by Stendhal
“Dying in this way, though not by my own hand, is very far from being a sin,” thought Madame de Rênal. “God will perhaps forgive me for rejoicing over my death.” She did not dare to add, “and dying by Julien’s hand puts the last touch on my happiness.”
She had scarcely been rid of the presence of the surgeon and of all the crowd of friends that had rushed to see her, than she called her maid, Elisa. “The gaoler,” she said to her with a violent blush, “is a cruel man. He will doubtless ill-treat him, thinking to please me by doing so . . . I cannot bear that idea. Could you not go, as though on your own account, and give the gaoler this little packet which contains some louis. You will tell him that religion forbids him to treat him badly, above all, he must not go and speak about the sending of this money.”
It was this circumstance, which we have just mentioned, that Julien had to thank for the humanity of the gaoler of Verrières. It was still the same M. Nolraud, that ideal official, whom he remembered as being so finely alarmed by M. Appert’s presence.
A judge appeared in the prison. “I occasioned death by premeditation,” said Julien to him. “I bought the pistols and had them loaded at so-and-so’s, a gunsmith. Article 1342 of the penal code is clear. I deserve death, and I expect it.” Astonished at this kind of answer, the judge started to multiply his questions, with a view of the accused contradicting himself in his answers.
“Don’t you see,” said Julien to him with a smile, “that I am making myself out as guilty as you can possibly desire? Go away, Monsieur, you will not fail to catch the quarry you are pursuing. You will have the pleasure to condemn me. Spare me your presence.”
“I have an irksome duty to perform,” thought Julien. “I must write to Mademoiselle de la Mole:—
“I have avenged myself,” he said to her. “Unfortunately, my name will appear in the papers, and I shall not be able to escape from the world incognito. I shall die in two months’ time. My revenge was ghastly, like the pain of being separated from you. From this moment I forbid myself to write or pronounce your name. Never speak of me even to my son; silence is the only way of honouring me. To the ordinary commonplace man, I shall represent a common assassin. Allow me the luxury of the truth at this supreme moment; you will forget me. This great catastrophe of which I advise you not to say a single word to a single living person, will exhaust, for several years to come, all that romantic and unduly adventurous element which I have detected in your character. You were intended by nature to live among the heroes of the middle ages; exhibit their firm character. Let what has to happen take place in secret and without your being compromised. You will assume a false name, and you will confide in no one. If you absolutely need a friend’s help, I bequeath the Abbé Pirard to you.
Do not talk to anyone else, particularly to the people of your own class—the de Luz’s, the Caylus’s.
A year after my death, marry M. de Croisenois; I command you as your husband. Do not write to me at all, I shall not answer. Though in my view, much less wicked than Iago, I am going to say, like him: ‘From this time forth, I never will speack word.’5
I shall never be seen to speak or write again. You will have received my final words and my final expressions of adoration.
J. S.”
It was only after he had despatched this letter and had recovered himself a little, that Julien felt for the first time extremely unhappy. Those momentous words, I shall die, meant the successive tearing out of his heart of each individual hope and ambition. Death, in itself, was not horrible in his eyes. His whole life had been nothing but a long preparation for unhappiness, and he had made a point of not losing sight of what is considered the greatest unhappiness of all.
“Come then,” he said to himself; “if I had to fight a duel in a couple of months, with an expert duellist, should I be weak enough to think about it incessantly with panic in my soul?”
He passed more than an hour in trying to analyze himself thoroughly on this score.
When he saw clear in his own soul, and the truth appeared before his eyes with as much definiteness as one of the pillars of his prison, he thought about remorse.
“Why should I have any? I have been atrociously injured; I have killed—I deserve death, but that is all. I die after having squared my account with humanity. I do not leave any obligation unfulfilled. I owe nothing to anybody; there is nothing shameful about my death, except the instrument of it; that alone, it is true, is simply sufficient to disgrace me in the eyes of the bourgeois of Verrières; but from the intellectual standpoint, what could be more contemptible than they? I have one means of winning their consideration; by flinging pieces of gold to the people as I go to the scaffold. If my memory is linked with the idea of gold, they will always look upon it as resplendent.”
After this chain of reasoning, which after a minute’s reflection seemed to him self-evident, Julien said to himself, “I have nothing left to do in the world,” and fell into a deep sleep.
About 9 o’clock in the evening the gaoler woke him up as he brought in his supper.
“What are they saying in Verrières?”
“M. Julien, the oath which I took before the crucifix in the ‘Royal Courtyard,’ on the day when I was installed in my place, obliges me to silence.”
He was silent, but remained. Julien was amused by the sight of this vulgar hypocrisy. I must make him, he thought, wait a long time for the five francs which he wants to sell his conscience for.
When the gaoler saw him finish his meal without making any attempt to corrupt him, he said in a soft and perfidious voice:
“The affection which I have for you, M. Julien, compels me to speak. Although they say that it is contrary to the interests of justice, because it may assist you in preparing your defence. M. Julien you are a good fellow at heart, and you will be very glad to learn that Madame de Rênal is better.”
“What! she is not dead?” exclaimed Julien, beside himself.
“What, you know nothing?” said the gaoler, with a stupid air which soon turned into exultant cupidity. “It would be very proper, Monsieur, for you to give something to the surgeon, who, so far as law and justice go, ought not to have spoken. But in order to please you, Monsieur, I went to him, and he told me everything.”
“Anyway, the wound is not mortal,” said Julien to him impatiently, “you answer for it on your life?”
The gaoler, who was a giant six feet tall, was frightened and retired towards the door. Julien saw that he was adopting bad tactics for getting at the truth. He sat down again and flung a napoleon to M. Noiraud.
As the man’s story proved to Julien more and more conclusively that Madame de Rênal’s wound was not mortal, he felt himself overcome by tears. “Leave me,” he said brusquely.
The gaoler obeyed. Scarcely had the door shut, than Julien exclaimed: “Great God, she is not dead,” and he fell on his knees, shedding hot tears.
In this supreme moment he was a believer. What mattered the hypocrisies of the priests? Could they abate one whit of the truth and sublimity of the idea of God?
It was only then that Julien began to repent of the crime that he had committed. By a coincidence, which prevented him falling into despair, it was only at the present moment that the condition of physical irritation and semi-madness, in which he had been plunged since his departure from Paris for Verrières, came to an end.
His tears had a generous source. He had no doubt about the condemnation which awaited him.
“So she will live,” he said to himself. “She will live to forgive me and love me.”
Very late the next morning the gaoler woke him up and said, “You must have a famous spirit, M. Julien. I have come in twice, but I did not want to wake you up. Here are two bottles of excellent wine which our curé, M. Maslon, has sent you.”
“What, is that scoundrel still here?” said Julien.
“Yes, Monsieur,” said the gaoler, lowering his voice. “But do not talk so loud, it may do you harm.”
; Julien laughed heartily.
“At the stage I have reached, my friend, you alone can do me harm in the event of your ceasing to be kind and tender. You will be well paid,” said Julien, changing his tone and reverting to his imperious manner. This manner was immediately justified by the gift of a piece of money.
M. Noiraud related again, with the greatest detail, everything he had learnt about Madame de Rênal, but he did not make any mention of Mademoiselle Elisa’s visit.
The man was as base and servile as it was possible to be. An idea crossed Julien’s mind. “This kind of misshapen giant cannot earn more than three or four hundred francs, for his prison is not at all full. I can guarantee him ten thousand francs, if he will escape with me to Switzerland. The difficulty will be in persuading him of my good faith.” The idea of the long conversation he would need to have with so vile a person filled Julien with disgust. He thought of something else.
In the evening the time had passed. A post-chaise had come to pick him up at midnight. He was very pleased with his travelling companions, the gendarmes. When he arrived at the prison of Besançon in the morning they were kind enough to place him in the upper storey of a Gothic turret. He judged the architecture to be of the beginning of the fourteenth century. He admired its fascinating grace and lightness. Through a narrow space between two walls, beyond the deep court, there opened a superb vista.
On the following day there was an interrogation, after which he was left in peace for several days. His soul was calm. He found his affair a perfectly simple one. “I meant to kill. I deserve to be killed.”
His thoughts did not linger any further over this line of reasoning. As for the sentence, the disagreeableness of appearing in public, the defence, he considered all this as slight embarrassment, irksome formalities, which it would be time enough to consider on the actual day. The actual moment of death did not seize hold of his mind either. “I will think about it after the sentence.” Life was no longer boring, he was envisaging everything from a new point of view, he had no longer any ambition. He rarely thought about Mademoiselle de la Mole. His passion of remorse engrossed him a great deal, and often conjured up the image of Madame de Rênal, particularly during the silence of the night, which in this high turret was only disturbed by the song of the osprey.
He thanked heaven that he had not inflicted a mortal wound. “Astonishing,” he said to himself, “I thought that she had destroyed my future happiness for ever by her letter to M. de la Mole, and here am I, less than a fortnight after the date of that letter, not giving a single thought to all the things that engrossed me then. An income of two or three thousand francs, on which to live quietly in a mountain district, like Vergy . . . I was happy then . . . I did not realise my happiness.”
At other moments he would jump up from his chair. “If I had mortally wounded Madame de Rênal, I would have killed myself... I need to feel certain of that so as not to horrify myself.”
“Kill myself? That’s the great question,” he said to himself. “Oh, those judges, those fiends of red tape, who would hang their best citizen in order to win the cross . . . At any rate, I should escape from their control and from the bad French of their insults, which the local paper will call eloquence.”
“I still have five or six weeks, more or less, to live . . . Kill myself? No, not for a minute,” he said to himself after some days, “Napoleon went on living.”
“Besides, I find life pleasant, this place is quiet, I am not troubled with bores,” he added with a smile, and he began to make out a list of the books which he wanted to order from Paris.
LXVII. A Turret
The tomb of a friend.—Sterne
He heard a loud noise in the corridor. It was not the time when the gaoler usually came up to his prison. The osprey flew away with a shriek. The door opened, and the venerable curé Chélan threw himself into his arms. He was trembling all over and had his stick in his hands.
“Great God! Is it possible, my child—I ought to say monster?”
The good old man could not add a single word. Julien was afraid he would fall down. He was obliged to lead him to a chair. The hand of time lay heavy on this man who had once been so active. He seemed to Julien the mere shadow of his former self.
When he had regained his breath, he said, “It was only the day before yesterday that I received your letter from Strasbourg with your five hundred francs for the poor of Verrières. They brought it to me in the mountains at Liveru where I am living in retirement with my nephew Jean. Yesterday I learnt of the catastrophe . . . Heavens, is it possible?” And the old man left off weeping. He did not seem to have any ideas left, but added mechanically, “You will have need of your five hundred francs, I will bring them back to you.”
“I need to see you, my father,” exclaimed Julien, really touched. “I have money, anyway.”
But he could not obtain any coherent answer. From time to time, M. Chélan shed some tears which coursed silently down his cheeks. He then looked at Julien, and was quite dazed when he saw him kiss his hands and carry them to his lips. That face which had once been so vivid, and which had once portrayed with such vigour the most noble emotions was now sunk in a perpetual apathy. A kind of peasant came soon to fetch the old man. “You must not fatigue him,” he said to Julien, who understood that he was the nephew. This visit left Julien plunged in a cruel unhappiness which found no vent in tears. Everything seemed to him gloomy and disconsolate. He felt his heart frozen in his bosom.
This moment was the cruellest which he had experienced since the crime. He had just seen death and seen it in all its ugliness. All his illusions about greatness of soul and nobility of character had been dissipated like a cloud before the hurricane.
This awful plight lasted several hours. After moral poisoning, physical remedies and champagne are necessary. Julien would have considered himself a coward to have resorted to them. “What a fool I am,” he exclaimed, towards the end of the horrible day that he had spent entirely in walking up and down his narrow turret. “It’s only, if I had been going to die like anybody else, that the sight of that poor old man would have had any right to have thrown me into this awful fit of sadness: but a rapid death in the flower of my age simply puts me beyond the reach of such awful senility.”
In spite of all his argumentation, Julien felt as touched as any weak-minded person would have been, and consequently felt unhappy as the result of the visit. He no longer had any element of rugged greatness, or any Roman virtue. Death appeared to him at a great height and seemed a less easy proposition.
“This is what I shall take for my thermometer,” he said to himself. “To-night I am ten degrees below the courage requisite for guillotine-point level. I had that courage this morning. Anyway, what does it matter so long as it comes back to me at the necessary moment?” This thermometer idea amused him and finally managed to distract him.
When he woke up the next day he was ashamed of the previous day. “My happiness and peace of mind are at stake.” He almost made up his mind to write to the Procureur-General to request that no one should be admitted to see him. “And how about Fouqué,” he thought? “If he takes it upon himself to come to Besançon, his grief will be immense.” It had perhaps been two months since he had given Fouqué a thought. “I was a great fool at Strasbourg. My thoughts did not go beyond my coat-collar. He was much engrossed by the memory of Fouqué, which left him more and more touched. He walked nervously about. Here I am, clearly twenty degrees below death point . . . If this weakness increases, it will be better for me to kill myself. What joy for the Abbé Maslon, and the Valenods, if I die like an usher.”
Fouqué arrived. The good, simple man was distracted by grief. His one idea, so far as he had any at all, was to sell all he possessed in order to bribe the gaoler and secure Julien’s escape. He talked to him at length of M. de Lavalette’s escape.
“You pain me,” Julien said to him. “M. de Lavalette was innocent—I am guilty. Though you did not mean to, you made
me think of the difference. . . .”
“But is it true? What? were you going to sell all you possessed?” said Julien, suddenly becoming mistrustful and observant.
Fouqué was delighted at seeing his friend answer his obsessing idea, and detailed at length, and within a hundred francs, what he would get for each of his properties.
“What a sublime effort for a small country land-owner,” thought Julien. “He is ready to sacrifice for me the fruits of all the economies, and all the little semi-swindling tricks which I used to be ashamed of when I saw him practice them.”
“None of the handsome young people whom I saw in the Hôtel de la Mole, and who read René, would have any of his ridiculous weaknesses; but, except those who are very young and who have also inherited riches and are ignorant of the value of money, which of all those handsome Parisians would be capable of such a sacrifice?”
All Fouqué’s mistakes in French and all his common gestures seemed to disappear. He threw himself into his arms. Never have the provinces in comparison with Paris received so fine a tribute. Fouqué was so delighted with the momentary enthusiasm which he read in his friend’s eyes that he took it for consent to the flight.
This view of the sublime recalled to Julien all the strength that the apparition of M. Chélan had made him lose. He was still very young; but in my view he was a fine specimen. Instead of his character passing from tenderness to cunning, as is the case with the majority of men, age would have given him that kindness of heart which is easily melted . . . . but what avail these vain prophecies?
The interrogations became more frequent in spite of all the efforts of Julien, who always endeavoured by his answers to shorten the whole matter.
“I killed, or at any rate, I wished to occasion death, and I did so with premeditation,” he would repeat every day. But the judge was a pedant above everything. Julien’s confessions had no effect in curtailing the interrogations. The judge’s conceit was wounded. Julien did not know that they had wanted to transfer him into an awful cell, and that it was only, thanks to Fouqué’s efforts, that he was allowed to keep his pretty room at the top of a hundred and eighty steps.