M. de Croisenois’ death changed all Julien’s ideas concerning Mathilde’s future. He spent several days in proving to her that she ought to accept the hand of M. de Luz. “He is a nervous man, not too much of a Jesuit, and will doubtless be a candidate,” he said to her. “He has a more sinister and persevering ambition than poor Croisenois, and as there has never been a dukedom in his family, he will be only too glad to marry Julien Sorel’s widow.”
“A widow, though, who scorns the grand passions,” answered Mathilde coldly, “for she has lived long enough to see her lover prefer to her after six months another woman who was the origin of all their unhappiness.”
“You are unjust! Madame de Rênal’s visits will furnish my advocate at Paris, who is endeavouring to procure my pardon, with the subject matter for some sensational phrases; he will depict the murderer honoured by the attention of his victim. That may produce an impression, and perhaps some day or other, you will see me provide the plot of some melodrama or other, etc., etc.”
A furious and impotent jealousy, a prolonged and hopeless unhappiness (for even supposing Julien was saved, how was she to win back his heart?), coupled with her shame and anguish at loving this unfaithful lover more than ever had plunged mademoiselle de la Mole into a gloomy silence, from which all the careful assiduity of M. de Frilair was as little able to draw her as the rugged frankness of Fouqué.
As for Julien, except in those moments which were taken up by Mathilde’s presence, he lived on love with scarcely a thought for the future.
“In former days,” Julien said to her, “when I might have been so happy, during our walks in the wood of Vergy, a frenzied ambition swept my soul into the realms of imagination. Instead of pressing to my heart that charming arm which is so near my lips, the thoughts of my future took me away from you; I was engaged in countless combats which I should have to sustain in order to lay the foundations of a colossal fortune. No, I should have died without knowing what happiness was if you had not come to see me in this prison.”
Two episodes ruffled this tranquil life. Julien’s confessor, Jansenist though he was, was not proof against an intrigue of the Jesuits, and became their tool without knowing it.
He came to tell him one day that unless he meant to fall into the awful sin of suicide, he ought to take every possible step to procure his pardon. Consequently, as the clergy have a great deal of influence with the minister of Justice at Paris, an easy means presented itself; he ought to become converted with all publicity.
“With publicity,” repeated Julien. “Ha, Ha! I have caught you at it—I have caught you as well, my father, playing a part like any missionary.”
“Your youth,” replied the Jansenist gravely, “the interesting appearance which Providence has given you, the still unsolved mystery of the motive for your crime, the heroic steps which mademoiselle de la Mole has so freely taken on your behalf, everything, up to the surprising affection which your victim manifests towards you, has contributed to make you the hero of the young women of Besançon. They have forgotten everything, even politics, on your account. Your conversion will reverberate in their hearts and will leave behind it a deep impression. You can be of considerable use to religion, and I was about to hesitate for the trivial reason that in a similar circumstance the Jesuits would follow a similar course. But if I did, even in the one case which has escaped their greedy clutches they would still be exercising their mischief. The tears which your conversation will cause to be shed will annul the poisonous effect of ten editions of Voltaire’s works.”