 Part II. CHAPTER XV. The crowd was wading against the wall, symmetrically enclosed between the balustrades. At the corner of the neighbouring streets, huge bills repeated in quaint letters, Lucy de la Momor la Gardie, opera, etc. The weather was fine, the people were hot, perspiration trickled amid the curls, and handkerchiefs taken from pockets were mopping red foreheads, and now and then a warm wind that blew from the river gently stirred the border of the tick-onnings hanging from the doors of the public houses. A little lower down, however, one was refreshed by a current of icy air that smelt of tallow, leather, and oil. This was an exhalation from the Rue de Charette, full of large black warehouses where they made casks. For fear of seeming ridiculous, Emma, before going in, wished to have a little stroll in the harbour, and Bovery prudently kept his tickets in his hand in the pocket of his trousers which he pressed against his stomach. Her heart began to beat as soon as she reached the vestibule. She involuntarily smiled with vanity on seeing the crowd rushing to the right by the other quarter while she went up the staircase to the reserved seats. She was as pleased as a child to push with her finger at the large tapestry door. She breathed in with all her might the dusty smell of the lobbies, and when she was seated in her box she bent forward with the air of a duchess. The theatre was beginning to fill. Opera glasses were taken from their cases, and the subscribers, catching sight of one another, were bowing. They came to seek relaxation in the fine arts after the anxieties of business, but business was not forgotten. They still talked to cottons, spirits of wine, or indigo. The heads of old men were to be seen, inexpressive and peaceful, with their hair and complexions looking like silver metals tarnished by steam of lead. The young bow were strutting about in the pit, showing in the opening of their waistcoats their pink or apple-green cravets, and Madame Bovary from above admired them leaning on their canes with golden knobs in the open palm of their yellow gloves. Now the lights of the orchestra were lit. The luster let down from the ceiling, throwing by the glimmering of its facets a sudden gaiety over the theatre. Then the musicians came in, one after the other, and first there was the protracted hubbub of the basses grumbling, violin squeaking, cornets trumpeting, flutes and flageolets fiefing. But three knocks were heard on the stage. A rolling of drums began. The brass instruments played some chords, and the curtain rising, discovered a country scene. It was the crossroads of a wood, with a fountain shaded by an oak to the left. Peasants and lords with plads on their shoulders were singing a hunting song together. Then a captain suddenly came on, who evoked the spirit of evil by lifting both his arms to heaven. Water appeared. They went away, and the hunters started afresh. She felt herself transported to the reading of her youth into the midst of Walter Scott. She seemed to hear through the midst the sound of the Scotch bagpipes re-echoing over the heather. Then her remembrance of the novel, helping her understand the libretto. She followed the story, phrase by phrase, while vague thoughts that came back to her dispersed at once again, with the bursts of music. She gave herself up to the lullaby of the melodies, and felt all her being vibrate as if the violin bows were drawn over her nerves. She had not eyes enough to look at the costumes, the scenery, the actors, the painted trees that shook when anyone walked, and the velvet caps, cloaks, swords—all those imaginary things that floated amid the harmony, as in the atmosphere of another world. But a young woman stepped forward, throwing a purse to a squire in green. She was left alone, and the flute was heard like the murmur of a fountain, or the warbling of birds. Lucy attacked her cavatina and G-major bravely. She plained of love. She longed for wings. Emma, too, fleeing from life, would have liked to fly away in an embrace. Suddenly Edgar Ligardie appeared. He had that splendid pallor that gives something of the majesty of marble to the ardent races of the south. His vigorous form was tightly clad in a brown-coloured duplet. A small chiseled ponyard hung against his left thigh, and he cast round laughing looks, showing his white teeth. They said that a Polish princess, having heard him sing one night on the beach at Bia Ritz, where he mended boats, had fallen in love with him. She had ruined herself for him. He had deserted her for other women. And this sentimental celebrity did not fail to enhance his artistic reputation. The diplomatic murmur took care always to slip into his advertisements, some poetic phrase on the fascination of his person and the susceptibility of his soul. A fine organ, in pertebral coolness, more temperament than intelligence, more power of emphasis than of real singing, made up the charm of this admirable charlatan nature, in which it was something of the hairdresser and the toreador. From the first scene he evoked enthusiasm. He pressed Lucy in his arms. He left her. He came back. He seemed desperate. He had outbursts of rage, then a lesion at gurglings of infinite sweetness. And the notes escaped from his bare neck full of sobs and kisses. Emma lent forward to see him, clutching the velvet of the box with her nails. She was filling her heart with these melodious lamentations that were drawn out to the accompaniment of the double basses, like the cries of the drowning and the tumult of a tempest. She recognized all the intoxication and the anguish that had almost killed her. The voice of a prima donna seemed to her to be but echoes of her conscience, and this illusion that charmed her is some very thing of her own life. But no one on earth had loved her with such love. He had not wept like Edgar, that last moonlit night, when they said, tomorrow, tomorrow. The theatre rang with cheers. They recommenced the entire movement. The lovers spoke of the flowers on their tombs, of vows, exile, fate, hopes. And when they uttered the final adieu, Emma gave a sharp cry that mingled with the vibrations of the last chords. But why, asked Bovary, does that gentleman persecute her? No, no, she answered, he is her lover. Yet he vows vengeance on her family, while the other one who came on before said, I love Lucy and she loves me. Besides, he went off with her father arm in arm, for he certainly is her father, isn't he, the ugly little man with a cox feather in his hat? Despite Emma's explanations, as soon as the recitative duet began, in which Gilbert lays bare his abominable machinations to his master Ashton, Charles seeing the false troth-ring that is to deceive Lucy, thought it was a love gift sent by Edgar. He confessed moreover that he did not understand the story because of the music, which interfered very much with the words. What does it matter, said Emma? Do be quiet. Yes, but you know, he went on, leaning against her shoulder, I like to understand things. Be quiet! Be quiet! she cried impatiently. Lucy advanced. Half supported by her women, a wreath of orange blossoms in her hair, and paler than the wider satin of her gown. Emma dreamed of her marriage day. She saw herself at home again, amid the corn in the little path as they walked to the church. Oh, why had not she, like this woman, resisted, implored? She, on the contrary, had been joyous, without seeing the abyss into which she was throwing herself. Ah, if in the freshness of her beauty before the soiling of marriage and the disillusions of adultery she could have anchored her life upon some great strong heart, than virtue, tenderness, voluptuousness, and duty-blending she would never have fallen from so high a happiness. But that happiness, no doubt, was a lie, invented for the despair of all desire. She now knew the smallness of the passions that art exaggerated. So striving to divert her thoughts, Emma determined now to see in this reproduction of her sorrows only a plastic fantasy, well enough to please the eye, and she even smiled internally with disdainful pity when at the back of the stage under the velvet hangings a man appeared in a black cloak. His large Spanish hat fell at a gesture he made, and immediately the instruments and the singers began the sextet. Edgar, flashing with fury, dominated all the others with his clearer voice. Ashton hurled homicidal provocations at him in deep notes. Lucy uttered her shrill plaint. Arthur, at one side, his modulated tones in the middle register, and the bass of the minister peeled forth like an organ while the voices of the women repeating his words, took them up in chorus delightfully. They were all in a row gesticulating, and anger, vengeance, jealousy, terror, and stupefication breathed forth at once from their half-open mouths. The outraged lover brandished his naked sword. His gweep-here ruffle rose with jerks to the movement of his chest, and he walked from right to left with long strides clanking against the boards the silver-guilt spurs of his soft boots, widening out at the ankles. He, she thought, must have an exhaustible love to lavish it upon the crowd with such an effusion. All her small fault findings faded before the poetry of the part that absorbed her, and drawn towards this man by the illusion of the character she tried to imagine to herself his life, that life resonant, extraordinary, splendid, and that might have been hers if fate had willed it. They would have known one another, loved one another. With him through all the kingdoms of Europe she would have travelled from capital to capital, sharing his fatigued and his pride, picking up the flowers thrown to him, herself embroidering his costumes. Then each evening at the back of a box behind the golden trellis work she would have drunken eagerly the expansions of this soul that would have sung for her alone. From the stage even as he acted he would have looked at her. But the mad idea seized her that he was looking at her. It was certain. She longed to run to his arms, to take refuge in his strength as in the incarnation of love itself, and to say to him, to cry out, take me away, carry me with you, let us go, dine, dine all my order and all my dreams. The curtain fell. The smell of the gas mingled with that of the breasts, the waving of the fans, made the air more suffocating. Emma wanted to go out. The crowd filled the corridors and she fell back in her armchair with palpitations that choked her. Charles, fearing that she would faint, ran to the refreshment room to get a glass of barley water. He had great difficulty in getting back to his seat, for his elbows were jerked at every step because of the glass he held in his hands, and he even spilt three quarters on the shoulders of a Rowan lady in short sleeves, who felt the cold liquid running down to her loins uttered cries like a peacock as if she were being assassinated. Her husband, who was a mill owner, railed at the clumsy fellow, and while she was with her handkerchief wiping up the stains from her, handsome cherry-colored taffeta gown, he angrily muttered about indemnity, costs, reimbursement. At last Charles reached his wife, saying to her, quite out of breath, ma foie, I thought I should have to stay there. This is such a crowd, such a crowd! He added, just guess who I met up there, Monsieur Lyon. Lyon? Himself! He is coming along to pay his respects, and as he finished these words, the ex-clerk of Yonville entered the box. He held out his hand with the ease of a gentleman, and Madame Baudry extended hers, without duty obeying the attraction of a stronger will. She had not felt it since that spring evening when the rain fell upon the green leaves, and they had said good-bye standing at the window, but soon recalling herself to the necessities of the situation, with an effort she shook off the torpor of her memories, and began stammering a few hurried words. Ah, good day! What you hear? Silence! cried a voice from the pit, for the third act was beginning. So you are at Rouen? Yes. And since when? Turn them out! Turn them out! People were looking at them. They were silent. But from that moment she listened no more, and the chorus of the guests, the scene between Ashton and his servant, the grand duet in D major, all were for her as far off as if the instruments had grown less sonorous and the characters more remote. She remembered the games at cards at the druggists, and the walk to the nurses, the reading in the arbor, the tet-a-tet by the fireside, all that poor love, so calm and so protracted, so discreet, so tender, and that she had nevertheless forgotten. And why had he come back? The combination of circumstances had brought him back into her life. He was standing behind her, leaning with his shoulder against the wall of the box. Now and again she felt herself shuddering, beneath the hot breath from his nostrils, falling upon her hair. Does this amuse you? said he, bending over her so closely, that the end of his mustache brushed her cheeks. She replied carelessly, oh, dear me, no, not much. Then he proposed that they should leave the theatre and go and take an ice somewhere. Oh, no, not yet. Let us stay, said Bovary. Her hair's undone. This is going to be tragic. But the mad scene did not at all interest Emma, and the acting of the singer seemed to her exaggerated. She screams too loud, said she, turning to Charles, who was listening. Yes, a little, he replied, undecided between the frankness of his pleasure and his respect for his wife's opinion. Then with the sigh Leon said, the heat is unbearable. Yes. Do you feel unwell? asked Bovary. Yes, I'm stifling. Let us go. Miss Dior Leon put her long lace shawl carefully about her shoulders, and all three went off to sit down in the harbour, in the open air, outside the windows of a café. First they spoke of her illness, although Emma interrupted Charles from time to time for fear, she said, of boring Miss Dior Leon. And the latter told them that he had come to spend two years at Rouen in a large office, in order to get practice in his profession, which was different in Normandy and Paris. Then he inquired after Bertha, the Omaha, Mère-le-François, and as they had in the husband's presence nothing more to say one another, the conversation soon came to an end. People coming out of the theatre passed along the pavement, humming or shouting at the top of their voices, O belange malusie. Then Leon, played the Deletante, began to talk music. He had seen Tamborini, Rubini, Perziani, Grissi, and compared with them La Gardie, despite his grand outburst, was nowhere. Oh, beautiful angel, malusie! Yet interrupt to Charles, who was slowly slipping his rum sherbet. They say that he is quite admirable in the last act. I regret leaving before the end, because it was beginning to amuse me. Why, said the clerk, he'll soon give another performance. But Charles replied that they were going back next day. Unless, he added, turning to his wife, you would like to stay alone, kitten? And changing his tactics at this unexpected opportunity that presented itself to his hopes. The young man sang the praises of La Gardie in the last number. It was really superb, sublime! Then Charles insisted. You would get back on Sunday. Come, make up your mind. You are wrong if you feel that this is doing you the least good. The tables round them, however, were emptying. A waiter came and stood discreetly near them. Charles, who understood, took out his purse. The clerk held back his arm, and did not forget to leave two more pieces of silver that he made clink on the marble. I'm really sorry, said Boferi, about the money which you are—the other made a careless gesture full of cordiality, and taking his hat said, it is settled, isn't it? Tomorrow at six o'clock. Charles explained once more that he could not absence himself longer, but that nothing prevented Emma. But she stammered with a strange mouth. I'm not sure. Well, you must think it over. We'll see. Night brings counsel, then to Leon, who is walking along with them. Now that you're in our part of the world, I hope you'll come and ask for us some dinner now and then. The clerk declared he would not fail to do so, being obliged moreover to go to Yonville on some business for his office. And they parted before the Saint-Ereblon passage, just as the clock in the cathedral struck half past eleven. End of part two, chapter fifteen. Part three, chapter one of Madame Boferi. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For further information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Madame Boferi by Gustave Flaubert. Translated by Eleanor Marks Averling. Part three, chapter one. Monsieur Leon, while studying law, had gone pretty often to the dancing rooms, where he was even a great success amongst the grisette, who thought he had a distinguished air. He was the best mannered of the students. He wore his hair neither too long nor too short, didn't spend all his quarters' money on the first day of the month, and kept on good terms with his professors. As for excesses, he had always abstained from them, as much from cowardice as from refinement. Often when he stayed in his room to read, or else when sitting of an evening under the lime-treeds of the Luxembourg, he let his code fall to the ground and the memory of Emma came back to him. But gradually this feeling grew weaker, and other desires gathered over it, although it still persisted through them all. For Leon did not lose all hope. There was for him, as it were, a vague promise floating in the future, like a golden fruit suspended from some fantastic tree. Then seeing her again after three years of absence, his passion reawakened. He must, he thought, at last make up his mind to possess her. Moreover, his timidity had worn off by contact with his gay companions, and he returned to the provinces, despising everyone who had not, with varnished shoes, trod on the asphalt of the boulevards. By the side of a Parisienne in her laces, in the drawing-room of some illustrious physician, a person driving his carriage and wearing many orders, the poor clerk would no doubt have trembled like a child, but here, at Rouen, at the harbour, with the wife of this small doctor, he felt at his ease, sure beforehand he would shine. Self-possession depends on its environment. We don't speak on the first floor as on the fourth, and the wealthy woman seems to have about her to guard her virtue or her banknotes, like a cuirass in the lining of her corset. On leaving the bovaries the night before, Leon had followed them through the streets at a distance. Then having seen them stop at the Croix-Rouge, he turned on his heel and spent the night meditating a plan. So the next day, about five o'clock, he walked into the kitchen of the inn with a choking sensation in his throat, pale cheeks and that resolution of cowards that stops at nothing. The gentleman isn't in, answered a servant. This seemed to him a good omen. He went upstairs. She was not disturbed at his approach. On the contrary, she apologised for having neglected to tell him where they were staying. Oh, I divined it, said Leon. He pretended he had been guided towards her by chance, by instinct. She began to smile, and at once, to repair his folly, Leon told her that he had spent his morning in looking for her in all the hotels in the town, one after another. So you have made up your mind to stay, he added. Yes, she said, and I am wrong, one ought not to accustom oneself to impossible pleasures when there are a thousand demands upon one. Oh, I can imagine. Oh, no, for you, you are a man. But men, too, had had their trials, and the conversation went off into certain philosophical reflections. Emma expatiated much on the misery of earthly affections, and the eternal isolation in which the heart remains entombed. To show off, or from naive imitation of this melancholy which called forth his, the young man declared that he had been awfully bored during the whole course of his studies. The law irritated him, other vocations attracted him, and his mother never ceased worrying him in every one of her letters. As they talked, they explained more and more fully the motives of their sadness, working themselves up in their progressive confidence. But they sometimes stopped short of the complete exposition of their thought, and then sought to invent a phrase that might express it all the same. She did not confess her passion for another. He did not say that he had forgotten her. Perhaps he no longer remembered his suppers with girls after masked balls, and no doubt she did not recollect the rendezvous of old when she ran across the fields in the morning to her lover's house. The noises of the town hardly reached them, and the room seemed small, as if on purpose to hem in their solitude more closely. Emma, in a dimity dressing-gown, lent her head against the back of the old arm chair. The yellow wallpaper formed, as it were, a golden background behind her, and her bare head was mirrored in the glass, with the white parting in the middle, and the tip of her ears peeping out from the folds of her hair. But pardon me, she said. It is wrong of me. I weary you with my eternal complaints. No, never, never. If you knew she went on, raising to the ceiling her beautiful eyes, in which her tear was trembling, all that I had dreamt. And I, oh, I too have suffered. Often I went out. I went away. I dragged myself along the keys, seeking distraction amid the din of the crowd, without being able to banish the heaviness that weighed upon me. In an engraver's shop on the boulevard, there is an Italian print of one of the muses. She is draped in a tunic, and she is looking at the moon with forget-me-nots in her flowing hair. Something drove me there continually. I stayed there, hours together. Then, in a trembling voice, she resembled you a little. Madame Bovary turned away her head, that he might not see the irrepressible smile she felt rising to her lips. Often, he went on, I wrote you letters that I tore up. She did not answer. He continued, I sometimes fancied that some chance would bring you. I thought I recognized you at street corners, and I ran after all the carriages, through whose windows I saw a shawl fluttering, a veil like yours. She seemed resolved to let him go on speaking without interruption. Crossing her arms and bending down her face, she looked at the rosettes on her slippers, and at intervals made little movements inside the satin of them with her toes. At last she sighed. But the most wretched thing, is it not, is to drag out, as I do, a useless existence. If our pains were only of some use to someone, we should find consolation in the thought of the sacrifice. He started off in praise of virtue, duty, and silent immolation, having himself an incredible longing for self sacrifice that he could not satisfy. I should much like, she said, to be a nurse at a hospital. Alas, men have none of these holy missions, and I see nowhere any calling, unless perhaps that of a doctor. With a slight shrug of her shoulders, Emma interrupted him to speak of her illness, which had almost killed her. What a pity! She should not be suffering now. Lay on at once, envied the calm of the tomb, and one evening he had even made his will, asking to be buried in that beautiful rug with velvet stripes he had received from her. But this was how they would have wished to be, each setting up an ideal to which they were now adapting their past life. Besides, speech is a rolling mill that always thins out the sentiment. But at this invention of the rug, she asked, but why? Why, he hesitated, because I loved you so, and congratulating himself at having surmounted the difficulty, Leon watched her face out of the corner of his eyes. It was like the sky when a gust of wind drives the clouds across. The mass of sad thoughts that darkened them seemed to be lifted from her blue eyes, her whole face shone. He waited. At last, she replied, I always suspected it. Then they went over all the trifling events of that far off existence, whose joys and sorrows they had just summed up in one word. They recalled the arbor with clematis, the dresses she had worn, the furniture of her room, the whole of her house. And our poor cactuses, where are they? The cold killed them this winter. Ah, how I have thought of them, do you know? I often saw them again, as of your, when on the summer mornings the sun beat down upon your blinds, and I saw your two bare arms passing out amongst the flowers. Poor friend, she said, holding out her hand to him. Leon swiftly pressed his lips to it. Then, when he had taken a deep breath, at that time you were to me, I know not what incomprehensible force that took captive my life. Once, for instance, I went to see you, but you no doubt do not remember it. I do, she said, go on. You were downstairs in the anti-room, ready to go out, standing on the last stair. You were wearing a bonnet with small blue flowers, and without any invitation from you, in spite of myself, I went with you. Every moment, however, I grew more and more conscious of my folly, and I went on walking by you, not daring to follow you completely, and unwilling to leave you. When you went into a shop, I waited in the street, and I watched you through the window, taking off your gloves and counting the change on the counter. Then you rang at Madame Tuvasi's. You were let in, and I stood like an idiot in front of the great heavy door that had closed after you. Madame Bovary, as she listened, wondered that she was so old. All these things reappearing before her seemed to widen out her life. It was like some sentimental immensity to which she returned, and from time to time she said in a low voice, her eyes half closed. Yes, it is true, true, true. They heard eight strike on the different clocks of the Bovoisin quarter, which is full of schools, churches, and large, empty hotels. They no longer spoke, but they found, as they looked upon each other, a buzzing in their heads, as if something sonorous had escaped from the fixed eyes of each of them. They were hand in hand now, and the past, the future, reminiscences and dreams, all were confounded in the sweetness of this ecstasy. Night was darkening over the walls, on which still shone, half hidden in the shade, the coarse colors of four bills representing four scenes from the Tour de Nèle, with a motto in Spanish and French at the bottom. Through the sash window, a patch of dark sky was seen between the pointed roofs. She rose to light two wax candles on the drawers, then she sat down again. Well, said Leon. Well, she replied. He was thinking how to resume the interrupted conversation when she said to him, how is it that no one until now has ever expressed such sentiments to me? The clerk said that ideal natures were difficult to understand. He, from the first moment, had loved her, and he dispaired when he thought of the happiness that would have been theirs, if, thanks to fortune, meeting her earlier, they had been indissolubly bound to one another. I have sometimes thought of it, she went on. What a dream, murmured Leon. And fingering gently the blue binding of her long white sash, he added, and who prevents us from beginning now? No, my friend, she replied, I am too old. You are too young. Forget me, others will love you. You will love them, not as you, he cried. What a child you are. Come, let us be sensible. I wish it. She showed him the impossibility of their love. And that they must remain, as formally, on the simple terms of a fraternal friendship. Was she speaking thus seriously? No doubt Emma did not herself know, quite absorbed, as she was, by the charm of the seduction, and the necessity of defending herself from it. And contemplating the young man with a moved look, she gently repulsed the timid caresses that his trembling hands attempted. Ah, forgive me, he cried, drawing back. Emma was seized with a vague fear at this shyness, more dangerous to her than the boldness of Rodolphe when he advanced to her open-armed. No man had ever seemed to her so beautiful, an exquisite candor emanated from his being. He lowered his long, fine eyelashes that curled upwards, his cheek with the soft skin reddened, she thought, with desire of her person. And Emma felt an invincible longing to press her lips to it. Then leaning towards the clock, as if to see the time. Ah, how late it is, she said, how we do chatter. He understood the hint and took up his hat. It has even made me forget the theatre, and poor Bolverie has left me here especially for that. Monsieur Le Mans of the Rue Grand-Pont was to take me and his wife. And the opportunity was lost as she was to leave the next day. Really, said Le Mans. Yes. But I must see you again, he went on. I wanted to tell you. What? Something important, serious. Oh no, besides, you will not go. It is impossible. If you should, listen to me. Then you have not understood me. You have not guessed. Yet you speak plainly, said Emma. Ah, you can jest. Enough, enough. Oh, for pity's sake, let me see you once, only once. Well, she stopped, then, as if thinking better of it. Oh, not here. Where you will. Will you, she seemed to reflect, then abruptly, tomorrow, at eleven o'clock in the cathedral. I shall be there, he cried, seizing her hands, which she disengaged. And as they were both standing up, he behind her, and Emma, with her head bent, he stooped over her. And pressed long kisses on her neck. You're mad, you're mad, she said, with sounding little laughs, while the kisses multiplied. Then, bending his head over her shoulder, he seemed to beg the consent of her eyes. They fell upon him, full of an icy dignity. Leon stepped back to go out. He stopped on the threshold. Then he whispered with a trembling voice, Tomorrow. She answered with a nod, and disappeared like a bird into the next room. In the evening, Emma wrote the clerk an interminable letter in which she cancelled the rendezvous. All was over. They must not, for the sake of their happiness, meet again. But when the letter was finished, as she did not know Leon's address, she was puzzled. I'll give it to him myself, she said. He will come. The next morning, at the open window, and humming on his balcony, Leon himself varnished his pumps with several coatings. He put on white trousers, fine socks, a green coat, emptied all the scent he had into his handkerchief. Then, having had his hair curled, he uncurled it again, in order to give it a more natural elegance. It is still too early, he thought, looking at the hairdresser's cuckoo clock. That pointed to the hour of nine. He read an old-fashioned journal, went out, smoked a cigar, walked up three streets, thought it was time, and went slowly towards the porch of Notre Dame. It was a beautiful summer morning. Silver plates sparkled in the jeweller's windows, and the light falling obliquely on the cathedral made mirrors of the corners of the grey stones. A flock of birds fluttered in the grey sky round the tree-foil bell turrets. The square resounding with cries was fragrant with the flowers that bordered its pavement, roses, jasmine, pinks, narcissi, and tuba roses, unevenly spaced out between moist grasses, cat mint, and chickweed for the birds. The fountains gurgled in the centre, and under large umbrellas amidst melons, piled up in heaps, flower-women bare-headed with twisting paper round bunches of violets. The young man took one. It was the first time that he had bought flowers for a woman, and his breast, as he smelt them, swelled with pride, as if this homage that he meant for another had recoiled upon himself. But he was afraid of being seen. He resolutely entered the church, the beetle, who was just then standing on the threshold, in the middle of the left doorway under the dancing marion, with feather cap and rapier dangling against his calves, came in, more majestic than a cardinal, and as shining as a saint on a holy picks. He came towards León, and with that smile of weedling benignity assumed by ecclesiastics when they questioned children, the gentleman, no doubt, does not belong to these parts. The gentleman would like to see the curiosities of the church? No, said the other. And he first went round the lower aisles. Then he went out to look at the plus. Emma was not coming yet. He went up again to the choir. The nave was reflected in the full fonts with the beginning of the arches and some portions of the glass windows. But the reflections of the paintings, broken by the marble rim, were continued farther on upon the flagstones, like a many-coloured carpet. The broad daylight from without streamed into the church in three enormous rays from the three open portals. From time to time, at the upper end, a sacristan passed, making the oblique genuflection of devout persons in a hurry. The crystal lusters hung motionless. In the choir, a silver lamp was burning, and from the side chapels and dark places of the church, sometimes rose sounds like sighs with a clang of a closing grating, its echo reverberating under the lofty vault. Leon, with solemn steps, walked along by the walls. Life had never seemed so good to him. She would come directly, charming, agitated, looking back at the glances that followed her, and with her flounced dress, her gold eyeglass, her thin shoes, with all sorts of elegant trifles that he had never enjoyed, and with the ineffable seduction of yielding virtue. The church, like a huge boudoir, spread around her. The arches bent down to gather in the shade the confession of her love. The windows shone resplendent to illumine her face, and the sensors would burn that she might appear like an angel amid the fumes of the sweet-smelling odours. But she did not come. He sat down on a chair, and his eyes fell upon a blue-stained window representing boatmen carrying baskets. He looked at it long attentively, and he counted the scales of the fishes and the buttonholes of the doublets, while his thoughts wandered off towards Emma. The beetle standing aloof was inwardly angry at this individual who took the liberty of admiring the cathedral by himself. He seemed to him to be conducting himself in a monstrous fashion, to be robbing him in assault and almost committing sacrilege. But a rustle of silk on the flags, the tip of a bonnet, a lined cloak, it was she. Leon rose and ran to meet her. Emma was pale. She walked fast. Read, she said, holding out a paper to him. Oh, no! And she abruptly withdrew her hand to enter the chapel of the Virgin, where, kneeling on a chair, she began to pray. The young man was irritated at this bigot fancy. Then he nevertheless experienced a certain charm in seeing her, in the middle of a rendezvous, thus lost in her devotions, like an Andalusian Marchioness. Then he grew bored, for she seemed never coming to an end. Emma prayed, or rather strove to pray, hoping that some sudden resolution might descend to her from heaven and to draw down divine aid. She filled full her eyes with the splendours of the tabernacle. She breathed in the perfumes of the full-blown flowers in the large vases and listened to the stillness of the church that only heightened the tumult of her heart. She rose and they were about to leave when the beadle came forward, hurriedly saying, Madam, no doubt, does not belong to these parts. Madam, would like to see the curiosities of the church? Oh, no, cried the clerk. Why not, said she, for she clung with her expiring virtue to the Virgin, the sculptures, the tombs, anything. Then, in order to proceed by rule, the beadle conducted them right to the entrance near the square, where, pointing out with his cane a large circle of blockstones without inscription or carving. This, he said majestically, is the circumference of the beautiful Belle Levoix. It weighed forty thousand pounds. There was not its equal in all Europe. The workman who cast it died of joy. Let us go on, said Leon. The old fellow started off again, then having got back to the Chapel of the Virgin. He stretched forth his arm with an all-embracing gesture of demonstration, and, prouder than a country squire, showing you his as failures, he went on, This simple stone covers Pierre de Brés, Lorde of Varene, and of Brissac, Grand Marshal of Poitou, and Governor of Normandy, who died at the Battle of Montlery on the 16th of July, 1465. Leon bit his lips, fuming. And on the right, this gentleman, all encased in iron, on the prancing horse, is his grandson, Louis de Brés, Lorde de Bréval, and of Montchauvet. Count de Molévrier, Baron de Moni, Chamberlain to the King, Knight of the Order, and also Governor of Normandy, died on the 23rd of July, 1531. A Sunday, as the inscription specifies. And below, this figure, about to descend into the tomb, portrays the same person. It is not possible, is it, to see a more perfect representation of annihilation. Madame Bovary put up her eyeglasses. Leon, motionless, looked at her, no longer even attempting to speak a single word, to make a gesture so discouraged was he at this two-fold obstinacy of gossip and indifference. The everlasting guide went on. Near him, this kneeling woman who weeps, is his spouse, Dion de Poitiers, Countess de Brés, Duchess de Valentinois, born in 1499, died in 1566, and to the left, the one with the child is the Holy Virgin. Now, turn to this side, here are the tombs of the ombres. They were both cardinals and archbishops of Rouen. That one was minister under Louis Douze. He did a great deal for the cathedral. In his will, he left 30,000 gold crowns for the poor. And without stopping, still talking, he pushed them into a chapel full of balustrades. Some put away, and disclosed a kind of block that certainly might once have been an ill-made statue. Truly, he said with a groan, it adorned the tomb of Richard Coeur de Leon, the King of England, and Duke of Normandy. It was the Calvinist, sir, who reduced it to this condition. They had buried it for spite in the earth, under the episcopal seat of Monsignor. See, this is the door by which Monsignor passes to his house. Let us pass on quickly to see the gargoyle windows. But Leon hastily took some silver from his pocket, and seized Emma's arm. The gargoyle stood dumbfounded, not able to understand this untimely munificence when there were still so many things for the stranger to see. So, calling him back, he cried, Sir, sir, the steeple, the steeple. No, thank you, said Leon. You are wrong, sir. It is 440 feet high, nine less than the great pyramid of Egypt. It is all cast. Leon was fleeing, for it seemed to him that love that for nearly two hours now had become petrified in the church, like the stones, would vanish like a vapour through that sort of truncated funnel of oblong cage of open chimney that rises so grotesquely from the cathedral, like the extravagant attempt of some fantastic brazier. But where are we going, she said. Making no answer, he walked on with a rapid step, and Madame Bovary was already dipping her finger in the holy water when behind them they heard a panting breath interrupted by the regular sound of a cane. Leon turned back. Sir, what is it? And he recognised the beetle holding under his arms and balancing against his stomach some twenty large sewn volumes. They were works which treated of the cathedral. Idiot, growled Leon, rushing out of the church. A lad was playing about the close. Go and get me a cab. The child bounded off like a ball by the rue Catherine. Then they were alone a few minutes, face to face and a little embarrassed. Ah, Leon, really, I don't know if I ought, she whispered, then with a more serious air, do you know it's very improper? How so, replied the clerk, it is done at Paris. And that, as an irresistible argument, decided her. Still, the cab did not come. Leon was afraid she might go back into the church. At last the cab appeared. At all events, go out by the north porch, cried the beetle, who was left alone on the threshold, so as to see the resurrection, the last judgement, Paradise, King David, and the condemned in hell flames. Where to, sir? asked the coachman. Where you like? said Leon, forcing Emma into the cab. And the lumbering machine set out. It went down the rue Grand Pa crossed the Place des Arts, the Cayes-Napolions, the Pont Neuf, and stopped short before the statue of Pierre Cornet. Go on! cried a voice that came from within. The cab went on again, it reached the Carrefour Lafayette, set off downhill, and entered the station at a gallop. No, straight on! cried the same voice. The cab came out by the gate, and soon, having reached the core, trotted quietly beneath the elm trees. The coachman wiped his brow, put his leather hat between his knees, and drove his carriage beyond the side alley by the meadow to the margin of the waters. It went along by the river, along the towing path, paved with sharp pebbles, and for a long while in the direction of Oisselle, beyond the aisles. But suddenly, it turned with a dash across Catramar, Sottville, La Grande Chaussée, the rue Delbeuf, and made its third halt in the front of the Giardin des Plantes. Get on well, cried the voice more furiously. And at once resuming its course, it passed by Saint-Sévé, by the quai des curandiers, the quai au murl, once more over the bridge by the Place du Chant de Marse, and behind the hospital gardens, where old men in black coats were walking in the sun, along the terrace, all green with ivy. It went up the boulevard Bouvreuil, along the boulevard Cauchois, then the whole of Mont-Ribaudet to the Deville Hills. It came back, and then, without any fixed plan or direction, wandered about at hazard. The cab was seen at Saint-Paul, at l'Escure, at Mont-Gardin, at La Rougue-Marque, and Place du Gaillard-Broix, in the rue Maledrerie, rue d'Inonderie, before Saint-Romain, Saint-Vivien, Saint-Maclou, Saint-Nicès, in front of the customs, at the Vieilleture, and the Monumental Cemetery. From time to time, the coachman, on his box, cast despairing eyes at the public houses. He could not understand what furious desire for locomotion urged these individuals never to wish to stop. He tried to, now and then, and at once exclamations of anger burst forth behind him. Then he lashed his perspiring jades afresh, but indifferent to their jolting, running up against things here and there, not caring if he did, demoralized and almost weeping with thirst, fatigue and depression. And on the harbour in the midst of the drays and casks, and in the streets at the corners, the good folk opened large, wonder-stricken eyes at this sight, so extraordinary in the provinces, a cab with blinds drawn, and which appeared thus constantly shut more closely than a tomb, tossing about like a vessel. Once in the middle of the day, in the open country, just as the sun beat most fiercely against the old plated lanterns, a bared hand passed beneath the small blinds of yellow canvas, and threw out some scraps of paper that scattered in the wind and farther off, lighted like white butterflies on a field of red clover all in bloom. At about six o'clock, the carriage stopped in a back street of the Beauvoisine quarter, and a woman got out who walked with her veil down and without turning her head. And of Part 3, Chapter 1 Madame Beauvary by Gustave Lobert translated by Eleanor Marx Eiffelling Part 3, Chapter 2 On reaching the inn, Madame Beauvary was surprised at her diligence. Ifère, who had waited for her 53 minutes, had at last started. Yet nothing forced her to go, but she had given her word that she would return that same evening. Moreover, Charles expected her. And in her heart she felt already that cowardly the city that is for some women at once just asment and a tournament for adultery. She packed her box quickly, paid her bill, took a cab in the yard, hurrying on the driver, urging him on, every moment inquiring about the time and the miles to first. He succeeded in catching up the Irondelle as it neared the first houses of Guingampois. Hardly was she seated in her corner as she closed her eyes and opened them at the foot of the hill. Went from afar she recognized Philly City, who was on the lookout in front of the Farrier shop. Ifère pulled in his horses and the servant climbing up to the window, step mysteriously, Madame, you must go as once to Monsieur Omé. It is for something important. The village was silent as usual. At the corner of the streets were small pink heaps that smoked in the air. For this was the time of jam-making. And everyone at Johnfield prepared his supply on the same day. But in front of the chemist shop who I might admire a far larger heap, and that surpassed the others with the superiority that a laboratory must have over ordinary stores. A general need over individual fancy. She went in. The large armchair was upset and even the fanard de Rouen lay on the ground, outspread between two pistols. She pushed open the lobby door. And in the middle of the kitchen amid brown jars full of picked currants, powdered sugar and lump sugar, the scales on the table and of the pans on the fire, she saw all the omé, small and large, with aprons reaching to their chins, and with forks in their hands. Justine was standing up with bowed head and the chemist was screaming, Who told you to go and fetch it in the cappenaun? What is it? What's the matter? What is it? replied the drugist. We're making preserves. They're simmering but they're about to boil over because there's too much juice and I ordered another pan. Then he, from indolence, from laziness, went and took, hanging on his nail in my laboratory, the gi of the cappenaun. It was thus the drugist called a small room under their leads full of the utensils and the goods of his trade. He often spent long hours there alone, labelling, decanting and doing up again. And he looked upon it not as a simple store but as a veritable sanctuary, when, thereafter was issued, elaborated by his hands, all sorts of pills, boluses, infusions, lotions and potions, though all bear far and wide a celebrity. Not one in the world set foot there, and he respected it so that he sweated himself. Finally, if the pharmacy, open to all comers, was the spot where he displayed his pride, the cappenaun was the refuge where, egotistically concentrating himself, Omer delighted in the exercise of his predilections so that Justin's thoughtlessness seemed to him a monstrous piece of irreverence. And, rarer than the currents, he repeated, yes, from the cappenaun. And he took the assets and caused the alkalis to go and get a spare pan, a pan with a lid that I shall perhaps never use. Everything is of importance in the delicate operations of our art. But, devil take it, one must make distinctions and not employ for almost domestic purposes that which is meant for pharmaceutical. It is of one word to cover foul with a scalpel and not be calm, said Madame Omer. And, after early bullying at his coat, cried, No, let me alone. Weren't on the droggest. Let me alone. Hang it, my word. One might as well set up for a grocer. That's it. Do it. Respect nothing, break, smash, let loose the leeches, burn the malo paste, pickle the gherkins in a window-jazz, tear up the bandages. I thought you had, said Emma, Do you know to what you exposed yourself? Didn't you see anything in the corner on the left, on the third shelf? Speak, answer, articulate something. I don't know. Stam at the young fellow. Ah, you don't know. Well then, I do know. You saw a bottle of blue glass sealed with yellow wax that contains a white powder from which I've even written dangerous. And do you know what's in it? Arsenic! And you go and touch it. You take a pant that was next to it. Cry, Madame Omer, clasping her hands. Arsenic! You might have poisoned us all. And the children began howling as if they already had frightful pains in their entrails. Or poison a patient. Do you want to see me in the prisoner's dock with criminals in a court of justice? Do you see me dragged to the scaffold? Don't you know what care I take in managing things, although I'm so thoroughly used to it? Often I'm horrified myself when I think of my responsibility. For the government persecutes us and the absurd legislation that rules us is a veritable Damocles sword over our heads. Emma no longer dreamed of war. And the druggers went on in breathless phrases. That's your return for all the kindness we've shown you. And that's how you recompense me for really paternal care that I lavish on you. For without me where would you be? What will you be doing? Who provides you with food, education, clothes and all the means of figuring one day with honour in the ranks of society? But you must pull hard at the or if you're to do that. Fabricando Filtfaber, he was so exasperated he quoted Latin. He would have quoted Chinese or Greenlandish had he known those two languages for he was in one of those crisis in which the whole soul shows indistinctly what it contains like the ocean which in the storm opens itself from the seaweeds on its shores down to the sound of its abysses. And he went on to repent terribly of having taken you up. I should certainly have done better to have left you rotting your poverty and the dirt in which you were born. Oh, you'll never be fit for anything but to hurt animals with horns. You have no aptitude for science. You hardly know how to stick on a label. And there you are dwelling with me snuck as a passing, living in clover taking your ease. But Emma, turning to Madame Arme, I was told to come here. Oh dear me! Interrupted a good woman with a sad air. How am I to tell you? It's her misfortune. She could not finish. The droggest was thundering. Empty it! Clean it! Take it back! Be quick! And seizing just stunned by the color of his blouse took a book out of his pocket. The lad stooped but Omer was the quicker ant having picked up the volume contemplated with staring eyes and open mouth. Conjugal love! He said slowly separating the two words. Ah, very good, very good. Very pretty. An illustration. Oh, this is too much. Madame Omer came forward. Do not touch it! The children wanted to look at the pictures. Leave the room! He said imperiously. And they went out. First he walked up and down with the open volume in his hand rolling his eyes choking too much apoplectic. When he came straight to his pupil and planting himself in front of him with crossed arms. Have you every vice then, little rich? Take care. You're on a downward path. Did you not reflect that this infamous book might fall in the hands of my children? Candle was parking their minds. Tarnished the purity of Attlee. Corrupt Napoleon! He's already formed like a man. Are you quite sure anyhow that they have not read it? Can you certify to me? But really, sir? said Emma. You wish to tell me Ah yes, madame. Your father-in-law is dead. In fact, Monsieur Boferi Sr. had expired the evening before suddenly from an attack of apoplexy. She got up from the table and by way of greater precaution on account of Emma's sensibility Charles had begged Omer to break the horrible news to her gradually. Omer had pulled over his speech. He had rounded, polished it, made it rhythmical. It was a masterpiece of prudence and transitions of subtle turns and delicacy. But Angra had got a better of rhetoric. Emma, giving up all chance of hearing any details, left a pharmacy. For Monsieur Omer had taken up the threat of his vertebrations. However, he was growing calmer and was now grumbling in a paternal tone whilst he found himself with the skullcap. It's not that I entirely disapprove of the work. It's all that was a doctor but there are certain scientific points in it that is not ill a man should know. And I even would venture to say that a man must know. But later, later, at any rate, not till you're a man yourself and your temperament is formed. When Emma knocked at the door, Charles, who was waiting for her, came full with her open arms and said to her with tears in his voice Oh, my dear. And he bent over her gently to kiss her. But at the contact of his lips the memory of the other seized her and she passed her hand over his face, shuddering. But she made answer. Yes, I know, I know. He showed her the letter in which his mother told the event without any sentiment of hypocrisy. She only regretted her husband had not received the consolations of religion as he had died at Dordville in the street at the door of a café after a patriotic dinner with some ex-officers. Emma gave him back the letter. Then at dinner, for her parents' sake, she effected a certain reputance. But as he urged her to try, she resolutely began eating while Charles opposite her sat motionlessly in her to check her attitude. Now and then he raised his head and gave her a long look full of distress once he sighed. I should have liked to see him again. She was silent. At last, understanding that she must say something. How old was your father? She asked. Fifty-eight. Ah. And that was all. A quarter of an hour after he added, My poor mother, what will we come of her now? She made a gesture that signified she did not know. Seeing her so, that's a turn. Charles imagined her much affected and forced himself to say nothing not to reawaken his sorrow which moved him. And, shaking off his own, did you enjoy yourself yesterday? He asked. Yes. When the cloth was removed, both her eyes did not rise, nor did Emma. And as she looked at him, the monotony of the spectacle drove little while it all pity from her heart. He seemed to her weak, a cipher in a word, a poor thing in every way. How to get rid of him? It was an interminable evening. Something stupefying like the fumes of opium, see sir. They heard in the passage the sharp nose of a wooden lac on the boards. It was Ippolite bringing back Emma's luggage. In order to put it down, he described painfully a quarter of a circle with his stump. He doesn't even remember anymore about it. She thought, looking at the poor devil whose call's red hair was wet with perspiration. Wolverie was searching at the bottom of his purse for his centime, and without appearing to understand all there was, humiliation for him in the mere presence of this man, who stood there like a personified reproach to his incurable incapacity. Hello? You're for pretty bouquet? He said, noticing Leon's violets on the chimney. Yes. She replied indifferently. It's a bouquet I bought just now from a beggar. So I picked up the flowers and freshening his eyes, red with tears against them, smelt them delicately. She took them quickly from his hand to put them in a glass of water. The next day, Madame Wolverie senior arrived. She and her son were up much. Emma, on the pretext of giving orders, disappeared. The following day, they had to talk over the morning. They went and sat down with their workboxes by the water side under the arbor. Charles was thinking of his father and was surprised to feel so much affection for this man, whom till then he had thought he cared little about. Madame Wolverie senior was thinking of her husband. The worst days of the past seemed enviable to her. All was forgotten beneath the instinctive regret of such a long habit, and from time to time whilst she sued, a big tear rolled along her nose and hung suspended there a moment. Emma was thinking that it was costly 48 hours since they had been together, far from all the world, all in a frenzy of joy and not having eyes enough to gaze upon each other. She tried to recall the slightest details of the past day, but the presence of her husband and mother-in-law worried her. She would have liked to hear nothing, so as not to disturb the meditation on her love, but do what she would became lost in external sensations. She was unpicking the leaning of a dress and the strips were scattered around her. Madame Wolverie senior was plying her scissor without looking up. Charles, in his list slippers and his old brown sur-touff that he used as a dressing gown sat with both hands in his pockets and did not speak either. Needham, birth, in a little white pinafore was raking sand in the walks with a spade. Suddenly she saw Monsieur Leur-eug, the linen draper, come in through the gate. He came to offer services under the sad circumstances. Emma answered that she thought she could do with that. The shopkeeper was not to be beaten. I beg your pardon, he said, but I should like to have a private talk with you. Then in a low voice it is about that avert, you know, Charles crimson to his ears. Oh, yes, certainly! And in his confusion turning to his wife couldn't you, my darling? She seemed to understand him, for she rose and Charles said to his mother there's nothing particular, no doubt some household trifle. He did not want her to know the story of the bill fearing her approaches. As soon as they were alone, Monsieur Leur-eug in sufficiently clear terms began to congratulate Emma on the inheritance than to talk of indifferenters of the espagniae of the harvest and of his own health which was always so-so and having ups and downs. In fact he had a work deathly hard although he didn't make enough in spite of all people said to find butter for his bread. Emma let him talk on. It was herself so ridiculously the last two days. And so you're quite well again. He went on. I saw your husband in a sad state. It's a good fellow that we did have a little misunderstanding. She asked what misunderstanding for Charles had said nothing of the dispute about the good supply to her. Why? You know well enough. Great Leur-eug, it was about your little fancies. You're revealing trunks. He had drawn his heart over his eyes and with his hands behind his back smiling and whistling he looked straight at her in an unbearable manner. Did he suspect anything? She was lost in all kinds of apprehensions. At last however, he went on. We made it up all the same and I've come again to propose another arrangement. This was to renew the bill Boferi had signed. Of course, would do as he pleased and he was not to trouble himself especially just now when he would have a lot of worry and he would do better to give it up to someone else. To you, for example, with the power of attorney could be easily managed and then we you and I would have a little business transactions together. She didn't understand. He was silent. Then passing to his trade Leur-eug declared that madame must require something. He would send her a black barrage twelve yards just enough to make a gun. The one new phone is good enough for the house but you want another for calls. I saw there's a very moment that I came in. I have the eye of an American. He did not send the stuff he brought it. Then he came again to measure it and he came again another pretext always trying to make himself agreeable useful envying himself as I would have said and always dropping some hint to Emma about the power of attorney. He never mentioned the bill she did not think of it. Charles at the beginning of her confalosance had certainly said something about it to her but so many emotions have passed through her head that she no longer remembered it besides she took care not to talk of any money questions Madame Bovary seemed surprised at this and attributed the change in her ways to the religious sentiments that she had contracted during her illness but as soon as she was gone Emma greatly astounded Bovary by her practical good sense would be necessary to make inquiries to look into mortgages and see if there were any occasion for sale by auction or liquidation. She quoted technical terms casually pronounced the ground words of order the future foresight and constantly exaggerated the difficulties of settling his father's affairs too much that at last one day she showed him the rough craft of a power of attorney to manage and administer his business arrange all loans sign and endorse all bills pay all sons etc she approfited Bellaro's lessons Charles naively asked her where this paper came from Monsieur Gomez and with the utmost coolness she added I don't trust him over much notaries of such a bad reputation perhaps we all too consoled we only know no one unless Leon replied Charles who was reflecting but it was difficult to explain maths by letter then she offered to make the journey but he thanked her she insisted it was quite the contest of mutual consideration at last she cried with affected waywardness no I will go how good you are he said kissing her forehead the next morning she set out in the Irondale to go to Rouen to consume Monsieur Leon and she stayed there three days end of part three chapter two part three chapter three of Madame Beauvalie this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or how to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Madame Beauvalie by Gustave Flaubert translated by Eleanor Marks Aveling part three chapter three they were three full exquisite days a true honeymoon they were at the Hotel de Bologna on the harbor and they lived there with drawn blinds and closed doors with flowers on the floor and iced syrups were brought them early in the morning towards evening they took a covered boat and went to Dine on one of the islands it was the time when one hears by the side of the dockyard the caulking mallets sounding against the hull of vessels the smoke of the tar rose up between the trees there were large fatty drops on the water undulating in the purple color of the sun like floating plaques of Florentine bronze they rode down in the midst of moored boats whose long oblique cables grazed lightly against the bottom of the boat the din of the town gradually grew distant the rolling of carriages the tumult of voices the yelping of dogs on the decks of vessels she took off her bonnet and they landed on their island they sat down in the low-ceilinged room of a tavern at whose door hung black nets they ate fried smelts cream and cherries they lay down upon the grass they kissed behind the poplars and they would feign like two robinsons have lived forever in this little place which seemed to them in their beatitude the most magnificent on earth it was not the first time that they had seen trees a blue sky meadows the water flowing and the wind blowing in the leaves but no doubt they had never admired all this as if nature had not existed before or had only begun to be beautiful since the gratification of their desires at night they returned the boat glided along the shores of the islands they sat at the bottom both hidden by the shade in silence their oars rang in the iron thwarts and in the stillness seemed to mark time like the beating of a metronome while at the stern the rudder that trailed behind never ceased its gentle splash against the water once the moon rose they did not fail to make fine phrases finding the orb melancholy and full of poetry she even began to sing one night do you remember we were sailing etc her musical but weak voice died away along the waves and the winds carried off the trills that Leon heard past like the flapping of wings about him she was opposite him leaning against the partition of the shallop through one of whose raised blinds the moon streamed in her black dress whose drapery spread out like a fan made her seem more slender, taller her head was raised her hands clasped her eyes turned towards heaven at times the shadow of the willows hid her completely then she reappeared suddenly like a vision in the moonlight Leon on the floor by her side found under his hand a ribbon of scarlet silk a coat man looked at it and at last said perhaps it belongs to the party I took out the other day a lot of jolly folk gentlemen and ladies with cakes, champagne, cornets everything in style there was one especially a tall handsome man with small moustaches who was that funny and they all kept saying now tell us something Adolphe I think she shivered just Leon coming closer to her oh it's nothing no doubt it is only the night air and who doesn't want for women either softly out of the sailor thinking he was paying the stranger a compliment then spinning on his hands he took the oars again yet they had to part the adieu's were sad he was to send his letters to Mayor Rolay and she gave him such precise instructions about a double envelope that he admired greatly her amorous astuteness so you can assure me it is all right she said with her last kiss yes certainly but why he thought afterwards as he came back through the streets alone is she so very anxious to get this power of attorney end of part 3 chapter 3 this recording by Erin Elliott St. Louis Missouri part 3 chapter 4 of Madame Bovary this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert translated by Eleanor Marks Aveling part 3 chapter 4 Leon soon put on an air of superiority before his comrades avoided their company and completely neglected his work he waited for her letters he re-read them he wrote to her he called her to mind with all the strength of his desires and of his memories instead of lessening with absence this longing to see her again grew so that at last on Saturday morning he escaped from his office when from the summit of the hill he saw in the valley below the church spire with its thin flag swinging in the wind he felt that delight mingled with triumph and vanity and egoistic tenderness that millionaires must experience when they come back to their native village he went rambling round her house a light was burning in the kitchen he watched for her shadow behind the curtains but nothing appeared Mère Le François when she saw him uttered many exclamations she thought he had grown and was thinner while Artemis on the contrary thought him stouter and darker he dined in the little room as of your but alone without the tax gatherer for Binet, tired of waiting for the Irondelle had definitely put forward his meal one hour and now he dined punctually at five and yet he declared usually the rickety old's concern was late Leon however made up his mind and knocked at the doctor's door Madame was in her room and did not come down for a quarter of an hour the doctor seemed delighted to see him but he never stirred out that evening nor all the next day he saw her alone in the evening very late behind the garden in the lane in the lane as she had the other one it was a stormy night and they talked under an umbrella by lightning flashes their separation was becoming intolerable I would rather die said Emma she was writhing in his arms weeping had you, had you when shall I see you again they came back again to embrace once more and it was them that she promised him to find soon by no matter what means a regular opportunity for seeing one another in freedom at least once a week Emma never doubted she should be able to do this besides she was full of hope and money was coming to her on the strength of it she bought a pair of yellow curtains with large stripes for her room whose cheapness Monsieur Leureux had commanded she dreamt of getting a carpet and Leureux declaring that it wasn't drinking the sea politely undertook to supply her with one she could no longer do without his services twenty times a day she sent for him and he at once put by his business without a murmur people could not understand either why Mère Roulet breakfasted with her every day and even paid her private visits it was about this time that is to say the beginning of winter that she seemed seized with great musical fervour one evening when Charles was listening to her she began the same piece four times over each time with much vexation while he not noticing any difference cried bravo very good you are wrong to stop go on oh no it is execrable my fingers are quite rusty the next day he bagged her to play him something again very well to please you and Charles confessed she had gone off a little she played wrong notes and blundered then stopping short it is no use I ought to take some lessons but she bit her lips and added twenty francs a lesson that's too dear yes so it is rather said Charles giggling stupidly but it seems to me that one might be able to do it for less for there are artists of no reputation and who are often better than the celebrities find them said Emma the next day when he came home he looked at her shyly and at last could no longer keep back the words how obstinate you are sometimes I went to Berfuchère today well Madame Ligère assured me that her three young ladies who are at La Miséricorde have lessons at fifty sewer piece and that from an excellent mistress she shrugged her shoulders and did not open her piano again but when she passed by it if Bouvary were there she sighed ah my poor piano and when anyone came to see her she did not fail to inform them she had given up music and could not begin again now for important reasons then people commiserated her what a pity she had so much talent they even spoke to Bouvary about it they put him to shame and especially the chemist you are wrong one should never let any of the faculties of nature lie fallow besides just think my good friend that by inducing Madame to study you are economizing on the subsequent musical education of your child for my own part I think that mothers bought themselves to instruct their children that is an idea of who sows still rather new perhaps but that will end up by triumphing I am certain of it like mothers nursing their own children and vaccination so Charles returned once more to this question of the piano Emma replied bitterly that it would be better to sell it this poor piano that had given her vanity so much satisfaction to see it go as to Bouvary like the indefinable suicide of a part of herself if you liked he said a lesson from time to time that wouldn t after all be very runous but lessons she replied are only of use when followed up and thus it was she set about obtaining her husband s permission to go to town once a week to see her lover at the end of a month she was even considered to have made considerable progress end of part 3 chapter 4 recording by Eswar in Belgium in January 2008