Tired of stampeding about and overcome by his grief, the marquis threw himself into an arm-chair. Julien heard him whispering to himself, “No, no, he is not a wicked man.”
“No, I am not, towards you,” exclaimed Julien, falling on his knees. But he felt extremely ashamed of this manifestation, and very quickly got up again.
The marquis was really transported. When he saw this movement, he began again to load him with abominable insults, which were worthy of the driver of a fiacre. The novelty of these oaths perhaps acted as a distraction.
“What! is my daughter to go by the name of madame Sorel? What! is my daughter not to be a duchess?” Each time that these two ideas presented themselves in all their clearness M. de la Mole was a prey to torture, and lost all power over the movements of his mind.
Julien was afraid of being beaten.
In his lucid intervals, when he was beginning to get accustomed to his unhappiness, the marquis addressed to Julien reproaches which were reasonable enough. “You should have fled, sir,” he said to him. “Your duty was to flee. You are the lowest of men.”
Julien approached the table and wrote:
“I have found my life unbearable for a long time; I am putting an end to it. I request monsieur the marquis to accept my apologies (together with the expression of my infinite gratitude) for any embarrassment that may be occasioned by my death in his hôtel.”
“Kindly run your eye over this paper, M. the marquis,” said Julien. “Kill me, or have me killed by your valet. It is one o’clock in the morning. I will go and walk in the garden in the direction of the wall at the bottom.”
“Go to the devil,” cried the marquis, as he went away.