Part 10
One entered the church by a side door; suddenly a frightful noise reverberated through its ancient vaults. Julien thought they were collapsing. It was the little cannon again; drawn by eight horses at a gallop, it had just arrived; and no sooner arrived, it was placed in battery by the Leipzig gunners, and fired five shots a minute, as if the Prussians had been before it.
But this admirable noise no longer had any effect on Julien; he no longer thought of Napoleon and military glory. So young, he thought, to be Bishop of Agde! But where is Agde? and what does it bring in? two or three hundred thousand francs perhaps.
Monseigneur's footmen appeared with a magnificent canopy; M. Chélan took one of the poles, but in fact it was Julien who carried it. The bishop placed himself beneath it. He had really managed to give himself the air of an old man; our hero's admiration knew no bounds. What cannot be done with skill! he thought.
The king entered. Julien had the happiness of seeing him very close. The bishop addressed him with unction, and without forgetting a slight nuance of very polite embarrassment for His Majesty. We shall not repeat the description of the ceremonies of Bray-le-Haut; for a fortnight they filled the columns of all the newspapers of the department. Julien learned from the bishop's speech that the king was descended from Charles the Bold.
Later he entered upon Julien's functions of verifying the accounts of what this ceremony had cost. M. de La Mole, who had procured a bishopric for his nephew, had wished to do him the courtesy of taking charge of all the expenses. The single ceremony of Bray-le-Haut cost three thousand eight hundred francs.
After the bishop's speech and the king's reply, His Majesty placed himself under the canopy, then knelt very devoutly on a cushion near the altar. The choir was surrounded by stalls, and the stalls raised two steps above the pavement. It was on the last of these steps that Julien was seated at the feet of M. Chélan, much like a train-bearer near his cardinal, in the Sistine Chapel, at Rome. There was a _Te Deum_, floods of incense, endless volleys of musketry and artillery; the peasants were drunk with happiness and piety. Such a day undoes the work of a hundred issues of Jacobin newspapers.
Julien was six paces from the king, who really prayed with abandon. He noticed, for the first time, a small man with a lively eye, who wore a coat almost without embroidery. But he had a sky-blue ribbon over this very plain coat. He was nearer the king than many other lords, whose coats were so embroidered with gold that, in Julien's expression, one could not see the cloth. He learned a few moments after that this was M. de La Mole. He found him an air of haughty and even insolent.
That marquis would not be polite like my pretty bishop, he thought. Ah! the ecclesiastical state makes one gentle and wise. But the king has come to venerate the relic, and I see no relic. Where can Saint Clement be?
A little clerk, his neighbor, told him that the venerable relic was at the top of the building, in a chapel of repose.
What is a chapel of repose? said Julien to himself.
But he would not ask the explanation of the word. His attention redoubled.
In case of a visit by a sovereign prince, etiquette requires that the canons not accompany the bishop. But as he set out for the chapel of repose, my lord of Agde called Abbé Chélan; Julien dared to follow him.
After climbing a long staircase, they reached an extremely small door, but whose Gothic frame was magnificently gilded. The work seemed done of the day before.
Before the door, twenty-four young girls, belonging to the most distinguished families of Verrières, were gathered kneeling. Before opening the door, the bishop knelt in the midst of these all pretty young girls. While he prayed aloud, they seemed unable to admire enough his beautiful lace, his good grace, his face so young and so gentle. This spectacle made our hero lose what remained of his reason. At this instant, he would have fought for the Inquisition, and in good faith. The door suddenly opened. The little chapel appeared as if ablaze with light. One could see upon the altar more than a thousand candles divided into eight rows, separated from each other by bouquets of flowers. The sweet odor of the purest incense issued in a whirlwind from the door of the sanctuary. The gilded anew chapel was very small, but very lofty. Julien noticed that there were candles upon the altar more than fifteen feet high. The young girls could not restrain a cry of admiration. Only the twenty-four young girls, the two curates, and Julien had been admitted into the little vestibule of the chapel.
Soon the king arrived, followed only by M. de La Mole and his grand chamberlain. The guards themselves remained outside, on their knees, presenting arms.
His Majesty precipitated himself rather than threw himself upon the prie-Dieu. It was only then that Julien, pressed against the gilded door, perceived, beneath the bare arm of a young girl, the charming statue of Saint Clement. He was hidden beneath the altar, in the costume of a young Roman soldier. He had around his neck a wide wound from which the blood seemed to flow. The artist had surpassed himself; his dying eyes, but full of grace, were half closed. A budding mustache adorned that charming mouth, which, half closed, still seemed to pray. At this sight, the young girl next to Julien wept hot tears; one of her tears fell upon Julien's hand.
After a moment of prayer in the deepest silence, troubled only by the distant sound of the bells of all the villages within ten leagues around, the bishop of Agde asked the king permission to speak. He ended a little discourse very touching by simple words, but whose effect was only the better assured.
"Never forget, young Christians, that you have seen one of the greatest kings of the earth on his knees before the servants of this almighty and terrible God. These weak servants, persecuted, assassinated upon the earth as you see by the still bleeding wound of Saint Clement, they triumph in heaven. Is it not so, young Christians, you will remember this day forever? you will detest the impious. Forever you will be faithful to this God so great, so terrible, but so good."
At these words the bishop rose with authority.
"You promise me," said he, advancing his arm, with an inspired air.
"We promise," said the young girls, melting into tears.
"I receive your promise, in the name of the terrible God," added the bishop, in a thundering voice.
And the ceremony was ended.
The king himself was weeping. It was only long after that Julien had enough presence of mind to ask where were the bones of the saint sent from Rome to Philip the Good, Duke of Burgundy. He was told that they were hidden within the charming wax figure.
His Majesty deigned to permit the young ladies who had accompanied him into the chapel to wear a red ribbon upon which were embroidered these words: HATRED OF THE IMPIOUS, PERPETUAL ADORATION.
M. de La Mole had distributed to the peasants ten thousand bottles of wine. In the evening, at Verrières, the liberals found a reason to illuminate a hundred times better than the royalists. Before departing, the king paid a visit to M. de Moirod.
CHAPTER XIX
TO THINK IS TO SUFFER
The grotesque of everyday events hides from you the true unhappiness of the passions.
BARNAVE.
In replacing the ordinary furniture in the room that M. de La Mole had occupied, Julien found a very stiff sheet of paper, folded in four. He read at the bottom of the first page:
To His Most Serene Excellency the Marquis de La Mole, Peer of France, Knight of the King's Orders, etc., etc.
It was a petition in the large handwriting of a cook.
"My Lord Marquis,
"I have had religious principles all my life. I was in Lyon, exposed to the bombs, during the siege, in 93, of execrable memory. I receive communion, I go every Sunday to mass in the parish church. I have never failed in my Easter duty, even in 93, of execrable memory. My cook—before the Revolution I had servants—my cook eats meatless on Friday. I enjoy general consideration in Verrières, and I dare say deserved. I march under the canopy in processions beside M. the curate and M. the mayor. I carry, on great occasions, a large candle bought at my expense. Of all which the certificates are in Paris at the Ministry of Finance. I ask of My Lord Marquis the lottery office of Verrières, which cannot fail to be soon vacant in one way or another, the holder being very ill, and besides voting badly in elections; etc.
"DE CHOLIN."
In the margin of this petition was a note signed De Moirod, and which began with this line:
"I have had the honor of speaking _vert_ of the good subject who makes this request," etc.
Thus, even that imbecile Cholin shows me the path one must follow, said Julien.
A week after the passage of the King of *** through Verrières, what floated to the surface of the innumerable lies, silly interpretations, ridiculous discussions, etc., etc., of which had been successively the object, the king, the bishop of Agde, the marquis de La Mole, the ten thousand bottles of wine, the poor fall of Moirod, who in hope of a cross did not leave his house until a month after his fall, it was the extreme indecency of having bombarded into the honor guard Julien Sorel, son of a carpenter. One had to hear, on this subject, the rich manufacturers of printed cloth, who, evening and morning, grew hoarse at the café, preaching equality. That haughty woman, Mme de Rênal, was the author of this abomination. The reason? the beautiful eyes and so fresh cheeks of the little abbé Sorel said it well enough.
Shortly after the return to Vergy, Stanislas-Xavier, the youngest of the children, took a fever; suddenly Mme de Rênal fell into terrible remorse. For the first time she reproached herself for her love in a sustained way, she seemed to understand, as if by miracle, into what enormous fault she had let herself be drawn. Though of a deeply religious character, until that moment she had not thought of the greatness of her crime in the eyes of God.
Formerly, at the convent of the Sacred Heart, she had loved God with passion; she feared Him likewise on this occasion. The conflicts that tore her soul were all the more frightful in that there was nothing reasonable in her fear. Julien found that the least reasoning irritated her; far from calming her, she saw in it the language of hell. However, as Julien himself much loved little Stanislas, he was better received in speaking to her of his illness: she soon took on a grave character. Then continual remorse took from Mme de Rênal even the faculty of sleeping; she never emerged from a savage silence: had she opened her mouth, it would have been to confess her crime to God and to men.
"I beg of you," Julien said to her as soon as they were alone, "speak to no one but me, let me be the sole confidant of your troubles. If you still love me, do not speak: your words cannot take the fever from our Stanislas."
But his consolations produced no effect; he did not know that Mme de Rênal had got it into her head that, to appease the anger of the jealous God, she must hate Julien or see her son die. It was because she felt she could not hate her lover that she was so unhappy.
"Flee from me," she said to Julien one day, "in the name of God, leave this house: it is your presence here that kills my son."
"God punishes me," she added in a low voice, "He is just, I adore His equity, my crime is frightful and I lived without remorse! It was the first sign of the abandonment of God: I must be punished doubly."
Julien was deeply moved. He could see there neither hypocrisy nor exaggeration. She believes she is killing her son in loving me, and yet the unhappy woman loves me more than her son. This, I cannot doubt, is the remorse that is killing her; here is greatness in feeling. But how could I inspire such a love, I, so poor, so ill-bred, so ignorant, sometimes so coarse in my manners?
One night, the child was at his worst. Toward two in the morning, M. de Rênal came to see him. The child, devoured by fever, was very red and could not recognize his father. Suddenly Mme de Rênal threw herself at her husband's feet: Julien saw that she was about to say everything and lose herself forever.
Fortunately, this singular movement importuned M. de Rênal.
"Farewell! farewell!" said he, going away.
"No, listen to me," cried his wife, on her knees before him, and seeking to hold him back. "Learn the whole truth. It is I who am killing my son. I gave him life, and I take it from him. Heaven punishes me; in the eyes of God, I am guilty of murder. I must destroy and humble myself: perhaps this sacrifice will appease the Lord."
If M. de Rênal had been a man of imagination, he would have known all.
"Romantic ideas!" he cried, pushing away his wife who sought to kiss his knees. "Romantic ideas, all that! Julien, have the doctor called at daybreak."
And he went back to bed. Mme de Rênal fell to her knees, half fainting, repulsing with a convulsive movement Julien who wished to help her.
Julien remained astonished.
So this is adultery! he said to himself. Could it be possible that these so deceitful priests... were right? They who commit so many sins, would they have the privilege of knowing the true theory of sin? What a strangeness!...
For twenty minutes since M. de Rênal had withdrawn, Julien saw the woman he loved, her head resting on the little bed of the child, motionless and almost unconscious. Here is a woman of superior genius, reduced to the height of misfortune because she knew me, he said to himself.
The hours advance rapidly. What can I do for her? One must decide. It is no longer a question of me here. What do men and their flat pretenses matter to me? What can I do for her?... leave her? But I leave her alone prey to the most frightful sorrow. That automaton of a husband harms her more than he helps. He will say some harsh word, by dint of being coarse; she may go mad, throw herself from the window.
If I leave her, if I cease to watch over her, she will confess all to him. And who knows, perhaps, despite the inheritance she is to bring him, he will make a scandal. She may say everything, good God! to that scoundrel of an abbé Maslon, who takes pretext of the illness of a six-year-old child, to no longer stir from this house and not without design. In her sorrow and her fear of God, she forgets all she knows of man; she sees only the priest.
"Go away," she said to him suddenly, opening her eyes.
"I would give my life a thousand times, to know what can be most useful to you," answered Julien; "never have I loved you so much, my dear angel, or rather, only from this instant do I begin to adore you as you deserve. What shall become of me far from you, and with the conscience that you are unhappy because of me! But let there be no question of my sufferings. I shall leave, yes, my love. But, if I leave you, if I cease to watch over you, to find myself constantly between you and your husband, you will tell him all, you will lose yourself. Think that it is with ignominy that he will drive you from his house; all Verrières, all Besançon will speak of this scandal. They will give you all the blame; never will you recover from this shame..."
"That is what I ask," she cried, rising to her feet. "I shall suffer, so much the better."
"But, by this abominable scandal, you will also make his unhappiness!"
"But I humble myself, I throw myself into the mire; and thereby perhaps I save my son. This humiliation, before all eyes, is perhaps a public penance? As far as my weakness can judge, is it not the greatest sacrifice I can make to God?... Perhaps He will deign to take my humiliation and leave me my son. Show me a more painful sacrifice, and I run to it."
"Let me punish myself. I too am guilty. Will you that I withdraw to La Trappe? The austerity of that life may appease your God... Ah! heaven! that I could take upon myself the illness of Stanislas..."
"Ah! you love him, you!" said Mme de Rênal, rising and throwing herself into his arms.
At the same instant, she pushed him away with horror.
"I believe you! I believe you!" she continued, after returning to her knees; "O my only friend! O why are you not the father of Stanislas? Then it would not be a horrible sin to love you better than your son."
"Will you permit me to stay, and that henceforth I love you only as a brother? It is the only reasonable expiation; it may appease the anger of the Most High."
"And I," she cried, rising and taking Julien's head between her two hands, and holding it before her eyes at a distance, "and I, shall I love you as a brother? Is it in my power to love you as a brother?"
Julien melted into tears.
"I shall obey you," he said, falling at her feet, "I shall obey you whatever you order me; it is all that remains for me to do. My mind is struck with blindness; I see no course to take. If I leave you, you tell all to your husband, you lose yourself and him with you. Never, after this ridicule, will he be named deputy. If I stay, you believe me the cause of your son's death, and you die of sorrow. Will you try the effect of my departure? If you wish, I shall go punish myself for our fault, by leaving you for eight days. I shall go spend them in retreat where you wish. At the abbey of Bray-le-Haut, for example: but swear to me during my absence to confess nothing to your husband. Think that I can no longer return if you speak."
She promised, he left, but was recalled at the end of two days.
"It is impossible for me without you to keep my oath. I shall speak to my husband, if you are not constantly there to order me by your looks to be silent. Each hour of this abominable life seems to me to last a day."
At last heaven had pity on this unhappy mother. Little by little Stanislas was no longer in danger. But the ice was broken, her reason had known the extent of her sin: she could no longer regain her balance. Remorse remained, and it was what it should be in so sincere a heart. Her life was heaven and hell: hell when she did not see Julien, heaven when she was at his feet.
"I no longer deceive myself," she said to him, even in the moments when she dared give herself up to all her love: "I am damned, irresistibly damned. You are young, you yielded to my seductions, heaven may forgive you but I am damned. I know it by a certain sign. I am afraid: who would not be afraid before the sight of hell? But deep down, I do not repent. I would commit my fault again if it were to commit. May heaven only not punish me in this world, and in my children, and I shall have more than I deserve. But you, at least, my Julien," she cried at other moments, "are you happy? Do you find that I love you enough?"
The suspicious and suffering pride of Julien, who above all needed a love of sacrifices, did not hold before the sight of so great, so indubitable a sacrifice, and made at every instant. He adored Mme de Rênal. She may be noble, and I the son of a workman, she loves me... I am not beside her a valet de chambre charged with the functions of lover. This fear removed, Julien fell into all the follies of love, into its mortal uncertainties.
"At least," she cried, seeing his doubts of her love, "let me render you very happy during the few days we have to pass together! Let us hurry; tomorrow perhaps I shall no longer be yours. If heaven strikes me in my children, it is in vain that I seek to live only to love you, to not see that it is my crime that kills them. I could not survive this blow. If I wished it, I could not; I should go mad."
"Ah! if I could take your sin upon myself, as you so generously offered to take the burning fever of Stanislas!"
This great moral crisis changed the nature of the sentiment that united Julien to his mistress. His love was no longer only admiration for beauty, the pride of possessing her.
Their happiness was henceforth of a much superior nature, the flame that devoured them was more intense. They had transports full of madness. Their happiness would have seemed greater in the eyes of the world. But they no longer found the delicious serenity, the cloudless felicity, the easy happiness of the first epochs of their love, when the only fear of Mme de Rênal was not to be loved enough by Julien. Their happiness sometimes had the physiognomy of crime.
In the happiest and apparently calmest moments:
"Ah! great God! I see hell," Mme de Rênal would suddenly cry, pressing Julien's hand with a convulsive movement. "What horrible torments! I have well deserved them."
She clasped him, clinging to him like ivy to the wall.
Julien tried in vain to calm this troubled soul. She took his hand, which she covered with kisses. Then, fallen back into a dark reverie:
"Hell," she said, "hell would be a grace for me; I should still have some days to pass on earth with him, but hell in this world, the death of my children... However at this price, perhaps my crime would be forgiven me... Ah! great God! grant me not my grace at this price. These poor children have not offended You; I, I alone am guilty! I love a man who is not my husband."
Julien then saw Mme de Rênal arrive at moments tranquil in appearance. She sought to master herself, she wished not to poison the life of what she loved.
Amid these alternations of love, remorse, and pleasure the days passed for them with the rapidity of lightning. Julien lost the habit of reflecting.
Mlle Élisa went to follow a little lawsuit she had at Verrières. She found M. Valenod much piqued against Julien. She hated the tutor, and spoke to him of it often.
"You would ruin me, sir, if I told the truth!..." she said one day to M. Valenod. "The masters are all agreed among themselves in important matters... Certain confessions are never forgiven to poor domestics..."
After these phrases of usage, which the impatient curiosity of M. Valenod found the art to abbreviate, he learned the things most mortifying to his self-love.
This most distinguished woman of the country, whom for six years he had surrounded with so many cares, and unfortunately in sight and knowledge of all the world; this woman so proud, whose disdains had so often made him blush, she had just taken for a lover a little workman disguised as a tutor. And so that nothing was lacking to the spite of the director of the poorhouse, Mme de Rênal adored this lover.
“Stories of the world, in your language.”