"You monster," Julien exclaimed half aloud, while tears of generosity moistened his eyes.
"You little rascal," he thought,
"I will pay you out for this."
"Yet," he thought, "those are the unborn hopes of the party of which the marquis is one of the chiefs. How many crosses and how many sinecures would that celebrated man whom he is now defaming have accumulated if he had sold himself—I won't say to the mediocre ministry of M. de Nerval—but to one of those reasonably honest ministries which we have seen follow each other in succession."
The abbe Pirard motioned to Julien from some distance off; M. de la Mole had just said something to him.
But when Julien, who was listening at the moment with downcast eyes to the lamentations of the bishop, had at length got free and was able to get near his friend, he found him monopolised by the abominable little Tanbeau.
The little beast hated him as the cause of Julien's favour with the marquis, and was now making up to him.
"When will death deliver us from that aged rottenness," it was in these words of a biblical energy that the little man of letters was now talking of the venerable Lord Holland.
His merit consisted in an excellent knowledge of the biography of living men, and he had just made a rapid review of all the men who could aspire to some influence under the reign of the new King of England.
The abbe Pirard passed in to an adjacent salon.
Julien followed him.
"I warn you the marquis does not like scribblers, it is his only prejudice.
Know Latin and Greek if you can manage it, the history of the Egyptians, Persians, etc., he will honour and protect you as a learned man.
But don't write a page of French, especially on serious matters which are above your position in society, or he will call you a scribbler and take you for a scoundrel.
How is it that living as you do in the hotel of a great lord you don't know the Duke de Castries' epigram on Alembert and Rousseau: 'the fellow wants to reason about everything and hasn't got an income of a thousand crowns'!"
"Everything leaks out here," thought Julien, "just like the seminary."
He had written eight or six fairly drastic pages.
It was a kind of historical eulogy of the old surgeon-major who had, he said, made a man of him.
"The little note book," said Julien to himself, "has always been locked."
He went up to his room, burnt his manuscript and returned to the salon.
The brilliant scoundrels had left it, only the men with the stars were left.
Seven or eight very aristocratic ladies, very devout, very affected, and of from thirty to thirty-five years of age, were grouped round the table that the servants had just brought in ready served.
The brilliant marechale de Fervaques came in apologising for the lateness of the hour.
It was more than midnight: she went and sat down near the marquise.
Julien was deeply touched, she had the eyes and the expression of madame de Renal.
Mademoiselle de la Mole's circle was still full of people.
She was engaged with her friends in making fun of the unfortunate comte de Thaler.
He was the only son of that celebrated Jew who was famous for the riches that he had won by lending money to kings to make war on the peoples.
The Jew had just died leaving his son an income of one hundred thousand crowns a month, and a name that was only too well known.
This strange position required either a simple character or force of will power.
Unfortunately the comte was simply a fellow who was inflated by all kinds of pretensions which had been suggested to him by all his toadies.
M. de Caylus asserted that they had induced him to make up his mind to ask for the hand of mademoiselle de la Mole, to whom the marquis de Croisenois, who would be a duke with a hundred thousand francs a year, was paying his attentions.
"Oh, do not accuse him of having a mind," said Norbert pitifully.
Will-power was what the poor comte de Thaler lacked most of all.
So far as this side of his character went he was worthy of being a king.
He would take council from everybody, but he never had the courage to follow any advice to the bitter end.
"His physiognomy would be sufficient in itself," mademoiselle de la Mole was fond of saying, "to have inspired her with a holy joy."
It was a singular mixture of anxiety and disappointment, but from time to time one could distinguish gusts of self-importance, and above all that trenchant tone suited to the richest man in France, especially when he had nothing to be ashamed of in his personal appearance and was not yet thirty-six.
"He is timidly insolent," M. de Croisenois would say.
The comte de Caylus, Norbert, and two or three moustachioed young people made fun of him to their heart's content without him suspecting it, and finally packed him off as one o'clock struck.
"Are those your famous Arab horses waiting for you at the door in this awful weather?" said Norbert to him.
"No, it is a new pair which are much cheaper," said M. de Thaler.
"The horse on the left cost me five thousand francs, while the one on the right is only worth one hundred louis, but I would ask you to believe me when I say that I only have him out at night.
His trot you see is exactly like the other ones."
Norbert's remark made the comte think it was good form for a man like him to make a hobby of his horses, and that he must not let them get wet.
He went away, and the other gentleman left a minute afterwards making fun of him all the time.
"So," thought Julien as he heard them laugh on the staircase, "I have the privilege of seeing the exact opposite of my own situation.
I have not got twenty louis a year and I found myself side by side with a man who has twenty louis an hour and they made fun of him.
Seeing a sight like that cures one of envy." _____
CHAPTER XXXV