A BOX AT THE BOUFFES
As the blackest sky
Foretells the heaviest tempest
_Don Juan, c._ 1. _st_.76.
In the midst of these great transports Julien felt more surprised than
happy. Mathilde's abuse proved to him the shrewdness of the Russian
tactics. "'Few words, few deeds,' that is my one method of salvation."
He picked up Mathilde, and without saying a word, put her back on the
divan. She was gradually being overcome by tears.
In order to keep herself in countenance, she took madame de Fervaques'
letters in her hands, and slowly broke the seals. She gave a noticeable
nervous movement when she recognised the maréchale's handwriting. She
turned over the pages of these letters without reading them. Most of
them were six pages.
"At least answer me," Mathilde said at last, in the most supplicatory
tone, but without daring to look at Julien: "You know how proud I am.
It is the misfortune of my position, and of my temperament, too, I
confess. Has madame de Fervaques robbed me of your heart? Has she made
the sacrifices to which my fatal love swept me?"
A dismal silence was all Julien's answer. "By what right," he thought,
"does she ask me to commit an indiscretion unworthy of an honest man?"
Mathilde tried to read the letters; her eyes were so wet with tears
that it was impossible for her to do so. She had been unhappy for a
month past, but this haughty soul had been very far from owning its own
feelings even to itself. Chance alone had brought about this explosion.
For one instant jealousy and love had won a victory over pride. She
was sitting on the divan, and very near him. He saw her hair and her
alabaster neck. For a moment he forgot all he owed to himself. He
passed his arm around her waist, and clasped her almost to his breast.
She slowly turned her head towards him. He was astonished by the
extreme anguish in her eyes. There was not a trace of their usual
expression.
Julien felt his strength desert him. So great was the deadly pain of
the courageous feat which he was imposing on himself.
"Those eyes will soon express nothing but the coldest disdain," said
Julien to himself, "if I allow myself to be swept away by the happiness
of loving her." She, however, kept repeatedly assuring him at this
moment, in a hushed voice, and in words which she had scarcely the
strength to finish, of all her remorse for those steps which her
inordinate pride had dictated.
"I, too, have pride," said Julien to her, in a scarcely articulate
voice, while his features portrayed the lowest depths of physical
prostration.
Mathilde turned round sharply towards him. Hearing his voice was a
happiness which she had given up hoping. At this moment her only
thought of her haughtiness was to curse it. She would have liked to
have found out some abnormal and incredible actions, in order to prove
to him the extent to which she adored him and detested herself.
"That pride is probably the reason," continued Julien, "why you singled
me out for a moment. My present courageous and manly firmness is
certainly the reason why you respect me. I may entertain love for the
maréchale."
Mathilde shuddered; a strange expression came into her eyes. She was
going to hear her sentence pronounced. This shudder did not escape
Julien. He felt his courage weaken.
"Ah," he said to himself, as he listened to the sound of the vain words
which his mouth was articulating, as he thought it were some strange
sound, "if I could only cover those pale cheeks with kisses without
your feeling it."
"I may entertain love for the maréchale," he continued, while his voice
became weaker and weaker, "but I certainly have no definite proof of
her interest in me."
Mathilde looked at him. He supported that look. He hoped, at any rate,
that his expression had not betrayed him. He felt himself bathed in a
love that penetrated even into the most secret recesses of his heart.
He had never adored her so much; he was almost as mad as Mathilde. If
she had mustered sufficient self-possession and courage to manœuvre, he
would have abandoned all his play-acting, and fallen at her feet. He
had sufficient strength to manage to continue speaking: "Ah, Korasoff,"
he exclaimed mentally, "why are you not here? How I need a word from
you to guide me in my conduct." During this time his voice was saying,
"In default of any other sentiment, gratitude would be sufficient to
attach me to the maréchale. She has been indulgent to me; she has
consoled me when I have been despised. I cannot put unlimited faith
in certain appearances which are, no doubt, extremely flattering, but
possibly very fleeting."
"Oh, my God!" exclaimed Mathilde.
"Well, what guarantee will you give me?" replied Julien with a sharp,
firm intonation, which seemed to abandon for a moment the prudent forms
of diplomacy. "What guarantee, what god will warrant that the position
to which you seem inclined to restore me at the present moment will
last more than two days?"
"The excess of my love, and my unhappiness if you do not love me," she
said to him, taking his hands and turning towards him.
The spasmodic movement which she had just made had slightly displaced
her tippet; Julien caught a view of her charming shoulders. Her
slightly dishevelled hair recalled a delicious memory....
He was on the point of succumbing. "One imprudent word," he said to
himself, "and I have to start all over again that long series of days
which I have passed in despair. Madame de Rênal used to find reasons
for doing what her heart dictated. This young girl of high society
never allows her heart to be moved except when she has proved to
herself by sound logic that it ought to be moved."
He saw this proof in the twinkling of an eye, and in the twinkling
of an eye too, he regained his courage. He took away his hands which
Mathilde was pressing in her own, and moved a little away from her with
a marked respect.
Human courage could not go further. He then busied himself with
putting together madame de Fervaque's letters which were spread out on
the divan, and it was with all the appearance of extreme politeness
that he cruelly exploited the psychological moment by adding,
"Mademoiselle de la Mole will allow me to reflect over all this." He
went rapidly away and left the library; she heard him shut all the
doors one after the other.
"The monster is not the least bit troubled," she said to herself. "But
what am I saying? Monster? He is wise, prudent, good. It is I myself
who have committed more wrong than one can imagine."
This point of view lasted. Mathilde was almost happy today, for she
gave herself up to love unreservedly. One would have said that this
soul had never been disturbed by pride (and what pride!)
She shuddered with horror when a lackey announced madame le Fervaques
into the salon in the evening. The man's voice struck her as sinister.
She could not endure the sight of the maréchale, and stopped suddenly.
Julien who had felt little pride over his painful victory, had feared
to face her, and had not dined at the Hôtel de la Mole.
His love and his happiness rapidly increased in proportion to the time
that elapsed from the moment of the battle. He was blaming himself
already. "How could I resist her?" he said to himself. "Suppose she
were to go and leave off loving me! One single moment may change that
haughty soul, and I must admit that I have treated her awfully."
In the evening he felt that it was absolutely necessary to put in
an appearance at the Bouffes in madame de Fervaques' box. She had
expressly invited him. Mathilde would be bound to know of his presence
or his discourteous absence. In spite of the clearness of this logic,
he could not at the beginning of the evening bring himself to plunge
into society. By speaking he would lose half his happiness. Ten o'clock
struck and it was absolutely necessary to show himself. Luckily he
found the maréchale's box packed with women, and was relegated to a
place near the door where he was completely hidden by the hats. This
position saved him from looking ridiculous; Caroline's divine notes of
despair in the _Matrimonio Segreto_ made him burst into tears. Madame
de Fervaques saw these tears. They represented so great a contrast
with the masculine firmness of his usual expression that the soul
of the old-fashioned lady, saturated as it had been for many years
with all the corroding acid of parvenu haughtiness, was none the less
touched. Such remnants of a woman's heart as she still possessed
impelled her to speak: she wanted to enjoy the sound of his voice at
this moment.
"Have you seen the de la Mole ladies?" she said to him. "They are
in the third tier." Julien immediately craned out over the theatre,
leaning politely enough on the front of the box. He saw Mathilde; her
eyes were shining with tears.
"And yet it is not their Opera day," thought Julien; "how eager she
must be!"
Mathilde had prevailed on her mother to come to the Bouffes in spite
of the inconveniently high tier of the box, which a lady friend of the
family had hastened to offer her. She wanted to see if Julien would
pass the evening with the maréchale.