Part III: Chapter Eleven

by Gustave Flaubert

　　The next day Charles had the child brought back. She asked forher mamma. They told her she was away; that she would bring herback some playthings. Berthe spoke of her again several times,then at last thought no more of her. The child's gaiety brokeBovary's heart, and he had to bear besides the intolerableconsolations of the chemist.

　　Money troubles soon began again, Monsieur Lheureux urging on anewhis friend Vincart, and Charles pledged himself for exorbitantsums; for he would never consent to let the smallest of thethings that had belonged to her be sold. His mother wasexasperated with him; he grew even more angry than she did. Hehad altogether changed. She left the house.

　　Then everyone began "taking advantage" of him. MademoiselleLempereur presented a bill for six months' teaching, althoughEmma had never taken a lesson (despite the receipted bill she hadshown Bovary); it was an arrangement between the two women. Theman at the circulating library demanded three years'subscriptions; Mere Rollet claimed the postage due for sometwenty letters, and when Charles asked for an explanation, shehad the delicacy to reply--

　　"Oh, I don't know. It was for her business affairs."

　　With every debt he paid Charles thought he had come to the end ofthem. But others followed ceaselessly. He sent in accounts forprofessional attendance. He was shown the letters his wife hadwritten. Then he had to apologise.

　　Felicite now wore Madame Bovary's gowns; not all, for he had keptsome of them, and he went to look at them in her dressing-room,locking himself up there; she was about her height, and oftenCharles, seeing her from behind, was seized with an illusion, andcried out--

　　"Oh, stay, stay!"

　　But at Whitsuntide she ran away from Yonville, carried off byTheodore, stealing all that was left of the wardrobe.

　　It was about this time that the widow Dupuis had the honour toinform him of the "marriage of Monsieur Leon Dupuis her son,notary at Yvetot, to Mademoiselle Leocadie Leboeuf ofBondeville." Charles, among the other congratulations he senthim, wrote this sentence--

　　"How glad my poor wife would have been!"

　　One day when, wandering aimlessly about the house, he had gone upto the attic, he felt a pellet of fine paper under his slipper.He opened it and read: "Courage, Emma, courage. I would not bringmisery into your life." It was Rodolphe's letter, fallen to theground between the boxes, where it had remained, and that thewind from the dormer window had just blown towards the door. AndCharles stood, motionless and staring, in the very same placewhere, long ago, Emma, in despair, and paler even than he, hadthought of dying. At last he discovered a small R at the bottomof the second page. What did this mean? He remembered Rodolphe'sattentions, his sudden, disappearance, his constrained air whenthey had met two or three times since. But the respectful tone ofthe letter deceived him.

　　"Perhaps they loved one another platonically," he said tohimself.

　　Besides, Charles was not of those who go to the bottom of things;he shrank from the proofs, and his vague jealousy was lost in theimmensity of his woe.

　　Everyone, he thought, must have adored her; all men assuredlymust have coveted her. She seemed but the more beautiful to himfor this; he was seized with a lasting, furious desire for her,that inflamed his despair, and that was boundless, because it wasnow unrealisable.

　　To please her, as if she were still living, he adopted herpredilections, her ideas; he bought patent leather boots and tookto wearing white cravats. He put cosmetics on his moustache, and,like her, signed notes of hand. She corrupted him from beyond thegrave.

　　He was obliged to sell his silver piece by piece; next he soldthe drawing-room furniture. All the rooms were stripped; but thebedroom, her own room, remained as before. After his dinnerCharles went up there. He pushed the round table in front of thefire, and drew up her armchair. He sat down opposite it. A candleburnt in one of the gilt candlesticks. Berthe by his side waspainting prints.

　　He suffered, poor man, at seeing her so badly dressed, withlaceless boots, and the arm-holes of her pinafore torn down tothe hips; for the charwoman took no care of her. But she was sosweet, so pretty, and her little head bent forward so gracefully,letting the dear fair hair fall over her rosy cheeks, that aninfinite joy came upon him, a happiness mingled with bitterness,like those ill-made wines that taste of resin. He mended hertoys, made her puppets from cardboard, or sewed up half-torndolls. Then, if his eyes fell upon the workbox, a ribbon lyingabout, or even a pin left in a crack of the table, he began todream, and looked so sad that she became as sad as he.

　　No one now came to see them, for Justin had run away to Rouen,where he was a grocer's assistant, and the druggist's childrensaw less and less of the child, Monsieur Homais not caring,seeing the difference of their social position, to continue theintimacy.

　　The blind man, whom he had not been able to cure with the pomade,had gone back to the hill of Bois-Guillaume, where he told thetravellers of the vain attempt of the druggist, to such anextent, that Homais when he went to town hid himself behind thecurtains of the "Hirondelle" to avoid meeting him. He detestedhim, and wishing, in the interests of his own reputation, to getrid of him at all costs, he directed against him a secretbattery, that betrayed the depth of his intellect and thebaseness of his vanity. Thus, for six consecutive months, onecould read in the "Fanal de Rouen" editorials such as these--

　　"All who bend their steps towards the fertile plains of Picardyhave, no doubt, remarked, by the Bois-Guillaume hill, a wretchsuffering from a horrible facial wound. He importunes, persecutesone, and levies a regular tax on all travellers. Are we stillliving in the monstrous times of the Middle Ages, when vagabondswere permitted to display in our public places leprosy andscrofulas they had brought back from the Crusades?"

　　Or--

　　"In spite of the laws against vagabondage, the approaches to ourgreat towns continue to be infected by bands of beggars. Some areseen going about alone, and these are not, perhaps, the leastdangerous. What are our ediles about?"

　　Then Homais invented anecdotes--

　　"Yesterday, by the Bois-Guillaume hill, a skittish horse--" Andthen followed the story of an accident caused by the presence ofthe blind man.

　　He managed so well that the fellow was locked up. But he wasreleased. He began again, and Homais began again. It was astruggle. Homais won it, for his foe was condemned to life-longconfinement in an asylum.

　　This success emboldened him, and henceforth there was no longer adog run over, a barn burnt down, a woman beaten in the parish, ofwhich he did not immediately inform the public, guided always bythe love of progress and the hate of priests. He institutedcomparisons between the elementary and clerical schools to thedetriment of the latter; called to mind the massacre of St.Bartholomew a propos of a grant of one hundred francs to thechurch, and denounced abuses, aired new views. That was hisphrase. Homais was digging and delving; he was becomingdangerous.

　　However, he was stifling in the narrow limits of journalism, andsoon a book, a work was necessary to him. Then he composed"General Statistics of the Canton of Yonville, followed byClimatological Remarks." The statistics drove him to philosophy.He busied himself with great questions: the social problem:moralisation of the poorer classes, pisciculture, caoutchouc,railways, etc. He even began to blush at being a bourgeois. Heaffected the artistic style, he smoked. He bought two chicPompadour statuettes to adorn his drawing-room.

　　He by no means gave up his shop. On the contrary, he kept wellabreast of new discoveries. He followed the great movement ofchocolates; he was the first to introduce "cocoa" and "revalenta"into the Seine-Inferieure. He was enthusiastic about thehydro-electric Pulvermacher chains; he wore one himself, and whenat night he took off his flannel vest, Madame Homais stood quitedazzled before the golden spiral beneath which he was hidden,and felt her ardour redouble for this man more bandaged than aScythian, and splendid as one of the Magi.

　　He had fine ideas about Emma's tomb. First he proposed a brokencolumn with some drapery, next a pyramid, then a Temple of Vesta,a sort of rotunda, or else a "mass of ruins." And in all hisplans Homais always stuck to the weeping willow, which he lookedupon as the indispensable symbol of sorrow.

　　Charles and he made a journey to Rouen together to look at sometombs at a funeral furnisher's, accompanied by an artist, oneVaufrylard, a friend of Bridoux's, who made puns all the time. Atlast, after having examined some hundred designs, having orderedan estimate and made another journey to Rouen, Charles decided infavour of a mausoleum, which on the two principal sides was tohave a "spirit bearing an extinguished torch."

　　As to the inscription, Homais could think of nothing so fine asSta viator*, and he got no further; he racked his brain, heconstantly repeated Sta viator. At last he hit upon Amabilenconjugem calcas**, which was adopted.

　　* Rest traveler.** Tread upon a loving wife.

　　A strange thing was that Bovary, while continually thinking ofEmma, was forgetting her. He grew desperate as he felt this imagefading from his memory in spite of all efforts to retain it. Yetevery night he dreamt of her; it was always the same dream. Hedrew near her, but when he was about to clasp her she fell intodecay in his arms.

　　For a week he was seen going to church in the evening. MonsieurBournisien even paid him two or three visits, then gave him up.Moreover, the old fellow was growing intolerant, fanatic, saidHomais. He thundered against the spirit of the age, and neverfailed, every other week, in his sermon, to recount the deathagony of Voltaire, who died devouring his excrements, as everyoneknows.

　　In spite of the economy with which Bovary lived, he was far frombeing able to pay off his old debts. Lheureux refused to renewany more bills. A distraint became imminent. Then he appealed tohis mother, who consented to let him take a mortgage on herproperty, but with a great many recriminations against Emma; andin return for her sacrifice she asked for a shawl that hadescaped the depredations of Felicite. Charles refused to give ither; they quarrelled.

　　She made the first overtures of reconciliation by offering tohave the little girl, who could help her in the house, to livewith her. Charles consented to this, but when the time forparting came, all his courage failed him. Then there was a final,complete rupture.

　　As his affections vanished, he clung more closely to the love ofhis child. She made him anxious, however, for she coughedsometimes, and had red spots on her cheeks.

　　Opposite his house, flourishing and merry, was the family of thechemist, with whom everything was prospering. Napoleon helped himin the laboratory, Athalie embroidered him a skullcap, Irma cutout rounds of paper to cover the preserves, and Franklin recitedPythagoras' table in a breath. He was the happiest of fathers,the most fortunate of men.

　　Not so! A secret ambition devoured him. Homais hankered after thecross of the Legion of Honour. He had plenty of claims to it.

　　"First, having at the time of the cholera distinguished myself bya boundless devotion; second, by having published, at my expense,various works of public utility, such as" (and he recalled hispamphlet entitled, "Cider, its manufacture and effects," besidesobservation on the lanigerous plant-louse, sent to the Academy;his volume of statistics, and down to his pharmaceutical thesis);"without counting that I am a member of several learnedsocieties" (he was member of a single one).

　　"In short!" he cried, making a pirouette, "if it were only fordistinguishing myself at fires!"

　　Then Homais inclined towards the Government. He secretly did theprefect great service during the elections. He sold himself--in aword, prostituted himself. He even addressed a petition to thesovereign in which he implored him to "do him justice"; he calledhim "our good king," and compared him to Henri IV.

　　And every morning the druggist rushed for the paper to see if hisnomination were in it. It was never there. At last, unable tobear it any longer, he had a grass plot in his garden designed torepresent the Star of the Cross of Honour with two little stripsof grass running from the top to imitate the ribband. He walkedround it with folded arms, meditating on the folly of theGovernment and the ingratitude of men.

　　>From respect, or from a sort of sensuality that made him carry onhis investigations slowly, Charles had not yet opened the secretdrawer of a rosewood desk which Emma had generally used. One day,however, he sat down before it, turned the key, and pressed thespring. All Leon's letters were there. There could be no doubtthis time. He devoured them to the very last, ransacked everycorner, all the furniture, all the drawers, behind the walls,sobbing, crying aloud, distraught, mad. He found a box and brokeit open with a kick. Rodolphe's portrait flew full in his face inthe midst of the overturned love-letters.

　　People wondered at his despondency. He never went out, saw noone, refused even to visit his patients. Then they said "he shuthimself up to drink."

　　Sometimes, however, some curious person climbed on to the gardenhedge, and saw with amazement this long-bearded, shabbilyclothed, wild man, who wept aloud as he walked up and down.

　　In the evening in summer he took his little girl with him and ledher to the cemetery. They came back at nightfall, when the onlylight left in the Place was that in Binet's window.

　　The voluptuousness of his grief was, however, incomplete, for hehad no one near him to share it, and he paid visits to MadameLefrancois to be able to speak of her.

　　But the landlady only listened with half an ear, having troubleslike himself. For Lheureux had at last established the "Favoritesdu Commerce," and Hivert, who enjoyed a great reputation fordoing errands, insisted on a rise of wages, and was threateningto go over "to the opposition shop."

　　One day when he had gone to the market at Argueil to sell hishorse--his last resource--he met Rodolphe.

　　They both turned pale when they caught sight of one another.Rodolphe, who had only sent his card, first stammered someapologies, then grew bolder, and even pushed his assurance (itwas in the month of August and very hot) to the length ofinviting him to have a bottle of beer at the public-house.

　　Leaning on the table opposite him, he chewed his cigar as hetalked, and Charles was lost in reverie at this face that she hadloved. He seemed to see again something of her in it. It was amarvel to him. He would have liked to have been this man.

　　The other went on talking agriculture, cattle, pasturage, fillingout with banal phrases all the gaps where an allusion might slipin. Charles was not listening to him; Rodolphe noticed it, and hefollowed the succession of memories that crossed his face. Thisgradually grew redder; the nostrils throbbed fast, the lipsquivered. There was at last a moment when Charles, full of asombre fury, fixed his eyes on Rodolphe, who, in something offear, stopped talking. But soon the same look of weary lassitudecame back to his face.

　　"I don't blame you," he said.

　　Rodolphe was dumb. And Charles, his head in his hands, went on ina broken voice, and with the resigned accent of infinite sorrow--

　　"No, I don't blame you now."

　　He even added a fine phrase, the only one he ever made--

　　"It is the fault of fatality!"

　　Rodolphe, who had managed the fatality, thought the remark veryoffhand from a man in his position, comic even, and a littlemean.

　　The next day Charles went to sit down on the seat in the arbour.Rays of light were straying through the trellis, the vine leavesthrew their shadows on the sand, the jasmines perfumed the air,the heavens were blue, Spanish flies buzzed round the lilies inbloom, and Charles was suffocating like a youth beneath the vaguelove influences that filled his aching heart.

　　At seven o'clock little Berthe, who had not seen him all theafternoon, went to fetch him to dinner.

　　His head was thrown back against the wall, his eyes closed, hismouth open, and in his hand was a long tress of black hair.

　　"Come along, papa," she said.

　　And thinking he wanted to play; she pushed him gently. He fell tothe ground. He was dead.

　　Thirty-six hours after, at the druggist's request, MonsieurCanivet came thither. He made a post-mortem and found nothing.

　　When everything had been sold, twelve francs seventy-fivecentimes remained, that served to pay for Mademoiselle Bovary'sgoing to her grandmother. The good woman died the same year; oldRouault was paralysed, and it was an aunt who took charge of her.She is poor, and sends her to a cotton-factory to earn a living.

　　Since Bovary's death three doctors have followed one another atYonville without any success, so severely did Homais attack them.He has an enormous practice; the authorities treat him withconsideration, and public opinion protects him.

　　He has just received the cross of the Legion of Honour.