When Julien left Mme. de RSnal's bedroom some hours later, it might be said, in the style of the novel, that he had nothing more to desire. He was, in fact, obliged to the love he had inspired, and to the unexpected impression her seductive charms had made on him, for a conquest that all his clumsy maneuvering could never have brought off.

Yet, victim of a bizarre pride, even in the sweetest moments he still aspired to the role of a man who is used to subjugating women. He applied himself with incredible effort to spoil whatever was likable about him. Instead of being attentive to the raptures he had awakened and to the remorse that only heightened their intensity, he could think of nothing but his duty. He dreaded the terrible regret and sense of everlasting ridicule that must follow, should he lose sight of the model he had proposed for himself.

In a word, what made Julien a superior person was precisely what kept him from relishing the happiness that lay at his feet. He was like the sixteen-year-old girl with a lovely complexion who, when she goes to a ball, has the crazy notion of putting rouge on her face.