Chương Chương 30 · AN AMBITIOUS MAN

. AN AMBITIOUS MAN

There is only one nobility, the title of duke; a marquis is

ridiculous; the word duke makes one turn round.

_Edinburgh Review_.

The Marquis de la Mole received the abbé Pirard without any of those

aristocratic mannerisms whose very politeness is at the same time so

impertinent to one who understands them. It would have been a waste of

time, and the Marquis was sufficiently expeditious in big affairs to

have no time to lose.

He had been intriguing for six months to get both the king and people

to accept a minister who, as a matter of gratitude, was to make him a

Duke. The Marquis had been asking his Besançon advocate for years on

end for a clear and precise summary of his Franche-Comté lawsuits. How

could the celebrated advocate explain to him what he did not understand

himself? The little square of paper which the abbé handed him explained

the whole matter.

"My dear abbé," said the Marquis to him, having got through in less

than five minutes all polite formulae of personal questions. "My dear

abbé, in the midst of my pretended prosperity I lack the time to occupy

myself seriously with two little matters which are rather important,

my family and my affairs. I manage the fortune of my house on a large

scale. I can carry it far. I manage my pleasures, and that is the first

consideration in my eyes," he added, as he saw a look of astonishment

in the abbé Pirard's eyes. Although a man of common sense, the abbé was

surprised to hear a man talk so frankly about his pleasures.

"Work doubtless exists in Paris," continued the great lord, "but it is

perched on the fifth story, and as soon as I take anyone up, he takes

an apartment on the second floor, and his wife starts a day at home;

the result is no more work and no more efforts except either to be, or

appear to be, a society man. That is the only thing they bother about,

as soon as they have got their bread and butter.

"For my lawsuits, yes, for every single one of them, I have, to put it

plainly, advocates who quarrel to death. One died of consumption the

day before yesterday. Taking my business all round, would you believe,

monsieur, that for three years I have given up all hope of finding a

man who deigns, during the time he is acting as my clerk, to give a

little serious thought to what he is doing. Besides, all this is only a

preliminary.

"I respect you and would venture to add that, although I only see you

for the first time to-day, I like you. Will you be my secretary at a

salary of eight hundred francs or even double. I shall still be the

gainer by it, I swear to you, and I will manage to reserve that fine

living for you for the day when we shall no longer be able to agree."

The abbé refused, but the genuine embarrassment in which he saw the

Marquis suggested an idea to him towards the end of the conversation.

"I have left in the depths of my seminary a poor young man who, if I

mistake not, will be harshly persecuted. If he were only a simple monk

he would be already _in pace_. So far this young man only knows Latin

and the Holy Scriptures, but it is not impossible that he will one day

exhibit great talent, either for preaching or the guiding of souls. I

do not know what he will do, but he has the sacred fire. He may go far.

I thought of giving him to our Bishop, if we had ever had one who was a

little of your way of considering men and things."

"What is your young man's extraction?" said the Marquis.

"He is said to be the son of a carpenter in our mountains. I rather

believe he is the natural son of some rich man. I have seen him receive

an anonymous or pseudonymous letter with a bill for five hundred

francs."

"Oh, it is Julien Sorel," said the Marquis.

"How do you know his name?" said the abbé, in astonishment, reddening

at his question.

"That's what I'm not going to tell you," answered the Marquis.

"Well," replied the abbé, "you might try making him your secretary. He

has energy. He has a logical mind. In a word, it's worth trying."

"Why not?" said the Marquis. "But would he be the kind of man to allow

his palm to be greased by the Prefect of Police or any one else and

then spy on me? That is only my objection."

After hearing the favourable assurances of the abbé Pirard, the Marquis

took a thousand franc note.

"Send this journey money to Julien Sorel. Let him come to me."

"One sees at once," said the abbé Pirard, "that you live in Paris.

You do not know the tyranny which weighs us poor provincials down,

and particularly those priests who are not friendly to the Jesuits.

They will refuse to let Julien Sorel leave. They will manage to cloak

themselves in the most clever excuses. They will answer me that he is

ill, that his letters were lost in the post, etc., etc."

"I will get a letter from the minister to the Bishop, one of these

days," answered the Marquis.

"I was forgetting to warn you of one thing," said the abbé. "This young

man, though of low birth, has a high spirit. He will be of no use if

you madden his pride. You will make him stupid."

"That pleases me," said the Marquis. "I will make him my son's comrade.

Will that be enough for you?"

Some time afterwards, Julien received a letter in an unknown writing,

and bearing the Chélon postmark. He found in it a draft on a Besançon

merchant, and instructions to present himself at Paris without delay.

The letter was signed in a fictitious name, but Julien had felt a

thrill in opening it. A leaf of a tree had fallen down at his feet. It

was the agreed signal between himself and the abbé Pirard.

Within an hour's time, Julien was summoned to the Bishop's Palace,

where he found himself welcomed with a quite paternal benevolence. My

lord quoted Horace and at the same time complimented him very adroitly

on the exalted destiny which awaited him in Paris in such a way as

to elicit an explanation by way of thanks. Julien was unable to say

anything, simply because he did not know anything, and my Lord showed

him much consideration. One of the little priests in the bishopric

wrote to the mayor, who hastened to bring in person a signed passport,

where the name of the traveller had been left in blank.

Before midnight of the same evening, Julien was at Fouqué's. His

friend's shrewd mind was more astonished than pleased with the future

which seemed to await his friend.

"You will finish up," said that Liberal voter, "with a place in the

Government, which will compel you to take some step which will be

calumniated. It will only be by your own disgrace that I shall have

news of you. Remember that, even from the financial standpoint, it is

better to earn a hundred louis in a good timber business, of which

one is his own master, than to receive four thousand francs from a

Government, even though it were that of King Solomon."

Julien saw nothing in this except the pettiness of spirit of a country

bourgeois. At last he was going to make an appearance in the theatre of

great events. Everything was over-shadowed in his eyes by the happiness

of going to Paris, which he imagined to be populated by people of

intellect, full of intrigues and full of hypocrisy, but as polite as

the Bishop of Besançon and the Bishop of Agde. He represented to his

friend that he was deprived of any free choice in the matter by the

abbé Pirard's letter.'

The following day he arrived at Verrières about noon. He felt the

happiest of men for he counted on seeing Madame de Rênal again. He

went first to his protector the good abbé Chélan. He met with a severe

welcome.

"Do you think you are under any obligation to me?" said M. Chélan to

him, without answering his greeting. "You will take breakfast with me.

During that time I will have a horse hired for you and you will leave

Verrières without seeing anyone."

"Hearing is obeying," answered Julien with a demeanour smacking of

the seminary, and the only questions now discussed were theology and

classical Latin.

He mounted his horse, rode a league, and then perceiving a wood and

not seeing any one who could notice him enter, he plunged into it.

At sunset, he sent away the horse. Later, he entered the cottage of

a peasant, who consented to sell him a ladder and to follow him with

it to the little wood which commands the _Cours de la Fidélité_ at

Verrières.

"I have been following a poor mutineer of a conscript ... or a

smuggler," said the peasant as he took leave of him, "but what does

it matter? My ladder has been well paid for, and I myself have done a

thing or two in that line."

The night was very black. Towards one o'clock in the morning, Julien,

laden with his ladder, entered Verrières. He descended as soon as he

could into the bed of the stream, which is banked within two walls, and

traverses M. de Rênal's magnificent gardens at a depth of ten feet.

Julien easily climbed up the ladder. "How will the watch dogs welcome

me," he thought. "It all turns on that." The dogs barked and galloped

towards him, but he whistled softly and they came and caressed him.

Then climbing from terrace to terrace he easily managed, although all

the grills were shut, to get as far as the window of Madame de Rênal's

bedroom which, on the garden side, was only eight or six feet above the

ground. There was a little heart shaped opening in the shutters which

Julien knew well. To his great disappointment, this little opening was

not illuminated by the flare of a little night-light inside.

"Good God," he said to himself. "This room is not occupied by Madame de

Rênal. Where can she be sleeping? The family must be at Verrières since

I have found the dogs here, but I might meet M. de Rênal himself, or

even a stranger in this room without a light, and then what a scandal!"

The most prudent course was to retreat, but this idea horrified Julien.

"If it's a stranger, I will run away for all I'm worth, and leave my

ladder behind me, but if it is she, what a welcome awaits me! I can

well imagine that she has fallen into a mood of penitence and the most

exalted piety, but after all, she still has some remembrance of me,

since she has written to me." This bit of reasoning decided him.

With a beating heart, but resolved none the less to see her or perish

in the attempt, he threw some little pebbles against the shutter.

No answer. He leaned his long ladder beside the window, and himself

knocked on the shutter, at first softly, and then more strongly.

"However dark it is, they may still shoot me," thought Julien. This

idea made the mad adventure simply a question of bravery.

"This room is not being slept in to-night," he thought, "or whatever

person might be there would have woken up by now. So far as it is

concerned, therefore, no further precautions are needed. I must only

try not to be heard by the persons sleeping in the other rooms."

He descended, placed his ladder against one of the shutters, climbed

up again, and placing his hand through the heart-shaped opening, was

fortunate enough to find pretty quickly the wire which is attached to

the hook which closed the shutter. He pulled this wire. It was with an

ineffable joy that he felt that the shutter was no longer held back,

and yielded to his effort.

I must open it bit by bit and let her recognise my voice. He opened the

shutter enough to pass his head through it, while he repeated in a low

voice, "It's a friend."

He pricked up his ears and assured himself that nothing disturbed the

profound silence of the room, but there could be no doubt about it,

there was no light, even half-extinguished, on the mantelpiece. It was

a very bad sign.

"Look out for the gun-shot," he reflected a little, then he ventured

to knock against the window with his finger. No answer. He knocked

harder. I must finish it one way or another, even if I have to break

the window. When he was knocking very hard, he thought he could catch

a glimpse through the darkness of something like a white shadow that

was crossing the room. At last there was no doubt about it. He saw a

shadow which appeared to advance with extreme slowness. Suddenly he saw

a cheek placed against the pane to which his eye was glued.

He shuddered and went away a little, but the night was so black that

he could not, even at this distance, distinguish if it were Madame de

Rênal. He was frightened of her crying out at first in alarm. He heard

the dogs prowling and growling around the foot of the ladder. "It is

I," he repeated fairly loudly. "A friend."

No answer. The white phantom had disappeared.

"Deign to open to me. I must speak to you. I am too unhappy." And he

knocked hard enough to break the pane.

A crisp sound followed. The casement fastening of the window yielded.

He pushed the casement and leaped lightly into the room.

The white phantom flitted away from him. He took hold of its arms. It

was a woman. All his ideas of courage vanished. "If it is she, what is

she going to say?" What were his emotions when a little cry gave him to

understand, that it was Madame de Rênal?

He clasped her in his arms. She trembled and scarcely had the strength

to push him away.

"Unhappy man. What are you doing?" Her agonised voice could scarcely

articulate the words.

Julien thought that her voice rang with the most genuine indignation.

"I have come to see you after a cruel separation of more than fourteen

months."

"Go away, leave me at once. Oh, M. Chélan, why did you prevent me

writing to him? I could then have foreseen this horror." She pushed

him away with a truly extraordinary strength. "Heaven has deigned to

enlighten me," she repeated in a broken voice. "Go away! Flee!"

"After fourteen months of unhappiness I shall certainly not leave you

without a word. I want to know all you have done. Yes, I have loved

you enough to deserve this confidence. I want to know everything."

This authoritative tone dominated Madame de Rênal's heart in spite of

herself. Julien, who was hugging her passionately and resisting her

efforts to get loose, left off clasping her in his arms. This reassured

Madame de Rênal a little.

"I will take away the ladder," he said, "to prevent it compromising

us in case some servant should be awakened by the noise, and go on a

round."

"Oh leave me, leave me!" she cried with an admirable anger. "What

do men matter to me! It is God who sees the awful scene you are now

making. You are abusing meanly the sentiments which I had for you but

have no longer. Do you hear, Monsieur Julien?"

He took away the ladder very slowly so as not to make a noise.

"Is your husband in town, dear," he said to her not in order to defy

her but as a sheer matter of habit.

"Don't talk to me like that, I beg you, or I will call my husband. I

feel only too guilty in not having sent you away before. I pity you,"

she said to him, trying to wound his, as she well knew, irritable pride.

This refusal of all endearments, this abrupt way of breaking so tender

a tie which he thought still subsisted, carried the transports of

Julien's love to the point of delirium.

"What! is it possible you do not love me?" he said to her, with one of

those accents that come straight from the heart and impose a severe

strain on the cold equanimity of the listener.

She did not answer. As for him, he wept bitterly.

In fact he had no longer the strength to speak.

"So I am completely forgotten by the one being who ever loved me, what

is the good of living on henceforth?" As soon as he had no longer to

fear the danger of meeting a man all his courage had left him; his

heart now contained no emotion except that of love.

He wept for a long time in silence.

He took her hand; she tried to take it away, and after a few almost

convulsive moments, surrendered it to him. It was extremely dark; they

were both sitting on Madame de Rênal's bed.

"What a change from fourteen months ago," thought Julien, and his tears

redoubled. "So absence is really bound to destroy all human sentiments."

"Deign to tell me what has happened to you?" Julien said at last.

"My follies," answered Madame de Rênal in a hard voice whose frigid

intonation contained in it a certain element of reproach, "were no

doubt known in the town when you left, your conduct was so imprudent.

Some time afterwards when I was in despair the venerable Chélan came to

see me. He tried in vain for a long time to obtain a confession. One

day he took me to that church at Dijon where I made my first communion.

In that place he ventured to speak himself----" Madame de Rênal

was interrupted by her tears. "What a moment of shame. I confessed

everything. The good man was gracious enough not to overwhelm me with

the weight of his indignation. He grieved with me. During that time I

used to write letters to you every day which I never ventured to send.

I hid them carefully and when I was more than usually unhappy I shut

myself up in my room and read over my letters."

"At last M. Chélan induced me to hand them over to him, some of them

written a little more discreetly were sent to you, you never answered."

"I never received any letters from you, I swear!"

"Great heavens! Who can have intercepted them? Imagine my grief until

the day I saw you in the cathedral. I did not know if you were still

alive."

"God granted me the grace of understanding how much I was sinning

towards Him, towards my children, towards my husband," went on Madame

de Rênal. "He never loved me in the way that I then thought that you

had loved me."

Julien rushed into her arms, as a matter of fact without any particular

purpose and feeling quite beside himself. But Madame de Rênal repelled

him and continued fairly firmly.

"My venerable friend, M. Chélan, made me understand that in marrying I

had plighted all my affections, even those which I did not then know,

and which I had never felt before a certain fatal attachment ... after

the great sacrifice of the letters that were so dear to me, my life has

flowed on, if not happily, at any rate calmly. Do not disturb it. Be

a friend to me, my best friend." Julien covered her hand with kisses.

She perceived he was still crying. "Do not cry, you pain me so much.

Tell me, in your turn, what you have been doing," Julien was unable

to speak. "I want to know the life you lead at the seminary," she

repeated. "And then you will go."

Without thinking about what he was saying Julien spoke of the

numberless intrigues and jealousies which he had first encountered, and

then of the great serenity of his life after he had been made a tutor.

"It was then," he added, "that after a long silence which was no doubt

intended to make me realise what I see only too clearly to-day, that

you no longer loved me and that I had become a matter of indifference

to you...."

Madame de Rênal wrung her hands.

"It was then that you sent me the sum of five hundred francs."

"Never," said Madame de Rênal.

"It was a letter stamped Paris and signed Paul Sorel so as to avert

suspicion."

There was a little discussion about how the letter could possibly have

originated.

The psychological situation was altered. Without knowing it Julien had

abandoned his solemn tone; they were now once more on the footing of a

tender affection. It was so dark that they did not see each other but

the tone of their voices was eloquent of everything. Julien clasped

his arm round his love's waist. This movement had its dangers. She

tried to put Julien's arms away from her; at this juncture he cleverly

diverted her attention by an interesting detail in his story. The arm

was practically forgotten and remained in its present position.

After many conjectures as to the origin of the five hundred francs

letter, Julien took up his story. He regained a little of his

self-control as he spoke of his past life, which compared with what he

was now experiencing interested him so little. His attention was now

concentrated on the final outcome of of his visit. "You will have to

go," were the curt words he heard from time to time.

"What a disgrace for me if I am dismissed. My remorse will embitter all

my life," he said to himself, "she will never write to me. God knows

when I shall come back to this part of the country." From this moment

Julien's heart became rapidly oblivious of all the heavenly delights of

his present position.

Seated as he was close to a woman whom he adored and practically

clasping her in his arms in this room, the scene of his former

happiness, amid a deep obscurity, seeing quite clearly as he did that

she had just started crying, and feeling that she was sobbing from the

heaving of her chest, he was unfortunate enough to turn into a cold

diplomatist, nearly as cold as in those days when in the courtyard

of the seminary he found himself the butt of some malicious joke on

the part of one of his comrades who was stronger than he was. Julien

protracted his story by talking of his unhappy life since his departure

from Verrières.

"So," said Madame de Rênal to herself, "after a year's absence and

deprived almost entirely of all tokens of memory while I myself was

forgetting him, he only thought of the happy days that he had had in

Verrières." Her sobs redoubled. Julien saw the success of his story.

He realised that he must play his last card. He abruptly mentioned a

letter he had just received from Paris.

"I have taken leave of my Lord Bishop."

"What! you are not going back to Besançon? You are leaving us for ever?"

"Yes," answered Julien resolutely, "yes, I am leaving a country where I

have been forgotten even by the woman whom I loved more than anyone in

my life; I am leaving it and I shall never see it again. I am going to

Paris."

"You are going to Paris, dear," exclaimed Madame de Rênal.

Her voice was almost choked by her tears and showed the extremity of

her trouble. Julien had need of this encouragement. He was on the point

of executing a manœuvre which might decide everything against him; and

up to the time of this exclamation he could not tell what effect he was

producing as he was unable to see. He no longer hesitated. The fear of

remorse gave him complete control over himself. He coldly added as he

got up.

"Yes, madame, I leave you for ever. May you be happy. Adieu."

He moved some steps towards the window. He began to open it. Madame de

Rênal rushed to him and threw herself into his arms. So it was in this

way that, after a dialogue lasting three hours, Julien obtained what he

desired so passionately during the first two hours.

Madame de Rênal's return to her tender feelings and this overshadowing

of her remorse would have been a divine happiness had they come a

little earlier; but, as they had been obtained by artifice, they were

simply a pleasure. Julien insisted on lighting the night-light in spite

of his mistress's opposition.

"Do you wish me then," he said to her "to have no recollection of

having seen you. Is the love in those charming eyes to be lost to me

for ever? Is the whiteness of that pretty hand to remain invisible?

Remember that perhaps I am leaving you for a very long time."

Madame de Rênal could refuse him nothing. His argument made her melt

into tears. But the dawn was beginning to throw into sharp relief the

outlines of the pine trees on the mountain east of Verrières. Instead

of going away Julien, drunk with pleasure, asked Madame de Rênal to let

him pass the day in her room and leave the following night.

"And why not?" she answered. "This fatal relapse robs me of all my

respect and will mar all my life," and she pressed him to her heart.

"My husband is no longer the same; he has suspicions, he believes I led

him the way I wanted in all this business, and shows great irritation

against me. If he hears the slightest noise I shall be ruined, he will

hound me out like the unhappy woman that I am."

"Ah here we have a phrase of M. Chélan's," said Julien "you would not

have talked like that before my cruel departure to the seminary; in

those days you used to love me."

Julien was rewarded for the frigidity which he put into those words. He

saw his love suddenly forget the danger which her husband's presence

compelled her to run, in thinking of the much greater danger of seeing

Julien doubt her love. The daylight grew rapidly brighter and vividly

illuminated the room. Julien savoured once more all the deliciousness

of pride, when he saw this charming woman in his arms and almost at his

feet, the only woman whom he had ever loved, and who had been entirely

absorbed only a few hours before by her fear of a terrible God and her

devotion to her duties. Resolutions, fortified by a year's persuasion,

had failed to hold out against his courage.

They soon heard a noise in the house. A matter that Madame de Rênal had

not thought of began to trouble her.

"That wicked Elisa will come into the room. What are we to do with this

enormous ladder?" she said to her sweetheart, "where are we to hide it?

I will take it to the loft," she exclaimed suddenly half playfully.

"But you will have to pass through the servants' room," said Julien in

astonishment.

"I will leave the ladder in the corridor and will call the servant and

send him on an errand."

"Think of some explanation to have ready in the event of a servant

passing the ladder and noticing it in the corridor."

"Yes, my angel," said Madame de Rênal giving him a kiss "as for you,

dear, remember to hide under the bed pretty quickly if Elisa enters

here during my absence."

Julien was astonished by this sudden gaiety--"So" he thought, "the

approach of a real danger instead of troubling her gives her back

her spirits before she forgets her remorse. Truly a superior woman.

Yes, that's a heart over which it is glorious to reign." Julien was

transported with delight.

Madame de Rênal took the ladder, which was obviously too heavy for her.

Julien went to her help. He was admiring that elegant figure which was

so far from betokening any strength when she suddenly seized the ladder

without assistance and took it up as if it had been a chair. She took

it rapidly into the corridor of the third storey where she laid it

alongside the wall. She called a servant, and in order to give him time

to dress himself, went up into the dovecot.

Five minutes later, when she came back to the corridor, she found no

signs of the ladder. What had happened to it? If Julien had been out

of the house she would not have minded the danger in the least. But

supposing her husband were to see the ladder just now, the incident

might be awful. Madame de Rênal ran all over the house.

Madame de Rênal finally discovered the ladder under the roof where the

servant had carried it and even hid it.

"What does it matter what happens in twenty-four hours," she thought,

"when Julien will be gone?"

She had a vague idea that she ought to take leave of life but what

mattered her duty? He was restored to her after a separation which she

had thought eternal. She was seeing him again and the efforts he had

made to reach her showed the extent of his love.

"What shall I say to my husband," she said to him. "If the servant

tells him he found this ladder?" She was pensive for a moment. "They

will need twenty-four hours to discover the peasant who sold it

to you." And she threw herself into Julien's arms and clasped him

convulsively.

"Oh, if I could only die like this," she cried covering him with

kisses. "But you mustn't die of starvation," she said with a smile.

"Come, I will first hide you in Madame Derville's room which is always

locked." She went and watched at the other end of the corridor and

Julien ran in. "Mind you don't try and open if any one knocks," she

said as she locked him in. "Anyway it would only be a frolic of the

children as they play together."

"Get them to come into the garden under the window," said Julien, "so

that I may have the pleasure of seeing them. Make them speak."

"Yes, yes," cried Madame de Rênal to him as she went away. She soon

returned with oranges, biscuits and a bottle of Malaga wine. She had

not been able to steal any bread.

"What is your husband doing?" said Julien.

"He is writing out the figures of the bargains he is going to make with

the peasants."

But eight o'clock had struck and they were making a lot of noise in the

house. If Madame de Rênal failed to put in an appearance, they would

look for her all over the house. She was obliged to leave him. Soon she

came back, in defiance of all prudence, bringing him a cup of coffee.

She was frightened lest he should die of starvation.

She managed after breakfast to bring the children under the window of

Madame Derville's room. He thought they had grown a great deal, but

they had begun to look common, or else his ideas had changed. Madame de

Rênal spoke to them about Julien. The elder answered in an affectionate

tone and regretted his old tutor, but he found that the younger

children had almost forgotten him.

M. de Rênal did not go out that morning; he was going up and downstairs

incessantly engaged in bargaining with some peasants to whom he was

selling potatoes.

Madame de Rênal did not have an instant to give to her prisoner until

dinner-time. When the bell had been rung and dinner had been served,

it occurred to her to steal a plate of warm soup for him. As she

noiselessly approached the door of the room which he occupied, she

found herself face to face with the servant who had hid the ladder

in the morning. At the time he too was going noiselessly along the

corridor, as though listening for something. The servant took himself

off in some confusion.

Madame de Rênal boldly entered Julien's room. The news of this

encounter made him shudder.

"You are frightened," she said to him, "but I would brave all the

dangers in the world without flinching. There is only one thing I fear,

and that is the moment when I shall be alone after you have left," and

she left him and ran downstairs.

"Ah," thought Julien ecstatically, "remorse is the only danger which

this sublime soul is afraid of."

At last evening came. Monsieur de Rênal went to the Casino.

His wife had given out that she was suffering from an awful headache.

She went to her room, hastened to dismiss Elisa and quickly got up in

order to let Julien out.

He was literally starving. Madame de Rênal went to the pantry to fetch

some bread. Julien heard a loud cry. Madame de Rênal came back and told

him that when she went to the dark pantry and got near the cupboard

where they kept the bread, she had touched a woman's arm as she

stretched out her hand. It was Elisa who had uttered the cry Julien had

heard.

"What was she doing there?"

"Stealing some sweets or else spying on us," said Madame de Rênal with

complete indifference, "but luckily I found a pie and a big loaf of

bread."

"But what have you got there?" said Julien pointing to the pockets of

her apron.

Madame de Rênal had forgotten that they had been filled with bread

since dinner.

Julien clasped her in his arms with the most lively passion. She had

never seemed to him so beautiful. "I could not meet a woman of greater

character even at Paris," he said confusedly to himself. She combined

all the clumsiness of a woman who was but little accustomed to paying

attentions of this kind, with all the genuine courage of a person who

is only afraid of dangers of quite a different sphere and quite a

different kind of awfulness.

While Julien was enjoying his supper with a hearty appetite and his

sweetheart was rallying him on the simplicity of the meal, the door of

the room was suddenly shaken violently. It was M. de Rênal.

"Why have you shut yourself in?" he cried to her.

Julien had only just time to slip under the sofa.

On any ordinary day Madame de Rênal would have been upset by this

question which was put with true conjugal harshness; but she realised

that M. de Rênal had only to bend down a little to notice Julien, for

M. de Rênal had flung himself into the chair opposite the sofa which

Julien had been sitting in one moment before.

Her headache served as an excuse for everything. While her husband on

his side went into a long-winded account of the billiards pool which he

had won at Casino, "yes, to be sure a nineteen franc pool," he added.

She noticed Julien's hat on a chair three paces in front of them.

Her self-possession became twice as great, she began to undress, and

rapidly passing one minute behind her husband threw her dress over the

chair with the hat on it.

At last M. de Rênal left. She begged Julien to start over again his

account of his life at the Seminary. "I was not listening to you

yesterday all the time you were speaking, I was only thinking of

prevailing on myself to send you away."

She was the personification of indiscretion. They talked very loud and

about two o'clock in the morning they were interrupted by a violent

knock at the door. It was M. de Rênal again.

"Open quickly, there are thieves in the house!" he said. "Saint Jean

found their ladder this morning."

"This is the end of everything," cried Madame de Rênal, throwing

herself into Julien's arms. "He will kill both of us, he doesn't

believe there are any thieves. I will die in your arms, and be more

happy in my death than I ever was in my life." She made no attempt to

answer her husband who was beginning to lose his temper, but started

kissing Julien passionately.

"Save Stanislas's mother," he said to her with an imperious look. "I

will jump down into the courtyard through the lavatory window, and

escape in the garden; the dogs have recognised me. Make my clothes into

a parcel and throw them into the garden as soon as you can. In the

meanwhile let him break the door down. But above all, no confession, I

forbid you to confess, it is better that he should suspect rather than

be certain."

"You will kill yourself as you jump!" was her only answer and her only

anxiety.

She went with him to the lavatory window; she then took sufficient time

to hide his clothes. She finally opened the door to her husband who was

boiling with rage. He looked in the room and in the lavatory without

saying a word and disappeared. Julien's clothes were thrown down to

him; he seized them and ran rapidly towards the bottom of the garden in

the direction of the Doubs.

As he was running he heard a bullet whistle past him, and heard at the

same time the report of a gun.

"It is not M. de Rênal," he thought, "he's far too bad a shot." The

dogs ran silently at his side, the second shot apparently broke the paw

of one dog, for he began to whine piteously. Julien jumped the wall of

the terrace, did fifty paces under cover, and began to fly in another

direction. He heard voices calling and had a distinct view of his enemy

the servant firing a gun; a farmer also began to shoot away from the

other side of the garden. Julien had already reached the bank of the

Doubs where he dressed himself.

An hour later he was a league from Verrières on the Geneva road. "If

they had suspicions," thought Julien, "they will look for me on the

Paris road."