Julie, when he had gone, fell back, pale and crushed, on her chair. He turned as he was leaving the salon, and satisfied himself that he had succeeded in shaking that haughty courage. Then he went away in triumph.
[VII]
By nature, as by profession, Marcel was a foreseeing man. A man may be both practical and generous. Under the inspiration of those two qualities he considered the situation of the lovers and talked to Julie.
"Madame," he said, taking both her hands with an affectionate kindliness in which there was nothing offensive, "begin by disregarding me entirely in this matter. If Julien and his mother are as brave and self-sacrificing as you, I shall admire the sacrifice instead of dissuading them. And first of all do not exaggerate the future consequences of your action. Monsieur Antoine is a man of his word, that is certain; in good as in evil, he does what he promises. But the matter of his last will is a great problem, because he is now on the downward slope of marriage. Surely it is a most extraordinary thing to see that old bachelor, a confirmed foe of women and of love, rush headlong into this matrimonial caprice in his declining years; as it bears the stamp of monomania, no promise, no resolution that he may make can protect him from it. He will find what he is seeking, be sure of that: some titled woman or other, young or old, virtuous or not, beautiful or ugly, will allow herself to be tempted by his cash and will swallow all his property. So this simplifies the question, and you may put aside the consideration of our inheritance. There is nothing certain beyond the present facts, and you see I am not at all interested. So let us consider these present facts which are submitted for our consideration. They are of very serious consequence. I know Uncle Antoine; what he proposes to do, he does in twenty-four hours or never. To-morrow he will be here with documents all prepared, drawn up by himself in more or less barbarous style, but with not a dot over an i missing that would make them good and binding, incontestable in the eye of the law, which he knows better than I do myself. These documents will not set forth in any form of words the strange provision, unforeseen in legislation, that you shall formally break off relations with a certain person; but they may very well impose the condition that you are not to marry again without Monsieur Antoine's assent, and that they shall be revocable at once in case of rebellion on your part. So we must not hope to evade the stipulation which he demands; moreover, your character is an assurance that you would not think of doing so."
"You are right, monsieur," said Julie with a sigh, "I shall never make a promise and not keep it."
"Here we are then," continued Marcel, "face to face with an incredible, but very real, closely impending fact, conclusive concerning the existence of two persons who are dear to you, my aunt and Julien, since my reasoning places me outside of the reckoning. You must reflect seriously. Do you wish me to leave you alone for that purpose, or will you allow me to say to you at once what I would have said to you an hour ago if you had taken me for a confidant before Monsieur Antoine appeared?"
"Say it now, Marcel; you must tell me everything."
"Very well, madame; let us suppose that, despite his anger, Monsieur Antoine outbids the marchioness; see how straitened your circumstances will be; two or three thousand francs a year! You marry Julien, who has nothing in the world but his arms, and soon you will be a mother, with Madame Thierry to support and care for, a servant for her, and a nurse for yourself, and a manservant, unless Julien lays aside his brushes when the heavy work of the household is to be done, however modest it may be. You will certainly live honorably, for he will work; Madame Thierry will knit all the stockings for the family, and you will be economical. You will have a single silk dress and will wear calicoes. You will always walk when you go out, and you will not indulge yourself in a bit of ribbon without counting on your fingers to see if your little savings will stand it. That is how my wife began life when I purchased my office. Well, I can tell you, madame, that we were not very happy then, and yet we loved each other dearly; my wife was not vain, we had never been well-to-do, and we did not know what luxury was. We knew how to go without; but we were anxious,—my wife because I worked half the night and trotted about, tired out and with a cold in my head, at all hours and in all weathers; and I, because she had to go without fresh air and good food, forever harnessed to household duties and the labors of maternity. Each of us suffered from constant, painful solicitude for the other. I give you my word that the more dearly we loved each other, the more worried we were and the more we lacked real happiness. We lost two children; one that we had to put out to nurse in the country where he was not well cared for; the other we decided to keep at home, and the foul air of Paris, combined with the poor health he inherited from his mother, prevented him from developing. If we have succeeded in raising the third, it is only because we were in somewhat easier circumstances by dint of economy and industry. To-day we are very happy and free from anxiety; but we are forty years old and we have suffered terribly! Our earlier years were a constant struggle, and often a martyrdom. Such is the life of the petty bourgeois of Paris, madame la comtesse; that of the poor artist is even worse, for his profession is less reliable than mine. People constantly have matters in dispute, which cause them to have recourse to the solicitor; but they don't always need pictures, and most people never need them. They are pure luxuries. Julien will not make a small fortune, as his father did. His character and talent are even more highly esteemed perhaps; but he has not the attractive frivolity, the taste for society and the brilliant external qualities which cause a certain sort of people to become infatuated with an artist, bring him out, sing his praises, and make him shine resplendent. Let me tell you that my Uncle André's talent, genuine as it was, would never have extricated him from poverty, if he had not been a fine table-singer, a great man for clever remarks and piquant anecdotes, and if certain influential but volatile ladies had not from time to time made him unfaithful to his wife, whom he adored none the less, but of whom he said under his breath, innocently enough, that he must needs deceive her a little, in her own interest.—You lose color!—Julien will not follow that example of a time which has gone by; but it will be of no use for Julien to produce masterpieces, he will remain poor. Society does not become infatuated with modest merit, and does not travel about in quest of unknown virtue. His marriage with you will make a certain noise, a little scandal which will bring him into notice. His father's marriage had that result at the time; but, once more I say, times have changed: the world is more austere or more hypocritical to-day than in La Pompadour's day. Then, too, the same sort of adventure doesn't succeed twice. People will say that youngster is very presumptuous to try to mimic his father; and you will raise up more enemies than patrons for him. There will be a great outcry against you. I don't suppose that the marchioness will try to have you put in a convent and him in the Bastille, for the crime of misalliance: she has no rights over you; but she will injure you much more by crying you down, and you will not have the rigors of persecution to make you interesting. People know you, they know that you are rigidly virtuous; the reaction will be all the more violent and implacable, the old prudes will go about everywhere saying that as such marriages threaten to become common in society, they cannot be endured and must be severely condemned. Even the liberally-minded—some of whom are Julien's patrons now—will not dare to defend you. They too belong to society to-day. They are no longer persecuted but are caressed and flattered, and Paris is still quivering over the triumph awarded Monsieur de Voltaire after his long exile. People laugh at Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who believed that he was still a victim of the machinations of bigots, and who might have lived in peace and honor, so they say, if his heart had not been soured and his mind diseased. The philosophers have the upper hand to-day; they are no longer over-solicitous to fight against prejudice, and the remnant of the great crusade of free-thinkers will not mend its pen and sharpen its tongue to sustain your cause against the outcry of the salons. All these cowardly blows, all these insults will eventually fall on Julien's heart. He will live in never-ending anxiety, always on the quivive; he will fall out with all his friends; he may fight with some of them——"
"Enough, enough, Marcel," said Julie, weeping. "I see that I have been mad, that I have been led by the counsel of a selfish passion, or by my absolute ignorance of social necessities. I see that Julien's life would be made burdensome by public reprobation, that life would be a never-ending source of danger and unhappiness.—Ah! Marcel, you have broken my heart; but you have done your duty, and I esteem you the more. Let us go and tell Julien that I mean to break—Mon Dieu! how shall I tell him that?"
"Julien will not believe you! He will laugh at your generous pretence; he will tell you that he longs to suffer for you. He is courageous and strong, and I have no doubt that he adores you. If you consult him, his first exclamation will be: 'Love at any price, love and persecution, love and poverty!'—He does not doubt himself, and his mother, who is equal to him in the matter of courage and unselfishness, will assist him to sacrifice everything; but imagine Julien a year or two hence, when he sees his mother suffer. Only by the most extraordinary efforts is he able now to shield her from the horrors of poverty, and in spite of him, in spite of herself, in spite of everything, she suffers on that account, you may be sure. Madame Thierry is an enthusiast, in nowise a stoic. She was brought up to do nothing, and she doesn't know how to do anything but knit and read, sitting comfortably in her easy-chair. Moreover her health is frail. She is not like my wife, she would not sit up till midnight mending her son's shirts; her beautiful hands are no better acquainted with fatigue than yours. What will happen then, when Julien has a wife and children? He will blame himself for your miseries, and if remorse ever gains a foothold in that proud heart, farewell to courage and perhaps to talent!"