The Office of VirtueBut if I take this pleasure with so much prudence and circumspection, it ceases to be a pleasure for me.

　　LOPE DE VEGAImmediately on his return to Paris, and on leaving the study of theMarquis de La Mole, who appeared greatly disconcerted by the messages that were conveyed to him, our hero hastened to find ConteAltamira. With the distinction of being under sentence of death, thishandsome foreigner combined abundant gravity and had the good fortune to be devout; these two merits and, more than all, the exalted birthof the Count were entirely to the taste of Madame de Fervaques, whosaw much of him.

　　Julien confessed to him gravely that he was deeply in love with her.

　　'She represents the purest and loftiest virtue,' replied Altamira, 'only itis a trifle Jesuitical and emphatic. There are days on which I understandevery word that she uses, but I do not understand the sentence as awhole. She often makes me think that I do not know French as well aspeople say. This acquaintance will make you talked about; it will giveyou a position in society. But let us go and see Bustos,' said ConteAltamira, who had an orderly mind; 'he has made love to Madame laMarechale.'

　　Don Diego Bustos made them explain the matter to him in detail,without saying a word, like a barrister in chambers. He had a plump,monkish face, with black moustaches, and an unparalleled gravity; inother respects, a good carbonaro.

　　'I understand,' he said at length to Julien. 'Has the Marechale de Fervaques had lovers, or has she not? Have you, therefore, any hope of success? That is the question. It is as much as to say that, for my own part, Ihave failed. Now that I am no longer aggrieved, I put it to myself in this way: often she is out of temper, and, as I shall shortly prove to you, sheis nothing if not vindictive.

　　'I do not find in her that choleric temperament which is a mark of genius and covers every action with a sort of glaze of passion. It is, on thecontrary, to her calm and phlegmatic Dutch manner that she owes herrare beauty and the freshness of her complexion.'

　　Julien was growing impatient with the deliberateness and imperturbable phlegm of the Spaniard; now and again, in spite of himself, he gavevent to a monosyllabic comment.

　　'Will you listen to me?' Don Diego Bustos inquired gravely.

　　'Pardon the furia francese; I am all ears,' said Julien.

　　'Well, then, the Marechale de Fervaques is much given to hatred; she ispitiless in her pursuit of people she has never seen, lawyers, poor devilsof literary men who have written songs like Colle, you know?

　　"J'ai la marotte D'aimer Marote," etc.'

　　And Julien was obliged to listen to the quotation to the end. The Spaniard greatly enjoyed singing in French.

　　That divine song was never listened to with greater impatience. Whenhe had finished: 'The Marechale,' said Don Diego Bustos, 'has ruined theauthor of the song:

　　"Un jour l'amant au cabaret … "'

　　Julien was in an agony lest he should wish to sing it. He contentedhimself with analysing it. It was, as a matter of fact, impious and hardlydecent.

　　'When the Marechale flew into a passion with that song,' said DonDiego, 'I pointed out to her that a woman of her rank ought not to readall the stupid things that are published. Whatever progress piety andgravity may make, there will always be in France a literature of the tavern. When Madame de Fervaques had the author, a poor devil on halfpay, deprived of a post worth eighteen hundred francs: "Take care," saidI to her, "you have attacked this rhymester with your weapons, he mayreply to you with his rhymes: he will make a song about virtue. The gilded saloons will be on your side; the people who like to laugh will repeathis epigrams." Do you know, Sir, what answer the Marechale made me?

　　"In the Lord's service all Paris would see me tread the path of martyrdom; it would be a novel spectacle in France. The people would learn torespect the quality. It would be the happiest day of my life." Never wereher eyes more brilliant.'

　　 'And she has superb eyes,' exclaimed Julien.

　　'I see that you are in love … Very well, then,' Don Diego Bustos wenton gravely, 'she has not the choleric constitution that impels one to vengeance. If she enjoys injuring people, nevertheless, it is because she is unhappy, I suspect inward suffering. May she not be a prude who has grownweary of her calling?'

　　The Spaniard gazed at him in silence for fully a minute.

　　'That is the whole question,' he went on gravely, 'and it is from thisthat you may derive some hope. I gave it much thought during the twoyears in which I professed myself her most humble servant. Your wholefuture, you, Sir, who are in love, hangs on this great problem. Is she aprude, weary of her calling, and malicious because she is miserable?'

　　'Or rather,' said Altamira, emerging at last from his profound silence,'can it be what I have said to you twenty times? Simply and solelyFrench vanity; it is the memory of her father, the famous cloth merchant,that causes the unhappiness of a character naturally morose and dry.

　　There could be only one happiness for her, that of living in Toledo, andbeing tormented by a confessor, who every day would show her hellgaping for her.'

　　As Julien rose to leave: 'Altamira tells me that you are one of us,' DonDiego said to him, graver than ever. 'One day you will help us to reconquer our freedom, and so I wish to help you in this little diversion. It isas well that you should be acquainted with the Marechale's style; hereare four letters in her hand.'

　　'I shall have them copied,' cried Julien, 'and return them to you.'

　　'And no one shall ever learn from you a single word of what we havebeen saying?'

　　'Never, upon my honour!' cried Julien.

　　'Then may heaven help you!' the Spaniard concluded; and he accompanied Julien and Altamira in silence to the head of the stair.

　　This scene cheered our hero somewhat; he almost smiled. 'And here isthe devout Altamira,' he said to himself, 'helping me in an adulterousenterprise.'

　　Throughout the whole of the grave conversation of Don Diego Bustos,Julien had been attentive to the stroke of the hours on the clock of theHotel d'Aligre.

　　 The dinner hour was approaching, he was to see Mathilde again! Hewent home, and dressed himself with great care.

　　'My first blunder,' he said to himself, as he was going downstairs; 'Imust carry out the Prince's orders to the letter.'

　　He returned to his room, and put on a travelling costume of the utmost simplicity.

　　'Now,' he thought, 'I must consider how I am to look at her.' It wasonly half-past five, and dinner was at six. He decided to go down to thedrawing-room, which he found deserted. The sight of the blue sofamoved him to tears; soon his cheeks began to burn. 'I must get rid of thisabsurd sensibility,' he said to himself angrily; 'it will betray me.' He tookup a newspa............