บทที่ บทที่ 43 · A PLOT

. A PLOT

Disconnected remarks, casual meetings, become

transformed in the eyes of an imaginative man into

the most convincing proofs, if he has any fire in his

temperament.--_Schiller_.

The following day he again caught Norbert and his sister talking about

him. A funereal silence was established on his arrival as on the

previous day. His suspicions were now unbounded. "Can these charming

young people have started to make fun of me? I must own this is much

more probable, much more natural than any suggested passion on the part

of mademoiselle de La Mole for a poor devil of a secretary. In the

first place, have those people got any passions at all? Mystification

is their strong point. They are jealous of my poor little superiority

in speaking. Being jealous again is one of their weaknesses. On that

basis everything is explicable. Mademoiselle de La Mole simply wants to

persuade me that she is marking me out for special favour in order to

show me off to her betrothed?"

This cruel suspicion completely changed Julien's psychological

condition. The idea found in his heart a budding love which it had no

difficulty in destroying. This love was only founded on Mathilde's rare

beauty, or rather on her queenly manners and her admirable dresses.

Julien was still a parvenu in this respect. We are assured that there

is nothing equal to a pretty society women for dazzling a peasant

who is at the same time a man of intellect, when he is admitted to

first class society. It had not been Mathilde's character which had

given Julien food for dreams in the days that had just passed. He had

sufficient sense to realise that he knew nothing about her character.

All he saw of it might be merely superficial.

For instance, Mathilde would not have missed mass on Sunday for

anything in the world. She accompanied her mother there nearly every

time. If when in the salon of the Hôtel de La Mole some indiscreet man

forgot where he was, and indulged in the remotest allusion to any jest

against the real or supposed interests of Church or State, Mathilde

immediately assumed an icy seriousness. Her previously arch expression

re-assumed all the impassive haughtiness of an old family portrait.

But Julien had assured himself that she always had one or two of

Voltaire's most philosophic volumes in her room. He himself would

often steal some tomes of that fine edition which was so magnificently

bound. By moving each volume a little distance from the one next to it

he managed to hide the absence of the one he took away, but he soon

noticed that someone else was reading Voltaire. He had recourse to a

trick worthy of the seminary and placed some pieces of hair on those

volumes which he thought were likely to interest mademoiselle de La

Mole. They disappeared for whole weeks.

M. de La Mole had lost patience with his bookseller, who always sent

him all the spurious memoirs, and had instructed Julien to buy all the

new books, which were at all stimulating. But in order to prevent the

poison spreading over the household, the secretary was ordered to place

the books in a little book-case that stood in the marquis's own room.

He was soon quite certain that although the new books were hostile to

the interests of both State and Church, they very quickly disappeared.

It was certainly not Norbert who read them.

Julien attached undue importance to this discovery, and attributed to

mademoiselle de la Mole a Machiavellian rôle. This seeming depravity

constituted a charm in his eyes, the one moral charm, in fact, which

she possessed. He was led into this extravagance by his boredom with

hypocrisy and moral platitudes.

It was more a case of his exciting his own imagination than of his

being swept away by his love.

It was only after he had abandoned himself to reveries about the

elegance of mademoiselle de la Mole's figure, the excellent taste

of her dress, the whiteness of her hand, the beauty of her arm, the

_disinvoltura_ of all her movements, that he began to find himself in

love. Then in order to complete the charm he thought her a Catherine

de' Medici. Nothing was too deep or too criminal for the character

which he ascribed to her. She was the ideal of the Maslons, the

Frilairs, and the Castanèdes whom he had admired so much in his youth.

To put it shortly, she represented in his eyes the Paris ideal.

Could anything possibly be more humorous than believing in the depth or

in the depravity of the Parisian character?

It is impossible that this _trio_ is making fun of me thought Julien.

The reader knows little of his character if he has not begun already

to imagine his cold and gloomy expression when he answered Mathilde's

looks. A bitter irony rebuffed those assurances of friendship which the

astonished mademoiselle de la Mole ventured to hazard on two or three

occasions.

Piqued by this sudden eccentricity, the heart of this young girl,

though naturally cold, bored and intellectual, became as impassioned as

it was naturally capable of being. But there was also a large element

of pride in Mathilde's character, and the birth of a sentiment which

made all her happiness dependent on another, was accompanied by a

gloomy melancholy.

Julien had derived sufficient advantage from his stay in Paris to

appreciate that this was not the frigid melancholy of ennui. Instead

of being keen as she had been on at homes, theatres, and all kinds of

distractions, she now shunned them.

Music sung by Frenchmen bored Mathilde to death, yet Julien, who

always made a point of being present when the audience came out of the

Opera, noticed that she made a point of getting taken there as often

as she could. He thought he noticed that she had lost a little of that

brilliant neatness of touch which used to be manifest in everything

she did. She would sometimes answer her friends with jests rendered

positively outrageous through the sheer force of their stinging energy.

He thought that she made a special butt of the marquis de Croisenois.

That young man must be desperately in love with money not to give the

go-by to that girl, however rich she maybe, thought Julien. And as for

himself, indignant at these outrages on masculine self-respect, he

redoubled his frigidity towards her. Sometimes he went so far as to

answer her with scant courtesy.

In spite of his resolution not to become the dupe of Mathilde's signs

of interest, these manifestations were so palpable on certain days, and

Julien, whose eyes were beginning to be opened, began to find her so

pretty, that he was sometimes embarrassed.

"These young people of society will score in the long run by their

skill and their coolness over my inexperience," he said to himself. "I

must leave and put an end to all this." The marquis had just entrusted

him with the administration of a number of small estates and houses

which he possessed in Lower Languedoc. A journey was necessary; M. de

la Mole reluctantly consented. Julien had become his other self, except

in those matters which concerned his political career.

"So, when we come to balance the account," Julien said to himself,

as he prepared his departure, "they have not caught me. Whether the

jests that mademoiselle de la Mole made to those gentlemen are real,

or whether they were only intended to inspire me with confidence, they

have simply amused me.

"If there is no conspiracy against the carpenter's son, mademoiselle de

la Mole is an enigma, but at any rate, she is quite as much an enigma

for the marquis de Croisenois as she is to me. Yesterday, for instance,

her bad temper was very real, and I had the pleasure of seeing her

snub, thanks to her favour for me, a young man who is as noble and as

rich as I am a poor scoundrel of a plebeian. That is my finest triumph;

it will divert me in my post-chaise as I traverse the Languedoc plains."

He had kept his departure a secret, but Mathilde knew, even better than

he did himself, that he was going to leave Paris the following day for

a long time. She developed a maddening headache, which was rendered

worse by the stuffy salon. She walked a great deal in the garden, and

persecuted Norbert, the marquis de Croisenois, Caylus, de Luz, and

some other young men who had dined at the Hôtel de la Mole, to such an

extent by her mordant witticisms, that she drove them to take their

leave. She kept looking at Julien in a strange way.

"Perhaps that look is a pose," thought Julien, "but how about that

hurried breathing and all that agitation? Bah," he said to himself,

"who am I to judge of such things? We are dealing with the cream of

Parisian sublimity and subtlety. As for that hurried breathing which

was on the point of affecting me, she no doubt studied it with Léontine

Fay, whom she likes so much."

They were left alone; the conversation was obviously languishing. "No,

Julien has no feeling for me," said Mathilde to herself, in a state of

real unhappiness.

As he was taking leave of her she took his arm violently.

"You will receive a letter from me this evening," she said to him in a

voice that was so changed that its tone was scarcely recognisable.

This circumstance affected Julien immediately.

"My father," she continued, "has a proper regard for the services you

render him. You must not leave to-morrow; find an excuse." And she ran

away.

Her figure was charming. It was impossible to have a prettier foot. She

ran with a grace which fascinated Julien, but will the reader guess

what he began to think about after she had finally left him? He felt

wounded by the imperious tone with which she had said the words, "you

must." Louis XV. too, when on his death-bed, had been keenly irritated

by the words "you must," which had been tactlessly pronounced by his

first physician, and yet Louis XV. was not a parvenu.

An hour afterwards a footman gave Julien a letter. It was quite simply

a declaration of love.

"The style is too affected," said Julien to himself, as he endeavoured

to control by his literary criticism the joy which was spreading over

his cheeks and forcing him to smile in spite of himself.

At last his passionate exultation was too strong to be controlled. "So

I," he suddenly exclaimed, "I, the poor peasant, get a declaration of

love from a great lady."

"As for myself, I haven't done so badly," he added, restraining his

joy as much as he could. "I have managed to preserve my self-respect.

I did not say that I loved her." He began to study the formation of

the letters. Mademoiselle de la Mole had a pretty little English

handwriting. He needed some concrete occupation to distract him from a

joy which verged on delirium.

"Your departure forces me to speak.... I could not bear not to see you

again."

A thought had just struck Julien like a new discovery. It interrupted

his examination of Mathilde's letter, and redoubled his joy. "So I

score over the marquis de Croisenois," he exclaimed. "Yes, I who could

only talk seriously! And he is so handsome. He has a moustache and a

charming uniform. He always manages to say something witty and clever

just at the psychological moment."

Julien experienced a delightful minute. He was wandering at random in

the garden, mad with happiness.

Afterwards he went up to his desk, and had himself ushered in to the

marquis de la Mole, who was fortunately still in. He showed him several

stamped papers which had come from Normandy, and had no difficulty

in convincing him that he was obliged to put off his departure for

Languedoc in order to look after the Normandy lawsuits.

"I am very glad that you are not going," said the marquis to him, when

they had finished talking business. "I like seeing you." Julien went

out; the words irritated him.

"And I--I am going to seduce his daughter! and perhaps render

impossible that marriage with the marquis de Croisenois to which the

marquis looks forward with such delight. If he does not get made a

duke, at any rate his daughter will have a coronet." Julien thought of

leaving for Languedoc in spite of Mathilde's letter, and in spite of

the explanation he had just given to the marquis. This flash of virtue

quickly disappeared.

"How kind it is of me," he said to himself, "me ... a plebeian, takes

pity on a family of this rank! Yes, me, whom the duke of Chaulnes

calls a servant! How does the marquis manage to increase his immense

fortune? By selling stock when he picks up information at the castle

that there will be a panic of a _coup d'état_ on the following day.

And shall I, who have been flung down into the lowest class by a cruel

providence--I, whom providence has given a noble heart but not an

income of a thousand francs, that is to say, not enough to buy bread

with, literally not enough to buy bread with--shall I refuse a pleasure

that presents itself? A limpid fountain which will quench my thirst in

this scorching desert of mediocrity which I am traversing with such

difficulty! Upon my word, I am not such a fool! Each man for himself in

that desert of egoism which is called life."

And he remembered certain disdainful looks which madame de la Mole, and

especially her lady friends, had favoured him with.

The pleasure of scoring over the marquis de Croisenois completed the

rout of this echo of virtue.

"How I should like to make him angry," said Julien. "With what

confidence would I give him a sword thrust now!" And he went through

the segoon thrust. "Up till now I have been a mere usher, who exploited

basely the little courage he had. After this letter I am his equal.

"Yes," he slowly said to himself, with an infinite pleasure, "the

merits of the marquis and myself have been weighed in the balance, and

it is the poor carpenter from the Jura who turns the scale.

"Good!" he exclaimed, "this is how I shall sign my answer. Don't

imagine, mademoiselle de la Mole, that I am forgetting my place. I will

make you realise and fully appreciate that it is for a carpenter's son

that you are betraying a descendant of the famous Guy de Croisenois who

followed St. Louis to the Crusade."

Julien was unable to control his joy. He was obliged to go down into

the garden. He had locked himself in his room, but he found it too

narrow to breathe in.

"To think of it being me, the poor peasant from the Jura," he kept

on repeating to himself, "to think of it being me who am eternally

condemned to wear this gloomy black suit! Alas twenty years ago I would

have worn a uniform like they do! In those days a man like me either

got killed or became a general at thirty-six. The letter which he held

clenched in his hand gave him a heroic pose and stature. Nowadays, it

is true, if one sticks to this black suit, one gets at forty an income

of a hundred thousand francs and the blue ribbon like my lord bishop of

Beauvais.

"Well," he said to himself with a Mephistophelian smile, "I have more

brains than they. I am shrewd enough to choose the uniform of my

century. And he felt a quickening of his ambition and of his attachment

to his ecclesiastical dress. What cardinals of even lower birth than

mine have not succeeded in governing! My compatriot Granvelle, for

instance."

Julien's agitation became gradually calmed! Prudence emerged to the

top. He said to himself like his master Tartuffe whose part he knew by

heart:

Je puis croire ces mots, un artifice honnête.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Je ne me firai point à des propos si doux,

Qu'un peu de ses faveurs après quoi je soupire

Ne vienne m'assurer tout ce qu'ils m'ont pudire.

_Tartuffe, act iv. Scene v_.

"Tartuffe, too, was ruined by a woman, and he was as good as most

men.... My answer may be shown.... and the way out of that is this," he

added pronouncing his words slowly with an intonation of deliberate and

restrained ferocity. "We will begin by quoting the most vivid passages

from the letter of the sublime Mathilde."

"Quite so, but M. de Croisenois' lackeys will hurl themselves upon me

and snatch the original away."

"No, they won't, for I am well armed, and as we know I am accustomed to

firing on lackeys."

"Well, suppose one of them has courage, and hurls himself upon me. He

has been promised a hundred napoleons. I kill him, or wound him, good,

that's what they want. I shall be thrown into prison legally. I shall

be had up in the police court and the judges will send me with all

justice and all equity to keep Messieurs Fontan and Magalon company

in Poissy. There I shall be landed in the middle of four hundred

scoundrels.... And am I to have the slightest pity on these people,"

he exclaimed getting up impetuously! "Do they show any to persons of

the third estate when they have them in their power!" With these words

his gratitude to M. de la Mole, which had been in spite of himself

torturing his conscience up to this time, breathed its last.

"Softly, gentlemen, I follow this little Machiavellian trick, the abbé

Maslon or M. Castanède of the seminary could not have done better. You

will take the provocative letter away from me and I shall exemplify the

second volume of Colonel Caron at Colmar."

"One moment, gentlemen, I will send the fatal letter in a well-sealed

packet to M. the abbé Pirard to take care of. He's an honest man, a

Jansenist, and consequently incorruptible. Yes, but he will open the

letters.... Fouqué is the man to whom I must send it."

We must admit that Julien's expression was awful, his countenance

ghastly; it breathed unmitigated criminality. It represented the

unhappy man at war with all society.

"To arms," exclaimed Julien. And he bounded up the flight of steps

of the hotel with one stride. He entered the stall of the street

scrivener; he frightened him. "Copy this," he said, giving him

mademoiselle de la Mole's letter.

While the scrivener was working, he himself wrote to Fouqué. He asked

him to take care of a valuable deposit. "But he said to himself,"

breaking in upon his train of thought, "the secret service of the

post-office will open my letter, and will give you gentlemen the one

you are looking for ... not quite, gentlemen." He went and bought an

enormous Bible from a Protestant bookseller, skillfully hid Mathilde's

letter in the cover, and packed it all up. His parcel left by the

diligence addressed to one of Fouqué's workmen, whose name was known to

nobody at Paris.

This done, he returned to the Hôtel de la Mole, joyous and buoyant.

Now it's our turn he exclaimed as he locked himself into the room and

threw off his coat.

"What! mademoiselle," he wrote to Mathilde, "is it mademoiselle de la

Mole who gets Arsène her father's lackey to hand an only too flattering

letter to a poor carpenter from the Jura, in order no doubt to make

fun of his simplicity?" And he copied out the most explicit phrases in

the letter which he had just received. His own letter would have done

honour to the diplomatic prudence of M. the Chevalier de Beauvoisis.

It was still only ten o'clock when Julien entered the Italian opera,

intoxicated with happiness and that feeling of his own power which was

so novel for a poor devil like him. He heard his friend Geronimo sing.

Music had never exalted him to such a pitch.