 Part 3, Chapter 8 of Mme Bovary This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ruth Golding. Mme Bovary by Gustave Flaubert Translated by Eleanor Marks Averling. Part 3, Chapter 8 She asked herself as she walked along, What am I going to say? How shall I begin? And as she went on she recognised the thickets, the trees, the sea-rushes on the hill, the chateau yonder. All the sensations of her first tenderness came back to her, and her poor, aching heart opened out amorously. A warm wind blew in her face, the melting snow fell drop by drop from the buds of the grass. She entered, as she used to, through the small park gate. She reached the avenue bordered by a double row of dense lime trees, they were swaying their long whispering branches to and fro. The dogs in their kennels all barked, and the noise of their voices resounded, but brought out no one. She went up the large, straight staircase with wooden balusters that led to the corridor paved with dusty flags, into which several doors in a row opened, as in a monastery or an inn. His was at the top, right at the end, on the left. When she placed her fingers on the lock, her strength suddenly deserted her. She was afraid, almost wished he would not be there, though this was her only hope, her last chance of salvation. She collected her thoughts for one moment, and strengthening herself by the feeling of present necessity went in. He was in front of the fire, both his feet on the mantelpiece, looking a pipe. What! It is you! he said, getting up hurriedly. Yes, it is I, Rodolf. I should like to ask your advice. And despite all her efforts, it was impossible for her to open her lips. You have not changed. You are charming as ever. Oh! she replied bitterly. They are poor charms, since you disdain them. Then he began a long explanation of his conduct, excusing himself in vague terms, in default of being able to invent better. She yielded to his words, still more to his voice and the sight of him, so that she pretended to believe, or perhaps believed, in the pretext he gave for their rupture. This was a secret on which depended the honour, the very life of a third person. No matter, she said, looking at him sadly, I have suffered much. He replied philosophically, such is life. Has life, Emma went on, been good to you, at least, since our separation? Oh! neither good nor bad. Perhaps it would have been better never to have parted. Yes, perhaps. You think so? she said, drawing nearer, and she sighed. Oh! Rodolf, if you but knew, I loved you so. It was then that she took his hand, and they remained some time their fingers intertwined, like that first day at the show. With a gesture of pride he struggled against this emotion, but sinking upon his breast she said to him, How did you think I could live without you? One cannot lose the habit of happiness. I was desolate. I thought I should die. I will tell you about all that, and you will see, and you, you fled from me. For all the three years he had carefully avoided her, in consequence of that natural cowardice that characterises the stronger sex. Emma went on with dainty little nods, more coaxing than an amorous kitten. You love others. Confess it. Oh! I understand them, dear. I excuse them. You probably seduced them as you seduced me. You are indeed a man. You have everything to make one love you. But we'll begin again, won't we? We will love one another. See! I am laughing. I am happy. Oh, speak! And she was charming to see, with her eyes in which trembled a tear, like the rain of a storm in a blue corolla. He had drawn her upon his knees, and with the back of his hand was caressing her smooth hair, where in the twilight was mirrored like a golden arrow, one last ray of the sun. She bent down her brow. At last he kissed her on the eyelids quite gently with the tips of his lips. Why, you have been crying. What for? She burst into tears. Hodol thought this was an outburst of her love. As she did not speak he took this silence for a last remnant of resistance, and then he cried out, Oh, forgive me. You are the only one who pleases me. I was imbecile and cruel. I love you. I will love you always. What is it? Tell me." He was kneeling by her. Well, I am ruined, Hodol. You must lend me three thousand francs. But, but, said he, getting up slowly, while his face assumed a grave expression. You know, she went on quickly, that my husband had placed his whole fortune under notaries. He ran away. So we borrowed. The patients don't pay us. Moreover, the settling of the estate is not yet done. We shall have the money later on, but today for one to three thousand francs we are to be sold up. It is to be at once, this very moment, and counting upon your friendship I have come to you. Ah! thought Hodol, turning very pale. That was what she came for. At last he said, with a calm air, Dear madam, I have not got them. He did not lie. If he had had them he would no doubt have given them. Although it is generally disagreeable to do such fine things, a demand for money being of all the winds that blow upon love, the coldest and most destructive. At last she looked at him for some moments. You have not got them? she repeated several times. You have not got them. I want to have spared myself this last shame. You never loved me. You are no better than the others. She was betraying, ruining herself. Hodol interrupted her, declaring he was hard up himself. Hi, pity you, said Emma. Yes, very much. And fixing her eyes upon an embossed carabine that shone against its panoply. But when one is so poor, one doesn't have silver on the butt of one's gun. One doesn't buy a clock inlaid with tortoise shell. She went on, pointing to a bull timepiece, nor silver-guilt whistles the one's whips. And she touched them. Nor charms the one's watch. Oh, he wants for nothing, even to a liqueur stand in his room. For you love yourself. You live well. You have a chateau, farms, woods, you go hunting. You travel to Paris. Why, if it were but that, she cried, taking up two studs from the mantelpiece. But the least of these trifles one can get money for them. I do not want them, keep them. And she threw the two links away from her, their gold chain breaking as it struck against the wall. But I, I would have given you everything. I would have sold all worked for you with my hands. I would have begged on the high roads for a smile, for a look to hear you say thanks. And you sit there quietly in your armchair as if you had not made me suffer enough already. But for you and you know it I might have lived happily. What made you do it? Was it a bet? Yet you loved me. You said so. And but a moment since, ah, it would have been better to have driven me away. My hands are hot with your kisses. And there is the spot on the carpet where at my knees you swore an eternity of love. You made me believe you. For two years you held me in the most magnificent, the sweetest dream. Ah, our plans for the journey do you remember? Oh, your letter! Your letter! It tore my heart. And then when I come back to him, to him rich, happy, free, to implore the help the first stranger would give a suppliant, and bringing back to him all my tenderness, he repulses me, because it would cost him three thousand francs. I haven't got them, replied Rodolphe, with that perfect calm with which resigned rage covers itself as with a shield. She went out. The walls trembled, the ceiling was crushing her, and she passed back through the long alley, stumbling against the heaps of dead leaves scattered by the wind. At last she reached the ha-ha hedge in front of the gate. She broke her nails against the lock in her haste to open it. Then, a hundred steps farther on, breathless, almost falling, she stopped. And now, turning round, she once more saw the impassive chateau, with the park, the gardens, the three courts, and all the windows of the façade. She remained lost in stupor, and having no more consciousness of herself than through the beating of her arteries, that she seemed to hear bursting forth like a deafening music filling all the fields. The earth beneath her feet was more yielding than the sea, and the furrows seemed to her immense brown waves breaking into foam. Everything in her head, of memories, ideas, went off at once like a thousand pieces of fireworks. She saw her father, Leurot's closet, their room at home, another landscape. Madness was coming upon her. She grew afraid, and managed to recover herself in a confused way, it is true, for she did not in the least remember the cause of the terrible condition she was in, that is to say, the question of money. She suffered only in her love, and felt her soul passing from her in this memory, as wounded men, dying, feel their life ebbed from their bleeding wounds. Night was falling, crows were flying about. Suddenly it seemed to her that fiery spheres were exploding in the air like fulminating balls when they strike, and were whirling, whirling to melt at last upon the snow between the branches of the trees. In the midst of each of them appeared the face of Rodolf. They multiplied and drew near her, penetrating her. It all disappeared. She recognised the lights of the houses that shone through the fog. Now her situation, like an abyss, rose up before her. She was panting as if her heart would burst. Then, in an ecstasy of heroism that made her almost joyous, she ran down the hill, crossed the cow-plank, the footpath, the alley, the market, and reached the chemist's shop. She was about to enter, but at the sound of the bell someone might come. And slipping in by the gate, holding her breath, feeling her way along the walls, she went as far as the door of the kitchen, where a candle stuck on the stove was burning. She stood, in his shirt sleeves, was carrying out a dish. Ah! They are dining. I will wait. He returned. She tapped at the window. He went out. The key, the one for upstairs, where he keeps a— What? And he looked at her, astonished at the pallor of her face that stood out white against the black background of the night. She seemed to him extraordinarily beautiful and majestic as a phantom. Without understanding what she wanted, he had the presentiment of something terrible. But she went on quickly in a love voice, in a sweet, melting voice. I want it. Give it to me." As the partition wall was thin, they could hear the clatter of the forks on the plates in the dining-room. She pretended that she wanted to kill the rats that kept her from sleeping. I must tell Master. No, stay! Then with an indifferent air, oh! it's not worthwhile. I'll tell him presently. Come, light me upstairs. She entered the corridor into which the laboratory door opened. Against the wall was a key labelled Caffar Neum. Justin! called the drugist impatiently. Let us go up. And he followed her. The key turned in the lock, and she went straight to the third shelf so well did her memory guide her, seized the blue jar, tore out the cork, plunged in her hand, and withdrawing it full of a white powder, she began eating it. Stop! he cried, rushing at her. Hush! Someone will come! He was in despair, was calling out. Say nothing, for all the blame will fall on your master. Then she went home, suddenly calmed, and with something of the serenity of one that had performed a duty. Then Charle, distracted by the news of the restraint, returned home, Emma had just gone out. He cried aloud, wept, fainted, but she did not return. Where could she be? He sent félicité to Hommée, to Monsieur Tuvache, to Leureux, to the Lyon d'Or, everywhere, and in the intervals of his agony he saw his reputation destroyed, their fortune lost, Berthe's future ruined. By what? Not a word. He waited till six in the evening. At last, unable to bear it any longer, and fancying she had gone to Rouen, he set out along the high road, walked a mile, met no one, again waited, and returned home. She had come back. What was the matter? Why explain to me? She sat down at her writing-table and wrote a letter, which she sealed slowly, adding the date and the hour. Then she said, in a solemn tone, You are to read it to-morrow. Till then I pray you do not ask me a single question. No, not one. But, oh, leave me! She lay down full length on her bed. A bitter taste that she felt in her mouth awakened her. She saw Charles, and again closed her eyes. She was studying herself curiously to see if she were not suffering. But no, nothing as yet. She heard the ticking of the clock, the crackling of the fire, and Charles breathing as he stood upright by her bed. Ah, it is but a little thing, death, she thought. I shall fall asleep, and all will be over. She drank a mouthful of water and turned to the wall. The frightful taste of ink continued. I am a thirsty. Ah, so thirsty! She sighed. What is it? said Charles, who was handing her a glass. It is nothing. Open the window. I am choking. She was seized with a sickness so sudden that she had hardly time to draw out her handkerchief from under the pillow. Take it away! she said quickly. Throw it away! He spoke to her. She did not answer. She lay motionless, afraid that the slightest movement might make her vomit. But she felt an icy cold creeping from her feet to her heart. Ah, it is beginning! she murmured. What did you say? She turned her head from side to side with a gentle movement full of agony, while constantly opening her mouth as if something very heavy were weighing upon her tongue. At eight o'clock the vomiting began again. Charles noticed that at the bottom of the basin there was a sort of white sediment sticking to the sides of the porcelain. This is extraordinary, very singular, he repeated. But she said in a firm voice, No, you are mistaken. Then gently and almost as caressing her he passed his hand over her stomach. She uttered a sharp cry. He fell back, terror-stricken. Then she began to groan, faintly at first. Her shoulders were shaken by a strong shuddering, and she was growing paler than the sheets in which her clenched fingers buried themselves. Her unequal pulse was now almost imperceptible. Drops of sweat oozed from her bluish face that seemed as if rigid in the exhalations of a metallic vapour. Her teeth chattered, her dilated eyes looked vaguely about her, and to all questions she replied only with a shake of the head. She even smiled once or twice. Gradually her moaning grew louder, a hollow shriek burst from her. She pretended she was better and that she would get up presently. But she was seized with convulsions and cried out, Ah! My God! It is horrible! He threw himself on his knees by her bed. Tell me, what have you eaten? Answer for heaven's sake! And he looked at her with a tenderness in his eyes, such as she had never seen. Well, there, there, she said in a faint voice. He flew to the writing-table, tore open the seal, and read aloud, Accused no one. He stopped, passed his hands across his eyes, and read it over again. What? Help! Help! He could only keep repeating the word, Poisoned! Poisoned! Felicité ran to Hommé, who proclaimed it in the marketplace. Madame Le François heard it at the Lyon d'Or. Some got up to go and tell their neighbours, and all night the village was on the alert. Distraught, faltering, reeling, Charles wandered about the room. He knocked against the furniture, tore his hair, and the chemist had never believed that there could be so terrible a sight. He went home to write to Monsieur Caniver and to Dr. La Révière. He lost his head and made more than fifteen rough copies. Ippolite went to Neufchâtel, and Justin so spurred over his horse that he left it founded and three parts dead by the hill at Boiguillon. Charles tried to look up his medical dictionary, but could not read it. The lines were dancing. Be calm, said the drugist. We have only to administer a powerful antidote. What is the poison? Charles showed him the letter. It was arsenic. Very well, said Ome, we must make an analysis. For he knew that in cases of poisoning an analysis must be made, and the other, who did not understand, answered, Oh, do anything! Save her! Then going back to her he sank upon the carpet and lay there with his head leaning against the edge of her bed, sobbing. Don't cry, she said to him. Soon I shall not trouble you any more. Why was it? Who drove you to it? She replied, it had to be my dear. Weren't you happy? Is it my fault? I did all I could. Yes, that is true. You are good, you. And she passed her hand slowly over his hair. The sweetness of this sensation deepened his sadness. He felt his whole being dissolving in despair at the thought that he must lose her, just when she was confessing more love for him than ever. And he could think of nothing. He did not know, he did not dare. The urgent need for some immediate resolution gave the finishing stroke to the turmoil of his mind. So she had done, she thought, with all the treachery and meanness and numberless desires that had tortured her. She hated no one now. A twilight dimness was settling upon her thoughts. And of all earthly noises, Emma heard none, but the intermittent lamentations of this poor heart, sweet and indistinct, like the echo of a symphony, dying away. Bring me the child, she said, raising herself on her elbow. You are not worse, are you?" asked Charles. No, no. The child, serious and still half asleep, was carried in on the servant's arm in her long white nightgown from which her bare feet peeped out. She looked wanderingly at the disordered room and half closed her eyes, dazzled by the candles burning on the table. They reminded her, no doubt, of the morning of New Year's Day and mid-lent, when thus awakened early by candle-light she came to her mother's bed to fetch her presents, for she began saying, "'But where is it, Mama?' and as everybody was silent, "'But I can't see my little stocking.'" Felicity held her over the bed while she still kept looking towards the mantelpiece. "'Has nurse taken it?' she asked. And at this name that carried her back to the memory of her adulteries and her calamities, Madame Bovary turned away her head, as at the loathing of another bitterer poison that rose to her mouth. But Bertha remained perched on the bed. "'Oh, how big your eyes are, Mama! How pale you are! How hot you are!' Her mother looked at her. "'I'm frightened!' cried the child, recoiling. Emma took her hand to kiss it. The child struggled. "'That will do! Take her away!' cried Shal, who was sobbing in the alcove. Then the symptoms ceased for a moment. She seemed less agitated, and at every insignificant word, at every respiration, a little more easy, he regained hope. At last, when Canivé came in, he threw himself into his arms. "'Ah, it is you! Thanks! You are good, but she is better! See! Look at her!' His colleague was by no means of this opinion, and as he said of himself never beating about the bush, he prescribed an emetic in order to empty the stomach completely. She soon began vomiting blood. Her lips became drawn. Her limbs were convulsed, her whole body covered with brown spots, and her pulse slipped beneath the fingers like a stretched thread, like a harp string nearly breaking. After this, she began to scream horribly. She cursed the poison, railed at it, and implored it to be quick, and thrust away with her stiffened arms everything that Charles, in more agony than herself, tried to make her drink. He stood up, his hand achieved to his lips, with a rattling sound in his throat, weeping and choked by sobs that shook his whole body. Felicité was running hither and thither in the room. Homme, motionless, uttered great sighs. And Monsieur Canivé, always retaining his self-command, nevertheless began to feel uneasy. The devil, yet she has been purged, and from the moment that the cause ceases, the effect must cease, said Homme, that is evident. Oh, save her! cried Beauvary. And, without listening to the chemise, two were still venturing the hypothesis. It is, perhaps, a salutary paroxysm. Canivé was about to administer some thiriac when they heard the cracking of a whip. All the windows rattled, and a post-chairs drawn by three horses abreast up to their ears in mud drove at a gallop round the corner of the market. It was Dr. la Rivière. The apparition of a god would not have caused more commotion. Beauvary raised his hands, Canivé stopped short, and Homme pulled off his skullcap long before the doctor had come in. He belonged to that great school of surgery begotten of Bichard, to that generation now extinct of philosophical practitioners who, loving their art with a fanatical love, exercised it with enthusiasm and wisdom. Everyone in his hospital trembled when he was angry, and his students so revered him that they tried, as soon as they were themselves in practice, to imitate him as much as possible, so that in all the towns about they were found wearing his long wadded merino overcoat and black frockcoat, whose buttoned cuffs slightly covered his brawny hands, very beautiful hands, and that never knew gloves as though to be more ready to plunge into suffering. Distainful of honours of titles and of academies like one of the old-night hospitalers, generous, fatherly to the poor, and practising virtue without believing in it, he would almost have passed for a saint if the keenness of his intellect had not caused him to be feared as a demon. His glance, more penetrating than his visteries, looked straight into your soul, and dissected every lie assort all assertions and all reticences. And thus he went along, full of that debonair majesty that is given by the consciousness of great talent, of fortune, and of forty years of a laborious and irreproachable life. He frowned as soon as he had passed the door when he saw the cadaverous face of Emma, stretched out on her back with her mouth open. Then, while apparently listening to Canivé, he rubbed his fingers up and down beneath his nostrils and repeated, good, good. But he made a slow gesture with his shoulders. Bovary watched him. They looked at one another, and this man, accustomed as he was to the sight of pain, could not keep back a tear that fell on his shirt-frill. He tried to take Canivé into the next room. Charles followed him. She is very ill, isn't she? If we put on synapses, anything, or think of something, you who have saved so many. Charles caught him in both his arms and gazed at him wildly, imploringly, half fainting against his breast. Come, my poor fellow, courage, there is nothing more to be done. And Dr. la Rivière turned away. You are going? I will come back. He went out, only to give an order to the coachman with Monsieur Canivé, who did not care either to have Emma die under his hands. The chemist rejoined them on the plus. He could not, by temperament, keep away from celebrities, so he begged Monsieur la Rivière to do him the signal honour of accepting some breakfast. He sent quickly to the Lyon d'Or, for some pigeons, to the butchers for all the cutlets that were to be had, to Tuvache for cream, and to l'Esteboutois for eggs, and the druggist himself aided in the preparations, while Madame Omer was saying, as she pulled together the strings of her jacket, You must excuse us, sir, for in this poor place, when one hasn't been told the night before, wine-glasses, whispered Omer. If only we were in town, we could fall back upon stuffed trottles. Be quiet, sit down, doctor. He thought fit, after the first few mouthfuls, to give some details as to the catastrophe. We first had a feeling of sicity in the pharynx, then intolerable pains at the epigastium, superpurgation, coma. But how did she poison herself? I don't know, doctor, and I don't even know where she can have procured the arcenius acid. Shister, who was just bringing in a pile of plates, began to tremble. What's the matter? said the chemist. At this question the young man dropped the whole lot on the ground with a crash. Imba-seal! cried Omer, awkward, lout, blockhead, confounded ass! But suddenly, controlling himself, I wished, doctor, to make an analysis, and Primo, I delicately introduced a tube. You would have done better, said the physician, to introduce your fingers into her throat. His colleague was silent, having just before privately received a severe lecture about his emetic, so that this good canovay so arrogant and so verbose at the time of the clubfoot was to-day very modest. He smiled without ceasing in an approving manner. Omer dilated in amphiterionic pride, and the effecting sort of bovary vaguely contributed to his pleasure by a kind of egotistic reflex upon himself. Then the presence of the doctor transported him. He displayed his erudition, and invited pale-mail cantarities, upers, the manchineal, vipers. I have even read that various persons have found themselves under toxicological symptoms, and as it were, thunder-stricken by black pudding, that had been subjected to a two-vehiment fumigation. At least this was stated in a very fine report drawn up by one of our pharmaceutical chiefs, one of our masters, the illustrious Cadet de Gasicor. Madame Omer reappeared, carrying one of those shaky machines that are heated with spirits of wine, for Omer liked to make his coffee at table, having moreover torrified it, pulverized it, and mixed it himself. Saccharum, doctor, said he, offering the sugar. Then he had all his children brought down, anxious to have the physician's opinion on their constitutions. At last Monsieur la Rivière was about to leave when Madame Omer asked for a consultation about her husband. He was making his blood too thick by going to sleep every evening after dinner. Oh, it isn't his blood that's too thick, said the physician, and smiling a little at his unnoticed joke, the doctor opened the door. But the chemist's shop was full of people. He had the greatest difficulty in getting rid of Monsieur Tuvache, who feared his spouse would get inflammation of the lungs because she was in the habit of spitting on the ashes. Then of Monsieur Binet, who sometimes experienced sudden attacks of great hunger, and of Madame Caron, who suffered from tinglings, of L'heureur, who had vertigo, of L'Estiboudoir, who had rheumatism, of Madame le François, who had heartburn. At last the three horses started, and it was the general opinion that he had not shown himself at all obliging. Public attention was distracted by the appearance of Monsieur Bournesien, who was going across the market with the holy oil. Omer, as was due to his principles, compared priests to ravens attracted by the odour of death. The sight of an ecclesiastic was personally disagreeable to him, for the cassock made him think of the shroud, and he detested the one from some fear of the other. Nevertheless, not shrinking from what he called his mission, he returned to Bovary's, in company with Caniver, whom Monsieur la Révière, before leaving, strongly urged to make this visit. And he would, but for his wife's subjections, have taken his two sons with him in order to accustom them to great occasions, that this might be a lesson, an example, a solemn picture, that should remain in their heads later on. The room, when they went in, was full of mournful solemnity. On the work-table, covered over with a white cloth, there were five or six small balls of cotton in a silver dish, near a large crucifix between two lighted candles. Omer, her chin sunken upon her breast, had her eyes inordinately wide open, and her poor hands wandered over the sheets with that hideous and soft movement of the dying, that seems as if they wanted already to cover themselves with the shroud. Pale as a statue, and with eyes red as fire, Charles, not weeping, stood opposite her at the foot of the bed, while the priest, bending one knee, was muttering words in a low voice. She turned her face slowly, and seemed filled with joy on seeing suddenly the violet stole. No doubt finding again, in the midst of a temporary lull in her pain, the lost voluptuousness of her first mystical transports, with the visions of eternal beatitude that were beginning. The priest rose to take the crucifix. Then she stretched forward her neck, as one who is a thirst, and gluing her lips to the body of the man-god, she pressed upon it with all her inspiring strength, the fullest kiss of love that she had ever given. Then he recited the Missouri Artour, and the Indulgentiam, dipped his right thumb in the oil, and began to give extreme unction. First upon the eyes that had so coveted all worldly pomp, then upon the nostrils that had been greedy of the warm breeze and amorous odours, then upon the mouth that had uttered lies, that had curled with pride and cried out in lewdness, then upon the hands that had delighted in sensual touches, and finally upon the soles of the feet so swift of yore, when she was running to satisfy her desires, and that would now walk no more. The curee wiped his fingers through the bit of cotton dipped in oil into the fire, and came and sat down by the dying woman to tell her that she must now blend her sufferings with those of Jesus Christ and abandon herself to the Divine Mercy. Finishing his exhortations, he tried to place in her hand a blessed candle, symbol of the celestial glory with which she was soon to be surrounded. Emma, too weak, could not close her fingers, and the taper but for Monsieur Bournesien would have fallen to the ground. However, she was not quite so pale, and her face had an expression of serenity as if the sacrament had cured her. The priest did not fail to point this out. He even explained to Bovary that the Lord sometimes prolonged the life of persons when he thought it meet for their salvation, and Charles remembered the day when, so near death, she had received the communion. Perhaps there was no need to despair, he thought. In fact, she looked around her slowly as one awakening from a dream. Then, in a distinct voice, she asked for her looking-glass and remained some time bending over it until the big tears fell from her eyes. Then she turned away her head with a sigh and fell back upon the pillows. Her chest soon began panting rapidly, the whole of her tongue protruded from her mouth, her eyes as they rolled groupala, like the two globes of a lamp that is going out, so that one might have thought her already dead but for the fearful laboring of her ribs, shaken by violent breathing, as if the soul was struggling to free itself. Felicité knelt down before the crucifix, and the druggist himself slightly bent his knees, while Monsieur Canivé looked out vaguely at the place. Bournesien had again begun to pray, his face bowed against the edge of the bed, his long black cassock trailing behind him in the room. Charles was on the other side, on his knees, his arms outstretched towards Emma. He had taken her hands and pressed them, shuddering at every beat of her heart, as at the shaking of a falling ruin. As the death-rattle became stronger, the priest prayed faster, his prayers mingled with the stifled sobs of Bovary, and sometimes all seemed lost in the muffled murmur of the Latin syllables that told like a passing bell. Suddenly on the pavement was heard a loud noise of clogs and the clattering of a stick, and a voice rose, a raucous voice, that sang, Made in the warmth of a summer day, dream of love and of love always. Emma raised herself like a galvanised corpse, her hair undone, her eyes fixed, staring, where the sickle blades have been, Nannette gathering ears of corn, past his bending down my queen, to the earth where they were born. The blind man, she cried, and Emma began to laugh, an atrocious, frantic, despairing laugh, thinking she saw the hideous face of the poor wretch that stood out against the eternal night like a menace. The wind is strong this summer day, her petticoat has flown away. She fell back upon the mattress in a convulsion. They all drew near. She was dead. End of Part 3 Chapter 8 Recording by Ruth Golding Part 3 Chapter 9 of Mme Bovary This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Ruth Golding Mme Bovary by Gustave Flaubert Translated by Eleanor Marks Averling Part 3 Chapter 9 There is always, after the death of any one, a kind of stupefaction, so difficult is it to grasp this advent of nothingness and to resign ourselves to believe in it. But still, when he saw that she did not move, Shal threw himself upon her, crying, Farewell! Farewell! Ome and Canivé dragged him from the room. Restrain yourself! Yes, said he, struggling. I'll be quiet. I'll not do anything. But leave me alone. I want to see her. She is my wife! And he wept. Cry, said the chemist, Let nature take her course. That will solace you. Weakers and a child Shal let himself be led downstairs into the sitting-room, and Mme Ome soon went home. On the plus he was accosted by the blind man, who, having dragged himself as far as Yonville in the hope of getting the antiflogistic pomade, was asking every passer-by where the druggist lived. There now, as if I hadn't got other fish to fry! Well, so much the worse, you must come later on! And he entered the shop hurriedly. He had to write two letters, to prepare a soothing potion for Bovary, to invent some lie that would conceal the poisoning and work it up into an article for the finale without counting the people who were waiting to get the news from him. And when the Yonvillers had all heard his story of the arsenic that she had mistaken for sugar in making a vanilla cream, Ome once more returned to Bovary's. He found him alone, M. Canneve had left, sitting in an armchair near the window, staring with an idiotic look at the flags of the floor. "'Now,' said the chemist, "'you ought yourself to fix the hour for the ceremony.' "'Why?' "'What ceremony?' Then in a stammering, frightened voice, "'Oh, no! No, not that! No! I want to see her here!' Ome, to keep himself in countenance, took up a water-bottle on the what-not to water the geraniums. "'Ah, thanks,' said Charles. "'You are good.' But he did not finish choking beneath the crowd of memories that this action of the drugist recalled to him. Then to distract him, Ome thought fit to talk a little horticulture. Plants wanted humility.' Charles bowed his head in sign of approbation. "'Aside, the fine days will soon be here again.' "'Ah,' said Bovai.' The drugist, at his wit's end, began softly to draw aside the small window-curtain. "'Hello, there's Monsieur Tuvage-passing!' Charles repeated, like a machine, "'Monsieur Tuvage-passing!' Ome did not dare to speak to him again about the funeral arrangements. It was the priest who succeeded in reconciling him to them. He shut himself up in his consulting-room, took a pen, and after sobbing for some time, wrote, I wish her to be buried in her wedding-dress with white shoes and a wreath. Her hair is to be spread out over her shoulders. Three coffins, one of oak, one of mahogany, one of lead. "'Let no one say anything to me. I shall have strength. Overall there is to be placed a large piece of green velvet. This is my wish. See that it is done.' The two men were much surprised at Bovai's romantic ideas. The chemist at once went to him and said, "'This velvet seems to me as superfitation, besides the expense.' "'What's that to you?' cried Shell. "'Leave me. You did not love her. Go!' The priest took him by the arm for a turn in the garden. He discoursed on the vanity of earthly things. God was very great, was very good. One must submit to his decrees without a murmur. Nay must even thank him.' Shell burst out into blasphemies. "'I hate your God!' The spirit of rebellion is still upon you,' sighed the ecclesiastic. Bovai was far away. He was walking with great strides along by the wall near the espalier, and he ground his teeth. He raised to heaven looks of malediction, but not so much as a leaf stirred. A fine rain was falling. Shell, whose chest was bare, at last began to shiver. He went in and sat down in the kitchen. At six o'clock a noise like a clatter of old iron was heard on the plus. It was the Irandel coming in, and he remained with his forehead against the window-pane, watching all the passengers get out one after the other. Felicité put down a mattress for him in the drawing-room. He threw himself upon it and fell asleep. Although a philosopher, Monsieur Omé respected the dead, so bearing no grudge to poor Charles, he came back again in the evening to sit up with the body, bringing with him three volumes and a pocket-book for taking notes. Monsieur Bournesien was there, and two large candles were burning at the head of the bed that had been taken out of the alcove. The druggist on whom the silence weighed was not long before he began formulating some regrets about this unfortunate young woman. And the priest replied that there was nothing to do now but pray for her. Yet Omé went on, one of two things. Either she died in a state of grace as the church has it, and then she has no need about prayers, or else she departed impertinent, that is, I believe, the ecclesiastical expression, and then Bournesien interrupted him, replying testily that it was nonetheless necessary to pray. But objected the chemist, since God knows all our needs, what can be the good of prayer? What? cried the ecclesiastic. Prayer? Why, aren't you a Christian? Excuse me, said Omé. I admire Christianity. To begin with, it enfranchised the slaves introduced into the world of morality. That isn't the question. All the texts—oh, oh, ask the texts, look at history. It is known that all the texts have been falsified by the Jesuits. Shal came in, and advancing towards the bed slowly drew the curtains. Emma's head was turned towards her right shoulder, the corner of her mouth, which was open, seemed like a black hole at the lower part of her face. Her two thumbs were bent into the palms of her hands. A kind of white dust besprinkled her lashes, and her eyes were beginning to disappear in that viscous pallor that looks like a thin web, as if spiders had spun it over. The sheet sunk in from her breast to her knees, and then rose at the tips of her toes, and it seemed to Shal that infinite masses, an enormous load, were weighing upon her. The church clock struck, too. They could hear the loud murmur of the river flowing in the darkness at the foot of the terrace. Monsieur Bourgnisien from time to time blew his nose noisily, and Omé's pen was scratching over the paper. Come, my good friend, he said, withdraw. This spectacle is tearing you to pieces." Shal once gone. The chemist and the curate recommenced their discussions. Read Voltaire, said the one. Read Dolbach. Read Encyclopedia. Read the letters of some Portuguese Jews, said the other. Read the meaning of Christianity by Nicholas, formerly a magistrate. They grew warm, they grew red, they both talked at once without listening to each other. Bourgnisien was scandalised at such audacity. Omé marvelled at such stupidity. And they were on the point of insulting one another when Shal suddenly reappeared. A fascination drew him. He was continually coming upstairs. He stood opposite her, the better to see her, and he lost himself in a contemplation so deep that it was no longer painful. He recalled stories of catalepsy, the marvels of magnetism, and he said to himself that by willing it with all his force he might perhaps succeed in reviving her. Once he even bent towards her and cried in a low voice, Emma! Emma! His strong breathing made the flames of the candles tremble against the wall. At daybreak Madame Bovary's senior arrived. Shal, as he embraced her, burst into another flood of tears. She tried, as the chemist had done, to make some remarks to him on the expenses of the funeral. He became so angry that she was silent and he even commissioned her to go to town at once and buy what was necessary. Shal remained alone the whole afternoon. They had taken Bertha to Madame Omé's. Felicité was in the room upstairs with Madame Le François. In the evening he had some visitors. He rose, pressed their hands, unable to speak. Then they sat down near one another and formed a large semicircle in front of the fire. With lowered faces and swinging one leg crossed over the other knee they uttered deep sighs at intervals. Each one was inordinately bored and yet none would be the first to go. Omé, when he returned at nine o'clock for the last two days only Omé seemed to have been on the place was laden with a stock of camphor, of benzene and aromatic herbs. He also carried a large jar full of chlorine water to keep off all miasmeter. Just then the servant, Madame Le François and Madame Bovary's senior were busy about Emma finishing dressing her and they were drawing down the long stiff veil that covered her to her satin shoes. Felicité was sobbing, Ah, my poor mistress, my poor mistress! Look at her, said the landlady sighing. How pretty she still is! Now couldn't you swear she was going to get up in a minute? Then they bent over her to put on her wreath. They had to raise the head a little and a rush of black liquid issued as if she were vomiting from her mouth. Oh, goodness the dress, take care! cried Madame Le François. Now just come and help, she said to the chemist. Perhaps you're afraid. I afraid! replied he, shrugging his shoulders. I dare say I've seen all sorts of things at the hospital when I was studying pharmacy. We used to make punch in the dissecting room. Nothingness does not terrify a philosopher. And as I often say I even intend to leave my body to the hospitals in order later on to serve science. The curier on his arrival inquired how Monsieur Bovary was and on the reply of the druggist went on the blow you see is still too recent. Then Omer congratulated him on not being exposed like other people to the loss of a beloved companion whence there followed a discussion on the celibacy of priests. For, said the chemist, it is unnatural that a man should do without women. There have been crimes, but could heaven cried the ecclesiastic. How do you expect an individual who is married to keep the secrets of the confessional, for example? Omer fell foul of the confessional. Bornésien defended it. He enlarged on the acts of restitution that it brought about. He cited various anecdotes about thieves who had suddenly become honest. Military men on approaching the tribunal of penitence had felt the scales fall from their eyes. At Freiburg there was a minister his companion was asleep. Then he felt somewhat stifled by the over-heavy atmosphere of the room. He opened the window. This awoke the chemist. Come, take a pinch of snuff, he said to him. Take it, it will relieve you. A continual barking was heard in the distance. Do you hear that dog howling? said the chemist. They smell the dead, replied the priest. It's like bees, they leave their hives on the deceased of any person. Omer made no remark upon these prejudices, for he had again dropped asleep. Monsieur Bornésien, stronger than he, went on moving his lips gently for some time. Then insensibly his chin sank down. He let fall his big black boot and began to snore. They sat opposite one another with protruding stomachs, puffed up faces and frowning looks, after so much disagreement uniting at last in the same human weakness. And they moved no more than the corpse by their side, that seemed to be sleeping. Charles coming in did not wake them. It was the last time. He came to bid her farewell. The aromatic herbs were still smoking and spirals of bluish vapour blended at the window sash with the fog that was coming in. There were few stars and the night was warm. The wax of the candles fell in great drops upon the sheets of the bed. Charles watched them burn, tiring his eyes against the glare of their yellow flame. The watering on the satin gown shimmered white as moonlight. Emma was lost beneath it and it seemed to him that spreading beyond her own self she blended confusedly with everything around her. The silence, the night, the passing wind, the damp odours rising from the ground. Then suddenly he saw her in the garden at Tost on a bench against the thorn hedge or else at Rouen in the streets on the threshold of their house in the yard at Berthol. He again heard the laughter of the happy boys beneath the apple trees. The room was filled with the perfume of her hair and her dress rustled in his arms with a noise like electricity. The dress was still the same. For a long while he thus recalled all his lost joys her attitudes, her movements, the sound of her voice. Upon one fit of despair followed another and even others inexhaustible as the waves of an overflowing sea. A terrible curiosity seized him. Slowly with the tips of his fingers palpitating he lifted her veil that he uttered a cry of horror that awoke the other two. They dragged him down into the sitting-room. Then Felicite came up to say that he wanted some of her hair. Cut some off! replied the druggist. And as she did not dare to he himself stepped forward scissors in hand. He trembled so that he pierced the skin of the temple in several places. At last stiffening himself against emotion, Ome gave two or three great cuts at random that left white patches amongst that beautiful black hair. The chemist and the curée plunged anew into their occupations not without sleeping from time to time of which they accused each other reciprocally at each fresh awakening. Then Monsieur Bournesien sprinkled the room with holy water and Ome threw a little chlorine water on the floor. Felicite had taken care to put on the chest of drawers for each of them a bottle of brandy, some cheese and a large roll and the druggist who could not hold out any longer about four in the morning sighed my word I should like to take some sustenance. The priest did not need any persuading. He went out to go and say mass and then came back and then they ate and hobnobbed giggling a little without knowing why stimulated by that vague gaiety that comes upon us after times of sadness and at the last glass the priest said to the druggist as he clapped him on the shoulder we shall end by understanding one another in the passage downstairs they met the undertaker's men who were coming in then Charles for two hours for the torture of hearing the hammer resound against the wood next day they lowered her into her oak coffin that was fitted into the other two but as the beer was too large they had to fill up the gaps with the wool of a mattress at last when the three lids had been planed down, nailed, soldered it was placed outside in front of the door the house was thrown open and the people of Yarnfield began to flock round old Huo arrived and fainted on the plus when he saw the black cloth end of part three chapter nine recording by Ruth Golding part three chapter ten of Madame Bovery this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Lori Hemp Madame Bovery by Gustave Flaubert translated by Eleanor Marx Aveling part three chapter ten he had only received the chemist's letter thirty-six hours after the event and from consideration for his feelings Homay had so worded it that it was impossible to make out what it was all about first the old fellow had fallen as if struck by apoplexy next, he understood that she was not dead but she might be at last he had put on his blouse taken his hat fastened his spurs to his boots and set out at a full speed and the whole of the way old out panting was torn by anguish once even he was obliged to dismount he was dizzy he heard voices round about him he felt himself going mad day broke he saw three black hens asleep in a tree he shuddered horrified at this omen then he promised the holy virgin three chassubles for the church and that he would go barefooted from the cemetery at Berthau to the chapel of Vasenville he entered Madame shouting for the people of the inn burst opened the door with a thrust of his shoulder made for a sack of oats emptied a bottle of sweet cider into the manger and again mounted his nag whose feet struck fire as it dashed along he said to himself that no doubt they would save her the doctors would discover some remedy surely he remembered all the miraculous cures he had been told about then she appeared to him dead she was there before his eyes lying on her back in the middle of the road he leaned up and the hallucination disappeared at Cancampois to give himself hurt he drank three cups of coffee one after the other he fancied they had made a mistake in the name and writing he looked for the letter in his pocket felt it there but did not dare to open it at last he began to think it was all a joke someone spiked the jest of some wag and besides if she were dead one would have known it well there was nothing extraordinary about the country the sky was blue the trees swayed a flock of sheep passed he saw the village he was seen coming bending forward upon his horse belaboring it with great blows the girth stripping with blood when he had recovered consciousness he fell weeping into Bovery's arms my girl, Emma, my child tell me where are the girls the drug has separated them these horrible details are useless I will tell this gentleman all about it here are the people coming dignity, come now, philosophy the poor fellow tried to show himself brave and repeated several times yes, courage oh, cried the old man so I will have by God I'll go along on her to the end the bell began tolling all was ready and seated in the stall of the choir side by side they saw pass and repass in front of them continually the three chanting choristers the serpent player was blowing with all his might Monsieur Bournicien in full vestments was singing in a shrill voice he bowed before the tabernacle raising his hands stretched out his arms L'estiboudoir went about the church with his whale-bone stick to the altar between four rows of candles Charles felt inclined to get up and put them out yet he tried to stir himself to a feeling of devotion to throw himself into the hope of a future life in which he should see her again he imagined to himself that she had gone on a long journey far away for a long time but when he thought of relying there and that all was over that they would lay her in the earth this gloomy, despairful rage at times he thought he felt nothing more and he enjoyed this lull in his pain whilst at the same time he reproached himself for being a wretch the sharp noise of an iron-firrelled stick was heard on the stones striking them irregular intervals it came from the end of the church and stopped short at the lower aisles a man in a coarse brown jacket knelt down painfully it was Hippolyte, the stable boy at the Leandard he had put on his new leg one of the coasters went round the nave making a collection and the coppers chinked one after the other on the silver plate oh, make haste, I am in pain cried Bovery, angrily throwing him a five-rank piece the churchmen thanked him with a deep bow they sang they knelt, they stood up it was endless once in the early times they had been to mass together and they had sat down on the other side on the right by the wall the bell began again there was a great moving of cheers the bearers slipped their three staves under the coffin and everyone left the church then Justin appeared at the door of the shop he suddenly went in again pale staggering people were at the windows to see the procession pass Charles at the head walked erect he affected a brave air and saluted with a nod those who coming out from the lanes or from their doors stood amidst the crowd the six men three on either side walked slowly, panting a little the priests, the coasters and the two choir boys recited the profundus and their voices echoed over the fields rising and falling with their undulations sometimes they disappeared in the windings of the path the great silver cross rose always before the trees the women followed in black cloaks with turned down hoods each of them carried in her hands a large lighted candle and Charles felt himself growing weaker at this continual repetition of prayers and torches beneath this oppressive odor of wax and of cassocks a fresh breeze was blowing the rye and coals were sprouting little dew drops trembled at the roadside and on the hawthorn hedges all sorts of joyous sounds filled the ear the jolting of a curt rolling a fur off in the ruts the crowing of a cock repeated again and again or the gambling of a foal running away under the apple trees the pure sky was fretted with rosy clouds a bluish haze rested upon the cots covered with iris Charles, as he passed, recognized each courtyard he remembered mornings like this after visiting some patient he came out from one and returned to her the black cloth bestrew with white beads blew up from time to time laying bare the coffin the tired bearers walked more slowly and it advanced with constant jerks like a boat that pitches with every wave they reached the cemetery the men went right down to a place in the grass where a grave was dug they ranged themselves all round and while the priest spoke the red soil thrown up at the sides kept noiselessly slipping down at the corners then, when the four ropes were arranged the coffin was placed upon them he watched it descend it seemed descending forever at last a thud was heard the ropes creaked as they were drawn up then, Bournissien took the spade handed to him by L'Estiboudois with his left hand all the time sprinkling water with the right he vigorously threw in a large spadeful the coffin, struck by the pebbles gave forth that dread sound that seems to us the reverberation of eternity the ecclesiastic passed the holy water sprinkler to his neighbor he swung it gravely then handed it to Charles who sank to his knees in the earth and threw in handfuls of it crying adieu! he sent her kisses he dragged himself towards the grave to engulf himself with her and he soon grew calmer feeling perhaps like the others a vague satisfaction that it was all over old Rualt, on his way back began quietly smoking a pipe which, oh my! in his innermost conscience thought not quite the thing he also noticed that Monsieur Binet had not been present and that Kouvache had made off after Mass and that Theodore, the notary's servant wore a blue coat as if one could not have got a black coat as a custom by Kouvache and to share his observations with others he went from group to group they were deploring Emma's death especially Lerhege who had not failed to come to the funeral poor little woman what a trouble for her husband the druggist continued do you know that but for me he would have committed some fatal attempt upon himself such a good woman to think that I saw her only last Saturday in my shop I haven't had leisure so I decided to try to prepare a few words that I would have cast upon her tomb Charles, on getting home undressed an old Rualt put on his blue blouse it was a new one and as he had often during the journey wiped his eyes on the sleeves the dye had stained his face and the traces of tears made lines in the layers of dust that covered it Madame Bovary's senior was with them all three were silent at last the old fellow sighed do you remember my friend when you had just lost your first deceased I consoled you at the time I thought of something to say then but now then with a loud groan that took his whole chest ah this is the end for me do you see I saw my wife go then my son and now today it's my daughter he wanted to go back at once to Bratot saying that he could not sleep in this house he even refused to see his granddaughter no no it would grieve me too much only you'll kiss her many times for me goodbye you're a good fellow and then I shall never forget that he said slapping his thigh never fear you shall always have your turkey but when he reached the top of the hill he turned back as he had turned once before on the road of San Victor when he had parted from her the windows of the village were all on fire beneath the slanting rays of the sun sinking behind the field he put his hand over his eyes and the enclosure of walls were trees here and there form black clusters between white stones then he went on his way at a gentle trot for his nag had gone lame despite their fatigue Charles and his mother stayed very long that evening talking together they spoke of the days of the past and of the future she would come to live at Yonville she would keep house for him they would never part again she was ingenious and caressing rejoicing in her heart at gaining once more a vision that had wandered from her for so many years midnight struck the village as usual was silent and Charles awake thought always of her Rodolphe who to distract himself had been rambling about the wood all day was sleeping quietly in his chateau and Leon down yonder always slept there was another who at that hour was not asleep on the grave between the pine trees a child was on his knees weeping and his heart rent by sobs was beating in the shadow beneath the load of an immense regret sweeter than the moon and fathomless as a night the gate suddenly graded it was lestiboudois he came to fetch his spade that he had forgotten he recognized Justin climbing over the wall and at last knew who was the culprit who stole these potatoes End of Part 3 Chapter 10 Recording by Laurie Hemp Part 3 Chapter 11 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 Recording by Bob Sage Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert Part 3 Chapter 11 The next day Charles had the child brought back she asked for her mama they told her she was away that she would bring her back some playthings Bertha spoke of her again several times then at last thought no more of her the child's gayity broke Bovary's heart and he had to bear besides the intolerable consolations of the chemist money troubles soon began again Monsieur Lure urging on anew Pierre and Charles pledged himself for exorbitant sums for he would never consent to let the smallest of the things that had belonged to her be sold his mother was exasperated with him he grew even more angry than she did he had all together changed she left the house then everyone began taking advantage of him Mademoiselle L'Empereur presented a bill for six months teaching although Emma had never taken a lesson despite the receded bill she had shown Bovary it was an arrangement between the two women the man at the circulating library demanded three years subscriptions Mayor Roulet claimed the postage due for some twenty letters and when Charles asked for an explanation she had the delicacy to reply oh I don't know it was for her business affairs with every debt he paid Charles thought he had come to the end of them but others followed ceaselessly he sent in accounts for professional attendance he was shown the letters his wife had written then he had to apologize Felicité now wore Madame Bovary's gowns not all for he had kept some of them and he went to look at them in her dressing room locking himself up there but her height and often Charles seeing her from behind was seized with an illusion and cried out oh stay stay but at Whitsuntide she ran away from Yanville carried off by Theodore stealing all that was left of the wardrobe it was about this time that the widow Dupuis had the honor to inform him of the marriage of Monsieur Léon Dupuis and the notary of Yévetot to Mademoiselle Léocadie Le Bœuf de Bon-de-Vide Charles, among the other congratulations he sent him, wrote this sentence how glad my poor wife would have been one day when wandering aimlessly about the house he had gone up to the attic he felt a pellet of fine paper under his slipper he opened it and read courage, Emma courage, I would not bring misery into your life it was Rodolphe's letter fallen to the ground between the boxes where it had remained and that wind from the dormer window had just blown towards the door and Charles stood motionless and staring in the very same place where long ago Emma, in despair and paler even than he had thought of dying at last he discovered a small R at the bottom of the second page what did this mean he remembered Rodolphe's attentions his sudden disappearance his constrained air when they had met two or three times since but the respectful tone of the letter deceived him perhaps they loved one another platonically he said to himself besides Charles was not to the bottom of things he shrank from the proofs and his vague jealousy was lost in the immensity of his woe everyone he thought must have adored her all men assuredly must have coveted her she seemed but the more beautiful to him for this he was seized with a lasting furious desire for her that inflamed his despair and that was boundless because it was now unrealizable to please her as if she were still living he adopted her predilections her ideas he bought patent leather boots and took to wearing white cravats he put cosmetics on his mustache and like her side notes of hand she corrupted him from beyond the grave he was obliged to sell his silver piece by piece next he sold the drawing room furniture all the rooms were stripped but the bedroom her own room remained as before after his dinner Charles went up there he pushed the round table in front of the fire and drew up her armchair he sat down opposite it a candle burnt in one of the gilt candlesticks Bertha by his side was painting prints he suffered poor man at seeing her so badly dressed with laceless boots and the armholes of her pinafore torn down to the hips the woman took no care of her but she was so sweet so pretty and her little head bent forward so gracefully letting the dear fair hair fall over her rosy cheeks that an infinite joy came upon him a happiness mingled with bitterness like those ill-made wines that taste of resin he mended her toys made her puppets from cardboard or sewed up half torn dolls then if his eyes felled upon the work box a ribbon lying about or even a pin left in a crack of the table he began to dream and looked so sad that she became as sad as he no one now came to see him poor Justin had run away to Rouen where he was a grocer's assistant and the druggist children saw less and less of the child Monsieur Omé not caring seeing the difference of their social position to continue the intimacy the blind man whom he had not been able to cure with the pomade had gone back to the hill of Guaguiam where he told the travelers of the vain attempt of the druggist to such an extent that Omé when he went to town hid himself behind the curtains of the Irondelle to avoid meeting him he detested him and wishing in the interest of his own reputation to get rid of him at all costs he directed against him a secret battery that betrayed the depth of his intellect and the baseness of his vanity thus for six consecutive months one could read in the Fanalle de Rouen editorials such as these all who bend their steps toward the fertile plains of Picardie have no doubt remarked by the Guaguiam hill a wretch suffering from a horrible facial wound he importunes, persecutes one and levies a regular tax on all travelers are we still living in the monstrous times of the middle ages when vagabonds were permitted to display on our public places leprosy and scruffulas they had brought back from the crusades or in spite of the laws against vagabondage the approaches to our great towns continue to be affected by bans of beggars some are seen going about alone and these are not perhaps the least dangerous what are our ideals about then Homme invented anecdotes yesterday by the Guaguiam hill a skittish horse and then followed the story of an accident caused by the presence of the blind man he managed so well that the fellow was locked up but he was released he began again and Homme began again it was a struggle Homme wanted for his foe was condemned to lifelong confinement in an asylum this success emboldened him and henceforth there was no longer a dog run over a barn burnt down a woman beaten in the parish of which he did not immediately inform the public guided always by the great of priests he instituted comparisons between the elementary and clerical schools to the detriment of the latter called to mind the massacre of Saint Bartholomew apropos of a grant of 100 francs to the church and denounced abuses aired new views that was his phrase Homme was digging and delving he was becoming dangerous however he was stifling the journalism and soon a book a work was necessary to him then he composed general statistics of the canton of Yonville followed by climatological remarks the statistics drove him to philosophy he busied himself with great questions the social problem moralization of the poorer classes piscic culture cow-chook railways etc he even began to blush at being a bourgeois he effected the artistic style he smoked he bought two chic pompadour statuettes to adorn his drawing room he by no means gave up his shop on the contrary he kept well abreast of new discoveries he followed the great movement of chocolates he was the first to introduce cocoa and revalenta into the Seine inférieur he was enthusiastic about the hydroelectric pulver matcher chains he wore one himself and when at night he took off his flannel vest Madame Homme stood quite dazzled before the golden spiral beneath which he was hidden and felt her ardor redouble for this man more bandaged than a sithian and splendid as one of the magi he had fine ideas about Emma's tomb first he proposed a broken column with some drapery next a pyramid then a temple of Vesta a sort of rotunda or else a massive ruins and in all his plans Homme always stuck to the weeping willow which he looked upon as the indispensable symbol of sorrow Charles and he made a journey to Rouen together to look at some tombs at a funeral furnishers accompanied by an artist one Vaux-Frillard Louis who made puns all the time at last after having examined some hundred designs having ordered an estimate and made another journey to Rouen Charles decided in favor of a mausoleum which on the two principal sides was to have a spirit bearing an extinguished torch as to the inscription Homme could think of nothing so fine as Sta Viator as the first traveler and he got no further he racked his brains he constantly repeated Sta Viator at last he hit upon Emma Bielin Conjugem Calcas tread upon a loving wife which was adopted a strange thing was that Bovary while continually thinking of Emma was forgetting her he grew desperate as he felt this image fading from his memory to retain it yet every night he dreamt of her it was always the same dream he drew near her but when he was about to clasp her she fell into decay in his arms for a week he was seen going to church in the evening Monsieur Bournicien even paid him two or three visits then gave him up moreover the old fellow was growing intolerant against the spirit of the age and never failed every other week in his sermon to recount the death agony of Voltaire who died devouring his excrements as everyone knows in spite of the economy with which Bovary lived he was far from being able to pay off his old debts Leroy refused to renew any more bills a distraint became imminent then he appealed to his mother who consented to let him take a mortgage on her property but with a great many recriminations against Emma and in return for her sacrifice she asked for a shawl that had escaped the depredations of Felicité Charles refused to give it her they quarreled she made the first overtures of reconciliation by offering to have the little girl who could help her in the house to live with her Charles consented to this all his courage failed him and there was a final complete rupture as his affections vanished he clung more closely to the love of his child she made him anxious however for she coughed sometimes and had red spots on her cheeks opposite his house flourishing in Mary was the family of the chemist with whom everything was prospering Napoleon helped him in the laboratory Athali embroidered him a skullcap Irma cut out rounds of paper to cover the preserves and Franklin recited Pythagoras table in a breath he was the happiest of fathers the most fortunate of men not so a secret ambition devoured him Omey hankered after the cross of the Legion of Honor he had plenty of claims on it first having at the time of the cholera distinguished myself by boundless devotion second by having published at my expense various works of public utility such as and he recalled his pamphlet entitled Cider its manufacturer and effects besides observation of the lannigerus plant laus sent to the academy his volume of statistics and down to his pharmaceutical thesis without counting I am a member of several learned societies he was a member of a single one in short he cried making a pirouette if it were only for distinguishing myself at fires then Omey inclined towards the government he secretly did the prefect great service during the elections he sold himself in a word prostituted himself he even addressed a petition to the sovereign he implored him to do him justice he called him our good king and compared him to Henry IV and every morning the druggist rushed for the paper to see if his nomination were in it it was never there at last unable to bear it any longer he had a grass plot in his garden designed to represent the star of the cross of honor with two little strips of grass running from the top to imitate he walked round it with folded arms meditating on the folly of the government and the ingratitude of men from respect or from a sort of sensuality that made him carry on his investigation slowly Charles had not yet opened the secret drawer of a rosewood desk which Emma had generally used one day however he sat down before it turned the key and pressed the spring all Leon's letters were there there could be no doubt this time he devoured them to the very last ransacked every corner all the furniture all the drawers behind the walls sobbing crying aloud disraught mad he found a box and broke it open with a kick Rudolph's portrait flew full in his face in the midst of the overturned love letters people wondered at his despondency he never went out saw no one refused even to visit his patients then they said he shut himself up to drink sometimes however some curious person climbed onto the garden hedge and saw with amazement this long bearded, shabbily clothed the wild man who wept aloud as he walked up and down in the evening in the summer he took his little girl with him and led her to the cemetery on the wall when the only light left in the place was that of Benet's window the voluptuousness of his grief was however incomplete for he had no one near him to share it and he paid visits to Madame de François to be able to speak of her but the landlady only listened with half an ear having troubles like himself for Le Reu had at last established the favorite de commerce who enjoyed a great reputation for doing errands insisted on a rise of wages and was threatening to go over to the opposition shop one day when he had gone to the market at Argue to sell his horse his last resource he met Rodolphe they both turned pale when they caught sight of one another Rodolphe who had only sent his card first stammered some apologies then grew bolder and pushed his assurance it was in the month of August and very hot to the length of inviting him to have a bottle of beer at the public house leaning on the table opposite him he chewed his cigar as he talked and Charles was lost in the reverie at this face that she had loved he seemed to see again something of her in it it was a marvel to him he would have liked to have been this man the other went on talking filling out with banal phrases all the gaps where an illusion might slip in Charles was not listening to him Rodolphe noticed it and he followed the succession of memories that crossed his face this gradually grew redder the nostrils throbbed fast the lips quivered there was at last a moment when Charles full of somber fury fixed his eyes on Rodolphe who in something of fear was not talking but soon the same look of weary lassitude came back to his face I don't blame you he said Rodolphe was dumb and Charles his head in his hands went on in a broken voice and with the resigned accent of infinite sorrow no I don't blame you now he even added a fine phrase a fatality Rodolphe who had managed the fatality thought the remark very offhand from a man in his position comic even and a little mean the next day Charles went to sit down on the seat in the arbor rays of light were straying through the trellis the vine leaves threw their shadows on the sand the jasmans perfumed the air the heavens were blue the banished flies buzzed round the lilies in bloom and Charles was suffocating like a youth beneath the vague love influences that filled his aching heart at seven o'clock little Bertha who had not seen him all the afternoon went to fetch him to dinner his head was thrown back against the wall his eyes closed his mouth open and in his hand was a long truss of black hair she said and thinking he wanted to play she pushed him gently he fell to the ground he was dead thirty six hours after at the druggist's request Monsieur Caviney came thither he made a post mortem and found nothing when everything had been sold twelve frocks seventy five centimes remained that served to pay for mademoiselle and to her grandmother the good woman died the same year old Rual was paralyzed and it was an aunt who took charge of her she is poor and sends her to a cotton factory to earn a living since Bovary's death three doctors have followed one another at Yangville without any success so severely did Omé attack them he has an enormous practice the authorities treat him with consideration and public opinion protects him he has just received the cross of the Legion of Honor