BoredomSacrificing oneself to one's passions is one thing; but to passionsthat one doesn't have! O sad nineteenth century!

GIRODETAfter having read without pleasure at first Julien's long letters, Madame de Fervaques began to take an interest in them; but one thing distressed her: 'What a pity that M. Sorel is not really a priest! One couldadmit him to a sort of intimacy: with that Cross and what is almost alayman's coat, one is exposed to cruel questions, and how is one to answer them?' She did not complete her thought: 'some malicious friendmay suppose and indeed spread the report that he is some humble littlecousin, one of my father's family, some tradesman decorated by the National Guard.'

Until the moment of her first meeting Julien, Madame de Fervaques'sgreatest pleasure had been to write the word Marechale before her ownname. Thenceforward the vanity of an upstart, morbid and easily offended, had to fight a nascent interest.

'It would be so easy for me,' the Marechale said to herself, 'to make aVicar-General of him in some diocese not far from Paris! But M. Sorel byitself, and to add to that a mere secretary of M. de La Mole! It isdeplorable.'

For the first time, this spirit which dreaded everything was stirred by aninterest apart from its own pretensions to rank and to social superiority.

Her old porter noticed that, when he brought her a letter from that handsome young man, who wore such a melancholy air, he was certain to seevanish the distracted and irritated expression which the Marechale always took care to assume when any of her servants entered the room.

The boredom of a mode of life whose sole ambition was to create aneffect on the public, without there being at the bottom of her heart any real enjoyment of this kind of success, had become so intolerable sinceshe had begun to think of Julien, that, if her maids were not to be ill-treated throughout the whole of a day, it was enough that during theprevious evening she should have spent an hour with this strange youngman. His growing credit survived anonymous letters, very well composed. In vain did little Tanbeau supply MM. de Luz, de Croisenois, deCaylus, with two or three most adroit calumnies which those gentlementook pleasure in spreading abroad, without stopping to consider thetruth of the accusations. The Marechale, whose mind was not framed towithstand these vulgar methods, reported her doubts to Mathilde, andwas always comforted.

One day, after having inquired three times whether there were any letters, Madame de Fervaques suddenly decided to write to Julien. Thiswas a victory gained by boredom. At the second letter, the Marechalewas almost brought to a standstill by the unpleasantness of writing withher own hand so vulgar an address as: 'a M. Sorel, chez M. le Marquis deLa Mole'.

'You must,' she said to Julien that evening in the driest of tones, 'bringme some envelopes with your address written on them.'

'So now I am to combine the lover and the flunkey,' thought Julien,and bowed, amusing himself by screwing up his face like Arsene, theMarquis's old footman.

That same evening he brought a supply of envelopes, and next day,early in the morning, he received a third letter: he read five or six lines atthe beginning, and two or three towards the end. It covered four pagesin a small and very close script.

Gradually she formed the pleasant habit of writing almost every day.

Julien replied with faithful copies of the Russian letters, and, such is theadvantage of the emphatic style, Madame de Fervaques was not at allsurprised by the want of connection between the replies and her ownletters.

What would have been the irritation to her pride if little Tanbeau, whohad appointed himself a voluntary spy upon Julien's actions, had beenable to tell her that all these letters, with their seals unbroken, were flungpell-mell into Julien's drawer!

One morning, the porter brought to him in the library a letter from theMarechale; Mathilde met the man, saw the letter, and read the address inJulien's hand. She entered the library as the porter left it; the letter was still lying on the edge of the table; Julien, busily engaged in writing, hadnot placed it in his drawer.

'This is what I cannot endure,' cried Mathilde, seizing the letter; 'youare forgetting me entirely, me who am your wife. Your conduct is appalling, Sir.'

With these words, her pride, astonished by the fearful impropriety ofher action, stifled her; she burst into tears, and a moment later appearedto Julien to be unable to breathe.

Surprised, confounded, Julien did not clearly distinguish all the admirable and happy consequences which this scene foreboded for himself. Hehelped Mathilde to a seat; she almost abandoned herself in his arms.

The first instant in which he perceived this relaxation was one of extreme joy. His second thought was of Korasoff: 'I may ruin everything bya single word.'

His arms ached, so painful was the effort imposed on him by policy. 'Iought not even to allow myself to press to my heart this supple andcharming form, or she will despise and abuse me. What a frightfulnature!'

And as he cursed Mathilde's nature, he loved her for it a hundredtimes more; he felt as though he were holding a queen in his arms.

Julien's unfeeling coldness intensified the misery of wounded pridewhich was tearing the heart of Mademoiselle de La Mole. She was farfrom possessing the necessary coolness to seek to read in his eyes whathe was feeling for her at that moment. She could not bring herself to lookat him; she trembled lest she should meet an expression of scorn.

Seated on the divan in the library, motionless and with her headturned away from Julien, she was a prey to the keenest suffering thatpride and love can make a human heart feel. Into what a frightful courseof action had she fallen!

'It was reserved for me, wretch that I am, to see the most indelicate advances repulsed! And repulsed by whom?' added a pride mad with suffering, 'by one of my father's servants.

'That is what I will not endure,' she said aloud.

And, rising with fury, she opened the drawer of Julien's table, whichstood a few feet away from her. She remained frozen with horror on seeing there nine or ten letters unopened, similar in every respect to the letter which the porter had just brought in. On all the envelopes, she recognised Julien's hand, more or less disguised.

'And so,' she cried, beside herself with rage, 'not only have you foundfavour with her, but you despise her. You, a man of nought, to despiseMadame la Marechale de Fervaques!

'Ah, forgive me, my dear,' she went on, flinging herself at his feet,'despise me if you wish, but love me, I can no longer live deprived ofyour love.' And she fell to the ground in a dead faint.

'So there she is, that proud creature, at my feet!' thought Julien.