Madame bovary by Gustave Flaubert



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the Lectures of the Abbe Frayssinous, and on Sundays passages from the

"Genie du Christianisme," as a recreation. How she listened at first to

the sonorous lamentations of its romantic melancholies reechoing

through the world and eternity! If her childhood had been spent in the

shop-parlour of some business quarter, she might perhaps have opened

her heart to those lyrical invasions of Nature, which usually come to

us only through translation in books. But she knew the country too well;

she knew the lowing of cattle, the milking, the ploughs.


Accustomed to calm aspects of life, she turned, on the contrary, to

those of excitement. She loved the sea only for the sake of its storms,

and the green fields only when broken up by ruins.
She wanted to get some personal profit out of things, and she rejected

as useless all that did not contribute to the immediate desires of her

heart, being of a temperament more sentimental than artistic, looking

for emotions, not landscapes.


At the convent there was an old maid who came for a week each month to

mend the linen. Patronized by the clergy, because she belonged to an

ancient family of noblemen ruined by the Revolution, she dined in the

refectory at the table of the good sisters, and after the meal had a bit

of chat with them before going back to her work. The girls often slipped

out from the study to go and see her. She knew by heart the love songs

of the last century, and sang them in a low voice as she stitched away.
She told stories, gave them news, went errands in the town, and on

the sly lent the big girls some novel, that she always carried in the

pockets of her apron, and of which the good lady herself swallowed

long chapters in the intervals of her work. They were all love, lovers,

sweethearts, persecuted ladies fainting in lonely pavilions, postilions

killed at every stage, horses ridden to death on every page, sombre

forests, heartaches, vows, sobs, tears and kisses, little skiffs by

moonlight, nightingales in shady groves, "gentlemen" brave as lions,

gentle as lambs, virtuous as no one ever was, always well dressed, and

weeping like fountains. For six months, then, Emma, at fifteen years of

age, made her hands dirty with books from old lending libraries.
Through Walter Scott, later on, she fell in love with historical events,

dreamed of old chests, guard-rooms and minstrels. She would have liked

to live in some old manor-house, like those long-waisted chatelaines

who, in the shade of pointed arches, spent their days leaning on the

stone, chin in hand, watching a cavalier with white plume galloping on

his black horse from the distant fields. At this time she had a cult


for Mary Stuart and enthusiastic veneration for illustrious or unhappy

women. Joan of Arc, Heloise, Agnes Sorel, the beautiful Ferroniere, and

Clemence Isaure stood out to her like comets in the dark immensity of

heaven, where also were seen, lost in shadow, and all unconnected, St.

Louis with his oak, the dying Bayard, some cruelties of Louis XI, a

little of St. Bartholomew's Day, the plume of the Bearnais, and always

the remembrance of the plates painted in honour of Louis XIV.
In the music class, in the ballads she sang, there was nothing but

little angels with golden wings, madonnas, lagunes, gondoliers;-mild

compositions that allowed her to catch a glimpse athwart the obscurity

of style and the weakness of the music of the attractive phantasmagoria

of sentimental realities. Some of her companions brought "keepsakes"

given them as new year's gifts to the convent. These had to be hidden;

it was quite an undertaking; they were read in the dormitory. Delicately

handling the beautiful satin bindings, Emma looked with dazzled eyes at

the names of the unknown authors, who had signed their verses for the

most part as counts or viscounts.


She trembled as she blew back the tissue paper over the engraving and

saw it folded in two and fall gently against the page. Here behind the

balustrade of a balcony was a young man in a short cloak, holding in his

arms a young girl in a white dress wearing an alms-bag at her belt; or

there were nameless portraits of English ladies with fair curls, who

looked at you from under their round straw hats with their large clear

eyes. Some there were lounging in their carriages, gliding through

parks, a greyhound bounding along in front of the equipage driven at

a trot by two midget postilions in white breeches. Others, dreaming on

sofas with an open letter, gazed at the moon through a slightly open

window half draped by a black curtain. The naive ones, a tear on their

cheeks, were kissing doves through the bars of a Gothic cage, or,

smiling, their heads on one side, were plucking the leaves of a

marguerite with their taper fingers, that curved at the tips like peaked

shoes. And you, too, were there, Sultans with long pipes reclining

beneath arbours in the arms of Bayaderes; Djiaours, Turkish sabres,

Greek caps; and you especially, pale landscapes of dithyrambic lands,

that often show us at once palm trees and firs, tigers on the right, a

lion to the left, Tartar minarets on the horizon; the whole framed by

a very neat virgin forest, and with a great perpendicular sunbeam

trembling in the water, where, standing out in relief like white

excoriations on a steel-grey ground, swans are swimming about.


And the shade of the argand lamp fastened to the wall above Emma's head

lighted up all these pictures of the world, that passed before her one

by one in the silence of the dormitory, and to the distant noise of some

belated carriage rolling over the Boulevards.


When her mother died she cried much the first few days. She had a

funeral picture made with the hair of the deceased, and, in a letter

sent to the Bertaux full of sad reflections on life, she asked to be

buried later on in the same grave. The goodman thought she must be ill,

and came to see her. Emma was secretly pleased that she had reached at

a first attempt the rare ideal of pale lives, never attained by mediocre

hearts. She let herself glide along with Lamartine meanderings, listened

to harps on lakes, to all the songs of dying swans, to the falling of

the leaves, the pure virgins ascending to heaven, and the voice of

the Eternal discoursing down the valleys. She wearied of it, would not

confess it, continued from habit, and at last was surprised to feel

herself soothed, and with no more sadness at heart than wrinkles on her

brow.
The good nuns, who had been so sure of her vocation, perceived with

great astonishment that Mademoiselle Rouault seemed to be slipping

from them. They had indeed been so lavish to her of prayers, retreats,

novenas, and sermons, they had so often preached the respect due to

saints and martyrs, and given so much good advice as to the modesty of

the body and the salvation of her soul, that she did as tightly reined

horses; she pulled up short and the bit slipped from her teeth. This

nature, positive in the midst of its enthusiasms, that had loved the

church for the sake of the flowers, and music for the words of the

songs, and literature for its passional stimulus, rebelled against

the mysteries of faith as it grew irritated by discipline, a thing

antipathetic to her constitution. When her father took her from school,

no one was sorry to see her go. The Lady Superior even thought that she

had latterly been somewhat irreverent to the community.


Emma, at home once more, first took pleasure in looking after the

servants, then grew disgusted with the country and missed her convent.

When Charles came to the Bertaux for the first time, she thought herself

quite disillusioned, with nothing more to learn, and nothing more to

feel.
But the uneasiness of her new position, or perhaps the disturbance

caused by the presence of this man, had sufficed to make her believe

that she at last felt that wondrous passion which, till then, like a

great bird with rose-coloured wings, hung in the splendour of the skies

of poesy; and now she could not think that the calm in which she lived

was the happiness she had dreamed.


Chapter Seven


She thought, sometimes, that, after all, this was the happiest time

of her life--the honeymoon, as people called it. To taste the full

sweetness of it, it would have been necessary doubtless to fly to those

lands with sonorous names where the days after marriage are full of

laziness most suave. In post chaises behind blue silken curtains to ride

slowly up steep road, listening to the song of the postilion re-echoed

by the mountains, along with the bells of goats and the muffled sound of

a waterfall; at sunset on the shores of gulfs to breathe in the perfume

of lemon trees; then in the evening on the villa-terraces above, hand in

hand to look at the stars, making plans for the future. It seemed to her

that certain places on earth must bring happiness, as a plant peculiar

to the soil, and that cannot thrive elsewhere. Why could not she lean

over balconies in Swiss chalets, or enshrine her melancholy in a Scotch

cottage, with a husband dressed in a black velvet coat with long tails,

and thin shoes, a pointed hat and frills? Perhaps she would have liked

to confide all these things to someone. But how tell an undefinable

uneasiness, variable as the clouds, unstable as the winds? Words failed

her--the opportunity, the courage.


If Charles had but wished it, if he had guessed it, if his look had but

once met her thought, it seemed to her that a sudden plenty would have

gone out from her heart, as the fruit falls from a tree when shaken by

a hand. But as the intimacy of their life became deeper, the greater

became the gulf that separated her from him.
Charles's conversation was commonplace as a street pavement, and

everyone's ideas trooped through it in their everyday garb, without

exciting emotion, laughter, or thought. He had never had the curiosity,

he said, while he lived at Rouen, to go to the theatre to see the actors

from Paris. He could neither swim, nor fence, nor shoot, and one day

he could not explain some term of horsemanship to her that she had come

across in a novel.
A man, on the contrary, should he not know everything, excel in manifold

activities, initiate you into the energies of passion, the refinements

of life, all mysteries? But this one taught nothing, knew nothing,

wished nothing. He thought her happy; and she resented this easy calm,

this serene heaviness, the very happiness she gave him.
Sometimes she would draw; and it was great amusement to Charles to stand

there bolt upright and watch her bend over her cardboard, with eyes

half-closed the better to see her work, or rolling, between her fingers,

little bread-pellets. As to the piano, the more quickly her fingers


glided over it the more he wondered. She struck the notes with aplomb,

and ran from top to bottom of the keyboard without a break. Thus shaken

up, the old instrument, whose strings buzzed, could be heard at the

other end of the village when the window was open, and often the

bailiff's clerk, passing along the highroad bare-headed and in list

slippers, stopped to listen, his sheet of paper in his hand.


Emma, on the other hand, knew how to look after her house. She sent the

patients' accounts in well-phrased letters that had no suggestion of

a bill. When they had a neighbour to dinner on Sundays, she managed to

have some tasty dish--piled up pyramids of greengages on vine leaves,

served up preserves turned out into plates--and even spoke of buying

finger-glasses for dessert. From all this much consideration was

extended to Bovary.
Charles finished by rising in his own esteem for possessing such a wife.

He showed with pride in the sitting room two small pencil sketched by

her that he had had framed in very large frames, and hung up against the

wallpaper by long green cords. People returning from mass saw him at his

door in his wool-work slippers.
He came home late--at ten o'clock, at midnight sometimes. Then he asked

for something to eat, and as the servant had gone to bed, Emma waited

on him. He took off his coat to dine more at his ease. He told her, one

after the other, the people he had met, the villages where he had been,

the prescriptions ha had written, and, well pleased with himself, he

finished the remainder of the boiled beef and onions, picked pieces off

the cheese, munched an apple, emptied his water-bottle, and then went to

bed, and lay on his back and snored.


As he had been for a time accustomed to wear nightcaps, his handkerchief

would not keep down over his ears, so that his hair in the morning was

all tumbled pell-mell about his face and whitened with the feathers of

the pillow, whose strings came untied during the night. He always wore

thick boots that had two long creases over the instep running obliquely

towards the ankle, while the rest of the upper continued in a straight

line as if stretched on a wooden foot. He said that "was quite good

enough for the country."


His mother approved of his economy, for she came to see him as formerly

when there had been some violent row at her place; and yet Madame Bovary

senior seemed prejudiced against her daughter-in-law. She thought "her

ways too fine for their position"; the wood, the sugar, and the candles

disappeared as "at a grand establishment," and the amount of firing in

the kitchen would have been enough for twenty-five courses. She put her

linen in order for her in the presses, and taught her to keep an eye on

the butcher when he brought the meat. Emma put up with these lessons.

Madame Bovary was lavish of them; and the words "daughter" and "mother"

were exchanged all day long, accompanied by little quiverings of the

lips, each one uttering gentle words in a voice trembling with anger.
In Madame Dubuc's time the old woman felt that she was still the

favorite; but now the love of Charles for Emma seemed to her a desertion

from her tenderness, an encroachment upon what was hers, and she watched

her son's happiness in sad silence, as a ruined man looks through

the windows at people dining in his old house. She recalled to him as

remembrances her troubles and her sacrifices, and, comparing these with

Emma's negligence, came to the conclusion that it was not reasonable to

adore her so exclusively.


Charles knew not what to answer: he respected his mother, and he loved

his wife infinitely; he considered the judgment of the one infallible,

and yet he thought the conduct of the other irreproachable. When Madam

Bovary had gone, he tried timidly and in the same terms to hazard one or

two of the more anodyne observations he had heard from his mamma. Emma

proved to him with a word that he was mistaken, and sent him off to his

patients.
And yet, in accord with theories she believed right, she wanted to make

herself in love with him. By moonlight in the garden she recited all

the passionate rhymes she knew by heart, and, sighing, sang to him many

melancholy adagios; but she found herself as calm after as before, and

Charles seemed no more amorous and no more moved.
When she had thus for a while struck the flint on her heart without

getting a spark, incapable, moreover, of understanding what she did

not experience as of believing anything that did not present itself

in conventional forms, she persuaded herself without difficulty that

Charles's passion was nothing very exorbitant. His outbursts became

regular; he embraced her at certain fixed times. It was one habit among

other habits, and, like a dessert, looked forward to after the monotony

of dinner.


A gamekeeper, cured by the doctor of inflammation of the lungs, had

given madame a little Italian greyhound; she took her out walking, for

she went out sometimes in order to be alone for a moment, and not to see

before her eyes the eternal garden and the dusty road. She went as far

as the beeches of Banneville, near the deserted pavilion which forms an

angle of the wall on the side of the country. Amidst the vegetation of

the ditch there are long reeds with leaves that cut you.
She began by looking round her to see if nothing had changed since last

she had been there. She found again in the same places the foxgloves and

wallflowers, the beds of nettles growing round the big stones, and

the patches of lichen along the three windows, whose shutters, always

closed, were rotting away on their rusty iron bars. Her thoughts,

aimless at first, wandered at random, like her greyhound, who ran round

and round in the fields, yelping after the yellow butterflies, chasing

the shrew-mice, or nibbling the poppies on the edge of a cornfield.


Then gradually her ideas took definite shape, and, sitting on the grass

that she dug up with little prods of her sunshade, Emma repeated to

herself, "Good heavens! Why did I marry?"
She asked herself if by some other chance combination it would have not

been possible to meet another man; and she tried to imagine what would

have been these unrealised events, this different life, this unknown

husband. All, surely, could not be like this one. He might have been

handsome, witty, distinguished, attractive, such as, no doubt, her old

companions of the convent had married. What were they doing now? In

town, with the noise of the streets, the buzz of the theatres and the

lights of the ballroom, they were living lives where the heart expands,

the senses bourgeon out. But she--her life was cold as a garret whose

dormer window looks on the north, and ennui, the silent spider, was

weaving its web in the darkness in every corner of her heart.
She recalled the prize days, when she mounted the platform to receive

her little crowns, with her hair in long plaits. In her white frock and

open prunella shoes she had a pretty way, and when she went back to her

seat, the gentlemen bent over her to congratulate her; the courtyard was

full of carriages; farewells were called to her through their windows;

the music master with his violin case bowed in passing by. How far all

of this! How far away! She called Djali, took her between her knees, and

smoothed the long delicate head, saying, "Come, kiss mistress; you have

no troubles."
Then noting the melancholy face of the graceful animal, who yawned

slowly, she softened, and comparing her to herself, spoke to her aloud

as to somebody in trouble whom one is consoling.
Occasionally there came gusts of winds, breezes from the sea rolling in

one sweep over the whole plateau of the Caux country, which brought

even to these fields a salt freshness. The rushes, close to the ground,

whistled; the branches trembled in a swift rustling, while their

summits, ceaselessly swaying, kept up a deep murmur. Emma drew her shawl

round her shoulders and rose.


In the avenue a green light dimmed by the leaves lit up the short moss

that crackled softly beneath her feet. The sun was setting; the sky

showed red between the branches, and the trunks of the trees, uniform,

and planted in a straight line, seemed a brown colonnade standing out

against a background of gold. A fear took hold of her; she called Djali,

and hurriedly returned to Tostes by the high road, threw herself into an

armchair, and for the rest of the evening did not speak.
But towards the end of September something extraordinary fell upon her

life; she was invited by the Marquis d'Andervilliers to Vaubyessard.


Secretary of State under the Restoration, the Marquis, anxious to

re-enter political life, set about preparing for his candidature to

the Chamber of Deputies long beforehand. In the winter he distributed a

great deal of wood, and in the Conseil General always enthusiastically

demanded new roads for his arrondissement. During the dog-days he had

suffered from an abscess, which Charles had cured as if by miracle by

giving a timely little touch with the lancet. The steward sent to Tostes

to pay for the operation reported in the evening that he had seen some

superb cherries in the doctor's little garden. Now cherry trees did not

thrive at Vaubyessard; the Marquis asked Bovary for some slips; made it

his business to thank his personally; saw Emma; thought she had a pretty

figure, and that she did not bow like a peasant; so that he did not

think he was going beyond the bounds of condescension, nor, on the other

hand, making a mistake, in inviting the young couple.


On Wednesday at three o'clock, Monsieur and Madame Bovary, seated in

their dog-cart, set out for Vaubyessard, with a great trunk strapped

on behind and a bonnet-box in front of the apron. Besides these Charles

held a bandbox between his knees.


They arrived at nightfall, just as the lamps in the park were being lit

to show the way for the carriages.


Chapter Eight


The chateau, a modern building in Italian style, with two projecting

wings and three flights of steps, lay at the foot of an immense

green-sward, on which some cows were grazing among groups of large trees

set out at regular intervals, while large beds of arbutus, rhododendron,

syringas, and guelder roses bulged out their irregular clusters of

green along the curve of the gravel path. A river flowed under a bridge;

through the mist one could distinguish buildings with thatched roofs

scattered over the field bordered by two gently sloping, well timbered

hillocks, and in the background amid the trees rose in two parallel

lines the coach houses and stables, all that was left of the ruined old

chateau.
Charles's dog-cart pulled up before the middle flight of steps; servants

appeared; the Marquis came forward, and, offering his arm to the

doctor's wife, conducted her to the vestibule.
It was paved with marble slabs, was very lofty, and the sound of

footsteps and that of voices re-echoed through it as in a church.


Opposite rose a straight staircase, and on the left a gallery

overlooking the garden led to the billiard room, through whose door one

could hear the click of the ivory balls. As she crossed it to go to the

drawing room, Emma saw standing round the table men with grave faces,

their chins resting on high cravats. They all wore orders, and smiled

silently as they made their strokes.


On the dark wainscoting of the walls large gold frames bore at

the bottom names written in black letters. She read: "Jean-Antoine

d'Andervilliers d'Yvervonbille, Count de la Vaubyessard and Baron de la

Fresnay, killed at the battle of Coutras on the 20th of October,

1857." And on another: "Jean-Antoine-Henry-Guy d'Andervilliers de

la Vaubyessard, Admiral of France and Chevalier of the Order of St.

Michael, wounded at the battle of the Hougue-Saint-Vaast on the 29th of

May, 1692; died at Vaubyessard on the 23rd of January 1693." One could

hardly make out those that followed, for the light of the lamps lowered

over the green cloth threw a dim shadow round the room. Burnishing the

horizontal pictures, it broke up against these in delicate lines where

there were cracks in the varnish, and from all these great black squares

framed in with gold stood out here and there some lighter portion of the

painting--a pale brow, two eyes that looked at you, perukes flowing over

and powdering red-coated shoulders, or the buckle of a garter above a

well-rounded calf.


The Marquis opened the drawing room door; one of the ladies (the

Marchioness herself) came to meet Emma. She made her sit down by her on

an ottoman, and began talking to her as amicably as if she had known her

a long time. She was a woman of about forty, with fine shoulders, a hook

nose, a drawling voice, and on this evening she wore over her brown hair

a simple guipure fichu that fell in a point at the back. A fair young

woman sat in a high-backed chair in a corner; and gentlemen with flowers

in their buttonholes were talking to ladies round the fire.


At seven dinner was served. The men, who were in the majority, sat down

at the first table in the vestibule; the ladies at the second in the

dining room with the Marquis and Marchioness.
Emma, on entering, felt herself wrapped round by the warm air, a

blending of the perfume of flowers and of the fine linen, of the fumes

of the viands, and the odour of the truffles. The silver dish covers

reflected the lighted wax candles in the candelabra, the cut crystal

covered with light steam reflected from one to the other pale rays;

bouquets were placed in a row the whole length of the table; and in

the large-bordered plates each napkin, arranged after the fashion of a

bishop's mitre, held between its two gaping folds a small oval shaped

roll. The red claws of lobsters hung over the dishes; rich fruit in open

baskets was piled up on moss; there were quails in their plumage; smoke

was rising; and in silk stockings, knee-breeches, white cravat, and

frilled shirt, the steward, grave as a judge, offering ready carved

dishes between the shoulders of the guests, with a touch of the spoon

gave you the piece chosen. On the large stove of porcelain inlaid

with copper baguettes the statue of a woman, draped to the chin, gazed

motionless on the room full of life.


Madame Bovary noticed that many ladies had not put their gloves in their

glasses.
But at the upper end of the table, alone amongst all these women, bent

over his full plate, and his napkin tied round his neck like a child, an

old man sat eating, letting drops of gravy drip from his mouth. His eyes

were bloodshot, and he wore a little queue tied with black ribbon. He

was the Marquis's father-in-law, the old Duke de Laverdiere, once on

a time favourite of the Count d'Artois, in the days of the Vaudreuil

hunting-parties at the Marquis de Conflans', and had been, it was said,

the lover of Queen Marie Antoinette, between Monsieur de Coigny and

Monsieur de Lauzun. He had lived a life of noisy debauch, full of duels,

bets, elopements; he had squandered his fortune and frightened all his

family. A servant behind his chair named aloud to him in his ear the

dishes that he pointed to stammering, and constantly Emma's eyes

turned involuntarily to this old man with hanging lips, as to something

extraordinary. He had lived at court and slept in the bed of queens!

Iced champagne was poured out. Emma shivered all over as she felt

it cold in her mouth. She had never seen pomegranates nor tasted

pineapples. The powdered sugar even seemed to her whiter and finer than

elsewhere.
The ladies afterwards went to their rooms to prepare for the ball.
Emma made her toilet with the fastidious care of an actress on her

debut. She did her hair according to the directions of the hairdresser,

and put on the barege dress spread out upon the bed.
Charles's trousers were tight across the belly.
"My trouser-straps will be rather awkward for dancing," he said.
"Dancing?" repeated Emma.
"Yes!"
"Why, you must be mad! They would make fun of you; keep your place.

Besides, it is more becoming for a doctor," she added.


Charles was silent. He walked up and down waiting for Emma to finish

dressing.


He saw her from behind in the glass between two lights. Her black eyes

seemed blacker than ever. Her hair, undulating towards the ears, shone

with a blue lustre; a rose in her chignon trembled on its mobile stalk,

with artificial dewdrops on the tip of the leaves. She wore a gown of

pale saffron trimmed with three bouquets of pompon roses mixed with

green.
Charles came and kissed her on her shoulder.


"Let me alone!" she said; "you are tumbling me."
One could hear the flourish of the violin and the notes of a horn. She

went downstairs restraining herself from running.


Dancing had begun. Guests were arriving. There was some crushing.
She sat down on a form near the door.
The quadrille over, the floor was occupied by groups of men standing up

and talking and servants in livery bearing large trays. Along the line

of seated women painted fans were fluttering, bouquets half hid smiling

faces, and gold stoppered scent-bottles were turned in partly-closed

hands, whose white gloves outlined the nails and tightened on the flesh

at the wrists. Lace trimmings, diamond brooches, medallion bracelets

trembled on bodices, gleamed on breasts, clinked on bare arms.
The hair, well-smoothed over the temples and knotted at the nape,

bore crowns, or bunches, or sprays of mytosotis, jasmine, pomegranate

blossoms, ears of corn, and corn-flowers. Calmly seated in their places,

mothers with forbidding countenances were wearing red turbans.


Emma's heart beat rather faster when, her partner holding her by the

tips of the fingers, she took her place in a line with the dancers, and

waited for the first note to start. But her emotion soon vanished, and,

swaying to the rhythm of the orchestra, she glided forward with slight

movements of the neck. A smile rose to her lips at certain delicate

phrases of the violin, that sometimes played alone while the other

instruments were silent; one could hear the clear clink of the louis

d'or that were being thrown down upon the card tables in the next room;

then all struck again, the cornet-a-piston uttered its sonorous note,

feet marked time, skirts swelled and rustled, hands touched and parted;

the same eyes falling before you met yours again.
A few men (some fifteen or so), of twenty-five to forty, scattered here

and there among the dancers or talking at the doorways, distinguished

themselves from the crowd by a certain air of breeding, whatever their

differences in age, dress, or face.


Their clothes, better made, seemed of finer cloth, and their hair,

brought forward in curls towards the temples, glossy with more delicate

pomades. They had the complexion of wealth--that clear complexion that

is heightened by the pallor of porcelain, the shimmer of satin, the

veneer of old furniture, and that an ordered regimen of exquisite

nurture maintains at its best. Their necks moved easily in their low

cravats, their long whiskers fell over their turned-down collars, they

wiped their lips upon handkerchiefs with embroidered initials that gave

forth a subtle perfume. Those who were beginning to grow old had an air

of youth, while there was something mature in the faces of the young.

In their unconcerned looks was the calm of passions daily satiated, and

through all their gentleness of manner pierced that peculiar brutality,

the result of a command of half-easy things, in which force is exercised

and vanity amused--the management of thoroughbred horses and the society

of loose women.
A few steps from Emma a gentleman in a blue coat was talking of Italy

with a pale young woman wearing a parure of pearls.


They were praising the breadth of the columns of St. Peter's, Tivoly,

Vesuvius, Castellamare, and Cassines, the roses of Genoa, the Coliseum

by moonlight. With her other ear Emma was listening to a conversation

full of words she did not understand. A circle gathered round a very

young man who the week before had beaten "Miss Arabella" and "Romolus,"

and won two thousand louis jumping a ditch in England. One complained


that his racehorses were growing fat; another of the printers' errors

that had disfigured the name of his horse.


The atmosphere of the ball was heavy; the lamps were growing dim.
Guests were flocking to the billiard room. A servant got upon a chair

and broke the window-panes. At the crash of the glass Madame Bovary

turned her head and saw in the garden the faces of peasants pressed

against the window looking in at them. Then the memory of the Bertaux

came back to her. She saw the farm again, the muddy pond, her father in

a blouse under the apple trees, and she saw herself again as formerly,

skimming with her finger the cream off the milk-pans in the dairy. But

in the refulgence of the present hour her past life, so distinct until

then, faded away completely, and she almost doubted having lived it. She

was there; beyond the ball was only shadow overspreading all the rest.

She was just eating a maraschino ice that she held with her left hand

in a silver-gilt cup, her eyes half-closed, and the spoon between her

teeth.
A lady near her dropped her fan. A gentlemen was passing.
"Would you be so good," said the lady, "as to pick up my fan that has

fallen behind the sofa?"


The gentleman bowed, and as he moved to stretch out his arm, Emma saw

the hand of a young woman throw something white, folded in a triangle,

into his hat. The gentleman, picking up the fan, offered it to the lady

respectfully; she thanked him with an inclination of the head, and began

smelling her bouquet.
After supper, where were plenty of Spanish and Rhine wines, soups a la

bisque and au lait d'amandes*, puddings a la Trafalgar, and all sorts of

cold meats with jellies that trembled in the dishes, the carriages one

after the other began to drive off. Raising the corners of the muslin

curtain, one could see the light of their lanterns glimmering through

the darkness. The seats began to empty, some card-players were still

left; the musicians were cooling the tips of their fingers on their

tongues. Charles was half asleep, his back propped against a door.


*With almond milk
At three o'clock the cotillion began. Emma did not know how to waltz.

Everyone was waltzing, Mademoiselle d'Andervilliers herself and the

Marquis; only the guests staying at the castle were still there, about a

dozen persons.


One of the waltzers, however, who was familiarly called Viscount, and

whose low cut waistcoat seemed moulded to his chest, came a second time

to ask Madame Bovary to dance, assuring her that he would guide her, and

that she would get through it very well.


They began slowly, then went more rapidly. They turned; all around them

was turning--the lamps, the furniture, the wainscoting, the floor, like

a disc on a pivot. On passing near the doors the bottom of Emma's dress

caught against his trousers.


Their legs commingled; he looked down at her; she raised her eyes to

his. A torpor seized her; she stopped. They started again, and with a

more rapid movement; the Viscount, dragging her along disappeared with

her to the end of the gallery, where panting, she almost fell, and for

a moment rested her head upon his breast. And then, still turning, but

more slowly, he guided her back to her seat. She leaned back against the

wall and covered her eyes with her hands.
When she opened them again, in the middle of the drawing room three

waltzers were kneeling before a lady sitting on a stool.


She chose the Viscount, and the violin struck up once more.
Everyone looked at them. They passed and re-passed, she with rigid body,

her chin bent down, and he always in the same pose, his figure curved,

his elbow rounded, his chin thrown forward. That woman knew how to

waltz! They kept up a long time, and tired out all the others.


Then they talked a few moments longer, and after the goodnights, or

rather good mornings, the guests of the chateau retired to bed.


Charles dragged himself up by the balusters. His "knees were going

up into his body." He had spent five consecutive hours standing

bolt upright at the card tables, watching them play whist, without

understanding anything about it, and it was with a deep sigh of relief

that he pulled off his boots.
Emma threw a shawl over her shoulders, opened the window, and leant out.
The night was dark; some drops of rain were falling. She breathed in the

damp wind that refreshed her eyelids. The music of the ball was still

murmuring in her ears. And she tried to keep herself awake in order to

prolong the illusion of this luxurious life that she would soon have to

give up.
Day began to break. She looked long at the windows of the chateau,

trying to guess which were the rooms of all those she had noticed the

evening before. She would fain have known their lives, have penetrated,

blended with them. But she was shivering with cold. She undressed, and

cowered down between the sheets against Charles, who was asleep.
There were a great many people to luncheon. The repast lasted ten

minutes; no liqueurs were served, which astonished the doctor.


Next, Mademoiselle d'Andervilliers collected some pieces of roll in a

small basket to take them to the swans on the ornamental waters, and

they went to walk in the hot-houses, where strange plants, bristling

with hairs, rose in pyramids under hanging vases, whence, as from

over-filled nests of serpents, fell long green cords interlacing.

The orangery, which was at the other end, led by a covered way to the

outhouses of the chateau. The Marquis, to amuse the young woman, took

her to see the stables.


Above the basket-shaped racks porcelain slabs bore the names of the

horses in black letters. Each animal in its stall whisked its tail when

anyone went near and said "Tchk! tchk!" The boards of the harness room

shone like the flooring of a drawing room. The carriage harness was

piled up in the middle against two twisted columns, and the bits, the

whips, the spurs, the curbs, were ranged in a line all along the wall.


Charles, meanwhile, went to ask a groom to put his horse to. The

dog-cart was brought to the foot of the steps, and, all the parcels

being crammed in, the Bovarys paid their respects to the Marquis and

Marchioness and set out again for Tostes.


Emma watched the turning wheels in silence. Charles, on the extreme edge

of the seat, held the reins with his two arms wide apart, and the little

horse ambled along in the shafts that were too big for him. The loose

reins hanging over his crupper were wet with foam, and the box fastened

on behind the chaise gave great regular bumps against it.
They were on the heights of Thibourville when suddenly some horsemen

with cigars between their lips passed laughing. Emma thought she

recognized the Viscount, turned back, and caught on the horizon only the

movement of the heads rising or falling with the unequal cadence of the

trot or gallop.
A mile farther on they had to stop to mend with some string the traces

that had broken.


But Charles, giving a last look to the harness, saw something on the

ground between his horse's legs, and he picked up a cigar-case with

a green silk border and beblazoned in the centre like the door of a

carriage.


"There are even two cigars in it," said he; "they'll do for this evening

after dinner."


"Why, do you smoke?" she asked.
"Sometimes, when I get a chance."
He put his find in his pocket and whipped up the nag.
When they reached home the dinner was not ready. Madame lost her temper.

Nastasie answered rudely.


"Leave the room!" said Emma. "You are forgetting yourself. I give you

warning."


For dinner there was onion soup and a piece of veal with sorrel.
Charles, seated opposite Emma, rubbed his hands gleefully.
"How good it is to be at home again!"
Nastasie could be heard crying. He was rather fond of the poor girl.

She had formerly, during the wearisome time of his widowhood, kept him

company many an evening. She had been his first patient, his oldest

acquaintance in the place.


"Have you given her warning for good?" he asked at last.
"Yes. Who is to prevent me?" she replied.
Then they warmed themselves in the kitchen while their room was being

made ready. Charles began to smoke. He smoked with lips protruding,

spitting every moment, recoiling at every puff.
"You'll make yourself ill," she said scornfully.
He put down his cigar and ran to swallow a glass of cold water at the

pump. Emma seizing hold of the cigar case threw it quickly to the back

of the cupboard.
The next day was a long one. She walked about her little garden, up

and down the same walks, stopping before the beds, before the espalier,

before the plaster curate, looking with amazement at all these things

of once-on-a-time that she knew so well. How far off the ball seemed

already! What was it that thus set so far asunder the morning of the day

before yesterday and the evening of to-day? Her journey to Vaubyessard

had made a hole in her life, like one of those great crevices that

a storm will sometimes make in one night in mountains. Still she was

resigned. She devoutly put away in her drawers her beautiful dress, down

to the satin shoes whose soles were yellowed with the slippery wax of

the dancing floor. Her heart was like these. In its friction against

wealth something had come over it that could not be effaced.


The memory of this ball, then, became an occupation for Emma.
Whenever the Wednesday came round she said to herself as she awoke, "Ah!

I was there a week--a fortnight--three weeks ago."


And little by little the faces grew confused in her remembrance.
She forgot the tune of the quadrilles; she no longer saw the liveries

and appointments so distinctly; some details escaped her, but the regret

remained with her.

Chapter Nine


Often when Charles was out she took from the cupboard, between the

folds of the linen where she had left it, the green silk cigar case.

She looked at it, opened it, and even smelt the odour of the lining--a

mixture of verbena and tobacco. Whose was it? The Viscount's? Perhaps

it was a present from his mistress. It had been embroidered on some

rosewood frame, a pretty little thing, hidden from all eyes, that had

occupied many hours, and over which had fallen the soft curls of the

pensive worker. A breath of love had passed over the stitches on the

canvas; each prick of the needle had fixed there a hope or a memory, and

all those interwoven threads of silk were but the continuity of the same

silent passion. And then one morning the Viscount had taken it away

with him. Of what had they spoken when it lay upon the wide-mantelled

chimneys between flower-vases and Pompadour clocks? She was at Tostes;

he was at Paris now, far away! What was this Paris like? What a vague

name! She repeated it in a low voice, for the mere pleasure of it; it

rang in her ears like a great cathedral bell; it shone before her eyes,

even on the labels of her pomade-pots.
At night, when the carriers passed under her windows in their carts

singing the "Marjolaine," she awoke, and listened to the noise of the

iron-bound wheels, which, as they gained the country road, was soon

deadened by the soil. "They will be there to-morrow!" she said to

herself.
And she followed them in thought up and down the hills, traversing

villages, gliding along the highroads by the light of the stars. At the

end of some indefinite distance there was always a confused spot, into

which her dream died.


She bought a plan of Paris, and with the tip of her finger on the map

she walked about the capital. She went up the boulevards, stopping at

every turning, between the lines of the streets, in front of the white

squares that represented the houses. At last she would close the lids of

her weary eyes, and see in the darkness the gas jets flaring in the wind

and the steps of carriages lowered with much noise before the peristyles

of theatres.
She took in "La Corbeille," a lady's journal, and the "Sylphe des

Salons." She devoured, without skipping a word, all the accounts of

first nights, races, and soirees, took interest in the debut of a

singer, in the opening of a new shop. She knew the latest fashions, the

addresses of the best tailors, the days of the Bois and the Opera. In

Eugene Sue she studied descriptions of furniture; she read Balzac and

George Sand, seeking in them imaginary satisfaction for her own desires.

Even at table she had her book by her, and turned over the pages

while Charles ate and talked to her. The memory of the Viscount always

returned as she read. Between him and the imaginary personages she made

comparisons. But the circle of which he was the centre gradually widened

round him, and the aureole that he bore, fading from his form, broadened

out beyond, lighting up her other dreams.
Paris, more vague than the ocean, glimmered before Emma's eyes in an

atmosphere of vermilion. The many lives that stirred amid this tumult

were, however, divided into parts, classed as distinct pictures. Emma

perceived only two or three that hid from her all the rest, and in

themselves represented all humanity. The world of ambassadors moved over
polished floors in drawing rooms lined with mirrors, round oval tables

covered with velvet and gold-fringed cloths. There were dresses with

trains, deep mysteries, anguish hidden beneath smiles. Then came the

society of the duchesses; all were pale; all got up at four o'clock; the

women, poor angels, wore English point on their petticoats; and the men,

unappreciated geniuses under a frivolous outward seeming, rode horses to

death at pleasure parties, spent the summer season at Baden, and towards

the forties married heiresses. In the private rooms of restaurants,

where one sups after midnight by the light of wax candles, laughed the

motley crowd of men of letters and actresses. They were prodigal as

kings, full of ideal, ambitious, fantastic frenzy. This was an existence

outside that of all others, between heaven and earth, in the midst of

storms, having something of the sublime. For the rest of the world it

was lost, with no particular place and as if non-existent. The nearer

things were, moreover, the more her thoughts turned away from them.

All her immediate surroundings, the wearisome country, the middle-class

imbeciles, the mediocrity of existence, seemed to her exceptional, a

peculiar chance that had caught hold of her, while beyond stretched, as

far as eye could see, an immense land of joys and passions. She confused

in her desire the sensualities of luxury with the delights of the heart,

elegance of manners with delicacy of sentiment. Did not love, like

Indian plants, need a special soil, a particular temperature? Signs

by moonlight, long embraces, tears flowing over yielded hands, all

the fevers of the flesh and the languors of tenderness could not be

separated from the balconies of great castles full of indolence,

from boudoirs with silken curtains and thick carpets, well-filled

flower-stands, a bed on a raised dias, nor from the flashing of precious

stones and the shoulder-knots of liveries.


The lad from the posting house who came to groom the mare every morning

passed through the passage with his heavy wooden shoes; there were holes

in his blouse; his feet were bare in list slippers. And this was the

groom in knee-britches with whom she had to be content! His work done,

he did not come back again all day, for Charles on his return put up

his horse himself, unsaddled him and put on the halter, while the

servant-girl brought a bundle of straw and threw it as best she could

into the manger.


To replace Nastasie (who left Tostes shedding torrents of tears) Emma

took into her service a young girl of fourteen, an orphan with a sweet

face. She forbade her wearing cotton caps, taught her to address her in

the third person, to bring a glass of water on a plate, to knock before

coming into a room, to iron, starch, and to dress her--wanted to make a

lady's-maid of her. The new servant obeyed without a murmur, so as not

to be sent away; and as madame usually left the key in the sideboard,

Felicite every evening took a small supply of sugar that she ate alone

in her bed after she had said her prayers.
Sometimes in the afternoon she went to chat with the postilions.
Madame was in her room upstairs. She wore an open dressing gown that

showed between the shawl facings of her bodice a pleated chamisette with

three gold buttons. Her belt was a corded girdle with great tassels, and

her small garnet coloured slippers had a large knot of ribbon that fell

over her instep. She had bought herself a blotting book, writing case,

pen-holder, and envelopes, although she had no one to write to; she

dusted her what-not, looked at herself in the glass, picked up a book,

and then, dreaming between the lines, let it drop on her knees. She

longed to travel or to go back to her convent. She wished at the same

time to die and to live in Paris.


Charles in snow and rain trotted across country. He ate omelettes on

farmhouse tables, poked his arm into damp beds, received the tepid

spurt of blood-lettings in his face, listened to death-rattles, examined

basins, turned over a good deal of dirty linen; but every evening he

found a blazing fire, his dinner ready, easy-chairs, and a well-dressed

woman, charming with an odour of freshness, though no one could say

whence the perfume came, or if it were not her skin that made odorous

her chemise.


She charmed him by numerous attentions; now it was some new way of

arranging paper sconces for the candles, a flounce that she altered on

her gown, or an extraordinary name for some very simple dish that the

servant had spoilt, but that Charles swallowed with pleasure to the last

mouthful. At Rouen she saw some ladies who wore a bunch of charms on the

watch-chains; she bought some charms. She wanted for her mantelpiece two

large blue glass vases, and some time after an ivory necessaire with a

silver-gilt thimble. The less Charles understood these refinements

the more they seduced him. They added something to the pleasure of the

senses and to the comfort of his fireside. It was like a golden dust

sanding all along the narrow path of his life.
He was well, looked well; his reputation was firmly established.
The country-folk loved him because he was not proud. He petted the

children, never went to the public house, and, moreover, his morals

inspired confidence. He was specially successful with catarrhs and chest

complaints. Being much afraid of killing his patients, Charles, in fact

only prescribed sedatives, from time to time and emetic, a footbath,

or leeches. It was not that he was afraid of surgery; he bled people

copiously like horses, and for the taking out of teeth he had the

"devil's own wrist."


Finally, to keep up with the times, he took in "La Ruche Medicale,"

a new journal whose prospectus had been sent him. He read it a little

after dinner, but in about five minutes the warmth of the room added to

the effect of his dinner sent him to sleep; and he sat there, his chin

on his two hands and his hair spreading like a mane to the foot of the

lamp. Emma looked at him and shrugged her shoulders. Why, at least, was

not her husband one of those men of taciturn passions who work at their

books all night, and at last, when about sixty, the age of rheumatism

sets in, wear a string of orders on their ill-fitting black coat?

She could have wished this name of Bovary, which was hers, had been

illustrious, to see it displayed at the booksellers', repeated in the

newspapers, known to all France. But Charles had no ambition.


An Yvetot doctor whom he had lately met in consultation had somewhat

humiliated him at the very bedside of the patient, before the assembled

relatives. When, in the evening, Charles told her this anecdote, Emma

inveighed loudly against his colleague. Charles was much touched. He

kissed her forehead with a tear in his eyes. But she was angered with

shame; she felt a wild desire to strike him; she went to open the window

in the passage and breathed in the fresh air to calm herself.
"What a man! What a man!" she said in a low voice, biting her lips.
Besides, she was becoming more irritated with him. As he grew older his

manner grew heavier; at dessert he cut the corks of the empty bottles;

after eating he cleaned his teeth with his tongue; in taking soup

he made a gurgling noise with every spoonful; and, as he was getting

fatter, the puffed-out cheeks seemed to push the eyes, always small, up

to the temples.


Sometimes Emma tucked the red borders of his under-vest unto his

waistcoat, rearranged his cravat, and threw away the dirty gloves he was

going to put on; and this was not, as he fancied, for himself; it

was for herself, by a diffusion of egotism, of nervous irritation.

Sometimes, too, she told him of what she had read, such as a passage in

a novel, of a new play, or an anecdote of the "upper ten" that she

had seen in a feuilleton; for, after all, Charles was something, an

ever-open ear, and ever-ready approbation. She confided many a thing to

her greyhound. She would have done so to the logs in the fireplace or to

the pendulum of the clock.


At the bottom of her heart, however, she was waiting for something to

happen. Like shipwrecked sailors, she turned despairing eyes upon the

solitude of her life, seeking afar off some white sail in the mists of

the horizon. She did not know what this chance would be, what wind would

bring it her, towards what shore it would drive her, if it would be a

shallop or a three-decker, laden with anguish or full of bliss to the

portholes. But each morning, as she awoke, she hoped it would come that

day; she listened to every sound, sprang up with a start, wondered that

it did not come; then at sunset, always more saddened, she longed for

the morrow.


Spring came round. With the first warm weather, when the pear trees

began to blossom, she suffered from dyspnoea.


From the beginning of July she counted how many weeks there were to

October, thinking that perhaps the Marquis d'Andervilliers would give

another ball at Vaubyessard. But all September passed without letters or

visits.
After the ennui of this disappointment her heart once more remained

empty, and then the same series of days recommenced. So now they would

thus follow one another, always the same, immovable, and bringing

nothing. Other lives, however flat, had at least the chance of some

event. One adventure sometimes brought with it infinite consequences and

the scene changed. But nothing happened to her; God had willed it so!

The future was a dark corridor, with its door at the end shut fast.


She gave up music. What was the good of playing? Who would hear her?

Since she could never, in a velvet gown with short sleeves, striking

with her light fingers the ivory keys of an Erard at a concert, feel

the murmur of ecstasy envelop her like a breeze, it was not worth while

boring herself with practicing. Her drawing cardboard and her embroidery

she left in the cupboard. What was the good? What was the good? Sewing

irritated her. "I have read everything," she said to herself. And she

sat there making the tongs red-hot, or looked at the rain falling.


How sad she was on Sundays when vespers sounded! She listened with dull

attention to each stroke of the cracked bell. A cat slowly walking over

some roof put up his back in the pale rays of the sum. The wind on the

highroad blew up clouds of dust. Afar off a dog sometimes howled; and

the bell, keeping time, continued its monotonous ringing that died away

over the fields.


But the people came out from church. The women in waxed clogs, the

peasants in new blouses, the little bare-headed children skipping along

in front of them, all were going home. And till nightfall, five or six

men, always the same, stayed playing at corks in front of the large door

of the inn.
The winter was severe. The windows every morning were covered with

rime, and the light shining through them, dim as through ground-glass,

sometimes did not change the whole day long. At four o'clock the lamp

had to be lighted.


On fine days she went down into the garden. The dew had left on the

cabbages a silver lace with long transparent threads spreading from one

to the other. No birds were to be heard; everything seemed asleep, the

espalier covered with straw, and the vine, like a great sick serpent

under the coping of the wall, along which, on drawing hear, one saw the

many-footed woodlice crawling. Under the spruce by the hedgerow, the

curie in the three-cornered hat reading his breviary had lost his right

foot, and the very plaster, scaling off with the frost, had left white

scabs on his face.
Then she went up again, shut her door, put on coals, and fainting with

the heat of the hearth, felt her boredom weigh more heavily than ever.

She would have liked to go down and talk to the servant, but a sense of

shame restrained her.


Every day at the same time the schoolmaster in a black skullcap opened

the shutters of his house, and the rural policeman, wearing his sabre

over his blouse, passed by. Night and morning the post-horses, three by

three, crossed the street to water at the pond. From time to time the

bell of a public house door rang, and when it was windy one could hear

the little brass basins that served as signs for the hairdresser's shop

creaking on their two rods. This shop had as decoration an old engraving

of a fashion-plate stuck against a windowpane and the wax bust of a

woman with yellow hair. He, too, the hairdresser, lamented his wasted

calling, his hopeless future, and dreaming of some shop in a big

town--at Rouen, for example, overlooking the harbour, near the

theatre--he walked up and down all day from the mairie to the church,

sombre and waiting for customers. When Madame Bovary looked up, she

always saw him there, like a sentinel on duty, with his skullcap over

his ears and his vest of lasting.
Sometimes in the afternoon outside the window of her room, the head of a

man appeared, a swarthy head with black whiskers, smiling slowly, with

a broad, gentle smile that showed his white teeth. A waltz immediately

began and on the organ, in a little drawing room, dancers the size of

a finger, women in pink turbans, Tyrolians in jackets, monkeys in frock

coats, gentlemen in knee-breeches, turned and turned between the sofas,

the consoles, multiplied in the bits of looking glass held together

at their corners by a piece of gold paper. The man turned his handle,

looking to the right and left, and up at the windows. Now and again,

while he shot out a long squirt of brown saliva against the milestone,

with his knee raised his instrument, whose hard straps tired his

shoulder; and now, doleful and drawling, or gay and hurried, the music

escaped from the box, droning through a curtain of pink taffeta under

a brass claw in arabesque. They were airs played in other places at

the theatres, sung in drawing rooms, danced to at night under lighted

lustres, echoes of the world that reached even to Emma. Endless

sarabands ran through her head, and, like an Indian dancing girl on the

flowers of a carpet, her thoughts leapt with the notes, swung from dream

to dream, from sadness to sadness. When the man had caught some coppers

in his cap, he drew down an old cover of blue cloth, hitched his organ

on to his back, and went off with a heavy tread. She watched him going.
But it was above all the meal-times that were unbearable to her, in this

small room on the ground floor, with its smoking stove, its creaking

door, the walls that sweated, the damp flags; all the bitterness in life

seemed served up on her plate, and with smoke of the boiled beef there

rose from her secret soul whiffs of sickliness. Charles was a slow

eater; she played with a few nuts, or, leaning on her elbow, amused

herself with drawing lines along the oilcloth table cover with the point

of her knife.


She now let everything in her household take care of itself, and Madame

Bovary senior, when she came to spend part of Lent at Tostes, was much

surprised at the change. She who was formerly so careful, so dainty,

now passed whole days without dressing, wore grey cotton stockings, and

burnt tallow candles. She kept saying they must be economical since

they were not rich, adding that she was very contented, very happy, that

Tostes pleased her very much, with other speeches that closed the mouth

of her mother-in-law. Besides, Emma no longer seemed inclined to follow

her advice; once even, Madame Bovary having thought fit to maintain that

mistresses ought to keep an eye on the religion of their servants, she

had answered with so angry a look and so cold a smile that the good

woman did not interfere again.


Emma was growing difficult, capricious. She ordered dishes for herself,

then she did not touch them; one day drank only pure milk, the next

cups of tea by the dozen. Often she persisted in not going out, then,

stifling, threw open the windows and put on light dresses. After she had

well scolded her servant she gave her presents or sent her out to see

neighbours, just as she sometimes threw beggars all the silver in her

purse, although she was by no means tender-hearted or easily accessible

to the feelings of others, like most country-bred people, who always

retain in their souls something of the horny hardness of the paternal

hands.
Towards the end of February old Rouault, in memory of his cure, himself

brought his son-in-law a superb turkey, and stayed three days at Tostes.

Charles being with his patients, Emma kept him company. He smoked in the

room, spat on the firedogs, talked farming, calves, cows, poultry, and

municipal council, so that when he left she closed the door on him with

a feeling of satisfaction that surprised even herself. Moreover she no

longer concealed her contempt for anything or anybody, and at times she

set herself to express singular opinions, finding fault with that which

others approved, and approving things perverse and immoral, all of which

made her husband open his eyes widely.
Would this misery last for ever? Would she never issue from it? Yet

she was as good as all the women who were living happily. She had seen

duchesses at Vaubyessard with clumsier waists and commoner ways, and she

execrated the injustice of God. She leant her head against the walls

to weep; she envied lives of stir; longed for masked balls, for violent

pleasures, with all the wildness that she did not know, but that these

must surely yield.
She grew pale and suffered from palpitations of the heart.
Charles prescribed valerian and camphor baths. Everything that was tried

only seemed to irritate her the more.


On certain days she chatted with feverish rapidity, and this

over-excitement was suddenly followed by a state of torpor, in which

she remained without speaking, without moving. What then revived her was

pouring a bottle of eau-de-cologne over her arms.


As she was constantly complaining about Tostes, Charles fancied that her

illness was no doubt due to some local cause, and fixing on this idea,

began to think seriously of setting up elsewhere.
From that moment she drank vinegar, contracted a sharp little cough, and

completely lost her appetite.


It cost Charles much to give up Tostes after living there four years and

"when he was beginning to get on there." Yet if it must be! He took her

to Rouen to see his old master. It was a nervous complaint: change of

air was needed.


After looking about him on this side and on that, Charles learnt that

in the Neufchatel arrondissement there was a considerable market town

called Yonville-l'Abbaye, whose doctor, a Polish refugee, had decamped a

week before. Then he wrote to the chemist of the place to ask the

number of the population, the distance from the nearest doctor, what

his predecessor had made a year, and so forth; and the answer being

satisfactory, he made up his mind to move towards the spring, if Emma's

health did not improve.


One day when, in view of her departure, she was tidying a drawer,

something pricked her finger. It was a wire of her wedding bouquet.

The orange blossoms were yellow with dust and the silver bordered satin

ribbons frayed at the edges. She threw it into the fire. It flared

up more quickly than dry straw. Then it was, like a red bush in the

cinders, slowly devoured. She watched it burn.


The little pasteboard berries burst, the wire twisted, the gold

lace melted; and the shriveled paper corollas, fluttering like black

butterflies at the back of the stove, at least flew up the chimney.
When they left Tostes at the month of March, Madame Bovary was pregnant.




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