of St. Pius the Fifth. I am your ecclesiastical superior. To
hear in this house, my dear son, is to obey. How much money, have
you?”
(“So here we are,” said Julien to himself, “that was the reason of
the ‘my very dear son’).”
“Thirty-five francs, my father.”
“Write out carefully how you use that money. You will have to give
me an account of it.”
This painful audience had lasted three hours. Julien summoned
the porter.
“Go and install Julien Sorel in cell No. 103,” said the abbé Pirard to
the man.
As a great favour he let Julien have a place all to himself. “Carry
his box there,” he added.
Julien lowered his eyes, and recognised his box just in front of
him. He had been looking at it for three hours and had not
recognised it.
As he arrived at No. 103, which was a little room eight feet square
on the top story of the house, Julien noticed that it looked out on to
50. the ramparts, and he perceived beyond them the pretty plain which
the Doubs divides from the town.
“What a charming view!” exclaimed Julien. In speaking like this he
did not feel what the words actually expressed. The violent
sensations which he had experienced during the short time that he
had been at Besançon had absolutely exhausted his strength. He sat
down near the window on the one wooden chair in the cell, and fell
at once into a profound sleep. He did not hear either the supper bell
or the bell for benediction. They had forgotten him. When the first
rays of the sun woke him up the following morning, he found himself
lying on the floor.
CHAPTER XXVI
THE WORLD, OR WHAT THE RICH LACK
I am alone in the world. No one deigns to spare me a
thought. All those whom I see make their fortune, have an
insolence and hardness of heart which I do not feel in myself.
They hate me by reason of kindness and good-humour. Oh, I
shall die soon, either from starvation or the unhappiness of
seeing men so hard of heart.—Young.
He hastened to brush his clothes and run down. He was late.
Instead of trying to justify himself Julien crossed his arms over his
breast.
“Peccavi pater optime (I have sinned, I confess my fault, oh, my
father),” he said with a contrite air.
This first speech was a great success. The clever ones among the
seminarists saw that they had to deal with a man who knew