Accustomed as he had been to the perfect naturalness which shone throughout madame de Renal's whole demeanour, Julien could not help finding all the women of Paris affected, and, though by no means of a morose disposition, found nothing to say to them.
Mademoiselle de la Mole was an exception.
He now began to cease taking for coldness of heart that kind of beauty which attaches importance to a noble bearing.
He had long conversations with mademoiselle de la Mole, who would sometimes walk with him in the garden after dinner.
She told him one day that she was reading the History of D'Aubigne and also Brantome.
"Strange books to read," thought Julien; "and the marquis does not allow her to read Walter Scott's novels!"
She told him one day, with that pleased brilliancy in her eyes, which is the real test of genuine admiration, about a characteristic act of a young woman of the reign of Henry III., which she had just read in the memoirs of L'Etoile. Finding her husband unfaithful she stabbed him.
Julien's vanity was nattered.
A person who was surrounded by so much homage, and who governed the whole house, according to the academician, deigned to talk to him on a footing almost resembling friendship.
"I made a mistake," thought Julien soon afterwards.
"This is not familiarity, I am simply the confidante of a tragedy, she needs to speak to someone.
I pass in this family for a man of learning.
I will go and read Brantome, D'Aubigne, L'Etoile.
I shall then be able to challenge some of the anecdotes which madame de la Mole speaks to me about.
I want to leave off this role of the passive confidante."
His conversations with this young girl, whose demeanour was so impressive and yet so easy, gradually became more interesting.
He forgot his grim role of the rebel plebian.
He found her well-informed and even logical.
Her opinions in the gardens were very different to those which she owned to in the salon.
Sometimes she exhibited an enthusiasm and a frankness which were in absolute contrast to her usual cold haughtiness.
"The wars of the League were the heroic days of France," she said to him one day, with eyes shining with enthusiasm.
"Then everyone fought to gain something which he desired, for the sake of his party's triumph, and not just in order to win a cross as in the days of your emperor.
Admit that there was then less egotism and less pettiness.
I love that century."
"And Boniface de la Mole was the hero of it," he said to her.
"At least he was loved in a way that it is perhaps sweet to be loved.
What woman alive now would not be horrified at touching the head of her decapitated lover?"
Madame de la Mole called her daughter.
To be effective hypocrisy ought to hide itself, yet Julien had half confided his admiration for Napoleon to mademoiselle de la Mole.
Julien remained alone in the garden. "That is the immense advantage they have over us," he said to himself.
"Their ancestors lift them above vulgar sentiments, and they have not got always to be thinking about their subsistence!
What misery," he added bitterly.
"I am not worthy to discuss these great matters.
My life is nothing more than a series of hypocrisies because I have not got a thousand francs a year with which to buy my bread and butter."
Mathilde came running back. "What are you dreaming about, monsieur?" she said to him.
Julien was tired of despising himself.
Through sheer pride he frankly told her his thoughts.
He blushed a great deal while talking to such a person about his own poverty.
He tried to make it as plain as he could that he was not asking for anything.
Mathilde never thought him so handsome; she detected in him an expression of frankness and sensitiveness which he often lacked.
Within a month of this episode Julien was pensively walking in the garden of the hotel; but his face had no longer the hardness and philosophic superciliousness which the chronic consciousness of his inferior position had used to write upon it.
He had just escorted mademoiselle de la Mole to the door of the salon. She said she had hurt her foot while running with her brother.
"She leaned on my arm in a very singular way," said Julien to himself.
"Am I a coxcomb, or is it true that she has taken a fancy to me?
She listens to me so gently, even when I confess to her all the sufferings of my pride! She too, who is so haughty to everyone!
They would be very astonished in the salon if they saw that expression of hers.
It is quite certain that she does not show anyone else such sweetness and goodness."
Julien endeavoured not to exaggerate this singular friendship.
He himself compared it to an armed truce.
When they met again each day, they almost seemed before they took up the almost intimate tone of the previous day to ask themselves "are we going to be friends or enemies to-day?"