The Red and the Black by Stendhal, Horace B. Samuel Page A

chase away by a shower of stones a little peasant girl who had taken a private path crossing a corner of the orchard. “Monsieur Julien, restrain yourself, I pray you. Remember that we all have our moments of temper,” said Madame Derville rapidly.
    Julien looked at her coldly with eyes in which the most supreme contempt was depicted.
    This look astonished Madame Derville, and it would have surprised her even more if she had appreciated its real expression; she would have read in it something like a vague hope of the most atrocious vengeance. It is, no doubt, such moments of humiliation which have made Robespierres.
    â€œYour Julien is very violent; he frightens me,” said Madame Derville to her friend, in a low voice.
    â€œHe is right to be angry,” she answered. “What does it matter if he does pass a morning without speaking to the children, after the astonishing progress which he has made them make. One must admit that men are very hard.”
    For the first time in her life Madame de Rênal experienced a kind of desire for vengeance against her husband. The extreme hatred of the rich by which Julien was animated was on the point of exploding. Luckily, M. de Rênal called his gardener, and remained occupied with him in barring by faggots of thorns the private road through the orchard. Julien did not vouchsafe any answer to the kindly consideration of which he was the object during all the rest of the walk. M. de Rênal had scarcely gone away before the two friends made the excuse of being fatigued, and each asked him for an arm.
    Walking as he did between these two women whose extreme nervousness filled their cheeks with a blushing embarrassment, the haughty pallor and sombre, resolute air of Julien formed a strange contrast. He despised these women and all tender sentiments.
    â€œWhat!” he said to himself, “not even an income of five hundred francs to finish my studies! Ah! how I should like to send them packing.”
    And absorbed as he was by these stern ideas, such few courteous words of his two friends as he deigned to take the trouble to understand, displeased him as devoid of sense, silly, feeble, in a word—feminine.
    As the result of speaking for the sake of speaking and of endeavouring to keep the conversation alive, it came about that Madame de Rênal mentioned that her husband had come from Verrières because he had made a bargain for the May straw with one of his farmers. (In this district it is the May straw with which the bed mattresses are filled).
    â€œMy husband will not rejoin us,” added Madame de Rênal; “he will occupy himself with finishing the re-stuffing of the house mattresses with the help of the gardener and his valet. He has put the May straw this morning in all the beds on the first storey; he is now at the second.”
    Julien changed colour. He looked at Madame de Rênal in a singular way, and soon managed somehow to take her on one side, doubling his pace. Madame Derville allowed them to get ahead.
    â€œSave my life,” said Julien to Madame de Rênal; “only you can do it, for you know that the valet hates me desperately. I must confess to you, madame, that I have a portrait. I have hidden it in the mattress of my bed.”
    At these words Madame de Rênal in her turn became pale.
    â€œOnly you, Madame, are able at this moment to go into my room, feel about without their noticing in the corner of the mattress; it is nearest the window. You will find a small, round box of black cardboard, very glossy.”
    â€œDoes it contain a portrait?” said Madame de Rênal, scarcely able to hold herself upright.
    Julien noticed her air of discouragement, and at once proceeded to exploit it.
    â€œI have a second favour to ask you, madame. I entreat you not to look at that portrait; it is my secret.”
    â€œIt is a secret,” repeated Madame de Rênal in a faint voice.
    But though she had been brought