“Upon my word,” said Julien, “the end justifies the means. If instead of being an insignificant man I had some power I would have three men hanged in order to save four men’s lives.”
His eyes expressed the fire of his own conscience; they met the eyes of mademoiselle de la Mole who was close by him, and their contempt, so far from changing into politeness seemed to redouble.
She was deeply shocked; but she found herself unable to forget Julien; she dragged her brother away and went off in a temper.
“I must take some punch and dance a lot,” she said to herself. “I will pick out the best partner and cut some figure at any price. Good, there is that celebrated cynic, the comte de Fervaques.” She accepted his invitation; they danced. “The question is,” she thought, “which of us two will be the more impertinent, but in order to make absolute fun of him, I must get him to talk.” Soon all the other members of the quadrille were dancing as a matter of formality, they did not want to lose any of Mathilde’s cutting reparte. M. de Fervaques felt uneasy and as he could only find elegant expressions instead of ideas, began to scowl. Mathilde, who was in a bad temper was cruel, and made an enemy of him. She danced till daylight and then went home terribly tired. But when she was in the carriage the little vitality she had left, was still employed in making her sad and unhappy. She had been despised by Julien and could not despise him.
Julien was at the zenith of his happiness. He was enchanted without his knowing it by the music, the flowers, the pretty women, the general elegance, and above all by his own imagination which dreamt of distinctions for himself and of liberty for all.
“What a fine ball,” he said to the comte. “Nothing is lacking.”
“Thought is lacking” answered Altamira, and his face betrayed that contempt which is only more deadly from the very fact that a manifest effort is being made to hide it as a matter of politeness.
“You are right, monsieur the comte, there isn’t any thought at all, let alone enough to make a conspiracy.”
“I am here because of my name, but thought is hated in your salons. Thought must not soar above the level of the point of a Vaudeville couplet: it is then rewarded. But as for your man who thinks, if he shows energy and originality we call him a cynic. Was not that name given by one of your judges to Courier. You put him in prison as well as Béranger. The priestly congregation hands over to the police everyone who is worth anything amongst you individually; and good society applauds.
“The fact is your effete society prizes conventionalism above everything else. You will never get beyond military bravery. You will have Murats, never Washingtons. I can see nothing in France except vanity. A man who goes on speaking on the spur of the moment may easily come to make an imprudent witticism and the master of the house thinks himself insulted.”