CHAPTER I

A SMALL TOWN

    Put thousands together less bad,
    But the cage less gay.--_Hobbes_.

The little town of Verrieres can pass for one of the prettiest in
Franche-Comte. Its white houses with their pointed red-tiled roofs
stretch along the slope of a hill, whose slightest undulations are
marked by groups of vigorous chestnuts. The Doubs flows to within some
hundred feet above its fortifications, which were built long ago by the
Spaniards, and are now in ruins.

Verrieres is sheltered on the north by a high mountain which is one of
the branches of the Jura. The jagged peaks of the Verra are covered
with snow from the beginning of the October frosts. A torrent which
rushes down from the mountains traverses Verrieres before throwing
itself into the Doubs, and supplies the motive power for a great number
of saw mills. The industry is very simple, and secures a certain
prosperity to the majority of the inhabitants who are more peasant than
bourgeois. It is not, however, the wood saws which have enriched this
little town. It is the manufacture of painted tiles, called Mulhouse
tiles, that is responsible for that general affluence which has caused
the facades of nearly all the houses in Verrieres to be rebuilt since
the fall of Napoleon.

One has scarcely entered the town, before one is stunned by the din of
a strident machine of terrifying aspect. Twenty heavy hammers which
fall with a noise that makes the paved floor tremble, are lifted
up by a wheel set in motion by the torrent. Each of these hammers
manufactures every day I don't know how many thousands of nails. The
little pieces of iron which are rapidly transformed into nails by these
enormous hammers, are put in position by fresh pretty young girls. This
labour so rough at first sight is one of the industries which most
surprises the traveller who penetrates for the first time the mountains
which separate France and Helvetia. If when he enters Verrieres, the
traveller asks who owns this fine nail factory which deafens everybody
who goes up the Grande-Rue, he is answered in a drawling tone "Eh!
it belongs to M. the Mayor."

And if the traveller stops a few minutes in that Grande-Rue of
Verrieres which goes on an upward incline from the bank of the Doubs to
nearly as far as the summit of the hill, it is a hundred to one that he
will see a big man with a busy and important air.

When he comes in sight all hats are quickly taken off. His hair is
grizzled and he is dressed in grey. He is a Knight of several Orders,
has a large forehead and an aquiline nose, and if you take him all
round, his features are not devoid of certain regularity. One might
even think on the first inspection that it combines with the dignity
of the village mayor that particular kind of comfortableness which is
appropriate to the age of forty-eight or fifty. But soon the traveller
from Paris will be shocked by a certain air of self-satisfaction and
self-complacency mingled with an almost indefinable narrowness and lack
of inspiration. One realises at last that this man's talent is limited
to seeing that he is paid exactly what he is owed, and in paying his
own debts at the latest possible moment.

Such is M. de Renal, the mayor of Verrieres. After having crossed the
road with a solemn step, he enters the mayoral residence and disappears
from the eye of the traveller. But if the latter continues to walk
a hundred steps further up, he will perceive a house with a fairly
fine appearance, with some magnificent gardens behind an iron grill
belonging to the house. Beyond that is an horizon line formed by the
hills of Burgundy, which seem ideally made to delight the eyes. This
view causes the traveller to forget that pestilential atmosphere of
petty money-grubbing by which he is beginning to be suffocated.

He is told that this house belongs to M. de Renal. It is to the
profits which he has made out of his big nail factory that the mayor
of Verrieres owes this fine residence of hewn stone which he is just
finishing. His family is said to be Spanish and ancient, and is alleged
to have been established in the country well before the conquest of
Louis XIV.

Since 1815, he blushes at being a manufacturer: 1815 made him mayor
of Verrieres. The terraced walls of this magnificent garden which
descends to the Doubs, plateau by plateau, also represent the reward
of M. de Renal's proficiency in the iron-trade. Do not expect to find
in France those picturesque gardens which surround the manufacturing
towns of Germany, like Leipsic, Frankfurt and Nurenburgh, etc. The
more walls you build in Franche-Comte and the more you fortify your
estate with piles of stone, the more claim you will acquire on the
respect of your neighbours. Another reason for the admiration due to
M. de Renal's gardens and their numerous walls, is the fact that he
has purchased, through sheer power of the purse, certain small parcels
of the ground on which they stand. That saw-mill, for instance, whose
singular position on the banks of the Doubs struck you when you entered
Verrieres, and where you notice the name of SOREL written in gigantic
characters on the chief beam of the roof, used to occupy six years
ago that precise space on which is now reared the wall of the fourth
terrace in M. de Renal's gardens.

Proud man that he was, the mayor had none the less to negotiate with
that tough, stubborn peasant, old Sorel. He had to pay him in good
solid golden louis before he could induce him to transfer his workshop
elsewhere. As to the _public_ stream which supplied the motive power
for the saw-mill, M. de Renal obtained its diversion, thanks to the
influence which he enjoyed at Paris. This favour was accorded him after
the election of 182-.

He gave Sorel four acres for every one he had previously held, five
hundred yards lower down on the banks of the Doubs. Although this
position was much more advantageous for his pine-plank trade, father
Sorel (as he is called since he has become rich) knew how to exploit
the impatience and _mania for landed ownership_ which animated his
neighbour to the tune of six thousand francs.

It is true that this arrangement was criticised by the wiseacres of the
locality. One day, it was on a Sunday four years later, as M. de Renal
was coming back from church in his mayor's uniform, he saw old Sorel
smiling at him, as he stared at him some distance away surrounded by
his three sons. That smile threw a fatal flood of light into the soul
of the mayor. From that time on, he is of opinion that he could have
obtained the exchange at a cheaper rate.

In order to win the public esteem of Verrieres it is essential that,
though you should build as many walls as you can, you should not adopt
some plan imported from Italy by those masons who cross the passes
of the Jura in the spring on their way to Paris. Such an innovation
would bring down upon the head of the imprudent builder an eternal
reputation for _wrongheadedness_, and he will be lost for ever in the
sight of those wise, well-balanced people who dispense public esteem in
Franche-Comte.

As a matter of fact, these prudent people exercise in the place the
most offensive despotism. It is by reason of this awful word, that
anyone who has lived in that great republic which is called Paris,
finds living in little towns quite intolerable. The tyranny of public
opinion (and what public opinion!) is as _stupid_ in the little towns
of France as in the United States of America.

CHAPTER II

A MAYOR

        Importance! What is it, sir after all? The respect of
        fools, the wonder of children, the envy of the rich, the
        contempt of the wise man.--_Barnave_

Happily for the reputation of M. de Renal as an administrator an
immense wall of support was necessary for the public promenade which
goes along the hill, a hundred steps above the course of the Doubs.
This admirable position secures for the promenade one of the most
picturesque views in the whole of France. But the rain water used to
make furrows in the walk every spring, caused ditches to appear, and
rendered it generally impracticable. This nuisance, which was felt
by the whole town, put M. de Renal in the happy position of being
compelled to immortalise his administration by building a wall twenty
feet high and thirty to forty yards long.

The parapet of this wall, which occasioned M. de Renal three journeys
to Paris (for the last Minister of the Interior but one had declared
himself the mortal enemy of the promenade of Verrieres), is now raised
to a height of four feet above the ground, and as though to defy all
ministers whether past or present, it is at present adorned with tiles
of hewn stone.

How many times have my looks plunged into the valley of the Doubs, as I
thought of the Paris balls which I had abandoned on the previous night,
and leant my breast against the great blocks of stone, whose beautiful
grey almost verged on blue. Beyond the left bank, there wind five
or six valleys, at the bottom of which I could see quite distinctly
several small streams. There is a view of them falling into the Doubs,
after a series of cascades. The sun is very warm in these mountains.
When it beats straight down, the pensive traveller on the terrace
finds shelter under some magnificent plane trees. They owe their rapid
growth and their fine verdure with its almost bluish shade to the new
soil, which M. the mayor has had placed behind his immense wall of
support for (in spite of the opposition of the Municipal Council) he
has enlarged the promenade by more than six feet (and although he is an
Ultra and I am a Liberal, I praise him for it), and that is why both in
his opinion and in that of M. Valenod, the fortunate Director of the
workhouse of Verrieres, this terrace can brook comparison with that of
Saint-Germain en Laye.

I find personally only one thing at which to cavil in the COURS DE LA
FIDELITE, (this official name is to be read in fifteen to twenty places
on those immortal tiles which earned M. de Renal an extra cross.) The
grievance I find in the Cours de la Fidelite is the barbarous manner in
which the authorities have cut these vigorous plane trees and clipped
them to the quick. In fact they really resemble with their dwarfed,
rounded and flattened heads the most vulgar plants of the vegetable
garden, while they are really capable of attaining the magnificent
development of the English plane trees. But the wish of M. the mayor
is despotic, and all the trees belonging to the municipality are
ruthlessly pruned twice a year. The local Liberals suggest, but they
are probably exaggerating, that the hand of the official gardener
has become much more severe, since M. the Vicar Maslon started
appropriating the clippings. This young ecclesiastic was sent to
Besancon some years ago to keep watch on the abbe Chelan and some cures
in the neighbouring districts. An old Surgeon-Major of Napoleon's
Italian Army, who was living in retirement at Verrieres, and who had
been in his time described by M. the mayor as both a Jacobin and a
Bonapartiste, dared to complain to the mayor one day of the periodical
mutilation of these fine trees.

"I like the shade," answered M. de Renal, with just a tinge of that
hauteur which becomes a mayor when he is talking to a surgeon, who is
a member of the Legion of Honour. "I like the shade, I have _my_ trees
clipped in order to give shade, and I cannot conceive that a tree can
have any other purpose, provided of course _it is not bringing in any
profit_, like the useful walnut tree."

This is the great word which is all decisive at Verrieres. "BRINGING IN
PROFIT," this word alone sums up the habitual trend of thought of more
than three-quarters of the inhabitants.

_Bringing in profit_ is the consideration which decides everything in
this little town which you thought so pretty. The stranger who arrives
in the town is fascinated by the beauty of the fresh deep valleys which
surround it, and he imagines at first that the inhabitants have an
appreciation of the beautiful. They talk only too frequently of the
beauty of their country, and it cannot be denied that they lay great
stress on it, but the reason is that it attracts a number of strangers,
whose money enriches the inn-keepers, a process which _brings in
profit_ to the town, owing to the machinery of the octroi.

It was on a fine, autumn day that M. de Renal was taking a promenade
on the Cours de la Fidelite with his wife on his arm. While listening
to her husband (who was talking in a somewhat solemn manner) Madame de
Renal followed anxiously with her eyes the movements of three little
boys. The eldest, who might have been eleven years old, went too
frequently near the parapet and looked as though he was going to climb
up it. A sweet voice then pronounced the name of Adolphe and the child
gave up his ambitious project. Madame de Renal seemed a woman of thirty
years of age but still fairly pretty.

"He may be sorry for it, may this fine gentleman from Paris," said
M. de Renal, with an offended air and a face even paler than usual.
"I am not without a few friends at court!" But though I want to
talk to you about the provinces for two hundred pages, I lack the
requisite barbarity to make you undergo all the long-windedness and
circumlocutions of a provincial dialogue.

This fine gentleman from Paris, who was so odious to the mayor of
Verrieres, was no other than the M. Appert, who had two days previously
managed to find his way not only into the prison and workhouse of
Verrieres, but also into the hospital, which was gratuitously conducted
by the mayor and the principal proprietors of the district.

"But," said Madame de Renal timidly, "what harm can this Paris
gentleman do you, since you administer the poor fund with the utmost
scrupulous honesty?"

"He only comes to _throw_ blame and afterwards he will get some
articles into the Liberal press."

"You never read them, my dear."

"But they always talk to us about those Jacobin articles, all that
distracts us and prevents us from doing good.[1] Personally, I shall
never forgive the cure."

[1] Historically true.

CHAPTER III

THE POOR FUND

        A virtuous cure who does not intrigue is a providence
        for the village.--_Fleury_

It should be mentioned that the cure of Verrieres, an old man of
ninety, who owed to the bracing mountain air an iron constitution and
an iron character, had the right to visit the prison, the hospital and
the workhouse at any hour. It had been at precisely six o'clock in the
morning that M. Appert, who had a Paris recommendation to the cure,
had been shrewd enough to arrive at a little inquisitive town. He had
immediately gone on to the cure's house.

The cure Chelan became pensive as he read the letter written to him by
the M. le Marquis de La Mole, Peer of France, and the richest landed
proprietor of the province.

"I am old and beloved here," he said to himself in a whisper, "they
would not dare!" Then he suddenly turned to the gentleman from Paris,
with eyes, which in spite of his great age, shone with that sacred fire
which betokens the delight of doing a fine but slightly dangerous act.

"Come with me, sir," he said, "but please do not express any opinion of
the things which we shall see, in the presence of the jailer, and above
all not in the presence of the superintendents of the workhouse."

M. Appert realised that he had to do with a man of spirit. He followed
the venerable cure, visited the hospital and workhouse, put a lot of
questions, but in spite of somewhat extraordinary answers, did not
indulge in the slightest expression of censure.

This visit lasted several hours; the cure invited M. Appert to dine,
but the latter made the excuse of having some letters to write; as a
matter of fact, he did not wish to compromise his generous companion to
any further extent. About three o'clock these gentlemen went to finish
their inspection of the workhouse and then returned to the prison.
There they found the jailer by the gate, a kind of giant, six feet
high, with bow legs. His ignoble face had become hideous by reason of
his terror.

"Ah, monsieur," he said to the cure as soon as he saw him, "is not the
gentleman whom I see there, M. Appert?"

"What does that matter?" said the cure.

"The reason is that I received yesterday the most specific orders, and
M. the Prefect sent a message by a gendarme who must have galloped
during the whole of the night, that M. Appert was not to be allowed in
the prisons."

"I can tell you, M. Noiroud," said the cure, "that the traveller who is
with me is M. Appert, but do you or do you not admit that I have the
right to enter the prison at any hour of the day or night accompanied
by anybody I choose?"

"Yes, M. the cure," said the jailer in a low voice, lowering his head
like a bull-dog, induced to a grudging obedience by fear of the stick,
"only, M. the cure, I have a wife and children, and shall be turned out
if they inform against me. I only have my place to live on."

"I, too, should be sorry enough to lose mine," answered the good cure,
with increasing emotion in his voice.

"What a difference!" answered the jailer keenly. "As for you, M. le
cure, we all know that you have eight hundred francs a year, good solid
money."

Such were the facts which, commented upon and exaggerated in twenty
different ways, had been agitating for the last two days all the odious
passions of the little town of Verrieres.

At the present time they served as the text for the little discussion
which M. de Renal was having with his wife. He had visited the cure
earlier in the morning accompanied by M. Valenod, the director of the
workhouse, in order to convey their most emphatic displeasure. M.
Chelan had no protector, and felt all the weight of their words.

"Well, gentlemen, I shall be the third cure of eighty years of age who
has been turned out in this district. I have been here for fifty-six
years. I have baptized nearly all the inhabitants of the town, which
was only a hamlet when I came to it. Every day I marry young people
whose grandparents I have married in days gone by. Verrieres is my
family, but I said to myself when I saw the stranger, 'This man from
Paris may as a matter of fact be a Liberal, there are only too many of
them about, but what harm can he do to our poor and to our prisoners?'"

The reproaches of M. de Renal, and above all, those of M. Valenod, the
director of the workhouse, became more and more animated.

"Well, gentlemen, turn me out then," the old cure exclaimed in a
trembling voice; "I shall still continue to live in the district. As
you know, I inherited forty-eight years ago a piece of land that brings
in eight hundred francs a year; I shall live on that income. I do not
save anything out of my living, gentlemen; and that is perhaps why,
when you talk to me about it, I am not particularly frightened."

M. de Renal always got on very well with his wife, but he did not know
what to answer when she timidly repeated the phrase of M. le cure,
"What harm can this Paris gentleman do the prisoners?" He was on the
point of quite losing his temper when she gave a cry. Her second son
had mounted the parapet of the terrace wall and was running along it,
although the wall was raised to a height of more than twenty feet above
the vineyard on the other side. The fear of frightening her son and
making him fall prevented Madame de Renal speaking to him. But at last
the child, who was smiling at his own pluck, looked at his mother, saw
her pallor, jumped down on to the walk and ran to her. He was well
scolded.

This little event changed the course of the conversation.

"I really mean to take Sorel, the son of the sawyer, into the house,"
said M. de Renal; "he will look after the children, who are getting too
naughty for us to manage. He is a young priest, or as good as one, a
good Latin scholar, and will make the children get on. According to the
cure, he has a steady character. I will give him three hundred francs a
year and his board. I have some doubts as to his morality, for he used
to be the favourite of that old Surgeon-Major, Member of the Legion of
Honour, who went to board with the Sorels, on the pretext that he was
their cousin. It is quite possible that that man was really simply a
secret agent of the Liberals. He said that the mountain air did his
asthma good, but that is something which has never been proved. He
has gone through all _Buonaparte's_ campaigns in Italy, and had even,
it was said, voted against the Empire in the plebiscite. This Liberal
taught the Sorel boy Latin, and left him a number of books which he had
brought with him. Of course, in the ordinary way, I should have never
thought of allowing a carpenter's son to come into contact with our
children, but the cure told me, the very day before the scene which
has just estranged us for ever, that Sorel has been studying theology
for three years with the intention of entering a seminary. He is,
consequently, not a Liberal, and he certainly is a good Latin scholar.

"This arrangement will be convenient in more than one way," continued
M. de Renal, looking at his wife with a diplomatic air. "That Valenod
is proud enough of his two fine Norman horses which he has just bought
for his carriage, but he hasn't a tutor for his children."

"He might take this one away from us."

"You approve of my plan, then?" said M. de Renal, thanking his wife
with a smile for the excellent idea which she had just had. "Well,
that's settled."

"Good gracious, my dear, how quickly you make up your mind!"

"It is because I'm a man of character, as the cure found out right
enough. Don't let us deceive ourselves; we are surrounded by Liberals
in this place. All those cloth merchants are jealous of me, I am
certain of it; two or three are becoming rich men. Well, I should
rather fancy it for them to see M. de Renal's children pass along the
street as they go out for their walk, escorted by _their tutor_. It
will impress people. My grandfather often used to tell us that he had
a tutor when he was young. It may run me into a hundred crowns, but
that ought to be looked upon as an expense necessary for keeping up our
position."

This sudden resolution left Madame de Renal quite pensive. She was
a big, well-made woman, who had been the beauty of the country, to
use the local expression. She had a certain air of simplicity and
youthfulness in her deportment. This naive grace, with its innocence
and its vivacity, might even have recalled to a Parisian some
suggestion of the sweets he had left behind him. If she had realised
this particular phase of her success, Madame de Renal would have been
quite ashamed of it. All coquetry, all affectation, were absolutely
alien to her temperament. M. Valenod, the rich director of the
workhouse, had the reputation of having paid her court, a fact which
had cast a singular glamour over her virtue; for this M. Valenod, a
big young man with a square, sturdy frame, florid face, and big, black
whiskers, was one of those coarse, blustering, and noisy people who
pass in the provinces for a "fine man."

Madame de Renal, who had a very shy, and apparently a very uneven
temperament, was particularly shocked by M. Valenod's lack of repose,
and by his boisterous loudness. Her aloofness from what, in the
Verrieres' jargon, was called "having a good time," had earned her the
reputation of being very proud of her birth. In fact, she never thought
about it, but she had been extremely glad to find the inhabitants of
the town visit her less frequently. We shall not deny that she passed
for a fool in the eyes of _their_ good ladies because she did not
wheedle her husband, and allowed herself to miss the most splendid
opportunities of getting fine hats from Paris or Besancon. Provided she
was allowed to wander in her beautiful garden, she never complained.
She was a naive soul, who had never educated herself up to the point
of judging her husband and confessing to herself that he bored her.
She supposed, without actually formulating the thought, that there was
no greater sweetness in the relationship between husband and wife than
she herself had experienced. She loved M. de Renal most when he talked
about his projects for their children. The elder he had destined for
the army, the second for the law, and the third for the Church. To sum
up, she found M. de Renal much less boring than all the other men of
her acquaintance.

This conjugal opinion was quite sound. The Mayor of Verrieres had a
reputation for wit, and above all, a reputation for good form, on
the strength of half-a-dozen "chestnuts" which he had inherited from
an uncle. Old Captain de Renal had served, before the Revolution, in
the infantry regiment of M. the Duke of Orleans, and was admitted
to the Prince's salons when he went to Paris. He had seen Madame de
Montesson, the famous Madame de Genlis, M. Ducret, the inventor, of the
Palais-Royal. These personages would crop up only too frequently in M.
de Renal's anecdotes. He found it, however, more and more of a strain
to remember stories which required such delicacy in the telling, and
for some time past it had only been on great occasions that he would
trot out his anecdotes concerning the House of Orleans. As, moreover,
he was extremely polite, except on money matters, he passed, and justly
so, for the most aristocratic personage in Verrieres.

CHAPTER IV

A FATHER AND A SON

    E sara mia colpa
    Se cosi e?
                  --_Machiavelli_.

"My wife really has a head on her shoulders," said the mayor of
Verrieres at six o'clock the following morning, as he went down to the
saw-mill of Father Sorel. "It had never occurred to me that if I do not
take little Abbe Sorel, who, they say, knows Latin like an angel, that
restless spirit, the director of the workhouse, might have the same
idea and snatch him away from me, though of course I told her that it
had, in order to preserve my proper superiority. And how smugly, to be
sure, would he talk about his children's tutor!... The question is,
once the tutor's mine, shall he wear the cassock?"

M. de Renal was absorbed in this problem when he saw a peasant in the
distance, a man nearly six feet tall, who since dawn had apparently
been occupied in measuring some pieces of wood which had been put
down alongside the Doubs on the towing-path. The peasant did not look
particularly pleased when he saw M. the Mayor approach, as these pieces
of wood obstructed the road, and had been placed there in breach of the
rules.

Father Sorel (for it was he) was very surprised, and even more pleased
at the singular offer which M. de Renal made him for his son Julien.
None the less, he listened to it with that air of sulky discontent and
apathy which the subtle inhabitants of these mountains know so well
how to assume. Slaves as they have been since the time of the Spanish
Conquest, they still preserve this feature, which is also found in the
character of the Egyptian fellah.

Sorel's answer was at first simply a long-winded recitation of
all the formulas of respect which he knew by heart. While he was
repeating these empty words with an uneasy smile, which accentuated
all the natural disingenuousness, if not, indeed, knavishness of his
physiognomy, the active mind of the old peasant tried to discover what
reason could induce so important a man to take into his house his
good-for-nothing of a son. He was very dissatisfied with Julien, and
it was for Julien that M. de Renal offered the undreamt-of salary of
300 fcs. a year, with board and even clothing. This latter claim, which
Father Sorel had had the genius to spring upon the mayor, had been
granted with equal suddenness by M. de Renal.

This demand made an impression on the mayor. It is clear, he said to
himself, that since Sorel is not beside himself with delight over my
proposal, as in the ordinary way he ought to be, he must have had
offers made to him elsewhere, and whom could they have come from, if
not from Valenod. It was in vain that M. de Renal pressed Sorel to
clinch the matter then and there. The old peasant, astute man that
he was, stubbornly refused to do so. He wanted, he said, to consult
his son, as if in the provinces, forsooth, a rich father consulted a
penniless son for any other reason than as a mere matter of form.

A water saw-mill consists of a shed by the side of a stream. The roof
is supported by a framework resting on four large timber pillars. A
saw can be seen going up and down at a height of eight to ten feet in
the middle of the shed, while a piece of wood is propelled against
this saw by a very simple mechanism. It is a wheel whose motive-power
is supplied by the stream, which sets in motion this double piece of
mechanism, the mechanism of the saw which goes up and down, and the
mechanism which gently pushes the piece of wood towards the saw, which
cuts it up into planks.

Approaching his workshop, Father Sorel called Julien in his stentorian
voice; nobody answered. He only saw his giant elder sons, who, armed
with heavy axes, were cutting up the pine planks which they had to
carry to the saw. They were engrossed in following exactly the black
mark traced on each piece of wood, from which every blow of their axes
threw off enormous shavings. They did not hear their father's voice.
The latter made his way towards the shed. He entered it and looked in
vain for Julien in the place where he ought to have been by the side of
the saw. He saw him five or six feet higher up, sitting astride one of
the rafters of the roof. Instead of watching attentively the action of
the machinery, Julien was reading. Nothing was more anti-pathetic to
old Sorel. He might possibly have forgiven Julien his puny physique,
ill adapted as it was to manual labour, and different as it was from
that of his elder brothers; but he hated this reading mania. He could
not read himself.

It was in vain that he called Julien two or three times. It was the
young man's concentration on his book, rather than the din made by the
saw, which prevented him from hearing his father's terrible voice. At
last the latter, in spite of his age, jumped nimbly on to the tree
that was undergoing the action of the saw, and from there on to the
cross-bar that supported the roof. A violent blow made the book which
Julien held, go flying into the stream; a second blow on the head,
equally violent, which took the form of a box on the ears, made him
lose his balance. He was on the point of falling twelve or fifteen feet
lower down into the middle of the levers of the running machinery which
would have cut him to pieces, but his father caught him as he fell, in
his left hand.

"So that's it, is it, lazy bones! always going to read your damned
books are you, when you're keeping watch on the saw? You read them in
the evening if you want to, when you go to play the fool at the cure's,
that's the proper time."

Although stunned by the force of the blow and bleeding profusely,
Julien went back to his official post by the side of the saw. He had
tears in his eyes, less by reason of the physical pain than on account
of the loss of his beloved book.

"Get down, you beast, when I am talking to you," the noise of the
machinery prevented Julien from hearing this order. His father, who had
gone down did not wish to give himself the trouble of climbing up on to
the machinery again, and went to fetch a long fork used for bringing
down nuts, with which he struck him on the shoulder. Julien had
scarcely reached the ground, when old Sorel chased him roughly in front
of him and pushed him roughly towards the house. "God knows what he is
going to do with me," said the young man to himself. As he passed, he
looked sorrowfully into the stream into which his book had fallen, it
was the one that he held dearest of all, the _Memorial of St. Helena_.

He had purple cheeks and downcast eyes. He was a young man of eighteen
to nineteen years old, and of puny appearance, with irregular but
delicate features, and an aquiline nose. The big black eyes which
betokened in their tranquil moments a temperament at once fiery and
reflective were at the present moment animated by an expression of
the most ferocious hate. Dark chestnut hair, which came low down over
his brow, made his forehead appear small and gave him a sinister look
during his angry moods. It is doubtful if any face out of all the
innumerable varieties of the human physiognomy was ever distinguished
by a more arresting individuality.

A supple well-knit figure, indicated agility rather than strength. His
air of extreme pensiveness and his great pallor had given his father
the idea that he would not live, or that if he did, it would only be to
be a burden to his family. The butt of the whole house, he hated his
brothers and his father. He was regularly beaten in the Sunday sports
in the public square.

A little less than a year ago his pretty face had begun to win him some
sympathy among the young girls. Universally despised as a weakling,
Julien had adored that old Surgeon-Major, who had one day dared to talk
to the mayor on the subject of the plane trees.

This Surgeon had sometimes paid Father Sorel for taking his son for
a day, and had taught him Latin and History, that is to say the 1796
Campaign in Italy which was all the history he knew. When he died, he
had bequeathed his Cross of the Legion of Honour, his arrears of half
pay, and thirty or forty volumes, of which the most precious had just
fallen into the public stream, which had been diverted owing to the
influence of M. the Mayor.

Scarcely had he entered the house, when Julien felt his shoulder
gripped by his father's powerful hand; he trembled, expecting some
blows.

"Answer me without lying," cried the harsh voice of the old peasant in
his ears, while his hand turned him round and round, like a child's
hand turns round a lead soldier. The big black eyes of Julien filled
with tears, and were confronted by the small grey eyes of the old
carpenter, who looked as if he meant to read to the very bottom of his
soul.

CHAPTER V

A NEGOTIATION

    Cunctando restituit rem.--_Ennius_.

"Answer me without lies, if you can, you damned dog, how did you get to
know Madame de Renal? When did you speak to her?"

"I have never spoken to her," answered Julien, "I have only seen that
lady in church."

"You must have looked at her, you impudent rascal."

"Not once! you know, I only see God in church," answered Julien, with
a little hypocritical air, well suited, so he thought, to keep off the
parental claws.

"None the less there's something that does not meet the eye," answered
the cunning peasant. He was then silent for a moment. "But I shall
never get anything out of you, you damned hypocrite," he went on. "As a
matter of fact, I am going to get rid of you, and my saw-mill will go
all the better for it. You have nobbled the curate, or somebody else,
who has got you a good place. Run along and pack your traps, and I
will take you to M. de Renal's, where you are going to be tutor to his
children."

"What shall I get for that?"

"Board, clothing, and three hundred francs salary."

"I do not want to be a servant."

"Who's talking of being a servant, you brute, do you think I want my
son to be a servant?"

"But with whom shall I have my meals?"

This question discomforted old Sorel, who felt he might possibly commit
some imprudence if he went on talking. He burst out against Julien,
flung insult after insult at him, accused him of gluttony, and left him
to go and consult his other sons.

Julien saw them afterwards, each one leaning on his axe and holding
counsel. Having looked at them for a long time, Julien saw that he
could find out nothing, and went and stationed himself on the other
side of the saw in order to avoid being surprised. He wanted to think
over this unexpected piece of news, which changed his whole life,
but he felt himself unable to consider the matter prudently, his
imagination being concentrated in wondering what he would see in M. de
Renal's fine mansion.

"I must give all that up," he said to himself, "rather than let myself
be reduced to eating with the servants. My father would like to force
me to it. I would rather die. I have fifteen francs and eight sous of
savings. I will run away to-night; I will go across country by paths
where there are no gendarmes to be feared, and in two days I shall be
at Besancon. I will enlist as a soldier there, and, if necessary, I
will cross into Switzerland. But in that case, no more advancement, it
will be all up with my being a priest, that fine career which may lead
to anything."

This abhorrence of eating with the servants was not really natural to
Julien; he would have done things quite, if not more, disagreeable in
order to get on. He derived this repugnance from the _Confessions_
of Rousseau. It was the only book by whose help his imagination
endeavoured to construct the world. The collection of the Bulletins of
the Grand Army, and the _Memorial of St. Helena_ completed his Koran.
He would have died for these three works. He never believed in any
other. To use a phrase of the old Surgeon-Major, he regarded all the
other books in the world as packs of lies, written by rogues in order
to get on.

Julien possessed both a fiery soul and one of those astonishing
memories which are so often combined with stupidity.

In order to win over the old cure Chelan, on whose good grace he
realized that his future prospects depended, he had learnt by heart the
New Testament in Latin. He also knew M. de Maistre's book on The Pope,
and believed in one as little as he did in the other.

Sorel and his son avoided talking to each other to-day as though by
mutual consent. In the evening Julien went to take his theology lesson
at the cure's, but he did not consider that it was prudent to say
anything to him about the strange proposal which had been made to his
father. "It is possibly a trap," he said to himself, "I must pretend
that I have forgotten all about it."

Early next morning, M. de Renal had old Sorel summoned to him.
He eventually arrived, after keeping M. de Renal waiting for an
hour-and-a-half, and made, as he entered the room, a hundred apologies
interspersed with as many bows. After having run the gauntlet of all
kinds of objections, Sorel was given to understand that his son would
have his meals with the master and mistress of the house, and that
he would eat alone in a room with the children on the days when they
had company. The more clearly Sorel realized the genuine eagerness of
M. the Mayor, the more difficulties he felt inclined to raise. Being
moreover full of mistrust and astonishment, he asked to see the room
where his son would sleep. It was a big room, quite decently furnished,
into which the servants were already engaged in carrying the beds of
the three children.

This circumstance explained a lot to the old peasant. He asked
immediately, with quite an air of assurance, to see the suit which
would be given to his son. M. de Renal opened his desk and took out one
hundred francs.

"Your son will go to M. Durand, the draper, with this money and will
get a complete black suit."

"And even supposing I take him away from you," said the peasant, who
had suddenly forgotten all his respectful formalities, "will he still
keep this black suit?"

"Certainly!"

"Well," said Sorel, in a drawling voice, "all that remains to do is to
agree on just one thing, the money which you will give him."

"What!" exclaimed M. de Renal, indignantly, "we agreed on that
yesterday. I shall give him three hundred francs, I think that is a
lot, and probably too much."

"That is your offer and I do not deny it," said old Sorel, speaking
still very slowly; and by a stroke of genius which will only astonish
those who do not know the Franche-Comte peasants, he fixed his eyes on
M. de Renal and added, "We shall get better terms elsewhere."

The Mayor's face exhibited the utmost consternation at these words. He
pulled himself together however and after a cunning conversation of
two hours' length, where every single word on both sides was carefully
weighed, the subtlety of the peasant scored a victory over the subtlety
of the rich man, whose livelihood was not so dependent on his faculty
of cunning. All the numerous stipulations which were to regulate
Julien's new existence were duly formulated. Not only was his salary
fixed at four hundred francs, but they were to be paid in advance on
the first of each month.

"Very well, I will give him thirty-five francs," said M. de Renal.

"I am quite sure," said the peasant, in a fawning voice, "that a rich,
generous man like the M. mayor would go as far as thirty-six francs, to
make up a good round sum."

"Agreed!" said M. de Renal, "but let this be final." For the moment his
temper gave him a tone of genuine firmness. The peasant saw that it
would not do to go any further.

Then, on his side, M. de Renal managed to score. He absolutely refused
to give old Sorel, who was very anxious to receive it on behalf of his
son, the thirty-six francs for the first month. It had occurred to M.
de Renal that he would have to tell his wife the figure which he had
cut throughout these negotiations.

"Hand me back the hundred francs which I gave you," he said sharply.
"M. Durand owes me something, I will go with your son to see about a
black cloth suit."

After this manifestation of firmness, Sorel had the prudence to return
to his respectful formulas; they took a good quarter of an hour.
Finally, seeing that there was nothing more to be gained, he took his
leave. He finished his last bow with these words:

"I will send my son to the Chateau." The Mayor's officials called his
house by this designation when they wanted to humour him.

When he got back to his workshop, it was in vain that Sorel sought his
son. Suspicious of what might happen, Julien had gone out in the middle
of the night. He wished to place his Cross of the Legion of Honour and
his books in a place of safety. He had taken everything to a young
wood-merchant named Fouque, who was a friend of his, and who lived in
the high mountain which commands Verrieres.

"God knows, you damned lazy bones," said his father to him when he
re-appeared, "if you will ever be sufficiently honourable to pay me
back the price of your board which I have been advancing to you for so
many years. Take your rags and clear out to M. the Mayor's."

Julien was astonished at not being beaten and hastened to leave. He
had scarcely got out of sight of his terrible father when he slackened
his pace. He considered that it would assist the role played by his
hypocrisy to go and say a prayer in the church.

The word hypocrisy surprises you? The soul of the peasant had had to go
through a great deal before arriving at this horrible word.

Julien had seen in the days of his early childhood certain Dragoons
of the 6th[1] with long white cloaks and hats covered with long black
plumed helmets who were returning from Italy, and tied up their horses
to the grilled window of his father's house. The sight had made him mad
on the military profession. Later on he had listened with ecstasy to
the narrations of the battles of Lodi, Arcola and Rivoli with which the
old surgeon-major had regaled him. He observed the ardent gaze which
the old man used to direct towards his cross.

But when Julien was fourteen years of age they commenced to build a
church at Verrieres which, in view of the smallness of the town, has
some claim to be called magnificent. There were four marble columns in
particular, the sight of which impressed Julien. They became celebrated
in the district owing to the mortal hate which they raised between
the Justice of the Peace and the young vicar who had been sent from
Besancon and who passed for a spy of the congregation. The Justice of
the Peace was on the point of losing his place, so said the public
opinion at any rate. Had he not dared to have a difference with the
priest who went every fortnight to Besancon; where he saw, so they
said, my Lord the Bishop.

In the meanwhile the Justice of the Peace, who was the father of a
numerous family, gave several sentences which seemed unjust: all these
sentences were inflicted on those of the inhabitants who read the
"_Constitutionnel_." The right party triumphed. It is true it was only a
question of sums of three or five francs, but one of these little fines
had to be paid by a nail-maker, who was god-father to Julien. This man
exclaimed in his anger "What a change! and to think that for more than
twenty years the Justice of the Peace has passed for an honest man."

The Surgeon-Major, Julien's friend, died. Suddenly Julien left off
talking about Napoleon. He announced his intention of becoming a
priest, and was always to be seen in his father's workshop occupied
in learning by heart the Latin Bible which the cure had lent him. The
good old man was astonished at his progress, and passed whole evenings
in teaching him theology. In his society Julien did not manifest other
than pious sentiments. Who could not possibly guess that beneath this
girlish face, so pale and so sweet, lurked the unbreakable resolution
to risk a thousand deaths rather than fail to make his fortune. Making
his fortune primarily meant to Julien getting out of Verrieres: he
abhorred his native country; everything that he saw there froze his
imagination.

He had had moments of exultation since his earliest childhood. He would
then dream with gusto of being presented one day to the pretty women
of Paris. He would manage to attract their attention by some dazzling
feat: why should he not be loved by one of them just as Buonaparte,
when still poor, had been loved by the brilliant Madame de Beauharnais.
For many years past Julien had scarcely passed a single year of his
life without reminding himself that Buonaparte, the obscure and
penniless lieutenant, had made himself master of the whole world by the
power of his sword. This idea consoled him for his misfortune, which
he considered to be great, and rendered such joyful moments as he had
doubly intense.

The building of the church and the sentences pronounced by the Justice
of the Peace suddenly enlightened him. An idea came to him which made
him almost mad for some weeks, and finally took complete possession of
him with all the magic that a first idea possesses for a passionate
soul which believes that it is original.

"At the time when Buonaparte got himself talked about, France was
frightened of being invaded; military distinction was necessary and
fashionable. Nowadays, one sees priests of forty with salaries of
100,000 francs, that is to say, three times as much as Napoleon's
famous generals of a division. They need persons to assist them. Look
at that Justice of the Peace, such a good sort and such an honest man
up to the present and so old too; he sacrifices his honour through the
fear of incurring the displeasure of a young vicar of thirty. I must be
a priest."

On one occasion, in the middle of his new-found piety (he had already
been studying theology for two years), he was betrayed by a sudden
burst of fire which consumed his soul. It was at M. Chelan's. The
good cure had invited him to a dinner of priests, and he actually let
himself praise Napoleon with enthusiasm. He bound his right arm over
his breast, pretending that he had dislocated it in moving a trunk of a
pine-tree and carried it for two months in that painful position. After
this painful penance, he forgave himself. This is the young man of
eighteen with a puny physique, and scarcely looking more than seventeen
at the outside, who entered the magnificent church of Verrieres
carrying a little parcel under his arm.

He found it gloomy and deserted. All the transepts in the building had
been covered with crimson cloth in celebration of a feast. The result
was that the sun's rays produced an effect of dazzling light of the
most impressive and religious character. Julien shuddered. Finding
himself alone in the church, he established himself in the pew which
had the most magnificent appearance. It bore the arms of M. de Renal.

Julien noticed a piece of printed paper spread out on the stool, which
was apparently intended to be read, he cast his eyes over it and
saw:--"_Details of the execution and the last moments of Louis Jenrel,
executed at Besancon the...._" The paper was torn. The two first words
of a line were legible on the back, they were, "_The First Step_."

"Who could have put this paper there?" said Julien. "Poor fellow!" he
added with a sigh, "the last syllable of his name is the same as mine,"
and he crumpled up the paper. As he left, Julien thought he saw blood
near the Host, it was holy water which the priests had been sprinkling
on it, the reflection of the red curtains which covered the windows
made it look like blood.

Finally, Julien felt ashamed of his secret terror. "Am I going to play
the coward," he said to himself: "_To Arms!_" This phrase, repeated so
often in the old Surgeon-Major's battle stories, symbolized heroism to
Julien. He got up rapidly and walked to M. de Renal's house. As soon
as he saw it twenty yards in front of him he was seized, in spite of
his fine resolution, with an overwhelming timidity. The iron grill was
open. He thought it was magnificent. He had to go inside.

Julien was not the only person whose heart was troubled by his arrival
in the house. The extreme timidity of Madame de Renal was fluttered
when she thought of this stranger whose functions would necessitate
his coming between her and her children. She was accustomed to seeing
her sons sleep in her own room. She had shed many tears that morning,
when she had seen their beds carried into the apartment intended for
the tutor. It was in vain that she asked her husband to have the bed of
Stanislas-Xavier, the youngest, carried back into her room.

Womanly delicacy was carried in Madame de Renal to the point of excess.
She conjured up in her imagination the most disagreeable personage, who
was coarse, badly groomed and encharged with the duty of scolding her
children simply because he happened to know Latin, and only too ready
to flog her sons for their ignorance of that barbarous language.

[1] The author was sub-lieutenant in the 6th Dragoons in 1800.

The novel opens with a panorama of the provincial town of Verrieres, located in southern France. The reader is immediately confronted with the racket of a nail-making factory, which belongs to the town mayor, M. de Renal. Descended from an old aristocratic family, M. de Renal is ashamed of having to participate in industry, especially since he was made mayor of Verrieres after supporting the restoration of the absolutist monarchy in 1815. The mayor tries to maintain an air of superiority about him but has recently been embarrassed by old Sorel, the owner of a local saw mill. Sorel recently manipulated Renal into over-paying for a piece of land; a humiliation before public opinion that M. de Renal is forced to endure. While walking through Verrieres with his wife, Mme. de Renal, the mayor encounters the town priest, M. Chelan, and the director of the poorhouse, M. Valenod. Chelan is a kind- hearted and philanthropic public servant whom the mayor distrusts. While M. de Renal and M. Valenod profess to be friends, the latter is a bourgeois liberal and thus the mayor's political adversary. Worried that Valenod, who is becoming richer day by day, is scheming to become mayor, M. de Renal tells his wife that he has decided to hire the son of old Sorel, Julien, to be the tutor of their three children. He hopes that the prestige of having a live-in tutor will surpass Valenod, who has just purchased two Norman horses. Yet, when M. de Renal meets with old Sorel to negotiate Julien's salary, he is again manipulated by Sorel into paying more than Julien is worth. Old Sorel is glad to get rid of Julien, who detests physical labor and has been studying Latin with M. Chelan, training to become a priest. Handsome but scorned as a weakling, Julien is consistently beaten up by his older brothers. Urging his son to pack up and leave for the mayor's, old Sorel beats him. But Julien defiantly refuses to go to M. de Renal's if he will only be a servant. While Julien is contemplating running away, his father secures M. de Renal's promise that Julien will not be considered a servant, will eat together with the family, will receive money for new clothes, and will receive an even larger income. Extremely ambitious, Julien agrees to this arrangement with the hopes that it will better his position in society. An admirer of Napoleon, Julien dreams of achieving both military and economic success after rising from the bottom of society, just like his hero. Julien's godfather, a surgeon-major in Napoleon's army, taught Julien all about Napoleon's great conquests of Europe and his wife Josephine. But when his godfather was persecuted for his liberal political beliefs, Julien finds that the best way to achieve success during the Restoration is by relying on hypocrisy. He stops praising Napoleon in public, and pretends to want to become a priest, realizing that unlike Napoleon's time, when the Army was the road to success, the most powerful institution of the Restoration is the Church.

Commentary Stendhal establishes the political dimensions of the novel in the opening pages describing Verrieres. M. de Renal is a conservative aristocrat and a supporter of the Bourbon Restoration. Indeed, M. de Renal has been the town mayor since 1815, the year of Napoleon's final defeat. But French society has changed since the 1789 Revolution. Rivaled by the rising bourgeoisie, the aristocracy has run out of money and lost its land, forcing men like Renal to become businessmen. His embarrassment at having to work is not lost on men like old Sorel, who take great pleasure in cheating him out of as much money as possible. Old Sorel and Valenod represent the opposite end of the political spectrum: the liberal bourgeoisie. Despite Stendhal's own liberal beliefs, in the novel M. Valenod is harshly criticized for making his money by running a poorhouse and a prison-- openly stealing money from the impoverished of Verrieres. Stendhal's reservations about the moral character of the bourgeoisie are greatly overshadowed by his outright disdain for the aristocracy, especially M. de Renal. Renal lacks both intelligence and wit, and is so obsessed about his social status that he is willing to pay Julien more money just so Valenod won't be able to afford him. Renal's insatiable desire to build walls and plant prune trees throughout Verrieres are also elements of Stendhal's hostility . The mayor's concern for class and rank paradoxically makes him behave like a bourgeois businessman: he owns a factory and praises only what "yields a return." More importantly, M. de Renal has no real authority--he is only a mayor by title. As Stendhal notes, "public opinion" is the most powerful force in the countryside, not the municipal governments. M. de Renal is hesitant at first to hire Julien because Julien is a carpenter's son and thus not worthy to live in Renal's house. Renal is also convinced that Verrieres is filled with liberals. However, M. Chelan assures the mayor that Julien intends to become a priest and is an excellent scholar of Latin. This association with the Church convinces M. de Renal that Julien is not a liberal--but nothing could be further from the truth. The reader first encounters Julien reading, not the Bible, but the Memorial de Sainte- Helene, a keystone in the Napoleonic legend. Julien is not only a liberal, but worships the hero of the liberal cause, Napoleon Bonaparte. Julien hopes to model his life after Napoleon's, comparing his ability to "make his fortune" to a military engagement. Julien's fierce ambition and devotion to his role model make him defiantly refuse to be M. de Renal's "servant." His egotism prevents him from doing anything that will not better his own social position. This emphasis on Napoleon, both thematically and stylistically, plays a preeminent role in The Red and the Black. Julien often cries, "To arms!"--comparing his daily decisions to those of a general on a battlefield. Stendhal's sharp and choppy prose has been compared to the language in the Napoleonic Code. Stendhal's juxtaposition of his protagonist Julien with the antagonist M. de Renal is also a juxtaposition of his stylistic influences. The biting irony used to describe M. de Renal recalls the humor of Voltaire, while Julien's lofty ambition situates his character in the romantic tradition of Dumas and Chateaubriand. Finally, Stendhal also introduces one of the texts major themes: hypocrisy. Julien both abhors the hypocrisy characteristic of the Restauration period, and realizes that it is the only way to succeed in French society. He thus pretends to dislike Napoleon like a good conservative and learns Latin in order to convince M. Chelan that he wants to be a priest. Stendhal's fascination with hypocrisy stems from his own experiences with politics during the Restoration, but also represents a subtle psychological exercise. Stendhal believed that between the alternating expressions of hypocrisy and open revolt lies the profound truth of one's character. Yet Julien's conscious hypocrisy will not come without its price. As he says a prayer in church  before leaving for the Renals', he sees a scrap of paper discussing the details of the execution of a man named Louis Jenrel--an anagram of "Julien Sorel." Stendhal foreshadows Julien's own fate with a warning: the back of the paper reads "The first step," and Julien thinks he sees blood on the floor of the Church. The combination of his ambition and his hypocrisy will not go unpunished.