His love and his happiness rapidly increased in proportion to the time that elapsed from the moment of the battle. He was blaming himself already. “How could I resist her?” he said to himself. “Suppose she were to go and leave off loving me! One single moment may change that haughty soul, and I must admit that I have treated her awfully.”
In the evening he felt that it was absolutely necessary to put in an appearance at the Bouffes in madame de Fervaques’ box. She had expressly invited him. Mathilde would be bound to know of his presence or his discourteous absence. In spite of the clearness of this logic, he could not at the beginning of the evening bring himself to plunge into society. By speaking he would lose half his happiness. Ten o’clock struck and it was absolutely necessary to show himself. Luckily he found the maréchale’s box packed with women, and was relegated to a place near the door where he was completely hidden by the hats. This position saved him from looking ridiculous; Caroline’s divine notes of despair in the Matrimonio Segreto made him burst into tears. Madame de Fervaques saw these tears. They represented so great a contrast with the masculine firmness of his usual expression that the soul of the old-fashioned lady, saturated as it had been for many years with all the corroding acid of parvenu haughtiness, was none the less touched. Such remnants of a woman’s heart as she still possessed impelled her to speak: she wanted to enjoy the sound of his voice at this moment.
“Have you seen the de la Mole ladies?” she said to him. “They are in the third tier.” Julien immediately craned out over theatre, leaning politely enough on the front of the box. He saw Mathilde; her eyes were shining with tears.
“And yet it is not their Opera day,” thought Julien; “how eager she must be!”
Mathilde had prevailed on her mother to come to the Bouffes in spite of the inconveniently high tier of the box, which a lady friend of the family had hastened to offer her. She wanted to see if Julien would pass the evening with the maréchale.
[CHAPTER LXI]
FRIGHTEN HER
So this is the fine miracle of your civilisation; you have turned love into an ordinary business.—Barnave.