Story Literature in English
Story Literature in English
Story Literature in English
Castro 10 – Faithful
“Madame Bovary”
By Gustave Flaubert
To Marie-Antoine-Jules Senard
Member of the Paris Bar, Ex-President of the National Assembly,
and Former Minister of the Interior
Dear and Illustrious Friend,
Permit me to inscribe your name at the head of this book, and
above its dedication; for it is to you, before all, that I owe
its publication. Reading over your magnificent defence, my work
has acquired for myself, as it were, an unexpected authority.
Gustave Flaubert
Paris, 12 April 1857
MADAME BOVARY
Part I
Chapter One
The "new fellow," standing in the corner behind the door so that
he could hardly be seen, was a country lad of about fifteen, and
taller than any of us. His hair was cut square on his forehead
like a village chorister's; he looked reliable, but very ill at
ease. Although he was not broad-shouldered, his short school
jacket of green cloth with black buttons must have been tight
about the arm-holes, and showed at the opening of the cuffs red
wrists accustomed to being bare. His legs, in blue stockings,
looked out from beneath yellow trousers, drawn tight by braces,
He wore stout, ill-cleaned, hob-nailed boots.
But, whether he had not noticed the trick, or did not dare to
attempt it, the "new fellow," was still holding his cap on his
knees even after prayers were over. It was one of those
head-gears of composite order, in which we can find traces of the
bearskin, shako, billycock hat, sealskin cap, and cotton
night-cap; one of those poor things, in fine, whose dumb ugliness
has depths of expression, like an imbecile's face. Oval,
stiffened with whalebone, it began with three round knobs; then
came in succession lozenges of velvet and rabbit-skin separated
by a red band; after that a sort of bag that ended in a cardboard
polygon covered with complicated braiding, from which hung, at
the end of a long thin cord, small twisted gold threads in the
manner of a tassel. The cap was new; its peak shone.
He stood up; his cap fell. The whole class began to laugh. He
stooped to pick it up. A neighbor knocked it down again with his
elbow; he picked it up once more.
"Get rid of your helmet," said the master, who was a bit of a
wag.
"Again!"
"My c-a-p," timidly said the "new fellow," casting troubled looks
round him.
Quiet was restored. Heads bent over desks, and the "new fellow"
remained for two hours in an exemplary attitude, although from
time to time some paper pellet flipped from the tip of a pen came
bang in his face. But he wiped his face with one hand and
continued motionless, his eyes lowered.
His wife had adored him once on a time; she had bored him with a
thousand servilities that had only estranged him the more. Lively
once, expansive and affectionate, in growing older she had become
(after the fashion of wine that, exposed to air, turns to
vinegar) ill-tempered, grumbling, irritable. She had suffered so
much without complaint at first, until she had seem him going
after all the village drabs, and until a score of bad houses sent
him back to her at night, weary, stinking drunk. Then her pride
revolted. After that she was silent, burying her anger in a dumb
stoicism that she maintained till her death. She was constantly
going about looking after business matters. She called on the
lawyers, the president, remembered when bills fell due, got them
renewed, and at home ironed, sewed, washed, looked after the
workmen, paid the accounts, while he, troubling himself about
nothing, eternally besotted in sleepy sulkiness, whence he only
roused himself to say disagreeable things to her, sat smoking by
the fire and spitting into the cinders.
When he was twelve years old his mother had her own way; he began
lessons. The cure took him in hand; but the lessons were so short
and irregular that they could not be of much use. They were given
at spare moments in the sacristy, standing up, hurriedly, between
a baptism and a burial; or else the cure, if he had not to go
out, sent for his pupil after the Angelus*. They went up to his
room and settled down; the flies and moths fluttered round the
candle. It was close, the child fell asleep, and the good man,
beginning to doze with his hands on his stomach, was soon snoring
with his mouth wide open. On other occasions, when Monsieur le
Cure, on his way back after administering the viaticum to some
sick person in the neighbourhood, caught sight of Charles playing
about the fields, he called him, lectured him for a quarter of an
hour and took advantage of the occasion to make him conjugate his
verb at the foot of a tree. The rain interrupted them or an
acquaintance passed. All the same he was always pleased with him,
and even said the "young man" had a very good memory.
Six months more passed, and the year after Charles was finally
sent to school at Rouen, where his father took him towards the
end of October, at the time of the St. Romain fair.
His mother chose a room for him on the fourth floor of a dyer's
she knew, overlooking the Eau-de-Robec. She made arrangements for
his board, got him furniture, table and two chairs, sent home for
an old cherry-tree bedstead, and bought besides a small cast-iron
stove with the supply of wood that was to warm the poor child.
To spare him expense his mother sent him every week by the
carrier a piece of veal baked in the oven, with which he lunched
when he came back from the hospital, while he sat kicking his
feet against the wall. After this he had to run off to lectures,
to the operation-room, to the hospital, and return to his home at
the other end of the town. In the evening, after the poor dinner
of his landlord, he went back to his room and set to work again
in his wet clothes, which smoked as he sat in front of the hot
stove.
On the fine summer evenings, at the time when the close streets
are empty, when the servants are playing shuttle-cock at the
doors, he opened his window and leaned out. The river, that makes
of this quarter of Rouen a wretched little Venice, flowed beneath
him, between the bridges and the railings, yellow, violet, or
blue. Working men, kneeling on the banks, washed their bare arms
in the water. On poles projecting from the attics, skeins of
cotton were drying in the air. Opposite, beyond the roots spread
the pure heaven with the red sun setting. How pleasant it must be
at home! How fresh under the beech-tree! And he expanded his
nostrils to breathe in the sweet odours of the country which did
not reach him.
He grew thin, his figure became taller, his face took a saddened
look that made it nearly interesting. Naturally, through
indifference, he abandoned all the resolutions he had made. Once
he missed a lecture; the next day all the lectures; and, enjoying
his idleness, little by little, he gave up work altogether. He
got into the habit of going to the public-house, and had a
passion for dominoes. To shut himself up every evening in the
dirty public room, to push about on marble tables the small sheep
bones with black dots, seemed to him a fine proof of his freedom,
which raised him in his own esteem. It was beginning to see life,
the sweetness of stolen pleasures; and when he entered, he put
his hand on the door-handle with a joy almost sensual. Then many
things hidden within him came out; he learnt couplets by heart
and sang them to his boon companions, became enthusiastic about
Beranger, learnt how to make punch, and, finally, how to make
love.
Chapter Two
One night towards eleven o'clock they were awakened by the noise
of a horse pulling up outside their door. The servant opened the
garret-window and parleyed for some time with a man in the street
below. He came for the doctor, had a letter for him. Natasie came
downstairs shivering and undid the bars and bolts one after the
other. The man left his horse, and, following the servant,
suddenly came in behind her. He pulled out from his wool cap with
grey top-knots a letter wrapped up in a rag and presented it
gingerly to Charles, who rested on his elbow on the pillow to
read it. Natasie, standing near the bed, held the light. Madame
in modesty had turned to the wall and showed only her back.
Charles from time to time opened his eyes, his mind grew weary,
and, sleep coming upon him, he soon fell into a doze wherein, his
recent sensations blending with memories, he became conscious of
a double self, at once student and married man, lying in his bed
as but now, and crossing the operation theatre as of old. The
warm smell of poultices mingled in his brain with the fresh odour
of dew; he heard the iron rings rattling along the curtain-rods
of the bed and saw his wife sleeping. As he passed Vassonville he
came upon a boy sitting on the grass at the edge of a ditch.
He had broken his leg the evening before on his way home from a
Twelfth-night feast at a neighbour's. His wife had been dead for
two years. There was with him only his daughter, who helped him
to keep house.
The ruts were becoming deeper; they were approaching the Bertaux.
Charles could not have hoped for an easier case. Then calling to
mind the devices of his masters at the bedsides of patients, he
comforted the sufferer with all sorts of kindly remarks, those
Caresses of the surgeon that are like the oil they put on
bistouries. In order to make some splints a bundle of laths was
brought up from the cart-house. Charles selected one, cut it into
two pieces and planed it with a fragment of windowpane, while the
servant tore up sheets to make bandages, and Mademoiselle Emma
tried to sew some pads. As she was a long time before she found
her work-case, her father grew impatient; she did not answer, but
as she sewed she pricked her fingers, which she then put to her
mouth to suck them. Charles was surprised at the whiteness of her
nails. They were shiny, delicate at the tips, more polished than
the ivory of Dieppe, and almond-shaped. Yet her hand was not
beautiful, perhaps not white enough, and a little hard at the
knuckles; besides, it was too long, with no soft inflections in
the outlines. Her real beauty was in her eyes. Although brown,
they seemed black because of the lashes, and her look came at you
frankly, with a candid boldness.
Charles went down into the room on the ground floor. Knives and
forks and silver goblets were laid for two on a little table at
the foot of a huge bed that had a canopy of printed cotton with
figures representing Turks. There was an odour of iris-root and
damp sheets that escaped from a large oak chest opposite the
window. On the floor in corners were sacks of flour stuck upright
in rows. These were the overflow from the neighbouring granary,
to which three stone steps led. By way of decoration for the
apartment, hanging to a nail in the middle of the wall, whose
green paint scaled off from the effects of the saltpetre, was a
crayon head of Minerva in gold frame, underneath which was
written in Gothic letters "To dear Papa."
Her neck stood out from a white turned-down collar. Her hair,
whose two black folds seemed each of a single piece, so smooth
were they, was parted in the middle by a delicate line that curved
slightly with the curve of the head; and, just showing the tip of
the ear, it was joined behind in a thick chignon, with a wavy
movement at the temples that the country doctor saw now for the
first time in his life. The upper part of her cheek was
rose-coloured. She had, like a man, thrust in between two buttons
of her bodice a tortoise-shell eyeglass.
She always accompanied him to the first step of the stairs. When
his horse had not yet been brought round she stayed there. They
had said "Good-bye"; there was no more talking. The open air
wrapped her round, playing with the soft down on the back of her
neck, or blew to and fro on her hips the apron-strings, that
fluttered like streamers. Once, during a thaw the bark of the
trees in the yard was oozing, the snow on the roofs of the
outbuildings was melting; she stood on the threshold, and went to
fetch her sunshade and opened it. The sunshade of silk of the
colour of pigeons' breasts, through which the sun shone, lighted
up with shifting hues the white skin of her face. She smiled
under the tender warmth, and drops of water could be heard
falling one by one on the stretched silk.
For very weariness Charles left off going to the Bertaux. Heloise
made him swear, his hand on the prayer-book, that he would go
there no more after much sobbing and many kisses, in a great
outburst of love. He obeyed then, but the strength of his desire
protested against the servility of his conduct; and he thought,
with a kind of naive hypocrisy, that his interdict to see her
gave him a sort of right to love her. And then the widow was
thin; she had long teeth; wore in all weathers a little black
shawl, the edge of which hung down between her shoulder-blades;
her bony figure was sheathed in her clothes as if they were a
scabbard; they were too short, and displayed her ankles with the
laces of her large boots crossed over grey stockings.
Charles's mother came to see them from time to time, but after a
few days the daughter-in-law seemed to put her own edge on her,
and then, like two knives, they scarified him with their
reflections and observations. It was wrong of him to eat so much.
Charles tried to speak up for her. They grew angry and left the
house.
But "the blow had struck home." A week after, as she was hanging
up some washing in her yard, she was seized with a spitting of
blood, and the next day, while Charles had his back turned to her
drawing the window-curtain, she said, "O God!" gave a sigh and
fainted. She was dead! What a surprise! When all was over at the
cemetery Charles went home. He found no one downstairs; he went
up to the first floor to their room; say her dress still hanging
at the foot of the alcove; then, leaning against the
writing-table, he stayed until the evening, buried in a sorrowful
reverie. She had loved him after all!
Chapter Three
One morning old Rouault brought Charles the money for setting his
leg--seventy-five francs in forty-sou pieces, and a turkey. He
had heard of his loss, and consoled him as well as he could.
"I know what it is," said he, clapping him on the shoulder; "I've
been through it. When I lost my dear departed, I went into the
fields to be quite alone. I fell at the foot of a tree; I cried;
I called on God; I talked nonsense to Him. I wanted to be like
the moles that I saw on the branches, their insides swarming with
worms, dead, and an end of it. And when I thought that there were
others at that very moment with their nice little wives holding
them in their embrace, I struck great blows on the earth with my
stick. I was pretty well mad with not eating; the very idea of
going to a cafe disgusted me--you wouldn't believe it. Well,
quite softly, one day following another, a spring on a winter,
and an autumn after a summer, this wore away, piece by piece,
crumb by crumb; it passed away, it is gone, I should say it has
sunk; for something always remains at the bottom as one would
say--a weight here, at one's heart. But since it is the lot of
all of us, one must not give way altogether, and, because others
have died, want to die too. You must pull yourself together,
Monsieur Bovary. It will pass away. Come to see us; my daughter
thinks of you now and again, d'ye know, and she says you are
forgetting her. Spring will soon be here. We'll have some
rabbit-shooting in the warrens to amuse you a bit."
One day he got there about three o'clock. Everybody was in the
fields. He went into the kitchen, but did not at once catch sight
of Emma; the outside shutters were closed. Through the chinks of
the wood the sun sent across the flooring long fine rays that
were broken at the corners of the furniture and trembled along
the ceiling. Some flies on the table were crawling up the glasses
that had been used, and buzzing as they drowned themselves in the
dregs of the cider. The daylight that came in by the chimney made
velvet of the soot at the back of the fireplace, and touched with
blue the cold cinders. Between the window and the hearth Emma was
sewing; she wore no fichu; he could see small drops of
perspiration on her bare shoulders.
She sat down again and took up her work, a white cotton stocking
she was darning. She worked with her head bent down; she did not
speak, nor did Charles. The air coming in under the door blew a
little dust over the flags; he watched it drift along, and heard
nothing but the throbbing in his head and the faint clucking of a
hen that had laid an egg in the yard. Emma from time to time
cooled her cheeks with the palms of her hands, and cooled these
again on the knobs of the huge fire-dogs.
Going home at night, Charles went over her words one by one,
trying to recall them, to fill out their sense, that he might
piece out the life she had lived before he knew her. But he never
saw her in his thoughts other than he had seen her the first
time, or as he had just left her. Then he asked himself what
would become of her--if she would be married, and to whom! Alas!
Old Rouault was rich, and she!--so beautiful! But Emma's face
always rose before his eyes, and a monotone, like the humming of
a top, sounded in his ears, "If you should marry after all! If
you should marry!" At night he could not sleep; his throat was
parched; he was athirst. He got up to drink from the water-bottle
and opened the window. The night was covered with stars, a warm
wind blowing in the distance; the dogs were barking. He turned
his head towards the Bertaux.
Old Rouault would not have been sorry to be rid of his daughter,
who was of no use to him in the house. In his heart he excused
her, thinking her too clever for farming, a calling under the ban
of Heaven, since one never saw a millionaire in it. Far from
having made a fortune by it, the good man was losing every year;
for if he was good in bargaining, in which he enjoyed the dodges
of the trade, on the other hand, agriculture properly so called,
and the internal management of the farm, suited him less than
most people. He did not willingly take his hands out of his
pockets, and did not spare expense in all that concerned himself,
liking to eat well, to have good fires, and to sleep well. He
liked old cider, underdone legs of mutton, glorias* well beaten
up. He took his meals in the kitchen alone, opposite the fire, on
a little table brought to him all ready laid as on the stage.
The last had passed like the others in procrastinating from hour
to hour. Old Rouault was seeing him off; they were walking along
the road full of ruts; they were about to part. This was the
time. Charles gave himself as far as to the corner of the hedge,
and at last, when past it--
"Well, tell me your story. Don't I know all about it?" said old
Rouault, laughing softly.
"I ask nothing better", the farmer went on. "Although, no doubt,
the little one is of my mind, still we must ask her opinion. So
you get off--I'll go back home. If it is "yes", you needn't
return because of all the people about, and besides it would
upset her too much. But so that you mayn't be eating your heart,
I'll open wide the outer shutter of the window against the wall;
you can see it from the back by leaning over the hedge."
Charles fastened his horse to a tree; he ran into the road and
waited. Half an hour passed, then he counted nineteen minutes by
his watch. Suddenly a noise was heard against the wall; the
shutter had been thrown back; the hook was still swinging.
The next day by nine o'clock he was at the farm. Emma blushed as
he entered, and she gave a little forced laugh to keep herself in
countenance. Old Rouault embraced his future son-in-law. The
discussion of money matters was put off; moreover, there was
plenty of time before them, as the marriage could not decently
take place till Charles was out of mourning, that is to say,
about the spring of the next year.
The winter passed waiting for this. Mademoiselle Rouault was busy
with her trousseau. Part of it was ordered at Rouen, and she made
herself chemises and nightcaps after fashion-plates that she
borrowed. When Charles visited the farmer, the preparations for
the wedding were talked over; they wondered in what room they
should have dinner; they dreamed of the number of dishes that
would be wanted, and what should be entrees.
Chapter Four
From time to time one heard the crack of a whip behind the hedge;
then the gates opened, a chaise entered. Galloping up to the foot
of the steps, it stopped short and emptied its load. They got
down from all sides, rubbing knees and stretching arms. The
ladies, wearing bonnets, had on dresses in the town fashion, gold
watch chains, pelerines with the ends tucked into belts, or
little coloured fichus fastened down behind with a pin, and that
left the back of the neck bare. The lads, dressed like their
papas, seemed uncomfortable in their new clothes (many that day
hand-sewed their first pair of boots), and by their sides,
speaking never a work, wearing the white dress of their first
communion lengthened for the occasion were some big girls of
fourteen or sixteen, cousins or elder sisters no doubt, rubicund,
bewildered, their hair greasy with rose pomade, and very much
afraid of dirtying their gloves. As there were not enough
stable-boys to unharness all the carriages, the gentlemen turned
up their sleeves and set about it themselves. According to their
different social positions they wore tail-coats, overcoats,
shooting jackets, cutaway-coats; fine tail-coats, redolent of
family respectability, that only came out of the wardrobe on
state occasions; overcoats with long tails flapping in the wind
and round capes and pockets like sacks; shooting jackets of
coarse cloth, generally worn with a cap with a brass-bound peak;
very short cutaway-coats with two small buttons in the back,
close together like a pair of eyes, and the tails of which seemed
cut out of one piece by a carpenter's hatchet. Some, too (but
these, you may be sure, would sit at the bottom of the table),
wore their best blouses--that is to say, with collars turned down
to the shoulders, the back gathered into small plaits and the
waist fastened very low down with a worked belt.
And the shirts stood out from the chests like cuirasses! Everyone
had just had his hair cut; ears stood out from the heads; they
had been close-shaved; a few, even, who had had to get up before
daybreak, and not been able to see to shave, had diagonal gashes
under their noses or cuts the size of a three-franc piece along
the jaws, which the fresh air en route had enflamed, so that the
great white beaming faces were mottled here and there with red
dabs.
The mairie was a mile and a half from the farm, and they went
thither on foot, returning in the same way after the ceremony in
the church. The procession, first united like one long coloured
scarf that undulated across the fields, along the narrow path
winding amid the green corn, soon lengthened out, and broke up
into different groups that loitered to talk. The fiddler walked
in front with his violin, gay with ribbons at its pegs. Then came
the married pair, the relations, the friends, all following
pell-mell; the children stayed behind amusing themselves plucking
the bell-flowers from oat-ears, or playing amongst themselves
unseen. Emma's dress, too long, trailed a little on the ground;
from time to time she stopped to pull it up, and then delicately,
with her gloved hands, she picked off the coarse grass and the
thistledowns, while Charles, empty handed, waited till she had
finished. Old Rouault, with a new silk hat and the cuffs of his
black coat covering his hands up to the nails, gave his arm to
Madame Bovary senior. As to Monsieur Bovary senior, who, heartily
despising all these folk, had come simply in a frock-coat of
military cut with one row of buttons--he was passing compliments
of the bar to a fair young peasant. She bowed, blushed, and did
not know what to say. The other wedding guests talked of their
business or played tricks behind each other's backs, egging one
another on in advance to be jolly. Those who listened could
always catch the squeaking of the fiddler, who went on playing
across the fields. When he saw that the rest were far behind he
stopped to take breath, slowly rosined his bow, so that the
strings should sound more shrilly, then set off again, by turns
lowering and raising his neck, the better to mark time for
himself. The noise of the instrument drove away the little birds
from afar.
The table was laid under the cart-shed. On it were four sirloins,
six chicken fricassees, stewed veal, three legs of mutton, and in
the middle a fine roast suckling pig, flanked by four
chitterlings with sorrel. At the corners were decanters of
brandy. Sweet bottled-cider frothed round the corks, and all the
glasses had been filled to the brim with wine beforehand. Large
dishes of yellow cream, that trembled with the least shake of the
table, had designed on their smooth surface the initials of the
newly wedded pair in nonpareil arabesques. A confectioner of
Yvetot had been intrusted with the tarts and sweets. As he had
only just set up on the place, he had taken a lot of trouble, and
at dessert he himself brought in a set dish that evoked loud
cries of wonderment. To begin with, at its base there was a
square of blue cardboard, representing a temple with porticoes,
colonnades, and stucco statuettes all round, and in the niches
constellations of gilt paper stars; then on the second stage was
a dungeon of Savoy cake, surrounded by many fortifications in
candied angelica, almonds, raisins, and quarters of oranges; and
finally, on the upper platform a green field with rocks set in
lakes of jam, nutshell boats, and a small Cupid balancing himself
in a chocolate swing whose two uprights ended in real roses for
balls at the top.
Until night they ate. When any of them were too tired of sitting,
they went out for a stroll in the yard, or for a game with corks
in the granary, and then returned to table. Some towards the
finish went to sleep and snored. But with the coffee everyone
woke up. Then they began songs, showed off tricks, raised heavy
weights, performed feats with their fingers, then tried lifting
carts on their shoulders, made broad jokes, kissed the women. At
night when they left, the horses, stuffed up to the nostrils with
oats, could hardly be got into the shafts; they kicked, reared,
the harness broke, their masters laughed or swore; and all night
in the light of the moon along country roads there were runaway
carts at full gallop plunging into the ditches, jumping over yard
after yard of stones, clambering up the hills, with women leaning
out from the tilt to catch hold of the reins.
Those who stayed at the Bertaux spent the night drinking in the
kitchen. The children had fallen asleep under the seats.
The bride had begged her father to be spared the usual marriage
pleasantries. However, a fishmonger, one of their cousins (who
had even brought a pair of soles for his wedding present), began
to squirt water from his mouth through the keyhole, when old
Rouault came up just in time to stop him, and explain to him that
the distinguished position of his son-in-law would not allow of
such liberties. The cousin all the same did not give in to these
reasons readily. In his heart he accused old Rouault of being
proud, and he joined four or five other guests in a corner, who
having, through mere chance, been several times running served
with the worst helps of meat, also were of opinion they had been
badly used, and were whispering about their host, and with
covered hints hoping he would ruin himself.
Madame Bovary, senior, had not opened her mouth all day. She had
been consulted neither as to the dress of her daughter-in-law nor
as to the arrangement of the feast; she went to bed early. Her
husband, instead of following her, sent to Saint-Victor for some
cigars, and smoked till daybreak, drinking kirsch-punch, a
mixture unknown to the company. This added greatly to the
consideration in which he was held.
Charles, who was not of a facetious turn, did not shine at the
wedding. He answered feebly to the puns, doubles entendres*,
compliments, and chaff that it was felt a duty to let off at him
as soon as the soup appeared.
*Double meanings.
The next day, on the other hand, he seemed another man. It was he
who might rather have been taken for the virgin of the evening
before, whilst the bride gave no sign that revealed anything. The
shrewdest did not know what to make of it, and they looked at her
when she passed near them with an unbounded concentration of
mind. But Charles concealed nothing. He called her "my wife",
tutoyed* her, asked for her of everyone, looked for her
everywhere, and often he dragged her into the yards, where he
could be seen from far between the trees, putting his arm around
her waist, and walking half-bending over her, ruffling the
chemisette of her bodice with his head.
*Used the familiar form of address.
Two days after the wedding the married pair left. Charles, on
account of his patients, could not be away longer. Old Rouault
had them driven back in his cart, and himself accompanied them as
far as Vassonville. Here he embraced his daughter for the last
time, got down, and went his way. When he had gone about a
hundred paces he stopped, and as he saw the cart disappearing,
its wheels turning in the dust, he gave a deep sigh. Then he
remembered his wedding, the old times, the first pregnancy of his
wife; he, too, had been very happy the day when he had taken her
from her father to his home, and had carried her off on a
pillion, trotting through the snow, for it was near
Christmas-time, and the country was all white. She held him by
one arm, her basket hanging from the other; the wind blew the
long lace of her Cauchois headdress so that it sometimes flapped
across his mouth, and when he turned his head he saw near him, on
his shoulder, her little rosy face, smiling silently under the
gold bands of her cap. To warm her hands she put them from time
to time in his breast. How long ago it all was! Their son would
have been thirty by now. Then he looked back and saw nothing on
the road. He felt dreary as an empty house; and tender memories
mingling with the sad thoughts in his brain, addled by the fumes
of the feast, he felt inclined for a moment to take a turn
towards the church. As he was afraid, however, that this sight
would make him yet more sad, he went right away home.
The neighbors came to the windows to see their doctor's new wife.
Chapter Five
The brick front was just in a line with the street, or rather the
road. Behind the door hung a cloak with a small collar, a bridle,
and a black leather cap, and on the floor, in a corner, were a
pair of leggings, still covered with dry mud. On the right was
the one apartment, that was both dining and sitting room. A
canary yellow paper, relieved at the top by a garland of pale
flowers, was puckered everywhere over the badly stretched canvas;
white calico curtains with a red border hung crossways at the
length of the window; and on the narrow mantelpiece a clock with
a head of Hippocrates shone resplendent between two plate
candlesticks under oval shades. On the other side of the passage
was Charles's consulting room, a little room about six paces
wide, with a table, three chairs, and an office chair. Volumes of
the "Dictionary of Medical Science," uncut, but the binding
rather the worse for the successive sales through which they had
gone, occupied almost along the six shelves of a deal bookcase.
Then, opening on the yard, where the stable was, came a large
dilapidated room with a stove, now used as a wood-house, cellar,
and pantry, full of old rubbish, of empty casks, agricultural
implements past service, and a mass of dusty things whose use it
was impossible to guess.
The garden, longer than wide, ran between two mud walls with
espaliered apricots, to a hawthorn hedge that separated it from
the field. In the middle was a slate sundial on a brick pedestal;
four flower beds with eglantines surrounded symmetrically the
more useful kitchen garden bed. Right at the bottom, under the
spruce bushes, was a cure in plaster reading his breviary.
Emma went upstairs. The first room was not furnished, but in the
second, which was their bedroom, was a mahogany bedstead in an
alcove with red drapery. A shell box adorned the chest of
drawers, and on the secretary near the window a bouquet of orange
blossoms tied with white satin ribbons stood in a bottle. It was
a bride's bouquet; it was the other one's. She looked at it.
Charles noticed it; he took it and carried it up to the attic,
while Emma seated in an arm-chair (they were putting her things
down around her) thought of her bridal flowers packed up in a
bandbox, and wondered, dreaming, what would be done with them if
she were to die.
Until now what good had he had of his life? His time at school,
when he remained shut up within the high walls, alone, in the
midst of companions richer than he or cleverer at their work, who
laughed at his accent, who jeered at his clothes, and whose
mothers came to the school with cakes in their muffs? Later on,
when he studied medicine, and never had his purse full enough to
treat some little work-girl who would have become his mistress?
Afterwards, he had lived fourteen months with the widow, whose
feet in bed were cold as icicles. But now he had for life this
beautiful woman whom he adored. For him the universe did not
extend beyond the circumference of her petticoat, and he
reproached himself with not loving her. He wanted to see her
again; he turned back quickly, ran up the stairs with a beating
heart. Emma, in her room, was dressing; he came up on tiptoe,
kissed her back; she gave a cry.
He could not keep from constantly touching her comb, her ring,
her fichu; sometimes he gave her great sounding kisses with all
his mouth on her cheeks, or else little kisses in a row all along
her bare arm from the tip of her fingers up to her shoulder, and
she put him away half-smiling, half-vexed, as you do a child who
hangs about you.
Chapter Six
She had read "Paul and Virginia," and she had dreamed of the
little bamboo-house, the nigger Domingo, the dog Fiddle, but
above all of the sweet friendship of some dear little brother,
who seeks red fruit for you on trees taller than steeples, or who
runs barefoot over the sand, bringing you a bird's nest.
When she was thirteen, her father himself took her to town to
place her in the convent. They stopped at an inn in the St.
Gervais quarter, where, at their supper, they used painted plates
that set forth the story of Mademoiselle de la Valliere. The
explanatory legends, chipped here and there by the scratching of
knives, all glorified religion, the tendernesses of the heart,
and the pomps of court.
Far from being bored at first at the convent, she took pleasure
in the society of the good sisters, who, to amuse her, took her
to the chapel, which one entered from the refectory by a long
corridor. She played very little during recreation hours, knew
her catechism well, and it was she who always answered Monsieur
le Vicaire's difficult questions. Living thus, without every
leaving the warm atmosphere of the classrooms, and amid these
pale-faced women wearing rosaries with brass crosses, she was
softly lulled by the mystic languor exhaled in the perfumes of
the altar, the freshness of the holy water, and the lights of the
tapers. Instead of attending to mass, she looked at the pious
vignettes with their azure borders in her book, and she loved the
sick lamb, the sacred heart pierced with sharp arrows, or the
poor Jesus sinking beneath the cross he carries. She tried, by
way of mortification, to eat nothing a whole day. She puzzled her
head to find some vow to fulfil.
She wanted to get some personal profit out of things, and she
rejected as useless all that did not contribute to the immediate
desires of her heart, being of a temperament more sentimental
than artistic, looking for emotions, not landscapes.
At the convent there was an old maid who came for a week each
month to mend the linen. Patronized by the clergy, because she
belonged to an ancient family of noblemen ruined by the
Revolution, she dined in the refectory at the table of the good
sisters, and after the meal had a bit of chat with them before
going back to her work. The girls often slipped out from the
study to go and see her. She knew by heart the love songs of the
last century, and sang them in a low voice as she stitched away.
She told stories, gave them news, went errands in the town, and
on the sly lent the big girls some novel, that she always carried
in the pockets of her apron, and of which the good lady herself
swallowed long chapters in the intervals of her work. They were
all love, lovers, sweethearts, persecuted ladies fainting in
lonely pavilions, postilions killed at every stage, horses ridden
to death on every page, sombre forests, heartaches, vows, sobs,
tears and kisses, little skiffs by moonlight, nightingales in
shady groves, "gentlemen" brave as lions, gentle as lambs,
virtuous as no one ever was, always well dressed, and weeping
like fountains. For six months, then, Emma, at fifteen years of
age, made her hands dirty with books from old lending libraries.
Through Walter Scott, later on, she fell in love with historical
events, dreamed of old chests, guard-rooms and minstrels. She
would have liked to live in some old manor-house, like those
long-waisted chatelaines who, in the shade of pointed arches,
spent their days leaning on the stone, chin in hand, watching a
cavalier with white plume galloping on his black horse from the
distant fields. At this time she had a cult for Mary Stuart and
enthusiastic veneration for illustrious or unhappy women. Joan of
Arc, Heloise, Agnes Sorel, the beautiful Ferroniere, and Clemence
Isaure stood out to her like comets in the dark immensity of
heaven, where also were seen, lost in shadow, and all
unconnected, St. Louis with his oak, the dying Bayard, some
cruelties of Louis XI, a little of St. Bartholomew's Day, the
plume of the Bearnais, and always the remembrance of the plates
painted in honour of Louis XIV.
In the music class, in the ballads she sang, there was nothing
but little angels with golden wings, madonnas, lagunes,
gondoliers;-mild compositions that allowed her to catch a glimpse
athwart the obscurity of style and the weakness of the music of
the attractive phantasmagoria of sentimental realities. Some of
her companions brought "keepsakes" given them as new year's gifts
to the convent. These had to be hidden; it was quite an
undertaking; they were read in the dormitory. Delicately handling
the beautiful satin bindings, Emma looked with dazzled eyes at
the names of the unknown authors, who had signed their verses for
the most part as counts or viscounts.
She trembled as she blew back the tissue paper over the engraving
and saw it folded in two and fall gently against the page. Here
behind the balustrade of a balcony was a young man in a short
cloak, holding in his arms a young girl in a white dress wearing
an alms-bag at her belt; or there were nameless portraits of
English ladies with fair curls, who looked at you from under
their round straw hats with their large clear eyes. Some there
were lounging in their carriages, gliding through parks, a
greyhound bounding along in front of the equipage driven at a
trot by two midget postilions in white breeches. Others, dreaming
on sofas with an open letter, gazed at the moon through a
slightly open window half draped by a black curtain. The naive
ones, a tear on their cheeks, were kissing doves through the bars
of a Gothic cage, or, smiling, their heads on one side, were
plucking the leaves of a marguerite with their taper fingers,
that curved at the tips like peaked shoes. And you, too, were
there, Sultans with long pipes reclining beneath arbours in the
arms of Bayaderes; Djiaours, Turkish sabres, Greek caps; and you
especially, pale landscapes of dithyrambic lands, that often show
us at once palm trees and firs, tigers on the right, a lion to
the left, Tartar minarets on the horizon; the whole framed by a
very neat virgin forest, and with a great perpendicular sunbeam
trembling in the water, where, standing out in relief like white
excoriations on a steel-grey ground, swans are swimming about.
And the shade of the argand lamp fastened to the wall above
Emma's head lighted up all these pictures of the world, that
passed before her one by one in the silence of the dormitory, and
to the distant noise of some belated carriage rolling over the
Boulevards.
When her mother died she cried much the first few days. She had a
funeral picture made with the hair of the deceased, and, in a
letter sent to the Bertaux full of sad reflections on life, she
asked to be buried later on in the same grave. The goodman
thought she must be ill, and came to see her. Emma was secretly
pleased that she had reached at a first attempt the rare ideal of
pale lives, never attained by mediocre hearts. She let herself
glide along with Lamartine meanderings, listened to harps on
lakes, to all the songs of dying swans, to the falling of the
leaves, the pure virgins ascending to heaven, and the voice of
the Eternal discoursing down the valleys. She wearied of it,
would not confess it, continued from habit, and at last was
surprised to feel herself soothed, and with no more sadness at
heart than wrinkles on her brow.
The good nuns, who had been so sure of her vocation, perceived
with great astonishment that Mademoiselle Rouault seemed to be
slipping from them. They had indeed been so lavish to her of
prayers, retreats, novenas, and sermons, they had so often
preached the respect due to saints and martyrs, and given so much
good advice as to the modesty of the body and the salvation of
her soul, that she did as tightly reined horses; she pulled up
short and the bit slipped from her teeth. This nature, positive
in the midst of its enthusiasms, that had loved the church for
the sake of the flowers, and music for the words of the songs,
and literature for its passional stimulus, rebelled against the
mysteries of faith as it grew irritated by discipline, a thing
antipathetic to her constitution. When her father took her from
school, no one was sorry to see her go. The Lady Superior even
thought that she had latterly been somewhat irreverent to the
community.
Emma, at home once more, first took pleasure in looking after the
servants, then grew disgusted with the country and missed her
convent. When Charles came to the Bertaux for the first time, she
thought herself quite disillusioned, with nothing more to learn,
and nothing more to feel.
Chapter Seven
She thought, sometimes, that, after all, this was the happiest
time of her life--the honeymoon, as people called it. To taste
the full sweetness of it, it would have been necessary doubtless
to fly to those lands with sonorous names where the days after
marriage are full of laziness most suave. In post chaises behind
blue silken curtains to ride slowly up steep road, listening to
the song of the postilion re-echoed by the mountains, along with
the bells of goats and the muffled sound of a waterfall; at
sunset on the shores of gulfs to breathe in the perfume of lemon
trees; then in the evening on the villa-terraces above, hand in
hand to look at the stars, making plans for the future. It seemed
to her that certain places on earth must bring happiness, as a
plant peculiar to the soil, and that cannot thrive elsewhere. Why
could not she lean over balconies in Swiss chalets, or enshrine
her melancholy in a Scotch cottage, with a husband dressed in a
black velvet coat with long tails, and thin shoes, a pointed hat
and frills? Perhaps she would have liked to confide all these
things to someone. But how tell an undefinable uneasiness,
variable as the clouds, unstable as the winds? Words failed
her--the opportunity, the courage.
If Charles had but wished it, if he had guessed it, if his look
had but once met her thought, it seemed to her that a sudden
plenty would have gone out from her heart, as the fruit falls
from a tree when shaken by a hand. But as the intimacy of their
life became deeper, the greater became the gulf that separated
her from him.
Emma, on the other hand, knew how to look after her house. She
sent the patients' accounts in well-phrased letters that had no
suggestion of a bill. When they had a neighbour to dinner on
Sundays, she managed to have some tasty dish--piled up pyramids
of greengages on vine leaves, served up preserves turned out into
plates--and even spoke of buying finger-glasses for dessert. From
all this much consideration was extended to Bovary.
Charles finished by rising in his own esteem for possessing such
a wife. He showed with pride in the sitting room two small pencil
sketched by her that he had had framed in very large frames, and
hung up against the wallpaper by long green cords. People
returning from mass saw him at his door in his wool-work
slippers.
His mother approved of his economy, for she came to see him as
formerly when there had been some violent row at her place; and
yet Madame Bovary senior seemed prejudiced against her
daughter-in-law. She thought "her ways too fine for their
position"; the wood, the sugar, and the candles disappeared as
"at a grand establishment," and the amount of firing in the
kitchen would have been enough for twenty-five courses. She put
her linen in order for her in the presses, and taught her to keep
an eye on the butcher when he brought the meat. Emma put up with
these lessons. Madame Bovary was lavish of them; and the words
"daughter" and "mother" were exchanged all day long, accompanied
by little quiverings of the lips, each one uttering gentle words
in a voice trembling with anger.
In Madame Dubuc's time the old woman felt that she was still the
favorite; but now the love of Charles for Emma seemed to her a
desertion from her tenderness, an encroachment upon what was
hers, and she watched her son's happiness in sad silence, as a
ruined man looks through the windows at people dining in his old
house. She recalled to him as remembrances her troubles and her
sacrifices, and, comparing these with Emma's negligence, came to
the conclusion that it was not reasonable to adore her so
exclusively.
And yet, in accord with theories she believed right, she wanted
to make herself in love with him. By moonlight in the garden she
recited all the passionate rhymes she knew by heart, and,
sighing, sang to him many melancholy adagios; but she found
herself as calm after as before, and Charles seemed no more
amorous and no more moved.
When she had thus for a while struck the flint on her heart
without getting a spark, incapable, moreover, of understanding
what she did not experience as of believing anything that did not
present itself in conventional forms, she persuaded herself
without difficulty that Charles's passion was nothing very
exorbitant. His outbursts became regular; he embraced her at
certain fixed times. It was one habit among other habits, and,
like a dessert, looked forward to after the monotony of dinner.
Then gradually her ideas took definite shape, and, sitting on the
grass that she dug up with little prods of her sunshade, Emma
repeated to herself, "Good heavens! Why did I marry?"
She recalled the prize days, when she mounted the platform to
receive her little crowns, with her hair in long plaits. In her
white frock and open prunella shoes she had a pretty way, and
when she went back to her seat, the gentlemen bent over her to
congratulate her; the courtyard was full of carriages; farewells
were called to her through their windows; the music master with
his violin case bowed in passing by. How far all of this! How far
away! She called Djali, took her between her knees, and smoothed
the long delicate head, saying, "Come, kiss mistress; you have no
troubles."
In the avenue a green light dimmed by the leaves lit up the short
moss that crackled softly beneath her feet. The sun was setting;
the sky showed red between the branches, and the trunks of the
trees, uniform, and planted in a straight line, seemed a brown
colonnade standing out against a background of gold. A fear took
hold of her; she called Djali, and hurriedly returned to Tostes
by the high road, threw herself into an armchair, and for the
rest of the evening did not speak.
Chapter Eight
It was paved with marble slabs, was very lofty, and the sound of
footsteps and that of voices re-echoed through it as in a church.
The Marquis opened the drawing room door; one of the ladies (the
Marchioness herself) came to meet Emma. She made her sit down by
her on an ottoman, and began talking to her as amicably as if she
had known her a long time. She was a woman of about forty, with
fine shoulders, a hook nose, a drawling voice, and on this
evening she wore over her brown hair a simple guipure fichu that
fell in a point at the back. A fair young woman sat in a
high-backed chair in a corner; and gentlemen with flowers in
their buttonholes were talking to ladies round the fire.
At seven dinner was served. The men, who were in the majority,
sat down at the first table in the vestibule; the ladies at the
second in the dining room with the Marquis and Marchioness.
Madame Bovary noticed that many ladies had not put their gloves
in their glasses.
But at the upper end of the table, alone amongst all these women,
bent over his full plate, and his napkin tied round his neck like
a child, an old man sat eating, letting drops of gravy drip from
his mouth. His eyes were bloodshot, and he wore a little queue
tied with black ribbon. He was the Marquis's father-in-law, the
old Duke de Laverdiere, once on a time favourite of the Count
d'Artois, in the days of the Vaudreuil hunting-parties at the
Marquis de Conflans', and had been, it was said, the lover of
Queen Marie Antoinette, between Monsieur de Coigny and Monsieur
de Lauzun. He had lived a life of noisy debauch, full of duels,
bets, elopements; he had squandered his fortune and frightened
all his family. A servant behind his chair named aloud to him in
his ear the dishes that he pointed to stammering, and constantly
Emma's eyes turned involuntarily to this old man with hanging
lips, as to something extraordinary. He had lived at court and
slept in the bed of queens! Iced champagne was poured out. Emma
shivered all over as she felt it cold in her mouth. She had never
seen pomegranates nor tasted pineapples. The powdered sugar even
seemed to her whiter and finer than elsewhere.
The ladies afterwards went to their rooms to prepare for the
ball.
"Yes!"
"Why, you must be mad! They would make fun of you; keep your
place. Besides, it is more becoming for a doctor," she added.
He saw her from behind in the glass between two lights. Her black
eyes seemed blacker than ever. Her hair, undulating towards the
ears, shone with a blue lustre; a rose in her chignon trembled on
its mobile stalk, with artificial dewdrops on the tip of the
leaves. She wore a gown of pale saffron trimmed with three
bouquets of pompon roses mixed with green.
One could hear the flourish of the violin and the notes of a
horn. She went downstairs restraining herself from running.
Dancing had begun. Guests were arriving. There was some crushing.
The hair, well-smoothed over the temples and knotted at the nape,
bore crowns, or bunches, or sprays of mytosotis, jasmine,
pomegranate blossoms, ears of corn, and corn-flowers. Calmly
seated in their places, mothers with forbidding countenances were
wearing red turbans.
Emma's heart beat rather faster when, her partner holding her by
the tips of the fingers, she took her place in a line with the
dancers, and waited for the first note to start. But her emotion
soon vanished, and, swaying to the rhythm of the orchestra, she
glided forward with slight movements of the neck. A smile rose to
her lips at certain delicate phrases of the violin, that
sometimes played alone while the other instruments were silent;
one could hear the clear clink of the louis d'or that were being
thrown down upon the card tables in the next room; then all
struck again, the cornet-a-piston uttered its sonorous note, feet
marked time, skirts swelled and rustled, hands touched and
parted; the same eyes falling before you met yours again.
The atmosphere of the ball was heavy; the lamps were growing dim.
"Would you be so good," said the lady, "as to pick up my fan that
has fallen behind the sofa?"
The gentleman bowed, and as he moved to stretch out his arm, Emma
saw the hand of a young woman throw something white, folded in a
triangle, into his hat. The gentleman, picking up the fan,
offered it to the lady respectfully; she thanked him with an
inclination of the head, and began smelling her bouquet.
After supper, where were plenty of Spanish and Rhine wines, soups
a la bisque and au lait d'amandes*, puddings a la Trafalgar, and
all sorts of cold meats with jellies that trembled in the dishes,
the carriages one after the other began to drive off. Raising the
corners of the muslin curtain, one could see the light of their
lanterns glimmering through the darkness. The seats began to
empty, some card-players were still left; the musicians were
cooling the tips of their fingers on their tongues. Charles was
half asleep, his back propped against a door.
At three o'clock the cotillion began. Emma did not know how to waltz.
Everyone was waltzing, Mademoiselle d'Andervilliers herself and the
Marquis; only the guests staying at the castle were still there,
about a dozen persons.
They began slowly, then went more rapidly. They turned; all
around them was turning--the lamps, the furniture, the
wainscoting, the floor, like a disc on a pivot. On passing near
the doors the bottom of Emma's dress caught against his trousers.
Their legs commingled; he looked down at her; she raised her eyes
to his. A torpor seized her; she stopped. They started again, and
with a more rapid movement; the Viscount, dragging her along
disappeared with her to the end of the gallery, where panting,
she almost fell, and for a moment rested her head upon his
breast. And then, still turning, but more slowly, he guided her
back to her seat. She leaned back against the wall and covered
her eyes with her hands.
When she opened them again, in the middle of the drawing room
three waltzers were kneeling before a lady sitting on a stool.
She chose the Viscount, and the violin struck up once more.
Then they talked a few moments longer, and after the goodnights,
or rather good mornings, the guests of the chateau retired to
bed.
Emma threw a shawl over her shoulders, opened the window, and
leant out.
The night was dark; some drops of rain were falling. She breathed
in the damp wind that refreshed her eyelids. The music of the
ball was still murmuring in her ears. And she tried to keep
herself awake in order to prolong the illusion of this
luxurious life that she would soon have to give up.
There were a great many people to luncheon. The repast lasted ten
minutes; no liqueurs were served, which astonished the doctor.
Charles, meanwhile, went to ask a groom to put his horse to. The
dog-cart was brought to the foot of the steps, and, all the
parcels being crammed in, the Bovarys paid their respects to the
Marquis and Marchioness and set out again for Tostes.
Emma watched the turning wheels in silence. Charles, on the
extreme edge of the seat, held the reins with his two arms wide
apart, and the little horse ambled along in the shafts that were
too big for him. The loose reins hanging over his crupper were
wet with foam, and the box fastened on behind the chaise gave
great regular bumps against it.
A mile farther on they had to stop to mend with some string the
traces that had broken.
"There are even two cigars in it," said he; "they'll do for this
evening after dinner."
When they reached home the dinner was not ready. Madame lost her
temper. Nastasie answered rudely.
"Leave the room!" said Emma. "You are forgetting yourself. I give
you warning."
For dinner there was onion soup and a piece of veal with sorrel.
Then they warmed themselves in the kitchen while their room was
being made ready. Charles began to smoke. He smoked with lips
protruding, spitting every moment, recoiling at every puff.
He put down his cigar and ran to swallow a glass of cold water at
the pump. Emma seizing hold of the cigar case threw it quickly to
the back of the cupboard.
The next day was a long one. She walked about her little garden,
up and down the same walks, stopping before the beds, before the
espalier, before the plaster curate, looking with amazement at
all these things of once-on-a-time that she knew so well. How far
off the ball seemed already! What was it that thus set so far
asunder the morning of the day before yesterday and the evening
of to-day? Her journey to Vaubyessard had made a hole in her
life, like one of those great crevices that a storm will
sometimes make in one night in mountains. Still she was resigned.
She devoutly put away in her drawers her beautiful dress, down to
the satin shoes whose soles were yellowed with the slippery wax
of the dancing floor. Her heart was like these. In its friction
against wealth something had come over it that could not be
effaced.
She forgot the tune of the quadrilles; she no longer saw the
liveries and appointments so distinctly; some details escaped
her, but the regret remained with her.
Chapter Nine
Often when Charles was out she took from the cupboard, between
the folds of the linen where she had left it, the green silk
cigar case. She looked at it, opened it, and even smelt the odour
of the lining--a mixture of verbena and tobacco. Whose was it?
The Viscount's? Perhaps it was a present from his mistress. It
had been embroidered on some rosewood frame, a pretty little
thing, hidden from all eyes, that had occupied many hours, and
over which had fallen the soft curls of the pensive worker. A
breath of love had passed over the stitches on the canvas; each
prick of the needle had fixed there a hope or a memory, and all
those interwoven threads of silk were but the continuity of the
same silent passion. And then one morning the Viscount had taken
it away with him. Of what had they spoken when it lay upon the
wide-mantelled chimneys between flower-vases and Pompadour
clocks? She was at Tostes; he was at Paris now, far away! What
was this Paris like? What a vague name! She repeated it in a low
voice, for the mere pleasure of it; it rang in her ears like a
great cathedral bell; it shone before her eyes, even on the
labels of her pomade-pots.
She bought a plan of Paris, and with the tip of her finger on the
map she walked about the capital. She went up the boulevards,
stopping at every turning, between the lines of the streets, in
front of the white squares that represented the houses. At last
she would close the lids of her weary eyes, and see in the
darkness the gas jets flaring in the wind and the steps of
carriages lowered with much noise before the peristyles of
theatres.
She took in "La Corbeille," a lady's journal, and the "Sylphe des
Salons." She devoured, without skipping a word, all the accounts
of first nights, races, and soirees, took interest in the debut
of a singer, in the opening of a new shop. She knew the latest
fashions, the addresses of the best tailors, the days of the Bois
and the Opera. In Eugene Sue she studied descriptions of
furniture; she read Balzac and George Sand, seeking in them
imaginary satisfaction for her own desires. Even at table she had
her book by her, and turned over the pages while Charles ate and
talked to her. The memory of the Viscount always returned as she
read. Between him and the imaginary personages she made
comparisons. But the circle of which he was the centre gradually
widened round him, and the aureole that he bore, fading from his
form, broadened out beyond, lighting up her other dreams.
Paris, more vague than the ocean, glimmered before Emma's eyes in
an atmosphere of vermilion. The many lives that stirred amid this
tumult were, however, divided into parts, classed as distinct
pictures. Emma perceived only two or three that hid from her all
the rest, and in themselves represented all humanity. The world
of ambassadors moved over polished floors in drawing rooms lined
with mirrors, round oval tables covered with velvet and
gold-fringed cloths. There were dresses with trains, deep
mysteries, anguish hidden beneath smiles. Then came the society
of the duchesses; all were pale; all got up at four o'clock; the
women, poor angels, wore English point on their petticoats; and
the men, unappreciated geniuses under a frivolous outward
seeming, rode horses to death at pleasure parties, spent the
summer season at Baden, and towards the forties married
heiresses. In the private rooms of restaurants, where one sups
after midnight by the light of wax candles, laughed the motley
crowd of men of letters and actresses. They were prodigal as
kings, full of ideal, ambitious, fantastic frenzy. This was an
existence outside that of all others, between heaven and earth,
in the midst of storms, having something of the sublime. For the
rest of the world it was lost, with no particular place and as if
non-existent. The nearer things were, moreover, the more her
thoughts turned away from them. All her immediate surroundings,
the wearisome country, the middle-class imbeciles, the mediocrity
of existence, seemed to her exceptional, a peculiar chance that
had caught hold of her, while beyond stretched, as far as eye
could see, an immense land of joys and passions. She confused in
her desire the sensualities of luxury with the delights of the
heart, elegance of manners with delicacy of sentiment. Did not
love, like Indian plants, need a special soil, a particular
temperature? Signs by moonlight, long embraces, tears flowing
over yielded hands, all the fevers of the flesh and the languors
of tenderness could not be separated from the balconies of great
castles full of indolence, from boudoirs with silken curtains and
thick carpets, well-filled flower-stands, a bed on a raised dias,
nor from the flashing of precious stones and the shoulder-knots
of liveries.
The lad from the posting house who came to groom the mare every
morning passed through the passage with his heavy wooden shoes;
there were holes in his blouse; his feet were bare in list
slippers. And this was the groom in knee-britches with whom she
had to be content! His work done, he did not come back again all
day, for Charles on his return put up his horse himself,
unsaddled him and put on the halter, while the servant-girl
brought a bundle of straw and threw it as best she could into the
manger.
Madame was in her room upstairs. She wore an open dressing gown
that showed between the shawl facings of her bodice a pleated
chamisette with three gold buttons. Her belt was a corded girdle
with great tassels, and her small garnet coloured slippers had a
large knot of ribbon that fell over her instep. She had bought
herself a blotting book, writing case, pen-holder, and envelopes,
although she had no one to write to; she dusted her what-not,
looked at herself in the glass, picked up a book, and then,
dreaming between the lines, let it drop on her knees. She longed
to travel or to go back to her convent. She wished at the same
time to die and to live in Paris.
She charmed him by numerous attentions; now it was some new way
of arranging paper sconces for the candles, a flounce that she
altered on her gown, or an extraordinary name for some very
simple dish that the servant had spoilt, but that Charles
swallowed with pleasure to the last mouthful. At Rouen she saw
some ladies who wore a bunch of charms on the watch-chains; she
bought some charms. She wanted for her mantelpiece two large blue
glass vases, and some time after an ivory necessaire with a
silver-gilt thimble. The less Charles understood these
refinements the more they seduced him. They added something to
the pleasure of the senses and to the comfort of his fireside. It
was like a golden dust sanding all along the narrow path of his
life.
Sometimes Emma tucked the red borders of his under-vest unto his
waistcoat, rearranged his cravat, and threw away the dirty gloves
he was going to put on; and this was not, as he fancied, for
himself; it was for herself, by a diffusion of egotism, of
nervous irritation. Sometimes, too, she told him of what she had
read, such as a passage in a novel, of a new play, or an anecdote
of the "upper ten" that she had seen in a feuilleton; for, after
all, Charles was something, an ever-open ear, and ever-ready
approbation. She confided many a thing to her greyhound. She
would have done so to the logs in the fireplace or to the
pendulum of the clock.
Spring came round. With the first warm weather, when the pear
trees began to blossom, she suffered from dyspnoea.
From the beginning of July she counted how many weeks there were
to October, thinking that perhaps the Marquis d'Andervilliers
would give another ball at Vaubyessard. But all September passed
without letters or visits.
She gave up music. What was the good of playing? Who would hear
her? Since she could never, in a velvet gown with short sleeves,
striking with her light fingers the ivory keys of an Erard at a
concert, feel the murmur of ecstasy envelop her like a breeze, it
was not worth while boring herself with practicing. Her drawing
cardboard and her embroidery she left in the cupboard. What was
the good? What was the good? Sewing irritated her. "I have read
everything," she said to herself. And she sat there making the
tongs red-hot, or looked at the rain falling.
How sad she was on Sundays when vespers sounded! She listened
with dull attention to each stroke of the cracked bell. A cat
slowly walking over some roof put up his back in the pale rays of
the sum. The wind on the highroad blew up clouds of dust. Afar
off a dog sometimes howled; and the bell, keeping time, continued
its monotonous ringing that died away over the fields.
But the people came out from church. The women in waxed clogs,
the peasants in new blouses, the little bare-headed children
skipping along in front of them, all were going home. And till
nightfall, five or six men, always the same, stayed playing at
corks in front of the large door of the inn.
The winter was severe. The windows every morning were covered
with rime, and the light shining through them, dim as through
ground-glass, sometimes did not change the whole day long. At
four o'clock the lamp had to be lighted.
On fine days she went down into the garden. The dew had left on
the cabbages a silver lace with long transparent threads
spreading from one to the other. No birds were to be heard;
everything seemed asleep, the espalier covered with straw, and
the vine, like a great sick serpent under the coping of the wall,
along which, on drawing hear, one saw the many-footed woodlice
crawling. Under the spruce by the hedgerow, the curie in the
three-cornered hat reading his breviary had lost his right foot,
and the very plaster, scaling off with the frost, had left white
scabs on his face.
Then she went up again, shut her door, put on coals, and fainting
with the heat of the hearth, felt her boredom weigh more heavily
than ever. She would have liked to go down and talk to the
servant, but a sense of shame restrained her.
But it was above all the meal-times that were unbearable to her,
in this small room on the ground floor, with its smoking stove,
its creaking door, the walls that sweated, the damp flags; all
the bitterness in life seemed served up on her plate, and with
smoke of the boiled beef there rose from her secret soul whiffs
of sickliness. Charles was a slow eater; she played with a few
nuts, or, leaning on her elbow, amused herself with drawing lines
along the oilcloth table cover with the point of her knife.
She now let everything in her household take care of itself, and
Madame Bovary senior, when she came to spend part of Lent at
Tostes, was much surprised at the change. She who was formerly so
careful, so dainty, now passed whole days without dressing, wore
grey cotton stockings, and burnt tallow candles. She kept saying
they must be economical since they were not rich, adding that she
was very contented, very happy, that Tostes pleased her very
much, with other speeches that closed the mouth of her
mother-in-law. Besides, Emma no longer seemed inclined to follow
her advice; once even, Madame Bovary having thought fit to
maintain that mistresses ought to keep an eye on the religion of
their servants, she had answered with so angry a look and so cold
a smile that the good woman did not interfere again.
After looking about him on this side and on that, Charles learnt
that in the Neufchatel arrondissement there was a considerable
market town called Yonville-l'Abbaye, whose doctor, a Polish
refugee, had decamped a week before. Then he wrote to the chemist
of the place to ask the number of the population, the distance
from the nearest doctor, what his predecessor had made a year,
and so forth; and the answer being satisfactory, he made up his
mind to move towards the spring, if Emma's health did not
improve.
One day when, in view of her departure, she was tidying a drawer,
something pricked her finger. It was a wire of her wedding
bouquet. The orange blossoms were yellow with dust and the silver
bordered satin ribbons frayed at the edges. She threw it into the
fire. It flared up more quickly than dry straw. Then it was, like
a red bush in the cinders, slowly devoured. She watched it burn.
The little pasteboard berries burst, the wire twisted, the gold
lace melted; and the shriveled paper corollas, fluttering like
black butterflies at the back of the stove, at least flew up the
chimney.
When they left Tostes at the month of March, Madame Bovary was
pregnant.
Part II
Chapter One
Before us, on the verge of the horizon, lie the oaks of the
forest of Argueil, with the steeps of the Saint-Jean hills
scarred from top to bottom with red irregular lines; they are
rain tracks, and these brick-tones standing out in narrow streaks
against the grey colour of the mountain are due to the quantity
of iron springs that flow beyond in the neighboring country.
But that which most attracts the eye is opposite the Lion d'Or
inn, the chemist's shop of Monsieur Homais. In the evening
especially its argand lamp is lit up and the red and green jars
that embellish his shop-front throw far across the street their
two streams of colour; then across them as if in Bengal lights is
seen the shadow of the chemist leaning over his desk. His house
from top to bottom is placarded with inscriptions written in
large hand, round hand, printed hand: "Vichy, Seltzer, Barege
waters, blood purifiers, Raspail patent medicine, Arabian
racahout, Darcet lozenges, Regnault paste, trusses, baths,
hygienic chocolate," etc. And the signboard, which takes up all
the breadth of the shop, bears in gold letters, "Homais,
Chemist." Then at the back of the shop, behind the great scales
fixed to the counter, the word "Laboratory" appears on a scroll
above a glass door, which about half-way up once more repeats
"Homais" in gold letters on a black ground.
Beyond this there is nothing to see at Yonville. The street (the
only one) a gunshot in length and flanked by a few shops on
either side stops short at the turn of the highroad. If it is
left on the right hand and the foot of the Saint-Jean hills
followed the cemetery is soon reached.
From the poultry-yard was heard the screaming of the fowls whom
the servant was chasing in order to wring their necks.
A man slightly marked with small-pox, in green leather slippers,
and wearing a velvet cap with a gold tassel, was warming his back
at the chimney. His face expressed nothing but self-satisfaction,
and he appeared to take life as calmly as the goldfinch suspended
over his head in its wicker cage: this was the chemist.
"Artemise!" shouted the landlady, "chop some wood, fill the water
bottles, bring some brandy, look sharp! If only I knew what
dessert to offer the guests you are expecting! Good heavens!
Those furniture-movers are beginning their racket in the
billiard-room again; and their van has been left before the front
door! The 'Hirondelle' might run into it when it draws up. Call
Polyte and tell him to put it up. Only think, Monsieur Homais,
that since morning they have had about fifteen games, and drunk
eight jars of cider! Why, they'll tear my cloth for me," she went
on, looking at them from a distance, her strainer in her hand.
"You may say what you like; his table is better than yours; and
if one were to think, for example, of getting up a patriotic pool
for Poland or the sufferers from the Lyons floods--"
"It isn't beggars like him that'll frighten us," interrupted the
landlady, shrugging her fat shoulders. "Come, come, Monsieur
Homais; as long as the 'Lion d'Or' exists people will come to it.
We've feathered our nest; while one of these days you'll find the
'Cafe Francais' closed with a big placard on the shutters. Change
my billiard-table!" she went on, speaking to herself, "the table
that comes in so handy for folding the washing, and on which, in
the hunting season, I have slept six visitors! But that dawdler,
Hivert, doesn't come!"
He went to the small parlour, but the three millers had to be got
out first, and during the whole time necessary for laying the
cloth, Binet remained silent in his place near the stove. Then he
shut the door and took off his cap in his usual way.
"It isn't with saying civil things that he'll wear out his
tongue," said the chemist, as soon as he was along with the
landlady.
"He never talks more," she replied. "Last week two travelers in
the cloth line were here--such clever chaps who told such jokes
in the evening, that I fairly cried with laughing; and he stood
there like a dab fish and never said a word."
The priest declined very politely. He had come for his umbrella,
that he had forgotten the other day at the Ernemont convent, and
after asking Madame Lefrancois to have it sent to him at the
presbytery in the evening, he left for the church, from which the
Angelus was ringing.
When the chemist no longer heard the noise of his boots along the
square, he thought the priest's behaviour just now very
unbecoming. This refusal to take any refreshment seemed to him
the most odious hypocrisy; all priests tippled on the sly, and
were trying to bring back the days of the tithe.
"Besides, he could double up four men like you over his knee.
Last year he helped our people to bring in the straw; he carried
as many as six trusses at once, he is so strong."
Emma had wept, grown angry; she had accused Charles of this
misfortune. Monsieur Lheureux, a draper, who happened to be in
the coach with her, had tried to console her by a number of
examples of lost dogs recognizing their masters at the end of
long years. One, he said had been told of, who had come back to
Paris from Constantinople. Another had gone one hundred and fifty
miles in a straight line, and swum four rivers; and his own
father had possessed a poodle, which, after twelve years of
absence, had all of a sudden jumped on his back in the street as
he was going to dine in town.
Chapter Two
When Madame Bovary was in the kitchen she went up to the chimney.
With the tips of her fingers she caught her dress at the knee,
and having thus pulled it up to her ankle, held out her foot in
its black boot to the fire above the revolving leg of mutton. The
flame lit up the whole of her, penetrating with a crude light the
woof of her gowns, the fine pores of her fair skin, and even her
eyelids, which she blinked now and again. A great red glow passed
over her with the blowing of the wind through the half-open door.
On the other side of the chimney a young man with fair hair
watched her silently.
"That is true," replied Emma; "but moving about always amuses me.
I like change of place."
"My wife doesn't care about it," said Charles; "although she has
been advised to take exercise, she prefers always sitting in her
room reading."
"Like me," replied Leon. "And indeed, what is better than to sit
by one's fireside in the evening with a book, while the wind
beats against the window and the lamp is burning?"
"What, indeed?" she said, fixing her large black eyes wide open
upon him.
"Has it ever happened to you," Leon went on, "to come across some
vague idea of one's own in a book, some dim image that comes back
to you from afar, and as the completest expression of your own
slightest sentiment?"
"In fact," observed the clerk, "these works, not touching the
heart, miss, it seems to me, the true end of art. It is so sweet,
amid all the disenchantments of life, to be able to dwell in
thought upon noble characters, pure affections, and pictures of
happiness. For myself, living here far from the world, this is my
one distraction; but Yonville affords so few resources."
"If madame will do me the honour of making use of it", said the
chemist, who had just caught the last words, "I have at her
disposal a library composed of the best authors, Voltaire,
Rousseau, Delille, Walter Scott, the 'Echo des Feuilletons'; and
in addition I receive various periodicals, among them the 'Fanal
de Rouen' daily, having the advantage to be its correspondent for
the districts of Buchy, Forges, Neufchatel, Yonville, and
vicinity."
For two hours and a half they had been at table; for the servant
Artemis, carelessly dragging her old list slippers over the
flags, brought one plate after the other, forgot everything, and
constantly left the door of the billiard-room half open, so that
it beat against the wall with its hooks.
When coffee was served Felicite went away to get ready the room
in the new house, and the guests soon raised the siege. Madame
Lefrancois was asleep near the cinders, while the stable-boy,
lantern in hand, was waiting to show Monsieur and Madame Bovary
the way home. Bits of straw stuck in his red hair, and he limped
with his left leg. When he had taken in his other hand the cure's
umbrella, they started.
The town was asleep; the pillars of the market threw great
shadows; the earth was all grey as on a summer's night. But as
the doctor's house was only some fifty paces from the inn, they
had to say good-night almost immediately, and the company
dispersed.
As soon as she entered the passage, Emma felt the cold of the
plaster fall about her shoulders like damp linen. The walls were
new and the wooden stairs creaked. In their bedroom, on the first
floor, a whitish light passed through the curtainless windows.
She could catch glimpses of tree tops, and beyond, the fields,
half-drowned in the fog that lay reeking in the moonlight along
the course of the river. In the middle of the room, pell-mell,
were scattered drawers, bottles, curtain-rods, gilt poles, with
mattresses on the chairs and basins on the ground--the two men
who had brought the furniture had left everything about
carelessly.
This was the fourth time that she had slept in a strange place.
The first was the day of her going to the convent; the second, of
her arrival at Tostes; the third, at Vaubyessard; and this was
the fourth. And each one had marked, as it were, the inauguration
of a new phase in her life. She did not believe that things could
present themselves in the same way in different places, and since
the portion of her life lived had been bad, no doubt that which
remained to be lived would be better.
Chapter Three
The next day, as she was getting up, she saw the clerk on the
Place. She had on a dressing-gown. He looked up and bowed. She
nodded quickly and reclosed the window.
Leon waited all day for six o'clock in the evening to come, but
on going to the inn, he found no one but Monsieur Binet, already
at table. The dinner of the evening before had been a
considerable event for him; he had never till then talked for two
hours consecutively to a "lady." How then had he been able to
explain, and in such language, the number of things that he could
not have said so well before? He was usually shy, and maintained
that reserve which partakes at once of modesty and dissimulation.
The need of looking after others was not the only thing that
urged the chemist to such obsequious cordiality; there was a plan
underneath it all.
He had infringed the law of the 19th Ventose, year xi., article
I, which forbade all persons not having a diploma to practise
medicine; so that, after certain anonymous denunciations, Homais
had been summoned to Rouen to see the procurer of the king in his
own private room; the magistrate receiving him standing up,
ermine on shoulder and cap on head. It was in the morning, before
the court opened. In the corridors one heard the heavy boots of
the gendarmes walking past, and like a far-off noise great locks
that were shut. The druggist's ears tingled as if he were about
to have an apoplectic stroke; he saw the depths of dungeons, his
family in tears, his shop sold, all the jars dispersed; and he
was obliged to enter a cafe and take a glass of rum and seltzer
to recover his spirits.
Then how many things had been spoilt or lost during their
carriage from Tostes to Yonville, without counting the plaster
cure, who falling out of the coach at an over-severe jolt, had
been dashed into a thousand fragments on the pavements of
Quincampoix! A pleasanter trouble came to distract him, namely,
the pregnancy of his wife. As the time of her confinement
approached he cherished her the more. It was another bond of the
flesh establishing itself, and, as it were, a continued sentiment
of a more complex union. When from afar he saw her languid walk,
and her figure without stays turning softly on her hips; when
opposite one another he looked at her at his ease, while she took
tired poses in her armchair, then his happiness knew no bounds;
he got up, embraced her, passed his hands over her face, called
her little mamma, wanted to make her dance, and half-laughing,
half-crying, uttered all kinds of caressing pleasantries that
came into his head. The idea of having begotten a child delighted
him. Now he wanted nothing. He knew human life from end to end,
and he sat down to it with serenity.
She hoped for a son; he would be strong and dark; she would call
him George; and this idea of having a male child was like an
expected revenge for all her impotence in the past. A man, at
least, is free; he may travel over passions and over countries,
overcome obstacles, taste of the most far-away pleasures. But a
woman is always hampered. At once inert and flexible, she has
against her the weakness of the flesh and legal dependence. Her
will, like the veil of her bonnet, held by a string, flutters in
every wind; there is always some desire that draws her, some
conventionality that restrains.
She was confined on a Sunday at about six o'clock, as the sun was
rising.
Whilst she was getting well she occupied herself much in seeking
a name for her daughter. First she went over all those that have
Italian endings, such as Clara, Louisa, Amanda, Atala; she liked
Galsuinde pretty well, and Yseult or Leocadie still better.
"Monsieur Leon," said the chemist, "with whom I was talking about
it the other day, wonders you do not chose Madeleine. It is very
much in fashion just now."
But Madame Bovary, senior, cried out loudly against this name of
a sinner. As to Monsieur Homais, he had a preference for all
those that recalled some great man, an illustrious fact, or a
generous idea, and it was on this system that he had baptized his
four children. Thus Napoleon represented glory and Franklin
liberty; Irma was perhaps a concession to romanticism, but
Athalie was a homage to the greatest masterpiece of the French
stage. For his philosophical convictions did not interfere with
his artistic tastes; in him the thinker did not stifle the man of
sentiment; he could make distinctions, make allowances for
imagination and fanaticism. In this tragedy, for example, he
found fault with the ideas, but admired the style; he detested
the conception, but applauded all the details, and loathed the
characters while he grew enthusiastic over their dialogue. When
he read the fine passages he was transported, but when he thought
that mummers would get something out of them for their show, he
was disconsolate; and in this confusion of sentiments in which he
was involved he would have liked at once to crown Racine with both
his hands and discuss with him for a good quarter of an hour.
The latter did not at all dislike his company. He had knocked
about the world, he talked about Berlin, Vienna, and Strasbourg,
of his soldier times, of the mistresses he had had, the grand
luncheons of which he had partaken; then he was amiable, and
sometimes even, either on the stairs, or in the garden, would
seize hold of her waist, crying, "Charles, look out for
yourself."
One day Emma was suddenly seized with the desire to see her
little girl, who had been put to nurse with the carpenter's wife,
and, without looking at the calendar to see whether the six weeks
of the Virgin were yet passed, she set out for the Rollets'
house, situated at the extreme end of the village, between the
highroad and the fields.
It was mid-day, the shutters of the houses were closed and the
slate roofs that glittered beneath the fierce light of the blue
sky seemed to strike sparks from the crest of the gables. A heavy
wind was blowing; Emma felt weak as she walked; the stones of the
pavement hurt her; she was doubtful whether she would not go home
again, or go in somewhere to rest.
Madame Bovary said she was going to see her baby, but that she
was beginning to grow tired.
And on the clerk's answer, she begged him to accompany her. That
same evening this was known in Yonville, and Madame Tuvache, the
mayor's wife, declared in the presence of her servant that
"Madame Bovary was compromising herself."
Low and covered with brown tiles, there hung outside it, beneath
the dormer-window of the garret, a string of onions. Faggots
upright against a thorn fence surrounded a bed of lettuce, a few
square feet of lavender, and sweet peas strung on sticks. Dirty
water was running here and there on the grass, and all round were
several indefinite rags, knitted stockings, a red calico jacket,
and a large sheet of coarse linen spread over the hedge. At the
noise of the gate the nurse appeared with a baby she was suckling
on one arm. With her other hand she was pulling along a poor puny
little fellow, his face covered with scrofula, the son of a Rouen
hosier, whom his parents, too taken up with their business, left
in the country.
The room on the ground-floor, the only one in the dwelling, had
at its farther end, against the wall, a large bed without
curtains, while a kneading-trough took up the side by the window,
one pane of which was mended with a piece of blue paper. In the
corner behind the door, shining hob-nailed shoes stood in a row
under the slab of the washstand, near a bottle of oil with a
feather stuck in its mouth; a Matthieu Laensberg lay on the dusty
mantelpiece amid gunflints, candle-ends, and bits of amadou.
Leon walked up and down the room; it seemed strange to him to see
this beautiful woman in her nankeen dress in the midst of all
this poverty. Madam Bovary reddened; he turned away, thinking
perhaps there had been an impertinent look in his eyes. Then she
put back the little girl, who had just been sick over her collar.
"Very well! very well!" said Emma. "Good morning, Madame Rollet,"
and she went out, wiping her shoes at the door.
The good woman accompanied her to the end of the garden, talking
all the time of the trouble she had getting up of nights.
After having submitted to her thanks, Madam Bovary left. She had
gone a little way down the path when, at the sound of wooden
shoes, she turned round. It was the nurse.
"What is it?"
Then the peasant woman, taking her aside behind an elm tree,
began talking to her of her husband, who with his trade and six
francs a year that the captain--
"Well," the nurse went on, heaving sighs between each word, "I'm
afraid he'll be put out seeing me have coffee alone, you know
men--"
"But you are to have some," Emma repeated; "I will give you some.
You bother me!"
Had they nothing else to say to one another? Yet their eyes were
full of more serious speech, and while they forced themselves to
find trivial phrases, they felt the same languor stealing over
them both. It was the whisper of the soul, deep, continuous,
dominating that of their voices. Surprised with wonder at this
strange sweetness, they did not think of speaking of the
sensation or of seeking its cause. Coming joys, like tropical
shores, throw over the immensity before them their inborn
softness, an odorous wind, and we are lulled by this intoxication
without a thought of the horizon that we do not even know.
In one place the ground had been trodden down by the cattle; they
had to step on large green stones put here and there in the mud.
She often stopped a moment to look where to place her foot, and
tottering on a stone that shook, her arms outspread, her form
bent forward with a look of indecision, she would laugh, afraid
of falling into the puddles of water.
Leon returned to his office. His chief was away; he just glanced
at the briefs, then cut himself a pen, and at last took up his
hat and went out.
And what else was there? Binet, a few shopkeepers, two or three
publicans, the cure, and finally, Monsieur Tuvache, the mayor,
with his two sons, rich, crabbed, obtuse persons, who farmed
their own lands and had feasts among themselves, bigoted to boot,
and quite unbearable companions.
But from the general background of all these human faces Emma's
stood out isolated and yet farthest off; for between her and him
he seemed to see a vague abyss.
Chapter Four
When the first cold days set in Emma left her bedroom for the
sitting-room, a long apartment with a low ceiling, in which there
was on the mantelpiece a large bunch of coral spread out against
the looking-glass. Seated in her arm chair near the window, she
could see the villagers pass along the pavement.
Twice a day Leon went from his office to the Lion d'Or. Emma
could hear him coming from afar; she leant forward listening, and
the young man glided past the curtain, always dressed in the same
way, and without turning his head. But in the twilight, when, her
chin resting on her left hand, she let the embroidery she had
begun fall on her knees, she often shuddered at the apparition of
this shadow suddenly gliding past. She would get up and order the
table to be laid.
"The young dog," he said, "is beginning to have ideas, and the
devil take me if I don't believe he's in love with your servant!"
But a more serious fault with which he reproached Justin was his
constantly listening to conversation. On Sunday, for example, one
could not get him out of the drawing-room, whither Madame Homais
had called him to fetch the children, who were falling asleep in
the arm-chairs, and dragging down with their backs calico
chair-covers that were too large.
Standing up with his hands on the back of her chair he saw the
teeth of her comb that bit into her chignon. With every movement
that she made to throw her cards the right side of her dress was
drawn up. From her turned-up hair a dark colour fell over her
back, and growing gradually paler, lost itself little by little
in the shade. Then her dress fell on both sides of her chair,
puffing out full of folds, and reached the ground. When Leon
occasionally felt the sole of his boot resting on it, he drew
back as if he had trodden upon some one.
When the game of cards was over, the druggist and the Doctor
played dominoes, and Emma, changing her place, leant her elbow on
the table, turning over the leaves of "L'Illustration". She had
brought her ladies' journal with her. Leon sat down near her;
they looked at the engravings together, and waited for one
another at the bottom of the pages. She often begged him to read
her the verses; Leon declaimed them in a languid voice, to which
he carefully gave a dying fall in the love passages. But the
noise of the dominoes annoyed him. Monsieur Homais was strong at
the game; he could beat Charles and give him a double-six. Then
the three hundred finished, they both stretched themselves out in
front of the fire, and were soon asleep. The fire was dying out
in the cinders; the teapot was empty, Leon was still reading.
Of the windows of the village there was one yet more often
occupied; for on Sundays from morning to night, and every morning
when the weather was bright, one could see at the dormer-window
of the garret the profile of Monsieur Binet bending over his
lathe, whose monotonous humming could be heard at the Lion d'Or.
One evening on coming home Leon found in his room a rug in velvet
and wool with leaves on a pale ground. He called Madame Homais,
Monsieur Homais, Justin, the children, the cook; he spoke of it
to his chief; every one wanted to see this rug. Why did the
doctor's wife give the clerk presents? It looked queer. They
decided that she must be his lover.
Often he set out with the determination to dare all; but this
resolution soon deserted him in Emma's presence, and when
Charles, dropping in, invited him to jump into his chaise to go
with him to see some patient in the neighbourhood, he at once
accepted, bowed to madame, and went out. Her husband, was he not
something belonging to her? As to Emma, she did not ask herself
whether she loved. Love, she thought, must come suddenly, with
great outbursts and lightnings--a hurricane of the skies, which
falls upon life, revolutionises it, roots up the will like a
leaf, and sweeps the whole heart into the abyss. She did not know
that on the terrace of houses it makes lakes when the pipes are
choked, and she would thus have remained in her security when she
suddenly discovered a rent in the wall of it.
Chapter Five
They had all, Monsieur and Madame Bovary, Homais, and Monsieur
Leon, gone to see a yarn-mill that was being built in the valley
a mile and a half from Yonville. The druggist had taken Napoleon
and Athalie to give them some exercise, and Justin accompanied
them, carrying the umbrellas on his shoulder.
Nothing, however, could be less curious than this curiosity. A
great piece of waste ground, on which pell-mell, amid a mass of
sand and stones, were a few break-wheels, already rusty,
surrounded by a quadrangular building pierced by a number of
little windows. The building was unfinished; the sky could be
seen through the joists of the roofing. Attached to the
stop-plank of the gable a bunch of straw mixed with corn-ears
fluttered its tricoloured ribbons in the wind.
Emma, who had taken his arm, bent lightly against his shoulder,
and she looked at the sun's disc shedding afar through the mist
his pale splendour. She turned. Charles was there. His cap was
drawn down over his eyebrows, and his two thick lips were
trembling, which added a look of stupidity to his face; his very
back, his calm back, was irritating to behold, and she saw
written upon his coat all the platitude of the bearer.
And he ran to his son, who had just precipitated himself into a
heap of lime in order to whiten his boots. At the reproaches with
which he was being overwhelmed Napoleon began to roar, while
Justin dried his shoes with a wisp of straw. But a knife was
wanted; Charles offered his.
"Ah!" she said to herself, "he carried a knife in his pocket like
a peasant."
All the proofs arose before her at once; her heart leapt. The
flame of the fire threw a joyous light upon the ceiling; she
turned on her back, stretching out her arms.
Then began the eternal lamentation: "Oh, if Heaven had out willed
it! And why not? What prevented it?"
She could not help smiling, and she fell asleep, her soul filled
with a new delight.
After leaving at the door his hat surrounded with crape, he put
down a green bandbox on the table, and began by complaining to
madame, with many civilities, that he should have remained till
that day without gaining her confidence. A poor shop like his was
not made to attract a "fashionable lady"; he emphasized the
words; yet she had only to command, and he would undertake to
provide her with anything she might wish, either in haberdashery
or linen, millinery or fancy goods, for he went to town regularly
four times a month. He was connected with the best houses. You
could speak of him at the "Trois Freres," at the "Barbe d'Or," or
at the "Grand Sauvage"; all these gentlemen knew him as well as
the insides of their pockets. To-day, then he had come to show
madame, in passing, various articles he happened to have, thanks
to the most rare opportunity. And he pulled out half-a-dozen
embroidered collars from the box.
Emma smiled.
She heard some steps on the stairs. It was Leon. She got up and
took from the chest of drawers the first pile of dusters to be
hemmed. When he came in she seemed very busy.
"Why?"
"Because--"
And pursing her lips she slowly drew a long stitch of grey
thread.
"What?" she asked hurriedly. "Music? Ah! yes! Have I not my house
to look after, my husband to attend to, a thousand things, in
fact, many duties that must be considered first?"
She looked at the clock. Charles was late. Then, she affected
anxiety. Two or three times she even repeated, "He is so good!"
The clerk was fond of Monsieur Bovary. But this tenderness on his
behalf astonished him unpleasantly; nevertheless he took up on
his praises, which he said everyone was singing, especially the
chemist.
It was the same on the following days; her talks, her manners,
everything changed. She took interest in the housework, went to
church regularly, and looked after her servant with more
severity.
When Charles came home he found his slippers put to warm near the
fire. His waistcoat now never wanted lining, nor his shirt
buttons, and it was quite a pleasure to see in the cupboard the
night-caps arranged in piles of the same height. She no longer
grumbled as formerly at taking a turn in the garden; what he
proposed was always done, although she did not understand the
wishes to which she submitted without a murmur; and when Leon saw
him by his fireside after dinner, his two hands on his stomach,
his two feet on the fender, his two cheeks red with feeding, his
eyes moist with happiness, the child crawling along the carpet,
and this woman with the slender waist who came behind his
arm-chair to kiss his forehead: "What madness!" he said to
himself. "And how to reach her!"
Emma grew thinner, her cheeks paler, her face longer. With her
black hair, her large eyes, her aquiline nose, her birdlike walk,
and always silent now, did she not seem to be passing through
life scarcely touching it, and to bear on her brow the vague
impress of some divine destiny? She was so sad and so calm, at
once so gentle and so reserved, that near her one felt oneself
seized by an icy charm, as we shudder in churches at the perfume
of the flowers mingling with the cold of the marble. The others
even did not escape from this seduction. The chemist said--
But she was eaten up with desires, with rage, with hate. That
dress with the narrow folds hid a distracted fear, of whose
torment those chaste lips said nothing. She was in love with
Leon, and sought solitude that she might with the more ease
delight in his image. The sight of his form troubled the
voluptuousness of this mediation. Emma thrilled at the sound of
his step; then in his presence the emotion subsided, and
afterwards there remained to her only an immense astonishment
that ended in sorrow.
Leon did not know that when he left her in despair she rose after
he had gone to see him in the street. She concerned herself about
his comings and goings; she watched his face; she invented quite
a history to find an excuse for going to his room. The chemist's
wife seemed happy to her to sleep under the same roof, and her
thoughts constantly centered upon this house, like the "Lion
d'Or" pigeons, who came there to dip their red feet and white
wings in its gutters. But the more Emma recognised her love, the
more she crushed it down, that it might not be evident, that she
might make it less. She would have liked Leon to guess it, and
she imagined chances, catastrophes that should facilitate this.
What restrained her was, no doubt, idleness and fear, and a sense
of shame also. She thought she had repulsed him too much, that
the time was past, that all was lost. Then, pride, and joy of
being able to say to herself, "I am virtuous," and to look at
herself in the glass taking resigned poses, consoled her a little
for the sacrifice she believed she was making.
Then the lusts of the flesh, the longing for money, and the
melancholy of passion all blended themselves into one suffering,
and instead of turning her thoughts from it, she clave to it the
more, urging herself to pain, and seeking everywhere occasion for
it. She was irritated by an ill-served dish or by a half-open
door; bewailed the velvets she had not, the happiness she had
missed, her too exalted dreams, her narrow home.
What exasperated her was that Charles did not seem to notice her
anguish. His conviction that he was making her happy seemed to
her an imbecile insult, and his sureness on this point
ingratitude. For whose sake, then was she virtuous? Was it not
for him, the obstacle to all felicity, the cause of all misery,
and, as it were, the sharp clasp of that complex strap that
bucked her in on all sides.
On him alone, then, she concentrated all the various hatreds that
resulted from her boredom, and every effort to diminish only
augmented it; for this useless trouble was added to the other
reasons for despair, and contributed still more to the separation
between them. Her own gentleness to herself made her rebel
against him. Domestic mediocrity drove her to lewd fancies,
marriage tenderness to adulterous desires. She would have liked
Charles to beat her, that she might have a better right to hate
him, to revenge herself upon him. She was surprised sometimes at
the atrocious conjectures that came into her thoughts, and she
had to go on smiling, to hear repeated to her at all hours that
she was happy, to pretend to be happy, to let it be believed.
Yet she had loathing of this hypocrisy. She was seized with the
temptation to flee somewhere with Leon to try a new life; but at
once a vague chasm full of darkness opened within her soul.
"Why don't you tell master?" the servant asked her when she came
in during these crises.
"It is the nerves," said Emma. "Do not speak to him of it; it
would worry him."
"Ah! yes," Felicite went on, "you are just like La Guerine, Pere
Guerin's daughter, the fisherman at Pollet, that I used to know
at Dieppe before I came to you. She was so sad, so sad, to see
her standing upright on the threshold of her house, she seemed to
you like a winding-sheet spread out before the door. Her illness,
it appears, was a kind of fog that she had in her head, and the
doctors could not do anything, nor the priest either. When she
was taken too bad she went off quite alone to the sea-shore, so
that the customs officer, going his rounds, often found her lying
flat on her face, crying on the shingle. Then, after her
marriage, it went off, they say."
"But with me," replied Emma, "it was after marriage that it
began."
Chapter Six
One evening when the window was open, and she, sitting by it, had
been watching Lestiboudois, the beadle, trimming the box, she
suddenly heard the Angelus ringing.
With this repeated tinkling the thoughts of the young woman lost
themselves in old memories of her youth and school-days. She
remembered the great candlesticks that rose above the vases full
of flowers on the altar, and the tabernacle with its small
columns. She would have liked to be once more lost in the long
line of white veils, marked off here and there by the stuff black
hoods of the good sisters bending over their prie-Dieu. At mass
on Sundays, when she looked up, she saw the gentle face of the
Virgin amid the blue smoke of the rising incense. Then she was
moved; she felt herself weak and quite deserted, like the down of
a bird whirled by the tempest, and it was unconsciously that she
went towards the church, included to no matter what devotions, so
that her soul was absorbed and all existence lost in it.
On the Place she met Lestivoudois on his way back, for, in order
not to shorten his day's labour, he preferred interrupting his
work, then beginning it again, so that he rang the Angelus to
suit his own convenience. Besides, the ringing over a little
earlier warned the lads of catechism hour.
Already a few who had arrived were playing marbles on the stones
of the cemetery. Others, astride the wall, swung their legs,
kicking with their clogs the large nettles growing between the
little enclosure and the newest graves. This was the only green
spot. All the rest was but stones, always covered with a fine
powder, despite the vestry-broom.
"Where is the cure?" asked Madame Bovary of one of the lads, who
was amusing himself by shaking a swivel in a hole too large for
it.
The light of the setting sun that fell full upon his face paled
the lasting of his cassock, shiny at the elbows, unravelled at
the hem. Grease and tobacco stains followed along his broad chest
the lines of the buttons, and grew more numerous the farther they
were from his neckcloth, in which the massive folds of his red
chin rested; this was dotted with yellow spots, that disappeared
beneath the coarse hair of his greyish beard. He had just dined
and was breathing noisily.
"Well, and so am I," answered the priest. "These first warm days
weaken one most remarkably, don't they? But, after all, we are
born to suffer, as St. Paul says. But what does Monsieur Bovary
think of it?"
But the cure from time to time looked into the church, where the
kneeling boys were shouldering one another, and tumbling over
like packs of cards.
She fixed her pleading eyes upon the priest. "Yes," she said,
"you solace all sorrows."
"But those," replied Emma, and the corners of her mouth twitched
as she spoke, "those, Monsieur le Cure, who have bread and have
no--"
"Well, you see, you were putting your hand to your forehead. I
thought you felt faint." Then, bethinking himself, "But you were
asking me something? What was it? I really don't remember."
Emma saw him disappear between the double row of forms, walking
with a heavy tread, his head a little bent over his shoulder, and
with his two hands half-open behind him.
Then she turned on her heel all of one piece, like a statue on a
pivot, and went homewards. But the loud voice of the priest, the
clear voices of the boys still reached her ears, and went on
behind her.
"Yes, I am a Christian."
"What is a Christian?"
"Leave me alone," said the latter, putting her from her with her
hand.
The little girl soon came up closer against her knees, and
leaning on them with her arms, she looked up with her large blue
eyes, while a small thread of pure saliva dribbled from her lips
on to the silk apron.
"Will you leave me alone?" she said, pushing her with her elbow.
Berthe fell at the foot of the drawers against the brass handle,
cutting her cheek, which began to bleed, against it. Madame
Bovary sprang to lift her up, broke the bell-rope, called for the
servant with all her might, and she was just going to curse
herself when Charles appeared. It was the dinner-hour; he had
come home.
"Look, dear!" said Emma, in a calm voice, "the little one fell
down while she was playing, and has hurt herself."
Charles reassured her; the case was not a serious one, and he
went for some sticking plaster.
"It is very strange," thought Emma, "how ugly this child is!"
When at eleven o'clock Charles came back from the chemist's shop,
whither he had gone after dinner to return the remainder of the
sticking-plaster, he found his wife standing by the cradle.
At last, Charles, having shut the door, asked him to see himself
what would be the price at Rouen of a fine daguerreotypes. It was
a sentimental surprise he intended for his wife, a delicate
attention--his portrait in a frock-coat. But he wanted first to
know "how much it would be." The inquiries would not put Monsieur
Leon out, since he went to town almost every week.
"What recreation?"
"Ah! that's true," said the other, rubbing his chin with an air
of mingled contempt and satisfaction.
He did not hurry. Every day for a month Hivert carried boxes,
valises, parcels for him from Yonville to Rouen and from Rouen to
Yonville; and when Leon had packed up his wardrobe, had his three
arm-chairs restuffed, bought a stock of neckties, in a word, had
made more preparations than for a voyage around the world, he put
it off from week to week, until he received a second letter from
his mother urging him to leave, since he wanted to pass his
examination before the vacation.
When the moment for the farewells had come, Madame Homais wept,
Justin sobbed; Homais, as a man of nerve, concealed his emotion;
he wished to carry his friend's overcoat himself as far as the
gate of the notary, who was taking Leon to Rouen in his carriage.
She bit her lips, and a rush of blood flowing under her skin made
her red from the roots of her hair to the top of her collar. She
remained standing, leaning with her shoulder against the
wainscot.
Then there was silence. They looked at one another and their
thoughts, confounded in the same agony, clung close together like
two throbbing breasts.
He threw one long look around him that took in the walls, the
decorations, the fireplace, as if to penetrate everything, carry
away everything. But she returned, and the servant brought
Berthe, who was swinging a windmill roof downwards at the end of
a string. Leon kissed her several times on the neck.
"Ah!"
She turned around, her chin lowered, her forehead bent forward.
"Yes, good-bye--go!"
They advanced towards each other; he held out his hand; she
hesitated.
"In the English fashion, then," she said, giving her own hand
wholly to him, and forcing a laugh.
Leon felt it between his fingers, and the very essence of all his
being seemed to pass down into that moist palm. Then he opened
his hand; their eyes met again, and he disappeared.
From afar he saw his employer's gig in the road, and by it a man
in a coarse apron holding the horse. Homais and Monsieur
Guillaumin were talking. They were waiting for him.
"Embrace me," said the druggist with tears in his eyes. "Here is
your coat, my good friend. Mind the cold; take care of yourself;
look after yourself."
Madame Bovary had opened her window overlooking the garden and
watched the clouds. They gathered around the sunset on the side
of Rouen and then swiftly rolled back their black columns, behind
which the great rays of the sun looked out like the golden arrows
of a suspended trophy, while the rest of the empty heavens was
white as porcelain. But a gust of wind bowed the poplars, and
suddenly the rain fell; it pattered against the green leaves.
Then the sun reappeared, the hens clucked, sparrows shook their
wings in the damp thickets, and the pools of water on the gravel
as they flowed away carried off the pink flowers of an acacia.
"Well," said he, "so we've sent off our young friend!"
"But," said the doctor, "I fear for him that down there--"
Emma shuddered.
"What news?"
Chapter Seven
The next day was a dreary one for Emma. Everything seemed to her
enveloped in a black atmosphere floating confusedly over the
exterior of things, and sorrow was engulfed within her soul with
soft shrieks such as the winter wind makes in ruined castles. It
was that reverie which we give to things that will not return,
the lassitude that seizes you after everything was done; that
pain, in fine, that the interruption of every wonted movement,
the sudden cessation of any prolonged vibration, brings on.
She could not detach her eyes from the carpet where he had
walked, from those empty chairs where he had sat. The river still
flowed on, and slowly drove its ripples along the slippery banks.
They had often walked there to the murmur of the waves over the
moss-covered pebbles. How bright the sun had been! What happy
afternoons they had seen alone in the shade at the end of the
garden! He read aloud, bareheaded, sitting on a footstool of dry
sticks; the fresh wind of the meadow set trembling the leaves of
the book and the nasturtiums of the arbour. Ah! he was gone, the
only charm of her life, the only possible hope of joy. Why had
she not seized this happiness when it came to her? Why not have
kept hold of it with both hands, with both knees, when it was
about to flee from her? And she cursed herself for not having
loved Leon. She thirsted for his lips. The wish took possession
of her to run after and rejoin him, throw herself into his arms
and say to him, "It is I; I am yours." But Emma recoiled
beforehand at the difficulties of the enterprise, and her
desires, increased by regret, became only the more acute.
Then the evil days of Tostes began again. She thought herself now
far more unhappy; for she had the experience of grief, with the
certainty that it would not end.
A woman who had laid on herself such sacrifices could well allow
herself certain whims. She bought a Gothic prie-dieu, and in a
month spent fourteen francs on lemons for polishing her nails;
she wrote to Rouen for a blue cashmere gown; she chose one of
Lheureux's finest scarves, and wore it knotted around her waist
over her dressing-gown; and, with closed blinds and a book in her
hand, she lay stretched out on a couch in this garb.
She often changed her coiffure; she did her hair a la Chinoise,
in flowing curls, in plaited coils; she parted in on one side and
rolled it under like a man's.
She had attacks in which she could easily have been driven to
commit any folly. She maintained one day, in opposition to her
husband, that she could drink off a large glass of brandy, and,
as Charles was stupid enough to dare her to, she swallowed the
brandy to the last drop.
She often fainted. One day she even spat blood, and, as Charles
fussed around her showing his anxiety--
Charles fled to his study and wept there, both his elbows on the
table, sitting in an arm-chair at his bureau under the
phrenological head.
Then he wrote to his mother begging her to come, and they had
many long consultations together on the subject of Emma.
What should they decide? What was to be done since she rejected
all medical treatment? "Do you know what your wife wants?"
replied Madame Bovary senior.
"She wants to be forced to occupy herself with some manual work.
If she were obliged, like so many others, to earn her living, she
wouldn't have these vapours, that come to her from a lot of ideas
she stuffs into her head, and from the idleness in which she
lives."
"Can I see the doctor?" he asked Justin, who was talking on the
doorsteps with Felicite, and, taking him for a servant of the
house--"Tell him that Monsieur Rodolphe Boulanger of La Huchette
is here."
It was not from territorial vanity that the new arrival added "of
La Huchette" to his name, but to make himself the better known.
And with an air of bravado he held out his great arm. At the
prick of the lancet the blood spurted out, splashing against the
looking-glass.
Madame Bovary began taking off his cravat. The strings of his
shirt had got into a knot, and she was for some minutes moving
her light fingers about the young fellow's neck. Then she poured
some vinegar on her cambric handkerchief; she moistened his
temples with little dabs, and then blew upon them softly. The
ploughman revived, but Justin's syncope still lasted, and his
eyeballs disappeared in the pale sclerotics like blue flowers in
milk.
Madame Bovary took the basin to put it under the table. With the
movement she made in bending down, her dress (it was a summer
dress with four flounces, yellow, long in the waist and wide in
the skirt) spread out around her on the flags of the room; and as
Emma stooping, staggered a little as she stretched out her arms.
The stuff here and there gave with the inflections of her bust.
Then she went to fetch a bottle of water, and she was melting
some pieces of sugar when the chemist arrived. The servant had
been to fetch him in the tumult. Seeing his pupil's eyes staring
he drew a long breath; then going around him he looked at him
from head to foot.
"Who asked you to come? You are always pestering the doctor and
madame. On Wednesday, moreover, your presence is indispensable to
me. There are now twenty people in the shop. I left everything
because of the interest I take in you. Come, get along! Sharp!
Wait for me, and keep an eye on the jars."
When Justin, who was rearranging his dress, had gone, they talked
for a little while about fainting-fits. Madame Bovary had never
fainted.
He was soon on the other side of the river (this was his way back
to La Huchette), and Emma saw him in the meadow, walking under
the poplars, slackening his pace now and then as one who
reflects.
"She is very pretty," he said to himself; "she is very pretty,
this doctor's wife. Fine teeth, black eyes, a dainty foot, a
figure like a Parisienne's. Where the devil does she come from?
Wherever did that fat fellow pick her up?"
The fields were empty, and around him Rodolphe only heard the
regular beating of the grass striking against his boots, with a
cry of the grasshopper hidden at a distance among the oats. He
again saw Emma in her room, dressed as he had seen her, and he
undressed her.
"Oh, I will have her," he cried, striking a blow with his stick
at a clod in front of him. And he at once began to consider the
political part of the enterprise. He asked himself--
Then he resumed, "She really has eyes that pierce one's heart
like a gimlet. And that pale complexion! I adore pale women!"
When he reached the top of the Arguiel hills he had made up his
mind. "It's only finding the opportunities. Well, I will call in
now and then. I'll send them venison, poultry; I'll have myself
bled, if need be. We shall become friends; I'll invite them to my
place. By Jove!" added he, "there's the agricultural show coming
on. She'll be there. I shall see her. We'll begin boldly, for
that's the surest way."
Chapter Eight
The crowd came into the main street from both ends of the
village. People poured in from the lanes, the alleys, the houses;
and from time to time one heard knockers banging against doors
closing behind women with their gloves, who were going out to see
the fete. What was most admired were two long lamp-stands covered
with lanterns, that flanked a platform on which the authorities
were to sit. Besides this there were against the four columns of
the town hall four kinds of poles, each bearing a small standard
of greenish cloth, embellished with inscriptions in gold letters.
"It seems odd to you, doesn't it, I who am always more cooped up
in my laboratory than the man's rat in his cheese."
The landlady never took her eyes off the "Cafe Francois" and the
chemist went on--
Homais drew back with stupefaction. She came down three steps and
whispered in his ear--
Then the landlady began telling him the story that she had heard
from Theodore, Monsieur Guillaumin's servant, and although she
detested Tellier, she blamed Lheureux. He was "a wheedler, a
sneak."
"Madame Bovary!" exclaimed Homais. "I must go at once and pay her
my respects. Perhaps she'll be very glad to have a seat in the
enclosure under the peristyle." And, without heeding Madame
Lefrancois, who was calling him back to tell him more about it,
the druggist walked off rapidly with a smile on his lips, with
straight knees, bowing copiously to right and left, and taking up
much room with the large tails of his frock-coat that fluttered
behind him in the wind.
Rodolphe, having caught sight of him from afar, hurried on, but
Madame Bovary lost her breath; so he walked more slowly, and,
smiling at her, said in a rough tone--
"It's only to get away from that fat fellow, you know, the
druggist." She pressed his elbow.
Her profile was so calm that one could guess nothing from it. It
stood out in the light from the oval of her bonnet, with pale
ribbons on it like the leaves of weeds. Her eyes with their long
curved lashes looked straight before her, and though wide open,
they seemed slightly puckered by the cheek-bones, because of the
blood pulsing gently under the delicate skin. A pink line ran
along the partition between her nostrils. Her head was bent upon
her shoulder, and the pearl tips of her white teeth were seen
between her lips.
Emma's gesture, however, had only been meant for a warning; for
Monsieur Lheureux was accompanying them, and spoke now and again
as if to enter into the conversation.
The meadow began to fill, and the housewives hustled you with
their great umbrellas, their baskets, and their babies. One had
often to get out of the way of a long file of country folk,
servant-maids with blue stockings, flat shoes, silver rings, and
who smelt of milk, when one passed close to them. They walked
along holding one another by the hand, and thus they spread over
the whole field from the row of open trees to the banquet tent.
But this was the examination time, and the farmers one after the
other entered a kind of enclosure formed by a long cord supported
on sticks.
The beasts were there, their noses towards the cord, and making a
confused line with their unequal rumps. Drowsy pigs were
burrowing in the earth with their snouts, calves were bleating,
lambs baaing; the cows, on knees folded in, were stretching their
bellies on the grass, slowly chewing the cud, and blinking their
heavy eyelids at the gnats that buzzed round them. Plough-men
with bare arms were holding by the halter prancing stallions that
neighed with dilated nostrils looking towards the mares. These
stood quietly, stretching out their heads and flowing manes,
while their foals rested in their shadow, or now and then came
and sucked them. And above the long undulation of these crowded
animals one saw some white mane rising in the wind like a wave,
or some sharp horns sticking out, and the heads of men running
about. Apart, outside the enclosure, a hundred paces off, was a
large black bull, muzzled, with an iron ring in its nostrils, and
who moved no more than if he had been in bronze. A child in rags
was holding him by a rope.
Between the two lines the committee-men were walking with heavy
steps, examining each animal, then consulting one another in a
low voice. One who seemed of more importance now and then took
notes in a book as he walked along. This was the president of the
jury, Monsieur Derozerays de la Panville. As soon as he
recognised Rodolphe he came forward quickly, and smiling amiably,
said--
"Ma foi!*" said he, "I shall not go. Your company is better than
his."
*Upon my word!
And while poking fun at the show, Rodolphe, to move about more easily,
showed the gendarme his blue card, and even stopped now and then in
front of some fine beast, which Madame Bovary did not at all admire.
He noticed this, and began jeering at the Yonville ladies and their
dresses; then he apologised for the negligence of his own. He had that
incongruity of common and elegant in which the habitually vulgar think
they see the revelation of an eccentric existence, of the
perturbations of sentiment, the tyrannies of art, and always a
certain contempt for social conventions, that seduces or
exasperates them. Thus his cambric shirt with plaited cuffs was
blown out by the wind in the opening of his waistcoat of grey
ticking, and his broad-striped trousers disclosed at the ankle
nankeen boots with patent leather gaiters.
"That is true," replied Rodolphe. "To think that not one of these
people is capable of understanding even the cut of a coat!"
"Ah! yes. I seem so, because in the midst of the world I know how
to wear the mask of a scoffer upon my face; and yet, how many a
time at the sight of a cemetery by moonlight have I not asked
myself whether it were not better to join those sleeping there!"
"Oh! and your friends?" she said. "You do not think of them."
"My friends! What friends? Have I any? Who cares for me?" And he
accompanied the last words with a kind of whistling of the lips.
"Yet it seems to me," said Emma, "that you are not to be pitied."
"For, after all," she went on, "you are free--" she hesitated,
"rich--"
And she protested that she was not mocking him, when the report
of a cannon resounded. Immediately all began hustling one another
pell-mell towards the village.
And after presenting arms, during which the clang of the band,
letting loose, rang out like a brass kettle rolling downstairs,
all the guns were lowered. Then was seen stepping down from the
carriage a gentleman in a short coat with silver braiding, with
bald brow, and wearing a tuft of hair at the back of his head, of
a sallow complexion and the most benign appearance. His eyes,
very large and covered by heavy lids, were half-closed to look at
the crowd, while at the same time he raised his sharp nose, and
forced a smile upon his sunken mouth. He recognised the mayor by
his scarf, and explained to him that the prefect was not able to
come. He himself was a councillor at the prefecture; then he
added a few apologies. Monsieur Tuvache answered them with
compliments; the other confessed himself nervous; and they
remained thus, face to face, their foreheads almost touching,
with the members of the jury all round, the municipal council,
the notable personages, the National Guard and the crowd. The
councillor pressing his little cocked hat to his breast repeated
his bows, while Tuvache, bent like a bow, also smiled, stammered,
tried to say something, protested his devotion to the monarchy
and the honour that was being done to Yonville.
Hippolyte, the groom from the inn, took the head of the horses
from the coachman, and, limping along with his club-foot, led
them to the door of the "Lion d'Or", where a number of peasants
collected to look at the carriage. The drum beat, the howitzer
thundered, and the gentlemen one by one mounted the platform,
where they sat down in red utrecht velvet arm-chairs that had
been lent by Madame Tuvache.
All these people looked alike. Their fair flabby faces, somewhat
tanned by the sun, were the colour of sweet cider, and their
puffy whiskers emerged from stiff collars, kept up by white
cravats with broad bows. All the waist-coats were of velvet,
double-breasted; all the watches had, at the end of a long
ribbon, an oval cornelian seal; everyone rested his two hands on
his thighs, carefully stretching the stride of their trousers,
whose unsponged glossy cloth shone more brilliantly than the
leather of their heavy boots.
The ladies of the company stood at the back under the vestibule
between the pillars while the common herd was opposite, standing
up or sitting on chairs. As a matter of fact, Lestiboudois had
brought thither all those that he had moved from the field, and
he even kept running back every minute to fetch others from the
church. He caused such confusion with this piece of business that
one had great difficulty in getting to the small steps of the
platform.
"I think," said Monsieur Lheureux to the chemist, who was passing
to his place, "that they ought to have put up two Venetian masts
with something rather severe and rich for ornaments; it would
have been a very pretty effect."
"To be sure," replied Homais; "but what can you expect? The mayor
took everything on his own shoulders. He hasn't much taste. Poor
Tuvache! and he is even completely destitute of what is called
the genius of art."
"Well, someone down there might see me," Rodolphe resumed, "then
I should have to invent excuses for a fortnight; and with my bad
reputation--"
"What!" said he. "Do you not know that there are souls constantly
tormented? They need by turns to dream and to act, the purest
passions and the most turbulent joys, and thus they fling
themselves into all sorts of fantasies, of follies."
"It comes one day," repeated Rodolphe, "one day suddenly, and
when one is despairing of it. Then the horizon expands; it is as
if a voice cried, 'It is here!' You feel the need of confiding
the whole of your life, of giving everything, sacrificing
everything to this being. There is no need for explanations; they
understand one another. They have seen each other in dreams!"
"No, no! Why cry out against the passions? Are they not the one
beautiful thing on the earth, the source of heroism, of
enthusiasm, of poetry, music, the arts, of everything, in a
word?"
"But one must," said Emma, "to some extent bow to the opinion of
the world and accept its moral code."
He had no need to call it, for all the mouths of the multitude
were wide open, as if to drink in his words. Tuvache by his side
listened to him with staring eyes. Monsieur Derozerays from time
to time softly closed his eyelids, and farther on the chemist,
with his son Napoleon between his knees, put his hand behind his
ear in order not to lose a syllable. The chins of the other
members of the jury went slowly up and down in their waistcoats
in sign of approval. The firemen at the foot of the platform
rested on their bayonets; and Binet, motionless, stood with
out-turned elbows, the point of his sabre in the air. Perhaps he
could hear, but certainly he could see nothing, because of the
visor of his helmet, that fell down on his nose. His lieutenant,
the youngest son of Monsieur Tuvache, had a bigger one, for his
was enormous, and shook on his head, and from it an end of his
cotton scarf peeped out. He smiled beneath it with a perfectly
infantine sweetness, and his pale little face, whence drops were
running, wore an expression of enjoyment and sleepiness.
The square as far as the houses was crowded with people. One saw
folk leaning on their elbows at all the windows, others standing
at doors, and Justin, in front of the chemist's shop, seemed
quite transfixed by the sight of what he was looking at. In spite
of the silence Monsieur Lieuvain's voice was lost in the air. It
reached you in fragments of phrases, and interrupted here and
there by the creaking of chairs in the crowd; then you suddenly
heard the long bellowing of an ox, or else the bleating of the
lambs, who answered one another at street corners. In fact, the
cowherds and shepherds had driven their beasts thus far, and
these lowed from time to time, while with their tongues they tore
down some scrap of foliage that hung above their mouths.
His arms were folded across his knees, and thus lifting his face
towards Emma, close by her, he looked fixedly at her. She noticed
in his eyes small golden lines radiating from black pupils; she
even smelt the perfume of the pomade that made his hair glossy.
Then a faintness came over her; she recalled the Viscount who had
waltzed with her at Vaubyessard, and his beard exhaled like this
air an odour of vanilla and citron, and mechanically she
half-closed her eyes the better to breathe it in. But in making
this movement, as she leant back in her chair, she saw in the
distance, right on the line of the horizon, the old diligence,
the "Hirondelle," that was slowly descending the hill of Leux,
dragging after it a long trail of dust. It was in this yellow
carriage that Leon had so often come back to her, and by this
route down there that he had gone for ever. She fancied she saw
him opposite at his windows; then all grew confused; clouds
gathered; it seemed to her that she was again turning in the
waltz under the light of the lustres on the arm of the Viscount,
and that Leon was not far away, that he was coming; and yet all
the time she was conscious of the scent of Rodolphe's head by her
side. This sweetness of sensation pierced through her old
desires, and these, like grains of sand under a gust of wind,
eddied to and fro in the subtle breath of the perfume which
suffused her soul. She opened wide her nostrils several times to
drink in the freshness of the ivy round the capitals. She took
off her gloves, she wiped her hands, then fanned her face with
her handkerchief, while athwart the throbbing of her temples she
heard the murmur of the crowd and the voice of the councillor
intoning his phrases. He said--"Continue, persevere; listen
neither to the suggestions of routine, nor to the over-hasty
councils of a rash empiricism.
"Thus we," he said, "why did we come to know one another? What
chance willed it? It was because across the infinite, like two
streams that flow but to unite; our special bents of mind had
driven us towards each other."
"Seventy francs."
"Manures!"
"But you will forget me; I shall pass away like a shadow."
Rodolphe was pressing her hand, and he felt it all warm and
quivering like a captive dove that wants to fly away; but,
whether she was trying to take it away or whether she was
answering his pressure; she made a movement with her fingers. He
exclaimed--
"Oh, I thank you! You do not repulse me! You are good! You
understand that I am yours! Let me look at you; let me
contemplate you!"
She did not present herself, and one could hear voices
whispering--
"Go up!"
"Don't be afraid!"
Then there came forward on the platform a little old woman with
timid bearing, who seemed to shrink within her poor clothes. On
her feet she wore heavy wooden clogs, and from her hips hung a
large blue apron. Her pale face framed in a borderless cap was
more wrinkled than a withered russet apple. And from the sleeves
of her red jacket looked out two large hands with knotty joints,
the dust of barns, the potash of washing the grease of wools had
so encrusted, roughened, hardened these that they seemed dirty,
although they had been rinsed in clear water; and by dint of long
service they remained half open, as if to bear humble witness for
themselves of so much suffering endured. Something of monastic
rigidity dignified her face. Nothing of sadness or of emotion
weakened that pale look. In her constant living with animals she
had caught their dumbness and their calm. It was the first time
that she found herself in the midst of so large a company, and
inwardly scared by the flags, the drums, the gentlemen in
frock-coats, and the order of the councillor, she stood
motionless, not knowing whether to advance or run away, nor why
the crowd was pushing her and the jury were smiling at her.
Then, when she had her medal, she looked at it, and a smile of
beatitude spread over her face; and as she walked away they could
hear her muttering "I'll give it to our cure up home, to say some
masses for me!"
The meeting was over, the crowd dispersed, and now that the
speeches had been read, each one fell back into his place again,
and everything into the old grooves; the masters bullied the
servants, and these struck the animals, indolent victors, going
back to the stalls, a green-crown on their horns.
The feast was long, noisy, ill served; the guests were so crowded
that they could hardly move their elbows; and the narrow planks
used for forms almost broke down under their weight. They ate
hugely. Each one stuffed himself on his own account. Sweat stood
on every brow, and a whitish steam, like the vapour of a stream
on an autumn morning, floated above the table between the hanging
lamps. Rodolphe, leaning against the calico of the tent was
thinking so earnestly of Emma that he heard nothing. Behind him
on the grass the servants were piling up the dirty plates, his
neighbours were talking; he did not answer them; they filled his
glass, and there was silence in his thoughts in spite of the
growing noise. He was dreaming of what she had said, of the line
of her lips; her face, as in a magic mirror, shone on the plates
of the shakos, the folds of her gown fell along the walls, and
days of love unrolled to all infinity before him in the vistas of
the future.
He saw her again in the evening during the fireworks, but she was
with her husband, Madame Homais, and the druggist, who was
worrying about the danger of stray rockets, and every moment he
left the company to go and give some advice to Binet.
They went out one by one. The stars shone out. A few crops of
rain began to fall. She knotted her fichu round her bare head.
At this moment the councillor's carriage came out from the inn.
His coachman, who was drunk, suddenly dozed off, and one could
see from the distance, above the hood, between the two lanterns,
the mass of his body, that swayed from right to left with the
giving of the traces. "Truly," said the druggist, "one ought to proceed most rigorously
against drunkenness! I should like to see written up weekly at
the door of the town hall on a board ad hoc* the names of all
those who during the week got intoxicated on alcohol. Besides,
with regard to statistics, one would thus have, as it were,
public records that one could refer to in case of need. But
excuse me!"
And he once more ran off to the captain. The latter was going
back to see his lathe again.
"Perhaps you would not do ill," Homais said to him, "to send one
of your men, or to go yourself--"
"Ma foi! I want it," said Madame Homais, yawning at large. "But
never mind; we've had a beautiful day for our fete."
Two days later, in the "Final de Rouen," there was a long article
on the show. Homais had composed it with verve the very next
morning.
Chapter Nine
Six weeks passed. Rodolphe did not come again. At last one
evening he appeared.
And at the end of a week he had gone off hunting. After the
hunting he had thought it was too late, and then he reasoned
thus--
"If from the first day she loved me, she must from impatience to
see me again love me more. Let's go on with it!"
And he knew that his calculation had been right when, on entering
the room, he saw Emma turn pale.
She was alone. The day was drawing in. The small muslin curtain
along the windows deepened the twilight, and the gilding of the
barometer, on which the rays of the sun fell, shone in the
looking-glass between the meshes of the coral.
"Why?"
He looked at her again, but so hard that she lowered her head,
blushing. He went on--
"Emma!"
It was the first time that Emma had heard such words spoken to
herself, and her pride, like one who reposes bathed in warmth,
expanded softly and fully at this glowing language.
"But if I did not come," he continued, "if I could not see you,
at least I have gazed long on all that surrounds you. At
night-every night-I arose; I came hither; I watched your house,
its glimmering in the moon, the trees in the garden swaying
before your window, and the little lamp, a gleam shining through
the window-panes in the darkness. Ah! you never knew that there,
so near you, so far from you, was a poor wretch!"
"No, I love you, that is all! You do not doubt that! Tell me--one
word--only one word!"
"How kind it would be of you," he went on, rising, "if you would
humour a whim of mine." It was to go over her house; he wanted to
know it; and Madame Bovary seeing no objection to this, they both
rose, when Charles came in.
"No, no! I'll send him to you; we'll come; that will be more
convenient for you."
And as soon as they were alone, "Why don't you accept Monsieur
Boulanger's kind offer?"
"Well, what the deuce do I care for that?" said Charles, making a
pirouette. "Health before everything! You are wrong."
"And how do you think I can ride when I haven't got a habit?"
The next day at noon Rodolphe appeared at Charles's door with two
saddle-horses. One had pink rosettes at his ears and a deerskin
side-saddle.
Justin escaped from the chemist's to see her start, and the
chemist also came out. He was giving Monsieur Boulanger a little
good advice.
It was early in October. There was fog over the land. Hazy clouds
hovered on the horizon between the outlines of the hills; others,
rent asunder, floated up and disappeared. Sometimes through a
rift in the clouds, beneath a ray of sunshine, gleamed from afar
the roots of Yonville, with the gardens at the water's edge, the
yards, the walls and the church steeple. Emma half closed her
eyes to pick out her house, and never had this poor village where
she lived appeared so small. From the height on which they were
the whole valley seemed an immense pale lake sending off its
vapour into the air. Clumps of trees here and there stood out
like black rocks, and the tall lines of the poplars that rose
above the mist were like a beach stirred by the wind.
Rodolphe and Emma thus went along the skirt of the wood. She
turned away from time to time to avoid his look, and then she saw
only the pine trunks in lines, whose monotonous succession made
her a little giddy. The horses were panting; the leather of the
saddles creaked.
Just as they were entering the forest the sun shone out.
He "tchk'd" with his tongue. The two beasts set off at a trot.
Then some hundred paces farther on she again stopped, and through
her veil, that fell sideways from her man's hat over her hips,
her face appeared in a bluish transparency as if she were
floating under azure waves.
"But where are we going?"
Emma listened to him with bowed head, and stirred the bits of
wood on the ground with the tip of her foot. But at the words,
"Are not our destinies now one?"
Then smiling a strange smile, his pupil fixed, his teeth set, he
advanced with outstretched arms. She recoiled trembling. She
stammered:
"If it must be," he went on, his face changing; and he again
became respectful, caressing, timid. She gave him her arm. They
went back. He said--
"What was the matter with you? Why? I do not understand. You were
mistaken, no doubt. In my soul you are as a Madonna on a
pedestal, in a place lofty, secure, immaculate. But I need you to
live! I must have your eyes, your voice, your thought! Be my
friend, my sister, my angel!"
And he put out his arm round her waist. She feebly tried to
disengage herself. He supported her thus as they walked along.
The cloth of her habit caught against the velvet of his coat. She
threw back her white neck, swelling with a sigh, and faltering,
in tears, with a long shudder and hiding her face, she gave
herself up to him--
They returned to Yonville by the same road. On the mud they saw
again the traces of their horses side by side, the same thickets,
the same stones to the grass; nothing around them seemed changed;
and yet for her something had happened more stupendous than if
the mountains had moved in their places. Rodolphe now and again
bent forward and took her hand to kiss it.
"Emma!" he said.
"What?"
"Yes. Why?"
And as soon as she had got rid of Charles she went and shut
herself up in her room.
At first she felt stunned; she saw the trees, the paths, the
ditches, Rodolphe, and she again felt the pressure of his arm,
while the leaves rustled and the reeds whistled.
But when she saw herself in the glass she wondered at her face.
Never had her eyes been so large, so black, of so profound a
depth. Something subtle about her being transfigured her. She
repeated, "I have a lover! a lover!" delighting at the idea as if
a second puberty had come to her. So at last she was to know
those joys of love, that fever of happiness of which she had
despairedl She was entering upon marvels where all would be
passion, ecstasy, delirium. An azure infinity encompassed her,
the heights of sentiment sparkled under her thought, and ordinary
existence appeared only afar off, down below in the shade,
through the interspaces of these heights.
Then she recalled the heroines of the books that she had read,
and the lyric legion of these adulterous women began to sing in
her memory with the voice of sisters that charmed her. She became
herself, as it were, an actual part of these imaginings, and
realised the love-dream of her youth as she saw herself in this
type of amorous women whom she had so envied. Besides, Emma felt
a satisfaction of revenge. Had she not suffered enough? But now
she triumphed, and the love so long pent up burst forth in full
joyous bubblings. She tasted it without remorse, without anxiety,
without trouble.
The day following passed with a new sweetness. They made vows to
one another She told him of her sorrows. Rodolphe interrupted her
with kisses; and she looking at him through half-closed eyes,
asked him to call her again by her name--to say that he loved her
They were in the forest, as yesterday, in the shed of some
woodenshoe maker. The walls were of straw, and the roof so low
they had to stoop. They were seated side by side on a bed of dry
leaves.
From that day forth they wrote to one another regularly every
evening. Emma placed her letter at the end of the garden, by the
river, in a fissure of the wall. Rodolphe came to fetch it, and
put another there, that she always found fault with as too
short.
One morning, when Charles had gone out before day break, she was
seized with the fancy to see Rodolphe at once. She would go
quickly to La Huchette, stay there an hour, and be back again at
Yonville while everyone was still asleep. This idea made her pant
with desire, and she soon found herself in the middle of the
field, walking with rapid steps, without looking behind her.
Day was just breaking. Emma from afar recognised her lover's
house. Its two dove-tailed weathercocks stood out black against
the pale dawn.
"You here? You here?" he repeated. "How did you manage to come?
Ah! your dress is damp."
"I love you," she answered, throwing her arms about his neck.
But when the plank for the cows was taken up, she had to go by
the walls alongside of the river; the bank was slippery; in order
not to fall she caught hold of the tufts of faded wallflowers.
Then she went across ploughed fields, in which she sank,
stumbling; and clogging her thin shoes. Her scarf, knotted round
her head, fluttered to the wind in the meadows. She was afraid of
the oxen; she began to run; she arrived out of breath, with rosy
cheeks, and breathing out from her whole person a fresh perfume
of sap, of verdure, of the open air. At this hour Rodolphe still
slept. It was like a spring morning coming into his room.
The yellow curtains along the windows let a heavy, whitish light
enter softly. Emma felt about, opening and closing her eyes,
while the drops of dew hanging from her hair formed, as it were,
a topaz aureole around her face. Rodolphe, laughing, drew her to
him, and pressed her to his breast.
"What is the matter with you?" she said. "Are you ill? Tell me!"
Chapter Ten
One morning as she was thus returning, she suddenly thought she
saw the long barrel of a carbine that seemed to be aimed at her.
It stuck out sideways from the end of a small tub half-buried in
the grass on the edge of a ditch. Emma, half-fainting with
terror, nevertheless walked on, and a man stepped out of the tub
like a Jack-in-the-box. He had gaiters buckled up to the knees,
his cap pulled down over his eyes, trembling lips, and a red
nose. It was Captain Binet lying in ambush for wild ducks.
"You ought to have called out long ago!" he exclaimed; "When one
sees a gun, one should always give warning."
The tax-collector was thus trying to hide the fright he had had,
for a prefectorial order having prohibited duckhunting except in
boats, Monsieur Binet, despite his respect for the laws, was
infringing them, and so he every moment expected to see the rural
guard turn up. But this anxiety whetted his pleasure, and, all
alone in his tub, he congratulated himself on his luck and on his
cuteness. At sight of Emma he seemed relieved from a great
weight, and at once entered upon a conversation.
"Yes," she said stammering; "I am just coming from the nurse
where my child is."
"Ah! very good! very good! For myself, I am here, just as you
see me, since break of day; but the weather is so muggy, that
unless one had the bird at the mouth of the gun--"
And to put his arm-chair back in its place he was darting away
from the counter, when Binet asked him for half an ounce of sugar
acid.
The druggist was beginning to cut the wax when Madame Homais
appeared, Irma in her arms, Napoleon by her side, and Athalie
following. She sat down on the velvet seat by the window, and the
lad squatted down on a footstool, while his eldest sister hovered
round the jujube box near her papa. The latter was filling
funnels and corking phials, sticking on labels, making up
parcels. Around him all were silent; only from time to time, were
heard the weights jingling in the balance, and a few low words
from the chemist giving directions to his pupil.
But Binet, quite absorbed in looking over his bill, had probably
heard nothing. At last he went out. Then Emma, relieved, uttered
a deep sigh.
So the next day they talked over how to arrange their rendezvous.
Emma wanted to bribe her servant with a present, but it would be
better to find some safe house at Yonville. Rodolphe promised to
look for one.
All through the winter, three or four times a week, in the dead
of night he came to the garden. Emma had on purpose taken away
the key of the gate, which Charles thought lost.
To call her, Rodolphe threw a sprinkle of sand at the shutters.
She jumped up with a start; but sometimes he had to wait, for
Charles had a mania for chatting by the fireside, and he would
not stop. She was wild with impatience; if her eyes could have
done it, she would have hurled him out at the window. At last she
would begin to undress, then take up a book, and go on reading
very quietly as if the book amused her. But Charles, who was in
bed, called to her to come too.
Then, as the candles dazzled him; he turned to the wall and fell
asleep. She escaped, smiling, palpitating, undressed. Rodolphe
had a large cloak; he wrapped her in it, and putting his arm
round her waist, he drew her without a word to the end of the
garden.
When the night was rainy, they took refuge in the consulting-room
between the cart-shed and the stable. She lighted one of the
kitchen candles that she had hidden behind the books. Rodolphe
settled down there as if at home. The sight of the library, of
the bureau, of the whole apartment, in fine, excited his
merriment, and he could not refrain from making jokes about
Charles, which rather embarrassed Emma. She would have liked to
see him more serious, and even on occasions more dramatic; as,
for example, when she thought she heard a noise of approaching
steps in the alley.
"Someone is coming!" she said.
"Why?"
"From your husband? Oh, poor devil!" And Rodolphe finished his
sentence with a gesture that said, "I could crush him with a
flip of my finger."
"I am sure that above there together they approve of our love."
It was the time of year when old Rouault sent his turkey in
remembrance of the setting of his leg. The present always arrived
with a letter. Emma cut the string that tied it to the basket,
and read the following lines:--
"My Dear Children--I hope this will find you well, and that this
one will be as good as the others. For it seems to me a little
more tender, if I may venture to say so, and heavier. But next
time, for a change, I'll give you a turkeycock, unless you have a
preference for some dabs; and send me back the hamper, if you
please, with the two old ones. I have had an accident with my
cart-sheds, whose covering flew off one windy night among the
trees. The harvest has not been overgood either. Finally, I don't
know when I shall come to see you. It is so difficult now to
leave the house since I am alone, my poor Emma."
Here there was a break in the lines, as if the old fellow had
dropped his pen to dream a little while.
"For myself, I am very well, except for a cold I caught the other
day at the fair at Yvetot, where I had gone to hire a shepherd,
having turned away mine because he was too dainty. How we are to
be pitied with such a lot of thieves! Besides, he was also rude.
I heard from a pedlar, who, travelling through your part of the
country this winter, had a tooth drawn, that Bovary was as usual
working hard. That doesn't surprise me; and he showed me his
tooth; we had some coffee together. I asked him if he had seen
you, and he said not, but that he had seen two horses in the
stables, from which I conclude that business is looking up. So
much the better, my dear children, and may God send you every
imaginable happiness! It grieves me not yet to have seen my dear
little grand-daughter, Berthe Bovary. I have planted an Orleans
plum-tree for her in the garden under your room, and I won't have
it touched unless it is to have jam made for her by and bye, that
I will keep in the cupboard for her when she comes.
"Theodore Rouault."
She held the coarse paper in her fingers for some minutes. The
spelling mistakes were interwoven one with the other, and Emma
followed the kindly thought that cackled right through it like a
hen half hidden in the hedge of thorns. The writing had been
dried with ashes from the hearth, for a little grey powder
slipped from the letter on to her dress, and she almost thought
she saw her father bending over the hearth to take up the tongs.
How long since she had been with him, sitting on the footstool in
the chimney-corner, where she used to burn the end of a bit of
wood in the great flame of the sea-sedges! She remembered the
summer evenings all full of sunshine. The colts neighed when
anyone passed by, and galloped, galloped. Under her window there
was a beehive, and sometimes the bees wheeling round in the light
struck against her window like rebounding balls of gold. What
happiness there had been at that time, what freedom, what hope!
What an abundance of illusions! Nothing was left of them now. She
had got rid of them all in her soul's life, in all her successive
conditions of lifemaidenhood, her marriage, and her love--thus
constantly losing them all her life through, like a traveller who
leaves something of his wealth at every inn along his road.
But what then, made her so unhappy? What was the extraordinary
catastrophe that had transformed her? And she raised her head,
looking round as if to seek the cause of that which made her
suffer.
An April ray was dancing on the china of the whatnot; the fire
burned; beneath her slippers she felt the softness of the carpet;
the day was bright, the air warm, and she heard her child
shouting with laughter.
In fact, the little girl was just then rolling on the lawn in the
midst of the grass that was being turned. She was lying flat on
her stomach at the top of a rick. The servant was holding her by
her skirt. Lestiboudois was raking by her side, and every time he
came near she lent forward, beating the air with both her arms.
"Bring her to me," said her mother, rushing to embrace her. "How
I love you, my poor child! How I love you!"
Then noticing that the tips of her ears were rather dirty, she
rang at once for warm water, and washed her, changed her linen,
her stockings, her shoes, asked a thousand questions about her
health, as if on the return from a long journey, and finally,
kissing her again and crying a little, she gave her back to the
servant, who stood quite thunderstricken at this excess of
tenderness.
Then Emma repented. She even asked herself why she detested
Charles; if it had not been better to have been able to love him?
But he gave her no opportunities for such a revival of sentiment,
so that she was much embarrassed by her desire for sacrifice,
when the druggist came just in time to provide her with an
opportunity.
Chapter Eleven
The poor fellow gave way, for it was like a conspiracy. Binet,
who never interfered with other people's business, Madame
Lefrancois, Artemise, the neighbours, even the mayor, Monsieur
Tuvache--everyone persuaded him, lectured him, shamed him; but
what finally decided him was that it would cost him nothing.
Bovary even undertook to provide the machine for the operation.
This generosity was an idea of Emma's, and Charles consented to
it, thinking in his heart of hearts that his wife was an angel.
He had a foot forming almost a straight line with the leg, which,
however, did not prevent it from being turned in, so that it was
an equinus together with something of a varus, or else a slight
varus with a strong tendency to equinus. But with this equinus,
wide in foot like a horse's hoof, with rugose skin, dry tendons,
and large toes, on which the black nails looked as if made of
iron, the clubfoot ran about like a deer from morn till night. He
was constantly to be seen on the Place, jumping round the carts,
thrusting his limping foot forwards. He seemed even stronger on
that leg than the other. By dint of hard service it had acquired,
as it were, moral qualities of patience and energy; and when he
was given some heavy work, he stood on it in preference to its
fellow.
"Come, be calm," said the druggist; "later on you will show your
gratitude to your benefactor."
And he went down to tell the result to five or six inquirers who
were waiting in the yard, and who fancied that Hippolyte would
reappear walking properly. Then Charles, having buckled his
patient into the machine, went home, where Emma, all anxiety,
awaited him at the door. She threw herself on his neck; they sat
down to table; he ate much, and at dessert he even wanted to take
a cup of coffee, a luxury he only permitted himself on Sundays
when there was company.
He read--
"'Despite the prejudices that still invest a part of the face of
Europe like a net, the light nevertheless begins to penetrate our
country places. Thus on Tuesday our little town of Yonville found
itself the scene of a surgical operation which is at the same
time an, act of loftiest philanthropy. Monsieur Bovary, one of
our, most distinguished practitioners--'"
"Oh, that is too much! too much!" said Charles, choking with
emotion.
"I proceed," said the chemist. "'Monsieur Bovary, one of our most
distinguished practitioners, performed an operation on a
club-footed man called Hippolyte Tautain, stableman for the last
twenty-five years at the hotel of the "Lion d'Or," kept by Widow
Lefrancois, at the Place d'Armes. The novelty of the attempt, and
the interest incident to the subject, had attracted such a
concourse of persons that there was a veritable obstruction on
the threshold of the establishment. The operation, moreover, was
performed as if by magic, and barely a few drops of blood
appeared on the skin, as though to say that the rebellious tendon
had at last given way beneath the efforts of art. The patient,
strangely enough--we affirm it as an eye-witness--complained of
no pain. His condition up to the present time leaves nothing to
be desired. Everything tends to show that his convelescence will
be brief; and who knows even if at our next village festivity we
shall not see our good Hippolyte figuring in the bacchic dance in
the midst of a chorus of joyous boon-companions, and thus proving
to all eyes by his verve and his capers his complete cure?
Honour, then, to the generous savants! Honour to those
indefatigable spirits who consecrate their vigils to the
amelioration or to the alleviation of their kind! Honour, thrice
honour! Is it not time to cry that the blind shall see, the deaf
hear, the lame walk? But that which fanaticism formerly promised
to its elect, science now accomplishes for all men. We shall keep
our readers informed as to the successive phases of this
remarkable cure.'"
This did not prevent Mere Lefrancois, from coming five days
after, scared, and crying out--
Charles rushed to the "Lion d'Or," and the chemist, who caught
sight of him passing along the Place hatless, abandoned his shop.
He appeared himself breathless, red, anxious, and asking everyone
who was going up the stairs--
"You give way too much! Get up! You coddle yourself like a king!
All the same, old chap, you don't smell nice!"
"When shall I get well? Oh, save me! How unfortunate I am! How
unfortunate I am!"
And she gave him some good beef-tea, a slice of mutton, a piece
of bacon, and sometimes small glasses of brandy, that he had not
the strength to put to his lips.
"These are the inventions of Paris! These are the ideas of those
gentry of the capital! It is like strabismus, chloroform,
lithotrity, a heap of monstrosities that the Government ought to
prohibit. But they want to do the clever, and they cram you with
remedies without, troubling about the consequences. We are not so
clever, not we! We are not savants, coxcombs, fops! We are
practitioners; we cure people, and we should not dream of
operating on anyone who is in perfect health. Straighten
club-feet! As if one could straighten club-feet! It is as if
one wished, for example, to make a hunchback straight!"
And he was the more esteemed for this imperturbable coolness. The
universe to the last man might have died, and he would not have
missed the smallest of his habits.
"I count on you," said the doctor. "Are we ready? Come along!"
Bovary during this time did not dare to stir from his house.
Charles was walking up and down the room; his boots creaked on
the floor.
And escaping from the room, Emma closed the door so violently
that the barometer fell from the wall and smashed on the floor.
Chapter Twelve
They began to love one another again. Often, even in the middle
of the day, Emma suddenly wrote to him, then from the window made
a sign to Justin, who, taking his apron off, quickly ran to La
Huchette. Rodolphe would come; she had sent for him to tell him
that she was bored, that her husband was odious, her life
frightful.
She was sitting on the floor between his knees, her hair loose,
her look lost.
She sighed.
What he did not understand was all this worry about so simple an
affair as love. She had a motive, a reason, and, as it were, a
pendant to her affection.
Her tenderness, in fact, grew each day with her repulsion to her
husband. The more she gave up herself to the one, the more she
loathed the other. Never had Charles seemed to her so
disagreeable, to have such stodgy fingers, such vulgar ways, to
be so dull as when they found themselves together after her
meeting with Rodolphe. Then, while playing the spouse and virtue,
she was burning at the thought of that head whose black hair fell
in a curl over the sunburnt brow, of that form at once so strong
and elegant, of that man, in a word, who had such experience in
his reasoning, such passion in his desires. It was for him that
she filed her nails with the care of a chaser, and that there was
never enough cold-cream for her skin, nor of patchouli for her
handkerchiefs. She loaded herself with bracelets, rings, and
necklaces. When he was coming she filled the two large blue glass
vases with roses, and prepared her room and her person like a
courtesan expecting a prince. The servant had to be constantly
washing linen, and all day Felicite did not stir from the
kitchen, where little Justin, who often kept her company, watched
her at work.
With his elbows on the long board on which she was ironing, he
greedily watched all these women's clothes spread about him, the
dimity petticoats, the fichus, the collars, and the drawers with
running strings, wide at the hips and growing narrower below.
"What is that for?" asked the young fellow, passing his hand over
the crinoline or the hooks and eyes.
But Felicite grew impatient of seeing him hanging round her. She
was six years older than he, and Theodore, Monsieur Guillaumin's
servant, was beginning to pay court to her.
"Let me alone," she said, moving her pot of starch. "You'd better
be off and pound almonds; you are always dangling about women.
Before you meddle with such things, bad boy, wait till you've got
a beard to your chin."
And he at once took down from the shelf Emma's boots, all coated
with mud, the mud of the rendezvous, that crumbled into powder
beneath his fingers, and that he watched as it gently rose in a
ray of sunlight.
"How afraid you are of spoiling them!" said the servant, who
wasn't so particular when she cleaned them herself, because as
soon as the stuff of the boots was no longer fresh madame handed
them over to her.
Emma had a number in her cupboard that she squandered one after
the other, without Charles allowing himself the slightest
observation. So also he disbursed three hundred francs for a
wooden leg that she thought proper to make a present of to
Hippolyte. Its top was covered with cork, and it had spring
joints, a complicated mechanism, covered over by black trousers
ending in a patent-leather boot. But Hippolyte, not daring to use
such a handsome leg every day, begged Madame Bovary to get him
another more convenient one. The doctor, of course, had again to
defray the expense of this purchase.
But the next day he called on her with a bill for two hundred and
seventy francs, not counting the centimes. Emma was much
embarrassed; all the drawers of the writing-table were empty;
they owed over a fortnight's wages to Lestiboudois, two quarters
to the servant, for any quantity of other things, and Bovary was
impatiently expecting Monsieur Derozeray's account, which he was
in the habit of paying every year about Midsummer.
"I was only joking," he replied; "the only thing I regret is the
whip. My word! I'll ask monsieur to return it to me."
*A loving heart.
"Certainly!"
"You haven't loved any others?"
"Oh," she went on, "I love you! I love you so that I could not
live without you, do you see? There are times when I long to see
you again, when I am torn by all the anger of love. I ask myself,
Where is he? Perhaps he is talking to other women. They smile
upon him; he approaches. Oh no; no one else pleases you. There
are some more beautiful, but I love you best. I know how to love
best. I am your servant, your concubine! You are my king, my
idol! You are good, you are beautiful, you are clever, you are
strong!"
He had so often heard these things said that they did not strike
him as original. Emma was like all his mistresses; and the charm
of novelty, gradually falling away like a garment, laid bare the
eternal monotony of passion, that has always the same forms and
the same language. He did not distinguish, this man of so much
experience, the difference of sentiment beneath the sameness of
expression. Because lips libertine and venal had murmured such
words to him, he believed but little in the candour of hers;
exaggerated speeches hiding mediocre affections must be
discounted; as if the fullness of the soul did not sometimes
overflow in the emptiest metaphors, since no one can ever give
the exact measure of his needs, nor of his conceptions, nor of
his sorrows; and since human speech is like a cracked tin kettle,
on which we hammer out tunes to make bears dance when we long to
move the stars.
But with that superior critical judgment that belongs to him who,
in no matter what circumstance, holds back, Rodolphe saw other
delights to be got out of this love. He thought all modesty in
the way. He treated her quite sans facon.* He made of her
something supple and corrupt. Hers was an idiotic sort of
attachment, full of admiration for him, of voluptuousness for
her, a beatitude that benumbed her; her soul sank into this
drunkenness, shrivelled up, drowned in it, like Clarence in his
butt of Malmsey.
*Off-handedly.
By the mere effect of her love Madame Bovary's manners changed.
Her looks grew bolder, her speech more free; she even committed
the impropriety of walking out with Monsieur Rodolphe, a
cigarette in her mouth, "as if to defy the people." At last,
those who still doubted doubted no longer when one day they saw
her getting out of the "Hirondelle," her waist squeezed into a
waistcoat like a man; and Madame Bovary senior, who, after a
fearful scene with her husband, had taken refuge at her son's,
was not the least scandalised of the women-folk. Many other
things displeased her. First, Charles had not attended to her
advice about the forbidding of novels; then the "ways of the
house" annoyed her; she allowed herself to make some remarks, and
there were quarrels, especially one on account of Felicite.
But both had fled in their exasperation. Emma was stamping her
feet as she repeated--
And she was for leaving at once if the other did not apologise.
So Charles went back again to his wife and implored her to give
way; he knelt to her; she ended by saying--
Then, having gone up again to her room, she threw herself flat on
her bed and cried there like a child, her face buried in the
pillow.
"But I have been patient; I have suffered for four years. A love
like ours ought to show itself in the face of heaven. They
torture me! I can bear it no longer! Save me!"
And she threw herself upon his mouth, as if to seize there the
unexpected consent if breathed forth in a kiss.
"But--" Rodolphe resumed.
"What?"
Was it the better to deceive them both? Or did she wish by a sort
of voluptuous stoicism to feel the more profoundly the bitterness
of the things she was about to leave?
But she paid no heed to them; on the contrary, she lived as lost
in the anticipated delight of her coming happiness.
"Ah! when we are in the mail-coach! Do you think about it? Can it
be? It seems to me that the moment I feel the carriage start, it
will be as if we were rising in a balloon, as if we were setting
out for the clouds. Do you know that I count the hours? And you?"
When he came home in the middle of the night, he did not dare to
wake her. The porcelain night-light threw a round trembling gleam
upon the ceiling, and the drawn curtains of the little cot formed
as it were a white hut standing out in the shade, and by the
bedside Charles looked at them. He seemed to hear the light
breathing of his child. She would grow big now; every season
would bring rapid progress. He already saw her coming from school
as the day drew in, laughing, with ink-stains on her jacket, and
carrying her basket on her arm. Then she would have to be sent to
the boarding-school; that would cost much; how was it to be done?
Then he reflected. He thought of hiring a small farm in the
neighbourhood, that he would superintend every morning on his way
to his patients. He would save up what he brought in; he would
put it in the savings-bank. Then he would buy shares somewhere,
no matter where; besides, his practice would increase; he counted
upon that, for he wanted Berthe to be well-educated, to be
accomplished, to learn to play the piano. Ah! how pretty she
would be later on when she was fifteen, when, resembling her
mother, she would, like her, wear large straw hats in the
summer-time; from a distance they would be taken for two sisters.
He pictured her to himself working in the evening by their side
beneath the light of the lamp; she would embroider him slippers;
she would look after the house; she would fill all the home with
her charm and her gaiety. At last, they would think of her
marriage; they would find her some good young fellow with a
steady business; he would make her happy; this would last for
ever.
Emma was not asleep; she pretended to be; and while he dozed off
by her side she awakened to other dreams.
To the gallop of four horses she was carried away for a week
towards a new land, whence they would return no more. They went
on and on, their arms entwined, without a word. Often from the
top of a mountain there suddenly glimpsed some splendid city with
domes, and bridges, and ships, forests of citron trees, and
cathedrals of white marble, on whose pointed steeples were
storks' nests. They went at a walking-pace because of the great
flag-stones, and on the ground there were bouquets of flowers,
offered you by women dressed in red bodices. They heard the
chiming of bells, the neighing of mules, together with the murmur
of guitars and the noise of fountains, whose rising spray
refreshed heaps of fruit arranged like a pyramid at the foot of
pale statues that smiled beneath playing waters. And then, one
night they came to a fishing village, where brown nets were
drying in the wind along the cliffs and in front of the huts. It
was there that they would stay; they would live in a low,
flat-roofed house, shaded by a palm-tree, in the heart of a gulf,
by the sea. They would row in gondolas, swing in hammocks, and
their existence would be easy and large as their silk gowns, warm
and star-spangled as the nights they would contemplate. However,
in the immensity of this future that she conjured up, nothing
special stood forth; the days, all magnificent, resembled
each other like waves; and it swayed in the horizon, infinite,
harmonised, azure, and bathed in sunshine. But the child began to
cough in her cot or Bovary snored more loudly, and Emma did not
fall asleep till morning, when the dawn whitened the windows, and
when little Justin was already in the square taking down the
shutters of the chemist's shop.
She had sent for Monsieur Lheureux, and had said to him--
He bowed.
"Besides, I shall want," she went on, "a trunk--not too heavy--
handy."
"And," said Madame Bovary, taking her watch from her belt, "take
this; you can pay yourself out of it."
But the tradesman cried out that she was wrong; they knew one
another; did he doubt her? What childishness!
It was the next month that they were to run away. She was to
leave Yonville as if she was going on some business to Rouen.
Rodolphe would have booked the seats, procured the passports, and
even have written to Paris in order to have the whole mail-coach
reserved for them as far as Marseilles, where they would buy a
carriage, and go on thence without stopping to Genoa. She would
take care to send her luggage to Lheureux whence it would be
taken direct to the "Hirondelle," so that no one would have any
suspicion. And in all this there never was any allusion to the
child. Rodolphe avoided speaking of her; perhaps he no longer
thought about it.
"Yes."
Then they walked round a garden-bed, and went to sit down near
the terrace on the kerb-stone of the wall.
"No; why?"
"Really!" she said with a voluptuous laugh. "Do you love me?
Swear it then!"
The moon, full and purple-coloured, was rising right out of the
earth at the end of the meadow. She rose quickly between the
branches of the poplars, that hid her here and there like a black
curtain pierced with holes. Then she appeared dazzling with
whiteness in the empty heavens that she lit up, and now sailing
more slowly along, let fall upon the river a great stain that
broke up into an infinity of stars; and the silver sheen seemed
to writhe through the very depths like a heedless serpent covered
with luminous scales; it also resembled some monster candelabra
all along which sparkled drops of diamonds running together. The
soft night was about them; masses of shadow filled the branches.
Emma, her eyes half closed, breathed in with deep sighs the fresh
wind that was blowing. They did not speak, lost as they were in
the rush of their reverie. The tenderness of the old days came
back to their hearts, full and silent as the flowing river, with
the softness of the perfume of the syringas, and threw across
their memories shadows more immense and more sombre than those of
the still willows that lengthened out over the grass. Often some
night-animal, hedgehog or weasel, setting out on the hunt,
disturbed the lovers, or sometimes they heard a ripe peach
falling all alone from the espalier.
Midnight struck.
He rose to go; and as if the movement he made had been the signal
for their flight, Emma said, suddenly assuming a gay air--
"Yes."
"No."
"Certainly."
He nodded.
He did not turn round. She ran after him, and, leaning over the
water's edge between the bulrushes--
He was already on the other side of the river and walking fast
across the meadow.
After a few moments Rodolphe stopped; and when he saw her with
her white gown gradually fade away in the shade like a ghost, he
was seized with such a beating of the heart that he leant against
a tree lest he should fall.
"And besides, the worry, the expense! Ah! no, no, no, no! a
thousand times no! That would be too stupid."
Chapter Thirteen
Thus dallying with his souvenirs, he examined the writing and the
style of the letters, as varied as their orthography. They were
tender or jovial, facetious, melancholy; there were some that
asked for love, others that asked for money. A word recalled
faces to him, certain gestures, the sound of a voice; sometimes,
however, he remembered nothing at all.
He wrote--
"If I told her all my fortune is lost? No! Besides, that would
stop nothing. It would all have to be begun over again later on.
As if one could make women like that listen to reason!" He
reflected, then went on--
"I shall not forget you, oh believe it; and I shall ever have a
profound devotion for you; but some day, sooner or later, this
ardour (such is the fate of human things) would have grown less,
no doubt. Lassitude would have come to us, and who knows if I
should not even have had the atrocious pain of witnessing your
remorse, of sharing it myself, since I should have been its
cause? The mere idea of the grief that would come to you tortures
me, Emma. Forget me! Why did I ever know you? Why were you so
beautiful? Is it my fault? O my God! No, no! Accuse only fate."
"Ah, if you had been one of those frivolous women that one sees,
certainly I might, through egotism, have tried an experiment, in
that case without danger for you. But that delicious exaltation,
at once your charm and your torment, has prevented you from
understanding, adorable woman that you are, the falseness of our
future position. Nor had I reflected upon this at first, and I
rested in the shade of that ideal happiness as beneath that of
the manchineel tree, without foreseeing the consequences."
The wicks of the candles flickered. Rodolphe got up to, shut the
window, and when he had sat down again--
"I think it's all right. Ah! and this for fear she should come
and hunt me up."
"I shall be far away when you read these sad lines, for I have
wished to flee as quickly as possible to shun the temptation of
seeing you again. No weakness! I shall return, and perhaps later
on we shall talk together very coldly of our old love. Adieu!"
And there was a last "adieu" divided into two words! "A Dieu!"
which he thought in very excellent taste.
"Your friend."
The next day when he was up (at about two o'clock--he had slept
late), Rodolphe had a basket of apricots picked. He put his
letter at the bottom under some vine leaves, and at once ordered
Girard, his ploughman, to take it with care to Madame Bovary. He
made use of this means for corresponding with her, sending
according to the season fruits or game.
"If she asks after me," he said, "you will tell her that I have
gone on a journey. You must give the basket to her herself, into
her own hands. Get along and take care!"
Girard put on his new blouse, knotted his handkerchief round the
apricots, and walking with great heavy steps in his thick
iron-bound galoshes, made his way to Yonville.
Charles was there; she saw him; he spoke to her; she heard
nothing, and she went on quickly up the stairs, breathless,
distraught, dumb, and ever holding this horrible piece of paper,
that crackled between her fingers like a plate of sheet-iron. On
the second floor she stopped before the attic door, which was
closed.
Then she tried to calm herself; she recalled the letter; she must
finish it; she did not dare to. And where? How? She would be
seen! "Ah, no! here," she thought, "I shall be all right."
The slates threw straight down a heavy heat that gripped her
temples, stifled her; she dragged herself to the closed
garret-window. She drew back the bolt, and the dazzling light
burst in with a leap.
She leant against the embrasure of the window, and reread the
letter with angry sneers. But the more she fixed her attention
upon it, the more confused were her ideas. She saw him again,
heard him, encircled him with her arms, and throbs of her heart,
that beat against her breast like blows of a sledge-hammer, grew
faster and faster, with uneven intervals. She looked about her
with the wish that the earth might crumble into pieces. Why not
end it all? What restrained her? She was free. She advanced,
looking at the paving-stones, saying to herself, "Come! come!"
The luminous ray that came straight up from below drew the weight
of her body towards the abyss. It seemed to her that the ground
of the oscillating square went up the walls and that the floor
dipped on end like a tossing boat. She was right at the edge,
almost hanging, surrounded by vast space. The blue of the heavens
suffused her, the air was whirling in her hollow head; she had
but to yield, to let herself be taken; and the humming of the
lathe never ceased, like an angry voice calling her.
She stopped.
The thought that she had just escaped from death almost made her
faint with terror. She closed her eyes; then she shivered at the
touch of a hand on her sleeve; it was Felicite.
She tried to eat. The food choked her. Then she unfolded her
napkin as if to examine the darns, and she really thought of
applying herself to this work, counting the threads in the linen.
Suddenly the remembrance of the letter returned to her. How had
she lost it? Where could she find it? But she felt such weariness
of spirit that she could not even invent a pretext for leaving
the table. Then she became a coward; she was afraid of Charles;
he knew all, that was certain! Indeed he pronounced these words
in a strange manner:
He stopped for propriety's sake because the servant came in. She
put back into the basket the apricots scattered on the sideboard.
Charles, without noticing his wife's colour, had them brought to
him, took one, and bit into it.
And he handed her the basket, which she put away from her gently.
Charles, to obey her, sat down again, and he spat the stones of
the apricots into his hands, afterwards putting them on his
plate.
The chemist, at the tumult which broke out in the house ran
thither. The table with all the plates was upset; sauce, meat,
knives, the salt, and cruet-stand were strewn over the room;
Charles was calling for help; Berthe, scared, was crying; and
Felicite, whose hands trembled, was unlacing her mistress, whose
whole body shivered convulsively.
The child stretched out her arms to her mother to cling to her
neck. But turning away her head, Emma said in a broken voice
"No, no! no one!"
She fainted again. They carried her to her bed. She lay there
stretched at full length, her lips apart, her eyelids closed, her
hands open, motionless, and white as a waxen image. Two streams
of tears flowed from her eyes and fell slowly upon the pillow.
Charles, standing up, was at the back of the alcove, and the
chemist, near him, maintained that meditative silence that is
becoming on the serious occasions of life.
"Do not be uneasy," he said, touching his elbow; "I think the
paroxysm is past."
Then Homais asked how the accident had come about. Charles
answered that she had been taken ill suddenly while she was
eating some apricots.
"And not only," the druggist went on, "are human beings subject
to such anomalies, but animals also. Thus you are not ignorant of
the singularly aphrodisiac effect produced by the Nepeta cataria,
vulgarly called catmint, on the feline race; and, on the other
hand, to quote an example whose authenticity I can answer for.
Bridaux (one of my old comrades, at present established in the
Rue Malpalu) possesses a dog that falls into convulsions as soon
as you hold out a snuff-box to him. He often even makes the
experiment before his friends at his summer-house at Guillaume
Wood. Would anyone believe that a simple sternutation could
produce such ravages on a quadrupedal organism? It is extremely
curious, is it not?"
For forty-three days Charles did not leave her. He gave up all
his patients; he no longer went to bed; he was constantly feeling
her pulse, putting on sinapisms and cold-water compresses. He
sent Justin as far as Neufchatel for ice; the ice melted on the
way; he sent him back again. He called Monsieur Canivet into
consultation; he sent for Dr. Lariviere, his old master, from
Rouen; he was in despair. What alarmed him most was Emma's
prostration, for she did not speak, did not listen, did not even
seem to suffer, as if her body and soul were both resting
together after all their troubles.
About the middle of October she could sit up in bed supported by
pillows. Charles wept when he saw her eat her first
bread-and-jelly. Her strength returned to her; she got up for a
few hours of an afternoon, and one day, when she felt better, he
tried to take her, leaning on his arm, for a walk round the
garden. The sand of the paths was disappearing beneath the dead
leaves; she walked slowly, dragging along her slippers, and
leaning against Charles's shoulder. She smiled all the time.
They went thus to the bottom of the garden near the terrace. She
drew herself up slowly, shading her eyes with her hand to look.
She looked far off, as far as she could, but on the horizon were
only great bonfires of grass smoking on the hills.
She was seized with giddiness, and from that evening her illness
recommenced, with a more uncertain character, it is true, and
more complex symptoms. Now she suffered in her heart, then in the
chest, the head, the limbs; she had vomitings, in which Charles
thought he saw the first signs of cancer.
And besides this, the poor fellow was worried about money
matters.
Chapter Fourteen
To begin with, he did not know how he could pay Monsieur Homais
for all the physic supplied by him, and though, as a medical man,
he was not obliged to pay for it, he nevertheless blushed a
little at such an obligation. Then the expenses of the household,
now that the servant was mistress, became terrible. Bills rained
in upon the house; the tradesmen grumbled; Monsieur Lheureux
especially harassed him. In fact, at the height of Emma's
illness, the latter, taking advantage of the circumstances to
make his bill larger, had hurriedly brought the cloak, the
travelling-bag, two trunks instead of one, and a number of other
things. It was very well for Charles to say he did not want them.
The tradesman answered arrogantly that these articles had been
ordered, and that he would not take them back; besides, it would
vex madame in her convalescence; the doctor had better think it
over; in short, he was resolved to sue him rather than give up
his rights and take back his goods. Charles subsequently ordered
them to be sent back to the shop. Felicite forgot; he had other
things to attend to; then thought no more about them. Monsieur
Lheureux returned to the charge, and, by turns threatening and
whining, so managed that Bovary ended by signing a bill at six
months. But hardly had he signed this bill than a bold idea
occurred to him: it was to borrow a thousand francs from
Lheureux. So, with an embarrassed air, he asked if it were
possible to get them, adding that it would be for a year, at any
interest he wished. Lheureux ran off to his shop, brought back
the money, and dictated another bill, by which Bovary undertook
to pay to his order on the 1st of September next the sum of one
thousand and seventy francs, which, with the hundred and eighty
already agreed to, made just twelve hundred and fifty, thus
lending at six per cent in addition to one-fourth for commission:
and the things bringing him in a good third at the least, this
ought in twelve months to give him a profit of a hundred and
thirty francs. He hoped that the business would not stop there;
that the bills would not be paid; that they would be renewed; and
that his poor little money, having thriven at the doctor's as at
a hospital, would come back to him one day considerably more
plump, and fat enough to burst his bag.
One day, when at the height of her illness, she had thought
herself dying, and had asked for the communion; and, while they
were making the preparations in her room for the sacrament, while
they were turning the night table covered with syrups into an
altar, and while Felicite was strewing dahlia flowers on the
floor, Emma felt some power passing over her that freed her from
her pains, from all perception, from all feeling. Her body,
relieved, no longer thought; another life was beginning; it
seemed to her that her being, mounting toward God, would be
annihilated in that love like a burning incense that melts into
vapour. The bed-clothes were sprinkled with holy water, the
priest drew from the holy pyx the white wafer; and it was
fainting with a celestial joy that she put out her lips to accept
the body of the Saviour presented to her. The curtains of the
alcove floated gently round her like clouds, and the rays of the
two tapers burning on the night-table seemed to shine like
dazzling halos. Then she let her head fall back, fancying she
heard in space the music of seraphic harps, and perceived in an
azure sky, on a golden throne in the midst of saints holding
green palms, God the Father, resplendent with majesty, who with a
sign sent to earth angels with wings of fire to carry her away in
their arms.
This splendid vision dwelt in her memory as the most beautiful
thing that it was possible to dream, so that now she strove to
recall her sensation. That still lasted, however, but in a less
exclusive fashion and with a deeper sweetness. Her soul, tortured
by pride, at length found rest in Christian humility, and,
tasting the joy of weakness, she saw within herself the
destruction of her will, that must have left a wide entrance for
the inroads of heavenly grace. There existed, then, in the place
of happiness, still greater joys--another love beyond all loves,
without pause and without end, one that would grow eternally! She
saw amid the illusions of her hope a state of purity floating
above the earth mingling with heaven, to which she aspired. She
wanted to become a saint. She bought chaplets and wore amulets;
she wished to have in her room, by the side of her bed, a
reliquary set in emeralds that she might kiss it every evening.
This searching after faith, she thought, was only one merit the
more, and in the pride of her devoutness Emma compared herself to
those grand ladies of long ago whose glory she, had dreamed of
over a portrait of La Valliere, and who, trailing with so much
majesty the lace-trimmed trains of their long gowns, retired into
solitudes to shed at the feet of Christ all the tears of hearts
that life had wounded.
And without waiting for any answer from Felicite, who was
blushing, she added, "There! run along; enjoy yourself!"
In the beginning of spring she had the garden turned up from end
to end, despite Bovary's remonstrances. However, he was glad to
see her at last manifest a wish of any kind. As she grew stronger
she displayed more wilfulness. First, she found occasion to expel
Mere Rollet, the nurse, who during her convalescence had
contracted the habit of coming too often to the kitchen with her
two nurslings and her boarder, better off for teeth than a
cannibal. Then she got rid of the Homais family, successively
dismissed all the other visitors, and even frequented church less
assiduously, to the great approval of the druggist, who said to
her in a friendly way--
Binet was there; that is to say, a little lower down against the
terrace wall, fishing for crayfish. Bovary invited him to have a
drink, and he thoroughly understood the uncorking of the stone
bottles.
But during his demonstration the cider often spurted right into
their faces, and then the ecclesiastic, with a thick laugh, never
missed this joke--
He was, in fact, a good fellow and one day he was not even
scandalised at the chemist, who advised Charles to give madame
some distraction by taking her to the theatre at Rouen to hear
the illustrious tenor, Lagardy. Homais, surprised at this
silence, wanted to know his opinion, and the priest declared that
he considered music less dangerous for morals than literature.
"I," said Binet, "once saw a piece called the 'Gamin de Paris,'
in which there was the character of an old general that is really
hit off to a T. He sets down a young swell who had seduced a
working girl, who at the ending--"
"I know very well," objected the cure, "that there are good
works, good authors. However, if it were only those persons of
different sexes united in a bewitching apartment, decorated
rouge, those lights, those effeminate voices, all this must, in
the long-run, engender a certain mental libertinage, give rise to
immodest thoughts and impure temptations. Such, at any rate, is
the opinion of all the Fathers. Finally," he added, suddenly
assuming a mystic tone of voice while he rolled a pinch of snuff
between his fingers, "if the Church has condemned the theatre,
she must be right; we must submit to her decrees."
"It's like it is in the Bible; there there are, you know, more
than one piquant detail, matters really libidinous!"
"By Jove! they go in for more than that," exclaimed the druggist.
"Sir!" replied the ecclesiastic, with such angry eyes that the
druggist was intimidated by them.
Then addressing himself to Emma, who was wearing a blue silk gown
with four flounces--
Chapter Fifteen
Her heart began to beat as soon as she reached the vestibule. She
involuntarily smiled with vanity on seeing the crowd rushing to
the right by the other corridor while she went up the staircase
to the reserved seats. She was as pleased as a child to push with
her finger the large tapestried door. She breathed in with all
her might the dusty smell of the lobbies, and when she was seated
in her box she bent forward with the air of a duchess.
Now the lights of the orchestra were lit, the lustre, let down
from the ceiling, throwing by the glimmering of its facets a
sudden gaiety over the theatre; then the musicians came in one
after the other; and first there was the protracted hubbub of the
basses grumbling, violins squeaking, cornets trumpeting, flutes
and flageolets fifing. But three knocks were heard on the stage,
a rolling of drums began, the brass instruments played some
chords, and the curtain rising, discovered a country-scene.
"Yet he vows vengeance on her family, while the other one who
came on before said, 'I love Lucie and she loves me!' Besides, he
went off with her father arm in arm. For he certainly is her
father, isn't he--the ugly little man with a cock's feather in
his hat?"
"Yes, but you know," he went on, leaning against her shoulder, "I
like to understand things."
The smell of the gas mingled with that of the breaths, the waving
of the fans, made the air more suffocating. Emma wanted to go
out; the crowd filled the corridors, and she fell back in her
arm-chair with palpitations that choked her. Charles, fearing
that she would faint, ran to the refreshment-room to get a glass
of barley-water.
"Ma foi! I thought I should have had to stay there. There is such
a crowd--SUCH a crowd!"
He added--
"Leon?"
He held out his hand with the ease of a gentleman; and Madame
Bovary extended hers, without doubt obeying the attraction of a
stronger will. She had not felt it since that spring evening when
the rain fell upon the green leaves, and they had said good-bye
standing at the window. But soon recalling herself to the
necessities of the situation, with an effort she shook off the
torpor of her memories, and began stammering a few hurried words.
"Silence!" cried a voice from the pit, for the third act was
beginning.
"Yes."
But from that moment she listened no more; and the chorus of the
guests, the scene between Ashton and his servant, the grand duet
in D major, all were for her as far off as if the instruments had
grown less sonorous and the characters more remote. She
remembered the games at cards at the druggist's, and the walk to
the nurse's, the reading in the arbour, the tete-a-tete by the
fireside--all that poor love, so calm and so protracted, so
discreet, so tender, and that she had nevertheless forgotten. And
why had he come back? What combination of circumstances had
brought him back into her life? He was standing behind her,
leaning with his shoulder against the wall of the box; now and
again she felt herself shuddering beneath the hot breath from his
nostrils falling upon her hair.
"Does this amuse you?" said he, bending over her so closely that
the end of his moustache brushed her cheek. She replied
carelessly--
Then he proposed that they should leave the theatre and go and
take an ice somewhere.
"Oh, not yet; let us stay," said Bovary. "Her hair's undone; this
is going to be tragic."
But the mad scene did not at all interest Emma, and the acting of
the singer seemed to her exaggerated.
"She screams too loud," said she, turning to Charles, who was
listening.
"Unbearable! Yes!"
Monsieur Leon put her long lace shawl carefully about her
shoulders, and all three went off to sit down in the harbour, in
the open air, outside the windows of a cafe.
"Why," said the clerk, "he will soon give another performance."
But Charles replied that they were going back next day. "Unless,"
he added, turning to his wife, "you would like to stay alone,
kitten?"
"You would get back on Sunday. Come, make up your mind. You are
wrong if you feel that this is doing you the least good."
The tables round them, however, were emptying; a waiter came and
stood discreetly near them. Charles, who understood, took out his
purse; the clerk held back his arm, and did not forget to leave
two more pieces of silver that he made chink on the marble.
"I am really sorry," said Bovary, "about the money which you
are--"
"Well, you must think it over. We'll see. Night brings counsel."
Then to Leon, who was walking along with them, "Now that you are
in our part of the world, I hope you'll come and ask us for some
dinner now and then."
Part III
Chapter One
Monsieur Leon, while studying law, had gone pretty often to the
dancing-rooms, where he was even a great success amongst the
grisettes, who thought he had a distinguished air. He was the
best-mannered of the students; he wore his hair neither too long
nor too short, didn't spend all his quarter's money on the first
day of the month, and kept on good terms with his professors. As
for excesses, he had always abstained from them, as much from
cowardice as from refinement.
Then, seeing her again after three years of absence his passion
reawakened. He must, he thought, at last make up his mind to
possess her. Moreover, his timidity had worn off by contact with
his gay companions, and he returned to the provinces despising
everyone who had not with varnished shoes trodden the asphalt of
the boulevards. By the side of a Parisienne in her laces, in the
drawing-room of some illustrious physician, a person driving his
carriage and wearing many orders, the poor clerk would no doubt
have trembled like a child; but here, at Rouen, on the harbour,
with the wife of this small doctor he felt at his ease, sure
beforehand he would shine. Self-possession depends on its
environment. We don't speak on the first floor as on the fourth;
and the wealthy woman seems to have, about her, to guard her
virtue, all her banknotes, like a cuirass in the lining of her
corset.
On leaving the Bovarys the night before, Leon had followed them
through the streets at a distance; then having seen them stop at
the "Croix-Rouge," he turned on his heel, and spent the night
meditating a plan.
So the next day about five o'clock he walked into the kitchen of
the inn, with a choking sensation in his throat, pale cheeks, and
that resolution of cowards that stops at nothing.
But men too had had their trials, and the conversation went off
into certain philosophical reflections. Emma expatiated much on
the misery of earthly affections, and the eternal isolation in
which the heart remains entombed.
"But pardon me!" she said. "It is wrong of me. I weary you with
my eternal complaints."
"If you knew," she went on, raising to the ceiling her beautiful
eyes, in which a tear was trembling, "all that I had dreamed!"
"And I! Oh, I too have suffered! Often I went out; I went away. I
dragged myself along the quays, seeking distraction amid the din
of the crowd without being able to banish the heaviness that
weighed upon me. In an engraver's shop on the boulevard there is
an Italian print of one of the Muses. She is draped in a tunic,
and she is looking at the moon, with forget-me-nots in her
flowing hair. Something drove me there continually; I stayed
there hours together." Then in a trembling voice, "She resembled
you a little."
Madame Bovary turned away her head that he might not see the
irrepressible smile she felt rising to her lips.
"Often," he went on, "I wrote you letters that I tore up."
"I sometimes fancied that some chance would bring you. I thought
I recognised you at street-corners, and I ran after all the
carriages through whose windows I saw a shawl fluttering, a veil
like yours."
"Alas! men have none of these holy missions, and I see nowhere
any calling--unless perhaps that of a doctor."
It was like the sky when a gust of wind drives the clouds across.
The mass of sad thoughts that darkened them seemed to be lifted
from her blue eyes; her whole face shone. He waited. At last she
replied--
Then they went over all the trifling events of that far-off
existence, whose joys and sorrows they had just summed up in one
word. They recalled the arbour with clematis, the dresses she had
worn, the furniture of her room, the whole of her house.
"Ah! how I have thought of them, do you know? I often saw them
again as of yore, when on the summer mornings the sun beat down
upon your blinds, and I saw your two bare arms passing out
amongst the flowers."
Leon swiftly pressed his lips to it. Then, when he had taken a
deep breath--
"Yes, it is true--true--true!"
She rose to light two wax-candles on the drawers, then she sat
down again.
"No, my friend," she replied; "I am too old; you are too young.
Forget me! Others will love you; you will love them."
She showed him the impossibility of their love, and that they
must remain, as formerly, on the simple terms of a fraternal
friendship.
Was she speaking thus seriously? No doubt Emma did not herself
know, quite absorbed as she was by the charm of the seduction,
and the necessity of defending herself from it; and contemplating
the young man with a moved look, she gently repulsed the timid
caresses that his trembling hands attempted.
Emma was seized with a vague fear at this shyness, more dangerous
to her than the boldness of Rodolphe when he advanced to her
open-armed. No man had ever seemed to her so beautiful. An
exquisite candour emanated from his being. He lowered his long
fine eyelashes, that curled upwards. His cheek, with the soft
skin reddened, she thought, with desire of her person, and Emma
felt an invincible longing to press her lips to it. Then, leaning
towards the clock as if to see the time--
"It has even made me forget the theatre. And poor Bovary has left
me here especially for that. Monsieur Lormeaux, of the Rue
Grand-Pont, was to take me and his wife."
And the opportunity was lost, as she was to leave the next day.
"Yes."
"But I must see you again," he went on. "I wanted to tell you--"
"What?"
"Ah! you can jest. Enough! enough! Oh, for pity's sake, let me
see you once--only once!"
And as they were both standing up, he behind her, and Emma with
her head bent, he stooped over her and pressed long kisses on her
neck.
"You are mad! Ah! you are mad!" she said, with sounding little
laughs, while the kisses multiplied.
Then bending his head over her shoulder, he seemed to beg the
consent of her eyes. They fell upon him full of an icy dignity.
She answered with a nod, and disappeared like a bird into the
next room.
In the evening Emma wrote the clerk an interminable letter, in
which she cancelled the rendezvous; all was over; they must not,
for the sake of their happiness, meet again. But when the letter
was finished, as she did not know Leon's address, she was
puzzled.
The next morning, at the open window, and humming on his balcony,
Leon himself varnished his pumps with several coatings. He put on
white trousers, fine socks, a green coat, emptied all the scent
he had into his handkerchief, then having had his hair curled, he
uncurled it again, in order to give it a more natural elegance.
The young man took one. It was the first time that he had bought
flowers for a woman, and his breast, as he smelt them, swelled
with pride, as if this homage that he meant for another had
recoiled upon himself.
And he first went round the lower aisles. Then he went out to
look at the Place. Emma was not coming yet. He went up again to
the choir.
The nave was reflected in the full fonts with the beginning of
the arches and some portions of the glass windows. But the
reflections of the paintings, broken by the marble rim, were
continued farther on upon the flag-stones, like a many-coloured
carpet. The broad daylight from without streamed into the church
in three enormous rays from the three opened portals. From time
to time at the upper end a sacristan passed, making the oblique
genuflexion of devout persons in a hurry. The crystal lustres
hung motionless. In the choir a silver lamp was burning, and from
the side chapels and dark places of the church sometimes rose
sounds like sighs, with the clang of a closing grating, its echo
reverberating under the lofty vault.
Leon with solemn steps walked along by the walls. Life had never
seemed so good to him. She would come directly, charming,
agitated, looking back at the glances that followed her, and with
her flounced dress, her gold eyeglass, her thin shoes, with all
sorts of elegant trifles that he had never enjoyed, and with the
ineffable seduction of yielding virtue. The church like a huge
boudoir spread around her; the arches bent down to gather in the
shade the confession of her love; the windows shone resplendent
to illumine her face, and the censers would burn that she might
appear like an angel amid the fumes of the sweet-smelling odours.
But she did not come. He sat down on a chair, and his eyes fell
upon a blue stained window representing boatmen carrying baskets.
He looked at it long, attentively, and he counted the scales of
the fishes and the button-holes of the doublets, while his
thoughts wandered off towards Emma.
And she abruptly withdrew her hand to enter the chapel of the
Virgin, where, kneeling on a chair, she began to pray.
She rose, and they were about to leave, when the beadle came
forward, hurriedly saying--
"Why not?" said she. For she clung with her expiring virtue to
the Virgin, the sculptures, the tombs--anything.
The old fellow started off again; then, having got back to the
chapel of the Virgin, he stretched forth his arm with an
all-embracing gesture of demonstration, and, prouder than a
country squire showing you his espaliers, went on--
"Near him, this kneeling woman who weeps is his spouse, Diane de
Poitiers, Countess de Breze, Duchess de Valentinois, born in
1499, died in 1566, and to the left, the one with the child is
the Holy Virgin. Now turn to this side; here are the tombs of the
Ambroise. They were both cardinals and archbishops of Rouen. That
one was minister under Louis XII. He did a great deal for the
cathedral. In his will he left thirty thousand gold crowns for
the poor."
"You are wrong, sir! It is four hundred and forty feet high, nine
less than the great pyramid of Egypt. It is all cast; it--"
Leon was fleeing, for it seemed to him that his love, that for
nearly two hours now had become petrified in the church like the
stones, would vanish like a vapour through that sort of truncated
funnel, of oblong cage, of open chimney that rises so grotesquely
from the cathedral like the extravagant attempt of some fantastic
brazier.
"Sir!"
"What is it?"
The child bounded off like a ball by the Rue Quatre-Vents; then
they were alone a few minutes, face to face, and a little
embarrassed.
Still the cab did not come. Leon was afraid she might go back
into the church. At last the cab appeared.
"At all events, go out by the north porch," cried the beadle, who
was left alone on the threshold, "so as to see the Resurrection,
the Last Judgment, Paradise, King David, and the Condemned in
Hell-flames."
"Where you like," said Leon, forcing Emma into the cab.
And the lumbering machine set out. It went down the Rue
Grand-Pont, crossed the Place des Arts, the Quai Napoleon, the
Pont Neuf, and stopped short before the statue of Pierre
Corneille.
The cab came out by the gate, and soon having reached the Cours,
trotted quietly beneath the elm-trees. The coachman wiped his
brow, put his leather hat between his knees, and drove his
carriage beyond the side alley by the meadow to the margin of the
waters.
And on the harbour, in the midst of the drays and casks, and in
the streets, at the corners, the good folk opened large
wonder-stricken eyes at this sight, so extraordinary in the
provinces, a cab with blinds drawn, and which appeared thus
constantly shut more closely than a tomb, and tossing about like
a vessel.
Once in the middle of the day, in the open country, just as the
sun beat most fiercely against the old plated lanterns, a bared
hand passed beneath the small blinds of yellow canvas, and threw
out some scraps of paper that scattered in the wind, and farther
off lighted like white butterflies on a field of red clover all
in bloom.
Chapter Two
On reaching the inn, Madame Bovary was surprised not to see the
diligence. Hivert, who had waited for her fifty-three minutes,
had at last started.
Yet nothing forced her to go; but she had given her word that she
would return that same evening. Moreover, Charles expected her,
and in her heart she felt already that cowardly docility that is
for some women at once the chastisement and atonement of
adultery.
She packed her box quickly, paid her bill, took a cab in the
yard, hurrying on the driver, urging him on, every moment
inquiring about the time and the miles traversed. He succeeded in
catching up the "Hirondelle" as it neared the first houses of
Quincampoix.
Hardly was she seated in her corner than she closed her eyes, and
opened them at the foot of the hill, when from afar she
recognised Felicite, who was on the lookout in front of the
farrier's shop. Hivert pulled in his horses and, the servant,
climbing up to the window, said mysteriously--
She went in. The large arm-chair was upset, and even the "Fanal
de Rouen" lay on the ground, outspread between two pestles. She
pushed open the lobby door, and in the middle of the kitchen,
amid brown jars full of picked currants, of powdered sugar and
lump sugar, of the scales on the table, and of the pans on the
fire, she saw all the Homais, small and large, with aprons
reaching to their chins, and with forks in their hands. Justin
was standing up with bowed head, and the chemist was screaming--
It was thus the druggist called a small room under the leads,
full of the utensils and the goods of his trade. He often spent
long hours there alone, labelling, decanting, and doing up again;
and he looked upon it not as a simple store, but as a veritable
sanctuary, whence there afterwards issued, elaborated by his
hands, all sorts of pills, boluses, infusions, lotions, and
potions, that would bear far and wide his celebrity. No one in
the world set foot there, and he respected it so, that he swept
it himself. Finally, if the pharmacy, open to all comers, was the
spot where he displayed his pride, the Capharnaum was the refuge
where, egoistically concentrating himself, Homais delighted in
the exercise of his predilections, so that Justin's
thoughtlessness seemed to him a monstrous piece of irreverence,
and, redder than the currants, he repeated--
"Yes, from the Capharnaum! The key that locks up the acids and
caustic alkalies! To go and get a spare pan! a pan with a lid!
and that I shall perhaps never use! Everything is of importance
in the delicate operations of our art! But, devil take it! one
must make distinctions, and not employ for almost domestic
purposes that which is meant for pharmaceutical! It is as if one
were to carve a fowl with a scalpel; as if a magistrate--"
"No, let me alone," went on the druggist "let me alone, hang it!
My word! One might as well set up for a grocer. That's it! go it!
respect nothing! break, smash, let loose the leeches, burn the
mallow-paste, pickle the gherkins in the window jars, tear up the
bandages!"
And the children began howling as if they already had frightful pains in their entrails.
Emma no longer dreamed of asking what they wanted her for, and
the druggist went on in breathless phrases--
"That is your return for all the kindness we have shown you! That
is how you recompense me for the really paternal care that I
lavish on you! For without me where would you be? What would you
be doing? Who provides you with food, education, clothes, and all
the means of figuring one day with honour in the ranks of
society? But you must pull hard at the oar if you're to do that,
and get, as, people say, callosities upon your hands. Fabricando
fit faber, age quod agis.*"
But Emma, turning to Madame Homais, "I was told to come here--"
"Oh, dear me!" interrupted the good woman, with a sad air, "how
am I to tell you? It is a misfortune!"
First he walked up and down with the open volume in his hand,
rolling his eyes, choking, tumid, apoplectic. Then he came
straight to his pupil, and, planting himself in front of him with
crossed arms--
"Have you every vice, then, little wretch? Take care! you are on
a downward path. Did not you reflect that this infamous book
might fall in the hands of my children, kindle a spark in their
minds, tarnish the purity of Athalie, corrupt Napoleon. He is
already formed like a man. Are you quite sure, anyhow, that they
have not read it? Can you certify to me--"
"It is not that I entirely disapprove of the work. Its author was
a doctor! There are certain scientific points in it that it is
not ill a man should know, and I would even venture to say that a
man must know. But later--later! At any rate, not till you are
man yourself and your temperament is formed."
When Emma knocked at the door. Charles, who was waiting for her,
came forward with open arms and said to her with tears in his
voice--
"Ah! my dear!"
And he bent over her gently to kiss her. But at the contact of
his lips the memory of the other seized her, and she passed her
hand over her face shuddering.
He showed her the letter in which his mother told the event
without any sentimental hypocrisy. She only regretted her husband
had not received the consolations of religion, as he had died at
Daudeville, in the street, at the door of a cafe after a
patriotic dinner with some ex-officers.
Emma gave him back the letter; then at dinner, for appearance's
sake, she affected a certain repugnance. But as he urged her to
try, she resolutely began eating, while Charles opposite her sat
motionless in a dejected attitude.
Now and then he raised his head and gave her a long look full of
distress. Once he sighed, "I should have liked to see him again!"
"Fifty-eight."
"Ah!"
She made a gesture that signified she did not know. Seeing her so
taciturn, Charles imagined her much affected, and forced himself
to say nothing, not to reawaken this sorrow which moved him. And,
shaking off his own--
"Yes."
When the cloth was removed, Bovary did not rise, nor did Emma;
and as she looked at him, the monotony of the spectacle drove
little by little all pity from her heart. He seemed to her
paltry, weak, a cipher--in a word, a poor thing in every way. How
to get rid of him? What an interminable evening! Something
stupefying like the fumes of opium seized her.
They heard in the passage the sharp noise of a wooden leg on the
boards. It was Hippolyte bringing back Emma's luggage. In order
to put it down he described painfully a quarter of a circle with
his stump.
"He doesn't even remember any more about it," she thought,
looking at the poor devil, whose coarse red hair was wet with
perspiration.
Charles picked up the flowers, and freshening his eyes, red with
tears, against them, smelt them delicately.
She took them quickly from his hand and put them in a glass of
water.
The next day Madame Bovary senior arrived. She and her son wept
much. Emma, on the pretext of giving orders, disappeared. The
following day they had a talk over the mourning. They went and
sat down with their workboxes by the waterside under the arbour.
She was unpicking the lining of a dress, and the strips were
scattered around her. Madame Bovary senior was plying her scissor
without looking up, and Charles, in his list slippers and his old
brown surtout that he used as a dressing-gown, sat with both
hands in his pockets, and did not speak either; near them Berthe,
in a little white pinafore, was raking sand in the walks with her
spade. Suddenly she saw Monsieur Lheureux, the linendraper, come
in through the gate.
She seemed to understand him, for she rose; and Charles said to
his mother, "It is nothing particular. No doubt, some household
trifle." He did not want her to know the story of the bill,
fearing her reproaches.
Emma let him talk on. She had bored herself so prodigiously the
last two days.
"And so you're quite well again?" he went on. "Ma foi! I saw your
husband in a sad state. He's a good fellow, though we did have a
little misunderstanding."
"Why, you know well enough," cried Lheureux. "It was about your
little fancies--the travelling trunks."
He had drawn his hat over his eyes, and, with his hands behind
his back, smiling and whistling, he looked straight at her in an
unbearable manner. Did he suspect anything?
"We made it up, all the same, and I've come again to propose
another arrangement."
This was to renew the bill Bovary had signed. The doctor, of
course, would do as he pleased; he was not to trouble himself,
especially just now, when he would have a lot of worry. "And he
would do better to give it over to someone else--to you, for
example. With a power of attorney it could be easily managed, and
then we (you and I) would have our little business transactions
together."
"The one you've on is good enough for the house, but you want
another for calls. I saw that the very moment that I came in.
I've the eye of an American!"
He did not send the stuff; he brought it. Then he came again to
measure it; he came again on other pretexts, always trying to
make himself agreeable, useful, "enfeoffing himself," as Homais
would have said, and always dropping some hint to Emma about the
power of attorney. He never mentioned the bill; she did not think
of it. Charles, at the beginning of her convalescence, had
certainly said something about it to her, but so many emotions
had passed through her head that she no longer remembered it.
Besides, she took care not to talk of any money questions. Madame
Bovary seemed surprised at this, and attributed the change in her
ways to the religious sentiments she had contracted during her
illness.
But as soon as she was gone, Emma greatly astounded Bovary by her
practical good sense. It would be necessary to make inquiries, to
look into mortgages, and see if there were any occasion for a
sale by auction or a liquidation. She quoted technical terms
casually, pronounced the grand words of order, the future,
foresight, and constantly exaggerated the difficulties of
settling his father's affairs so much, that at last one day she
showed him the rough draft of a power of attorney to manage and
administer his business, arrange all loans, sign and endorse all
bills, pay all sums, etc. She had profited by Lheureux's lessons.
Charles naively asked her where this paper came from.
"Monsieur Guillaumin"; and with the utmost coolness she added, "I
don't trust him overmuch. Notaries have such a bad reputation.
Perhaps we ought to consult--we only know--no one."
Chapter Three
They were three full, exquisite days--a true honeymoon. They were
at the Hotel-de-Boulogne, on the harbour; and they lived there,
with drawn blinds and closed doors, with flowers on the floor,
and iced syrups were brought them early in the morning.
Towards evening they took a covered boat and went to dine on one
of the islands. It was the time when one hears by the side of the
dockyard the caulking-mallets sounding against the hull of
vessels. The smoke of the tar rose up between the trees; there
were large fatty drops on the water, undulating in the purple
colour of the sun, like floating plaques of Florentine bronze.
They rowed down in the midst of moored boats, whose long oblique
cables grazed lightly against the bottom of the boat. The din of
the town gradually grew distant; the rolling of carriages, the
tumult of voices, the yelping of dogs on the decks of vessels.
She took off her bonnet, and they landed on their island.
At night they returned. The boat glided along the shores of the
islands. They sat at the bottom, both hidden by the shade, in
silence. The square oars rang in the iron thwarts, and, in the
stillness, seemed to mark time, like the beating of a metronome,
while at the stern the rudder that trailed behind never ceased
its gentle splash against the water.
Once the moon rose; they did not fail to make fine phrases,
finding the orb melancholy and full of poetry. She even began to
sing--
Her musical but weak voice died away along the waves, and the
winds carried off the trills that Leon heard pass like the
flapping of wings about him.
Leon, on the floor by her side, found under his hand a ribbon of
scarlet silk. The boatman looked at it, and at last said--
"Perhaps it belongs to the party I took out the other day. A lot
of jolly folk, gentlemen and ladies, with cakes, champagne,
cornets--everything in style! There was one especially, a tall
handsome man with small moustaches, who was that funny! And they
all kept saying, 'Now tell us something, Adolphe--Dolpe,' I
think."
She shivered.
"And who doesn't want for women, either," softly added the
sailor, thinking he was paying the stranger a compliment.
Yet they had to part. The adieux were sad. He was to send his
letters to Mere Rollet, and she gave him such precise
instructions about a double envelope that he admired greatly her
amorous astuteness.
"So you can assure me it is all right?" she said with her last
kiss.
"Yes, certainly."
Chapter Four
When, from the summit of the hill, he saw in the valley below the
church-spire with its tin flag swinging in the wind, he felt that
delight mingled with triumphant vanity and egoistic tenderness
that millionaires must experience when they come back to their
native village.
Mere Lefrancois, when she saw him, uttered many exclamations. She
thought he "had grown and was thinner," while Artemise, on the
contrary, thought him stouter and darker.
He saw her alone in the evening, very late, behind the garden in
the lane; in the lane, as she had the other one! It was a stormy
night, and they talked under an umbrella by lightning flashes.
They came back again to embrace once more, and it was then that
she promised him to find soon, by no matter what means, a regular
opportunity for seeing one another in freedom at least once a
week. Emma never doubted she should be able to do this. Besides,
she was full of hope. Some money was coming to her.
One evening when Charles was listening to her, she began the same
piece four times over, each time with much vexation, while he,
not noticing any difference, cried--
And Charles confessed she had gone off a little. She played wrong
notes and blundered; then, stopping short--
The next day when he came home he looked at her shyly, and at
last could no longer keep back the words.
She shrugged her shoulders and did not open her piano again. But
when she passed by it (if Bovary were there), she sighed--
And when anyone came to see her, she did not fail to inform them
she had given up music, and could not begin again now for
important reasons. Then people commiserated her--
They even spoke to Bovary about it. They put him to shame, and
especially the chemist.
"You are wrong. One should never let any of the faculties of
nature lie fallow. Besides, just think, my good friend, that by
inducing madame to study; you are economising on the subsequent
musical education of your child. For my own part, I think that
mothers ought themselves to instruct their children. That is an
idea of Rousseau's, still rather new perhaps, but that will end
by triumphing, I am certain of it, like mothers nursing their own
children and vaccination."
"But lessons," she replied, "are only of use when followed up."
And thus it was she set about obtaining her husband's permission
to go to town once a week to see her lover. At the end of a month
she was even considered to have made considerable progress.
Chapter Five
When the clock pointed to a quarter past seven, she went off to
the "Lion d'Or," whose door Artemise opened yawning. The girl
then made up the coals covered by the cinders, and Emma remained
alone in the kitchen. Now and again she went out. Hivert was
leisurely harnessing his horses, listening, moreover, to Mere
Lefrancois, who, passing her head and nightcap through a grating,
was charging him with commissions and giving him explanations
that would have confused anyone else. Emma kept beating the soles
of her boots against the pavement of the yard.
At last, when he had eaten his soup, put on his cloak, lighted
his pipe, and grasped his whip, he calmly installed himself on
his seat.
Those who had secured seats the evening before kept it waiting;
some even were still in bed in their houses. Hivert called,
shouted, swore; then he got down from his seat and went and
knocked loudly at the doors. The wind blew through the cracked
windows.
The four seats, however, filled up. The carriage rolled off; rows
of apple-trees followed one upon another, and the road between
its two long ditches, full of yellow water, rose, constantly
narrowing towards the horizon.
Emma knew it from end to end; she knew that after a meadow there
was a sign-post, next an elm, a barn, or the hut of a lime-kiln
tender. Sometimes even, in the hope of getting some surprise, she
shut her eyes, but she never lost the clear perception of the
distance to be traversed.
For fear of being seen, she did not usually take the most direct
road. She plunged into dark alleys, and, all perspiring, reached
the bottom of the Rue Nationale, near the fountain that stands
there. It, is the quarter for theatres, public-houses, and
whores. Often a cart would pass near her, bearing some shaking
scenery. Waiters in aprons were sprinkling sand on the flagstones
between green shrubs. It all smelt of absinthe, cigars, and
oysters.
She turned down a street; she recognised him by his curling hair
that escaped from beneath his hat.
Leon walked along the pavement. She followed him to the hotel. He
went up, opened the door, entered--What an embrace!
Then, after the kisses, the words gushed forth. They told each
other the sorrows of the week, the presentiments, the anxiety for
the letters; but now everything was forgotten; they gazed into
each other's faces with voluptuous laughs, and tender names.
The warm room, with its discreet carpet, its gay ornaments, and
its calm light, seemed made for the intimacies of passion. The
curtain-rods, ending in arrows, their brass pegs, and the great
balls of the fire-dogs shone suddenly when the sun came in. On
the chimney between the candelabra there were two of those pink
shells in which one hears the murmur of the sea if one holds them
to the ear.
How they loved that dear room, so full of gaiety, despite its
rather faded splendour! They always found the furniture in the
same place, and sometimes hairpins, that she had forgotten the
Thursday before, under the pedestal of the clock. They lunched by
the fireside on a little round table, inlaid with rosewood. Emma
carved, put bits on his plate with all sorts of coquettish ways,
and she laughed with a sonorous and libertine laugh when the
froth of the champagne ran over from the glass to the rings on
her fingers. They were so completely lost in the possession of
each other that they thought themselves in their own house, and
that they would live there till death, like two spouses eternally
young. They said "our room," "our carpet," she even said "my
slippers," a gift of Leon's, a whim she had had. They were pink
satin, bordered with swansdown. When she sat on his knees, her
leg, then too short, hung in the air, and the dainty shoe, that
had no back to it, was held only by the toes to her bare foot.
On the clock there was a bronze cupid, who smirked as he bent his
arm beneath a golden garland. They had laughed at it many a time,
but when they had to part everything seemed serious to them.
Suddenly she seized his head between her hands, kissed him
hurriedly on the forehead, crying, "Adieu!" and rushed down the
stairs.
It was hot in the room, small, and too low where the stove was
hissing in the midst of wigs and pomades. The smell of the tongs,
together with the greasy hands that handled her head, soon
stunned her, and she dozed a little in her wrapper. Often, as he
did her hair, the man offered her tickets for a masked ball.
Then she went away. She went up the streets; reached the
Croix-Rouge, put on her overshoes, that she had hidden in the
morning under the seat, and sank into her place among the
impatient passengers. Some got out at the foot of the hill. She
remained alone in the carriage. At every turning all the lights
of the town were seen more and more completely, making a great
luminous vapour about the dim houses. Emma knelt on the cushions
and her eyes wandered over the dazzling light. She sobbed; called
on Leon, sent him tender words and kisses lost in the wind.
On the hillside a poor devil wandered about with his stick in the
midst of the diligences. A mass of rags covered his shoulders,
and an old staved-in beaver, turned out like a basin, hid his
face; but when he took it off he discovered in the place of
eyelids empty and bloody orbits. The flesh hung in red shreds,
and there flowed from it liquids that congealed into green scale
down to the nose, whose black nostrils sniffed convulsively. To
speak to you he threw back his head with an idiotic laugh; then
his bluish eyeballs, rolling constantly, at the temples beat
against the edge of the open wound. He sang a little song as he
followed the carriages--
And all the rest was about birds and sunshine and green leaves.
Often they had started when, with a sudden movement, his hat
entered the diligence through the small window, while he clung
with his other arm to the footboard, between the wheels splashing
mud. His voice, feeble at first and quavering, grew sharp; it
resounded in the night like the indistinct moan of a vague
distress; and through the ringing of the bells, the murmur of the
trees, and the rumbling of the empty vehicle, it had a far-off
sound that disturbed Emma. It went to the bottom of her soul,
like a whirlwind in an abyss, and carried her away into the
distances of a boundless melancholy. But Hivert, noticing a
weight behind, gave the blind man sharp cuts with his whip. The
thong lashed his wounds, and he fell back into the mud with a
yell. Then the passengers in the "Hirondelle" ended by falling
asleep, some with open mouths, others with lowered chins, leaning
against their neighbour's shoulder, or with their arm passed
through the strap, oscillating regularly with the jolting of the
carriage; and the reflection of the lantern swinging without, on
the crupper of the wheeler; penetrating into the interior through
the chocolate calico curtains, threw sanguineous shadows over all
these motionless people. Emma, drunk with grief, shivered in her
clothes, feeling her feet grow colder and colder, and death in
her soul.
Charles at home was waiting for her; the "Hirondelle" was always
late on Thursdays. Madame arrived at last, and scarcely kissed
the child. The dinner was not ready. No matter! She excused the
servant. This girl now seemed allowed to do just as she liked.
Often her husband, noting her pallor, asked if she were unwell.
There were even days when she had no sooner come in than she went
up to her room; and Justin, happening to be there, moved about
noiselessly, quicker at helping her than the best of maids. He
put the matches ready, the candlestick, a book, arranged her
nightgown, turned back the bedclothes.
"Come!" said she, "that will do. Now you can go."
For he stood there, his hands hanging down and his eyes wide
open, as if enmeshed in the innumerable threads of a sudden
reverie.
The following day was frightful, and those that came after still
more unbearable, because of her impatience to once again seize
her happiness; an ardent lust, inflamed by the images of past
experience, and that burst forth freely on the seventh day
beneath Leon's caresses. His ardours were hidden beneath
outbursts of wonder and gratitude. Emma tasted this love in a
discreet, absorbed fashion, maintained it by all the artifices of
her tenderness, and trembled a little lest it should be lost
later on.
"Ah! you too, you will leave me! You will marry! You will be like
all the others."
"Why, like all men," she replied. Then added, repulsing him with
a languid movement--
The young man believed her, but none the less questioned her to
find out what he was.
"He was a ship's captain, my dear."
Was this not preventing any inquiry, and, at the same time,
assuming a higher ground through this pretended fascination
exercised over a man who must have been of warlike nature and
accustomed to receive homage?
The clerk then felt the lowliness of his position; he longed for
epaulettes, crosses, titles. All that would please her--he
gathered that from her spendthrift habits.
* Manservant.
"Are we not happy?" gently answered the young man passing his
hands over her hair.
To her husband she was more charming than ever. She made him
pistachio-creams, and played him waltzes after dinner. So he
thought himself the most fortunate of men and Emma was without
uneasiness, when, one evening suddenly he said--
"Yes."
"Well, I saw her just now," Charles went on, "at Madame
Liegeard's. I spoke to her about you, and she doesn't know you."
"It must," she replied, "have fallen from the old box of bills
that is on the edge of the shelf."
From that moment her existence was but one long tissue of lies,
in which she enveloped her love as in veils to hide it. It was a
want, a mania, a pleasure carried to such an extent that if she
said she had the day before walked on the right side of a road,
one might know she had taken the left.
One morning, when she had gone, as usual, rather lightly clothed,
it suddenly began to snow, and as Charles was watching the
weather from the window, he caught sight of Monsieur Bournisien
in the chaise of Monsieur Tuvache, who was driving him to Rouen.
Then he went down to give the priest a thick shawl that he was to
hand over to Emma as soon as he reached the "Croix-Rouge." When
he got to the inn, Monsieur Bournisien asked for the wife of the
Yonville doctor. The landlady replied that she very rarely came
to her establishment. So that evening, when he recognised Madame
Bovary in the "Hirondelle," the cure told her his dilemma,
without, however, appearing to attach much importance to it, for
he began praising a preacher who was doing wonders at the
Cathedral, and whom all the ladies were rushing to hear.
Still, if he did not ask for any explanation, others, later on,
might prove less discreet. So she thought well to get down each
time at the "Croix-Rouge," so that the good folk of her village
who saw her on the stairs should suspect nothing.
One day, however, Monsieur Lheureux met her coming out of the
Hotel de Boulogne on Leon's arm; and she was frightened, thinking
he would gossip. He was not such a fool. But three days after he
came to her room, shut the door, and said, "I must have some
money."
She declared she could not give him any. Lheureux burst into
lamentations and reminded her of all the kindnesses he had shown
her.
"But if you haven't any ready money, you have an estate." And he
reminded her of a miserable little hovel situated at Barneville,
near Aumale, that brought in almost nothing. It had formerly been
part of a small farm sold by Monsieur Bovary senior; for Lheureux
knew everything, even to the number of acres and the names of the
neighbours.
The phrase came to her like a breath of fresh air. "Leave me the
bill," said Emma.
He came back the following week and boasted of having, after much
trouble, at last discovered a certain Langlois, who, for a long
time, had had an eye on the property, but without mentioning his
price.
She drew half the sum at once, and when she was about to pay her
account the shopkeeper said--
"What! what!"
"Now who can trouble you, since in six months you'll draw the
arrears for your cottage, and I don't make the last bill due till
after you've been paid?"
If she had not told him about this bill, it was only to spare him
such domestic worries; she sat on his knees, caressed him, cooed
to him, gave him a long enumeration of all the indispensable
things that had been got on credit.
The other went on lecturing her, predicting they would end in the
workhouse. But it was Bovary's fault. Luckily he had promised to
destroy that power of attorney.
"What?"
Emma opened the window, called Charles, and the poor fellow was
obliged to confess the promise torn from him by his mother.
"Thank you," said the old woman. And she threw the power of
attorney into the fire.
"Oh, my God!" cried Charles. "Ah! you really are wrong! You come
here and make scenes with her!"
But Charles, rebelling for the first time, took his wife's part,
so that Madame Bovary, senior, said she would leave. She went the
very next day, and on the threshold, as he was trying to detain
her, she replied--
"No, no! You love her better than me, and you are right. It is
natural. For the rest, so much the worse! You will see. Good
day--for I am not likely to come soon again, as you say, to make
scenes."
And what an outburst the next Thursday at the hotel in their room
with Leon! She laughed, cried, sang, sent for sherbets, wanted to
smoke cigarettes, seemed to him wild and extravagant, but
adorable, superb.
He did not know what recreation of her whole being drove her more
and more to plunge into the pleasures of life. She was becoming
irritable, greedy, voluptuous; and she walked about the streets
with him carrying her head high, without fear, so she said, of
compromising herself. At times, however, Emma shuddered at the
sudden thought of meeting Rodolphe, for it seemed to her that,
although they were separated forever, she was not completely free
from her subjugation to him.
One night she did not return to Yonville at all. Charles lost his
head with anxiety, and little Berthe would not go to bed without
her mamma, and sobbed enough to break her heart. Justin had gone
out searching the road at random. Monsieur Homais even had left
his pharmacy.
The house inhabited by the clerk had neither bell, knocker, nor
porter. Charles knocked loudly at the shutters with his hands. A
policeman happened to pass by. Then he was frightened, and went
away.
She passed her hand over her forehead and answered, "At
Mademoiselle Lempereur's."
"Oh, it isn't worth while," said Emma. "She went out just now;
but for the future don't worry. I do not feel free, you see, if I
know that the least delay upsets you like this."
She wanted him to dress all in black, and grow a pointed beard,
to look like the portraits of Louis XIII. She wanted to see his
lodgings; thought them poor. He blushed at them, but she did not
notice this, then advised him to buy some curtains like hers, and
as he objected to the expense--
"Ah! ah! you care for your money," she said laughing.
Each time Leon had to tell her everything that he had done since
their last meeting. She asked him for some verses--some verses
"for herself," a "love poem" in honour of her. But he never
succeeded in getting a rhyme for the second verse; and at last
ended by copying a sonnet in a "Keepsake." This was less from
vanity than from the one desire of pleasing her. He did not
question her ideas; he accepted all her tastes; he was rather
becoming her mistress than she his. She had tender words and
kisses that thrilled his soul. Where could she have learnt this
corruption almost incorporeal in the strength of its profanity
and dissimulation?
Chapter Six
During the journeys he made to see her, Leon had often dined at
the chemist's, and he felt obliged from politeness to invite him
in turn.
The druggist would formerly have taken good care not to use such
an expression, but he was cultivating a gay Parisian style, which
he thought in the best taste; and, like his neighbour, Madame
Bovary, he questioned the clerk curiously about the customs of
the capital; he even talked slang to dazzle the bourgeois, saying
bender, crummy, dandy, macaroni, the cheese, cut my stick and
"I'll hook it," for "I am going."
The idea of seeing again the place where his youth had been spent
no doubt excited him, for during the whole journey he never
ceased talking, and as soon as he had arrived, he jumped quickly
out of the diligence to go in search of Leon. In vain the clerk
tried to get rid of him. Monsieur Homais dragged him off to the
large Cafe de la Normandie, which he entered majestically, not
raising his hat, thinking it very provincial to uncover in any
public place.
Emma waited for Leon three quarters of an hour. At last she ran
to his office; and, lost in all sorts of conjectures, accusing
him of indifference, and reproaching herself for her weakness,
she spent the afternoon, her face pressed against the
window-panes.
* In rum.
"To whom?"
"The servant!"
He was not joking; but vanity getting the better of all prudence,
Leon, in spite of himself protested. Besides, he only liked dark
women.
"I approve of that," said the chemist; "they have more passion."
And whispering into his friend's ear, he pointed out the symptoms
by which one could find out if a woman had passion. He even
launched into an ethnographic digression: the German was
vapourish, the French woman licentious, the Italian passionate.
"Ja!"
And all the while he was walking through the streets with him he
talked of his wife, his children; of their future, and of his
business; told him in what a decayed condition it had formerly
been, and to what a degree of perfection he had raised it.
She was standing up, her large flashing eyes looked at him
seriously, almost terribly. Then tears obscured them, her red
eyelids were lowered, she gave him her hands, and Leon was
pressing them to his lips when a servant appeared to tell the
gentleman that he was wanted.
"Yes."
"But when?"
"Immediately."
"It's a trick," said the chemist, when he saw Leon. "I wanted to
interrupt this visit, that seemed to me to annoy you. Let's go
and have a glass of garus at Bridoux'."
Leon vowed that he must get back to his office. Then the druggist
joked him about quill-drivers and the law.
"Leave Cujas and Barthole alone a bit. Who the devil prevents
you? Be a man! Let's go to Bridoux'. You'll see his dog. It's
very interesting."
"I'll go with you. I'll read a paper while I wait for you, or
turn over the leaves of a 'Code.'"
Yet there was upon that brow covered with cold drops, on those
quivering lips, in those wild eyes, in the strain of those arms,
something vague and dreary that seemed to Leon to glide between
them subtly as if to separate them.
He did not dare to question her; but, seeing her so skilled, she
must have passed, he thought, through every experience of
suffering and of pleasure. What had once charmed now frightened
him a little. Besides, he rebelled against his absorption, daily
more marked, by her personality. He begrudged Emma this constant
victory. He even strove not to love her; then, when he heard the
creaking of her boots, he turned coward, like drunkards at the
sight of strong drinks.
"Don't see them; don't go out; think only of ourselves; love me!"
She would have liked to be able to watch over his life; and the
idea occurred to her of having him followed in the streets. Near
the hotel there was always a kind of loafer who accosted
travellers, and who would not refuse. But her pride revolted at
this.
"Bah! so much the worse. Let him deceive me! What does it matter
to me? As If I cared for him!"
One day, when they had parted early and she was returning alone
along the boulevard, she saw the walls of her convent; then she
sat down on a form in the shade of the elm-trees. How calm that
time had been! How she longed for the ineffable sentiments of
love that she had tried to figure to herself out of books! The
first month of her marriage, her rides in the wood, the viscount
that waltzed, and Lagardy singing, all repassed before her eyes.
And Leon suddenly appeared to her as far off as the others.
No matter! She was not happy--she never had been. Whence came
this insufficiency in life--this instantaneous turning to decay
of everything on which she leant? But if there were somewhere a
being strong and beautiful, a valiant nature, full at once of
exaltation and refinement, a poet's heart in an angel's form, a
lyre with sounding chords ringing out elegiac epithalamia to
heaven, why, perchance, should she not find him? Ah! how
impossible! Besides, nothing was worth the trouble of seeking it;
everything was a lie. Every smile hid a yawn of boredom, every
joy a curse, all pleasure satiety, and the sweetest kisses left
upon your lips only the unattainable desire for a greater
delight.
A metallic clang droned through the air, and four strokes were
heard from the convent-clock. Four o'clock! And it seemed to her
that she had been there on that form an eternity. But an infinity
of passions may be contained in a minute, like a crowd in a small
space.
Emma lived all absorbed in hers, and troubled no more about money
matters than an archduchess.
It was a bill for seven hundred francs, signed by her, and which
Lheureux, in spite of all his professions, had paid away to
Vincart. She sent her servant for him. He could not come. Then
the stranger, who had remained standing, casting right and left
curious glances, that his thick, fair eyebrows hid, asked with a
naive air--
"Oh," said Emma, "tell him that I haven't it. I will send next
week; he must wait; yes, till next week."
And the fellow went without another word.
But the next day at twelve o'clock she received a summons, and
the sight of the stamped paper, on which appeared several times
in large letters, "Maitre Hareng, bailiff at Buchy," so
frightened her that she rushed in hot haste to the linendraper's.
She found him in his shop, doing up a parcel.
But Lheureux, all the same, went on with his work, helped by a
young girl of about thirteen, somewhat hunch-backed, who was at
once his clerk and his servant.
"See!"
Then she grew angry, reminding him of the promise he had given
not to pay away her bills. He acknowledged it.
"I dare say! Quiet Vincart! You don't know him; he's more
ferocious than an Arab!"
She wept; she even called him "her good Monsieur Lheureux." But
he always fell back upon "that rascal Vincart." Besides, he
hadn't a brass farthing; no one was paying him now-a-days; they
were eating his coat off his back; a poor shopkeeper like him
couldn't advance money.
Emma was silent, and Monsieur Lheureux, who was biting the
feathers of a quill, no doubt became uneasy at her silence, for
he went on--
"What!"
And on hearing that Langlois had not yet paid he seemed much
surprised. Then in a honied voice--
Then he called her back to show her three yards of guipure that
he had lately picked up "at a sale."
"Isn't it lovely?" said Lheureux. "It is very much used now for
the backs of arm-chairs. It's quite the rage."
That same evening she urged Bovary to write to his mother, to ask
her to send as quickly as possible the whole of the balance due
from the father's estate. The mother-in-law replied that she had
nothing more, the winding up was over, and there was due to them
besides Barneville an income of six hundred francs, that she
would pay them punctually.
To get money she began selling her old gloves, her old hats, the
old odds and ends, and she bargained rapaciously, her peasant
blood standing her in good stead. Then on her journey to town she
picked up nick-nacks secondhand, that, in default of anyone else,
Monsieur Lheureux would certainly take off her hands. She bought
ostrich feathers, Chinese porcelain, and trunks; she borrowed
from Felicite, from Madame Lefrancois, from the landlady at the
Croix-Rouge, from everybody, no matter where.
With the money she at last received from Barneville she paid two
bills; the other fifteen hundred francs fell due. She renewed the
bills, and thus it was continually.
The house was very dreary now. Tradesmen were seen leaving it
with angry faces. Handkerchiefs were lying about on the stoves,
and little Berthe, to the great scandal of Madame Homais, wore
stockings with holes in them. If Charles timidly ventured a
remark, she answered roughly that it wasn't her fault.
"Call the servant," said Charles. "You know, dearie, that mamma
does not like to be disturbed."
Autumn was setting in, and the leaves were already falling, as
they did two years ago when she was ill. Where would it all end?
And he walked up and down, his hands behind his back.
Madame was in her room, which no one entered. She stayed there
all day long, torpid, half dressed, and from time to time burning
Turkish pastilles which she had bought at Rouen in an Algerian's
shop. In order not to have at night this sleeping man stretched
at her side, by dint of manoeuvring, she at last succeeded in
banishing him to the second floor, while she read till morning
extravagant books, full of pictures of orgies and thrilling
situations. Often, seized with fear, she cried out, and Charles
hurried to her.
These were her gala days. She wanted them to be sumptuous, and
when he alone could not pay the expenses, she made up the deficit
liberally, which happened pretty well every time. He tried to
make her understand that they would be quite as comfortable
somewhere else, in a smaller hotel, but she always found some
objection.
One day she drew six small silver-gilt spoons from her bag (they
were old Roualt's wedding present), begging him to pawn them at
once for her, and Leon obeyed, though the proceeding annoyed him.
He was afraid of compromising himself.
At last Leon swore he would not see Emma again, and he reproached
himself with not having kept his word, considering all the worry
and lectures this woman might still draw down upon him, without
reckoning the jokes made by his companions as they sat round the
stove in the morning. Besides, he was soon to be head clerk; it
was time to settle down. So he gave up his flute, exalted
sentiments, and poetry; for every bourgeois in the flush of his
youth, were it but for a day, a moment, has believed himself
capable of immense passions, of lofty enterprises. The most
mediocre libertine has dreamed of sultanas; every notary bears
within him the debris of a poet.
He was bored now when Emma suddenly began to sob on his breast,
and his heart, like the people who can only stand a certain
amount of music, dozed to the sound of a love whose delicacies he
no longer noted.
They knew one another too well for any of those surprises of
possession that increase its joys a hundred-fold. She was as sick
of him as he was weary of her. Emma found again in adultery all
the platitudes of marriage.
But how to get rid of him? Then, though she might feel humiliated
at the baseness of such enjoyment, she clung to it from habit or
from corruption, and each day she hungered after them the more,
exhausting all felicity in wishing for too much of it. She
accused Leon of her baffled hopes, as if he had betrayed her; and
she even longed for some catastrophe that would bring about their
separation, since she had not the courage to make up her mind to
it herself.
She none the less went on writing him love letters, in virtue of
the notion that a woman must write to her lover.
But whilst she wrote it was another man she saw, a phantom
fashioned out of her most ardent memories, of her finest reading,
her strongest lusts, and at last he became so real, so tangible,
that she palpitated wondering, without, however, the power to
imagine him clearly, so lost was he, like a god, beneath the
abundance of his attributes. He dwelt in that azure land where
silk ladders hang from balconies under the breath of flowers, in
the light of the moon. She felt him near her; he was coming, and
would carry her right away in a kiss.
Then she fell back exhausted, for these transports of vague love
wearied her more than great debauchery.
She now felt constant ache all over her. Often she even received
summonses, stamped paper that she barely looked at. She would
have liked not to be alive, or to be always asleep.
The neighbouring cafes were full. They caught sight of one on the
harbour, a very indifferent restaurant, whose proprietor showed
them to a little room on the fourth floor.
The others began to eat; she ate nothing. Her head was on fire,
her eyes smarted, and her skin was ice-cold. In her head she
seemed to feel the floor of the ball-room rebounding again
beneath the rhythmical pulsation of the thousands of dancing
feet. And now the smell of the punch, the smoke of the cigars,
made her giddy. She fainted, and they carried her to the window.
She slipped away suddenly, threw off her costume, told Leon she
must get back, and at last was alone at the Hotel de Boulogne.
Everything, even herself, was now unbearable to her. She wished
that, taking wing like a bird, she could fly somewhere, far away
to regions of purity, and there grow young again.
She went out, crossed the Boulevard, the Place Cauchoise, and the
Faubourg, as far as an open street that overlooked some gardens.
She walked rapidly; the fresh air calming her; and, little by
little, the faces of the crowd, the masks, the quadrilles, the
lights, the supper, those women, all disappeared like mists
fading away. Then, reaching the "Croix-Rouge," she threw herself
on the bed in her little room on the second floor, where there
were pictures of the "Tour de Nesle." At four o'clock Hivert
awoke her.
When she got home, Felicite showed her behind the clock a grey
paper. She read--
"By order of the king, law, and justice, to Madame Bovary." Then,
skipping several lines, she read, "Within twenty-four hours,
without fail--" But what? "To pay the sum of eight thousand
francs." And there was even at the bottom, "She will be
constrained thereto by every form of law, and notably by a writ
of distraint on her furniture and effects."
"How so?"
"My good lady, did you think I should go on to all eternity being
your purveyor and banker, for the love of God? Now be just. I
must get back what I've laid out. Now be just."
"Ah! so much the worse. The court has admitted it. There's a
judgment. It's been notified to you. Besides, it isn't my fault.
It's Vincart's."
And she began beating about the bush; she had known nothing about
it; it was a surprise.
"Ah! no lecturing."
She turned coward; she implored him; she even pressed her pretty
white and slender hand against the shopkeeper's knee.
And Lheureux drew from his strong box the receipt for eighteen
hundred francs that she had given him when Vincart had discounted
the bills.
"Do you think," he added, "that he'll not understand your little
theft, the poor dear man?"
"Ah! I'll show him! I'll show him!" Then he approached her, and
in a soft voice said--
"It isn't pleasant, I know; but, after all, no bones are broken,
and, since that is the only way that is left for you paying back
my money--"
And he called through the peep-hole that looked down into the
shop--
The servant appeared. Emma understood, and asked how much money
would be wanted to put a stop to the proceedings.
"I implore you, Monsieur Lheureux, just a few days more!" She was
sobbing.
Chapter Seven
She was stoical the next day when Maitre Hareng, the bailiff,
with two assistants, presented himself at her house to draw up
the inventory for the distraint.
They began with Bovary's consulting-room, and did not write down
the phrenological head, which was considered an "instrument of
his profession"; but in the kitchen they counted the plates; the
saucepans, the chairs, the candlesticks, and in the bedroom all
the nick-nacks on the whatnot. They examined her dresses, the
linen, the dressing-room; and her whole existence to its most
intimate details, was, like a corpse on whom a post-mortem is
made, outspread before the eyes of these three men.
When they had done with the rooms they went up to the attic. She
kept a desk there in which Rodolphe's letters were locked. It had
to be opened.
"No," she replied; "it is a window that has been left open, and
is rattling in the wind."
The next day, Sunday, she went to Rouen to call on all the
brokers whose names she knew. They were at their country-places
or on journeys. She was not discouraged; and those whom she did
manage to see she asked for money, declaring she must have some,
and that she would pay it back. Some laughed in her face; all
refused.
"No; but--" And he admitted that his landlord didn't like his
having "women" there.
On arriving she drank off a large glass of water. She was very
pale. She said to him--
And, shaking him by both hands that she grasped tightly, she
added--
"Not yet."
He went out, and came back at the end of an hour, saying, with
solemn face--
An infernal boldness looked out from her burning eyes, and their
lids drew close together with a lascivious and encouraging look,
so that the young man felt himself growing weak beneath the mute
will of this woman who was urging him to a crime. Then he was
afraid, and to avoid any explanation he smote his forehead,
crying--
Emma did not seem to welcome this hope with all the joy he had
expected. Did she suspect the lie? He went on, blushing--
The weather was fine. It was one of those March days, clear and
sharp, when the sun shines in a perfectly white sky. The Rouen
folk, in Sunday-clothes, were walking about with happy looks. She
reached the Place du Parvis. People were coming out after
vespers; the crowd flowed out through the three doors like a
stream through the three arches of a bridge, and in the middle
one, more motionless than a rock, stood the beadle.
Then she remembered the day when, all anxious and full of hope,
she had entered beneath this large nave, that had opened out
before her, less profound than her love; and she walked on
weeping beneath her veil, giddy, staggering, almost fainting.
She stopped to let pass a black horse, pawing the ground between
the shafts of a tilbury, driven by a gentleman in sable furs. Who
was it? She knew him. The carriage darted by and disappeared.
Why, it was he--the Viscount. She turned away; the street was
empty. She was so overwhelmed, so sad, that she had to lean
against a wall to keep herself from falling.
Then she thought she had been mistaken. Anyhow, she did not know.
All within her and around her was abandoning her. She felt lost,
sinking at random into indefinable abysses, and it was almost
with joy that, on reaching the "Croix-Rouge," she saw the good
Homais, who was watching a large box full of pharmaceutical
stores being hoisted on to the "Hirondelle." In his hand he held
tied in a silk handkerchief six cheminots for his wife.
But when the blind man appeared as usual at the foot of the hill
he exclaimed--
The blind man held out his hat, that flapped about at the door,
as if it were a bag in the lining that had come unnailed.
And though he knew the poor devil, he pretended to see him for
the first time, murmured something about "cornea," "opaque
cornea," "sclerotic," "facies," then asked him in a paternal
tone--
"My friend, have you long had this terrible infirmity? Instead of
getting drunk at the public, you'd do better to die yourself."
He advised him to take good wine, good beer, and good joints. The
blind man went on with his song; he seemed, moreover, almost
idiotic. At last Monsieur Homais opened his purse--
"Now there's a sou; give me back two lairds, and don't forget my
advice: you'll be the better for it."
Hivert openly cast some doubt on the efficacy of it. But the
druggist said that he would cure himself with an antiphlogistic
pomade of his own composition, and he gave his address--"Monsieur
Homais, near the market, pretty well known."
"Now," said Hivert, "for all this trouble you'll give us your
performance."
The blind man sank down on his haunches, with his head thrown
back, whilst he rolled his greenish eyes, lolled out his tongue,
and rubbed his stomach with both hands as he uttered a kind of
hollow yell like a famished dog. Emma, filled with disgust, threw
him over her shoulder a five-franc piece. It was all her fortune.
It seemed to her very fine thus to throw it away.
The coach had gone on again when suddenly Monsieur Homais leant
out through the window, crying--
"No farinaceous or milk food, wear wool next the skin, and expose
the diseased parts to the smoke of juniper berries."
The sight of the well-known objects that defiled before her eyes
gradually diverted Emma from her present trouble. An intolerable
fatigue overwhelmed her, and she reached her home stupefied,
discouraged, almost asleep.
"Come what may come!" she said to herself. "And then, who knows?
Why, at any moment could not some extraordinary event occur?
Lheureux even might die!"
And the poor girl, deeply moved, handed her a yellow paper that
she had just torn off the door. Emma read with a glance that all
her furniture was for sale.
"You who know the house through the servant, has the master
spoken sometimes of me?"
She dressed, put on her black gown, and her hood with jet beads,
and that she might not be seen (there was still a crowd on the
Place), she took the path by the river, outside the village.
She reached the notary's gate quite breathless. The sky was
sombre, and a little snow was falling. At the sound of the bell,
Theodore in a red waistcoat appeared on the steps; he came to
open the door almost familiarly, as to an acquaintance, and
showed her into the dining-room.
So he knew (and better than she herself) the long story of the
bills, small at first, bearing different names as endorsers, made
out at long dates, and constantly renewed up to the day, when,
gathering together all the protested bills, the shopkeeper had
bidden his friend Vincart take in his own name all the necessary
proceedings, not wishing to pass for a tiger with his
fellow-citizens.
"Do get closer to the stove; put your feet up against the
porcelain."
Then she tried to move him, and, growing moved herself, she began
telling him about the poorness of her home, her worries, her
wants. He could understand that; an elegant woman! and, without
leaving off eating, he had turned completely round towards her,
so that his knee brushed against her boot, whose sole curled
round as it smoked against the stove.
But when she asked for a thousand sous, he closed his lips, and
declared he was very sorry he had not had the management of her
fortune before, for there were hundreds of ways very convenient,
even for a lady, of turning her money to account. They might,
either in the turf-peats of Grumesnil or building-ground at
Havre, almost without risk, have ventured on some excellent
speculations; and he let her consume herself with rage at the
thought of the fabulous sums that she would certainly have made.
"How was it," he went on, "that you didn't come to me?"
He held out his hand, took hers, covered it with a greedy kiss,
then held it on his knee; and he played delicately with her
fingers whilst he murmured a thousand blandishments. His insipid
voice murmured like a running brook; a light shone in his eyes
through the glimmering of his spectacles, and his hand was
advancing up Emma's sleeve to press her arm. She felt against her
cheek his panting breath. This man oppressed her horribly.
"Sir, I am waiting."
"For what?" said the notary, who suddenly became very pale.
"This money."
The notary remained quite stupefied, his eyes fixed on his fine
embroidered slippers. They were a love gift, and the sight of
them at last consoled him. Besides, he reflected that such an
adventure might have carried him too far.
When she saw her house a numbness came over her. She could not go
on; and yet she must. Besides, whither could she flee?
And for a quarter of an hour the two of them went over the
various persons in Yonville who might perhaps be inclined to help
her. But each time that Felicite named someone Emma replied--
She had tried everything; there was nothing more to be done now;
and when Charles came in she would have to say to him--
"Go away! This carpet on which you are walking is no longer ours.
In your own house you do not possess a chair, a pin, a straw, and
it is I, poor man, who have ruined you."
"Yes," she murmured, grinding her teeth, "he will forgive me, he
who would give a million if I would forgive him for having known
me! Never! never!"
She hurried off to tell Madame Caron, and the two ladies went up
to the attic, and, hidden by some linen spread across props,
stationed themselves comfortably for overlooking the whole of
Binet's room.
But it was impossible because of the lathe to hear what she was
saying.
At last these ladies thought they made out the word "francs," and
Madame Tuvache whispered in a low voice--
"She is begging him to give her time for paying her taxes."
They saw her walking up and down, examining the napkin-rings, the
candlesticks, the banister rails against the walls, while Binet
stroked his beard with satisfaction.
"Do you think she wants to order something of him?" said Madame
Tuvache.
"Is she making him advances?" said Madame Tuvache. Binet was
scarlet to his very ears. She took hold of his hands.
"Oh, leave off!" she murmured, fancying she heard Binet's lathe.
"What's bothering her?" said the nurse to herself. "Why has she
come here?"
Lying on her back, motionless, and with staring eyes, she saw
things but vaguely, although she tried to with idiotic
persistence. She looked at the scales on the walls, two brands
smoking end to end, and a long spider crawling over her head in a
rent in the beam. At last she began to collect her thoughts. She
remembered--one day--Leon--Oh! how long ago that was--the sun was
shining on the river, and the clematis were perfuming the air.
Then, carried away as by a rushing torrent, she soon began to
recall the day before.
Mere Rollet went out, raised the fingers of her right hand to
that side of the sky that was brightest, and came back slowly,
saying--
"Nearly three."
For he would come; he would have found some money. But he would,
perhaps, go down yonder, not guessing she was here, and she told
the nurse to run to her house to fetch him.
"Be quick!"
She wondered now that she had not thought of him from the first.
Yesterday he had given his word; he would not break it. And she
already saw herself at Lheureux's spreading out her three
bank-notes on his bureau. Then she would have to invent some
story to explain matters to Bovary. What should it be?
The nurse, however, was a long while gone. But, as there was no
clock in the cot, Emma feared she was perhaps exaggerating the
length of time. She began walking round the garden, step by step;
she went into the path by the hedge, and returned quickly, hoping
that the woman would have come back by another road. At last,
weary of waiting, assailed by fears that she thrust from her, no
longer conscious whether she had been here a century or a moment,
she sat down in a corner, closed her eyes, and stopped her ears.
The gate grated; she sprang up. Before she had spoken Mere Rollet
said to her--
"What?"
Emma answered nothing. She gasped as she turned her eyes about
her, while the peasant woman, frightened at her face, drew back
instinctively, thinking her mad. Suddenly she struck her brow and
uttered a cry; for the thought of Rodolphe, like a flash of
lightning in a dark night, had passed into her soul. He was so
good, so delicate, so generous! And besides, should he hesitate
to do her this service, she would know well enough how to
constrain him to it by re-waking, in a single moment, their lost
love. So she set out towards La Huchette, not seeing that she was
hastening to offer herself to that which but a while ago had so
angered her, not in the least conscious of her prostitution.
Chapter Eight
She entered, as she used to, through the small park-gate. She
reached the avenue bordered by a double row of dense lime-trees.
They were swaying their long whispering branches to and fro. The
dogs in their kennels all barked, and the noise of their voices
resounded, but brought out no one.
She went up the large straight staircase with wooden balusters
that led to the corridor paved with dusty flags, into which
several doors in a row opened, as in a monastery or an inn. His
was at the top, right at the end, on the left. When she placed
her fingers on the lock her strength suddenly deserted her. She
was afraid, almost wished he would not be there, though this was
her only hope, her last chance of salvation. She collected her
thoughts for one moment, and, strengthening herself by the
feeling of present necessity, went in.
"Oh," she replied bitterly, "they are poor charms since you
disdained them."
She yielded to his words, still more to his voice and the sight
of him, so that, she pretended to believe, or perhaps believed;
in the pretext he gave for their rupture; this was a secret on
which depended the honour, the very life of a third person.
"No matter!" she said, looking at him sadly. "I have suffered
much."
He replied philosophically--
"Such is life!"
"Has life," Emma went on, "been good to you at least, since our
separation?"
"You think so?" she said, drawing nearer, and she sighed. "Oh,
Rodolphe! if you but knew! I loved you so!"
It was then that she took his hand, and they remained some time,
their fingers intertwined, like that first day at the Show. With
a gesture of pride he struggled against this emotion. But sinking
upon his breast she said to him--
"How did you think I could live without you? One cannot lose the
habit of happiness. I was desolate. I thought I should die. I
will tell you about all that and you will see. And you--you fled
from me!"
And she was charming to see, with her eyes, in which trembled a
tear, like the rain of a storm in a blue corolla.
He had drawn her upon his knees, and with the back of his hand
was caressing her smooth hair, where in the twilight was mirrored
like a golden arrow one last ray of the sun. She bent down her
brow; at last he kissed her on the eyelids quite gently with the
tips of his lips.
"Oh, forgive me! You are the only one who pleases me. I was
imbecile and cruel. I love you. I will love you always. What is
it. Tell me!" He was kneeling by her.
"Well, I am ruined, Rodolphe! You must lend me three thousand
francs."
"You know," she went on quickly, "that my husband had placed his
whole fortune at a notary's. He ran away. So we borrowed; the
patients don't pay us. Moreover, the settling of the estate is
not yet done; we shall have the money later on. But to-day, for
want of three thousand francs, we are to be sold up. It is to be
at once, this very moment, and, counting upon your friendship, I
have come to you."
"Ah!" thought Rodolphe, turning very pale, "that was what she
came for." At last he said with a calm air--
"You have not got them!" she repeated several times. "You have
not got them! I ought to have spared myself this last shame. You
never loved me. You are no better than the others."
And fixing her eyes upon an embossed carabine, that shone against
its panoply, "But when one is so poor one doesn't have silver on
the butt of one's gun. One doesn't buy a clock inlaid with
tortoise shell," she went on, pointing to a buhl timepiece, "nor
silver-gilt whistles for one's whips," and she touched them, "nor
charms for one's watch. Oh, he wants for nothing! even to a
liqueur-stand in his room! For you love yourself; you live well.
You have a chateau, farms, woods; you go hunting; you travel to
Paris. Why, if it were but that," she cried, taking up two studs
from the mantelpiece, "but the least of these trifles, one can
get money for them. Oh, I do not want them, keep them!"
And she threw the two links away from her, their gold chain
breaking as it struck against the wall.
"But I! I would have given you everything. I would have sold all,
worked for you with my hands, I would have begged on the
highroads for a smile, for a look, to hear you say 'Thanks!' And
you sit there quietly in your arm-chair, as if you had not made
me suffer enough already! But for you, and you know it, I might
have lived happily. What made you do it? Was it a bet? Yet you
loved me--you said so. And but a moment since--Ah! it would have
been better to have driven me away. My hands are hot with your
kisses, and there is the spot on the carpet where at my knees you
swore an eternity of love! You made me believe you; for two years
you held me in the most magnificent, the sweetest dream! Eh! Our
plans for the journey, do you remember? Oh, your letter! your
letter! it tore my heart! And then when I come back to him--to
him, rich, happy, free--to implore the help the first stranger
would give, a suppliant, and bringing back to him all my
tenderness, he repulses me because it would cost him three
thousand francs!"
"I haven't got them," replied Rodolphe, with that perfect calm
with which resigned rage covers itself as with a shield.
She went out. The walls trembled, the ceiling was crushing her,
and she passed back through the long alley, stumbling against the
heaps of dead leaves scattered by the wind. At last she reached
the ha-ha hedge in front of the gate; she broke her nails against
the lock in her haste to open it. Then a hundred steps farther
on, breathless, almost falling, she stopped. And now turning
round, she once more saw the impassive chateau, with the park,
the gardens, the three courts, and all the windows of the facade.
Now her situation, like an abyss, rose up before her. She was
panting as if her heart would burst. Then in an ecstasy of
heroism, that made her almost joyous, she ran down the hill,
crossed the cow-plank, the foot-path, the alley, the market, and
reached the chemist's shop. She was about to enter, but at the
sound of the bell someone might come, and slipping in by the
gate, holding her breath, feeling her way along the walls, she
went as far as the door of the kitchen, where a candle stuck on
the stove was burning. Justin in his shirt-sleeves was carrying
out a dish.
"What?"
As the partition wall was thin, they could hear the clatter of
the forks on the plates in the dining-room.
She pretended that she wanted to kill the rats that kept her from
sleeping.
"No, stay!" Then with an indifferent air, "Oh, it's not worth
while; I'll tell him presently. Come, light me upstairs."
She entered the corridor into which the laboratory door opened.
Against the wall was a key labelled Capharnaum.
"Let us go up."
And he followed her. The key turned in the lock, and she went
straight to the third shelf, so well did her memory guide her,
seized the blue jar, tore out the cork, plunged in her hand, and
withdrawing it full of a white powder, she began eating it.
Then she went home, suddenly calmed, and with something of the
serenity of one that had performed a duty.
She sat down at her writing-table and wrote a letter, which she
sealed slowly, adding the date and the hour. Then she said in a
solemn tone:
"You are to read it to-morrow; till then, I pray you, do not ask
me a single question. No, not one!"
"But--"
She lay down full length on her bed. A bitter taste that she felt
in her mouth awakened her. She saw Charles, and again closed her
eyes.
"Ah! it is but a little thing, death!" she thought. "I shall fall
asleep and all will be over."
She was seized with a sickness so sudden that she had hardly time
to draw out her handkerchief from under the pillow.
He spoke to her; she did not answer. She lay motionless, afraid
that the slightest movement might make her vomit. But she felt an
icy cold creeping from her feet to her heart.
She turned her head from side to side with a gentle movement full
of agony, while constantly opening her mouth as if something very
heavy were weighing upon her tongue. At eight o'clock the
vomiting began again.
Charles noticed that at the bottom of the basin there was a sort
of white sediment sticking to the sides of the porcelain.
Then gently, and almost as caressing her, he passed his hand over
her stomach. She uttered a sharp cry. He fell back
terror-stricken.
"Tell me! what have you eaten? Answer, for heaven's sake!"
"What! help--help!"
Then going back to her, he sank upon the carpet, and lay there
with his head leaning against the edge of her bed, sobbing.
"Don't cry," she said to him. "Soon I shall not trouble you any
more."
And she passed her hand slowly over his hair. The sweetness of
this sensation deepened his sadness; he felt his whole being
dissolving in despair at the thought that he must lose her, just
when she was confessing more love for him than ever. And he could
think of nothing; he did not know, he did not dare; the urgent
need for some immediate resolution gave the finishing stroke to
the turmoil of his mind.
So she had done, she thought, with all the treachery; and
meanness, and numberless desires that had tortured her. She hated
no one now; a twilight dimness was settling upon her thoughts,
and, of all earthly noises, Emma heard none but the intermittent
lamentations of this poor heart, sweet and indistinct like the
echo of a symphony dying away.
"No, no!"
Felicite held her over the bed while she still kept looking
towards the mantelpiece.
And at this name, that carried her back to the memory of her
adulteries and her calamities, Madame Bovary turned away her
head, as at the loathing of another bitterer poison that rose to
her mouth. But Berthe remained perched on the bed.
"Oh, how big your eyes are, mamma! How pale you are! how hot you
are!"
Then the symptoms ceased for a moment; she seemed less agitated;
and at every insignificant word, at every respiration a little
more easy, he regained hope. At last, when Canivet came in, he
threw himself into his arms.
"Ah! it is you. Thanks! You are good! But she is better. See!
look at her."
She soon began vomiting blood. Her lips became drawn. Her limbs
were convulsed, her whole body covered with brown spots, and her
pulse slipped beneath the fingers like a stretched thread, like a
harp-string nearly breaking.
After this she began to scream horribly. She cursed the poison,
railed at it, and implored it to be quick, and thrust away with
her stiffened arms everything that Charles, in more agony than
herself, tried to make her drink. He stood up, his handkerchief
to his lips, with a rattling sound in his throat, weeping, and
choked by sobs that shook his whole body. Felicite was running
hither and thither in the room. Homais, motionless, uttered great
sighs; and Monsieur Canivet, always retaining his self-command,
nevertheless began to feel uneasy.
"The devil! yet she has been purged, and from the moment that the
cause ceases--"
"Good! good!"
Charles caught him in both his arms, and gazed at him wildly,
imploringly, half-fainting against his breast.
"Come, my poor fellow, courage! There is nothing more to be
done."
"You must excuse us, sir, for in this poor place, when one hasn't
been told the night before--"
"I don't know, doctor, and I don't even know where she can have
procured the arsenious acid."
At this question the young man dropped the whole lot on the
ground with a crash.
"You would have done better," said the physician, "to introduce
your fingers into her throat."
"I have even read that various persons have found themselves
under toxicological symptoms, and, as it were, thunderstricken by
black-pudding that had been subjected to a too vehement
fumigation. At least, this was stated in a very fine report drawn
up by one of our pharmaceutical chiefs, one of our masters, the
illustrious Cadet de Gassicourt!"
Then he had all his children brought down, anxious to have the
physician's opinion on their constitutions.
At last Monsieur Lariviere was about to leave, when Madame Homais
asked for a consultation about her husband. He was making his
blood too thick by going to sleep every evening after dinner.
"Oh, it isn't his blood that's too thick," said the physician.
The room when they went in was full of mournful solemnity. On the
work-table, covered over with a white cloth, there were five or
six small balls of cotton in a silver dish, near a large crucifix
between two lighted candles.
Emma, her chin sunken upon her breast, had her eyes inordinately
wide open, and her poor hands wandered over the sheets with that
hideous and soft movement of the dying, that seems as if they
wanted already to cover themselves with the shroud. Pale as a
statue and with eyes red as fire, Charles, not weeping, stood
opposite her at the foot of the bed, while the priest, bending
one knee, was muttering words in a low voice.
She turned her face slowly, and seemed filled with joy on seeing
suddenly the violet stole, no doubt finding again, in the midst
of a temporary lull in her pain, the lost voluptuousness of her
first mystical transports, with the visions of eternal beatitude
that were beginning.
The priest rose to take the crucifix; then she stretched forward
her neck as one who is athirst, and glueing her lips to the body
of the Man-God, she pressed upon it with all her expiring
strength the fullest kiss of love that she had ever given. Then
he recited the Misereatur and the Indulgentiam, dipped his right
thumb in the oil, and began to give extreme unction. First upon
the eyes, that had so coveted all worldly pomp; then upon the
nostrils, that had been greedy of the warm breeze and amorous
odours; then upon the mouth, that had uttered lies, that had
curled with pride and cried out in lewdness; then upon the hands
that had delighted in sensual touches; and finally upon the soles
of the feet, so swift of yore, when she was running to satisfy
her desires, and that would now walk no more.
The cure wiped his fingers, threw the bit of cotton dipped in oil
into the fire, and came and sat down by the dying woman, to tell
her that she must now blend her sufferings with those of Jesus
Christ and abandon herself to the divine mercy.
However, she was not quite so pale, and her face had an
expression of serenity as if the sacrament had cured her.
The priest did not fail to point this out; he even explained to
Bovary that the Lord sometimes prolonged the life of persons when
he thought it meet for their salvation; and Charles remembered
the day when, so near death, she had received the communion.
Perhaps there was no need to despair, he thought.
Suddenly on the pavement was heard a loud noise of clogs and the
clattering of a stick; and a voice rose--a raucous voice--that
sang--
She fell back upon the mattress in a convulsion. They all drew
near. She was dead.
Chapter Nine
"Farewell! farewell!"
"Restrain yourself!"
And he wept.
"Cry," said the chemist; "let nature take her course; that will
solace you."
But he did not finish, choking beneath the crowd of memories that
this action of the druggist recalled to him.
The druggist, at his wit's end, began softly to draw aside the
small window-curtain.
Homais did not dare to speak to him again about the funeral
arrangements; it was the priest who succeeded in reconciling him
to them.
The two men were much surprised at Bovary's romantic ideas. The
chemist at once went to him and said--
"What's that to you?" cried Charles. "Leave me! You did not love
her. Go!"
The priest took him by the arm for a turn in the garden. He
discoursed on the vanity of earthly things. God was very great,
was very good: one must submit to his decrees without a murmur;
nay, must even thank him.
Bovary was far away. He was walking with great strides along by
the wall, near the espalier, and he ground his teeth; he raised
to heaven looks of malediction, but not so much as a leaf
stirred.
A fine rain was falling: Charles, whose chest was bare, at last
began to shiver; he went in and sat down in the kitchen.
Monsieur Bournisien was there, and two large candles were burning
at the head of the bed, that had been taken out of the alcove.
The druggist, on whom the silence weighed, was not long before he
began formulating some regrets about this "unfortunate young
woman." and the priest replied that there was nothing to do now
but pray for her.
"Yet," Homais went on, "one of two things; either she died in a
state of grace (as the Church has it), and then she has no need
of our prayers; or else she departed impertinent (that is, I
believe, the ecclesiastical expression), and then--"
"But," objected the chemist, "since God knows all our needs, what
can be the good of prayer?"
"Oh! oh! As to texts, look at history; it, is known that all the
texts have been falsified by the Jesuits."
Charles came in, and advancing towards the bed, slowly drew the
curtains.
Emma's head was turned towards her right shoulder, the corner of
her mouth, which was open, seemed like a black hole at the lower
part of her face; her two thumbs were bent into the palms of her
hands; a kind of white dust besprinkled her lashes, and her eyes
were beginning to disappear in that viscous pallor that looks
like a thin web, as if spiders had spun it over. The sheet sunk
in from her breast to her knees, and then rose at the tips of her
toes, and it seemed to Charles that infinite masses, an enormous
load, were weighing upon her.
The church clock struck two. They could hear the loud murmur of
the river flowing in the darkness at the foot of the terrace.
Monsieur Bournisien from time to time blew his nose noisily, and
Homais' pen was scratching over the paper.
Charles once gone, the chemist and the cure recommenced their
discussions.
They grew warm, they grew red, they both talked at once without
listening to each other. Bournisien was scandalized at such
audacity; Homais marvelled at such stupidity; and they were on
the point of insulting one another when Charles suddenly
reappeared. A fascination drew him. He was continually coming
upstairs.
He stood opposite her, the better to see her, and he lost himself
in a contemplation so deep that it was no longer painful.
Charles remained alone the whole afternoon; they had taken Berthe
to Madame Homais'; Felicite was in the room upstairs with Madame
Lefrancois.
Homais, when he returned at nine o'clock (for the last two days
only Homais seemed to have been on the Place), was laden with a
stock of camphor, of benzine, and aromatic herbs. He also carried
a large jar full of chlorine water, to keep off all miasmata.
Just then the servant, Madame Lefrancois, and Madame Bovary
senior were busy about Emma, finishing dressing her, and they
were drawing down the long stiff veil that covered her to her
satin shoes.
"Look at her," said the landlady, sighing; "how pretty she still
is! Now, couldn't you swear she was going to get up in a minute?"
Then they bent over her to put on her wreath. They had to raise
the head a little, and a rush of black liquid issued, as if she
were vomiting, from her mouth.
"I afraid?" replied he, shrugging his shoulders. "I dare say!
I've seen all sorts of things at the hospital when I was studying
pharmacy. We used to make punch in the dissecting room!
Nothingness does not terrify a philosopher; and, as I often say,
I even intend to leave my body to the hospitals, in order, later
on, to serve science."
The cure on his arrival inquired how Monsieur Bovary was, and, on
the reply of the druggist, went on--"The blow, you see, is still
too recent."
A continual barking was heard in the distance. "Do you hear that
dog howling?" said the chemist.
"They smell the dead," replied the priest. "It's like bees; they
leave their hives on the decease of any person."
Charles coming in did not wake them. It was the last time; he
came to bid her farewell.
They dragged him down into the sitting-room. Then Felicite came
up to say that he wanted some of her hair.
And as she did not dare to, he himself stepped forward, scissors
in hand. He trembled so that he pierced the skin of the temple in
several places. At last, stiffening himself against emotion,
Homais gave two or three great cuts at random that left white
patches amongst that beautiful black hair.
The chemist and the cure plunged anew into their occupations, not
without sleeping from time to time, of which they accused each
other reciprocally at each fresh awakening. Then Monsieur
Bournisien sprinkled the room with holy water and Homais threw a
little chlorine water on the floor.
Felicite had taken care to put on the chest of drawers, for each
of them, a bottle of brandy, some cheese, and a large roll. And
the druggist, who could not hold out any longer, about four in
the morning sighed--
The priest did not need any persuading; he went out to go and say
mass, came back, and then they ate and hobnobbed, giggling a
little without knowing why, stimulated by that vague gaiety that
comes upon us after times of sadness, and at the last glass the
priest said to the druggist, as he clapped him on the shoulder--
In the passage downstairs they met the undertaker's men, who were
coming in. Then Charles for two hours had to suffer the torture
of hearing the hammer resound against the wood. Next day they
lowered her into her oak coffin, that was fitted into the other
two; but as the bier was too large, they had to fill up the gaps
with the wool of a mattress. At last, when the three lids had
been planed down, nailed, soldered, it was placed outside in
front of the door; the house was thrown open, and the people of
Yonville began to flock round.
Old Rouault arrived, and fainted on the Place when he saw the
black cloth!
Chapter Ten
He entered Maromme shouting for the people of the inn, burst open
the door with a thrust of his shoulder, made for a sack of oats,
emptied a bottle of sweet cider into the manger, and again
mounted his nag, whose feet struck fire as it dashed along.
He said to himself that no doubt they would save her; the doctors
would discover some remedy surely. He remembered all the
miraculous cures he had been told about. Then she appeared to him
dead. She was there; before his eyes, lying on her back in the
middle of the road. He reined up, and the hallucination
disappeared.
The other replied, sobbing, "I don't know! I don't know! It's a
curse!"
The poor fellow tried to show himself brave, and repeated several
times. "Yes! courage!"
"Oh," cried the old man, "so I will have, by God! I'll go along
o' her to the end!"
The bell began tolling. All was ready; they had to start. And
seated in a stall of the choir, side by side, they saw pass and
repass in front of them continually the three chanting
choristers.
*Psalm CXXX.
The black cloth bestrewn with white beads blew up from time to
time, laying bare the coffin. The tired bearers walked more
slowly, and it advanced with constant jerks, like a boat that
pitches with every wave.
They reached the cemetery. The men went right down to a place in
the grass where a grave was dug. They ranged themselves all
round; and while the priest spoke, the red soil thrown up at the
sides kept noiselessly slipping down at the corners.
Then when the four ropes were arranged the coffin was placed upon
them. He watched it descend; it seemed descending for ever. At
last a thud was heard; the ropes creaked as they were drawn up.
Then Bournisien took the spade handed to him by Lestiboudois;
with his left hand all the time sprinkling water, with the right
he vigorously threw in a large spadeful; and the wood of the
coffin, struck by the pebbles, gave forth that dread sound that
seems to us the reverberation of eternity.
Old Rouault on his way back began quietly smoking a pipe, which
Homais in his innermost conscience thought not quite the thing.
He also noticed that Monsieur Binet had not been present, and
that Tuvache had "made off" after mass, and that Theodore, the
notary's servant wore a blue coat, "as if one could not have got
a black coat, since that is the custom, by Jove!" And to share
his observations with others he went from group to group. They
were deploring Emma's death, especially Lheureux, who had not
failed to come to the funeral.
"Such a good woman! To think that I saw her only last Saturday in
my shop."
"I haven't had leisure," said Homais, "to prepare a few words that I would have cast
upon her tomb."
Madame Bovary senior was with them. All three were silent. At
last the old fellow sighed--
"Do you remember, my friend, that I went to Tostes once when you
had just lost your first deceased? I consoled you at that time. I
thought of something to say then, but now--" Then, with a loud
groan that shook his whole chest, "Ah! this is the end for me, do
you see! I saw my wife go, then my son, and now to-day it's my
daughter."
"No, no! It would grieve me too much. Only you'll kiss her many
times for me. Good-bye! you're a good fellow! And then I shall
never forget that," he said, slapping his thigh. "Never fear, you
shall always have your turkey."
But when he reached the top of the hill he turned back, as he had
turned once before on the road of Saint-Victor when he had parted
from her. The windows of the village were all on fire beneath the
slanting rays of the sun sinking behind the field. He put his
hand over his eyes, and saw in the horizon an enclosure of walls,
where trees here and there formed black clusters between white
stones; then he went on his way at a gentle trot, for his nag had
gone lame.
Despite their fatigue, Charles and his mother stayed very long
that evening talking together. They spoke of the days of the past
and of the future. She would come to live at Yonville; she would
keep house for him; they would never part again. She was
ingenious and caressing, rejoicing in her heart at gaining once
more an affection that had wandered from her for so many years.
Midnight struck. The village as usual was silent, and Charles,
awake, thought always of her.
Chapter Eleven
The next day Charles had the child brought back. She asked for
her mamma. They told her she was away; that she would bring her
back some playthings. Berthe spoke of her again several times,
then at last thought no more of her. The child's gaiety broke
Bovary's heart, and he had to bear besides the intolerable
consolations of the chemist.
With every debt he paid Charles thought he had come to the end of
them. But others followed ceaselessly. He sent in accounts for
professional attendance. He was shown the letters his wife had
written. Then he had to apologise.
Felicite now wore Madame Bovary's gowns; not all, for he had kept
some of them, and he went to look at them in her dressing-room,
locking himself up there; she was about her height, and often
Charles, seeing her from behind, was seized with an illusion, and
cried out--
It was about this time that the widow Dupuis had the honour to
inform him of the "marriage of Monsieur Leon Dupuis her son,
notary at Yvetot, to Mademoiselle Leocadie Leboeuf of
Bondeville." Charles, among the other congratulations he sent
him, wrote this sentence--
One day when, wandering aimlessly about the house, he had gone up
to the attic, he felt a pellet of fine paper under his slipper.
He opened it and read: "Courage, Emma, courage. I would not bring
misery into your life." It was Rodolphe's letter, fallen to the
ground between the boxes, where it had remained, and that the
wind from the dormer window had just blown towards the door. And
Charles stood, motionless and staring, in the very same place
where, long ago, Emma, in despair, and paler even than he, had
thought of dying. At last he discovered a small R at the bottom
of the second page. What did this mean? He remembered Rodolphe's
attentions, his sudden, disappearance, his constrained air when
they had met two or three times since. But the respectful tone of
the letter deceived him.
No one now came to see them, for Justin had run away to Rouen,
where he was a grocer's assistant, and the druggist's children
saw less and less of the child, Monsieur Homais not caring,
seeing the difference of their social position, to continue the
intimacy.
The blind man, whom he had not been able to cure with the pomade,
had gone back to the hill of Bois-Guillaume, where he told the
travellers of the vain attempt of the druggist, to such an
extent, that Homais when he went to town hid himself behind the
curtains of the "Hirondelle" to avoid meeting him. He detested
him, and wishing, in the interests of his own reputation, to get
rid of him at all costs, he directed against him a secret
battery, that betrayed the depth of his intellect and the
baseness of his vanity. Thus, for six consecutive months, one
could read in the "Fanal de Rouen" editorials such as these--
"All who bend their steps towards the fertile plains of Picardy
have, no doubt, remarked, by the Bois-Guillaume hill, a wretch
suffering from a horrible facial wound. He importunes, persecutes
one, and levies a regular tax on all travellers. Are we still
living in the monstrous times of the Middle Ages, when vagabonds
were permitted to display in our public places leprosy and
scrofulas they had brought back from the Crusades?"
Or--
He managed so well that the fellow was locked up. But he was
released. He began again, and Homais began again. It was a
struggle. Homais won it, for his foe was condemned to life-long
confinement in an asylum.
* Rest traveler.
** Tread upon a loving wife.
In spite of the economy with which Bovary lived, he was far from
being able to pay off his old debts. Lheureux refused to renew
any more bills. A distraint became imminent. Then he appealed to
his mother, who consented to let him take a mortgage on her
property, but with a great many recriminations against Emma; and
in return for her sacrifice she asked for a shawl that had
escaped the depredations of Felicite. Charles refused to give it
her; they quarrelled.
Opposite his house, flourishing and merry, was the family of the
chemist, with whom everything was prospering. Napoleon helped him
in the laboratory, Athalie embroidered him a skullcap, Irma cut
out rounds of paper to cover the preserves, and Franklin recited
Pythagoras' table in a breath. He was the happiest of fathers,
the most fortunate of men.
Not so! A secret ambition devoured him. Homais hankered after the
cross of the Legion of Honour. He had plenty of claims to it.
And every morning the druggist rushed for the paper to see if his
nomination were in it. It was never there. At last, unable to
bear it any longer, he had a grass plot in his garden designed to
represent the Star of the Cross of Honour with two little strips
of grass running from the top to imitate the ribband. He walked
round it with folded arms, meditating on the folly of the
Government and the ingratitude of men.
In the evening in summer he took his little girl with him and led
her to the cemetery. They came back at nightfall, when the only
light left in the Place was that in Binet's window.
But the landlady only listened with half an ear, having troubles
like himself. For Lheureux had at last established the "Favorites
du Commerce," and Hivert, who enjoyed a great reputation for
doing errands, insisted on a rise of wages, and was threatening
to go over "to the opposition shop."
One day when he had gone to the market at Argueil to sell his
horse--his last resource--he met Rodolphe.
They both turned pale when they caught sight of one another.
Rodolphe, who had only sent his card, first stammered some
apologies, then grew bolder, and even pushed his assurance (it
was in the month of August and very hot) to the length of
inviting him to have a bottle of beer at the public-house.
Rodolphe was dumb. And Charles, his head in his hands, went on in
a broken voice, and with the resigned accent of infinite sorrow--
Rodolphe, who had managed the fatality, thought the remark very
offhand from a man in his position, comic even, and a little
mean.
The next day Charles went to sit down on the seat in the arbour.
Rays of light were straying through the trellis, the vine leaves
threw their shadows on the sand, the jasmines perfumed the air,
the heavens were blue, Spanish flies buzzed round the lilies in
bloom, and Charles was suffocating like a youth beneath the vague
love influences that filled his aching heart.
At seven o'clock little Berthe, who had not seen him all the
afternoon, went to fetch him to dinner.
His head was thrown back against the wall, his eyes closed, his
mouth open, and in his hand was a long tress of black hair.