These attempts at reaction in the midst of the onward rush of the age found an echo in the religious coteries; and the greater nobility, generally speaking, upbraided those of its members who had allowed themselves to be fascinated by the seductions of the new philosophy. In the conservative salons, the king and queen were overwhelmed with maledictions and sarcasm when they seemed inclined to abandon the theory of the royal good pleasure. The aristocrats clung to that theory, they believed that everything was safe when they added a stone to the powerless dam erected to stem the revolutionary spirit, and yet no one suspected the swift motion of the flood nor the imminence of the inundation. Everything was translated into bitter satire, ballads and caricatures. They pretended to despise the danger to the point of laughing pityingly at it.
Those persons who were of Julie's immediate circle were of the same mild and timid disposition to which her own mild timidity naturally inclined her; but outside of that little circle, where extravagance in any form was frowned upon, she felt the pressure of a large and more formidable circle, that of the Comte d'Estrelle's family, an arrogant family, irritated by her dumb resistance to absolute opinions; and again, outside of that dreaded circle, which she carefully avoided, there was a still more powerful and threatening one, that of the Marquis d'Estrelle's second wife. That circle, composed exclusively of bigots, opposed to all progress, bitterly contemptuous of philosophers, openly hostile to the omnipotent Voltaire himself, permeated with all the prejudices of birth, fiercely tenacious of its alleged right, was to Julie a subject of terror, puerile perhaps but profound and increasing. The marchioness was well-known to be a covetous, evil-minded, dishonorable woman, and we have seen that the Baronne d'Ancourt, despite her own retrograde ideas, spoke of her, as well as of her environment, with great aversion. Julie was very slightly acquainted with her, and strove to believe that she was sincere in her piety; but she was afraid of her, and, when she questioned herself concerning the state of dread and depression in which she was living, she saw before her the disgusting spectre of that gaunt person, with the greenish eye and pitiless tongue. At such times, from very excess of terror, she tried to apologize for her when she spoke of her, or to impose silence on those of her friends who ventured to call her a harpy or a bird of evil omen.
Naturally poor Julie abhorred the opinions of the marchioness and her circle; but she had not had enough experience, she did not sufficiently appreciate the general tendency of her time to realize the utter puerility of the persecutions she would have had to undergo if she had resolved to live in accordance with the dictates of her heart and her conscience. In that cage of prejudice she was like a bird which thinks that the world has formed itself into a cage about him, and which no longer understands the breath of the wind among the leaves and the flight of other birds through space.
"There may be happy people," she said to herself, "but how far away they are. And how can I join them?"
In like manner, on the eve of a terrible revolution, the prisoners of the past wept over their chains and believed that they were riveted upon them for all eternity. Nevertheless Julie, the greater part of the time, forgot this whole matter of external facts to lose herself in vague contemplations and in secret preoccupations of a new sort. We shall soon see what the subject of them was, and how great difficulty that generous but timid heart had in coming to terms with itself.
A fortnight had passed since the disaster to the Antonia, and Madame d'Estrelle had neither seen nor heard of Julien. She might have believed that he had never existed and that their two interviews were a dream. Madame Thierry had not set foot in the garden, and when Julie, surprised at her continued absence, sent to inquire for her, the answer was that she was a little indisposed—nothing alarming—but forced to keep her room.
Marcel, when she questioned him, evaded her questions, confirmed the statement as to his aunt's slight indisposition, but went into no details. Julie dared not insist; she divined that her neighbor was determined to break off every sort of relation, every pretext for communication, even indirect, between her and Julien.
At last, one morning, Madame Thierry reappeared, when Julie least expected her. In reply to Julie's reserved and timid questions, she said effusively:
"My dear countess, you must forgive me for a bad dream I had, which has vanished now. I judged too hastily, I was foolishly alarmed, and I frightened you with my chimeras. I thought that my son had the presumption to love you, I was so sure of it that it has taken this past fortnight to disabuse me of the idea. So forget what I said to you and give back to my poor child the esteem which he has never ceased to deserve. He does not raise his eyes or his thoughts to you. He venerates you as he ought, and if you should need someone to die for you, he would grasp the opportunity; but there is no romantic passion in his devotion, simply fervent and heartfelt gratitude. He has sworn to me that it is so. I doubted his word at first, but I was wrong. I have watched him; I have done better than that, I have played the spy for a fortnight, and now I am reassured. He eats, he sleeps, he talks, he goes in and out, and works cheerily; in a word, he is not in love: he does not try to see you, he speaks of you with tranquil admiration, he does not seem to desire an opportunity to attract your eyes, nor will he ever seek it. Forgive my folly, and love me as before."
Julie accepted this perfectly sincere declaration of Madame Thierry with gracious satisfaction. They talked of something else and remained together an hour; then they parted, congratulating each other on having no further subject of discomfort, and on being able to renew their relations without agitation or danger to anyone.