Chương Chương 3 · Part 1 Chapter Three

. Part 1 Chapter Three

One morning old Rouault brought Charles the money for setting his

leg--seventy-five francs in forty-sou pieces, and a turkey. He had heard

of his loss, and consoled him as well as he could.

“I know what it is,” said he, clapping him on the shoulder; “I’ve been

through it. When I lost my dear departed, I went into the fields to be

quite alone. I fell at the foot of a tree; I cried; I called on God; I

talked nonsense to Him. I wanted to be like the moles that I saw on the

branches, their insides swarming with worms, dead, and an end of it.

And when I thought that there were others at that very moment with their

nice little wives holding them in their embrace, I struck great blows on

the earth with my stick. I was pretty well mad with not eating; the very

idea of going to a cafe disgusted me--you wouldn’t believe it. Well,

quite softly, one day following another, a spring on a winter, and an

autumn after a summer, this wore away, piece by piece, crumb by crumb;

it passed away, it is gone, I should say it has sunk; for something

always remains at the bottom as one would say--a weight here, at one’s

heart. But since it is the lot of all of us, one must not give way

altogether, and, because others have died, want to die too. You must

pull yourself together, Monsieur Bovary. It will pass away. Come to see

us; my daughter thinks of you now and again, d’ye know, and she says

you are forgetting her. Spring will soon be here. We’ll have some

rabbit-shooting in the warrens to amuse you a bit.”

Charles followed his advice. He went back to the Bertaux. He found all

as he had left it, that is to say, as it was five months ago. The pear

trees were already in blossom, and Farmer Rouault, on his legs again,

came and went, making the farm more full of life.

Thinking it his duty to heap the greatest attention upon the doctor

because of his sad position, he begged him not to take his hat off,

spoke to him in an undertone as if he had been ill, and even pretended

to be angry because nothing rather lighter had been prepared for him

than for the others, such as a little clotted cream or stewed pears. He

told stories. Charles found himself laughing, but the remembrance of his

wife suddenly coming back to him depressed him. Coffee was brought in;

he thought no more about her.

He thought less of her as he grew accustomed to living alone. The new

delight of independence soon made his loneliness bearable. He could now

change his meal-times, go in or out without explanation, and when he was

very tired stretch himself at full length on his bed. So he nursed and

coddled himself and accepted the consolations that were offered him.

On the other hand, the death of his wife had not served him ill in his

business, since for a month people had been saying, “The poor young

man! what a loss!” His name had been talked about, his practice had

increased; and moreover, he could go to the Bertaux just as he liked.

He had an aimless hope, and was vaguely happy; he thought himself better

looking as he brushed his whiskers before the looking-glass.

One day he got there about three o’clock. Everybody was in the fields.

He went into the kitchen, but did not at once catch sight of Emma; the

outside shutters were closed. Through the chinks of the wood the sun

sent across the flooring long fine rays that were broken at the corners

of the furniture and trembled along the ceiling. Some flies on the table

were crawling up the glasses that had been used, and buzzing as they

drowned themselves in the dregs of the cider. The daylight that came in

by the chimney made velvet of the soot at the back of the fireplace, and

touched with blue the cold cinders. Between the window and the hearth

Emma was sewing; she wore no fichu; he could see small drops of

perspiration on her bare shoulders.

After the fashion of country folks she asked him to have something to

drink. He said no; she insisted, and at last laughingly offered to have

a glass of liqueur with him. So she went to fetch a bottle of curacao

from the cupboard, reached down two small glasses, filled one to the

brim, poured scarcely anything into the other, and, after having clinked

glasses, carried hers to her mouth. As it was almost empty she bent

back to drink, her head thrown back, her lips pouting, her neck on the

strain. She laughed at getting none of it, while with the tip of her

tongue passing between her small teeth she licked drop by drop the

bottom of her glass.

She sat down again and took up her work, a white cotton stocking she was

darning. She worked with her head bent down; she did not speak, nor did

Charles. The air coming in under the door blew a little dust over the

flags; he watched it drift along, and heard nothing but the throbbing

in his head and the faint clucking of a hen that had laid an egg in the

yard. Emma from time to time cooled her cheeks with the palms of her

hands, and cooled these again on the knobs of the huge fire-dogs.

She complained of suffering since the beginning of the season from

giddiness; she asked if sea-baths would do her any good; she began

talking of her convent, Charles of his school; words came to them. They

went up into her bedroom. She showed him her old music-books, the little

prizes she had won, and the oak-leaf crowns, left at the bottom of a

cupboard. She spoke to him, too, of her mother, of the country, and even

showed him the bed in the garden where, on the first Friday of every

month, she gathered flowers to put on her mother’s tomb. But the

gardener they had never knew anything about it; servants are so stupid!

She would have dearly liked, if only for the winter, to live in town,

although the length of the fine days made the country perhaps even more

wearisome in the summer. And, according to what she was saying, her

voice was clear, sharp, or, on a sudden all languor, drawn out in

modulations that ended almost in murmurs as she spoke to herself, now

joyous, opening big naive eyes, then with her eyelids half closed, her

look full of boredom, her thoughts wandering.

Going home at night, Charles went over her words one by one, trying to

recall them, to fill out their sense, that he might piece out the life

she had lived before he knew her. But he never saw her in his thoughts

other than he had seen her the first time, or as he had just left her.

Then he asked himself what would become of her--if she would be married,

and to whom! Alas! Old Rouault was rich, and she!--so beautiful! But

Emma’s face always rose before his eyes, and a monotone, like the

humming of a top, sounded in his ears, “If you should marry after

all! If you should marry!” At night he could not sleep; his throat was

parched; he was athirst. He got up to drink from the water-bottle and

opened the window. The night was covered with stars, a warm wind blowing

in the distance; the dogs were barking. He turned his head towards the

Bertaux.

Thinking that, after all, he should lose nothing, Charles promised

himself to ask her in marriage as soon as occasion offered, but each

time such occasion did offer the fear of not finding the right words

sealed his lips.

Old Rouault would not have been sorry to be rid of his daughter, who

was of no use to him in the house. In his heart he excused her,

thinking her too clever for farming, a calling under the ban of Heaven,

since one never saw a millionaire in it. Far from having made a fortune

by it, the good man was losing every year; for if he was good in

bargaining, in which he enjoyed the dodges of the trade, on the other

hand, agriculture properly so called, and the internal management of

the farm, suited him less than most people. He did not willingly take

his hands out of his pockets, and did not spare expense in all that

concerned himself, liking to eat well, to have good fires, and to sleep

well. He liked old cider, underdone legs of mutton, _glorias_[5] well

beaten up. He took his meals in the kitchen alone, opposite the fire,

on a little table brought to him all ready laid as on the stage.

[5] A mixture of coffee and spirits.

When, therefore, he perceived that Charles’s cheeks grew red if near his

daughter, which meant that he would propose for her one of these days,

he chewed the cud of the matter beforehand. He certainly thought him a

little meagre, and not quite the son-in-law he would have liked, but he

was said to be well brought-up, economical, very learned, and no doubt

would not make too many difficulties about the dowry. Now, as old

Rouault would soon be forced to sell twenty-two acres of “his property,”

as he owed a good deal to the mason, to the harness-maker, and as the

shaft of the cider-press wanted renewing, “If he asks for her,” he said

to himself, “I’ll give her to him.”

At Michaelmas Charles went to spend three days at the Bertaux.

The last had passed like the others in procrastinating from hour to

hour. Old Rouault was seeing him off; they were walking along the road

full of ruts; they were about to part. This was the time. Charles gave

himself as far as to the corner of the hedge, and at last, when past

it--

“Monsieur Rouault,” he murmured, “I should like to say something to

you.”

They stopped. Charles was silent.

“Well, tell me your story. Don’t I know all about it?” said old Rouault,

laughing softly.

“Monsieur Rouault--Monsieur Rouault,” stammered Charles.

“I ask nothing better”, the farmer went on. “Although, no doubt, the

little one is of my mind, still we must ask her opinion. So you get

off--I’ll go back home. If it is ‘yes’, you needn’t return because of

all the people about, and besides it would upset her too much. But so

that you mayn’t be eating your heart, I’ll open wide the outer shutter

of the window against the wall; you can see it from the back by leaning

over the hedge.”

And he went off.

Charles fastened his horse to a tree; he ran into the road and waited.

Half an hour passed, then he counted nineteen minutes by his watch.

Suddenly a noise was heard against the wall; the shutter had been thrown

back; the hook was still swinging.

The next day by nine o’clock he was at the farm. Emma blushed as

he entered, and she gave a little forced laugh to keep herself in

countenance. Old Rouault embraced his future son-in-law. The discussion

of money matters was put off; moreover, there was plenty of time before

them, as the marriage could not decently take place till Charles was out

of mourning, that is to say, about the spring of the next year.

The winter passed waiting for this. Mademoiselle Rouault was busy with

her trousseau. Part of it was ordered at Rouen, and she made herself

chemises and nightcaps after fashion-plates that she borrowed. When

Charles visited the farmer, the preparations for the wedding were talked

over; they wondered in what room they should have dinner; they dreamed

of the number of dishes that would be wanted, and what should be

entrees.

Emma would, on the contrary, have preferred to have a midnight wedding

with torches, but old Rouault could not understand such an idea. So

there was a wedding at which forty-three persons were present, at which

they remained sixteen hours at table, began again the next day, and to

some extent on the days following.