Part I: Chapter Three

by Gustave Flaubert

　　One morning old Rouault brought Charles the money for setting hisleg--seventy-five francs in forty-sou pieces, and a turkey. Hehad 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'vebeen through it. When I lost my dear departed, I went into thefields 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 likethe moles that I saw on the branches, their insides swarming withworms, dead, and an end of it. And when I thought that there wereothers at that very moment with their nice little wives holdingthem in their embrace, I struck great blows on the earth with mystick. I was pretty well mad with not eating; the very idea ofgoing 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 hassunk; for something always remains at the bottom as one wouldsay--a weight here, at one's heart. But since it is the lot ofall of us, one must not give way altogether, and, because othershave died, want to die too. You must pull yourself together,Monsieur Bovary. It will pass away. Come to see us; my daughterthinks of you now and again, d'ye know, and she says you areforgetting her. Spring will soon be here. We'll have somerabbit-shooting in the warrens to amuse you a bit."

　　Charles followed his advice. He went back to the Bertaux. Hefound all as he had left it, that is to say, as it was fivemonths ago. The pear trees were already in blossom, and FarmerRouault, on his legs again, came and went, making the farm morefull of life.

　　Thinking it his duty to heap the greatest attention upon thedoctor because of his sad position, he begged him not to take hishat off, spoke to him in an undertone as if he had been ill, andeven pretended to be angry because nothing rather lighter hadbeen prepared for him than for the others, such as a littleclotted cream or stewed pears. He told stories. Charles foundhimself laughing, but the remembrance of his wife suddenly comingback to him depressed him. Coffee was brought in; he thought nomore about her.

　　He thought less of her as he grew accustomed to living alone. Thenew delight of independence soon made his loneliness bearable. Hecould now change his meal-times, go in or out withoutexplanation, and when he was very tired stretch himself at fulllength on his bed. So he nursed and coddled himself and acceptedthe consolations that were offered him. On the other hand, thedeath of his wife had not served him ill in his business, sincefor a month people had been saying, "The poor young man! what aloss!" His name had been talked about, his practice hadincreased; and moreover, he could go to the Bertaux just as heliked. He had an aimless hope, and was vaguely happy; he thoughthimself better looking as he brushed his whiskers before thelooking-glass.

　　One day he got there about three o'clock. Everybody was in thefields. He went into the kitchen, but did not at once catch sightof Emma; the outside shutters were closed. Through the chinks ofthe wood the sun sent across the flooring long fine rays thatwere broken at the corners of the furniture and trembled alongthe ceiling. Some flies on the table were crawling up the glassesthat had been used, and buzzing as they drowned themselves in thedregs of the cider. The daylight that came in by the chimney madevelvet of the soot at the back of the fireplace, and touched withblue the cold cinders. Between the window and the hearth Emma wassewing; she wore no fichu; he could see small drops ofperspiration on her bare shoulders.

　　After the fashion of country folks she asked him to havesomething to drink. He said no; she insisted, and at lastlaughingly offered to have a glass of liqueur with him. So shewent to fetch a bottle of curacao from the cupboard, reached downtwo small glasses, filled one to the brim, poured scarcelyanything into the other, and, after having clinked glasses,carried hers to her mouth. As it was almost empty she bent backto drink, her head thrown back, her lips pouting, her neck on thestrain. She laughed at getting none of it, while with the tip ofher tongue passing between her small teeth she licked drop bydrop the bottom of her glass.

　　She sat down again and took up her work, a white cotton stockingshe was darning. She worked with her head bent down; she did notspeak, nor did Charles. The air coming in under the door blew alittle dust over the flags; he watched it drift along, and heardnothing but the throbbing in his head and the faint clucking of ahen that had laid an egg in the yard. Emma from time to timecooled her cheeks with the palms of her hands, and cooled theseagain on the knobs of the huge fire-dogs.

　　She complained of suffering since the beginning of the seasonfrom giddiness; she asked if sea-baths would do her any good; shebegan talking of her convent, Charles of his school; words cameto them. They went up into her bedroom. She showed him her oldmusic-books, the little prizes she had won, and the oak-leafcrowns, left at the bottom of a cupboard. She spoke to him, too,of her mother, of the country, and even showed him the bed in thegarden where, on the first Friday of every month, she gatheredflowers to put on her mother's tomb. But the gardener they hadnever knew anything about it; servants are so stupid! She wouldhave dearly liked, if only for the winter, to live in town,although the length of the fine days made the country perhapseven more wearisome in the summer. And, according to what she wassaying, her voice was clear, sharp, or, on a sudden all languor,drawn out in modulations that ended almost in murmurs as shespoke to herself, now joyous, opening big naive eyes, then withher eyelids half closed, her look full of boredom, her thoughtswandering.

　　Going home at night, Charles went over her words one by one,trying to recall them, to fill out their sense, that he mightpiece out the life she had lived before he knew her. But he neversaw her in his thoughts other than he had seen her the firsttime, or as he had just left her. Then he asked himself whatwould become of her--if she would be married, and to whom! Alas!Old Rouault was rich, and she!--so beautiful! But Emma's facealways rose before his eyes, and a monotone, like the humming ofa top, sounded in his ears, "If you should marry after all! Ifyou should marry!" At night he could not sleep; his throat wasparched; he was athirst. He got up to drink from the water-bottleand opened the window. The night was covered with stars, a warmwind blowing in the distance; the dogs were barking. He turnedhis head towards the Bertaux.

　　Thinking that, after all, he should lose nothing, Charlespromised himself to ask her in marriage as soon as occasionoffered, but each time such occasion did offer the fear of notfinding the right words sealed his lips.

　　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 excusedher, thinking her too clever for farming, a calling under the banof Heaven, since one never saw a millionaire in it. Far fromhaving made a fortune by it, the good man was losing every year;for if he was good in bargaining, in which he enjoyed the dodgesof the trade, on the other hand, agriculture properly so called,and the internal management of the farm, suited him less thanmost people. He did not willingly take his hands out of hispockets, and did not spare expense in all that concerned himself,liking to eat well, to have good fires, and to sleep well. Heliked old cider, underdone legs of mutton, glorias* well beatenup. He took his meals in the kitchen alone, opposite the fire, ona little table brought to him all ready laid as on the stage.

　　*A mixture of coffee and spirits.

　　When, therefore, he perceived that Charles's cheeks grew red ifnear his daughter, which meant that he would propose for her oneof these days, he chewed the cud of the matter beforehand. Hecertainly thought him a little meagre, and not quite theson-in-law he would have liked, but he was said to be wellbrought-up, economical, very learned, and no doubt would not maketoo many difficulties about the dowry. Now, as old Rouault wouldsoon be forced to sell twenty-two acres of "his property,"as he owed a good deal to the mason, to the harness-maker, and asthe shaft of the cider-press wanted renewing, "If he asks forher," he said to himself, "I'll give her to him."

　　At Michaelmas Charles went to spend three days at the Bertaux.

　　The last had passed like the others in procrastinating from hourto hour. Old Rouault was seeing him off; they were walking alongthe road full of ruts; they were about to part. This was thetime. Charles gave himself as far as to the corner of the hedge,and at last, when past it--

　　"Monsieur Rouault," he murmured, "I should like to say somethingto you."

　　They stopped. Charles was silent.

　　"Well, tell me your story. Don't I know all about it?" said oldRouault, laughing softly.

　　"Monsieur Rouault--Monsieur Rouault," stammered Charles.

　　"I ask nothing better", the farmer went on. "Although, no doubt,the little one is of my mind, still we must ask her opinion. Soyou get off--I'll go back home. If it is "yes", you needn'treturn because of all the people about, and besides it wouldupset 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."

　　And he went off.

　　Charles fastened his horse to a tree; he ran into the road andwaited. Half an hour passed, then he counted nineteen minutes byhis watch. Suddenly a noise was heard against the wall; theshutter had been thrown back; the hook was still swinging.

　　The next day by nine o'clock he was at the farm. Emma blushed ashe entered, and she gave a little forced laugh to keep herself incountenance. Old Rouault embraced his future son-in-law. Thediscussion of money matters was put off; moreover, there wasplenty of time before them, as the marriage could not decentlytake 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 busywith her trousseau. Part of it was ordered at Rouen, and she madeherself chemises and nightcaps after fashion-plates that sheborrowed. When Charles visited the farmer, the preparations forthe wedding were talked over; they wondered in what room theyshould have dinner; they dreamed of the number of dishes thatwould be wanted, and what should be entrees.

　　Emma would, on the contrary, have preferred to have a midnightwedding with torches, but old Rouault could not understand suchan idea. So there was a wedding at which forty-three persons werepresent, at which they remained sixteen hours at table, beganagain the next day, and to some extent on the days following.