Червоне та чорне

A Journey

           

           Finally,hereachedthesummitofthegreatmountain,nearwhichhehadtopassinordertoarrivebythiscross-countryrouteatthesolitaryvalleywherelivedhisfriendFouqué,theyoungwoodmerchant.Julienwasinnohurrytoseehim;eitherhim,oranyotherhumanbeing.Hiddenlikeabirdofpreyamidthebarerockswhichcrownedthegreatmountain,hecouldseealongwayoffanyonecomingnearhim.Hediscoveredalittlegrottointhemiddleofthealmostverticalslopeofoneoftherocks.Hefoundawaytoit,andwassoonensconcedinthisretreat."Here,"hesaid,"witheyesbrilliantwithjoy,mencannothurtme."Itoccurredtohimtoindulgeinthepleasureofwritingdownthosethoughtsofhiswhichweresodangeroustohimeverywhereelse.Asquarestoneservedhimforadesk;hispenflew.Hesawnothingofwhatwasaroundhim.HenoticedatlastthatthesunwassettingbehindthedistantmountainsofBeaujolais.

           "Whyshouldn’tIpassthenighthere?"hesaidtohimself."Ihavebread,andIamfree."Hefeltaspiritualexultationatthesoundofthatgreatword.Thenecessityofplayingthehypocriteresultedinhisnotbeingfree,evenatFouqué’s.Leaninghisheadonhistwohands,Julienstayedinthegrotto,morehappythanhehadeverbeeninhislife,thrilledbyhisdreams,andbytheblissofhisfreedom.Withoutrealisingit,hesawalltheraysofthetwilightbecomesuccessivelyextinguished.Surroundedbythisimmenseobscurity,hissoulwanderedintothecontemplationofwhatheimaginedthathewouldonedaymeetinParis.

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