Part 2 Chapter 19

The Opera-BouffeO how this spring of love resembleth The uncertain glory of anApril day; Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, And byand by a cloud takes all away!

SHAKESPEAREOccupied with thoughts of the future and of the singular part whichshe hoped to play, Mathilde soon came to look back with regret upon thedry, metaphysical discussions which she often had with Julien. Weariedwith keeping her thoughts on so high a plane, sometimes also she wouldsigh for the moments of happiness which she had found in his company;these memories were not untouched by remorse, which at certain moments overwhelmed her.

'But if one has a weakness,' she said to herself, 'it is incumbent upon agirl like myself to forget her duties only for a man of merit; people willnot be able to say that it was his handsome moustaches or his elegantseat on a horse that seduced me, but his profound discussions of the future in store for France, his ideas as to the resemblance the events thatare going to burst upon us may bear to the Revolution of 1688 in England. I have been seduced,' she answered the voice of remorse, 'I am aweak woman, but at least I have not been led astray like a puppet by outward advantages.

'If there be a Revolution, why should not Julien Sorel play the part ofRoland, and I that of Madame Roland? I prefer that to the part of Madame de Stael: immoral conduct will be an obstacle in our time. Certainly they shall not reproach me with a second lapse; I should die ofshame.'

Mathilde's meditations were not all as grave, it must be admitted, asthe thoughts we have just transcribed.

She would look at Julien, and found a charming grace in his most trivial actions.

'No doubt,' she said to herself, 'I have succeeded in destroying everyidea in his mind that he has certain rights.

'The air of misery and profound passion with which the poor boy addressed those words of love to me a week ago, is proof positive; I mustconfess that it was extraordinary in me to be vexed by a speech so fervent with respect and passion. Am I not his wife? That speech was onlynatural, and, I am bound to say, quite agreeable. Julien still loved meafter endless conversations, in which I had spoken to him, and with greatcruelty, I admit, only of the feelings of love which the boredom of the lifeI lead had inspired in me for the young men in society of whom he is sojealous. Ah, if he knew how little danger there is in them for me! Howlifeless they seem to me when compared with him, all copies of eachother.'

As she made these reflections, Mathilde was tracing lines with a pencilat random on a page of her album. One of the profiles as she finished itstartled and delighted her: it bore a striking resemblance to Julien. 'It isthe voice of heaven! This is one of the miracles of love,' she cried in atransport, 'quite unconsciously I have drawn his portrait.'

She fled to her room, locked herself in, set to work, tried seriously tomake a portrait of Julien, but could not succeed; the profile drawn at random was still the best likeness. Mathilde was enchanted; she saw in it aclear proof of her grand passion.

She did not lay aside her album until late in the evening, when theMarquise sent for her to go to the Italian opera. She had only one idea, tocatch Julien's eye, so as to make her mother invite him to join them.

He did not appear; the ladies had only the most commonplace peoplein their box. During the whole of the first act of the opera, Mathilde satdreaming of the man whom she loved with transports of the most intense passion; but in the second act a maxim of love sung, it must be admitted, to a melody worthy of Cimarosa, penetrated her heart. Theheroine of the opera said: 'I must be punished for all the adoration that Ifeel for him, I love him too well!'

The moment she had heard this sublime cantilena, everything that existed in the world vanished from Mathilde's ken. People spoke to her; shedid not answer; her mother scolded her, it was all she could do to look ather. Her ecstasy reached a state of exaltation and passion comparable tothe most violent emotions that, during the last few days, Julien had felt for her. The cantilena, divinely graceful, to which was sung the maximthat seemed to her to bear so striking an application to her own situation,occupied every moment in which she was not thinking directly of Julien.

Thanks to her love of music, she became that evening as Madame deRenal invariably was when thinking of him. Love born in the brain ismore spirited, doubtless, than true love, but it has only flashes of enthusiasm; it knows itself too well, it criticises itself incessantly; so far frombanishing thought, it is itself reared only upon a structure of thought.

On her return home, in spite of anything that Madame de La Molemight say, Mathilde alleged an attack of fever, and spent part of thenight playing over the cantilena on her piano. She sang the words of thefamous aria which had charmed her:

Devo punirmi, devo punirmi, Se troppo amai.

The result of this night of madness was that she imagined herself tohave succeeded in conquering her love. (This page will damage the unfortunate author in more ways than one. The frigid hearts will accuse itof indecency. It does not offer the insult to the young persons who shinein the drawing-rooms of Paris, of supposing that a single one of theirnumber is susceptible to the mad impulses which degrade the characterof Mathilde. This character is wholly imaginary, and is indeed imaginedquite apart from the social customs which among all the ages will assureso distinguished a place to the civilisation of the nineteenth century.

It is certainly not prudence that is lacking in the young ladies whohave been the ornament of the balls this winter.

Nor do I think that one can accuse them of unduly despising a brilliantfortune, horses, fine properties, and everything that ensures an agreeableposition in society. So far from their seeing nothing but boredom in allthese advantages, they are as a rule the object of their most constant desires, and if there is any passion in their hearts it is for them.

Neither is it love that provides for the welfare of young men endowedwith a certain amount of talent like Julien; they attach themselves inseparably to a certain set, and when the set 'arrives', all the good things ofsociety rain upon them. Woe to the student who belongs to no set, evenhis minute and far from certain successes will be made a reproach tohim, and the higher virtue will triumph over him as it robs him. Ah, Sir,a novel is a mirror carried along a high road. At one moment it reflects toyour vision the azure skies, at another the mire of the puddles at yourfeet. And the man who carries this mirror in his pack will be accused byyou of being immoral! His mirror shows the mire, and you blame the mirror! Rather blame that high road upon which the puddle lies, stillmore the inspector of roads who allows the water to gather and thepuddle to form.

Now that it is quite understood that the character of Mathilde is impossible in our age, no less prudent than virtuous, I am less afraid ofcausing annoyance by continuing the account of the follies of this charming girl.)Throughout the whole of the day that followed she looked out for opportunities to assure herself that she had indeed conquered her insanepassion. Her main object was to displease Julien in every way; but noneof her movements passed unperceived by him.

Julien was too wretched and above all, too greatly agitated, to interpret so complicated a stratagem of passion, still less could he discern allthe promise that it held out to himself: he fell a victim to it; never perhaps had his misery been so intense. His actions were so little under thecontrol of his mind that if some morose philosopher had said to him:

'Seek to take advantage rapidly of a disposition which for the moment isfavourable to you; in this sort of brain-fed love, which we see in Paris,the same state of mind cannot continue for more than a couple of days,'

he would not have understood. But, excited as he might be, Julien had asense of honour. His first duty was discretion; so much he did understand. To ask for advice, to relate his agony to the first comer wouldhave been a happiness comparable to that of the wretch who, crossing aburning desert, receives from the sky a drop of ice-cold water. He wasaware of the danger, he was afraid of answering with a torrent of tearsthe indiscreet person who should question him; he closeted himself inhis room.

He saw Mathilde strolling late and long in the garden; when at lengthshe had left it, he went down there; he made his way to a rose tree fromwhich she had plucked a rose.

The night was dark, he could indulge the full extent of his miserywithout fear of being seen. It was evident to him that Mademoiselle deLa Mole was in love with one of those young officers to whom she hadbeen chattering so gaily. He himself had been loved by her, but she hadseen how slight were his merits.

'And indeed, they are slight!' Julien told himself with entire conviction;'I am, when all is said, a very dull creature, very common, very tediousto others, quite insupportable to myself.' He was sick to death of all hisown good qualities, of all the things that he had loved with enthusiasm; and in this state of inverted imagination he set to work to criticise lifewith his imagination. This is an error that stamps a superior person.

More than once the idea of suicide occurred to him; this image was fullof charm, it was like a delicious rest; it was the glass of ice-cold wateroffered to the wretch who, in the desert, is dying of thirst and heat.

'My death will increase the scorn that she feels for me!' he exclaimed.

'What a memory I shall leave behind me!'

Sunk into the nethermost abyss of misery, a human being has no resource left but courage. Julien had not wisdom enough to say to himself:

'I must venture all'; but as he looked up at the window of Mathilde'sroom, he could see through the shutters that she was putting out herlight: he pictured to himself that charming room which he had seen, alas,once only in his life. His imagination went no farther.

One o'clock struck; from hearing the note of the bell to saying to himself: 'I am going up by the ladder,' did not take a moment.

This was a flash of genius, cogent reasons followed in abundance. 'CanI possibly be more wretched?' he asked himself. He ran to the ladder, thegardener had made it fast with a chain. With the hammer of one of hispocket pistols, which he broke, Julien, animated for the moment by a superhuman force, wrenched open one of the iron links of the chain whichbound the ladder; in a few minutes it was free, and he had placed itagainst Mathilde's window.

'She will be angry, will heap contempt upon me, what of that? I giveher a kiss, a final kiss, I go up to my room and kill myself … ; my lipswill have touched her cheek before I die!'

He flew up the ladder, tapped at the shutter; a moment later Mathildeheard him, she tried to open the shutter, the ladder kept it closed. Julienclung to the iron latch intended to hold the shutter open, and, risking athousand falls, gave the ladder a violent shake, and displaced it a little.

Mathilde was able to open the shutter.

He flung himself into the room more dead than alive: 'So it is you!' shesaid, and fell into his arms …What words can describe the intensity of Julien's happiness?

Mathilde's was almost as great.

She spoke to him against herself, she accused herself to him.

'Punish me for my atrocious pride,' she said to him, squeezing him inher arms as though to strangle him; 'you are my master, I am your slave,I must beg pardon upon my knees for having sought to rebel.' Sheslipped from his embrace to fall at his feet. 'Yes, you are my master,' shesaid again, intoxicated with love and joy; 'reign over me for ever, punishyour slave severely when she seeks to rebel.'

In another moment she had torn herself from his arms, lighted thecandle, and Julien had all the difficulty in the world in preventing herfrom cutting off all one side of her hair.

'I wish to remind myself,' she told him, 'that I am your servant: shouldmy accursed pride ever make me forget it, show me these locks and say:

"There is no question now of love, we are not concerned with the emotion that your heart may be feeling at this moment, you have sworn toobey, obey upon your honour."'

But it is wiser to suppress the description of so wild a felicity.

Julien's chivalry was as great as his happiness; 'I must go down nowby the ladder,' he said to Mathilde, when he saw the dawn appear overthe distant chimneys to the east, beyond the gardens. The sacrifice that Iam imposing on myself is worthy of you, I am depriving myself of somehours of the most astounding happiness that a human soul can enjoy, itis a sacrifice that I am offering to your reputation: if you know my heartyou appreciate the effort that I have to make. Will you always be to mewhat you are at this moment? But the voice of honour speaks, it isenough. Let me tell you that, since our first meeting, suspicion has notbeen directed only against robbers. M. de La Mole has set a watch in thegarden. M. de Croisenois is surrounded by spies, we know what he is,doing night by night … '

When she heard this idea, Mathilde burst out laughing. Her motherand one of the maids were aroused: immediately they called to herthrough the door. Julien looked at her, she turned pale as she scolded themaid, and did not condescend to speak to her mother.

'But if it should occur to them to open the window, they will see theladder!' Julien said to her.

He clasped her once more in his arms, sprang on to the ladder and slidrather than climbed down it; in a moment he was on the ground.

Three seconds later the ladder was under the lime alley, andMathilde's honour was saved. Julien, on recovering his senses, found himself bleeding copiously and half naked: he had cut himself in hisheadlong descent.

The intensity of his happiness had restored all the energy of his nature:

had a score of men appeared before him, to attack them single-handedwould, at that moment, have been but a pleasure the more. Fortunately,his martial valour was not put to the proof: he laid down the ladder in itsaccustomed place; he replaced the chain that fastened it; he did not forget to come back and obliterate the print which the ladder had left in theborder of exotic flowers beneath Mathilde's window.

As in the darkness he explored the loose earth with his hand, to makesure that the mark was entirely obliterated, he felt something drop on hishand; it was a whole side of Mathilde's hair which she had clipped andthrew down to him.

She was at her window.

'See what your servant sends you,' she said in audible tones, 'it is thesign of eternal obedience. I renounce the exercise of my own reason; bemy master.'

Julien, overcome, was on the point of fetching back the ladder andmounting again to her room. Finally reason prevailed.

To enter the house from the garden was by no means easy. He succeeded in forcing the door of a cellar; once in the house he was obliged tobreak open, as silently as possible, the door of his own room. In his confusion he had left everything behind, including the key, which was in thepocket of his coat. 'Let us hope,' he thought, 'that she will remember tohide all that corpus delicti!'

Finally exhaustion overpowered happiness, and, as the sun rose, hefell into a profound slumber.

The luncheon bell just succeeded in waking him, he made his appearance in the dining-room. Shortly afterwards, Mathilde entered the room.

Julien's pride tasted a momentary joy when he saw the love that glowedin the eyes of this beautiful creature, surrounded by every mark of deference; but soon his prudence found an occasion for alarm.

On the pretext of not having had time to dress her hair properly,Mathilde had so arranged it that Julien could see at a glance the wholeextent of the sacrifice that she had made for him in clipping her locksthat night. If anything could have spoiled so lovely a head, Mathildewould have succeeded in spoiling hers; all one side of those beautifulpale golden locks were cropped to within half an inch of her scalp.

At luncheon, Mathilde's whole behaviour was in keeping with this original imprudence. You would have said that she was deliberately tryingto let everyone see the insane passion that she had for Julien. Fortunately, that day, M. de La Mole and the Marquise were greatly takenup with a list of forthcoming promotions to the Blue Riband, in whichthe name of M. de Chaulnes had not been included. Towards the end ofthe meal, Mathilde in talking to Julien addressed him as 'my master'. Hecoloured to the whites of his eyes.

Whether by accident or by the express design of Madame de La Mole,Mathilde was not left alone for an instant that day. In the evening,however, as she passed from the dining-room to the drawing-room, shefound an opportunity of saying to Julien:

'I hope you do not think that it is my idea: Mamma has just decidedthat one of her maids is to sleep in my room.'

The day passed like lightning; Julien was on the highest pinnacle ofhappiness. By seven o'clock next morning he was installed in the library;he hoped that Mademoiselle de La Mole would deign to appear there; hehad written her an endless letter.

He did not see her until several hours had passed, at luncheon. Herhead was dressed on this occasion with the greatest pains; a marvellousart had been employed to conceal the gap left by the clipped locks. Shelooked once or twice at Julien, but with polite, calm eyes; there was nolonger any question of her calling him 'my master'.

Julien could not breathe for astonishment … Mathilde found fault withherself for almost everything that she had done for him.

On mature reflection, she had decided that he was a creature, if not altogether common, at any rate not sufficiently conspicuous to deserve allthe strange follies which she had ventured to commit for him. On thewhole, she no longer thought of love; she was tired of love that day.

As for Julien, the emotions of his heart were those of a boy of sixteen.

Harrowing doubt, bewilderment, despair, seized upon him by turns during this luncheon, which seemed to him to be everlasting.

As soon as he could decently rise from table, he flew rather than ran tothe stable, saddled his horse himself and was off at a gallop; he wasafraid of disgracing himself by some sign of weakness. 'I must kill myheart by physical exhaustion,' he said to himself as he galloped throughthe woods of Meudon. 'What have I done, what have I said to deservesuch disgrace?

'I must do nothing, say nothing today,' he decided as he returned tothe house, 'be dead in body as I am in spirit. Julien no longer lives, it ishis corpse that is still stirring.'