Chapter Chapter 16 · Part 2 Chapter Seven

. Part 2 Chapter Seven

The next day was a dreary one for Emma. Everything seemed to her

enveloped in a black atmosphere floating confusedly over the exterior of

things, and sorrow was engulfed within her soul with soft shrieks such

as the winter wind makes in ruined castles. It was that reverie which we

give to things that will not return, the lassitude that seizes you after

everything was done; that pain, in fine, that the interruption of every

wonted movement, the sudden cessation of any prolonged vibration, brings

on.

As on the return from Vaubyessard, when the quadrilles were running in

her head, she was full of a gloomy melancholy, of a numb despair.

Léon reappeared, taller, handsomer, more charming, more vague. Though

separated from her, he had not left her; he was there, and the walls of

the house seemed to hold his shadow.

She could not detach her eyes from the carpet where he had walked, from

those empty chairs where he had sat. The river still flowed on, and

slowly drove its ripples along the slippery banks.

They had often walked there to the murmur of the waves over the

moss-covered pebbles. How bright the sun had been! What happy afternoons

they had seen alone in the shade at the end of the garden! He read

aloud, bareheaded, sitting on a footstool of dry sticks; the fresh wind

of the meadow set trembling the leaves of the book and the nasturtiums

of the arbour. Ah! he was gone, the only charm of her life, the only

possible hope of joy. Why had she not seized this happiness when it came

to her? Why not have kept hold of it with both hands, with both knees,

when it was about to flee from her? And she cursed herself for not

having loved Léon. She thirsted for his lips. The wish took possession

of her to run after and rejoin him, throw herself into his arms and

say to him, “It is I; I am yours.” But Emma recoiled beforehand at the

difficulties of the enterprise, and her desires, increased by regret,

became only the more acute.

Henceforth the memory of Léon was the centre of her boredom; it burnt

there more brightly than the fire travellers have left on the snow of

a Russian steppe. She sprang towards him, she pressed against him, she

stirred carefully the dying embers, sought all around her anything

that could revive it; and the most distant reminiscences, like the most

immediate occasions, what she experienced as well as what she imagined,

her voluptuous desires that were unsatisfied, her projects of happiness

that crackled in the wind like dead boughs, her sterile virtue, her

lost hopes, the domestic _tête-à-tête_--she gathered it all up, took

everything, and made it all serve as fuel for her melancholy.

The flames, however, subsided, either because the supply had exhausted

itself, or because it had been piled up too much. Love, little by

little, was quelled by absence; regret stifled beneath habit; and this

incendiary light that had empurpled her pale sky was overspread and

faded by degrees. In the supineness of her conscience she even took her

repugnance towards her husband for aspirations towards her lover, the

burning of hate for the warmth of tenderness; but as the tempest still

raged, and as passion burnt itself down to the very cinders, and no help

came, no sun rose, there was night on all sides, and she was lost in the

terrible cold that pierced her.

Then the evil days of Tostes began again. She thought herself now far

more unhappy; for she had the experience of grief, with the certainty

that it would not end.

A woman who had laid on herself such sacrifices could well allow herself

certain whims. She bought a Gothic prie-dieu, and in a month spent

fourteen francs on lemons for polishing her nails; she wrote to Rouen

for a blue cashmere gown; she chose one of Lheureux’s finest scarves,

and wore it knotted around her waist over her dressing-gown; and, with

closed blinds and a book in her hand, she lay stretched out on a couch

in this garb.

She often changed her coiffure; she did her hair a la Chinoise, in

flowing curls, in plaited coils; she parted in on one side and rolled it

under like a man’s.

She wanted to learn Italian; she bought dictionaries, a grammar, and

a supply of white paper. She tried serious reading, history, and

philosophy. Sometimes in the night Charles woke up with a start,

thinking he was being called to a patient. “I’m coming,” he stammered;

and it was the noise of a match Emma had struck to relight the lamp. But

her reading fared like her piece of embroidery, all of which, only just

begun, filled her cupboard; she took it up, left it, passed on to other

books.

She had attacks in which she could easily have been driven to commit any

folly. She maintained one day, in opposition to her husband, that she

could drink off a large glass of brandy, and, as Charles was stupid

enough to dare her to, she swallowed the brandy to the last drop.

In spite of her vapourish airs (as the housewives of Yonville called

them), Emma, all the same, never seemed gay, and usually she had at the

corners of her mouth that immobile contraction that puckers the faces of

old maids, and those of men whose ambition has failed. She was pale all

over, white as a sheet; the skin of her nose was drawn at the nostrils,

her eyes looked at you vaguely. After discovering three grey hairs on

her temples, she talked much of her old age.

She often fainted. One day she even spat blood, and, as Charles fussed

around her showing his anxiety--

“Bah!” she answered, “what does it matter?”

Charles fled to his study and wept there, both his elbows on the table,

sitting in an arm-chair at his bureau under the phrenological head.

Then he wrote to his mother begging her to come, and they had many long

consultations together on the subject of Emma.

What should they decide? What was to be done since she rejected all

medical treatment? “Do you know what your wife wants?” replied Madame

Bovary senior.

“She wants to be forced to occupy herself with some manual work. If she

were obliged, like so many others, to earn her living, she wouldn’t have

these vapours, that come to her from a lot of ideas she stuffs into her

head, and from the idleness in which she lives.”

“Yet she is always busy,” said Charles.

“Ah! always busy at what? Reading novels, bad books, works against

religion, and in which they mock at priests in speeches taken from

Voltaire. But all that leads you far astray, my poor child. Anyone who

has no religion always ends by turning out badly.”

So it was decided to stop Emma reading novels. The enterprise did not

seem easy. The good lady undertook it. She was, when she passed through

Rouen, to go herself to the lending-library and represent that Emma had

discontinued her subscription. Would they not have a right to apply

to the police if the librarian persisted all the same in his poisonous

trade? The farewells of mother and daughter-in-law were cold. During

the three weeks that they had been together they had not exchanged

half-a-dozen words apart from the inquiries and phrases when they met at

table and in the evening before going to bed.

Madame Bovary left on a Wednesday, the market-day at Yonville.

The Place since morning had been blocked by a row of carts, which, on

end and their shafts in the air, spread all along the line of houses

from the church to the inn. On the other side there were canvas booths,

where cotton checks, blankets, and woollen stockings were sold,

together with harness for horses, and packets of blue ribbon, whose ends

fluttered in the wind. The coarse hardware was spread out on the ground

between pyramids of eggs and hampers of cheeses, from which sticky straw

stuck out.

Near the corn-machines clucking hens passed their necks through the bars

of flat cages. The people, crowding in the same place and unwilling

to move thence, sometimes threatened to smash the shop front of the

chemist. On Wednesdays his shop was never empty, and the people pushed

in less to buy drugs than for consultations. So great was Homais’

reputation in the neighbouring villages. His robust aplomb had

fascinated the rustics. They considered him a greater doctor than all

the doctors.

Emma was leaning out at the window; she was often there. The window in

the provinces replaces the theatre and the promenade, she was amusing

herself with watching the crowd of boors when she saw a gentleman in

a green velvet coat. He had on yellow gloves, although he wore heavy

gaiters; he was coming towards the doctor’s house, followed by a peasant

walking with a bent head and quite a thoughtful air.

“Can I see the doctor?” he asked Justin, who was talking on the

doorsteps with Félicité, and, taking him for a servant of the

house--“Tell him that Monsieur Rodolphe Boulanger of La Huchette is

here.”

It was not from territorial vanity that the new arrival added “of La

Huchette” to his name, but to make himself the better known.

La Huchette, in fact, was an estate near Yonville, where he had just

bought the château and two farms that he cultivated himself, without,

however, troubling very much about them. He lived as a bachelor, and was

supposed to have “at least fifteen thousand francs a year.”

Charles came into the room. Monsieur Boulanger introduced his man, who

wanted to be bled because he felt “a tingling all over.”

“That’ll purge me,” he urged as an objection to all reasoning.

So Bovary ordered a bandage and a basin, and asked Justin to hold it.

Then addressing the peasant, who was already pale--

“Don’t be afraid, my lad.”

“No, no, sir,” said the other; “get on.”

And with an air of bravado he held out his great arm. At the prick of

the lancet the blood spurted out, splashing against the looking-glass.

“Hold the basin nearer,” exclaimed Charles.

“Lor!” said the peasant, “one would swear it was a little fountain

flowing. How red my blood is! That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”

“Sometimes,” answered the doctor, “one feels nothing at first, and then

syncope sets in, and more especially with people of strong constitution

like this man.”

At these words the rustic let go the lancet-case he was twisting between

his fingers. A shudder of his shoulders made the chair-back creak. His

hat fell off.

“I thought as much,” said Bovary, pressing his finger on the vein.

The basin was beginning to tremble in Justin’s hands; his knees shook,

he turned pale.

“Emma! Emma!” called Charles.

With one bound she came down the staircase.

“Some vinegar,” he cried. “O dear! two at once!”

And in his emotion he could hardly put on the compress.

“It is nothing,” said Monsieur Boulanger quietly, taking Justin in his

arms. He seated him on the table with his back resting against the wall.

Madame Bovary began taking off his cravat. The strings of his shirt had

got into a knot, and she was for some minutes moving her light fingers

about the young fellow’s neck. Then she poured some vinegar on her

cambric handkerchief; she moistened his temples with little dabs, and

then blew upon them softly. The ploughman revived, but Justin’s syncope

still lasted, and his eyeballs disappeared in the pale sclerotics like

blue flowers in milk.

“We must hide this from him,” said Charles.

Madame Bovary took the basin to put it under the table. With the

movement she made in bending down, her dress (it was a summer dress with

four flounces, yellow, long in the waist and wide in the skirt) spread

out around her on the flags of the room; and as Emma stooping, staggered

a little as she stretched out her arms.

The stuff here and there gave with the inflections of her bust.

Then she went to fetch a bottle of water, and she was melting some

pieces of sugar when the chemist arrived. The servant had been to

fetch him in the tumult. Seeing his pupil’s eyes staring he drew a long

breath; then going around him he looked at him from head to foot.

“Fool!” he said, “really a little fool! A fool in four letters! A

phlebotomy’s a big affair, isn’t it! And a fellow who isn’t afraid of

anything; a kind of squirrel, just as he is who climbs to vertiginous

heights to shake down nuts. Oh, yes! you just talk to me, boast about

yourself! Here’s a fine fitness for practising pharmacy later on; for

under serious circumstances you may be called before the tribunals in

order to enlighten the minds of the magistrates, and you would have to

keep your head then, to reason, show yourself a man, or else pass for an

imbecile.”

Justin did not answer. The chemist went on--

“Who asked you to come? You are always pestering the doctor and madame.

On Wednesday, moreover, your presence is indispensable to me. There are

now twenty people in the shop. I left everything because of the interest

I take in you. Come, get along! Sharp! Wait for me, and keep an eye on

the jars.”

When Justin, who was rearranging his dress, had gone, they talked for a

little while about fainting-fits. Madame Bovary had never fainted.

“That is extraordinary for a lady,” said Monsieur Boulanger; “but some

people are very susceptible. Thus in a duel, I have seen a second lose

consciousness at the mere sound of the loading of pistols.”

“For my part,” said the chemist, “the sight of other people’s blood

doesn’t affect me at all, but the mere thought of my own flowing would

make me faint if I reflected upon it too much.”

Monsieur Boulanger, however, dismissed his servant, advising him to calm

himself, since his fancy was over.

“It procured me the advantage of making your acquaintance,” he added,

and he looked at Emma as he said this. Then he put three francs on the

corner of the table, bowed negligently, and went out.

He was soon on the other side of the river (this was his way back to La

Huchette), and Emma saw him in the meadow, walking under the poplars,

slackening his pace now and then as one who reflects.

“She is very pretty,” he said to himself; “she is very pretty, this

doctor’s wife. Fine teeth, black eyes, a dainty foot, a figure like a

Parisienne’s. Where the devil does she come from? Wherever did that fat

fellow pick her up?”

Monsieur Rodolphe Boulanger was thirty-four; he was of brutal

temperament and intelligent perspicacity, having, moreover, had much to

do with women, and knowing them well. This one had seemed pretty to him;

so he was thinking about her and her husband.

“I think he is very stupid. She is tired of him, no doubt. He has dirty

nails, and hasn’t shaved for three days. While he is trotting after his

patients, she sits there botching socks. And she gets bored! She would

like to live in town and dance polkas every evening. Poor little woman!

She is gaping after love like a carp after water on a kitchen-table.

With three words of gallantry she’d adore one, I’m sure of it. She’d be

tender, charming. Yes; but how to get rid of her afterwards?”

Then the difficulties of love-making seen in the distance made him by

contrast think of his mistress. She was an actress at Rouen, whom he

kept; and when he had pondered over this image, with which, even in

remembrance, he was satiated--

“Ah! Madame Bovary,” he thought, “is much prettier, especially fresher.

Virginie is decidedly beginning to grow fat. She is so finiky about her

pleasures; and, besides, she has a mania for prawns.”

The fields were empty, and around him Rodolphe only heard the regular

beating of the grass striking against his boots, with a cry of the

grasshopper hidden at a distance among the oats. He again saw Emma in

her room, dressed as he had seen her, and he undressed her.

“Oh, I will have her,” he cried, striking a blow with his stick at a

clod in front of him. And he at once began to consider the political

part of the enterprise. He asked himself--

“Where shall we meet? By what means? We shall always be having the brat

on our hands, and the servant, the neighbours, and husband, all sorts of

worries. Pshaw! one would lose too much time over it.”

Then he resumed, “She really has eyes that pierce one’s heart like a

gimlet. And that pale complexion! I adore pale women!”

When he reached the top of the Arguiel hills he had made up his mind.

“It’s only finding the opportunities. Well, I will call in now and then.

I’ll send them venison, poultry; I’ll have myself bled, if need be. We

shall become friends; I’ll invite them to my place. By Jove!” added he,

“there’s the agricultural show coming on. She’ll be there. I shall see

her. We’ll begin boldly, for that’s the surest way.”