 Part 2, Chapter 4 of Mme Bovary. When the first cold days set in, Emma left her bedroom for the sitting-room, a long apartment with a low ceiling, in which there was on the mantelpiece a large bunch of corals spread out against the looking-glass. Seated in her armchair near the window, she could see the villagers pass along the pavement. Twice a day, Léon went from his office to the Lyon d'Or. Emma could hear him coming from afar. She lent forward, listening, and the young man glided past the curtain, always dressed in the same way, and without turning his head. But in the twilight, when her chin resting on her left hand she let the embroidery she had begun fall on her knees, she often shuddered at the apparition of this shadow suddenly gliding past. She would get up and order the table to be laid. Mme called at dinner-time. Skull-cap in hand, he came in on tiptoe, in order to disturb no one, always repeating the same phrase, Good evening, everybody. Then when he had taken his seat at the table between the pair, he asked the doctor about his patience, and the latter consulted his as to the probability of their payment. Next they talked of what was in the paper. Mme, by this hour, knew it almost by heart, and he repeated it from end to end, with the reflections of the penia liners, and all the stories of individual catastrophes that had occurred in France or abroad. But the subject becoming exhausted, he was not slow in throwing out some remarks on the dishes before him. Sometimes even, half-rising, he delicately pointed out to Madame the tenderest morsel, or turning to the servant gave her some advice on the manipulation of stews and the hygiene of seasoning. He talked aroma, osmosome, juices, and gelatin in a bewildering manner. Moreover, Mme, with his head fuller of recipes than his shop of jars, excelled in making all kinds of preserves, vinegars, and sweet liqueurs. He knew also all the latest inventions in economic stoves, together with the art of preserving cheese, and of curing sick wines. At eight o'clock, Justin came to fetch him to shut up the shop. Then Mme gave him a sly look, especially if Felicite was there, for he half-noticed that his apprentice was fond of the doctor's house. The young dog, he said, is beginning to have ideas, and the devil take me if I don't believe he's in love with your servant. But a more serious fault with which he reproached Justin was his constantly listening to conversation. On Sunday, for example, one could not get him out of the dining-room with a Madame Mme had called him to fetch the children, who were falling asleep in the arm-chairs, and dragging down with their backs calico chair-covers that were too large. Not many people came to these soirees at the chemists, his scandal-mongering and political opinions having successfully alienated various respectable persons from him. The clerk never failed to be there. As soon as he heard the bell he ran to meet Mme Bouverie, took a shawl, and put away under the shop counter the thick-list shoes that she wore over her boots when there was snow. First they played some hands at Trente-un. Next M. Mme played Écarté with Emma. Léon behind her gave her advice. Standing up with his hands on the back of her chair, he saw the teeth of her comb that bit into her chignon. With every movement that she made to throw her cards, the right side of her dress was drawn up. From her turned-up hair a dark colour fell over her back, and growing gradually paler lost itself little by little into the shade. Then her dress fell on both sides of her chair, puffing out full of folds and reached the ground. When Léon occasionally felt the sole of his boot resting on it, he drew back as if he had trodden upon someone. When the game of cards was over, the druggist and the doctor played dominos, and Emma, managing her place, lent her elbow on the table, turning over the leaves of l'illustration. She had brought her lady's journal with her. Léon sat down near her. They looked at the engravings together, and waited for one another at the bottom of the pages. She often begged him to read her the verses. Léon declaimed them in a languid voice, to which he carefully gave a dying fall in the love passages. But the noise of the dominos annoyed him. Monsieur Omé was strong at the game. He could beat Charles and give him a double-six. Then the three hundred finished. They both stretched themselves out in front of the fire, and were soon asleep. The fire was dying out in the cinders. The teapot was empty. Léon was still reading. Emma listened to him, mechanically turning around the lampshade, on the gauze of which were painted clowns in carriages, and tightrope dances with their balancing poles. Léon stopped, pointing with a gesture to his sleeping audience. Then they talked in low tones, and their conversation seemed the more sweet to them because it was unheard. Thus a kind of bond was established between them, a constant commerce of books and of romances. Monsieur Bovary, little given to jealousy, did not trouble himself about it. On his birthday he received a beautiful frenological head, all marked with figures to the thorax and painted blue. This was an attention of the clerks. He showed him many others, even to doing errands for him at Rouen, and the book of a novelist having made the mania for cactuses fashionable, Léon bought some for Madame Bovary, bringing them back on his knees in the Iondele, pricking his fingers on their hard hairs. She had a board with a balustrade fixed against her window to hold the pots. The clerk too had his small hanging garden. They saw each other tending their flowers at their windows. Of the windows of the village there was one yet more often occupied. For on Sundays, from morning to night, and every morning when the weather was bright, one could see at the dorma window of the garret the profile of Monsieur Bîné bending over his lathe, whose monotonous humming could be heard at the Lyon d'Or. One evening, on coming home, Léon found in his room a rug in velvet and wool, with leaves on a pale ground. He called Madame Omé, Monsieur Omé, Justin, the children, the cook. He spoke of it to his chief. Everyone wanted to see this rug. Why did the doctor's wife give the clerk presents? It looked queer. They decided that she must be his lover. He made this seem likely, so ceaselessly did he talk of her charms and of her wit, so much so that Bîné once roughly answered him, What does it matter to me, since I'm not in her set? He tortured himself to find out how he could make his declaration to her, and was always halting between the fear of displeasing her and the shame of being such a coward. He wept with discouragement and desire. Then he took energetic resolutions, wrote letters that he tore up, put it off to times that he again deferred. Often he set out with determination to dare all, but this resolution soon deserted him in Emma's presence, and when Charles, dropping in, invited him to jump into his shares to go with him to see some patient in the neighborhood he at once accepted, bowed to Madame and went out. Her husband was he not something belonging to her? As to Emma, she did not ask herself whether she loved. Love, she thought, must come suddenly, with great outbursts and lightnings, a hurricane of the skies which falls upon life, revolutionizes it, roots up the will like a leaf, and sweeps the whole heart into the abyss. She did not know that on the terrace of houses it makes lakes when the pipes are choked, and she would thus have remained in her security when she discovered a rent in the wall of it. Part 2 Chapter 5 of Madame Bovary It was a Sunday in February, an afternoon when the snow was falling. They had all, Monsieur and Madame Bovary, Hormé and Monsieur Léon, grand to see a yarn mill that was being built in the valley a mile and a half from Yonville. The druggists had taken Napoleon and Attali to give them some exercise, and just had accompanied them, carrying the umbrellas on his shoulder. Nothing, however, could be less curious than this curiosity. A great piece of waste-ground on which Pelmel, amid a mass of sand and stones, were a few brake-wheels, already rusty, surrounded by a quadrangular building pierced by a number of little windows. The building was unfinished. The sky could be seen through the joists of the roofing. Attached to the stop-blank of the gable, a bunch of straw, mixed with corneas, fluttered its tri-coloured ribbons in the wind. Hormé was talking. He explained to the company the future importance of this establishment, computed the strength of the floorings, the thickness of the walls, and regretted extremely not having a yard-stick such as Monsieur Binet possessed for his own special use. Emma, who had taken his arm, bent lightly against his shoulder, and she looked at the son's mask, shedding afar through the mist his pale splendour. She turned. Charles was there. His cap was drawn down over his eyebrows, and his two thick lips were trembling, which added a look of stupidity to his face. His very back, his calm back, was irritating to behold, and she saw written upon his coat all the platitude of the bearer. While she was considering him thus, tasting in her irritation a sort of depraved pleasure, they all made a step forward. The cold that made him pale seemed to add a more gentle langer to his face. Between his cravat and his neck the somewhat loose collar of his shirt showed the skin. The lobe of his ear looked out from beneath a lock of hair, and his large blue eyes, raised to the clouds, seemed to Emma more limpid and more beautiful than those mountain lakes where the heavens are mirrored. The boy suddenly cried to the chemist, and he ran to his son, who had just precipitated himself into a heap of lime in order to whiten his boots. At the reproaches with which he was being overwhelmed, Napoleon began to roar, while Justin dried his shoes with a wisp of straw. But a knife was wanted. Charles offered his. Ah! she said to herself. He carried a knife in his pocket like a peasant. The whorefrost was falling, and they turned back to Yonville. In the evening Madame Boverie did not go to her neighbours, and when Charles had left, and she felt herself alone, the comparison rebegan with the clearness of a sensation almost actual, and with that lengthening of perspective which memory gives to things. Looking from her bed at the clean fire that was burning, she still saw, as she had down there, Léon standing up with one hand behind his cane, and with the other holding Athali, who was quietly sucking a piece of ice. She thought him charming. She could not tear herself away from him. She recalled his other attitudes on other days, the words he had spoken, the sound of his voice, his whole person, and she repeated, pouting out her lips as if for a kiss. Yes, charming! Charming! Is he not in love? she asked herself. But with whom? With me? All the proofs arose before her at once. Her heart leapt. The flame of the fire threw a joyous light upon the ceiling. She turned on her back, stretching out her arms. Then began the eternal lamentation. Oh, if heaven had outwilled it, and why not? What had prevented it? When Charles came home at midnight, she seemed to have just awakened, and as he made a noise undressing, she complained of a headache, then asked carelessly what had happened that evening. Monsieur Léon, he said, went to his room early. She could not help smiling, and she fell asleep, her soul filled with a new delight. The next day, at dusk, she received a visit from Monsieur Leurot, the draper. He was a man of ability with this shopkeeper. Born a Gascon, but bred a Norman, he grafted upon his southern volubility the cunning of the Couchoir. His fat, flabby, beardless face seemed dyed by a decoction of licorice, and his white hair made even more vivid the keen brilliance of his small black eyes. No one knew what he had been formerly. A peddler, said some, a banker at Routo according to others. What was certain was that he made complex calculations in his head that would have frightened Benet himself. Polite to obsequiousness, he always held himself with his back bent in the position of one who bows or who invites. After leaving at the door his hat surrounded with crepe, he put down a green bandwax on the table, and began by complaining to Madame with many civilities that he should have remained till that day without gaining her confidence. A poor shop like his was not made to attract a fashionable lady. He emphasised the words. Yet she had only to command and he would undertake to provide her with anything she might wish, either in haberdashery or linen, millinery or fancy goods, for he went to town regularly four times a month. He was connected with the best houses. You could speak of him at the Trois-Fraer at the Barre-Pedot or at the Grand Sauvage. All these gentlemen knew him as well as the insides of their pockets. Today, then, he had come to show Madame in passing various articles he happened to have thanks to the most rare opportunity, and he pulled out half a dozen embroidered collars from the box. Madame Bovary examined them. I do not require anything, she said. Madame Monsieur Leurot delicately exhibited three Algerian scarves, several packets of English needles, a pair of straw slippers, and finally four egg-cups in coconut-wood carved in open work by convicts. Then, with both hands on the table, his neck stretched out, his figure bent forward, open-mouthed, he watched Emma's look, who was walking up and down, undecided amid these goods. From time to time, as if to remove some dust, he filliped with his nail the silk of the scarves spread out at full length, and they rustled with a little noise, making in the green twilight the gold spangles of their tissue scintillate like little stars. How much are they? A mere nothing, he replied, a mere nothing, but there's no hurry, whenever it's convenient, we are not Jews. She reflected for a few moments, and ended again by declining Monsieur Leurot's offer. He replied quite unconcernedly, very well, we shall understand one another by and by. I have always got on with ladies, if I didn't with my own. Emma smiled. I wanted to tell you, he went on good-naturedly after his joke, that it isn't the money I should trouble about, why, I could give you some if need be. She made a gesture of surprise. Ah, he said quickly, and in a low voice, I shouldn't have to go so far to find you some, rely on that. And he began asking after Père Tellier, the proprietor of the Café Français, whom Monsieur Bovary was then attending. What's the matter with Père Tellier? He coughs so that he shakes his whole house, and I'm afraid that he'll soon want to deal covering rather than a flannel vest. He was such a rake as a young man. Those sort of people, madame, have not the least regularity. He's burnt up with brandy. Still, it's sad, all the same, to see an acquaintance go off. And while he fastened up his box, he discoursed about the doctor's patience. It's the weather, no doubt, he said, looking frowningly at the floor, that causes these illnesses. I, too, don't feel the thing. One of these days I shall even have to consult the doctor for a pain I have in my back. Well, good-bye, Madame Bovary. At your service you're a very humble servant. And he closed the door gently. Emma had her dinner served in her bedroom on a tray by the fireside. She was a long time over it. Everything was well with her. How good I was, she said to herself, thinking of the scarves. She heard some steps on the stairs. It was Leon. She got up and took from the chest of drawers the first pile of dusters to be hemmed. When he came in she seemed very busy. The conversation languished. Madame Bovary gave it up every few minutes, whilst he himself seemed quite embarrassed. Seated on a low chair near the fire, he turned round in his fingers the ivory thimble-case. She stitched on, or from time to time turned down the hem of the cloth with her nail. She did not speak. He was silent, captivated by her silence as he would have been by her speech. Poor fellow, she thought. How have I displeased her? he asked himself. At last, however, Leon said that he should have one of these days to go to Huan on some office business. Your music subscription is out. Am I to renew it? No, she replied. Why? Because, and pursing her lips she slowly drew a long stitch of grey thread. This work irritated Leon. It seemed to roughen the ends of her fingers. A gallant phrase came into his head, but he did not risk it. Then you are giving it up? he went on. What? she asked hurriedly. Music? Ah, yes. Have I not my house to look after, my husband to attend to? A thousand things, in fact. Many duties that must be considered first. She looked at the clock. Charles was late. Then she affected anxiety. Two or three times she even repeated, he is so good. The clock was fond of Monsieur Boveri, but this tenderness on his behalf astonished him unpleasantly. Nevertheless, he took up on his praises, which he said everyone was singing, especially the chemist. Ah, he is a good fellow, continued Emma. Certainly, replied the clock. And he began talking of Madame Aume, whose very untidy appearance generally made them laugh. What does it matter? interrupted Emma. A good housewife does not trouble about her appearance. Then she relapsed into silence. It was the same on the following days. Her talks, her manners, everything changed. She took interest in the housework, went to church regularly, and looked after her servant with more severity. She took berth from the nurse. When visitors called, Felicite brought her in, and Madame Boveri undressed her to show off her limbs. She declared she adored children. This was her consolation, her joy, her passion, and she accompanied her caresses with lyrical outbursts, which would have reminded anyone but the Yongville people of Sachette in Notre-Dame-de-Paris. When Charles came home he found his slippers put to warm near the fire. His waistcoat now never wanted lining, nor his shirt buttons, and it was quite a pleasure to see in the cupboard the night-caps arranged in piles of the same height. She no longer grumbled as formally at taking a turn in the garden. What he proposed was always done, although she did not understand the wishes to which she submitted without a murmur. And when Leon saw him by his fireside after dinner, his two hands on his stomach, his two feet on the fender, his two cheeks red with feeding, his eyes moist with happiness, the child crawling along the carpet, and this woman with the slender waist who came behind his armchair to kiss his forehead. What madness, he said to himself, and how to reach her. And thus she seemed so virtuous and inaccessible to him that he lost all hope, even the faintest. But by this renunciation he placed her on an extraordinary pinnacle. To him she stood outside those fleshly attributes from which he had nothing to obtain, and in his heart she rose ever, and became farther removed from him after the magnificent manner of an apotheosis that is taking wing. It was one of those pure feelings that do not interfere with life, that are cultivated because they are rare, and whose loss would afflict more than their passion rejoices. Emma grew thinner, her cheeks paler, her face longer. With her black hair, her large eyes, her acryline nose, her bird-like walk, and still always silent now, did she not seem to be passing through life scarcely touching it, and to bear on her brow the vague impress of some divine destiny. She was so sad and so calm, at once so gentle and so reserved, that near her one felt oneself seized by an icy charm as we shudder in churches at the perfume of the flowers mingling with the cold of the marble. The others did not even escape from this seduction. The chemist said, she is a woman of great parts who wouldn't be misplaced in a sub-prefecture. The housewives admired her economy, the patience, her politeness, the poor her charity. But she was eaten up with desires, with rage, with hate, that dress with the narrow folds hid a distracted fear of whose torment those chaste lips said nothing. She was in love with Léon, and sought solitude that she might with the more pleased delight in his image. The sight of his form troubled the voluptuousness of this mediation. Emma thrilled at the sound of his step, then in his presence the emotion subsided, and afterwards there remained to her only an immense astonishment that ended in sorrow. Léon did not know that when he left her, in despair she rose after he had gone to see him in the street. She concerned herself about his comings and goings. She watched his face, she invented quite a history to find an excuse for going to his room. The chemist's wife seemed happy to her to sleep under the same roof, and her thoughts constantly centred upon this house, like the Léon d'Or pigeons, who came there to dip their red feet and white wings in its gutters. But the more Emma recognized her love, the more she crushed it down, that it might not be evident, that she might make it less. She would have liked Léon to guess it, and she imagined chances, catastrophes, that should facilitate this. What restrained her was, no doubt, idleness and fear, and a sense of shame also. She thought she had repulsed him too much, that the time was past, that all was lost. Then pride and joy of being able to say to herself, I am virtuous, and to look at herself in the glass taking resigned poses, consoled her a little for the sacrifice she believed she was making. Then the lusts of the flesh, the longing for money, and the melancholy of passion all blended themselves into one suffering, and instead of turning her thoughts from it, she clave to it the more, urging herself to pain, and seeking everywhere occasion for it. She was irritated by an ill-served dish, or by a half-open door. Bewailed the velvet she had not, the happiness she had missed, her two exalted dreams, her narrow home. What exasperated her was that Charles did not seem to notice her anguish. His conviction that he was making her happy seemed to her an imbecile insult, and his sureness on this point in gratitude. For whose sake then was she virtuous? Was it not for him the obstacle to all felicity, the cause of all misery, and, as it were, the sharp clasp of that complex strap that buckled her in on all sides? On him alone, then, she concentrated all the various hatreds that resulted from her boredom, and every effort to diminish only augmented it, for this useless trouble was added to the other reasons for despair, and contributed still more to the separation between them. Her own gentleness to herself made her rebel against him. Domestic mediocrity drove her to lewd fancies, marriage tenderness to adulterous desires. She would have liked Charles to beat her, that she might have a better right to hate him, to revenge herself upon him. She was surprised sometimes at the atrocious conjectures that came into her thoughts, and she had to go on smiling, to hear repeated to her, at all hours, that she was happy, to pretend to be happy, to let it be believed. Yet she had loathing of this hypocrisy. She was seized with the temptation to flee somewhere with Leon, to try a new life, but at once a vague chasm full of darkness opened within her soul. Besides, he no longer loves me, she thought. What is to become of me? What help is to be hoped for? What consolation? What solace? She was left broken, breathless, inert, sobbing in a low voice, with flowing tears. Why don't you tell Master, the servant asked her when she came in during these crises? It is the nerves, said Emma, do not speak to him of it, it would worry him. Ah, yes, Felicite went on. You are just like Lagarin, Père Guerin's daughter, the fisherman at Pollet that I used to know at Dieppe before I came to you. She was so sad, so sad to see her standing upright on the threshold of her house, she seemed to you like a winding sheet spread out before the door. Her illness, it appears, was a kind of fog that she had in her head, and the doctors could do nothing, nor the priest either. When she was taken too bad, she went off alone to the seashore, so that the customs officer, going his rounds, often found her lying flat on her face, crying on the shingle. Then, after her marriage, it went off, they say. But with me, replied Emma, it was after marriage that it began. Part 2 Chapter 6 One evening when the window was open, and she, sitting by it, had been watching L'Estiboudois, the beetle, trimming the box, she suddenly heard the angelus ringing. It was the beginning of April, when the prim roses are in bloom, and a warm wind blows over the flower-beds newly turned, and the gardens, like women, seemed to be getting ready for the summer fets. Through the bars of the arbor and away beyond, the rivers seen in the fields, meandering through the grass and wandering curves. The evening vapours rose between the leafless poplars, touching their outlines with a violet tint, paler and more transparent than a subtle gauze caught a thwart their branches. In the distance, cattle moved about, neither their steps nor their lowing could be heard, and the bell, still ringing through the air, kept up its peaceful lamentation. With this repeated tinkling, the thoughts of the young woman lost themselves in old memories of her youth and school days. She remembered the great candlesticks that rose above the vases full of flowers on the altar, and the tabernacle with its small columns. She would have liked to be once more lost in the long line of white veils, marked off here and there by the stuffed black hoods of the good sisters, bending over their predieux. At mass on Sundays, when she looked up, she saw the gentle face of the virgin amid the blue smoke of the rising incense. Then she was moved. She felt herself weak and quite deserted, like the down of a bird whirled by the tempest, and it was unconsciously that she went towards the church, included to no matter what devotions, so that her soul was absorbed and all existence lost in it. On the plaza she met Les Tiboudois on this way back, for in order not to shorten his day's labour, he preferred interrupting his work, then beginning it again, so that he rang the Angelus to suit his own convenience. Besides, the ringing over a little earlier warned the lads of catechism hour. Already a few who had arrived were playing marbles on the stones of the cemetery. Others astride the wall, swung their legs, kicking with their clogs the large nettles growing between the little enclosure and the newest graves. This was the only green spot. All the rest was but stones, always covered with a fine powder, despite the vestry broom. The children enlist shoes ran about there as if it were an enclosure made for them. The shouts of their voices could be heard through the humming of the bell. This grew less and less with the swinging of the great rope, that hanging from the top of the bell-free, dragged its end on the ground. Swallows flitted to and fro, uttering little cries, cut the air with the edge of their wings, and swiftly returned to their yellow nests under the tiles of the coping. At the end of the church a lamp was burning, the wick of a night-light and a glass hung up. Its light from a distance looked like a white stain trembling in the oil. A long ray of the sun fell across the nave, and seemed to darken the lower sides and the corners. Where is the curee? asked Madame Bovary, of one of the lads, who was amusing himself by shaking a swivel in a hole too large for it. He is just coming, he answered. And in fact the door of the Presbytery grated, Abbe Bournesianne appeared, the children, Palmel, fled into the church. These young scamps, murmured the priest, always the same. Then, picking up a catechism all in rags that he had struck with his foot, they respect nothing. But as soon as he caught sight of Madame Bovary, excuse me, he said, I did not recognize you. He thrust the catechism into his pocket, and stopped short, balancing the heavy vestry-key between his two fingers. The light of the setting sun that fell full upon his face, paled the lasting of his cassock, shiny at the elbows, unraveled at the hem. Grease and tobacco stains followed along his broad chest the lines of the buttons, and grew more numerous the farther they were from his neck-cloth, in which the massive folds of his red chin rested. This was dotted with yellow spots, that disappeared beneath the coarse hair of his grayish beard. He had just dined, and was breathing noisily. How are you? he added. Not well, replied Emma. I am ill. Well, and so am I, answered the priest. These first warm days weaken one most remarkably, don't they? But after all, we are born to suffer, as St. Paul says. But what does Mr. Bovary think of it? He, she said, with a gesture of contempt. What? replied the good fellow, quite astonished. Doesn't he prescribe something for you? Ha! said Emma. It is no earthly remedy I need. But the curate from time to time looked into the church, where the kneeling boys were shouldering one another, and tumbling over like packs of cards. I should like to know, she went on. You look out, Rubudet! cried the priest in an angry voice. I'll warm your ears, you imp! Then turning to Emma. He's Budet, the carpenter's son. His parents are well off, and let him do just as he pleases. Yet he could learn quickly if he would, for he is very sharp. And so sometimes for a joke I call him Rubudet, like the road one takes to go to Mar-Homme. And I even say, Mauln-Ribudet. Ha! Ha! Mauln-Ribudet! The other day I repeated that just to Monsignor, and he laughed at it. He conned ascended to laugh at it. And how is Mr. Bovary? She seemed not to hear him, and he went on. Always very busy, no doubt, for he and I are certainly the busiest people in the parish. But he is doctor of the body, he added, with a thick laugh, and I of the soul. She fixed her pleading eyes upon the priest. Yes, she said. You solace, all sorrows. Ha! Don't talk to me of it, Madame Bovary. This morning I had to go to Badeauville for a cow that was ill. They thought it was under a spell. All their cows, I don't know how it is. But pardon me, Longmar and Boudet, bless me, will you leave off? And with a bound he ran into the church. The boys were just then clustering round the large desk, climbing over the presenter's footstool, opening the missile, and others on tiptoe were just about to venture into the confessional. But the priest suddenly distributed a shower of cuffs among them. Seizing them by the collars of their coats, he lifted them from the ground, and deposited them on their knees on the stones of the choir, firmly, as if he meant planting them there. Yes, said he, when he returned to Emma, unfolding his large cotton handkerchief, one corner of which he put between his teeth. Farmers are much to be pitied. Others, too, she replied. Assuredly, town labourers, for example. It is not they. Pardon, I have there known poor mothers of families, virtuous women, I assure you, real saints, who wanted even bread. But those, replied Emma, and the corners of her mouth twitched as she spoke. Those, Monsieur Le Cure, who have bread and have no— fire in the winter, said the priest. Oh, what does that matter? What? What does it matter? It seems to me that when one has firing and food, four after all. My God! My God! she sighed. It is indigestion, no doubt. You must get home, Madame Bovary, drink a little tea, that will strengthen you, or else a glass of fresh water with a little moist sugar. Why? And she looked like one awaking from a dream. Well, you see, you were putting your hand to your forehead, I thought she felt faint. Then be thinking himself. But you were asking me something. What was it? I really don't remember. I? Nothing, nothing, repeated Emma. And the glance she cast round her slowly fell upon the old man in the cassock. They looked upon another face to face, without speaking. Then, Madame Bovary, he said at last, Excuse me, but duty first, you know, I must look after my good for nothings. The first communion will soon be upon us, and I fear we shall be behind, after all. So after ascension day I keep them recta, on the straight and narrow path, an extra hour every Wednesday. Poor children, one cannot lead them too soon into the path of the Lord. As, moreover, he has himself recommended us to do by the mouth of his divine son. Good health to you, Madame, my respects to your husband. And he went into the church, making a genuine flexion as soon as he reached the door. Emma saw him disappear between the double row of forms, walking with a heavy tread, his head a little bent over his shoulder, and with his two hands half open behind him. Then she turned on her heel all of one piece, like a statue on a pivot, and went homewards. But the loud voice of the priest, the clear voices of the boys still reached her ear, and went on behind her. Are you a Christian? Yes, I am a Christian. What is a Christian? He who being baptised, baptised, baptised. She went up the steps of the staircase, holding on to the banisters, and when she was in her room threw herself into an arm chair. The whitish light of the window-panes fell with soft undulations. The furniture in its place seemed to have become more immobile, and to lose itself in the shadow as in an ocean of darkness. The fire was out, the clock went on ticking, and Emma vaguely marveled at this calm of all things while within herself was such tumult. But little Bertha was there, between the window and the work-table, tottering on her knitted shoes, and trying to come to her mother to catch hold of the ends of her apron-strings. Leave me alone, said the latter, putting her from her with her hand. The little girl soon came up closer against her knees, and leaning on them with her arms, she looked up with her large blue eyes, while a small thread of pure saliva dribbled from her lips on to the silk apron. Leave me alone, repeated the young woman quite irritably. Her face frightened the child, who began to scream. Will you leave me alone, she said, pushing her with her elbow. Bertha fell at the foot of the drawers against the brass handle, cutting her cheek, which began to bleed against it. Madame Bovary sprang to lift her up, broke the bell-rope, called for the servant with all her might, and she was just going to curse herself when Charles appeared. It was the dinner-hour he had come home. Look, dear, said Emma, in a calm voice. The little one fell down while she was playing, and has hurt herself. Charles reassured her, the case was not a serious one, and he went for some sticking-plaster. Madame Bovary did not go downstairs to the dining-room. She wished to remain alone to look after the child. Then, watching her sleep, the little anxiety she felt gradually wore off, and she seemed very stupid to herself, and very good to have been so worried just now at so little. Bertha, in fact, no longer sobbed. Her breathing now imperceptibly raised the cotton covering. Big tears lay in the corner of the half-closed eyelids, through whose lashes one could see two pale, sunken pupils, the plaster stuck on her cheek drew the skin obliquely. It is very strange, thought Emma, how ugly this child is. When at eleven o'clock Charles came back from the chemist's shop, whether he had gone after dinner to return the remainder of the sticking-plaster, he found his wife standing by the cradle. I assure you it's nothing, he said, kissing her on the forehead. Don't worry, my poor darling, you will make yourself ill." He had stayed a long time at the chemist's, although he had not seemed much moved. Ome, nevertheless, had exerted himself to buoy him up, to keep up his spirits. Then they had talked of the various dangers that threaten childhood, of the carelessness of servants. Madame Ome knew something of it, having still upon her chest the marks left by a basin full of soup that a cook had formally dropped on her pinner for, and her good parents took no end of trouble for her. The knives were not sharpened, nor the floors waxed. There were iron gratings to the windows and strong bars across the fireplace. The little Ome, in spite of their spirit, could not stir without someone watching them, at the slightest cold their father stuffed them with pectorals, and until they returned for, they all, without pity, had to wear wadded head protectors. This, it is true, was a fancy of Madame Ome. Her husband was inwardly afflicted at it, fearing the possible consequences of such compression to the intellectual organs. He even went so far as to say to her, Do you want to make caribs, or botacudos of them? Charles, however, had several times tried to interrupt the conversation. I should like to speak to you. He had whispered in the clerk's ear, who went upstairs in front of him. Can he suspect anything? Leon asked himself. His heart beat, and he wracked his brain with surmises. At last Charles, having shut the door, asked him to see himself what would be the price at Rouen of a fine daguerreotype. It was a sentimental surprise he intended for his wife, a delicate attention, his portrait and a frock coat. But he wanted first to know how much it would be. The inquiries would not put Monsieur Leon out, since he went to town almost every week. Why? Monsieur Ome suspected some young man's affair at the bottom of it, and intrigue, but he was mistaken. Leon was after no love-making. He was sadder than ever, as Madame Le François saw from the amount of food he left on his plate. To find out more about it, she questioned the tax-collector. Benet answered roughly that he wasn't paid by the police. All the same his companion seemed very strange to him, for Leon often threw himself back in his chair, and stretching out his arms, complained vaguely of life. It's because you don't take enough recreation, said the collector. What recreation? If I were you, I'd have a laugh. But I don't know how to turn, answered the clerk. Ah, that's true, said the other, rubbing his chin with an air of mingled contempt and satisfaction. Leon was weary of loving without any result. Moreover, he was beginning to feel that depression caused by the repetition of the same kind of life, when no interest inspires and no hope sustains it. He was so bored with Leonville and its inhabitants, that the sight of certain persons, of certain houses, irritated him beyond endurance, and the chemist, good fellow though he was, was becoming absolutely unbearable to him. Yet the prospect of a new condition of life frightened as much as it seduced him. This apprehension soon changed into impatience, and then Paris from afar sounded its fanfare of masked balls with the laugh of grisettes. As he was to finish reading there, why not set out at once? What prevented him? As he began making home preparations, he arranged his occupations beforehand. He furnished in his head an apartment. He would lead an artist's life there. He would take lessons on the guitar. He would have a dressing gown, a basket cap, blue velvet slippers. He even already was admiring two crossed foils over his chimney-piece, with the death's head on the guitar above them. The difficulty was the consent of his mother. Nothing, however, seemed more reasonable. Even his employer advised him to go to some other chambers where he could advance more rapidly. Taking a middle course, then, Leon looked for some place as a second clerk at Rouen, found none, and at last wrote his mother a long letter full of details, in which he set forth the reasons for going to live at Paris immediately. She consented. He did not hurry. Every day for a month, Yver carried boxes, valises, parcels for him, from Yonville to Rouen, and from Rouen to Yonville, and when Leon had packed up his wardrobe, had his three arm-chairs restuffed, bought a stock of nectars, in a word, had made more preparations than for voyage round the world, he put it off from week to week, until he received a second letter from his mother, urging him to leave, since he wanted to pass his examination before the vacation. When the moment for the farewells had come, Madame Aumay wept, Justin sobbed, Aumay, as a man of nerve, concealed his emotion. He wished to carry his friend's overcoat himself, as far as the gate of the notary, who was taking Leon to Rouen in his carriage. The latter had just time to bid farewell to Monsieur Bovary. When he reached the head of the stairs, he stopped, he was so out of breath, as he came in, Madame Bovary arose hurriedly. It is I again, said Leon. I was sure of it. She bit her lips, and a rush of blood flowing under her skin made her red from the roots of her hair to the top of her collar. She remained standing, leaning with her shoulder against the wane's gut. The doctor is not here, he went on. He is out. She repeated, he is out. Then there was silence. They looked at one another, and their thoughts, confounded in the same agony, clung close together like two throbbing breasts. I should like to kiss Bertha, said Leon. Emma went down a few steps, and called Felicité. He threw one long look around him that took in the walls, the decorations, the fireplace, as if to penetrate everything, carry away everything. But she returned, and the servant brought Bertha, who was swinging a windmill roof downwards at the end of a string. Leon kissed her several times on the neck. Good-bye, poor child. Good-bye, dear little one. Good-bye. And he gave her back to her mother. Take her away, she said. They remained alone. Mud and bowery. Her back turned. Her face pressed against a window-pane. Leon held his cap in his hand, knocking it softly against his thigh. It is going to rain, said Emma. I have a cloak, he answered. Ah! She turned around, her chin lowered, her forehead bent forward. The light fell on it, as on a piece of marble, to the curve of the eyebrows, without one's being able to guess what Emma was seeing on the horizon, or what she was thinking within herself. Well, good-bye, he sighed. She raised her head with a quick movement. Yes, good-bye. Go. They advanced towards each other. He held out his hand. She hesitated. In the English fashion, then, she said, giving her own hand wholly to him, and forcing a laugh. Leon felt it between his fingers, and the very essence of all his being seemed to pass down into that moist palm. Then he opened his hand, their eyes met again, and he disappeared. When he reached the marketplace, he stopped and hid behind a pillar to look for the last time at this white house, with the four green blinds. He thought he saw a shadow behind the window in the room. But the curtain, sliding along the pole as though no one were touching it, slowly opened its long oblique folds that spread out with a single movement, and thus hung straight and motionless as a plaster wall. Leon set off running. From afar he saw his employer's gig in the road, and by it a man and a horse apron holding the horse. Ome and Monsieur Guillaume were talking. They were waiting for him. Embrace me, said the druggist, with tears in his eyes. Here is your coat, my good friend. Mind the cold, take care of yourself, look after yourself. Come, Leon, jump in, said the notary. Ome bent over the splash-board, and in a voice broken by sobs uttered these three sad words. A pleasant journey. Good night, said Monsieur Guillaume. Give him his head. They set out, and Ome went back. Madame Bovary had opened her window overlooking her garden, and watched the clouds. They gathered round the sunset on the side of Rual, and then swiftly rolled back their black columns, behind which the great rays of the sun looked out like the golden arrows of a suspended trophy, while the rest of the empty heavens was white as porcelain. But a gust of wind bowed the poplars, and suddenly the rain fell. It pattered against the green leaves. Then the sun reappeared. The hens clucked. Sparrows shook their wings in the damp thickets, and the pools of water on the gravel as they flowed away carried off the pink flowers of Anacasia. Ah, how far off he must be already, she thought. Monsieur Ome, as usual, came at half-past six during dinner. Well, said he, so we've sent off our young friend. So it seems, replied the doctor. Then, turning on his chair, any news at home? Nothing much, only my wife was a little moved this afternoon. You know women, and nothing upsets them, especially my wife. And we should be wrong to object to that, since their nervous organization is much more malleable than ours. Poor Leon, said Charles, how will he live at Paris? Will he get used to it? Madame Bovary sighed. Get along, said the chemist, smacking his lips. The outings at restaurants, the masked balls, the champagne. All that'll be jolly enough, I assure you. I don't think he'll go wrong, objected Bovary. Nor do I, said Monsieur Ome quickly. Although he'll have to do like the rest for fear of passing for a Jesuit. And you don't know what a life those dogs lead in the Latin quarter with actresses. Besides, students are thought a great deal of in Paris. Provided they have a few accomplishments. They are received in the best society. There are even ladies of the faux-borgs Saint-Germain who fall in love with them, which subsequently furnishes them opportunities for making very good matches. But, said the doctor, I fear for him, that down there— You are right, interrupted the chemist. That is the reverse of the medal. And one is constantly obliged to keep one's hand in one's pocket there. Thus we will suppose you are in a public garden. An individual presents himself, well-dressed, even wearing an order, and whom one would take for a diplomatist. He approaches you, he insinuates himself, offers you a pinch of snuff, or picks up your hat. Then you become more intimate. He takes you to a café, invites you to his country-house, introduces you, between two drinks, to all sorts of people, and three-fourths of the time it's only to plunder your watch or lead you into some pernicious step. That is true, said Charles, but I was thinking especially of illnesses, of typhoid fever, for example, that attacks students from the provinces. Emma shuddered. Because of the change of regimen, continued the chemist, and of the perturbation that results therefrom in the whole system, and then the water at Paris, don't you know, the dishes at restaurants, all the spiced food end by heating the blood, and are not worth, whatever people may say of them, a good soup. For my own part, I have always preferred plain living. It is more healthy. So when I was studying pharmacy at Rouen, I boarded in a boarding-house. I dined with the professors. And thus he went on, expounding his opinions generally, and his personal likings, until Justin came to fetch him for a mulled egg that was wanted. Not a moment's peace, he cried. Always at it. I can't go out for a minute. Like a plough-horse. I always have to be moiling and toiling. What drudgery! Then, when he was at the door— By the way, do you know the news? What news? That it is very likely—Omey went on, raising his eyebrows and assuming one of his most serious expressions—that the agricultural meeting of the Seine-enferriure will be held this year at Yonville-à-Baye. The rumour at all events is going the round. This morning the paper alluded to it. It would be of the utmost importance for our district. But we'll talk it over later on. I can see, thank you, Justin has the lantern. End of Part 2, Chapter 6. Part 2, Chapter 7 of Madam 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 Gloria Zablecky. Madam Bovary, by Gustave Flaubert. Translated by Eleanor Marks Avelin. Part 2, Chapter 7. The next day was a dreary one for Emma. Everything seemed to her enveloped in a black atmosphere, floating confusedly over the exterior of things, and Sara was engulfed within her soul with soft shrieks such as the winter wind-makes in ruined castles. It was that reverie which we give to things that will not return. The lassitude that seizes you after everything was done. That pain and fine, that the interruption of every wanted movement, the sudden cessation of any prolonged vibration, brings on. As on the return from Vabia Sard, when the quadrilles were running in her head, she was full of a gloomy melancholy of a numb despair. Leon reappeared, taller, handsomer, more charming, more vague. Though separated from her, he had not left her. He was there, and the walls of the house seemed to hold his shadow. She could not detach her eyes from the carpet where he had walked, from those empty chairs where he had sat. The river still flowed on, and slowly drove its ripples along the slippery banks. They had often walked there to the murmur of the waves over the moss-covered pebbles, how bright the sun had been, what happy afternoons they had seen alone in the shade at the end of the garden. He read aloud, bareheaded, sitting on a footstool of dry sticks. The fresh wind of the meadow set trembling the leaves of the book, and the nasturtiums of the arbor. Ah, he was gone, the only charm of her life, the only possible hope of joy. Why had she not seized this happiness when it came to her? Why not have kept hold of it with both hands, with both knees, when it was about to flee from her? And she cursed herself for not having loved Leon. She thirsted for his lips. The wish took possession of her to run after and rejoin him, throw herself into his arms and say to him, It is I! I am yours! But Emma recoiled beforehand at the difficulties of the enterprise, and her desires increased by regret, became only the more acute. Henceforth the memory of Leon was the center of her boredom. It burnt there more brightly than the fire travelers have left on the snow of a Russian steppe. She sprang towards him, she pressed against him, she stirred carefully the dying embers sought all around her anything that could revive it. And the most distant reminiscences, like the most immediate occasions, what she experienced as well as what she imagined, her voluptuous desires that were unsatisfied, her projects of happiness that crackled in the wind like dead boughs, her sterile virtue, her lost hopes, the domestic tata-tate, she gathered it all up, took everything, and made it all serve as fuel for her melancholy. The flames, however, subsided, either because the supply had exhausted itself, or because it had been piled up too much. Love, little by little, was quelled by absence, regret stifled beneath habit, and this incendiary light that had impurpled her pale sky was overspread and faded by degrees. In the supine-ness of her conscience, she even took her repugnance toward her husband for aspirations towards her lover, the burning of hate for the warmth of tenderness. But as the tempest still raged, and as passion burnt itself down to the very cinders, and no help came, no sun rose, there was night on all sides, and she was lost in that terrible cold that pierced her. Then the evil days of Tostes began again. She thought herself now far more unhappy, for she had the experience of grief, with the certainty that it would not end. A woman who had laid on herself such sacrifices could well allow herself certain whims. She bought a gothic Purdue, and in a month spent fourteen francs on lemons for polishing her nails. She wrote to Ruan for a blue cashmere gown. She chose one of LaRue's finest scarves, and wore it knotted around her waist over her dressing gown. And with closed blinds and a book in her hand, she lay stretched out on a couch in this garb. She often changed her coiffure. She did her hair à la chinois, in flowing curls, in plated coils. She parted it on one side, and rolled it under like a man's. She wanted to learn Italian. She bought dictionaries, a grammar, and a supply of white paper. She tried serious reading, history, and philosophy. Sometimes, in the night, Charles woke up with a start, thinking he was being called to a patient. I'm coming, he stammered, and it was the noise of a match Emma had struck to relight the lamp. But her reading fared like her piece of embroidery, all of which only just begun, filter cupboard. She took it up, left it, passed on to other books. She had attacks in which she could easily have been driven to commit any folly. She maintained one day, in opposition to her husband, that she could drink off a large glass of brandy, and as Charles was stupid enough to dare her, she swallowed the brandy to the last drop. In spite of her vaporous airs, as the housewives of Jan Ville call them, Emma, all the same, never seemed gay. And usually, she had at the corners of her mouth that immobile contraction that puckers the faces of old maids, and those of men whose ambitions have failed. She was pale all over, white as a sheet, the skin of her nose was drawn at the nostrils, her eyes looked at you vaguely. After discovering three gray hairs on her temples, she talked much of her old age. She often fainted. One day she even spat blood, and as Charles fussed around her showing his anxiety, ba! she answered, what is it, matter? Charles fled to his study and wept there, both his elbows on the table, sitting in an armchair at his bureau under the phrenological head. Then he wrote to his mother, begging her to come, and they had many long consultations together on the subject of Emma. What should they decide? What was to be done, since she rejected all medical treatment? Do you know what your wife wants? replied Madame Bovary Sr. She wants to be forced to occupy herself with some manual work. If she were obliged, like so many others, to earn her living, she wouldn't have these vapours that come to her from a lot of ideas she stuffs into her head, and from the idleness in which she lives. Yet she is always busy, said Charles. Ah, always busy at what? Reading novels, bad books, works against religion, and in which they mock at priests and speeches taken from Voltaire. But all that leads you far astray, my poor child. Anyone who has no religion always ends by turning out badly. So it was decided to stop Emma reading novels. The enterprise did not seem easy. The good lady undertook it. She was, when she passed through Rouen, to go herself to the lending library and represent that Emma had discontinued her subscription. Would they not have a right to apply to the police if the librarian persisted all the same in his poisonous trade? The farewells of mother and daughter-in-law were cold. During the three weeks that they had been together, they had not exchanged half a dozen words, apart from the inquiries and phrases when they met at table, and in the evening before going to bed. Madame Bovary left on a Wednesday, the market day, at Yonville. The place since morning had been blocked by a row of carts, which, on end, and their shafts in the air, spread all along the line of houses from the church to the inn. On the other side there were canvas booths, were cotton checks, blankets, and woolen stockings were sold, together with harness for horses, and packets of blue ribbon, whose ends fluttered in the wind. The coarse hardware was spread out on the ground between pyramids of eggs and hampers of cheeses, from which sticky straw stuck out. Near the corn machines, clucking hens passed their necks through the bars of flat cages. The people, crowding in the same place and unwilling to move thence, sometimes threatened to smash the shop front of the chemist. On Wednesdays his shop was never empty, and the people pushed in less to buy drugs than for consultations. So great was Omeya's reputation in the neighboring villages. His robust aplomb had fascinated the rustics. They considered him a greater doctor than all the doctors. Emma was leaning out at the window. She was often there. The window in the provinces replaces the theatre in the promenade. She was amusing herself with watching the crowd of boors, when she saw a gentleman in a green velvet coat. He had on yellow gloves, although he wore heavy gothiers. He was coming toward the doctor's house, followed by a peasant walking with a bent head and quite a thoughtful air. Can I see the doctor? He asked Justin, who was talking on the doorsteps with felicité, and taking him for a servant of the house, tell him that Monsieur Rodolphe Boulanger of La Huchette is here. It was not from territorial vanity that the new arrival added of La Huchette to his name, but to make himself the better known. La Huchette, in fact, was in a state near Yonville, where he had just bought the chateau and two farms that he cultivated himself, without, however, troubling very much about them. He lived as a bachelor and was supposed to have at least 15,000 francs a year. Charles came into the room. Monsieur Boulanger introduced his man, who wanted to be bled because he felt a tingling all over. That'll purge me, he urged, as an objection to old reasoning. So Bovary ordered a bandage and a basin, and asked Justin to hold it. Then addressing the peasant, who was already pale, don't be afraid, my lad. No, no, sir, said the other. Get on. And with an air of bravado he held out his great arm. At the prick of the Lancet the blood spurred it out, splashing against the looking-glass. Hold the basin nearer, exclaimed Charles. Lore, said the peasant, one would swear it was a little fountain flowing. How red my blood is! That's a good sign, isn't it? Sometimes, answered the doctor, one feels nothing at first, and then Sincope sets in. And more especially with people of strong constitution like this man. At these words the rustic let go of the Lancet case he was twisting between his fingers. A shudder of his shoulders made the chair back creak, his hat fell off. I thought as much, said Bovary, pressing his finger on the vein. The basin was beginning to tremble in Justin's hands. His knees shook, he turned pale. Emma, Emma! called Charles. With one bound she came down the staircase. Some vinegar, he cried. Oh, dear, to it once! And in his emotion he could hardly put on the compress. It is nothing, said M. Boulanger quietly, taking Justin in his arms. He seated him on the table, with his back resting against the wall. Madame Bovary began taking off his cravat. The strings of his shirt had got into a knot, and she was for some minutes moving her light fingers about the young fellow's neck. Then she poured some vinegar on her comforic handkerchief. She moistened his temples with little dabs, and then blew upon them softly. The plowman revived, but Justin's Sincope still lasted, and his eyeballs disappeared in the pale sclerotics like blue flowers and milk. We must hide this from him, said Charles. Madame Bovary took the basin to put it under the table. With the movement she made in bending down her dress, it was a summer dress with four flounces, yellow, long in the waist and wide in the skirt, spread out under her on the flags of the room, and as Emma's stooping staggered a little as she stretched out her arms. The stuff here and there gave with the inflections of her bust. Then she went to fetch a bottle of water, and she was melting some pieces of sugar when the chemist arrived. The servant had been sent to fetch him in the tumult. Seeing his pupil's eyes staring, he drew a long breath. Then going around him he looked at him from head to foot. Fool, he said, really a little fool, a fool in four letters. A flabotomy is a big affair, isn't it? And a fellow who isn't afraid of anything. A kind of squirrel, just as he is who climbs to vertiginous heights to shake down nuts. Oh yes, you just talked to me boast about yourself. Here's a fine fitness for practicing pharmacy later on. For under serious circumstances you may be called before the tribunals, in order to enlighten the minds of the magistrates, and you would have to keep your head then, to reason, show yourself a man or else pass for an imbecile. Justine did not answer. The chemist went on. Who asked you to come? You're always pestering the doctor and madame. On Wednesday moreover your presence is indispensable to me. There are now twenty people in the shop. I left everything because of the interest I take in you. Come, get along, sharp, wait for me, and keep an eye on the jars. When Justine, who was rearranging his dress, had gone, they talked for a little while about fainting fits. Madame Bovery had never fainted. That is extraordinary for a lady, said Monsieur Boulanger. But some people are very susceptible. Thus in a duel I have seen a second lose consciousness at the mere sound of the loading of pistols. For my part, said the chemist, the sight of other people's blood doesn't affect me at all, but the mere thought of my own flowing would make me faint if I reflected upon it too much. Monsieur Boulanger, however, dismissed his servant, advising him to calm himself since his fancy was over. It procured me the advantage of making your acquaintance, he added, and he looked at Emma as he said this. Then he put three francs on the corner of the table, bowed negligently, and went out. He was soon on the other side of the river, this was his way back to Lausette, and Emma saw him in the meadow, walking under the poplars, slackening his pace now and then as one who reflects. She is very pretty, he said to himself. She is very pretty, this doctor's wife. Fine teeth, black eyes, a dainty foot, a figure like a Parisienne's. Where the devil does she come from? Wherever did that fat fellow pick her up? Monsieur Rodolphe Boulanger was thirty-four. He was of brutal temperament, and intelligent perspicacity, having, moreover, had much to do with women, and knowing them well. This one had seemed pretty to him. So he was thinking about her and her husband. I think he is very stupid. She is tired of him, no doubt. He has dirty nails and hasn't shaved for three days. While he is trotting after his patience, she sits there botching socks, and she gets bored. She would like to live in town and dance polkas every evening. Poor little woman! She is gaping after love like a carp after water on a kitchen table. With three words of gallantry she did do a one, I'm sure of it. She'd be tender, charming, yes, but how to get rid of her afterwards. Then the difficulties of love-making seen in the distance made him, by contrast, think of his mistress. She was an actress at Rouen, whom he kept. And when he had pondered over this image, with which, even in remembrance, he was satiated. Ah! Madame Bovary, he thought, is much prettier, especially fresher. Virginier is decidedly beginning to grow fat. She is so finicky about her pleasures, and, besides, she has a mania for prawns. The fields were empty, and around him Rodolphe heard only the regular beating of the grass striking against his boots, with a cry of the grasshopper hidden at a distance among the oats. He again saw Emma in her room, dressed as he had seen her, and he undressed her. Oh, I will have her, he cried, striking a blow with his stick at a clod in front of him, and he had once began to consider the political part of the enterprise. He asked himself, Where shall we meet? By what means? We shall always be having the brat on our hands, and the servant, the neighbors, and husband, all sorts of worries. Sure, one would lose too much time over it. Then he resumed, She really has eyes that pierce one's heart like a gimlet. And that pale complexion, I adore pale women. When he reached the top of the Argoel Hills, he had made up his mind. It's only finding the opportunities. Well, I will call in now and then. I'll send them Venice in poultry. I'll have myself bled, if need be. We shall become friends. I'll invite them to my place, by Jove, added he. There's the agricultural show coming on. She'll be there. I shall see her. I shall see her. We'll begin boldly, for that's the surest way.