The Red and the Black by Stendhal Read Free Book Online Page B

reply at first consisted entirely of a lengthy recital of all
the formulas of respect he knew by heart. While he was reeling off
these empty words with an awkward smile which increased the shifty,
almost deceitful look he habitually wore on his face, the old
peasant's fertile mind was trying to work
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out what could possibly induce such an important person to take his
good-for-nothing son into his own household. He was thoroughly
dissatisfied with Julien, and Julien was the one for whom M. de Rênal
was offering him the undreamed of wage of three hundred francs a year,
with his keep and even his clothes thrown in. This last demand, which
old Mr Sorel had had the brilliant idea of putting forward out of the
blue, had been accepted forthwith by M. de Rênal.
    The mayor was struck by this request. Since Sorel isn't delighted and
overcome by my proposition, as of course he should be, it's clear, he
said to himself, that he's received offers from another quarter. And
where can they come from if not from friend Valenod? M. de Rênal tried
in vain to get Sorel to make a deal on the spot, but the old
peasant's scheming mind was dead against it. He wanted, so he said, to
consult his son, as if in the provinces a rich father consults a
penniless son except for form's sake.
    A water-driven sawmill consists of a shed on the banks of a stream.
The roof is held up by a frame supported on four stout wooden posts.
Eight to ten feet off the ground, in the middle of the shed, there is a
saw which goes up and down while a very simple mechanism pushes a
piece of wood against it. A wheel powered by the stream drives this
dual mechanism: to raise and lower the saw and to push the piece of
wood gently towards it so that it gets cut into planks.
    As he approached his mill, old Mr Sorel called out to Julien in his
stentorian voice. No one answered. The only people visible were his
elder sons, giant-like figures armed with heavy axes, who were
squaring off the fir logs they were going to take to the saw. They
were intent on cutting accurately along the black lines drawn on the
pieces of wood, and each blow of their axes sent huge chips flying.
They did not hear their father's voice. He made his way over to the
shed, and on entering looked in vain for Julien in the place where he
should have been--by the saw. He sighted him five or six feet higher
up, astride one of the roof timbers. Instead of giving his attention
to supervising the operation of the whole machine, Julien was reading.
Nothing was more repugnant to old Sorel. He might perhaps have
forgiven Julien his slender build, ill-
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suited to heavy manual labour and so unlike that of his elder
brothers; but he could not abide this obsession with reading-he could
not read himself.
    He called Julien
two or three times to no avail. It was not so much the noise of the
saw as his absorption in his book that prevented the young man from
hearing his father's thundering voice. At length, in spite of his age,
the latter jumped nimbly onto the tree-trunk which was being sawn up,
and from there to the cross-beam supporting the roof. A violent blow
sent the book flying out of Julien's hands into the stream; a second
blow delivered just as violently sideways across the top of his head
made Julien lose his balance. He was just about to fall down twelve
feet or more right into the moving levers of the machine and be broken
to bits, but his father caught him with his left hand as he fell.
    'You lazybones, you! won't you ever stop reading your blasted books
while you're on duty by the saw, eh? You can read 'em in the evening
when you go off wasting your time at the priest's, if I may make a
suggestion.' Julien was stunned by the force of the blow and covered
in blood, but he started down towards his official post next to the
saw. There were tears in his eyes, not so much on account of the
physical pain as for the loss of his beloved book.
    'Down with