Part 44
--Formerly, Julien would say to me, when I might have been so happy during our walks in the woods of Vergy, a fiery ambition dragged my soul into imaginary lands. Instead of pressing against my heart that charming arm which was so near my lips, the future tore me from you; I was amid the countless battles I should have to fight to build a colossal fortune... No, I should have died without knowing happiness, had you not come to see me in this prison.
Two events came to disturb this tranquil life. The confessor of Julien, Jansenist though he was, was not safe from a Jesuit intrigue, and, without his knowledge, became their instrument.
He came to tell him one day that, unless he fell into the dreadful sin of suicide, he must make every possible move to obtain his pardon. Now, the clergy having much influence at the Ministry of Justice in Paris, an easy means presented itself: he must convert with public splendor...
--With splendor! repeated Julien. Ah! I catch you at it too, my father, playing the comedy like a missionary...
--Your age, the Jansenist resumed gravely, the interesting face which Providence has given you, the very motive of your crime, which remains inexplicable, the heroic efforts which Mlle de La Mole lavishes in your favor, in short, everything, even the astonishing friendship your victim shows toward you, all has contributed to make you the hero of the young women of Besançon. They have forgotten everything for you, even politics...
Your conversion would resound in their hearts and leave a deep impression there. You may be of major usefulness to religion, and should I hesitate for the frivolous reason that the Jesuits would follow the same course on such an occasion! Thus, even in this particular case which escapes their rapacity, they would still do harm! Let it not be so... The tears your conversion will cause to flow will cancel the corrosive effect of ten editions of the impious works of Voltaire.
--And what would remain to me, Julien answered coldly, if I despised myself? I have been ambitious, I do not wish to blame myself; then, I acted according to the conventions of the time. Now, I live from day to day. But as things stand, I should make myself quite unhappy if I gave way to some cowardice...
The other incident, which was far more keenly felt by Julien, came from Mme de Rênal. I know not what scheming friend had managed to persuade that naive and timid soul that it was her duty to set off for Saint-Cloud, and to throw herself at the feet of King Charles X.
She had made the sacrifice of parting from Julien, and after such an effort, the discomfort of making a public spectacle of herself, which at another time would have seemed to her worse than death, was now nothing in her eyes.
--I shall go to the king, I shall openly confess that you are my lover; the life of a man, and a man such as Julien, must outweigh all considerations. I shall say that it was out of jealousy that you attempted my life. There are many examples of poor young men saved in such cases by the humanity of the jury, or that of the king...
--I shall cease to see you, you shall have my prison closed, cried Julien, and most certainly the next day I shall kill myself of despair, if you do not swear to make no move that exposes us both to public view. This idea of going to Paris is not yours. Tell me the name of the schemer who suggested it to you...
Let us be happy during the few days of this short life. Let us hide our existence; my crime is all too evident. Mlle de La Mole has every credit in Paris, be assured she is doing what is humanly possible. Here in the provinces, I have against me all the rich and respected people. Your step would further embitter these rich and above all moderate men, for whom life is so easy... Let us not give the Maslons, the Valenods, and a thousand better men cause to laugh.
The foul air of the dungeon was becoming unbearable to Julien. Fortunately, on the day he was told he must die, a fine sun rejoiced nature, and Julien was in a vein of courage. To walk in the open air was for him a delicious sensation, like the landsman's walk for the sailor long at sea. Come, all goes well, he said to himself, I am not lacking in firmness.
Never had that head been so poetic as at the moment it was to fall. The sweetest moments he had once found in the woods of Vergy thronged his thought and with extreme vividness.
All passed simply, properly, and on his part without any affectation.
The day before yesterday, he had said to Fouqué:
--As for emotion, I cannot answer for it; this ugly, damp dungeon gives me fevered moments when I do not know myself; but as for fear, no, you shall not see me turn pale.
He had made his arrangements beforehand so that, on the morning of the last day, Fouqué should carry off Mathilde and Mme de Rênal.
--Take them in the same carriage, he had said. Arrange so that the post horses never leave a gallop. They will fall into each other's arms, or show each other a deadly hatred. In either case, the poor women will be a little distracted from their awful grief.
Julien had exacted from Mme de Rênal the oath that she would live to care for Mathilde's son.
--Who knows? perhaps we still have sensations after death, he said one day to Fouqué. I should rather like to rest, since rest is the word, in that little cave of the great mountain which overlooks Verrières. Several times I have told you; withdrawn at night in that cave, and my gaze plunging far over the richest provinces of France, ambition inflamed my heart: then, it was my passion... In short, this cave is dear to me, and one cannot deny that it is situated in a way to excite the envy of a philosopher's soul... well! those good congregants of Besançon make money of everything; if you know how to go about it, they will sell you my mortal remains...
Fouqué succeeded in this sad negotiation. He was spending the night alone in his room, beside his friend's body, when to his great surprise he saw Mathilde enter. A few hours before, he had left her ten leagues from Besançon. Her look and eyes were wild.
--I wish to see him, she said to him.
Fouqué had not the heart to speak or rise. He pointed with his finger to a large blue cloak on the floor; there was wrapped what remained of Julien.
She threw herself on her knees. The memory of Boniface de La Mole and Marguerite of Navarre no doubt gave her superhuman courage. Her trembling hands opened the cloak. Fouqué turned away his eyes.
He heard Mathilde walk hurriedly about the room. She was lighting several candles. When Fouqué had the strength to look at her, she had placed on a small marble table before her Julien's head, and was kissing it on the forehead...
Mathilde followed her lover to the tomb he had chosen for himself. A great number of priests escorted the coffin and, unknown to all, alone in her draped carriage, she carried on her knees the head of the man she had so greatly loved.
Arrived thus at the highest point of one of the lofty mountains of the Jura, midnight, in that little cave magnificently illuminated by an infinite number of wax tapers, twenty priests celebrated the funeral service. All the inhabitants of the little mountain villages, crossed by the procession, had followed it, drawn by the singularity of this strange ceremony.
Mathilde appeared among them in long mourning garments and, at the end of the service, had several thousand five-franc pieces thrown to them.
Left alone with Fouqué, she wished to bury with her own hands the head of her lover. Fouqué nearly went mad with grief.
Through Mathilde's care, this wild cave was adorned with marbles sculpted at great cost in Italy.
Mme de Rênal was faithful to her promise. She in no way sought to lay hands on her own life; but, three days after Julien, she died clasping her children.
THE END
“Stories of the world, in your language.”