Moral LoveThere also was of course in Adeline That calm patrician polish inthe address, Which ne'er can pass the equinoctial line Of anythingwhich nature would express; Just as a mandarin finds nothingfine, At least his manner suffers not to guess That anything heviews can greatly please.
Don Juan, XIII. 34'There is a trace of madness in the way the whole of this family have oflooking at things,' thought the Marechale; 'they are infatuated with theirlittle abbe, who can do nothing but sit and stare at one; it is true, his eyesare not bad-looking.'
Julien, for his part, found in the Marechale's manner an almost perfectexample of that patrician calm which betokens a scrupulous politenessand still more the impossibility of any keen emotion. Any sudden outburst, a want of self-control, would have shocked Madame de Fervaquesalmost as much as a want of dignity towards one's inferiors. The leastsign of sensibility would have been in her eyes like a sort of moral intoxication for which one ought to blush, and which was highly damaging towhat a person of exalted rank owed to herself. Her great happiness wasto speak of the King's latest hunt, her favourite book the Memoires du ducde Saint-Simon, especially the genealogical part.
Julien knew the place in the drawing-room which, as the lights werearranged, suited the style of beauty of Madame de Fervaques. He wouldbe there waiting for her, but took great care to turn his chair so that heshould not be able to see Mathilde. Astonished by this persistence in hiding from her, one evening she left the blue sofa and came to work at alittle table that stood by the Marquise's armchair. Julien could see her atquite a close range from beneath the brim of Madame de Fervaques's hat.
Those eyes, which governed his destiny, frightened him at first, seen at such close range, then jerked him violently out of his habitual apathy; hetalked, and talked very well.
He addressed himself to the Marechale, but his sole object was to influence the heart of Mathilde. He grew so animated that finally Madamede Fervaques could not understand what he said.
This was so much to the good. Had it occurred to Julien to follow it upwith a few expressions of German mysticism, religious fervour and Jesuitry, the Marechale would have numbered him straightway among thesuperior persons called to regenerate the age.
'Since he shows such bad taste,' Mademoiselle de La Mole said to herself, 'as to talk for so long and with such fervour to Madame de Fervaques, I shall not listen to him any more.' For the rest of the evening shekept her word, albeit with difficulty.
At midnight, when she took up her mother's candlestick, to escort herto her room, Madame de La Mole stopped on the stairs to utter a perfectpanegyric of Julien. This completed Mathilde's ill humour; she could notsend herself to sleep. A thought came to her which soothed her: 'Thethings that I despise may even be great distinctions in the Marechale'seyes.'
As for Julien, he had now taken action, he was less wretched; his eyeshappened to fall on the Russia-leather portfolio in which Prince Korasoffhad placed the fifty-three love letters of which he had made him apresent. Julien saw a note at the foot of the first letter: 'Send No. 1 a weekafter the first meeting.'
'I am late!' exclaimed Julien, 'for it is ever so long now since I first metMadame de Fervaques.' He set to work at once to copy out this first loveletter; it was a homily stuffed with phrases about virtue, and of a deadlydullness; Julien was fortunate in falling asleep over the second page.
Some hours later the risen sun surprised him crouching with his headon the table. One of the most painful moments of his life was that inwhich, every morning, as he awoke, he discovered his distress. Thismorning, he finished copying his letter almost with a laugh. 'Is it possible,' he asked himself, 'that there can ever have been a young man whocould write such stuff?' He counted several sentences of nine lines. Atthe foot of the original he caught sight of a pencilled note.
'One delivers these letters oneself: on horseback, a black cravat, a bluegreatcoat. One hands the letter to the porter with a contrite air; profound melancholy in the gaze. If one should see a lady's maid, wipe the eyesfurtively. Address a few words to the maid.'
All these instructions were faithfully carried out.
'What I am doing is very bold,' thought Julien, as he rode away fromthe Hotel de Fervaques, 'but so much the worse for Korasoff. To darewrite to so notorious a prude! I am going to be treated with the utmostcontempt, and nothing will amuse me more. This is, really, the only formof comedy to which I can respond. Yes, to cover with ridicule that odiousbeing whom I call myself will amuse me. If I obeyed my instincts Ishould commit some crime for the sake of distraction.'
For a month past, the happiest moment in Julien's day had been that inwhich he brought his horse back to the stables. Korasoff had expresslyforbidden him to look, upon any pretext whatsoever, at the mistress whohad abandoned him. But the paces of that horse which she knew so well,the way in which Julien rapped with his whip at the stable door to summon a groom, sometimes drew Mathilde to stand behind her windowcurtain. The muslin was so fine that Julien could see through it. By looking up in a certain way from under the brim of his hat, he caught aglimpse of Mathilde's form without seeing her eyes. 'Consequently,' hetold himself, 'she cannot see mine, and this is not the same as looking ather.'
That evening, Madame de Fervaques behaved to him exactly asthough she had not received the philosophical, mystical and religiousdissertation which, in the morning, he had handed to her porter withsuch an air of melancholy. The evening before, chance had revealed toJulien the secret springs of eloquence; he arranged himself so as to beable to see Mathilde's eyes. She, meanwhile, immediately after the arrivalof the Marechale, rose from the blue sofa: this was a desertion of her regular company. M. de Croisenois showed consternation at this newcaprice; his evident distress relieved Julien of the keenest pangs of hisown sufferings.
This unexpected turn in his affairs made him talk like an angel; and asself-esteem finds its way even into hearts that serve as temples to themost august virtue: 'Madame de La Mole is right,' the Marechale said toherself, as she stepped into her carriage, 'that young priest has distinction. My presence must, at first, have frightened him. Indeed, everythingthat one finds in that house is very frivolous; all the virtue I see there isthe result of age, and stood in great need of the congealing hand of time.
That young man must have seen the difference; he writes well; but I am much afraid that the request that I should enlighten him with my advice,which he makes in his letter, is in reality only a sentiment unaware ofitself.
'And yet, how many conversions have begun in this way! What leadsme to augur well of this one is the difference in his style from that of theyoung men whose letters I have had occasion to see. It is impossible notto recognise unction, a profound earnestness and great conviction in theprose of this young Levite; he must have the soothing virtue ofMassillon.'