Part II: Chapter Five

by Gustave Flaubert

　　It was a Sunday in February, an afternoon when the snow wasfalling.

　　They had all, Monsieur and Madame Bovary, Homais, and MonsieurLeon, gone to see a yarn-mill that was being built in the valleya mile and a half from Yonville. The druggist had taken Napoleonand Athalie to give them some exercise, and Justin accompaniedthem, carrying the umbrellas on his shoulder.

　　Nothing, however, could be less curious than this curiosity. Agreat piece of waste ground, on which pell-mell, amid a mass ofsand and stones, were a few break-wheels, already rusty,surrounded by a quadrangular building pierced by a number oflittle windows. The building was unfinished; the sky could beseen through the joists of the roofing. Attached to thestop-plank of the gable a bunch of straw mixed with corn-earsfluttered its tricoloured ribbons in the wind.

　　Homais was talking. He explained to the company the futureimportance of this establishment, computed the strength of thefloorings, the thickness of the walls, and regretted extremelynot having a yard-stick such as Monsieur Binet possessed for hisown special use.

　　Emma, who had taken his arm, bent lightly against his shoulder,and she looked at the sun's disc shedding afar through the misthis pale splendour. She turned. Charles was there. His cap wasdrawn down over his eyebrows, and his two thick lips weretrembling, which added a look of stupidity to his face; his veryback, his calm back, was irritating to behold, and she sawwritten upon his coat all the platitude of the bearer.

　　While she was considering him thus, tasting in her irritation asort of depraved pleasure, Leon made a step forward. The coldthat made him pale seemed to add a more gentle languor to hisface; between his cravat and his neck the somewhat loose collarof his shirt showed the skin; the lobe of his ear looked out frombeneath a lock of hair, and his large blue eyes, raised to theclouds, seemed to Emma more limpid and more beautiful than thosemountain-lakes where the heavens are mirrored.

　　"Wretched boy!" suddenly cried the chemist.

　　And he ran to his son, who had just precipitated himself into aheap of lime in order to whiten his boots. At the reproaches withwhich he was being overwhelmed Napoleon began to roar, whileJustin dried his shoes with a wisp of straw. But a knife waswanted; Charles offered his.

　　"Ah!" she said to herself, "he carried a knife in his pocket likea peasant."

　　The hoar-frost was falling, and they turned back to Yonville.

　　In the evening Madame Bovary did not go to her neighbour's, andwhen Charles had left and she felt herself alone, the comparisonre-began with the clearness of a sensation almost actual, andwith that lengthening of perspective which memory gives tothings. Looking from her bed at the clean fire that was burning,she still saw, as she had down there, Leon standing up with onehand behind his cane, and with the other holding Athalie, who wasquietly sucking a piece of ice. She thought him charming; shecould not tear herself away from him; she recalled his otherattitudes on other days, the words he had spoken, the sound ofhis voice, his whole person; and she repeated, pouting out herlips as if for a kiss--

　　"Yes, charming! charming! Is he not in love?" she asked herself;"but with whom? With me?"

　　All the proofs arose before her at once; her heart leapt. Theflame of the fire threw a joyous light upon the ceiling; sheturned on her back, stretching out her arms.

　　Then began the eternal lamentation: "Oh, if Heaven had out willedit! And why not? What prevented it?"

　　When Charles came home at midnight, she seemed to have justawakened, and as he made a noise undressing, she complained of aheadache, then asked carelessly what had happened that evening.

　　"Monsieur Leon," he said, "went to his room early."

　　She could not help smiling, and she fell asleep, her soul filledwith a new delight.

　　The next day, at dusk, she received a visit from MonsieurLherueux, the draper. He was a man of ability, was thisshopkeeper. Born a Gascon but bred a Norman, he grafted upon hissouthern volubility the cunning of the Cauchois. His fat, flabby,beardless face seemed dyed by a decoction of liquorice, and hiswhite hair made even more vivid the keen brilliance of his smallblack eyes. No one knew what he had been formerly; a pedlar saidsome, a banker at Routot according to others. What was certainwas that he made complex calculations in his head that would havefrightened Binet himself. Polite to obsequiousness, he alwaysheld himself with his back bent in the position of one who bowsor who invites.

　　After leaving at the door his hat surrounded with crape, he putdown a green bandbox on the table, and began by complaining tomadame, with many civilities, that he should have remained tillthat day without gaining her confidence. A poor shop like his wasnot made to attract a "fashionable lady"; he emphasized thewords; yet she had only to command, and he would undertake toprovide her with anything she might wish, either in haberdasheryor linen, millinery or fancy goods, for he went to town regularlyfour times a month. He was connected with the best houses. Youcould speak of him at the "Trois Freres," at the "Barbe d'Or," orat the "Grand Sauvage"; all these gentlemen knew him as well asthe insides of their pockets. To-day, then he had come to showmadame, in passing, various articles he happened to have, thanksto the most rare opportunity. And he pulled out half-a-dozenembroidered collars from the box.

　　Madame Bovary examined them. "I do not require anything," shesaid.

　　Then Monsieur Lheureux delicately exhibited three Algerianscarves, several packet of English needles, a pair of strawslippers, and finally, four eggcups in cocoanut wood, carved inopen work by convicts. Then, with both hands on the table, hisneck stretched out, his figure bent forward, open-mouthed, hewatched Emma's look, who was walking up and down undecided amidthese goods. From time to time, as if to remove some dust, hefilliped with his nail the silk of the scarves spread out at fulllength, and they rustled with a little noise, making in the greentwilight the gold spangles of their tissue scintillate likelittle stars.

　　"How much are they?"

　　"A mere nothing," he replied, "a mere nothing. But there's nohurry; whenever it's convenient. We are not Jews."

　　She reflected for a few moments, and ended by again decliningMonsieur Lheureux's offer. He replied quite unconcernedly--

　　"Very well. We shall understand one another by and by. I havealways got on with ladies--if I didn't with my own!"

　　Emma smiled.

　　"I wanted to tell you," he went on good-naturedly, after hisjoke, "that it isn't the money I should trouble about. Why, Icould give you some, if need be."

　　She made a gesture of surprise.

　　"Ah!" said he quickly and in a low voice, "I shouldn't have to gofar to find you some, rely on that."

　　And he began asking after Pere Tellier, the proprietor of the"Cafe Francais," whom Monsieur Bovary was then attending.

　　"What's the matter with Pere Tellier? He coughs so that he shakeshis whole house, and I'm afraid he'll soon want a deal coveringrather than a flannel vest. He was such a rake as a young man!Those sort of people, madame, have not the least regularity; he'sburnt up with brandy. Still it's sad, all the same, to see anacquaintance go off."

　　And while he fastened up his box he discoursed about the doctor'spatients.

　　"It's the weather, no doubt," he said, looking frowningly at thefloor, "that causes these illnesses. I, too, don't feel thething. One of these days I shall even have to consult the doctorfor a pain I have in my back. Well, good-bye, Madame Bovary. Atyour service; your very humble servant." And he closed the doorgently.

　　Emma had her dinner served in her bedroom on a tray by thefireside; she was a long time over it; everything was well withher.

　　"How good I was!" she said to herself, thinking of the scarves.

　　She heard some steps on the stairs. It was Leon. She got up andtook from the chest of drawers the first pile of dusters to behemmed. When he came in she seemed very busy.

　　The conversation languished; Madame Bovary gave it up every fewminutes, whilst he himself seemed quite embarrassed. Seated on alow chair near the fire, he turned round in his fingers the ivorythimble-case. She stitched on, or from time to time turned downthe hem of the cloth with her nail. She did not speak; he wassilent, captivated by her silence, as he would have been by herspeech.

　　"Poor fellow!" she thought.

　　"How have I displeased her?" he asked himself.

　　At last, however, Leon said that he should have, one of thesedays, to go to Rouen on some office business.

　　"Your music subscription is out; am I to renew it?"

　　"No," she replied.

　　"Why?"

　　"Because--"

　　And pursing her lips she slowly drew a long stitch of greythread.

　　This work irritated Leon. It seemed to roughen the ends of herfingers. A gallant phrase came into his head, but he did not riskit.

　　"Then you are giving it up?" he went on.

　　"What?" she asked hurriedly. "Music? Ah! yes! Have I not my houseto look after, my husband to attend to, a thousand things, infact, many duties that must be considered first?"

　　She looked at the clock. Charles was late. Then, she affectedanxiety. Two or three times she even repeated, "He is so good!"

　　The clerk was fond of Monsieur Bovary. But this tenderness on hisbehalf astonished him unpleasantly; nevertheless he took up onhis praises, which he said everyone was singing, especially thechemist.

　　"Ah! he is a good fellow," continued Emma.

　　"Certainly," replied the clerk.

　　And he began talking of Madame Homais, whose very untidyappearance generally made them laugh.

　　"What does it matter?" interrupted Emma. "A good housewife doesnot trouble about her appearance."

　　Then she relapsed into silence.

　　It was the same on the following days; her talks, her manners,everything changed. She took interest in the housework, went tochurch regularly, and looked after her servant with moreseverity.

　　She took Berthe from nurse. When visitors called, Felicitebrought her in, and Madame Bovary undressed her to show off herlimbs. She declared she adored children; this was herconsolation, her joy, her passion, and she accompanied hercaresses with lyrical outburst which would have reminded anyonebut the Yonville people of Sachette in "Notre Dame de Paris."

　　When Charles came home he found his slippers put to warm near thefire. His waistcoat now never wanted lining, nor his shirtbuttons, and it was quite a pleasure to see in the cupboard thenight-caps arranged in piles of the same height. She no longergrumbled as formerly at taking a turn in the garden; what heproposed was always done, although she did not understand thewishes to which she submitted without a murmur; and when Leon sawhim by his fireside after dinner, his two hands on his stomach,his two feet on the fender, his two cheeks red with feeding, hiseyes moist with happiness, the child crawling along the carpet,and this woman with the slender waist who came behind hisarm-chair to kiss his forehead: "What madness!" he said tohimself. "And how to reach her!"

　　And thus she seemed so virtuous and inaccessible to him that helost all hope, even the faintest. But by this renunciation heplaced her on an extraordinary pinnacle. To him she stood outsidethose fleshly attributes from which he had nothing to obtain, andin his heart she rose ever, and became farther removed from himafter the magnificent manner of an apotheosis that is takingwing. It was one of those pure feelings that do not interferewith life, that are cultivated because they are rare, and whoseloss would afflict more than their passion rejoices.

　　Emma grew thinner, her cheeks paler, her face longer. With herblack hair, her large eyes, her aquiline nose, her birdlike walk,and always silent now, did she not seem to be passing throughlife scarcely touching it, and to bear on her brow the vagueimpress of some divine destiny? She was so sad and so calm, atonce so gentle and so reserved, that near her one felt oneselfseized by an icy charm, as we shudder in churches at the perfumeof the flowers mingling with the cold of the marble. The otherseven did not escape from this seduction. The chemist said--

　　"She is a woman of great parts, who wouldn't be misplaced in asub-prefecture."

　　The housewives admired her economy, the patients her politeness,the poor her charity.

　　But she was eaten up with desires, with rage, with hate. Thatdress with the narrow folds hid a distracted fear, of whosetorment those chaste lips said nothing. She was in love withLeon, and sought solitude that she might with the more easedelight in his image. The sight of his form troubled thevoluptuousness of this mediation. Emma thrilled at the sound ofhis step; then in his presence the emotion subsided, andafterwards there remained to her only an immense astonishmentthat ended in sorrow.

　　Leon did not know that when he left her in despair she rose afterhe had gone to see him in the street. She concerned herself abouthis comings and goings; she watched his face; she invented quitea history to find an excuse for going to his room. The chemist'swife seemed happy to her to sleep under the same roof, and herthoughts constantly centered upon this house, like the "Liond'Or" pigeons, who came there to dip their red feet and whitewings in its gutters. But the more Emma recognised her love, themore she crushed it down, that it might not be evident, that shemight make it less. She would have liked Leon to guess it, andshe imagined chances, catastrophes that should facilitate this.

　　What restrained her was, no doubt, idleness and fear, and a senseof shame also. She thought she had repulsed him too much, thatthe time was past, that all was lost. Then, pride, and joy ofbeing able to say to herself, "I am virtuous," and to look atherself in the glass taking resigned poses, consoled her a littlefor the sacrifice she believed she was making.

　　Then the lusts of the flesh, the longing for money, and themelancholy of passion all blended themselves into one suffering,and instead of turning her thoughts from it, she clave to it themore, urging herself to pain, and seeking everywhere occasion forit. She was irritated by an ill-served dish or by a half-opendoor; bewailed the velvets she had not, the happiness she hadmissed, her too exalted dreams, her narrow home.

　　What exasperated her was that Charles did not seem to notice heranguish. His conviction that he was making her happy seemed toher an imbecile insult, and his sureness on this pointingratitude. For whose sake, then was she virtuous? Was it notfor him, the obstacle to all felicity, the cause of all misery,and, as it were, the sharp clasp of that complex strap thatbucked her in on all sides.

　　On him alone, then, she concentrated all the various hatreds thatresulted from her boredom, and every effort to diminish onlyaugmented it; for this useless trouble was added to the otherreasons for despair, and contributed still more to the separationbetween them. Her own gentleness to herself made her rebelagainst him. Domestic mediocrity drove her to lewd fancies,marriage tenderness to adulterous desires. She would have likeCharles to beat her, that she might have a better right to hatehim, to revenge herself upon him. She was surprised sometimes atthe atrocious conjectures that came into her thoughts, and shehad to go on smiling, to hear repeated to her at all hours thatshe was happy, to pretend to be happy, to let it be believed.

　　Yet she had loathing of this hypocrisy. She was seized with thetemptation to flee somewhere with Leon to try a new life; but atonce a vague chasm full of darkness opened within her soul.

　　"Besides, he no longer loves me," she thought. "What is to becomeof me? What help is to be hoped for, what consolation, whatsolace?"

　　She was left broken, breathless, inert, sobbing in a low voice,with flowing tears.

　　"Why don't you tell master?" the servant asked her when she camein during these crises.

　　"It is the nerves," said Emma. "Do not speak to him of it; itwould worry him."

　　"Ah! yes," Felicite went on, "you are just like La Guerine, PereGuerin's daughter, the fisherman at Pollet, that I used to knowat Dieppe before I came to you. She was so sad, so sad, to seeher standing upright on the threshold of her house, she seemed toyou 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 thedoctors could not do anything, nor the priest either. When shewas taken too bad she went off quite alone to the sea-shore, sothat the customs officer, going his rounds, often found her lyingflat on her face, crying on the shingle. Then, after hermarriage, it went off, they say."

　　"But with me," replied Emma, "it was after marriage that itbegan."