Julien rushed into madame de la Mole’s box. His eyes first met the tearful eyes of Mathilde; she was crying without reserve. There were only insignificant personages present, the friend who had leant her box, and some men whom she knew. Mathilde placed her hand on Julien’s; she seemed to have forgotten all fear of her mother. Almost stifled as she was by her tears, she said nothing but this one word: “Guarantees!”
“So long as I don’t speak to her,” said Julien to himself. He was himself very moved, and concealed his eyes with his hand as best he could under the pretext of avoiding the dazzling light of the third tier of boxes. “If I speak she may suspect the excess of my emotion, the sound of my voice will betray me. All may yet be lost.” His struggles were more painful than they had been in the morning, his soul had had the time to become moved. He had been frightened at seeing Mathilde piqued with vanity. Intoxicated as he was with love and pleasure he resolved not to speak.
In my view this is one of the finest traits in his character, an individual capable of such an effort of self-control may go far si fata sinant.
Mademoiselle de la Mole insisted on taking Julien back to the hôtel. Luckily it was raining a great deal, but the marquise had him placed opposite her, talked to him incessantly, and prevented him saying a single word to her daughter. One might have thought that the marquise was nursing Julien’s happiness for him; no longer fearing to lose everything through his excessive emotion, he madly abandoned himself to his happiness.
Shall I dare to say that when he went back to his room Julien fell on his knees and covered with kisses the love letters which prince Korasoff had given him.
“How much I owe you, great man,” he exclaimed in his madness. Little by little he regained his self-possession. He compared himself to a general who had just won a great battle. “My advantage is definite and immense,” he said to himself, “but what will happen to-morrow? One instant may ruin everything.”
With a passionate gesture he opened the Memoirs which Napoleon had dictated at St. Helena and for two long hours forced himself to read them. Only his eyes read; no matter, he made himself do it. During this singular reading his head and his heart rose to the most exalted level and worked unconsciously. “Her heart is very different from madame de Rênal’s,” he said to himself, but he did not go further.
“Frighten her!” he suddenly exclaimed, hurling away the book. “The enemy will only obey me in so far as I frighten him, but then he will not dare to show contempt for me.”
Intoxicated with joy he walked up and down his little room. In point of fact his happiness was based rather on pride than on love.