CHAPTER LXVI

SAD DETAILS

Do not expect any weakness on my part. I have avenged

myself. I have deserved death, and here I am. Pray for

my soul.--_Schiller_

Julien remained motionless. He saw nothing more. When he recovered

himself a little he noticed all the faithful rushing from the church.

The priest had left the altar. Julien started fairly slowly to follow

some women who were going away with loud screams. A woman who was

trying to get away more quickly than the others, pushed him roughly. He

fell. His feet got entangled with a chair, knocked over by the crowd;

when he got up, he felt his neck gripped. A gendarme, in full uniform,

was arresting him. Julien tried mechanically to have recourse to his

little pistol; but a second gendarme pinioned his arms.

He was taken to the prison. They went into a room where irons were put

on his hands. He was left alone. The door was doubly locked on him. All

this was done very quickly, and he scarcely appreciated it at all.

"Yes, upon my word, all is over," he said aloud as he recovered

himself. "Yes, the guillotine in a fortnight ... or killing myself

here."

His reasoning did not go any further. His head felt as though it had

been seized in some violent grip. He looked round to see if anyone was

holding him. After some moments he fell into a deep sleep.

Madame de Rênal was not mortally wounded. The first bullet had pierced

her hat. The second had been fired as she was turning round. The

bullet had struck her on the shoulder, and, astonishing to relate,

had ricocheted from off the shoulder bone (which it had, however,

broken) against a gothic pillar, from which it had loosened an enormous

splinter of stone.

When, after a long and painful bandaging, the solemn surgeon said to

madame de Rênal, "I answer for your life as I would for my own," she

was profoundly grieved.

She had been sincerely desirous of death for a long time. The letter

which she had written to M. de la Mole in accordance with the

injunctions of her present confessor, had proved the final blow to a

creature already weakened by an only too permanent unhappiness. This

unhappiness was caused by Julien's absence; but she, for her own part,

called it remorse. Her director, a young ecclesiastic, who was both

virtuous and enthusiastic, and had recently come to Dijon, made no

mistake as to its nature.

"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. Noiraud, 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.'[1]

"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.

[1] Stendhal's bad spelling is here reproduced.