Part III: Chapter Four

by Gustave Flaubert

　　Leon soon put on an air of superiority before his comrades,avoided their company, and completely neglected his work.

　　He waited for her letters; he re-read them; he wrote to her. Hecalled her to mind with all the strength of his desires and ofhis memories. Instead of lessening with absence, this longing tosee her again grew, so that at last on Saturday morning heescaped from his office.

　　When, from the summit of the hill, he saw in the valley below thechurch-spire with its tin flag swinging in the wind, he felt thatdelight mingled with triumphant vanity and egoistic tendernessthat millionaires must experience when they come back to theirnative village.

　　He went rambling round her house. A light was burning in thekitchen. He watched for her shadow behind the curtains, butnothing appeared.

　　Mere Lefrancois, when she saw him, uttered many exclamations. Shethought he "had grown and was thinner," while Artemise, on thecontrary, thought him stouter and darker.

　　He dined in the little room as of yore, but alone, without thetax-gatherer; for Binet, tired of waiting for the "Hirondelle,"had definitely put forward his meal one hour, and now he dinedpunctually at five, and yet he declared usually the rickety oldconcern "was late."

　　Leon, however, made up his mind, and knocked at the doctor'sdoor. Madame was in her room, and did not come down for a quarterof an hour. The doctor seemed delighted to see him, but he neverstirred out that evening, nor all the next day.

　　He saw her alone in the evening, very late, behind the garden inthe lane; in the lane, as she had the other one! It was a stormynight, and they talked under an umbrella by lightning flashes.

　　Their separation was becoming intolerable. "I would rather die!"said Emma. She was writhing in his arms, weeping. "Adieu! adieu!When shall I see you again?"

　　They came back again to embrace once more, and it was then thatshe promised him to find soon, by no matter what means, a regularopportunity for seeing one another in freedom at least once aweek. Emma never doubted she should be able to do this. Besides,she was full of hope. Some money was coming to her.

　　On the strength of it she bought a pair of yellow curtains withlarge stripes for her room, whose cheapness Monsieur Lheureux hadcommended; she dreamed of getting a carpet, and Lheureux,declaring that it wasn't "drinking the sea," politely undertookto supply her with one. She could no longer do without hisservices. Twenty times a day she sent for him, and he at once putby his business without a murmur. People could not understandeither why Mere Rollet breakfasted with her every day, and evenpaid her private visits.

　　It was about this time, that is to say, the beginning of winter,that she seemed seized with great musical fervour.

　　One evening when Charles was listening to her, she began the samepiece four times over, each time with much vexation, while he,not noticing any difference, cried--

　　"Bravo! very goodl You are wrong to stop. Go on!"

　　"Oh, no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty."

　　The next day he begged her to play him something again.

　　"Very well; to please you!"

　　And Charles confessed she had gone off a little. She played wrongnotes and blundered; then, stopping short--

　　"Ah! it is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but--" She bither lips and added, "Twenty francs a lesson, that's too dear!"

　　"Yes, so it is--rather," said Charles, giggling stupidly. "But itseems to me that one might be able to do it for less; for thereare artists of no reputation, and who are often better than thecelebrities."

　　"Find them!" said Emma.

　　The next day when he came home he looked at her shyly, and atlast could no longer keep back the words.

　　"How obstinate you are sometimes! I went to Barfucheres to-day.Well, Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies whoare at La Misericorde have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and thatfrom an excellent mistress!"

　　She shrugged her shoulders and did not open her piano again. Butwhen she passed by it (if Bovary were there), she sighed--

　　"Ah! my poor piano!"

　　And when anyone came to see her, she did not fail to inform themshe had given up music, and could not begin again now forimportant reasons. Then people commiserated her--

　　"What a pity! she had so much talent!"

　　They even spoke to Bovary about it. They put him to shame, andespecially the chemist.

　　"You are wrong. One should never let any of the faculties ofnature lie fallow. Besides, just think, my good friend, that byinducing madame to study; you are economising on the subsequentmusical education of your child. For my own part, I think thatmothers ought themselves to instruct their children. That is anidea of Rousseau's, still rather new perhaps, but that will endby triumphing, I am certain of it, like mothers nursing their ownchildren and vaccination."

　　So Charles returned once more to this question of the piano. Emmareplied bitterly that it would be better to sell it. This poorpiano, that had given her vanity so much satisfaction--to see itgo was to Bovary like the indefinable suicide of a part ofherself.

　　"If you liked," he said, "a lesson from time to time, thatwouldn't after all be very ruinous."

　　"But lessons," she replied, "are only of use when followed up."

　　And thus it was she set about obtaining her husband's permissionto go to town once a week to see her lover. At the end of a monthshe was even considered to have made considerable progress.