Madame Bovary
“I understand,” said the notary; “a man of science can’t be worried with
the practical details of life.”
And Charles felt relieved by this comfortable reflection, which gave his
weakness the flattering appearance of higher pre-occupation.
And what an outburst the next Thursday at the hotel in their room with
Léon! She laughed, cried, sang, sent for sherbets, wanted to smoke
cigarettes, seemed to him wild and extravagant, but adorable, superb.
He did not know what recreation of her whole being drove her more and
more to plunge into the pleasures of life. She was becoming irritable,
greedy, voluptuous; and she walked about the streets with him carrying
her head high, without fear, so she said, of compromising herself.
At times, however, Emma shuddered at the sudden thought of meeting
Rodolphe, for it seemed to her that, although they were separated
forever, she was not completely free from her subjugation to him.
One night she did not return to Yonville at all. Charles lost his head
with anxiety, and little Berthe would not go to bed without her mamma,
and sobbed enough to break her heart. Justin had gone out searching the
road at random. Monsieur Homais even had left his pharmacy.
At last, at eleven o’clock, able to bear it no longer, Charles
harnessed his chaise, jumped in, whipped up his horse, and reached the
“Croix-Rouge” about two o’clock in the morning. No one there! He thought
that the clerk had perhaps seen her; but where did he live? Happily,
Charles remembered his employer’s address, and rushed off there.
Day was breaking, and he could distinguish the escutcheons over the
door, and knocked. Someone, without opening the door, shouted out the
required information, adding a few insults to those who disturb people
in the middle of the night.
The house inhabited by the clerk had neither bell, knocker, nor porter.
Charles knocked loudly at the shutters with his hands. A policeman
happened to pass by. Then he was frightened, and went away.
“I am mad,” he said; “no doubt they kept her to dinner at Monsieur
Lormeaux’.” But the Lormeaux no longer lived at Rouen.
“She probably stayed to look after Madame Dubreuil. Why, Madame Dubreuil
has been dead these ten months! Where can she be?”
An idea occurred to him. At a cafe he asked for a Directory, and
hurriedly looked for the name of Mademoiselle Lempereur, who lived at
No. 74 Rue de la Renelle-des-Maroquiniers.
As he was turning into the street, Emma herself appeared at the other
end of it. He threw himself upon her rather than embraced her, crying--
“What kept you yesterday?”
“I was not well.”
“What was it? Where? How?”
She passed her hand over her forehead and answered, “At Mademoiselle
Lempereur’s.”
“I was sure of it! I was going there.”
“Oh, it isn’t worth while,” said Emma. “She went out just now; but for
the future don’t worry. I do not feel free, you see, if I know that the
least delay upsets you like this.”
This was a sort of permission that she gave herself, so as to get
perfect freedom in her escapades. And she profited by it freely, fully.
When she was seized with the desire to see Léon, she set out upon any
pretext; and as he was not expecting her on that day, she went to fetch
him at his office.
It was a great delight at first, but soon he no longer concealed the
truth, which was, that his master complained very much about these
interruptions.
“Pshaw! come along,” she said.
And he slipped out.
She wanted him to dress all in black, and grow a pointed beard, to
look like the portraits of Louis XIII. She wanted to see his lodgings;
thought them poor. He blushed at them, but she did not notice this, then
advised him to buy some curtains like hers, and as he objected to the
expense--
“Ah! ah! you care for your money,” she said laughing.
Each time Léon had to tell her everything that he had done since their
last meeting. She asked him for some verses--some verses “for herself,”
a “love poem” in honour of her. But he never succeeded in getting a
rhyme for the second verse; and at last ended by copying a sonnet in
a “Keepsake.” This was less from vanity than from the one desire of
pleasing her. He did not question her ideas; he accepted all her tastes;
he was rather becoming her mistress than she his. She had tender words
and kisses that thrilled his soul. Where could she have learnt this
corruption almost incorporeal in the strength of its profanity and
dissimulation?
Chapter Six
During the journeys he made to see her, Léon had often dined at the
chemist’s, and he felt obliged from politeness to invite him in turn.
“With pleasure!” Monsieur Homais replied; “besides, I must invigorate
my mind, for I am getting rusty here. We’ll go to the theatre, to the
restaurant; we’ll make a night of it.”
“Oh, my dear!” tenderly murmured Madame Homais, alarmed at the vague
perils he was preparing to brave.
“Well, what? Do you think I’m not sufficiently ruining my health living
here amid the continual emanations of the pharmacy? But there! that is
the way with women! They are jealous of science, and then are opposed to
our taking the most legitimate distractions. No matter! Count upon
me. One of these days I shall turn up at Rouen, and we’ll go the pace
together.”
The druggist would formerly have taken good care not to use such an
expression, but he was cultivating a gay Parisian style, which he
thought in the best taste; and, like his neighbour, Madame Bovary, he
questioned the clerk curiously about the customs of the capital; he
even talked slang to dazzle the bourgeois, saying bender, crummy, dandy,
macaroni, the cheese, cut my stick and “I’ll hook it,” for “I am going.”
So one Thursday Emma was surprised to meet Monsieur Homais in the
kitchen of the “Lion d’Or,” wearing a traveller’s costume, that is to
say, wrapped in an old cloak which no one knew he had, while he carried
a valise in one hand and the foot-warmer of his establishment in the
other. He had confided his intentions to no one, for fear of causing the
public anxiety by his absence.
The idea of seeing again the place where his youth had been spent no
doubt excited him, for during the whole journey he never ceased talking,
and as soon as he had arrived, he jumped quickly out of the diligence
to go in search of Léon. In vain the clerk tried to get rid of him.
Monsieur Homais dragged him off to the large Cafe de la Normandie,
which he entered majestically, not raising his hat, thinking it very
provincial to uncover in any public place.
Emma waited for Léon three quarters of an hour. At last she ran to
his office; and, lost in all sorts of conjectures, accusing him of
indifference, and reproaching herself for her weakness, she spent the
afternoon, her face pressed against the window-panes.
At two o’clock they were still at a table opposite each other. The large
room was emptying; the stove-pipe, in the shape of a palm-tree, spread
its gilt leaves over the white ceiling, and near them, outside the
window, in the bright sunshine, a little fountain gurgled in a white
basin, where; in the midst of watercress and asparagus, three torpid
lobsters stretched across to some quails that lay heaped up in a pile on
their sides.
Homais was enjoying himself. Although he was even more intoxicated with the
luxury than the rich fare, the Pommard wine all the same rather excited his
faculties; and when the omelette _au rhum_[20] appeared, he began propounding
immoral theories about women. What seduced him above all else was chic. He
admired an elegant toilette in a well-furnished apartment, and as to bodily
qualities, he didn’t dislike a young girl.
[20] In rum.
Léon watched the clock in despair. The druggist went on drinking,
eating, and talking.
“You must be very lonely,” he said suddenly, “here at Rouen. To be sure
your lady-love doesn’t live far away.”
And the other blushed--
“Come now, be frank. Can you deny that at Yonville--”
The young man stammered something.
“At Madame Bovary’s, you’re not making love to--”
“To whom?”
“The servant!”
He was not joking; but vanity getting the better of all prudence, Léon,
in spite of himself protested. Besides, he only liked dark women.
“I approve of that,” said the chemist; “they have more passion.”
And whispering into his friend’s ear, he pointed out the symptoms by
which one could find out if a woman had passion. He even launched into
an ethnographic digression: the German was vapourish, the French woman
licentious, the Italian passionate.
“And negresses?” asked the clerk.
“They are an artistic taste!” said Homais. “Waiter! two cups of coffee!”
“Are we going?” at last asked Léon impatiently.
“Ja!”
But before leaving he wanted to see the proprietor of the establishment
and made him a few compliments. Then the young man, to be alone, alleged
he had some business engagement.
“Ah! I will escort you,” said Homais.
And all the while he was walking through the streets with him he talked
of his wife, his children; of their future, and of his business; told
him in what a decayed condition it had formerly been, and to what a
degree of perfection he had raised it.
Arrived in front of the Hotel de Boulogne, Léon left him abruptly, ran
up the stairs, and found his mistress in great excitement. At mention of
the chemist she flew into a passion. He, however, piled up good reasons;
it wasn’t his fault; didn’t she know Homais--did she believe that he
would prefer his company? But she turned away; he drew her back, and,
sinking on his knees, clasped her waist with his arms in a languorous
pose, full of concupiscence and supplication.
She was standing up, her large flashing eyes looked at him seriously,
almost terribly. Then tears obscured them, her red eyelids were lowered,
she gave him her hands, and Léon was pressing them to his lips when a
servant appeared to tell the gentleman that he was wanted.
“You will come back?” she said.
“Yes.”
“But when?”
“Immediately.”
“It’s a trick,” said the chemist, when he saw Léon. “I wanted to
interrupt this visit, that seemed to me to annoy you. Let’s go and have
a glass of garus at Bridoux’.”
Léon vowed that he must get back to his office. Then the druggist joked
him about quill-drivers and the law.
“Leave Cujas and Barthole alone a bit. Who the devil prevents you? Be a
man! Let’s go to Bridoux’. You’ll see his dog. It’s very interesting.”
And as the clerk still insisted--
“I’ll go with you. I’ll read a paper while I wait for you, or turn over
the leaves of a ‘Code.’”
Léon, bewildered by Emma’s anger, Monsieur Homais’ chatter, and,
perhaps, by the heaviness of the luncheon, was undecided, and, as it
were, fascinated by the chemist, who kept repeating--
“Let’s go to Bridoux’. It’s just by here, in the Rue Malpalu.”
Then, through cowardice, through stupidity, through that indefinable
feeling that drags us into the most distasteful acts, he allowed
himself to be led off to Bridoux’, whom they found in his small yard,
superintending three workmen, who panted as they turned the large
wheel of a machine for making seltzer-water. Homais gave them some good
advice. He embraced Bridoux; they took some garus. Twenty times Léon
tried to escape, but the other seized him by the arm saying--
“Presently! I’m coming! We’ll go to the ‘Fanal de Rouen’ to see the
fellows there. I’ll introduce you to Thornassin.”
At last he managed to get rid of him, and rushed straight to the hotel.
Emma was no longer there. She had just gone in a fit of anger. She
detested him now. This failing to keep their rendezvous seemed to her an
insult, and she tried to rake up other reasons to separate herself from
him. He was incapable of heroism, weak, banal, more spiritless than a
woman, avaricious too, and cowardly.