Engrossed by thoughts of her future and the singular role which she hoped to play, Mathilde soon came to miss the dry metaphysical conversations which she had often had with Julien.
Fatigued by these lofty thoughts she would sometimes also miss those moments of happiness which she had found by his side; these last memories were not unattended by remorse which at certain times even overwhelmed her.
"But one may have a weakness," she said to herself, "a girl like I am should only forget herself for a man of real merit; they will not say that it is his pretty moustache or his skill in horsemanship which have fascinated me, but rather his deep discussions on the future of France and his ideas on the analogy between the events which are going to burst upon us and the English revolution of 1688."
"I have been seduced," she answered in her remorse. "I am a weak woman, but at least I have not been led astray like a doll by exterior advantages."
"If there is a revolution why should not Julien Sorel play the role of Roland and I the role of Madame Roland?
I prefer that part to Madame de Stael's; the immorality of my conduct will constitute an obstacle in this age of ours.
I will certainly not let them reproach me with an act of weakness; I should die of shame."
Mathilde's reveries were not all as grave, one must admit, as the thoughts which we have just transcribed.
She would look at Julien and find a charming grace in his slightest action.
"I have doubtless," she would say, "succeeded in destroying in him the very faintest idea he had of any one else's rights."
"The air of unhappiness and deep passion with which the poor boy declared his love to me eight days ago proves it; I must own it was very extraordinary of me to manifest anger at words in which there shone so much respect and so much of passion.
Am I not his real wife?
Those words of his were quite natural, and I must admit, were really very nice.
Julien still continued to love me, even after those eternal conversations in which I had only spoken to him (cruelly enough I admit), about those weaknesses of love which the boredom of the life I lead had inspired me for those young society men of whom he is so jealous.
Ah, if he only knew what little danger I have to fear from them; how withered and stereotyped they seem to me in comparison with him."
While indulging in these reflections Mathilde made a random pencil sketch of a profile on a page of her album.
One of the profiles she had just finished surprised and delighted her. It had a striking resemblance to Julien.
"It is the voice of heaven.
That's one of the miracles of love," she cried ecstatically;
"Without suspecting it, I have drawn his portrait."
She fled to her room, shut herself up in it, and with much application made strenuous endeavours to draw Julien's portrait, but she was unable to succeed; the profile she had traced at random still remained the most like him.
Mathilde was delighted with it. She saw in it a palpable proof of the grand passion.
She only left her album very late when the marquise had her called to go to the Italian Opera.
Her one idea was to catch sight of Julien, so that she might get her mother to request him to keep them company.
He did not appear, and the ladies had only ordinary vulgar creatures in their box.
During the first act of the opera, Mathilde dreamt of the man she loved with all the ecstasies of the most vivid passion; but a love-maxim in the second act sung it must be owned to a melody worthy of Cimarosa pierced her heart.
The heroine of the opera said
"You must punish me for the excessive adoration which I feel for him. I love him too much."
From the moment that Mathilde heard this sublime song everything in the world ceased to exist.
She was spoken to, she did not answer; her mother reprimanded her, she could scarcely bring herself to look at her.
Her ecstasy reached a state of exultation and passion analogous to the most violent transports which Julien had felt for her for some days.
The divinely graceful melody to which the maxim, which seemed to have such a striking application to her own position, was sung, engrossed all the minutes when she was not actually thinking of Julien.
Thanks to her love for music she was on this particular evening like madame de Renal always was, when she thought of Julien.
Love of the head has doubtless more intelligence than true love, but it only has moments of enthusiasm. It knows itself too well, it sits in judgment on itself incessantly; far from distracting thought it is made by sheer force of thought.
On returning home Mathilde, in spite of madame de la Mole's remonstrances, pretended to have a fever and spent a part of the night in going over this melody on her piano.
She sang the words of the celebrated air which had so fascinated her:—
Devo punirmi, devo punirmi.
Se troppo amai, etc.
As the result of this night of madness, she imagined that she had succeeded in triumphing over her love.
This page will be prejudicial in more than one way to the unfortunate author.
Frigid souls will accuse him of indecency.
But the young ladies who shine in the Paris salons have no right to feel insulted at the supposition that one of their number might be liable to those transports of madness which have been degrading the character of Mathilde.
That character is purely imaginary, and is even drawn quite differently from that social code which will guarantee so distinguished a place in the world's history to nineteenth century civilization.
The young girls who have adorned this winter's balls are certainly not lacking in prudence.
I do not think either that they can be accused of being unduly scornful of a brilliant fortune, horses, fine estates and all the guarantees of a pleasant position in society.
Far from finding these advantages simply equivalent to boredom, they usually concentrate on them their most constant desires and and devote to them such passion as their hearts possess.
Nor again is it love which is the dominant principle in the career of young men who, like Julien, are gifted with some talent; they attach themselves with an irresistible grip to some coterie, and when the coterie succeeds all the good things of society are rained upon them.
Woe to the studious man who belongs to no coterie, even his smallest and most doubtful successes will constitute a grievance, and lofty virtue will rob him and triumph.
Yes, monsieur, a novel is a mirror which goes out on a highway.
Sometimes it reflects the azure of the heavens, sometimes the mire of the pools of mud on the way, and the man who carries this mirror in his knapsack is forsooth to be accused by you of being immoral!