Part II: Chapter Fourteen

by Gustave Flaubert

　　To begin with, he did not know how he could pay Monsieur Homaisfor all the physic supplied by him, and though, as a medical man,he was not obliged to pay for it, he nevertheless blushed alittle at such an obligation. Then the expenses of the household,now that the servant was mistress, became terrible. Bills rainedin upon the house; the tradesmen grumbled; Monsieur Lheureuxespecially harassed him. In fact, at the height of Emma'sillness, the latter, taking advantage of the circumstances tomake his bill larger, had hurriedly brought the cloak, thetravelling-bag, two trunks instead of one, and a number of otherthings. It was very well for Charles to say he did not want them.The tradesman answered arrogantly that these articles had beenordered, and that he would not take them back; besides, it wouldvex madame in her convalescence; the doctor had better think itover; in short, he was resolved to sue him rather than give uphis rights and take back his goods. Charles subsequently orderedthem to be sent back to the shop. Felicite forgot; he had otherthings to attend to; then thought no more about them. MonsieurLheureux returned to the charge, and, by turns threatening andwhining, so managed that Bovary ended by signing a bill at sixmonths. But hardly had he signed this bill than a bold ideaoccurred to him: it was to borrow a thousand francs fromLheureux. So, with an embarrassed air, he asked if it werepossible to get them, adding that it would be for a year, at anyinterest he wished. Lheureux ran off to his shop, brought backthe money, and dictated another bill, by which Bovary undertookto pay to his order on the 1st of September next the sum of onethousand and seventy francs, which, with the hundred and eightyalready agreed to, made just twelve hundred and fifty, thuslending at six per cent in addition to one-fourth for commission:and the things bringing him in a good third at the least, thisought in twelve months to give him a profit of a hundred andthirty francs. He hoped that the business would not stop there;that the bills would not be paid; that they would be renewed; andthat his poor little money, having thriven at the doctor's as ata hospital, would come back to him one day considerably moreplump, and fat enough to burst his bag.

　　Everything, moreover, succeeded with him. He was adjudicator fora supply of cider to the hospital at Neufchatel; MonsieurGuillaumin promised him some shares in the turf-pits ofGaumesnil, and he dreamt of establishing a new diligence servicebetween Arcueil and Rouen, which no doubt would not be long inruining the ramshackle van of the "Lion d'Or," and that,travelling faster, at a cheaper rate, and carrying more luggage,would thus put into his hands the whole commerce of Yonville.

　　Charles several times asked himself by what means he should nextyear be able to pay back so much money. He reflected, imaginedexpedients, such as applying to his father or selling something.But his father would be deaf, and he--he had nothing to sell.Then he foresaw such worries that he quickly dismissed sodisagreeable a subject of meditation from his mind. He reproachedhimself with forgetting Emma, as if, all his thoughts belongingto this woman, it was robbing her of something not to beconstantly thinking of her.

　　The winter was severe, Madame Bovary's convalescence slow. Whenit was fine they wheeled her arm-chair to the window thatoverlooked the square, for she now had an antipathy to thegarden, and the blinds on that side were always down. She wishedthe horse to be sold; what she formerly liked now displeased her.All her ideas seemed to be limited to the care of herself. Shestayed in bed taking little meals, rang for the servant toinquire about her gruel or to chat with her. The snow on themarket-roof threw a white, still light into the room; then therain began to fall; and Emma waited daily with a mind full ofeagerness for the inevitable return of some trifling events whichnevertheless had no relation to her. The most important was thearrival of the "Hirondelle" in the evening. Then the landladyshouted out, and other voices answered, while Hippolyte'slantern, as he fetched the boxes from the boot, was like a starin the darkness. At mid-day Charles came in; then he went outagain; next she took some beef-tea, and towards five o'clock, asthe day drew in, the children coming back from school, draggingtheir wooden shoes along the pavement, knocked the clapper of theshutters with their rulers one after the other.

　　It was at this hour that Monsieur Bournisien came to see her. Heinquired after her health, gave her news, exhorted her toreligion, in a coaxing little prattle that was not without itscharm. The mere thought of his cassock comforted her.

　　One day, when at the height of her illness, she had thoughtherself dying, and had asked for the communion; and, while theywere making the preparations in her room for the sacrament, whilethey were turning the night table covered with syrups into analtar, and while Felicite was strewing dahlia flowers on thefloor, Emma felt some power passing over her that freed her fromher pains, from all perception, from all feeling. Her body,relieved, no longer thought; another life was beginning; itseemed to her that her being, mounting toward God, would beannihilated in that love like a burning incense that melts intovapour. The bed-clothes were sprinkled with holy water, thepriest drew from the holy pyx the white wafer; and it wasfainting with a celestial joy that she put out her lips to acceptthe body of the Saviour presented to her. The curtains of thealcove floated gently round her like clouds, and the rays of thetwo tapers burning on the night-table seemed to shine likedazzling halos. Then she let her head fall back, fancying sheheard in space the music of seraphic harps, and perceived in anazure sky, on a golden throne in the midst of saints holdinggreen palms, God the Father, resplendent with majesty, who with asign sent to earth angels with wings of fire to carry her away intheir arms.

　　This splendid vision dwelt in her memory as the most beautifulthing that it was possible to dream, so that now she strove torecall her sensation. That still lasted, however, but in a lessexclusive fashion and with a deeper sweetness. Her soul, torturedby pride, at length found rest in Christian humility, and,tasting the joy of weakness, she saw within herself thedestruction of her will, that must have left a wide entrance forthe inroads of heavenly grace. There existed, then, in the placeof happiness, still greater joys--another love beyond all loves,without pause and without end, one that would grow eternally! Shesaw amid the illusions of her hope a state of purity floatingabove the earth mingling with heaven, to which she aspired. Shewanted to become a saint. She bought chaplets and wore amulets;she wished to have in her room, by the side of her bed, areliquary set in emeralds that she might kiss it every evening.

　　The cure marvelled at this humour, although Emma's religion, hethought, might, from its fervour, end by touching on heresy,extravagance. But not being much versed in these matters, as soonas they went beyond a certain limit he wrote to Monsieur Boulard,bookseller to Monsignor, to send him "something good for a ladywho was very clever." The bookseller, with as much indifferenceas if he had been sending off hardware to niggers, packed up,pellmell, everything that was then the fashion in the pious booktrade. There were little manuals in questions and answers,pamphlets of aggressive tone after the manner of Monsieur deMaistre, and certain novels in rose-coloured bindings and with ahonied style, manufactured by troubadour seminarists or penitentblue-stockings. There were the "Think of it; the Man of the Worldat Mary's Feet, by Monsieur de ***, decorated with many Orders";"The Errors of Voltaire, for the Use of the Young," etc.

　　Madame Bovary's mind was not yet sufficiently clear to applyherself seriously to anything; moreover, she began this readingin too much hurry. She grew provoked at the doctrines ofreligion; the arrogance of the polemic writings displeased her bytheir inveteracy in attacking people she did not know; and thesecular stories, relieved with religion, seemed to her written insuch ignorance of the world, that they insensibly estranged herfrom the truths for whose proof she was looking. Nevertheless,she persevered; and when the volume slipped from her hands, shefancied herself seized with the finest Catholic melancholy thatan ethereal soul could conceive.

　　As for the memory of Rodolphe, she had thrust it back to thebottom of her heart, and it remained there more solemn and moremotionless than a king's mummy in a catacomb. An exhalationescaped from this embalmed love, that, penetrating througheverything, perfumed with tenderness the immaculate atmosphere inwhich she longed to live. When she knelt on her Gothic prie-Dieu,she addressed to the Lord the same suave words that she hadmurmured formerly to her lover in the outpourings of adultery. Itwas to make faith come; but no delights descended from theheavens, and she arose with tired limbs and with a vague feelingof a gigantic dupery.

　　This searching after faith, she thought, was only one merit themore, and in the pride of her devoutness Emma compared herself tothose grand ladies of long ago whose glory she, had dreamed ofover a portrait of La Valliere, and who, trailing with so muchmajesty the lace-trimmed trains of their long gowns, retired intosolitudes to shed at the feet of Christ all the tears of heartsthat life had wounded.

　　Then she gave herself up to excessive charity. She sewed clothesfor the poor, she sent wood to women in childbed; and Charles oneday, on coming home, found three good-for-nothings in the kitchenseated at the table eating soup. She had her little girl, whomduring her illness her husband had sent back to the nurse,brought home. She wanted to teach her to read; even when Berthecried, she was not vexed. She had made up her mind toresignation, to universal indulgence. Her language abouteverything was full of ideal expressions. She said to her child,"Is your stomach-ache better, my angel?"

　　Madame Bovary senior found nothing to censure except perhaps thismania of knitting jackets for orphans instead of mending her ownhouse-linen; but, harassed with domestic quarrels, the good womantook pleasure in this quiet house, and she even stayed there tillafter Easter, to escape the sarcasms of old Bovary, who neverfailed on Good Friday to order chitterlings.

　　Besides the companionship of her mother-in-law, who strengthenedher a little by the rectitude of her judgment and her grave ways,Emma almost every day had other visitors. These were MadameLanglois, Madame Caron, Madame Dubreuil, Madame Tuvache, andregularly from two to five o'clock the excellent Madame Homais,who, for her part, had never believed any of the tittle-tattleabout her neighbour. The little Homais also came to see her;Justin accompanied them. He went up with them to her bedroom, andremained standing near the door, motionless and mute. Often evenMadame Bovary; taking no heed of him, began her toilette. Shebegan by taking out her comb, shaking her head with a quickmovement, and when he for the first time saw all this mass ofhair that fell to her knees unrolling in black ringlets, it wasto him, poor child! like a sudden entrance into something new andstrange, whose splendour terrified him.

　　Emma, no doubt, did not notice his silent attentions or histimidity. She had no suspicion that the love vanished from herlife was there, palpitating by her side, beneath that coarseholland shirt, in that youthful heart open to the emanations ofher beauty. Besides, she now enveloped all things with suchindifference, she had words so affectionate with looks sohaughty, such contradictory ways, that one could no longerdistinguish egotism from charity, or corruption from virtue. Oneevening, for example, she was angry with the servant, who hadasked to go out, and stammered as she tried to find some pretext.Then suddenly--

　　"So you love him?" she said.

　　And without waiting for any answer from Felicite, who wasblushing, she added, "There! run along; enjoy yourself!"

　　In the beginning of spring she had the garden turned up from endto end, despite Bovary's remonstrances. However, he was glad tosee her at last manifest a wish of any kind. As she grew strongershe displayed more wilfulness. First, she found occasion to expelMere Rollet, the nurse, who during her convalescence hadcontracted the habit of coming too often to the kitchen with hertwo nurslings and her boarder, better off for teeth than acannibal. Then she got rid of the Homais family, successivelydismissed all the other visitors, and even frequented church lessassiduously, to the great approval of the druggist, who said toher in a friendly way--

　　"You were going in a bit for the cassock!"

　　As formerly, Monsieur Bournisien dropped in every day when hecame out after catechism class. He preferred staying out of doorsto taking the air "in the grove," as he called the arbour. Thiswas the time when Charles came home. They were hot; some sweetcider was brought out, and they drank together to madame'scomplete restoration.

　　Binet was there; that is to say, a little lower down against theterrace wall, fishing for crayfish. Bovary invited him to have adrink, and he thoroughly understood the uncorking of the stonebottles.

　　"You must," he said, throwing a satisfied glance all round him,even to the very extremity of the landscape, "hold the bottleperpendicularly on the table, and after the strings are cut,press up the cork with little thrusts, gently, gently, as indeedthey do seltzer-water at restaurants."

　　But during his demonstration the cider often spurted right intotheir faces, and then the ecclesiastic, with a thick laugh, nevermissed this joke--

　　"Its goodness strikes the eye!"

　　He was, in fact, a good fellow and one day he was not evenscandalised at the chemist, who advised Charles to give madamesome distraction by taking her to the theatre at Rouen to hearthe illustrious tenor, Lagardy. Homais, surprised at thissilence, wanted to know his opinion, and the priest declared thathe considered music less dangerous for morals than literature.

　　But the chemist took up the defence of letters. The theatre, hecontended, served for railing at prejudices, and, beneath a maskof pleasure, taught virtue.

　　"'Castigat ridendo mores,'* Monsieur Bournisien! Thus considerthe greater part of Voltaire's tragedies; they are cleverlystrewn with philosophical reflections, that made them a vastschool of morals and diplomacy for the people."

　　*It corrects customs through laughter.

　　"I," said Binet, "once saw a piece called the 'Gamin de Paris,'in which there was the character of an old general that is reallyhit off to a T. He sets down a young swell who had seduced aworking girl, who at the ending--"

　　"Certainly," continued Homais, "there is bad literature as thereis bad pharmacy, but to condemn in a lump the most important ofthe fine arts seems to me a stupidity, a Gothic idea, worthy ofthe abominable times that imprisoned Galileo."

　　"I know very well," objected the cure, "that there are goodworks, good authors. However, if it were only those persons ofdifferent sexes united in a bewitching apartment, decoratedrouge, those lights, those effeminate voices, all this must, inthe long-run, engender a certain mental libertinage, give rise toimmodest thoughts and impure temptations. Such, at any rate, isthe opinion of all the Fathers. Finally," he added, suddenlyassuming a mystic tone of voice while he rolled a pinch of snuffbetween his fingers, "if the Church has condemned the theatre,she must be right; we must submit to her decrees."

　　"Why," asked the druggist, "should she excommunicate actors? Forformerly they openly took part in religious ceremonies. Yes, inthe middle of the chancel they acted; they performed a kind offarce called 'Mysteries,' which often offended against the lawsof decency."

　　The ecclesiastic contented himself with uttering a groan, and thechemist went on--

　　"It's like it is in the Bible; there there are, you know, morethan one piquant detail, matters really libidinous!"

　　And on a gesture of irritation from Monsieur Bournisien--

　　"Ah! you'll admit that it is not a book to place in the hands ofa young girl, and I should be sorry if Athalie--"

　　"But it is the Protestants, and not we," cried the otherimpatiently, "who recommend the Bible."

　　"No matter," said Homais. "I am surprised that in our days, inthis century of enlightenment, anyone should still persist inproscribing an intellectual relaxation that is inoffensive,moralising, and sometimes even hygienic; is it not, doctor?"

　　"No doubt," replied the doctor carelessly, either because,sharing the same ideas, he wished to offend no one, or elsebecause he had not any ideas.

　　The conversation seemed at an end when the chemist thought fit toshoot a Parthian arrow.

　　"I've known priests who put on ordinary clothes to go and seedancers kicking about."

　　"Come, come!" said the cure.

　　"Ah! I've known some!" And separating the words of his sentence,Homais repeated, "I--have--known--some!"

　　"Well, they were wrong," said Bournisien, resigned to anything.

　　"By Jove! they go in for more than that," exclaimed the druggist.

　　"Sir!" replied the ecclesiastic, with such angry eyes that thedruggist was intimidated by them.

　　"I only mean to say," he replied in less brutal a tone, "thattoleration is the surest way to draw people to religion."

　　"That is true! that is true!" agreed the good fellow, sittingdown again on his chair. But he stayed only a few moments.

　　Then, as soon as he had gone, Monsieur Homais said to the doctor--

　　"That's what I call a cock-fight. I beat him, did you see, in away!--Now take my advice. Take madame to the theatre, if it wereonly for once in your life, to enrage one of these ravens, hangit! If anyone could take my place, I would accompany you myself.Be quick about it. Lagardy is only going to give one performance;he's engaged to go to England at a high salary. From what I hear,he's a regular dog; he's rolling in money; he's taking threemistresses and a cook along with him. All these great artistsburn the candle at both ends; they require a dissolute life, thatsuits the imagination to some extent. But they die at thehospital, because they haven't the sense when young to lay by.Well, a pleasant dinner! Goodbye till to-morrow."

　　The idea of the theatre quickly germinated in Bovary's head, forhe at once communicated it to his wife, who at first refused,alleging the fatigue, the worry, the expense; but, for a wonder,Charles did not give in, so sure was he that this recreationwould be good for her. He saw nothing to prevent it: his motherhad sent them three hundred francs which he had no longerexpected; the current debts were not very large, and the fallingin of Lheureux's bills was still so far off that there was noneed to think about them. Besides, imagining that she wasrefusing from delicacy, he insisted the more; so that by dint ofworrying her she at last made up her mind, and the next day ateight o'clock they set out in the "Hirondelle."

　　The druggist, whom nothing whatever kept at Yonville, but whothought himself bound not to budge from it, sighed as he saw themgo.

　　"Well, a pleasant journey!" he said to them; "happy mortals thatyou are!"

　　Then addressing himself to Emma, who was wearing a blue silk gownwith four flounces--

　　"You are as lovely as a Venus. You'll cut a figure at Rouen."

　　The diligence stopped at the "Croix-Rouge" in the PlaceBeauvoisine. It was the inn that is in every provincial faubourg,with large stables and small bedrooms, where one sees in themiddle of the court chickens pilfering the oats under the muddygigs of the commercial travellers--a good old house, withworm-eaten balconies that creak in the wind on winter nights,always full of people, noise, and feeding, whose black tables aresticky with coffee and brandy, the thick windows made yellow bythe flies, the damp napkins stained with cheap wine, and thatalways smells of the village, like ploughboys dressed inSundayclothes, has a cafe on the street, and towards thecountryside a kitchen-garden. Charles at once set out. He muddledup the stage-boxes with the gallery, the pit with the boxes;asked for explanations, did not understand them; was sent fromthe box-office to the acting-manager; came back to the inn,returned to the theatre, and thus several times traversed thewhole length of the town from the theatre to the boulevard.

　　Madame Bovary bought a bonnet, gloves, and a bouquet. The doctorwas much afraid of missing the beginning, and, without having hadtime to swallow a plate of soup, they presented themselves at thedoors of the theatre, which were still closed.Chapter Fifteen

　　The crowd was waiting against the wall, symmetrically enclosedbetween the balustrades. At the corner of the neighbouringstreets huge bills repeated in quaint letters "Lucie deLammermoor-Lagardy-Opera-etc." The weather was fine, the peoplewere hot, perspiration trickled amid the curls, and handkerchiefstaken from pockets were mopping red foreheads; and now and then awarm wind that blew from the river gently stirred the border ofthe tick awnings hanging from the doors of the public-houses. Alittle lower down, however, one was refreshed by a current of icyair that smelt of tallow, leather, and oil. This was anexhalation from the Rue des Charrettes, full of large blackwarehouses where they made casks.

　　For fear of seeming ridiculous, Emma before going in wished tohave a little stroll in the harbour, and Bovary prudently kepthis tickets in his hand, in the pocket of his trousers, which hepressed against his stomach.

　　Her heart began to beat as soon as she reached the vestibule. Sheinvoluntarily smiled with vanity on seeing the crowd rushing tothe right by the other corridor while she went up the staircaseto the reserved seats. She was as pleased as a child to push withher finger the large tapestried door. She breathed in with allher might the dusty smell of the lobbies, and when she was seatedin her box she bent forward with the air of a duchess.

　　The theatre was beginning to fill; opera-glasses were taken fromtheir cases, and the subscribers, catching sight of one another,were bowing. They came to seek relaxation in the fine arts afterthe anxieties of business; but "business" was not forgotten; theystill talked cottons, spirits of wine, or indigo. The heads ofold men were to be seen, inexpressive and peaceful, with theirhair and complexions looking like silver medals tarnished bysteam of lead. The young beaux were strutting about in the pit,showing in the opening of their waistcoats their pink orapplegreen cravats, and Madame Bovary from above admired themleaning on their canes with golden knobs in the open palm oftheir yellow gloves.

　　Now the lights of the orchestra were lit, the lustre, let downfrom the ceiling, throwing by the glimmering of its facets asudden gaiety over the theatre; then the musicians came in oneafter the other; and first there was the protracted hubbub of thebasses grumbling, violins squeaking, cornets trumpeting, flutesand flageolets fifing. But three knocks were heard on the stage,a rolling of drums began, the brass instruments played somechords, and the curtain rising, discovered a country-scene.

　　It was the cross-roads of a wood, with a fountain shaded by anoak to the left. Peasants and lords with plaids on theirshoulders were singing a hunting-song together; then a captainsuddenly came on, who evoked the spirit of evil by lifting bothhis arms to heaven. Another appeared; they went away, and thehunters started afresh. She felt herself transported to thereading of her youth, into the midst of Walter Scott. She seemedto hear through the mist the sound of the Scotch bagpipesre-echoing over the heather. Then her remembrance of the novelhelping her to understand the libretto, she followed the storyphrase by phrase, while vague thoughts that came back to herdispersed at once again with the bursts of music. She gaveherself up to the lullaby of the melodies, and felt all her beingvibrate as if the violin bows were drawn over her nerves. She hadnot eyes enough to look at the costumes, the scenery, the actors,the painted trees that shook when anyone walked, and the velvetcaps, cloaks, swords--all those imaginary things that floatedamid the harmony as in the atmosphere of another world. But ayoung woman stepped forward, throwing a purse to a squire ingreen. She was left alone, and the flute was heard like themurmur of a fountain or the warbling of birds. Lucie attacked hercavatina in G major bravely. She plained of love; she longed forwings. Emma, too, fleeing from life, would have liked to fly awayin an embrace. Suddenly Edgar-Lagardy appeared.

　　He had that splendid pallor that gives something of the majestyof marble to the ardent races of the South. His vigorous form wastightly clad in a brown-coloured doublet; a small chiselledponiard hung against his left thigh, and he cast round laughinglooks showing his white teeth. They said that a Polish princesshaving heard him sing one night on the beach at Biarritz, wherehe mended boats, had fallen in love with him. She had ruinedherself for him. He had deserted her for other women, and thissentimental celebrity did not fail to enhance his artisticreputation. The diplomatic mummer took care always to slip intohis advertisements some poetic phrase on the fascination of hisperson and the susceptibility of his soul. A fine organ,imperturbable coolness, more temperament than intelligence, morepower of emphasis than of real singing, made up the charm of thisadmirable charlatan nature, in which there was something of thehairdresser and the toreador.

　　>From the first scene he evoked enthusiasm. He pressed Lucy in hisarms, he left her, he came back, he seemed desperate; he hadoutbursts of rage, then elegiac gurglings of infinite sweetness,and the notes escaped from his bare neck full of sobs and kisses.Emma leant forward to see him, clutching the velvet of the boxwith her nails. She was filling her heart with these melodiouslamentations that were drawn out to the accompaniment of thedouble-basses, like the cries of the drowning in the tumult of atempest. She recognised all the intoxication and the anguish thathad almost killed her. The voice of a prima donna seemed to herto be but echoes of her conscience, and this illusion thatcharmed her as some very thing of her own life. But no one onearth had loved her with such love. He had not wept like Edgarthat last moonlit night when they said, "To-morrow! to-morrow!"The theatre rang with cheers; they recommenced the entiremovement; the lovers spoke of the flowers on their tomb, of vows,exile, fate, hopes; and when they uttered the final adieu, Emmagave a sharp cry that mingled with the vibrations of the lastchords.

　　"But why," asked Bovary, "does that gentleman persecute her?"

　　"No, no!" she answered; "he is her lover!"

　　"Yet he vows vengeance on her family, while the other one whocame on before said, 'I love Lucie and she loves me!' Besides, hewent off with her father arm in arm. For he certainly is herfather, isn't he--the ugly little man with a cock's feather inhis hat?"

　　Despite Emma's explanations, as soon as the recitative duet beganin which Gilbert lays bare his abominable machinations to hismaster Ashton, Charles, seeing the false troth-ring that is todeceive Lucie, thought it was a love-gift sent by Edgar. Heconfessed, moreover, that he did not understand the story becauseof the music, which interfered very much with the words.

　　"What does it matter?" said Emma. "Do be quiet!"

　　"Yes, but you know," he went on, leaning against her shoulder, "Ilike to understand things."

　　"Be quiet! be quiet!" she cried impatiently.

　　Lucie advanced, half supported by her women, a wreath of orangeblossoms in her hair, and paler than the white satin of her gown.Emma dreamed of her marriage day; she saw herself at home againamid the corn in the little path as they walked to the church.Oh, why had not she, like this woman, resisted, implored? She, onthe contrary, had been joyous, without seeing the abyss intowhich she was throwing herself. Ah! if in the freshness of herbeauty, before the soiling of marriage and the disillusions ofadultery, she could have anchored her life upon some great,strong heart, then virtue, tenderness, voluptuousness, and dutyblending, she would never have fallen from so high a happiness.But that happiness, no doubt, was a lie invented for the despairof all desire. She now knew the smallness of the passions thatart exaggerated. So, striving to divert her thoughts, Emmadetermined now to see in this reproduction of her sorrows only aplastic fantasy, well enough to please the eye, and she evensmiled internally with disdainful pity when at the back of thestage under the velvet hangings a man appeared in a black cloak.

　　His large Spanish hat fell at a gesture he made, and immediatelythe instruments and the singers began the sextet. Edgar, flashingwith fury, dominated all the others with his clearer voice;Ashton hurled homicidal provocations at him in deep notes; Lucieuttered her shrill plaint, Arthur at one side, his modulatedtones in the middle register, and the bass of the minister pealedforth like an organ, while the voices of the women repeating hiswords took them up in chorus delightfully. They were all in a rowgesticulating, and anger, vengeance, jealousy, terror, andstupefaction breathed forth at once from their half-openedmouths. The outraged lover brandished his naked sword; hisguipure ruffle rose with jerks to the movements of his chest, andhe walked from right to left with long strides, clanking againstthe boards the silver-gilt spurs of his soft boots, widening outat the ankles. He, she thought must have an inexhaustible loveto lavish it upon the crowd with such effusion. All her smallfault-findings faded before the poetry of the part that absorbedher; and, drawn towards this man by the illusion of thecharacter, she tried to imagine to herself his life--that liferesonant, extraordinary, splendid, and that might have been hersif fate had willed it. They would have known one another, lovedone another. With him, through all the kingdoms of Europe shewould have travelled from capital to capital, sharing hisfatigues and his pride, picking up the flowers thrown to him,herself embroidering his costumes. Then each evening, at the backof a box, behind the golden trellis-work she would have drunk ineagerly the expansions of this soul that would have sung for heralone; from the stage, even as he acted, he would have looked ather. But the mad idea seized her that he was looking at her; itwas certain. She longed to run to his arms, to take refuge in hisstrength, as in the incarnation of love itself, and to say tohim, to cry out, "Take me away! carry me with you! let us go!Thine, thine! all my ardour and all my dreams!"

　　The curtain fell.

　　The smell of the gas mingled with that of the breaths, the wavingof the fans, made the air more suffocating. Emma wanted to goout; the crowd filled the corridors, and she fell back in herarm-chair with palpitations that choked her. Charles, fearingthat she would faint, ran to the refreshment-room to get a glassof barley-water.

　　He had great difficulty in getting back to his seat, for hiselbows were jerked at every step because of the glass he held inhis hands, and he even spilt three-fourths on the shoulders of aRouen lady in short sleeves, who feeling the cold liquid runningdown to her loins, uttered cries like a peacock, as if she werebeing assassinated. Her husband, who was a millowner, railed atthe clumsy fellow, and while she was with her handkerchief wipingup the stains from her handsome cherry-coloured taffeta gown, heangrily muttered about indemnity, costs, reimbursement. At lastCharles reached his wife, saying to her, quite out of breath--

　　"Ma foi! I thought I should have had to stay there. There is sucha crowd--such a crowd!"

　　He added--

　　"Just guess whom I met up there! Monsieur Leon!"

　　"Leon?"

　　"Himself! He's coming along to pay his respects." And as hefinished these words the ex-clerk of Yonville entered the box.

　　He held out his hand with the ease of a gentleman; and MadameBovary extended hers, without doubt obeying the attraction of astronger will. She had not felt it since that spring evening whenthe rain fell upon the green leaves, and they had said good-byestanding at the window. But soon recalling herself to thenecessities of the situation, with an effort she shook off thetorpor of her memories, and began stammering a few hurried words.

　　"Ah, good-day! What! you here?"

　　"Silence!" cried a voice from the pit, for the third act wasbeginning.

　　"So you are at Rouen?"

　　"Yes."

　　"And since when?"

　　"Turn them out! turn them out!" People were looking at them. Theywere silent.

　　But from that moment she listened no more; and the chorus of theguests, the scene between Ashton and his servant, the grand duetin D major, all were for her as far off as if the instruments hadgrown less sonorous and the characters more remote. Sheremembered the games at cards at the druggist's, and the walk tothe nurse's, the reading in the arbour, the tete-a-tete by thefireside--all that poor love, so calm and so protracted, sodiscreet, so tender, and that she had nevertheless forgotten. Andwhy had he come back? What combination of circumstances hadbrought him back into her life? He was standing behind her,leaning with his shoulder against the wall of the box; now andagain she felt herself shuddering beneath the hot breath from hisnostrils falling upon her hair.

　　"Does this amuse you?" said he, bending over her so closely thatthe end of his moustache brushed her cheek. She repliedcarelessly--

　　"Oh, dear me, no, not much."

　　Then he proposed that they should leave the theatre and go andtake an ice somewhere.

　　"Oh, not yet; let us stay," said Bovary. "Her hair's undone; thisis going to be tragic."

　　But the mad scene did not at all interest Emma, and the acting ofthe singer seemed to her exaggerated.

　　"She screams too loud," said she, turning to Charles, who waslistening.

　　"Yes--a little," he replied, undecided between the frankness ofhis pleasure and his respect for his wife's opinion.

　　Then with a sigh Leon said--

　　"The heat is--"

　　"Unbearable! Yes!"

　　"Do you feel unwell?" asked Bovary.

　　"Yes, I am stifling; let us go."

　　Monsieur Leon put her long lace shawl carefully about hershoulders, and all three went off to sit down in the harbour, inthe open air, outside the windows of a cafe.

　　First they spoke of her illness, although Emma interruptedCharles from time to time, for fear, she said, of boring MonsieurLeon; and the latter told them that he had come to spend twoyears at Rouen in a large office, in order to get practice in hisprofession, which was different in Normandy and Paris. Then heinquired after Berthe, the Homais, Mere Lefrancois, and as theyhad, in the husband's presence, nothing more to say to oneanother, the conversation soon came to an end.

　　People coming out of the theatre passed along the pavement,humming or shouting at the top of their voices, "O bel ange, maLucie!*" Then Leon, playing the dilettante, began to talk music.He had seen Tambourini, Rubini, Persiani, Grisi, and, comparedwith them, Lagardy, despite his grand outbursts, was nowhere.

　　*Oh beautiful angel, my Lucie.

　　"Yet," interrupted Charles, who was slowly sipping hisrum-sherbet, "they say that he is quite admirable in the lastact. I regret leaving before the end, because it was beginning toamuse me."

　　"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?"

　　And changing his tactics at this unexpected opportunity thatpresented itself to his hopes, the young man sang the praises ofLagardy in the last number. It was really superb, sublime. ThenCharles insisted--

　　"You would get back on Sunday. Come, make up your mind. You arewrong if you feel that this is doing you the least good."

　　The tables round them, however, were emptying; a waiter came andstood discreetly near them. Charles, who understood, took out hispurse; the clerk held back his arm, and did not forget to leavetwo more pieces of silver that he made chink on the marble.

　　"I am really sorry," said Bovary, "about the money which youare--"

　　The other made a careless gesture full of cordiality, and takinghis hat said--

　　"It is settled, isn't it? To-morrow at six o'clock?"

　　Charles explained once more that he could not absent himselflonger, but that nothing prevented Emma--

　　"But," she stammered, with a strange smile, "I am not sure--"

　　"Well, you must think it over. We'll see. Night brings counsel."Then to Leon, who was walking along with them, "Now that you arein our part of the world, I hope you'll come and ask us for somedinner now and then."

　　The clerk declared he would not fail to do so, being obliged,moreover, to go to Yonville on some business for his office. Andthey parted before the Saint-Herbland Passage just as the clockin the cathedral struck half-past eleven.