Part II: Chapter Thirteen

by Gustave Flaubert

　　No sooner was Rodolphe at home than he sat down quickly at hisbureau under the stag's head that hung as a trophy on the wall.But when he had the pen between his fingers, he could think ofnothing, so that, resting on his elbows, he began to reflect.Emma seemed to him to have receded into a far-off past, as if theresolution he had taken had suddenly placed a distance betweenthem.

　　To get back something of her, he fetched from the cupboard at thebedside an old Rheims biscuit-box, in which he usually kept hisletters from women, and from it came an odour of dry dust andwithered roses. First he saw a handkerchief with pale littlespots. It was a handkerchief of hers. Once when they were walkingher nose had bled; he had forgotten it. Near it, chipped at allthe corners, was a miniature given him by Emma: her toiletteseemed to him pretentious, and her languishing look in the worstpossible taste. Then, from looking at this image and recallingthe memory of its original, Emma's features little by little grewconfused in his remembrance, as if the living and the paintedface, rubbing one against the other, had effaced each other.Finally, he read some of her letters; they were full ofexplanations relating to their journey, short, technical, andurgent, like business notes. He wanted to see the long onesagain, those of old times. In order to find them at the bottom ofthe box, Rodolphe disturbed all the others, and mechanicallybegan rummaging amidst this mass of papers and things, findingpell-mell bouquets, garters, a black mask, pins, and hair--hair!dark and fair, some even, catching in the hinges of the box,broke when it was opened.

　　Thus dallying with his souvenirs, he examined the writing and thestyle of the letters, as varied as their orthography. They weretender or jovial, facetious, melancholy; there were some thatasked for love, others that asked for money. A word recalledfaces to him, certain gestures, the sound of a voice; sometimes,however, he remembered nothing at all.

　　In fact, these women, rushing at once into his thoughts, crampedeach other and lessened, as reduced to a uniform level of lovethat equalised them all. So taking handfuls of the mixed-upletters, he amused himself for some moments with letting themfall in cascades from his right into his left hand. At last,bored and weary, Rodolphe took back the box to the cupboard,saying to himself, "What a lot of rubbish!" Which summed up hisopinion; for pleasures, like schoolboys in a school courtyard,had so trampled upon his heart that no green thing grew there,and that which passed through it, more heedless than children,did not even, like them, leave a name carved upon the wall.

　　"Come," said he, "let's begin."

　　He wrote--

　　"Courage, Emma! courage! I would not bring misery into yourlife."

　　"After all, that's true," thought Rodolphe. "I am acting in herinterest; I am honest."

　　"Have you carefully weighed your resolution? Do you know to whatan abyss I was dragging you, poor angel? No, you do not, do you?You were coming confident and fearless, believing in happiness inthe future. Ah! unhappy that we are--insensate!"

　　Rodolphe stopped here to think of some good excuse.

　　"If I told her all my fortune is lost? No! Besides, that wouldstop nothing. It would all have to be begun over again later on.As if one could make women like that listen to reason!" Hereflected, then went on--

　　"I shall not forget you, oh believe it; and I shall ever have aprofound devotion for you; but some day, sooner or later, thisardour (such is the fate of human things) would have grown less,no doubt. Lassitude would have come to us, and who knows if Ishould not even have had the atrocious pain of witnessing yourremorse, of sharing it myself, since I should have been itscause? The mere idea of the grief that would come to you torturesme, Emma. Forget me! Why did I ever know you? Why were you sobeautiful? Is it my fault? O my God! No, no! Accuse only fate."

　　"That's a word that always tells," he said to himself.

　　"Ah, if you had been one of those frivolous women that one sees,certainly I might, through egotism, have tried an experiment, inthat case without danger for you. But that delicious exaltation,at once your charm and your torment, has prevented you fromunderstanding, adorable woman that you are, the falseness of ourfuture position. Nor had I reflected upon this at first, and Irested in the shade of that ideal happiness as beneath that ofthe manchineel tree, without foreseeing the consequences."

　　"Perhaps she'll think I'm giving it up from avarice. Ah, well! somuch the worse; it must be stopped!"

　　"The world is cruel, Emma. Wherever we might have gone, it wouldhave persecuted us. You would have had to put up with indiscreetquestions, calumny, contempt, insult perhaps. Insult to you! Oh!And I, who would place you on a throne! I who bear with me yourmemory as a talisman! For I am going to punish myself by exilefor all the ill I have done you. I am going away. Whither I knownot. I am mad. Adieu! Be good always. Preserve the memory of theunfortunate who has lost you. Teach my name to your child; lether repeat it in her prayers."

　　The wicks of the candles flickered. Rodolphe got up to, shut thewindow, and when he had sat down again--

　　"I think it's all right. Ah! and this for fear she should comeand hunt me up."

　　"I shall be far away when you read these sad lines, for I havewished to flee as quickly as possible to shun the temptation ofseeing you again. No weakness! I shall return, and perhaps lateron we shall talk together very coldly of our old love. Adieu!"

　　And there was a last "adieu" divided into two words! "A Dieu!"which he thought in very excellent taste.

　　"Now how am I to sign?" he said to himself. " 'Yours devotedly?'No! 'Your friend?' Yes, that's it."

　　"Your friend."

　　He re-read his letter. He considered it very good.

　　"Poor little woman!" he thought with emotion. "She'll think meharder than a rock. There ought to have been some tears on this;but I can't cry; it isn't my fault." Then, having emptied somewater into a glass, Rodolphe dipped his finger into it, and let abig drop fall on the paper, that made a pale stain on the ink.Then looking for a seal, he came upon the one "Amor nel cor."

　　"That doesn't at all fit in with the circumstances. Pshaw! nevermind!"

　　After which he smoked three pipes and went to bed.

　　The next day when he was up (at about two o'clock--he had sleptlate), Rodolphe had a basket of apricots picked. He put hisletter at the bottom under some vine leaves, and at once orderedGirard, his ploughman, to take it with care to Madame Bovary. Hemade use of this means for corresponding with her, sendingaccording to the season fruits or game.

　　"If she asks after me," he said, "you will tell her that I havegone on a journey. You must give the basket to her herself, intoher own hands. Get along and take care!"

　　Girard put on his new blouse, knotted his handkerchief round theapricots, and walking with great heavy steps in his thickiron-bound galoshes, made his way to Yonville.

　　Madame Bovary, when he got to her house, was arranging a bundleof linen on the kitchen-table with Felicite.

　　"Here," said the ploughboy, "is something for you--from themaster."

　　She was seized with apprehension, and as she sought in her pocketfor some coppers, she looked at the peasant with haggard eyes,while he himself looked at her with amazement, not understandinghow such a present could so move anyone. At last he went out.Felicite remained. She could bear it no longer; she ran into thesitting room as if to take the apricots there, overturned thebasket, tore away the leaves, found the letter, opened it, and,as if some fearful fire were behind her, Emma flew to her roomterrified.

　　Charles was there; she saw him; he spoke to her; she heardnothing, and she went on quickly up the stairs, breathless,distraught, dumb, and ever holding this horrible piece of paper,that crackled between her fingers like a plate of sheet-iron. Onthe second floor she stopped before the attic door, which wasclosed.

　　Then she tried to calm herself; she recalled the letter; she mustfinish it; she did not dare to. And where? How? She would beseen! "Ah, no! here," she thought, "I shall be all right."

　　Emma pushed open the door and went in.

　　The slates threw straight down a heavy heat that gripped hertemples, stifled her; she dragged herself to the closedgarret-window. She drew back the bolt, and the dazzling lightburst in with a leap.

　　Opposite, beyond the roofs, stretched the open country till itwas lost to sight. Down below, underneath her, the village squarewas empty; the stones of the pavement glittered, the weathercockson the houses were motionless. At the corner of the street, froma lower storey, rose a kind of humming with strident modulations.It was Binet turning.

　　She leant against the embrasure of the window, and reread theletter with angry sneers. But the more she fixed her attentionupon it, the more confused were her ideas. She saw him again,heard him, encircled him with her arms, and throbs of her heart,that beat against her breast like blows of a sledge-hammer, grewfaster and faster, with uneven intervals. She looked about herwith the wish that the earth might crumble into pieces. Why notend it all? What restrained her? She was free. She advanced,looking at the paving-stones, saying to herself, "Come! come!"

　　The luminous ray that came straight up from below drew the weightof her body towards the abyss. It seemed to her that the groundof the oscillating square went up the walls and that the floordipped on end like a tossing boat. She was right at the edge,almost hanging, surrounded by vast space. The blue of the heavenssuffused her, the air was whirling in her hollow head; she hadbut to yield, to let herself be taken; and the humming of thelathe never ceased, like an angry voice calling her.

　　"Emma! Emma!" cried Charles.

　　She stopped.

　　"Wherever are you? Come!"

　　The thought that she had just escaped from death almost made herfaint with terror. She closed her eyes; then she shivered at thetouch of a hand on her sleeve; it was Felicite.

　　"Master is waiting for you, madame; the soup is on the table."

　　And she had to go down to sit at table.

　　She tried to eat. The food choked her. Then she unfolded hernapkin as if to examine the darns, and she really thought ofapplying herself to this work, counting the threads in the linen.Suddenly the remembrance of the letter returned to her. How hadshe lost it? Where could she find it? But she felt such wearinessof spirit that she could not even invent a pretext for leavingthe table. Then she became a coward; she was afraid of Charles;he knew all, that was certain! Indeed he pronounced these wordsin a strange manner:

　　"We are not likely to see Monsieur Rodolphe soon again, itseems."

　　"Who told you?" she said, shuddering.

　　"Who told me!" he replied, rather astonished at her abrupt tone."Why, Girard, whom I met just now at the door of the CafeFrancais. He has gone on a journey, or is to go."

　　She gave a sob.

　　"What surprises you in that? He absents himself like that fromtime to time for a change, and, ma foi, I think he's right, whenone has a fortune and is a bachelor. Besides, he has jolly times,has our friend. He's a bit of a rake. Monsieur Langlois told me--"

　　He stopped for propriety's sake because the servant came in. Sheput back into the basket the apricots scattered on the sideboard.Charles, without noticing his wife's colour, had them brought tohim, took one, and bit into it.

　　"Ah! perfect!" said he; "just taste!"

　　And he handed her the basket, which she put away from her gently.

　　"Do just smell! What an odour!" he remarked, passing it under hernose several times.

　　"I am choking," she cried, leaping up. But by an effort of willthe spasm passed; then--

　　"It is nothing," she said, "it is nothing! It is nervousness. Sitdown and go on eating." For she dreaded lest he should beginquestioning her, attending to her, that she should not be leftalone.

　　Charles, to obey her, sat down again, and he spat the stones ofthe apricots into his hands, afterwards putting them on hisplate.

　　Suddenly a blue tilbury passed across the square at a rapid trot.Emma uttered a cry and fell back rigid to the ground.

　　In fact, Rodolphe, after many reflections, had decided to set outfor Rouen. Now, as from La Huchette to Buchy there is no otherway than by Yonville, he had to go through the village, and Emmahad recognised him by the rays of the lanterns, which likelightning flashed through the twilight.

　　The chemist, at the tumult which broke out in the house ranthither. The table with all the plates was upset; sauce, meat,knives, the salt, and cruet-stand were strewn over the room;Charles was calling for help; Berthe, scared, was crying; andFelicite, whose hands trembled, was unlacing her mistress, whosewhole body shivered convulsively.

　　"I'll run to my laboratory for some aromatic vinegar," said thedruggist.

　　Then as she opened her eyes on smelling the bottle--

　　"I was sure of it," he remarked; "that would wake any dead personfor you!"

　　"Speak to us," said Charles; "collect yourself; it is yourCharles, who loves you. Do you know me? See! here is your littlegirl! Oh, kiss her!"

　　The child stretched out her arms to her mother to cling to herneck. But turning away her head, Emma said in a broken voice"No, no! no one!"

　　She fainted again. They carried her to her bed. She lay therestretched at full length, her lips apart, her eyelids closed, herhands open, motionless, and white as a waxen image. Two streamsof tears flowed from her eyes and fell slowly upon the pillow.

　　Charles, standing up, was at the back of the alcove, and thechemist, near him, maintained that meditative silence that isbecoming on the serious occasions of life.

　　"Do not be uneasy," he said, touching his elbow; "I think theparoxysm is past."

　　"Yes, she is resting a little now," answered Charles, watchingher sleep. "Poor girl! poor girl! She had gone off now!"

　　Then Homais asked how the accident had come about. Charlesanswered that she had been taken ill suddenly while she waseating some apricots.

　　"Extraordinary!" continued the chemist. "But it might be that theapricots had brought on the syncope. Some natures are sosensitive to certain smells; and it would even be a very finequestion to study both in its pathological and physiologicalrelation. The priests know the importance of it, they who haveintroduced aromatics into all their ceremonies. It is to stupefythe senses and to bring on ecstasies--a thing, moreover, veryeasy in persons of the weaker sex, who are more delicate than theother. Some are cited who faint at the smell of burnt hartshorn,of new bread--"

　　"Take care; you'll wake her!" said Bovary in a low voice.

　　"And not only," the druggist went on, "are human beings subjectto such anomalies, but animals also. Thus you are not ignorant ofthe singularly aphrodisiac effect produced by the Nepeta cataria,vulgarly called catmint, on the feline race; and, on the otherhand, to quote an example whose authenticity I can answer for.Bridaux (one of my old comrades, at present established in theRue Malpalu) possesses a dog that falls into convulsions as soonas you hold out a snuff-box to him. He often even makes theexperiment before his friends at his summer-house at GuillaumeWood. Would anyone believe that a simple sternutation couldproduce such ravages on a quadrupedal organism? It is extremelycurious, is it not?"

　　"Yes," said Charles, who was not listening to him.

　　"This shows us," went on the other, smiling with benignself-sufficiency, "the innumerable irregularities of the nervoussystem. With regard to madame, she has always seemed to me, Iconfess, very susceptible. And so I should by no means recommendto you, my dear friend, any of those so-called remedies that,under the pretence of attacking the symptoms, attack theconstitution. No; no useless physicking! Diet, that is all;sedatives, emollients, dulcification. Then, don't you think thatperhaps her imagination should be worked upon?"

　　"In what way? How?" said Bovary.

　　"Ah! that is it. Such is indeed the question. 'That is thequestion,' as I lately read in a newspaper."

　　But Emma, awaking, cried out--

　　"The letter! the letter!"

　　They thought she was delirious; and she was by midnight.Brain-fever had set in.

　　For forty-three days Charles did not leave her. He gave up allhis patients; he no longer went to bed; he was constantly feelingher pulse, putting on sinapisms and cold-water compresses. Hesent Justin as far as Neufchatel for ice; the ice melted on theway; he sent him back again. He called Monsieur Canivet intoconsultation; he sent for Dr. Lariviere, his old master, fromRouen; he was in despair. What alarmed him most was Emma'sprostration, for she did not speak, did not listen, did not evenseem to suffer, as if her body and soul were both restingtogether after all their troubles.

　　About the middle of October she could sit up in bed supported bypillows. Charles wept when he saw her eat her firstbread-and-jelly. Her strength returned to her; she got up for afew hours of an afternoon, and one day, when she felt better, hetried to take her, leaning on his arm, for a walk round thegarden. The sand of the paths was disappearing beneath the deadleaves; she walked slowly, dragging along her slippers, andleaning against Charles's shoulder. She smiled all the time.

　　They went thus to the bottom of the garden near the terrace. Shedrew herself up slowly, shading her eyes with her hand to look.She looked far off, as far as she could, but on the horizon wereonly great bonfires of grass smoking on the hills.

　　"You will tire yourself, my darling!" said Bovary. And, pushingher gently to make her go into the arbour, "Sit down on thisseat; you'll be comfortable."

　　"Oh! no; not there!" she said in a faltering voice.

　　She was seized with giddiness, and from that evening her illnessrecommenced, with a more uncertain character, it is true, andmore complex symptoms. Now she suffered in her heart, then in thechest, the head, the limbs; she had vomitings, in which Charlesthought he saw the first signs of cancer.

　　And besides this, the poor fellow was worried about moneymatters.