Part II: Chapter Seven

by Gustave Flaubert

　　The next day was a dreary one for Emma. Everything seemed to herenveloped in a black atmosphere floating confusedly over theexterior of things, and sorrow was engulfed within her soul withsoft shrieks such as the winter wind makes in ruined castles. Itwas that reverie which we give to things that will not return,the lassitude that seizes you after everything was done; thatpain, in fine, that the interruption of every wonted movement,the sudden cessation of any prolonged vibration, brings on.

　　As on the return from Vaubyessard, when the quadrilles wererunning in her head, she was full of a gloomy melancholy, of anumb despair. Leon reappeared, taller, handsomer, more charming,more vague. Though separated from her, he had not left her; hewas there, and the walls of the house seemed to hold his shadow.

　　She could not detach her eyes from the carpet where he hadwalked, from those empty chairs where he had sat. The river stillflowed on, and slowly drove its ripples along the slippery banks.

　　They had often walked there to the murmur of the waves over themoss-covered pebbles. How bright the sun had been! What happyafternoons they had seen along in the shade at the end of thegarden! He read aloud, bareheaded, sitting on a footstool of drysticks; the fresh wind of the meadow set trembling the leaves ofthe book and the nasturtiums of the arbour. Ah! he was gone, theonly charm of her life, the only possible hope of joy. Why hadshe not seized this happiness when it came to her? Why not havekept hold of it with both hands, with both knees, when it wasabout to flee from her? And she cursed herself for not havingloved Leon. She thirsted for his lips. The wish took possessionof her to run after and rejoin him, throw herself into his armsand say to him, "It is I; I am yours." But Emma recoiledbeforehand at the difficulties of the enterprise, and herdesires, increased by regret, became only the more acute.

　　Henceforth the memory of Leon was the centre of her boredom; itburnt there more brightly than the fire travellers have left onthe snow of a Russian steppe. She sprang towards him, she pressedagainst him, she stirred carefully the dying embers, sought allaround her anything that could revive it; and the most distantreminiscences, like the most immediate occasions, what sheexperienced as well as what she imagined, her voluptuous desiresthat were unsatisfied, her projects of happiness that crackled inthe wind like dead boughs, her sterile virtue, her lost hopes,the domestic tete-a-tete--she gathered it all up, tookeverything, and made it all serve as fuel for her melancholy.

　　The flames, however, subsided, either because the supply hadexhausted itself, or because it had been piled up too much. Love,little by little, was quelled by absence; regret stifled beneathhabit; and this incendiary light that had empurpled her pale skywas overspread and faded by degrees. In the supineness of herconscience she even took her repugnance towards her husband foraspirations towards her lover, the burning of hate for the warmthof tenderness; but as the tempest still raged, and as passionburnt itself down to the very cinders, and no help came, no sunrose, there was night on all sides, and she was lost in theterrible cold that pierced her.

　　Then the evil days of Tostes began again. She thought herself nowfar more unhappy; for she had the experience of grief, with thecertainty that it would not end.

　　A woman who had laid on herself such sacrifices could well allowherself certain whims. She bought a Gothic prie-dieu, and in amonth spent fourteen francs on lemons for polishing her nails;she wrote to Rouen for a blue cashmere gown; she chose one ofLheureux's finest scarves, and wore it knotted around her waistover her dressing-gown; and, with closed blinds and a book in herhand, 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 androlled it under like a man's.

　　She wanted to learn Italian; she bought dictionaries, a grammar,and a supply of white paper. She tried serious reading, history,and philosophy. Sometimes in the night Charles woke up with astart, thinking he was being called to a patient. "I'm coming,"

　　he stammered; and it was the noise of a match Emma had struck torelight the lamp. But her reading fared like her piece ofembroidery, all of which, only just begun, filled her cupboard;she took it up, left it, passed on to other books.

　　She had attacks in which she could easily have been driven tocommit any folly. She maintained one day, in opposition to herhusband, that she could drink off a large glass of brandy, and,as Charles was stupid enough to dare her to, she swallowed thebrandy to the last drop.

　　In spite of her vapourish airs (as the housewives of Yonvillecalled them), Emma, all the same, never seemed gay, and usuallyshe had at the corners of her mouth that immobile contractionthat puckers the faces of old maids, and those of men whoseambition has failed. She was pale all over, white as a sheet; theskin of her nose was drawn at the nostrils, her eyes looked atyou vaguely. After discovering three grey hairs on her temples,she talked much of her old age.

　　She often fainted. One day she even spat blood, and, as Charlesfussed around her showing his anxiety--

　　"Bah!" she answered, "what does it matter?"

　　Charles fled to his study and wept there, both his elbows on thetable, sitting in an arm-chair at his bureau under thephrenological head.

　　Then he wrote to his mother begging her to come, and they hadmany long consultations together on the subject of Emma.

　　What should they decide? What was to be done since she rejectedall 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, shewouldn't have these vapours, that come to her from a lot of ideasshe stuffs into her head, and from the idleness in which shelives.

　　Yet she is always busy," said Charles.

　　"Ah! always busy at what? Reading novels, bad books, worksagainst religion, and in which they mock at priests in speechestaken from Voltaire. But all that leads you far astray, my poorchild. Anyone who has no religion always ends by turning outbadly."

　　So it was decided to stop Emma reading novels. The enterprise didnot seem easy. The good lady undertook it. She was, when shepassed through Rouen, to go herself to the lending-library andrepresent that Emma had discontinued her subscription. Would theynot have a right to apply to the police if the librarianpersisted all the same in his poisonous trade? The farewells ofmother and daughter-in-law were cold. During the three weeks thatthey had been together they had not exchanged half-a-dozen wordsapart from the inquiries and phrases when they met at table andin the evening before going to bed.

　　Madame Bovary left on a Wednesday, the market-day at Yonville.

　　The Place since morning had been blocked by a row of carts,which, on end and their shafts in the air, spread all along theline of houses from the church to the inn. On the other sidethere were canvas booths, where cotton checks, blankets, andwoollen stockings were sold, together with harness for horses,and packets of blue ribbon, whose ends fluttered in the wind. Thecoarse hardware was spread out on the ground between pyramids ofeggs and hampers of cheeses, from which sticky straw stuck out.

　　Near the corn-machines clucking hens passed their necks throughthe bars of flat cages. The people, crowding in the same placeand unwilling to move thence, sometimes threatened to smash theshop front of the chemist. On Wednesdays his shop was neverempty, and the people pushed in less to buy drugs than forconsultations. So great was Homais' reputation in theneighbouring villages. His robust aplomb had fascinated therustics. They considered him a greater doctor than all thedoctors.

　　Emma was leaning out at the window; she was often there. Thewindow in the provinces replaces the theatre and the promenade,she was amusing herself with watching the crowd of boors when shesaw a gentleman in a green velvet coat. He had on yellow gloves,although he wore heavy gaiters; he was coming towards thedoctor's house, followed by a peasant walking with a bent headand quite a thoughtful air.

　　"Can I see the doctor?" he asked Justin, who was talking on thedoorsteps with Felicite, and, taking him for a servant of thehouse--"Tell him that Monsieur Rodolphe Boulanger of La Huchetteis here."

　　It was not from territorial vanity that the new arrival added "ofLa Huchette" to his name, but to make himself the better known.

　　La Huchette, in fact, was an estate near Yonville, where he hadjust bought the chateau and two farms that he cultivated himself,without, however, troubling very much about them. He lived as abachelor, and was supposed to have "at least fifteen thousandfrancs a year."

　　Charles came into the room. Monsieur Boulanger introduced hisman, who wanted to be bled because he felt "a tingling all over."

　　"That'll purge me," he urged as an objection to all reasoning.

　　So Bovary ordered a bandage and a basin, and asked Justin to holdit. Then addressing the peasant, who was already pale--

　　"Don't be afraid, my lad."

　　"No, no, sir," said the other; "get on."

　　And with an air of bravado he held out his great arm. At theprick of the lancet the blood spurted out, splashing against thelooking-glass.

　　"Hold the basin nearer," exclaimed Charles.

　　"Lor!" said the peasant, "one would swear it was a littlefountain flowing. How red my blood is! That's a good sign, isn'tit?"

　　"Sometimes," answered the doctor, "one feels nothing at first,and then syncope sets in, and more especially with people ofstrong constitution like this man."

　　At these words the rustic let go the lancet-case he was twistingbetween his fingers. A shudder of his shoulders made thechair-back creak. His hat fell off.

　　"I thought as much," said Bovary, pressing his finger on thevein.

　　The basin was beginning to tremble in Justin's hands; his kneesshook, he turned pale.

　　"Emma! Emma!" called Charles.

　　With one bound she came down the staircase.

　　"Some vinegar," he cried. "O dear! two at once!"

　　And in his emotion he could hardly put on the compress.

　　"It is nothing," said Monsieur Boulanger quietly, taking Justinin his arms. He seated him on the table with his back restingagainst the wall.

　　Madame Bovary began taking off his cravat. The strings of hisshirt had got into a knot, and she was for some minutes movingher light fingers about the young fellow's neck. Then she pouredsome vinegar on her cambric handkerchief; she moistened histemples with little dabs, and then blew upon them softly. Theploughman revived, but Justin's syncope still lasted, and hiseyeballs disappeared in the pale sclerotics like blue flowers inmilk.

　　"We must hide this from him," said Charles.

　　Madame Bovary took the basin to put it under the table. With themovement she made in bending down, her dress (it was a summerdress with four flounces, yellow, long in the waist and wide inthe skirt) spread out around her on the flags of the room; and asEmma 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 meltingsome pieces of sugar when the chemist arrived. The servant hadbeen to fetch him in the tumult. Seeing his pupil's eyes staringhe drew a long breath; then going around him he looked at himfrom head to foot.

　　"Fool!" he said, "really a little fool! A fool in four letters! Aphlebotomy's a big affair, isn't it! And a fellow who isn'tafraid of anything; a kind of squirrel, just as he is who climbsto vertiginous heights to shake down nuts. Oh, yes! you just talkto me, boast about yourself! Here's a fine fitness for practisingpharmacy later on; for under serious circumstances you may becalled before the tribunals in order to enlighten the minds ofthe magistrates, and you would have to keep your head then, toreason, show yourself a man, or else pass for an imbecile."

　　Justin did not answer. The chemist went on--

　　"Who asked you to come? You are always pestering the doctor andmadame. On Wednesday, moreover, your presence is indispensable tome. There are now twenty people in the shop. I left everythingbecause 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 talkedfor a little while about fainting-fits. Madame Bovary had neverfainted.

　　"That is extraordinary for a lady," said Monsieur Boulanger; "butsome people are very susceptible. Thus in a duel, I have seen asecond lose consciousness at the mere sound of the loading ofpistols."

　　"For my part," said the chemist, "the sight of other people'sblood doesn't affect me at all, but the mere thought of my ownflowing would make me faint if I reflected upon it too much."

　　Monsieur Boulanger, however, dismissed his servant, advising himto calm himself, since his fancy was over.

　　"It procured me the advantage of making your acquaintance," headded, and he looked at Emma as he said this. Then he put threefrancs on the corner of the table, bowed negligently, and wentout.

　　He was soon on the other side of the river (this was his way backto La Huchette), and Emma saw him in the meadow, walking underthe poplars, slackening his pace now and then as one whoreflects.

　　"She is very pretty," he said to himself; "she is very pretty,this doctor's wife. Fine teeth, black eyes, a dainty foot, afigure like a Parisienne's. Where the devil does she come from?Wherever did that fat fellow pick her up?"

　　Monsieur Rodolphe Boulanger was thirty-four; he was of brutaltemperament and intelligent perspicacity, having, moreover, hadmuch to do with women, and knowing them well. This one had seemedpretty to him; so he was thinking about her and her husband.

　　"I think he is very stupid. She is tired of him, no doubt. He hasdirty nails, and hasn't shaved for three days. While he istrotting after his patients, she sits there botching socks. Andshe gets bored! She would like to live in town and dance polkasevery evening. Poor little woman! She is gaping after love like acarp after water on a kitchen-table. With three words ofgallantry she'd adore one, I'm sure of it. She'd be tender,charming. Yes; but how to get rid of her afterwards?"

　　Then the difficulties of love-making seen in the distance madehim by contrast think of his mistress. She was an actress atRouen, whom he kept; and when he had pondered over this image,with which, even in remembrance, he was satiated--

　　"Ah! Madame Bovary," he thought, "is much prettier, especiallyfresher. Virginie is decidedly beginning to grow fat. She is sofinikin about her pleasures; and, besides, she has a mania forprawns."

　　The fields were empty, and around him Rodolphe only heard theregular beating of the grass striking against his boots, with acry of the grasshopper hidden at a distance among the oats. Heagain saw Emma in her room, dressed as he had seen her, and heundressed her.

　　"Oh, I will have her," he cried, striking a blow with his stickat a clod in front of him. And he at once began to consider thepolitical part of the enterprise. He asked himself--

　　"Where shall we meet? By what means? We shall always be havingthe brat on our hands, and the servant, the neighbours, andhusband, all sorts of worries. Pshaw! one would lose too muchtime over it."

　　Then he resumed, "She really has eyes that pierce one's heartlike a gimlet. And that pale complexion! I adore pale women!"

　　When he reached the top of the Arguiel hills he had made up hismind. "It's only finding the opportunities. Well, I will call innow and then. I'll send them venison, poultry; I'll have myselfbled, if need be. We shall become friends; I'll invite them to myplace. By Jove!" added he, "there's the agricultural show comingon. She'll be there. I shall see her. We'll begin boldly, forthat's the surest way."