Part III: Chapter Seven

by Gustave Flaubert

　　She was stoical the next day when Maitre Hareng, the bailiff,with two assistants, presented himself at her house to draw upthe inventory for the distraint.

　　They began with Bovary's consulting-room, and did not write downthe phrenological head, which was considered an "instrument ofhis profession"; but in the kitchen they counted the plates; thesaucepans, the chairs, the candlesticks, and in the bedroom allthe nick-nacks on the whatnot. They examined her dresses, thelinen, the dressing-room; and her whole existence to its mostintimate details, was, like a corpse on whom a post-mortem ismade, outspread before the eyes of these three men.

　　Maitre Hareng, buttoned up in his thin black coat, wearing awhite choker and very tight foot-straps, repeated from time totime--"Allow me, madame. You allow me?" Often he utteredexclamations. "Charming! very pretty." Then he began writingagain, dipping his pen into the horn inkstand in his left hand.

　　When they had done with the rooms they went up to the attic. Shekept a desk there in which Rodolphe's letters were locked. It hadto be opened.

　　"Ah! a correspondence," said Maitre Hareng, with a discreetsmile. "But allow me, for I must make sure the box containsnothing else." And he tipped up the papers lightly, as if toshake out napoleons. Then she grew angered to see this coarsehand, with fingers red and pulpy like slugs, touching these pagesagainst which her heart had beaten.

　　They went at last. Felicite came back. Emma had sent her out towatch for Bovary in order to keep him off, and they hurriedlyinstalled the man in possession under the roof, where he swore hewould remain.

　　During the evening Charles seemed to her careworn. Emma watchedhim with a look of anguish, fancying she saw an accusation inevery line of his face. Then, when her eyes wandered over thechimney-piece ornamented with Chinese screens, over the largecurtains, the armchairs, all those things, in a word, that had,softened the bitterness of her life, remorse seized her or ratheran immense regret, that, far from crushing, irritated herpassion. Charles placidly poked the fire, both his feet on thefire-dogs.

　　Once the man, no doubt bored in his hiding-place, made a slightnoise.

　　"Is anyone walking upstairs?" said Charles.

　　"No," she replied; "it is a window that has been left open, andis rattling in the wind."

　　The next day, Sunday, she went to Rouen to call on all thebrokers whose names she knew. They were at their country-placesor on journeys. She was not discouraged; and those whom she didmanage to see she asked for money, declaring she must have some,and that she would pay it back. Some laughed in her face; allrefused.

　　At two o'clock she hurried to Leon, and knocked at the door. Noone answered. At length he appeared.

　　"What brings you here?"

　　"Do I disturb you?"

　　"No; but--" And he admitted that his landlord didn't like hishaving "women" there.

　　"I must speak to you," she went on.

　　Then he took down the key, but she stopped him.

　　"No, no! Down there, in our home!"

　　And they went to their room at the Hotel de Boulogne.

　　On arriving she drank off a large glass of water. She was verypale. She said to him--

　　"Leon, you will do me a service?"

　　And, shaking him by both hands that she grasped tightly, sheadded

　　"Listen, I want eight thousand francs."

　　"But you are mad!"

　　"Not yet."

　　And thereupon, telling him the story of the distraint, sheexplained her distress to him; for Charles knew nothing of it;her mother-in-law detested her; old Rouault could do nothing; buthe, Leon, he would set about finding this indispensable sum.

　　"How on earth can I?"

　　"What a coward you are!" she cried.

　　Then he said stupidly, "You are exaggerating the difficulty.Perhaps, with a thousand crowns or so the fellow could bestopped."

　　All the greater reason to try and do something; it was impossiblethat they could not find three thousand francs. Besides, Leon,could be security instead of her.

　　"Go, try, try! I will love you so!"

　　He went out, and came back at the end of an hour, saying, withsolemn face--

　　"I have been to three people with no success."

　　Then they remained sitting face to face at the two chimneycorners, motionless, in silence. Emma shrugged her shoulders asshe stamped her feet. He heard her murmuring--

　　"If I were in your place _I_ should soon get some."

　　"But where?"

　　"At your office." And she looked at him.

　　An infernal boldness looked out from her burning eyes, and theirlids drew close together with a lascivious and encouraging look,so that the young man felt himself growing weak beneath the mutewill of this woman who was urging him to a crime. Then he wasafraid, and to avoid any explanation he smote his forehead,crying--

　　"Morel is to come back to-night; he will not refuse me, I hope"(this was one of his friends, the son of a very rich merchant);"and I will bring it you to-morrow," he added.

　　Emma did not seem to welcome this hope with all the joy he hadexpected. Did she suspect the lie? He went on, blushing--

　　"However, if you don't see me by three o'clock do not wait forme, my darling. I must be off now; forgive me! Goodbye!"

　　He pressed her hand, but it felt quite lifeless. Emma had nostrength left for any sentiment.

　　Four o'clock struck, and she rose to return to Yonville,mechanically obeying the force of old habits.

　　The weather was fine. It was one of those March days, clear andsharp, when the sun shines in a perfectly white sky. The Rouenfolk, in Sunday-clothes, were walking about with happy looks. Shereached the Place du Parvis. People were coming out aftervespers; the crowd flowed out through the three doors like astream through the three arches of a bridge, and in the middleone, more motionless than a rock, stood the beadle.

　　Then she remembered the day when, all anxious and full of hope,she had entered beneath this large nave, that had opened outbefore her, less profound than her love; and she walked onweeping beneath her veil, giddy, staggering, almost fainting.

　　"Take care!" cried a voice issuing from the gate of a courtyardthat was thrown open.

　　She stopped to let pass a black horse, pawing the ground betweenthe shafts of a tilbury, driven by a gentleman in sable furs. Whowas it? She knew him. The carriage darted by and disappeared.

　　Why, it was he--the Viscount. She turned away; the street wasempty. She was so overwhelmed, so sad, that she had to leanagainst a wall to keep herself from falling.

　　Then she thought she had been mistaken. Anyhow, she did not know.All within her and around her was abandoning her. She felt lost,sinking at random into indefinable abysses, and it was almostwith joy that, on reaching the "Croix-Rouge," she saw the goodHomais, who was watching a large box full of pharmaceuticalstores being hoisted on to the "Hirondelle." In his hand he heldtied in a silk handkerchief six cheminots for his wife.

　　Madame Homais was very fond of these small, heavy turban-shapedloaves, that are eaten in Lent with salt butter; a last vestigeof Gothic food that goes back, perhaps, to the time of theCrusades, and with which the robust Normans gorged themselves ofyore, fancying they saw on the table, in the light of the yellowtorches, between tankards of hippocras and huge boars' heads, theheads of Saracens to be devoured. The druggist's wife crunchedthem up as they had done--heroically, despite her wretched teeth.And so whenever Homais journeyed to town, he never failed tobring her home some that he bought at the great baker's in theRue Massacre.

　　"Charmed to see you," he said, offering Emma a hand to help herinto the "Hirondelle." Then he hung up his cheminots to the cordsof the netting, and remained bare-headed in an attitude pensiveand Napoleonic.

　　But when the blind man appeared as usual at the foot of the hillhe exclaimed--

　　"I can't understand why the authorities tolerate such culpableindustries. Such unfortunates should be locked up and forced towork. Progress, my word! creeps at a snail's pace. We arefloundering about in mere barbarism."

　　The blind man held out his hat, that flapped about at the door,as if it were a bag in the lining that had come unnailed.

　　"This," said the chemist, "is a scrofulous affection."

　　And though he knew the poor devil, he pretended to see him forthe first time, murmured something about "cornea," "opaquecornea," "sclerotic," "facies," then asked him in a paternaltone--

　　"My friend, have you long had this terrible infirmity? Instead ofgetting drunk at the public, you'd do better to die yourself."

　　He advised him to take good wine, good beer, and good joints. Theblind man went on with his song; he seemed, moreover, almostidiotic. At last Monsieur Homais opened his purse--

　　"Now there's a sou; give me back two lairds, and don't forget myadvice: you'll be the better for it."

　　Hivert openly cast some doubt on the efficacy of it. But thedruggist said that he would cure himself with an antiphlogisticpomade of his own composition, and he gave his address--"MonsieurHomais, near the market, pretty well known."

　　"Now," said Hivert, "for all this trouble you'll give us yourperformance."

　　The blind man sank down on his haunches, with his head thrownback, whilst he rolled his greenish eyes, lolled out his tongue,and rubbed his stomach with both hands as he uttered a kind ofhollow yell like a famished dog. Emma, filled with disgust, threwhim over her shoulder a five-franc piece. It was all her fortune.It seemed to her very fine thus to throw it away.

　　The coach had gone on again when suddenly Monsieur Homais leantout through the window, crying--

　　"No farinaceous or milk food, wear wool next the skin, and exposethe diseased parts to the smoke of juniper berries."

　　The sight of the well-known objects that defiled before her eyesgradually diverted Emma from her present trouble. An intolerablefatigue overwhelmed her, and she reached her home stupefied,discouraged, almost asleep.

　　"Come what may come!" she said to herself. "And then, who knows?Why, at any moment could not some extraordinary event occur?Lheureux even might die!"

　　At nine o'clock in the morning she was awakened by the sound ofvoices in the Place. There was a crowd round the market reading alarge bill fixed to one of the posts, and she saw Justin, who wasclimbing on to a stone and tearing down the bill. But at thismoment the rural guard seized him by the collar. Monsieur Homaiscame out of his shop, and Mere Lefrangois, in the midst of thecrowd, seemed to be perorating.

　　"Madame! madame!" cried Felicite, running in, "it's abominable!"

　　And the poor girl, deeply moved, handed her a yellow paper thatshe had just torn off the door. Emma read with a glance that allher furniture was for sale.

　　Then they looked at one another silently. The servant andmistress had no secret one from the other. At last Felicitesighed--

　　"If I were you, madame, I should go to Monsieur Guillaumin."

　　"Do you think--"

　　And this question meant to say--

　　"You who know the house through the servant, has the masterspoken sometimes of me?"

　　"Yes, you'd do well to go there."

　　She dressed, put on her black gown, and her hood with jet beads,and that she might not be seen (there was still a crowd on thePlace), she took the path by the river, outside the village.

　　She reached the notary's gate quite breathless. The sky wassombre, and a little snow was falling. At the sound of the bell,Theodore in a red waistcoat appeared on the steps; he came toopen the door almost familiarly, as to an acquaintance, andshowed her into the dining-room.

　　A large porcelain stove crackled beneath a cactus that filled upthe niche in the wall, and in black wood frames against theoak-stained paper hung Steuben's "Esmeralda" and Schopin's"Potiphar. " The ready-laid table, the two silver chafing-dishes,the crystal door-knobs, the parquet and the furniture, all shonewith a scrupulous, English cleanliness; the windows wereornamented at each corner with stained glass.

　　"Now this," thought Emma, "is the dining-room I ought to have."

　　The notary came in pressing his palm-leaf dressing-gown to hisbreast with his left arm, while with the other hand he raised andquickly put on again his brown velvet cap, pretentiously cockedon the right side, whence looked out the ends of three fair curlsdrawn from the back of the head, following the line of his baldskull.

　　After he had offered her a seat he sat down to breakfast,apologising profusely for his rudeness.

　　"I have come," she said, "to beg you, sir--"

　　"What, madame? I am listening."

　　And she began explaining her position to him. Monsieur Guillauminknew it, being secretly associated with the linendraper, fromwhom he always got capital for the loans on mortgages that he wasasked to make.

　　So he knew (and better than she herself) the long story of thebills, small at first, bearing different names as endorsers, madeout at long dates, and constantly renewed up to the day, when,gathering together all the protested bills, the shopkeeper hadbidden his friend Vincart take in his own name all the necessaryproceedings, not wishing to pass for a tiger with hisfellow-citizens.

　　She mingled her story with recriminations against Lheureux, towhich the notary replied from time to time with someinsignificant word. Eating his cutlet and drinking his tea, heburied his chin in his sky-blue cravat, into which were thrusttwo diamond pins, held together by a small gold chain; and hesmiled a singular smile, in a sugary, ambiguous fashion. Butnoticing that her feet were damp, he said--

　　"Do get closer to the stove; put your feet up against theporcelain."

　　She was afraid of dirtying it. The notary replied in a gallanttone--

　　"Beautiful things spoil nothing."

　　Then she tried to move him, and, growing moved herself, she begantelling him about the poorness of her home, her worries, herwants. He could understand that; an elegant woman! and, withoutleaving off eating, he had turned completely round towards her,so that his knee brushed against her boot, whose sole curledround as it smoked against the stove.

　　But when she asked for a thousand sous, he closed his lips, anddeclared he was very sorry he had not had the management of herfortune before, for there were hundreds of ways very convenient,even for a lady, of turning her money to account. They might,either in the turf-peats of Grumesnil or building-ground atHavre, almost without risk, have ventured on some excellentspeculations; and he let her consume herself with rage at thethought of the fabulous sums that she would certainly have made.

　　"How was it," he went on, "that you didn't come to me?"

　　"I hardly know," she said.

　　"Why, hey? Did I frighten you so much? It is I, on the contrary,who ought to complain. We hardly know one another; yet I am verydevoted to you. You do not doubt that, I hope?"

　　He held out his hand, took hers, covered it with a greedy kiss,then held it on his knee; and he played delicately with herfingers whilst he murmured a thousand blandishments. His insipidvoice murmured like a running brook; a light shone in his eyesthrough the glimmering of his spectacles, and his hand wasadvancing up Emma's sleeve to press her arm. She felt against hercheek his panting breath. This man oppressed her horribly.

　　She sprang up and said to him--

　　"Sir, I am waiting."

　　"For what?" said the notary, who suddenly became very pale.

　　"This money."

　　"But--" Then, yielding to the outburst of too powerful a desire,"Well, yes!"

　　He dragged himself towards her on his knees, regardless of hisdressing-gown.

　　"For pity's sake, stay. I love you!"

　　He seized her by her waist. Madame Bovary's face flushed purple.She recoiled with a terrible look, crying--

　　"You are taking a shameless advantage of my distress, sir! I amto be pitied--not to be sold."

　　And she went out.

　　The notary remained quite stupefied, his eyes fixed on his fineembroidered slippers. They were a love gift, and the sight ofthem at last consoled him. Besides, he reflected that such anadventure might have carried him too far.

　　"What a wretch! what a scoundrel! what an infamy!" she said toherself, as she fled with nervous steps beneath the aspens of thepath. The disappointment of her failure increased the indignationof her outraged modesty; it seemed to her that Providence pursuedher implacably, and, strengthening herself in her pride, she hadnever felt so much esteem for herself nor so much contempt forothers. A spirit of warfare transformed her. She would have likedto strike all men, to spit in their faces, to crush them, and shewalked rapidly straight on, pale, quivering, maddened, searchingthe empty horizon with tear-dimmed eyes, and as it were rejoicingin the hate that was choking her.

　　When she saw her house a numbness came over her. She could not goon; and yet she must. Besides, whither could she flee ?

　　Felicite was waiting for her at the door. "Well?"

　　"No!" said Emma.

　　And for a quarter of an hour the two of them went over thevarious persons in Yonville who might perhaps be inclined to helpher. But each time that Felicite named someone Emma replied--

　　"Impossible! they will not!"

　　"And the master'll soon be in."

　　"I know that well enough. Leave me alone."

　　She had tried everything; there was nothing more to be done now;and when Charles came in she would have to say to him--

　　"Go away! This carpet on which you are walking is no longer ours.In your own house you do not possess a chair, a pin, a straw, andit is I, poor man, who have ruined you."

　　Then there would be a great sob; next he would weep abundantly,and at last, the surprise past, he would forgive her.

　　"Yes," she murmured, grinding her teeth, "he will forgive me, hewho would give a million if I would forgive him for having knownme! Never! never!"

　　This thought of Bovary's superiority to her exasperated her.Then, whether she confessed or did not confess, presently,immediately, to-morrow, he would know the catastrophe all thesame; so she must wait for this horrible scene, and bear theweight of his magnanimity. The desire to return to Lheureux'sseized her--what would be the use? To write to her father--it wastoo late; and perhaps, she began to repent now that she had notyielded to that other, when she heard the trot of a horse in thealley. It was he; he was opening the gate; he was whiter than theplaster wall. Rushing to the stairs, she ran out quickly to thesquare; and the wife of the mayor, who was talking toLestiboudois in front of the church, saw her go in to thetax-collector's.

　　She hurried off to tell Madame Caron, and the two ladies went upto the attic, and, hidden by some linen spread across props,stationed themselves comfortably for overlooking the whole ofBinet's room.

　　He was alone in his garret, busy imitating in wood one of thoseindescribable bits of ivory, composed of crescents, of sphereshollowed out one within the other, the whole as straight as anobelisk, and of no use whatever; and he was beginning on the lastpiece--he was nearing his goal. In the twilight of the workshopthe white dust was flying from his tools like a shower of sparksunder the hoofs of a galloping horse; the two wheels wereturning, droning; Binet smiled, his chin lowered, his nostrilsdistended, and, in a word, seemed lost in one of those completehappinesses that, no doubt, belong only to commonplaceoccupations, which amuse the mind with facile difficulties, andsatisfy by a realisation of that beyond which such minds have nota dream.

　　"Ah! there she is!" exclaimed Madame Tuvache.

　　But it was impossible because of the lathe to hear what she wassaying.

　　At last these ladies thought they made out the word "francs," andMadame Tuvache whispered in a low voice--

　　"She is begging him to give her time for paying her taxes."

　　"Apparently!" replied the other.

　　They saw her walking up and down, examining the napkin-rings, thecandlesticks, the banister rails against the walls, while Binetstroked his beard with satisfaction.

　　"Do you think she wants to order something of him?" said MadameTuvache.

　　"Why, he doesn't sell anything," objected her neighbour.

　　The tax-collector seemed to be listening with wide-open eyes, asif he did not understand. She went on in a tender, suppliantmanner. She came nearer to him, her breast heaving; they nolonger spoke.

　　"Is she making him advances?" said Madame Tuvache. Binet wasscarlet to his very ears. She took hold of his hands.

　　"Oh, it's too much!"

　　And no doubt she was suggesting something abominable to him; forthe tax-collector--yet he was brave, had fought at Bautzen and atLutzen, had been through the French campaign, and had even beenrecommended for the cross--suddenly, as at the sight of aserpent, recoiled as far as he could from her, crying--

　　"Madame! what do you mean?"

　　"Women like that ought to be whipped," said Madame Tuvache.

　　"But where is she?" continued Madame Caron, for she haddisappeared whilst they spoke; then catching sight of her goingup the Grande Rue, and turning to the right as if making for thecemetery, they were lost in conjectures.

　　"Nurse Rollet," she said on reaching the nurse's, "I am choking;unlace me!" She fell on the bed sobbing. Nurse Rollet covered herwith a petticoat and remained standing by her side. Then, as shedid not answer, the good woman withdrew, took her wheel and beganspinning flax.

　　"Oh, leave off!" she murmured, fancying she heard Binet's lathe.

　　"What's bothering her?" said the nurse to herself. "Why has shecome here?"

　　She had rushed thither; impelled by a kind of horror that droveher from her home.

　　Lying on her back, motionless, and with staring eyes, she sawthings but vaguely, although she tried to with idioticpersistence. She looked at the scales on the walls, two brandssmoking end to end, and a long spider crawling over her head in arent in the beam. At last she began to collect her thoughts. Sheremembered--one day--Leon--Oh! how long ago that was--the sun wasshining on the river, and the clematis were perfuming the air.Then, carried away as by a rushing torrent, she soon began torecall the day before.

　　"What time is it?" she asked.

　　Mere Rollet went out, raised the fingers of her right hand tothat side of the sky that was brightest, and came back slowly,saying--

　　"Nearly three."

　　"Ahl thanks, thanks!"

　　For he would come; he would have found some money. But he would,perhaps, go down yonder, not guessing she was here, and she toldthe nurse to run to her house to fetch him.

　　"Be quick!"

　　"But, my dear lady, I'm going, I'm going!"

　　She wondered now that she had not thought of him from the first.Yesterday he had given his word; he would not break it. And shealready saw herself at Lheureux's spreading out her threebank-notes on his bureau. Then she would have to invent somestory to explain matters to Bovary. What should it be?

　　The nurse, however, was a long while gone. But, as there was noclock in the cot, Emma feared she was perhaps exaggerating thelength of time. She began walking round the garden, step by step;she went into the path by the hedge, and returned quickly, hopingthat the woman would have come back by another road. At last,weary of waiting, assailed by fears that she thrust from her, nolonger conscious whether she had been here a century or a moment,she sat down in a corner, closed her eyes, and stopped her ears.The gate grated; she sprang up. Before she had spoken Mere Rolletsaid to her--

　　"There is no one at your house!"

　　"What?"

　　"Oh, no one! And the doctor is crying. He is calling for you;they're looking for you."

　　Emma answered nothing. She gasped as she turned her eyes abouther, while the peasant woman, frightened at her face, drew backinstinctively, thinking her mad. Suddenly she struck her brow anduttered a cry; for the thought of Rodolphe, like a flash oflightning in a dark night, had passed into her soul. He was sogood, so delicate, so generous! And besides, should he hesitateto do her this service, she would know well enough how toconstrain him to it by re-waking, in a single moment, their lostlove. So she set out towards La Huchette, not seeing that she washastening to offer herself to that which but a while ago had soangered her, not in the least conscious of her prostitution.