Part 29

One moment, gentlemen, I am going to place the fatal letter in deposit, in a well-sealed packet, with M. l'abbé Pirard. He is an honest man, a Jansenist, and in that capacity safe from the seductions of the budget. Yes, but he opens letters... it is to Fouqué that I shall send this one.

It must be admitted, Julien's glance was atrocious, his countenance hideous; it breathed crime without alloy. He was the unhappy man at war with all society.

To arms! cried Julien, and he leaped the steps of the hotel perron at a bound. He entered the shop of the writer at the corner of the street; he frightened him.

Copy this, he said to him, handing him Mlle de La Mole's letter.

While the writer worked, he wrote himself to Fouqué; he begged him to keep a precious deposit. But, he said to himself, breaking off, the black cabinet at the post office will open my letter and hand you the one you are looking for...; no, gentlemen. He went to buy a huge bible from a Protestant bookseller, hid Mathilde's letter very adroitly in the cover, had the whole thing wrapped up, and his packet went off by the stagecoach, addressed to one of Fouqué's workmen, whose name no one in Paris knew.

This done, he returned merry and nimble to the Hôtel de La Mole. Now for it! he cried, locking himself into his room, and throwing off his coat:

"What! mademoiselle," he wrote to Mathilde, "it is Mlle de La Mole who, by the hands of Arsène, lackey to her father, has a too seductive letter delivered to a poor carpenter of the Jura, no doubt to mock his simplicity..." And he transcribed the clearest phrases of the letter he had just received.

His own would have done honour to the diplomatic prudence of M. le chevalier de Beauvoisis. It was yet only ten o'clock; Julien, drunk with happiness and the sense of his power, so new to a poor devil, went to the Italian Opera. He heard his friend Geronimo sing. Never had music exalted him to such a pitch. He was a god.

CHAPTER XIV

THOUGHTS OF A YOUNG GIRL

What perplexities! What sleepless nights! Great God! shall I render myself contemptible? He will despise me himself. But he leaves, he goes away.

ALFRED DE MUSSET.

It was not without struggles that Mathilde had written. However her interest in Julien had begun, soon it dominated the pride which, since she had known herself, had reigned alone in her heart. That haughty and cold soul was borne away for the first time by a passionate sentiment. But if it dominated pride, it was still faithful to the habits of pride. Two months of struggle and new sensations renewed, so to speak, all her moral being.

Mathilde believed she saw happiness. That all-powerful vision upon courageous souls, linked to a superior mind, had long to struggle against dignity and all the feelings of vulgar duty. One day, she went in to her mother, as early as seven in the morning, begging her to permit her to take refuge at Villequier. The marquise did not even deign to answer her, and advised her to go back to bed. It was the last effort of vulgar wisdom and deference to received ideas.

The fear of doing wrong and of shocking the ideas held sacred by the Caylus, the de Luz, the Croisenois had but little empire over her soul; such beings did not seem to her made to understand her; she would have consulted them had it been a question of buying a calash or an estate. Her true terror was that Julien might be displeased with her.

Perhaps too he has only the appearances of a superior man?

She abhorred want of character; it was her sole objection against the handsome young men around her. The more gracefully they joked at all that departs from fashion, or follows it ill, thinking to follow it, the more they lost in her eyes.

They were brave, and that was all. And yet, how brave? she said to herself: in a duel. But the duel is now but a ceremony. All is known beforehand, even what one must say in falling. Stretched on the grass, hand on heart, a generous pardon for the adversary is needed, and a word for a beauty often imaginary, or else one who goes to the ball the day of your death, for fear of arousing suspicion.

One braves danger at the head of a squadron all brilliant with steel, but danger solitary, singular, truly unforeseen and ugly?

Alas! said Mathilde to herself, it was at the court of Henri III that one found men great by character as by birth! Ah! if Julien had served at Jarnac or at Moncontour, I should have no doubt. In those times of vigour and strength, the French were not dolls. The day of battle was almost that of the least perplexities.

Their life was not imprisoned, like an Egyptian mummy, under a wrapping always common to all, always the same. Yes, she added, there was more true courage in withdrawing alone at eleven at night, leaving the Hôtel de Soissons, inhabited by Catherine de Médicis, than today in running to Algiers. A man's life was a succession of hazards. Now civilisation and the prefect of police have banished hazard, no more unforeseen. If it appears in ideas, there are not epigrams enough for it; if it appears in events, no cowardice is above our fear. Whatever folly fear makes us do, it is excused. Degenerate and tedious century! What would Boniface de La Mole have said, if, lifting his severed head from the tomb, he had seen, in 1793, seventeen of his descendants let themselves be taken like sheep, to be guillotined two days later? Death was certain, but it would have been bad form to defend oneself and kill at least one or two Jacobins. Ah! in the heroic times of France, in the century of Boniface de La Mole, Julien would have been the squadron leader and my brother the young priest, of proper morals, with wisdom in his eyes and reason on his lips.

A few months earlier, Mathilde despaired of meeting a being somewhat different from the common pattern. She had found some happiness in allowing herself to write to a few young men of society. That boldness so unseemly, so imprudent in a young girl might have dishonoured her in the eyes of M. de Croisenois, of the duke de Chaulnes her father, and of all the Hôtel de Chaulnes, who, seeing the projected marriage broken, would have wished to know why. In those days, the days she had written one of those letters, Mathilde could not sleep. But those letters were only answers.

Here she dared say that she loved. She wrote first (what a terrible word!) to a man placed in the lowest ranks of society.

This circumstance ensured, in case of discovery, eternal dishonour. Which of the women who came to her mother would have dared take her part? What phrase could have been given them to repeat to soften the blow of the awful contempt of the salons?

And yet to speak was dreadful, but to write! _There are things one does not write_, cried Napoleon on learning the capitulation of Baylen. And it was Julien who had told her this saying! as if giving her a lesson in advance.

But all that was still nothing; Mathilde's anguish had other causes. Forgetting the horrible effect upon society, the ineffaceable stain full of contempt, for it outraged her caste, Mathilde was going to write to a being of a quite other nature than the Croisenois, the de Luz, the Caylus.

The depth, the _unknown_ of Julien's character would have frightened, even in forming an ordinary relation with him. And she was going to make him her lover, perhaps her master!

What will not his pretensions be, if ever he can do all with me? Well! I shall say to myself like Medea: _Amid so many perils, there remains to me_ MYSELF.

Julien had no veneration for noble blood, she believed. Still more, perhaps he had no love for her!

In these last moments of frightful doubt, the ideas of feminine pride presented themselves. All must be singular in the fate of a girl like me, cried Mathilde, impatient. Then the pride they had inspired in her from the cradle found an adversary in virtue. It was in this instant that Julien's departure came to precipitate everything.

(Such characters are happily very rare.)

In the evening, very late, Julien had the malice to have a very heavy trunk brought down to the porter; he called for its removal the footman who was courting Mlle de La Mole's chambermaid. This manoeuvre may have no result, he said to himself, but if it succeeds, she thinks I am gone. He fell asleep very gaily over this jest. Mathilde did not close an eye.

The next day, very early in the morning, Julien left the hotel without being noticed, but he returned before eight o'clock.

Scarcely was he in the library when Mlle de La Mole appeared at the door. He handed her his reply. He thought it was his duty to speak to her, nothing was more convenient at least, but Mlle de La Mole would not listen and disappeared. Julien was charmed by this; he knew not what to say to her.

If all this is not a game agreed with Count Norbert, it is clear that it is my cold glances which have kindled the baroque love this girl of such high birth takes it into her head to have for me. I should be a little sillier than befits, if ever I let myself be led to have a taste for this great blonde doll. This reasoning left him colder and more calculating than he had ever been in his life.

In the battle that is preparing, he added, the pride of birth will be like a high hill, forming a military position between her and me. It is on that one must manoeuvre. I did very ill to stay in Paris; this postponement of my departure degrades me and exposes me, if all this is but a game. What danger was there in leaving? I mocked them, if they mock me. If her interest in me has some reality, I hundredfold that interest.

Mlle de La Mole's letter had given Julien a vanity pleasure so keen, that, even while laughing at what was happening to him, he had forgotten to think seriously of the propriety of departure.

It was a fatality of his character to be extremely sensitive to his faults. He was much vexed by this one and scarcely thought any more of the incredible victory which had preceded this small check, when, towards nine o'clock, Mlle de La Mole appeared on the threshold of the library door, threw him a letter and fled.

It appears this is to be the novel by letters, said he, picking it up. The enemy makes a false move, I shall bring up coldness and virtue.

A decisive reply was asked with a haughtiness that increased his inward gaiety. He gave himself the pleasure of mystifying, for two pages, the persons who might wish to mock him, and it was again by a jest that he announced, towards the end of his reply, his decided departure for the next morning.

This letter finished: The garden will serve me to deliver it, he thought, and went there. He looked at the window of Mlle de La Mole's room.

It was on the first floor, next to her mother's apartment, but there was a large entresol.

This first floor was so high, that walking under the lime-tree walk, letter in hand, Julien could not be seen from Mlle de La Mole's window. The vault formed by the lime trees, very well clipped, intercepted the view. But what! said Julien with irritation, another imprudence! If they have undertaken to mock me, to make me seen with a letter in hand is to serve my enemies.

Norbert's room was precisely above his sister's, and if Julien left the vault formed by the clipped branches of the lime trees, the count and his friends could follow all his movements.

Mlle de La Mole appeared behind her pane; he showed her his letter half-way; she lowered her head. Immediately Julien ran up to his room, and met by chance, on the great staircase, the beautiful Mathilde, who seized his letter with perfect ease and laughing eyes.

How much passion there was in the eyes of that poor Mme de Rênal, said Julien to himself, when, even after six months of intimate relations, she dared receive a letter from me! Never in her life, I believe, has she looked at me with laughing eyes.

He did not express so clearly the rest of his answer; was he ashamed of the futility of the motives? But also what a difference, his thought added, in the elegance of the morning gown, in the elegance of the bearing! On seeing Mlle de La Mole at thirty paces distance a man of taste would guess the rank she holds in society. That is what may be called an explicit merit.

Even while jesting, Julien did not yet avow to himself his whole thought; Mme de Rênal had no marquis de Croisenois to sacrifice to him. He had for rival only that ignoble sub-prefect M. Charcot, who called himself de Maugiron, because there are no more Maugirons.

At five o'clock, Julien received a third letter; it was flung to him from the library door. Mlle de La Mole fled again. What a mania to write! said he, laughing, when one can speak so conveniently! The enemy wants to have my letters, that is clear, and several! He did not hasten to open this one. More elegant phrases, he thought; but he grew pale in reading it. There were but eight lines:

"I need to speak to you; I must speak to you this evening; at the moment when one hour after midnight strikes, be in the garden. Take the gardener's great ladder near the well, place it against my window and come up to me. The moon is bright; no matter."

CHAPTER XV

IS IT A PLOT?

Ah! how cruel is the interval between a great project conceived and its execution! What vain terrors! what irresolutions! It is a matter of life.

--It is a matter of more: of honour!

SCHILLER.

This becomes serious, thought Julien... and a little too clear, he added after reflection. What! this beautiful young lady can speak to me in the library with a freedom which, thank God, is complete; the marquis, in the fear that I may show him accounts, never comes there. What! M. de La Mole and Count Norbert, the only persons who enter here, are absent almost all day; one can easily observe the moment of their return to the hotel, and the sublime Mathilde, for whose hand a sovereign prince would not be too noble, wishes me to commit an abominable imprudence!

It is clear, they want to ruin me or mock me, at least. First, they wanted to ruin me with my letters; they turn out prudent; well! they need an action clearer than daylight. These pretty little gentlemen think me too stupid or too conceited. The devil! by the finest moonlight in the world, to mount thus by a ladder to a first floor twenty-five feet high! they will have time to see me, even from neighbouring hotels. I shall be fine on my ladder! Julien went up to his room and began to pack his trunk whistling. He was resolved to leave and not even to reply.

But this wise resolution did not give him peace of heart. If by chance, he said to himself suddenly, his trunk closed, Mathilde were in good faith! then I play, in her eyes, the role of a perfect coward. I have no birth, I; I must have great qualities, ready cash, without complaisant suppositions, well proved by speaking actions...

He walked in his room a quarter of an hour. Why deny it? he said at last, I shall be a coward in her eyes. I lose not only the most brilliant person of high society, as they all said at the ball of M. le duc de Retz, but still the divine pleasure of seeing myself sacrifice the marquis de Croisenois, the son of a duke, and who will be a duke himself. A charming young man who has all the qualities I lack: presence of mind, birth, fortune...

This remorse will pursue me all my life, not for her, there are so many mistresses!

...But there is only one honour!

said the old Don Diègue, and here clearly and plainly, I recoil before the first danger offered me, for this duel with M. de Beauvoisis presented itself as a jest. This is quite different. I may be shot at point-blank by a servant, but that is the least danger, I may be dishonoured!

This becomes serious, my boy, he added with a gaiety and a Gascon accent. There is _honour_. Never will a poor devil, thrown as low as I by chance, find such an occasion again: I shall have fortunes but subordinate...

He reflected long, walking with hurried steps, stopping short from time to time. They had placed in his room a magnificent marble bust of Cardinal de Richelieu which, despite himself, attracted his glances. This bust, lit by his lamp, seemed to look at him severely, and as if reproaching him for the lack of that boldness which ought to be so natural to the French character. In your time, great man, should I have hesitated?

At worst, said Julien at last, let us suppose all this is a trap; it is indeed black and compromising for a young girl. They know I am not a man to hold my tongue. They must therefore kill me. That was well in 1574 in the time of Boniface de La Mole, but never would he of today dare. Those people are no longer the same. Mlle de La Mole is so envied! Four hundred salons would ring tomorrow with her shame, and with what pleasure!

The servants gossip, among themselves, of the marked preferences of which I am the object, I know it, I have heard them...

On the other hand, her letters!... they may believe I have them on me. Surprised in her room, they take them from me. I shall have to do with two, three, four men, who knows? But these men, where will they take them? where find discreet subordinates in Paris? Justice frightens them... By Jove! the Caylus, the Croisenois, the de Luz themselves. That moment, and the silly figure I shall cut among them will be what seduced them. Beware the fate of Abelard, M. the secretary!

Well, by Jove! gentlemen, you shall carry my marks, I shall strike at the face, like Caesar's soldiers at Pharsalus... As for the letters, I can put them in a safe place.

Julien made copies of the two last, hid them in a volume of the fine Voltaire in the library, and carried the originals himself to the post.

When he returned: What folly I am throwing myself into! he said with surprise and terror. He had been a quarter of an hour without looking his next-night's action in the face.

But, if I refuse, I shall despise myself afterwards! All my life, this action will be a great subject of doubt for me, and such a doubt is the most biting of misfortunes. Have I not experienced it for Amanda's lover! I believe I should more easily pardon myself a crime quite clear; once avowed, I should cease to think of it.

What! a destiny, incredible by excess of happiness, draws me from the crowd to put me in rivalry with a man bearing one of the finest names of France, and I shall myself, of my own free will, have declared myself his inferior! At bottom, there is cowardice in not going. That word decides all, cried Julien, rising... besides, she is very pretty!

If this is not a betrayal, what folly she does for me!... If it is a mystification, by Jove! gentlemen, it depends on me to make the jest serious, and so shall I do.

But if they tie my arms at the moment of entry into the room; they may have placed some ingenious machine!

It is like a duel, he said laughing, there is a parry to everything, says my fencing master, but the good God, who wishes an end to it, makes that one of the two forgets to parry. Besides, here is something to answer them: he drew his pocket pistols, and though the priming was fulminating, he renewed it.

There were still many hours to wait; to do something, Julien wrote to Fouqué:

"My friend, open the enclosed letter only in case of accident, if you hear that something strange has happened to me. Then, erase the proper names from the manuscript I send you and make eight copies which you shall send to the journals of Marseille, Bordeaux, Lyon, Brussels, etc.; ten days later, have this manuscript printed, send the first copy to M. le marquis de La Mole, and fifteen days after, throw the other copies at night into the streets of Verrières."

This little justificatory memoir arranged in the form of a tale, which Fouqué was to open only in case of accident, Julien made as little compromising as possible for Mlle de La Mole; but still, it painted his position very exactly.

Julien was finishing sealing his packet, when the dinner bell rang, and made his heart beat. His imagination, preoccupied with the tale he had just composed, was all in tragic presentiments. He had seen himself seized by servants, bound, led into a cellar, with a gag in his mouth. There, a servant watched him closely, and if the honour of the noble family required that the adventure have a tragic end, it was easy to end all with those poisons which leave no trace; then, they said he had died of illness, and carried him dead into his room.

Moved by his own tale like a dramatist, Julien was really afraid when he entered the dining room. He looked at all those servants in full livery. He studied their physiognomies. Which are those chosen for the expedition of tonight? he said to himself. In this family, the memories of the court of Henri III are so present, so often recalled, that, believing themselves outraged, they will have more decision than the other personages of their rank. He looked at Mlle de La Mole to read in her eyes the projects of her family; she was pale, and he found her quite a physiognomy of the Middle Ages. Never had he seen her look so grand; she was truly beautiful and imposing. He became almost in love with her. _Pallida morte futura_, he said to himself (Her pallor announces her great designs).

In vain, after dinner, he affected to walk long in the garden; Mlle de La Mole did not appear there. To speak to her would, in this moment, have delivered his heart of a great weight.

Why not avow it? he was afraid. As he was resolved to act, he abandoned himself to this feeling without shame. Provided that at the moment of acting I find the needed courage, he said to himself, what matters what I may feel at this moment? He went to reconnoitre the situation and the weight of the ladder.

It is an instrument, he said laughing, which it is in my destiny to make use of! here as at Verrières. What a difference! Then, he added with a sigh, I was not obliged to mistrust the person for whom I exposed myself. What a difference also in the danger!

“Stories of the world, in your language.”