Part II: Chapter Six

by Gustave Flaubert

　　One evening when the window was open, and she, sitting by it, hadbeen watching Lestiboudois, the beadle, trimming the box, shesuddenly heard the Angelus ringing.

　　It was the beginning of April, when the primroses are in bloom,and a warm wind blows over the flower-beds newly turned, and thegardens, like women, seem to be getting ready for the summerfetes. Through the bars of the arbour and away beyond, the riverseen in the fields, meandering through the grass in wanderingcurves. The evening vapours rose between the leafless poplars,touching their outlines with a violet tint, paler and moretransparent than a subtle gauze caught athwart their branches. Inthe distance cattle moved about; neither their steps nor theirlowing could be heard; and the bell, still ringing through theair, kept up its peaceful lamentation.

　　With this repeated tinkling the thoughts of the young woman lostthemselves in old memories of her youth and school-days. Sheremembered the great candlesticks that rose above the vases fullof flowers on the altar, and the tabernacle with its smallcolumns. She would have liked to be once more lost in the longline of white veils, marked off here and there by the stuff blackhoods of the good sisters bending over their prie-Dieu. At masson Sundays, when she looked up, she saw the gentle face of theVirgin amid the blue smoke of the rising incense. Then she wasmoved; she felt herself weak and quite deserted, like the down ofa bird whirled by the tempest, and it was unconsciously that shewent towards the church, included to no matter what devotions, sothat her soul was absorbed and all existence lost in it.

　　On the Place she met Lestivoudois on his way back, for, in ordernot to shorten his day's labour, he preferred interrupting hiswork, then beginning it again, so that he rang the Angelus tosuit his own convenience. Besides, the ringing over a littleearlier warned the lads of catechism hour.

　　Already a few who had arrived were playing marbles on the stonesof the cemetery. Others, astride the wall, swung their legs,kicking with their clogs the large nettles growing between thelittle enclosure and the newest graves. This was the only greenspot. All the rest was but stones, always covered with a finepowder, despite the vestry-broom.

　　The children in list shoes ran about there as if it were anenclosure made for them. The shouts of their voices could beheard through the humming of the bell. This grew less and lesswith the swinging of the great rope that, hanging from the top ofthe belfry, dragged its end on the ground. Swallows flitted toand fro uttering little cries, cut the air with the edge of theirwings, and swiftly returned to their yellow nests under the tilesof the coping. At the end of the church a lamp was burning, thewick of a night-light in a glass hung up. Its light from adistance looked like a white stain trembling in the oil. A longray of the sun fell across the nave and seemed to darken thelower sides and the corners.

　　"Where is the cure?" asked Madame Bovary of one of the lads, whowas amusing himself by shaking a swivel in a hole too large forit.

　　"He is just coming," he answered.

　　And in fact the door of the presbytery grated; Abbe Bournisienappeared; the children, pell-mell, fled into the church.

　　"These young scamps!" murmured the priest, "always the same!"

　　Then, picking up a catechism all in rags that he had struck withis foot, "They respect nothing!" But as soon as he caught sightof Madame Bovary, "Excuse me," he said; "I did not recogniseyou."

　　He thrust the catechism into his pocket, and stopped short,balancing the heavy vestry key between his two fingers.

　　The light of the setting sun that fell full upon his face paledthe lasting of his cassock, shiny at the elbows, unravelled atthe hem. Grease and tobacco stains followed along his broad chestthe lines of the buttons, and grew more numerous the farther theywere from his neckcloth, in which the massive folds of his redchin rested; this was dotted with yellow spots, that disappearedbeneath the coarse hair of his greyish beard. He had just dinedand was breathing noisily.

　　"How are you?" he added.

　　"Not well," replied Emma; "I am ill."

　　"Well, and so am I," answered the priest. "These first warm daysweaken one most remarkably, don't they? But, after all, we areborn to suffer, as St. Paul says. But what does Monsieur Bovarythink of it?"

　　"He!" she said with a gesture of contempt.

　　"What!" replied the good fellow, quite astonished, doesn't heprescribe something for you?"

　　"Ah!" said Emma, "it is no earthly remedy I need."

　　But the cure from time to time looked into the church, where thekneeling boys were shouldering one another, and tumbling overlike packs of cards.

　　"I should like to know--" she went on.

　　"You look out, Riboudet," cried the priest in an angry voice;"I'll warm your ears, you imp!" Then turning to Emma, "He'sBoudet the carpenter's son; his parents are well off, and let himdo just as he pleases. Yet he could learn quickly if he would,for he is very sharp. And so sometimes for a joke I call himRiboudet (like the road one takes to go to Maromme) and I evensay 'Mon Riboudet.' Ha! Ha! 'Mont Riboudet.' The other day Irepeated that just to Monsignor, and he laughed at it; hecondescended to laugh at it. And how is Monsieur Bovary?"

　　She seemed not to hear him. And he went on--

　　"Always very busy, no doubt; for he and I are certainly thebusiest people in the parish. But he is doctor of the body," headded with a thick laugh, "and I of the soul."

　　She fixed her pleading eyes upon the priest. "Yes," she said,"you solace all sorrows."

　　"Ah! don't talk to me of it, Madame Bovary. This morning I had togo to Bas-Diauville for a cow that was ill; they thought it wasunder a spell. All their cows, I don't know how it is--But pardonme! Longuemarre and Boudet! Bless me! Will you leave off?"

　　And with a bound he ran into the church.

　　The boys were just then clustering round the large desk, climbingover the precentor's footstool, opening the missal; and others ontiptoe were just about to venture into the confessional. But thepriest suddenly distributed a shower of cuffs among them. Seizingthem by the collars of their coats, he lifted them from theground, and deposited them on their knees on the stones of thechoir, firmly, as if he meant planting them there.

　　"Yes," said he, when he returned to Emma, unfolding his largecotton handkerchief, one corner of which he put between histeeth, "farmers are much to be pitied."

　　"Others, too," she replied.

　　"Assuredly. Town-labourers, for example."

　　"It is not they--"

　　"Pardon! I've there known poor mothers of families, virtuouswomen, I assure you, real saints, who wanted even bread."

　　"But those," replied Emma, and the corners of her mouth twitchedas she spoke, "those, Monsieur le Cure, who have bread and haveno--"

　　"Fire in the winter," said the priest.

　　"Oh, what does that matter?"

　　"What! What does it matter? It seems to me that when one hasfiring and food--for, after all--"

　　"My God! my God!" she sighed.

　　"It is indigestion, no doubt? You must get home, Madame Bovary;drink a little tea, that will strengthen you, or else a glass offresh water with a little moist sugar."

　　"Why?" And she looked like one awaking from a dream.

　　"Well, you see, you were putting your hand to your forehead. Ithought you felt faint." Then, bethinking himself, "But you wereasking me something? What was it? I really don't remember."

　　"I? Nothing! nothing!" repeated Emma.

　　And the glance she cast round her slowly fell upon the old man inthe cassock. They looked at one another face to face withoutspeaking.

　　"Then, Madame Bovary," he said at last, "excuse me, but dutyfirst, you know; I must look after my good-for-nothings. Thefirst communion will soon be upon us, and I fear we shall bebehind after all. So after Ascension Day I keep them recta* anextra hour every Wednesday. Poor children! One cannot lead themtoo soon into the path of the Lord, as, moreover, he has himselfrecommended us to do by the mouth of his Divine Son. Good healthto you, madame; my respects to your husband."

　　*On the straight and narrow path.

　　And he went into the church making a genuflexion as soon as hereached the door.

　　Emma saw him disappear between the double row of forms, walkingwith a heavy tread, his head a little bent over his shoulder, andwith his two hands half-open behind him.

　　Then she turned on her heel all of one piece, like a statue on apivot, and went homewards. But the loud voice of the priest, theclear voices of the boys still reached her ears, and went onbehind her.

　　"Are you a Christian?"

　　"Yes, I am a Christian."

　　"What is a Christian?"

　　"He who, being baptized-baptized-baptized--"

　　She went up the steps of the staircase holding on to thebanisters, and when she was in her room threw herself into anarm-chair.

　　The whitish light of the window-panes fell with soft undulations.

　　The furniture in its place seemed to have become more immobile,and to lose itself in the shadow as in an ocean of darkness. Thefire was out, the clock went on ticking, and Emma vaguelymarvelled at this calm of all things while within herself wassuch tumult. But little Berthe was there, between the window andthe work-table, tottering on her knitted shoes, and trying tocome to her mother to catch hold of the ends of herapron-strings.

　　"Leave me alone," said the latter, putting her from her with herhand.

　　The little girl soon came up closer against her knees, andleaning on them with her arms, she looked up with her large blueeyes, while a small thread of pure saliva dribbled from her lipson to the silk apron.

　　"Leave me alone," repeated the young woman quite irritably.

　　Her face frightened the child, who began to scream.

　　"Will you leave me alone?" she said, pushing her with her elbow.

　　Berthe fell at the foot of the drawers against the brass handle,cutting her cheek, which began to bleed, against it. MadameBovary sprang to lift her up, broke the bell-rope, called for theservant with all her might, and she was just going to curseherself when Charles appeared. It was the dinner-hour; he hadcome home.

　　"Look, dear!" said Emma, in a calm voice, "the little one felldown while she was playing, and has hurt herself."

　　Charles reassured her; the case was not a serious one, and hewent for some sticking plaster.

　　Madame Bovary did not go downstairs to the dining-room; shewished to remain alone to look after the child. Then watching hersleep, the little anxiety she felt gradually wore off, and sheseemed very stupid to herself, and very good to have been soworried just now at so little. Berthe, in fact, no longer sobbed.

　　Her breathing now imperceptibly raised the cotton covering. Bigtears lay in the corner of the half-closed eyelids, through whoselashes one could see two pale sunken pupils; the plaster stuck onher cheek drew the skin obliquely.

　　"It is very strange," thought Emma, "how ugly this child is!"

　　When at eleven o'clock Charles came back from the chemist's shop,whither he had gone after dinner to return the remainder of thesticking-plaster, he found his wife standing by the cradle.

　　"I assure you it's nothing." he said, kissing her on theforehead. "Don't worry, my poor darling; you will make yourselfill."

　　He had stayed a long time at the chemist's. Although he had notseemed much moved, Homais, nevertheless, had exerted himself tobuoy him up, to "keep up his spirits." Then they had talked ofthe various dangers that threaten childhood, of the carelessnessof servants. Madame Homais knew something of it, having stillupon her chest the marks left by a basin full of soup that a cookhad formerly dropped on her pinafore, and her good parents tookno end of trouble for her. The knives were not sharpened, nor thefloors waxed; there were iron gratings to the windows and strongbars across the fireplace; the little Homais, in spite of theirspirit, could not stir without someone watching them; at theslightest cold their father stuffed them with pectorals; anduntil they were turned four they all, without pity, had to wearwadded head-protectors. This, it is true, was a fancy of MadameHomais'; her husband was inwardly afflicted at it. Fearing thepossible consequences of such compression to the intellectualorgans. He even went so far as to say to her, "Do you want tomake Caribs or Botocudos of them?"

　　Charles, however, had several times tried to interrupt theconversation. "I should like to speak to you," he had whisperedin the clerk's ear, who went upstairs in front of him.

　　"Can he suspect anything?" Leon asked himself. His heart beat,and he racked his brain with surmises.

　　At last, Charles, having shut the door, asked him to see himselfwhat would be the price at Rouen of a fine daguerreotypes. It wasa sentimental surprise he intended for his wife, a delicateattention--his portrait in a frock-coat. But he wanted first toknow "how much it would be." The inquiries would not put MonsieurLeon out, since he went to town almost every week.

　　Why? Monsieur Homais suspected some "young man's affair" at thebottom of it, an intrigue. But he was mistaken. Leon was after nolove-making. He was sadder than ever, as Madame Lefrancois sawfrom the amount of food he left on his plate. To find out moreabout it she questioned the tax-collector. Binet answered roughlythat he "wasn't paid by the police."

　　All the same, his companion seemed very strange to him, for Leonoften threw himself back in his chair, and stretching out hisarms. Complained vaguely of life.

　　"It's because you don't take enough recreation," said thecollector.

　　"What recreation?"

　　"If I were you I'd have a lathe."

　　"But I don't know how to turn," answered the clerk.

　　"Ah! that's true," said the other, rubbing his chin with an airof mingled contempt and satisfaction.

　　Leon was weary of loving without any result; moreover he wasbeginning to feel that depression caused by the repetition of thesame kind of life, when no interest inspires and no hope sustainsit. He was so bored with Yonville and its inhabitants, that thesight of certain persons, of certain houses, irritated him beyondendurance; and the chemist, good fellow though he was, wasbecoming absolutely unbearable to him. Yet the prospect of a newcondition of life frightened as much as it seduced him.

　　This apprehension soon changed into impatience, and then Parisfrom afar sounded its fanfare of masked balls with the laugh ofgrisettes. As he was to finish reading there, why not set out atonce? What prevented him? And he began making home-preparations;he arranged his occupations beforehand. He furnished in his headan apartment. He would lead an artist's life there! He would takelessons on the guitar! He would have a dressing-gown, a Basquecap, blue velvet slippers! He even already was admiring twocrossed foils over his chimney-piece, with a death's head on theguitar above them.

　　The difficulty was the consent of his mother; nothing, however,seemed more reasonable. Even his employer advised him to go tosome other chambers where he could advance more rapidly. Taking amiddle course, then, Leon looked for some place as second clerkat Rouen; found none, and at last wrote his mother a long letterfull of details, in which he set forth the reasons for going tolive at Paris immediately. She consented.

　　He did not hurry. Every day for a month Hivert carried boxes,valises, parcels for him from Yonville to Rouen and from Rouen toYonville; and when Leon had packed up his wardrobe, had his threearm-chairs restuffed, bought a stock of neckties, in a word, hadmade more preparations than for a voyage around the world, he putit off from week to week, until he received a second letter fromhis mother urging him to leave, since he wanted to pass hisexamination before the vacation.

　　When the moment for the farewells had come, Madame Homais wept,Justin sobbed; Homais, as a man of nerve, concealed his emotion;he wished to carry his friend's overcoat himself as far as thegate of the notary, who was taking Leon to Rouen in his carriage.

　　The latter had just time to bid farewell to Monsieur Bovary.

　　When he reached the head of the stairs, he stopped, he was so outof breath. As he came in, Madame Bovary arose hurriedly.

　　"It is I again!" said Leon.

　　"I was sure of it!"

　　She bit her lips, and a rush of blood flowing under her skin madeher red from the roots of her hair to the top of her collar. Sheremained standing, leaning with her shoulder against thewainscot.

　　"The doctor is not here?" he went on.

　　"He is out." She repeated, "He is out."

　　Then there was silence. They looked at one another and theirthoughts, confounded in the same agony, clung close together liketwo throbbing breasts.

　　"I should like to kiss Berthe," said Leon.

　　Emma went down a few steps and called Felicite.

　　He threw one long look around him that took in the walls, thedecorations, the fireplace, as if to penetrate everything, carryaway everything. But she returned, and the servant broughtBerthe, who was swinging a windmill roof downwards at the end ofa string. Leon kissed her several times on the neck.

　　"Good-bye, poor child! good-bye, dear little one! good-bye!" Andhe gave her back to her mother.

　　"Take her away," she said.

　　They remained alone--Madame Bovary, her back turned, her facepressed against a window-pane; Leon held his cap in his hand,knocking it softly against his thigh.

　　"It is going to rain," said Emma.

　　"I have a cloak," he answered.

　　"Ah!"

　　She turned around, her chin lowered, her forehead bent forward.

　　The light fell on it as on a piece of marble, to the curve of theeyebrows, without one's being able to guess what Emma was seeingon the horizon or what she was thinking within herself.

　　"Well, good-bye," he sighed.

　　She raised her head with a quick movement.

　　"Yes, good-bye--go!"

　　They advanced towards each other; he held out his hand; shehesitated.

　　"In the English fashion, then," she said, giving her own handwholly to him, and forcing a laugh.

　　Leon felt it between his fingers, and the very essence of all hisbeing seemed to pass down into that moist palm. Then he openedhis hand; their eyes met again, and he disappeared.

　　When he reached the market-place, he stopped and hid behind apillar to look for the last time at this white house with thefour green blinds. He thought he saw a shadow behind the windowin the room; but the curtain, sliding along the pole as though noone were touching it, slowly opened its long oblique folds thatspread out with a single movement, and thus hung straight andmotionless as a plaster wall. Leon set off running.

　　>From afar he saw his employer's gig in the road, and by it a manin a coarse apron holding the horse. Homais and MonsieurGuillaumin were talking. They were waiting for him.

　　"Embrace me," said the druggist with tears in his eyes. "Here isyour coat, my good friend. Mind the cold; take care of yourself;look after yourself."

　　"Come, Leon, jump in," said the notary.

　　Homais bend over the splash-board, and in a voice broken by sobsuttered these three sad words--

　　"A pleasant journey!"

　　"Good-night," said Monsieur Guillaumin. "Give him his head." Theyset out, and Homais went back.

　　Madame Bovary had opened her window overlooking the garden andwatched the clouds. They gathered around the sunset on the sideof Rouen and then swiftly rolled back their black columns, behindwhich the great rays of the sun looked out like the golden arrowsof a suspended trophy, while the rest of the empty heavens waswhite as porcelain. But a gust of wind bowed the poplars, andsuddenly the rain fell; it pattered against the green leaves.

　　Then the sun reappeared, the hens clucked, sparrows shook theirwings in the damp thickets, and the pools of water on the gravelas they flowed away carried off the pink flowers of an acacia.

　　"Ah! how far off he must be already!" she thought.

　　Monsieur Homais, as usual, came at half-past six during dinner.

　　"Well," said he, "so we've sent off our young friend!"

　　"So it seems," replied the doctor. Then turning on his chair;"Any news at home?"

　　"Nothing much. Only my wife was a little moved this afternoon.

　　You know women--a nothing upsets them, especially my wife. And weshould be wrong to object to that, since their nervousorganization is much more malleable than ours."

　　"Poor Leon!" said Charles. "How will he live at Paris? Will heget used to it?"

　　Madame Bovary sighed.

　　"Get along!" said the chemist, smacking his lips. "The outings atrestaurants, the masked balls, the champagne--all that'll bejolly enough, I assure you."

　　"I don't think he'll go wrong," objected Bovary.

　　"Nor do I," said Monsieur Homais quickly; "although he'll have todo like the rest for fear of passing for a Jesuit. And you don'tknow what a life those dogs lead in the Latin quarter withactresses. Besides, students are thought a great deal of inParis. Provided they have a few accomplishments, they arereceived in the best society; there are even ladies of theFaubourg Saint-Germain who fall in love with them, whichsubsequently furnishes them opportunities for making very goodmatches."

　　"But," said the doctor, "I fear for him that down there--"

　　"You are right," interrupted the chemist; "that is the reverse ofthe medal. And one is constantly obliged to keep one's hand inone's pocket there. Thus, we will suppose you are in a publicgarden. An individual presents himself, well dressed, evenwearing an order, and whom one would take for a diplomatist. Heapproaches you, he insinuates himself; offers you a pinch ofsnuff, or picks up your hat. Then you become more intimate; hetakes you to a cafe, invites you to his country-house, introducesyou, between two drinks, to all sorts of people; andthree-fourths of the time it's only to plunder your watch or leadyou into some pernicious step.

　　"That is true," said Charles; "but I was thinking especially ofillnesses--of typhoid fever, for example, that attacks studentsfrom the provinces."

　　Emma shuddered.

　　"Because of the change of regimen," continued the chemist, "andof the perturbation that results therefrom in the whole system.And then the water at Paris, don't you know! The dishes atrestaurants, all the spiced food, end by heating the blood, andare not worth, whatever people may say of them, a good soup. Formy own part, I have always preferred plain living; it is morehealthy. So when I was studying pharmacy at Rouen, I boarded in aboarding house; I dined with the professors."

　　And thus he went on, expounding his opinions generally and hispersonal likings, until Justin came to fetch him for a mulled eggthat was wanted.

　　"Not a moment's peace!" he cried; "always at it! I can't go outfor a minute! Like a plough-horse, I have always to be moilingand toiling. What drudgery!" Then, when he was at the door, "Bythe way, do you know the news?"

　　"What news?"

　　"That it is very likely," Homais went on, raising his eyebrowsand assuming one of his most serious expression, "that theagricultural meeting of the Seine-Inferieure will be held thisyear at Yonville-l'Abbaye. The rumour, at all events, is goingthe round. This morning the paper alluded to it. It would be ofthe utmost importance for our district. But we'll talk it overlater on. I can see, thank you; Justin has the lantern."