Part II: Chapter One

by Gustave Flaubert

　　Yonville-l'Abbaye (so called from an old Capuchin abbey of whichnot even the ruins remain) is a market-town twenty-four milesfrom Rouen, between the Abbeville and Beauvais roads, at the footof a valley watered by the Rieule, a little river that runs intothe Andelle after turning three water-mills near its mouth, wherethere are a few trout that the lads amuse themselves by fishingfor on Sundays.

　　We leave the highroad at La Boissiere and keep straight on to thetop of the Leux hill, whence the valley is seen. The river thatruns through it makes of it, as it were, two regions withdistinct physiognomies--all on the left is pasture land, all ofthe right arable. The meadow stretches under a bulge of low hillsto join at the back with the pasture land of the Bray country,while on the eastern side, the plain, gently rising, broadensout, showing as far as eye can follow its blond cornfields. Thewater, flowing by the grass, divides with a white line the colourof the roads and of the plains, and the country is like a greatunfolded mantle with a green velvet cape bordered with a fringeof silver.

　　Before us, on the verge of the horizon, lie the oaks of theforest of Argueil, with the steeps of the Saint-Jean hillsscarred from top to bottom with red irregular lines; they arerain tracks, and these brick-tones standing out in narrow streaksagainst the grey colour of the mountain are due to the quantityof iron springs that flow beyond in the neighboring country.

　　Here we are on the confines of Normandy, Picardy, and theIle-de-France, a bastard land whose language is without accentand its landscape is without character. It is there that theymake the worst Neufchatel cheeses of all the arrondissement; and,on the other hand, farming is costly because so much manure isneeded to enrich this friable soil full of sand and flints.

　　Up to 1835 there was no practicable road for getting to Yonville,but about this time a cross-road was made which joins that ofAbbeville to that of Amiens, and is occasionally used by theRouen wagoners on their way to Flanders. Yonville-l'Abbaye hasremained stationary in spite of its "new outlet." Instead ofimproving the soil, they persist in keeping up the pasture lands,however depreciated they may be in value, and the lazy borough,growing away from the plain, has naturally spread riverwards. Itis seem from afar sprawling along the banks like a cowherd takinga siesta by the water-side.

　　At the foot of the hill beyond the bridge begins a roadway,planted with young aspens, that leads in a straight line to thefirst houses in the place. These, fenced in by hedges, are in themiddle of courtyards full of straggling buildings, wine-presses,cart-sheds and distilleries scattered under thick trees, withladders, poles, or scythes hung on to the branches. The thatchedroofs, like fur caps drawn over eyes, reach down over about athird of the low windows, whose coarse convex glasses have knotsin the middle like the bottoms of bottles. Against the plasterwall diagonally crossed by black joists, a meagre pear-treesometimes leans and the ground-floors have at their door a smallswing-gate to keep out the chicks that come pilfering crumbs ofbread steeped in cider on the threshold. But the courtyards grownarrower, the houses closer together, and the fences disappear; abundle of ferns swings under a window from the end of abroomstick; there is a blacksmith's forge and then awheelwright's, with two or three new carts outside that partlyblock the way. Then across an open space appears a white housebeyond a grass mound ornamented by a Cupid, his finger on hislips; two brass vases are at each end of a flight of steps;scutcheons* blaze upon the door. It is the notary's house, andthe finest in the place.

　　*The panonceaux that have to be hung over the doors of notaries.

　　The Church is on the other side of the street, twenty pacesfarther down, at the entrance of the square. The little cemeterythat surrounds it, closed in by a wall breast high, is so full ofgraves that the old stones, level with the ground, form acontinuous pavement, on which the grass of itself has marked outregular green squares. The church was rebuilt during the lastyears of the reign of Charles X. The wooden roof is beginning torot from the top, and here and there has black hollows in itsblue colour. Over the door, where the organ should be, is a loftfor the men, with a spiral staircase that reverberates undertheir wooden shoes.

　　The daylight coming through the plain glass windows fallsobliquely upon the pews ranged along the walls, which are adornedhere and there with a straw mat bearing beneath it the words inlarge letters, "Mr. So-and-so's pew." Farther on, at a spot wherethe building narrows, the confessional forms a pendant to astatuette of the Virgin, clothed in a satin robe, coifed with atulle veil sprinkled with silver stars, and with red cheeks, likean idol of the Sandwich Islands; and, finally, a copy of the"Holy Family, presented by the Minister of the Interior,"overlooking the high altar, between four candlesticks, closes inthe perspective. The choir stalls, of deal wood, have been leftunpainted.

　　The market, that is to say, a tiled roof supported by some twentyposts, occupies of itself about half the public square ofYonville. The town hall, constructed "from the designs of a Parisarchitect," is a sort of Greek temple that forms the corner nextto the chemist's shop. On the ground-floor are three Ioniccolumns and on the first floor a semicircular gallery, while thedome that crowns it is occupied by a Gallic cock, resting onefoot upon the "Charte" and holding in the other the scales ofJustice.

　　But that which most attracts the eye is opposite the Lion d'Orinn, the chemist's shop of Monsieur Homais. In the eveningespecially its argand lamp is lit up and the red and green jarsthat embellish his shop-front throw far across the street theirtwo streams of colour; then across them as if in Bengal lights isseen the shadow of the chemist leaning over his desk. His housefrom top to bottom is placarded with inscriptions written inlarge hand, round hand, printed hand: "Vichy, Seltzer, Baregewaters, blood purifiers, Raspail patent medicine, Arabianracahout, Darcet lozenges, Regnault paste, trusses, baths,hygienic chocolate," etc. And the signboard, which takes up allthe breadth of the shop, bears in gold letters, "Homais,Chemist." Then at the back of the shop, behind the great scalesfixed to the counter, the word "Laboratory" appears on a scrollabove 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 (theonly one) a gunshot in length and flanked by a few shops oneither side stops short at the turn of the highroad. If it isleft on the right hand and the foot of the Saint-Jean hillsfollowed the cemetery is soon reached.

　　At the time of the cholera, in order to enlarge this, a piece ofwall was pulled down, and three acres of land by its sidepurchased; but all the new portion is almost tenantless; thetombs, as heretofore, continue to crowd together towards thegate. The keeper, who is at once gravedigger and church beadle(thus making a double profit out of the parish corpses), hastaken advantage of the unused plot of ground to plant potatoesthere. From year to year, however, his small field grows smaller,and when there is an epidemic, he does not know whether torejoice at the deaths or regret the burials.

　　"You live on the dead, Lestiboudois!" the curie at last said tohim one day. This grim remark made him reflect; it checked himfor some time; but to this day he carries on the cultivation ofhis little tubers, and even maintains stoutly that they grownaturally.

　　Since the events about to be narrated, nothing in fact haschanged at Yonville. The tin tricolour flag still swings at thetop of the church-steeple; the two chintz streamers still flutterin the wind from the linen-draper's; the chemist's fetuses, likelumps of white amadou, rot more and more in their turbid alcohol,and above the big door of the inn the old golden lion, faded byrain, still shows passers-by its poodle mane.

　　On the evening when the Bovarys were to arrive at Yonville, WidowLefrancois, the landlady of this inn, was so very busy that shesweated great drops as she moved her saucepans. To-morrow wasmarket-day. The meat had to be cut beforehand, the fowls drawn,the soup and coffee made. Moreover, she had the boarders' meal tosee to, and that of the doctor, his wife, and their servant; thebilliard-room was echoing with bursts of laughter; three millersin a small parlour were calling for brandy; the wood was blazing,the brazen pan was hissing, and on the long kitchen table, amidthe quarters of raw mutton, rose piles of plates that rattledwith the shaking of the block on which spinach was being chopped.

　　>From the poultry-yard was heard the screaming of the fowls whomthe 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 backat the chimney. His face expressed nothing but self-satisfaction,and he appeared to take life as calmly as the goldfinch suspendedover his head in its wicker cage: this was the chemist.

　　"Artemise!" shouted the landlady, "chop some wood, fill the waterbottles, bring some brandy, look sharp! If only I knew whatdessert to offer the guests you are expecting! Good heavens!Those furniture-movers are beginning their racket in thebilliard-room again; and their van has been left before the frontdoor! The 'Hirondelle' might run into it when it draws up. CallPolyte and tell him to put it up. Only think, Monsieur Homais,that since morning they have had about fifteen games, and drunkeight jars of cider! Why, they'll tear my cloth for me," she wenton, looking at them from a distance, her strainer in her hand.

　　"That wouldn't be much of a loss," replied Monsieur Homais. "Youwould buy another."

　　"Another billiard-table!" exclaimed the widow.

　　"Since that one is coming to pieces, Madame Lefrancois. I tellyou again you are doing yourself harm, much harm! And besides,players now want narrow pockets and heavy cues. Hazards aren'tplayed now; everything is changed! One must keep pace with thetimes! Just look at Tellier!"

　　The hostess reddened with vexation. The chemist went on--

　　"You may say what you like; his table is better than yours; andif one were to think, for example, of getting up a patriotic poolfor Poland or the sufferers from the Lyons floods--"

　　"It isn't beggars like him that'll frighten us," interrupted thelandlady, shrugging her fat shoulders. "Come, come, MonsieurHomais; 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. Changemy billiard-table!" she went on, speaking to herself, "the tablethat comes in so handy for folding the washing, and on which, inthe hunting season, I have slept six visitors! But that dawdler,Hivert, doesn't come!"

　　"Are you waiting for him for your gentlemen's dinner?"

　　"Wait for him! And what about Monsieur Binet? As the clockstrikes six you'll see him come in, for he hasn't his equal underthe sun for punctuality. He must always have his seat in thesmall parlour. He'd rather die than dine anywhere else. And sosqueamish as he is, and so particular about the cider! Not likeMonsieur Leon; he sometimes comes at seven, or even half-past,and he doesn't so much as look at what he eats. Such a nice youngman! Never speaks a rough word!"

　　"Well, you see, there's a great difference between an educatedman and an old carabineer who is now a tax-collector."

　　Six o'clock struck. Binet came in.

　　He wore a blue frock-coat falling in a straight line round histhin body, and his leather cap, with its lappets knotted over thetop of his head with string, showed under the turned-up peak abald forehead, flattened by the constant wearing of a helmet. Hewore a black cloth waistcoat, a hair collar, grey trousers, and,all the year round, well-blacked boots, that had two parallelswellings due to the sticking out of his big-toes. Not a hairstood out from the regular line of fair whiskers, which,encircling his jaws, framed, after the fashion of a gardenborder, his long, wan face, whose eyes were small and the nosehooked. Clever at all games of cards, a good hunter, and writinga fine hand, he had at home a lathe, and amused himself byturning napkin rings, with which he filled up his house, with thejealousy of an artist and the egotism of a bourgeois.

　　He went to the small parlour, but the three millers had to be gotout first, and during the whole time necessary for laying thecloth, Binet remained silent in his place near the stove. Then heshut the door and took off his cap in his usual way.

　　"It isn't with saying civil things that he'll wear out histongue," said the chemist, as soon as he was along with thelandlady.

　　"He never talks more," she replied. "Last week two travelers inthe cloth line were here--such clever chaps who told such jokesin the evening, that I fairly cried with laughing; and he stoodthere like a dab fish and never said a word."

　　"Yes," observed the chemist; "no imagination, no sallies, nothingthat makes the society-man."

　　"Yet they say he has parts," objected the landlady.

　　"Parts!" replied Monsieur Homais; "he, parts! In his own line itis possible," he added in a calmer tone. And he went on--

　　"Ah! That a merchant, who has large connections, a jurisconsult,a doctor, a chemist, should be thus absent-minded, that theshould become whimsical or even peevish, I can understand; suchcases are cited in history. But at least it is because they arethinking of something. Myself, for example, how often has ithappened to me to look on the bureau for my pen to write a label,and to find, after all, that I had put it behind my ear!"

　　Madame Lefrancois just then went to the door to see if the"Hirondelle" were not coming. She started. A man dressed in blacksuddenly came into the kitchen. By the last gleam of the twilightone could see that his face was rubicund and his form athletic.

　　"What can I do for you, Monsieur le Curie?" asked the landlady,as she reached down from the chimney one of the coppercandlesticks placed with their candles in a row. "Will you takesomething? A thimbleful of Cassis*? A glass of wine?"

　　*Black currant liqueur.

　　The priest declined very politely. He had come for his umbrella,that he had forgotten the other day at the Ernemont convent, andafter asking Madame Lefrancois to have it sent to him at thepresbytery in the evening, he left for the church, from which theAngelus was ringing.

　　When the chemist no longer heard the noise of his boots along thesquare, he thought the priest's behaviour just now veryunbecoming. This refusal to take any refreshment seemed to himthe most odious hypocrisy; all priests tippled on the sly, andwere trying to bring back the days of the tithe.

　　The landlady took up the defence of her curie.

　　"Besides, he could double up four men like you over his knee.

　　Last year he helped our people to bring in the straw; he carriedas many as six trusses at once, he is so strong."

　　"Bravo!" said the chemist. "Now just send your daughters toconfess to fellows which such a temperament! I, if I were theGovernment, I'd have the priests bled once a month. Yes, MadameLefrancois, every month--a good phlebotomy, in the interests ofthe police and morals."

　　"Be quiet, Monsieur Homais. You are an infidel; you've noreligion."

　　The chemist answered: "I have a religion, my religion, and I evenhave more than all these others with their mummeries and theirjuggling. I adore God, on the contrary. I believe in the SupremeBeing, in a Creator, whatever he may be. I care little who hasplaced us here below to fulfil our duties as citizens and fathersof families; but I don't need to go to church to kiss silverplates, and fatten, out of my pocket, a lot of good-for-nothingswho live better than we do. For one can know Him as well in awood, in a field, or even contemplating the eternal vault likethe ancients. My God! Mine is the God of Socrates, of Franklin,of Voltaire, and of Beranger! I am for the profession of faith ofthe 'Savoyard Vicar,' and the immortal principles of '89! And Ican't admit of an old boy of a God who takes walks in his gardenwith a cane in his hand, who lodges his friends in the belly ofwhales, dies uttering a cry, and rises again at the end of threedays; things absurd in themselves, and completely opposed,moreover, to all physical laws, which prove to us, by the way,that priests have always wallowed in turpid ignorance, in whichthey would fain engulf the people with them."

　　He ceased, looking round for an audience, for in his bubblingover the chemist had for a moment fancied himself in the midst ofthe town council. But the landlady no longer heeded him; she waslistening to a distant rolling. One could distinguish the noiseof a carriage mingled with the clattering of loose horseshoesthat beat against the ground, and at last the "Hirondelle"stopped at the door.

　　It was a yellow box on two large wheels, that, reaching to thetilt, prevented travelers from seeing the road and dirtied theirshoulders. The small panes of the narrow windows rattled in theirsashes when the coach was closed, and retained here and therepatches of mud amid the old layers of dust, that not even stormsof rain had altogether washed away. It was drawn by three horses,the first a leader, and when it came down-hill its bottom joltedagainst the ground.

　　Some of the inhabitants of Yonville came out into the square;they all spoke at once, asking for news, for explanations, forhampers. Hivert did not know whom to answer. It was he who didthe errands of the place in town. He went to the shops andbrought back rolls of leather for the shoemaker, old iron for thefarrier, a barrel of herrings for his mistress, caps from themilliner's,l locks from the hair-dresser's and all along the roadon his return journey he distributed his parcels, which he threw,standing upright on his seat and shouting at the top of hisvoice, over the enclosures of the yards.

　　An accident had delayed him. Madame Bovary's greyhound had runacross the field. They had whistled for him a quarter of an hour;Hivert had even gone back a mile and a half expecting everymoment to catch sight of her; but it had been necessary to go on.

　　Emma had wept, grown angry; she had accused Charles of thismisfortune. Monsieur Lheureux, a draper, who happened to be inthe coach with her, had tried to console her by a number ofexamples of lost dogs recognizing their masters at the end oflong years. One, he said had been told of, who had come back toParis from Constantinople. Another had gone one hundred and fiftymiles in a straight line, and swum four rivers; and his ownfather had possessed a poodle, which, after twelve years ofabsence, had all of a sudden jumped on his back in the street ashe was going to dine in town.