The Greatest Novels & Novellas of Gustave Flaubert. Gustave Flaubert

must know botany, be able to distinguish between plants, you understand, which are the wholesome and those that are deleterious, which are unproductive and which nutritive, if it is well to pull them up here and re-sow them there, to propagate some, destroy others; in brief, one must keep pace with science by means of pamphlets and public papers, be always on the alert to find out improvements.”

      The landlady never took her eyes off the “Cafe Francois” and the chemist went on —

      “Would to God our agriculturists were chemists, or that at least they would pay more attention to the counsels of science. Thus lately I myself wrote a considerable tract, a memoir of over seventy-two pages, entitled, ‘Cider, its Manufacture and its Effects, together with some New Reflections on the Subject,’ that I sent to the Agricultural Society of Rouen, and which even procured me the honour of being received among its members — Section, Agriculture; Class, Pomological. Well, if my work had been given to the public — ” But the druggist stopped, Madame Lefrancois seemed so preoccupied.

      “Just look at them!” she said. “It’s past comprehension! Such a cookshop as that!” And with a shrug of the shoulders that stretched out over her breast the stitches of her knitted bodice, she pointed with both hands at her rival’s inn, whence songs were heard issuing. “Well, it won’t last long,” she added. “It’ll be over before a week.”

      Homais drew back with stupefaction. She came down three steps and whispered in his ear —

      “What! you didn’t know it? There is to be an execution in next week. It’s Lheureux who is selling him out; he has killed him with bills.”

      “What a terrible catastrophe!” cried the druggist, who always found expressions in harmony with all imaginable circumstances.

      Then the landlady began telling him the story that she had heard from Theodore, Monsieur Guillaumin’s servant, and although she detested Tellier, she blamed Lheureux. He was “a wheedler, a sneak.”

      “There!” she said. “Look at him! he is in the market; he is bowing to Madame Bovary, who’s got on a green bonnet. Why, she’s taking Monsieur Boulanger’s arm.”

      “Madame Bovary!” exclaimed Homais. “I must go at once and pay her my respects. Perhaps she’ll be very glad to have a seat in the enclosure under the peristyle.” And, without heeding Madame Lefrancois, who was calling him back to tell him more about it, the druggist walked off rapidly with a smile on his lips, with straight knees, bowing copiously to right and left, and taking up much room with the large tails of his frock-coat that fluttered behind him in the wind.

      Rodolphe, having caught sight of him from afar, hurried on, but Madame Bovary lost her breath; so he walked more slowly, and, smiling at her, said in a rough tone —

      “It’s only to get away from that fat fellow, you know, the druggist.” She pressed his elbow.

      “What’s the meaning of that?” he asked himself. And he looked at her out of the corner of his eyes.

      Her profile was so calm that one could guess nothing from it. It stood out in the light from the oval of her bonnet, with pale ribbons on it like the leaves of weeds. Her eyes with their long curved lashes looked straight before her, and though wide open, they seemed slightly puckered by the cheekbones, because of the blood pulsing gently under the delicate skin. A pink line ran along the partition between her nostrils. Her head was bent upon her shoulder, and the pearl tips of her white teeth were seen between her lips.

      “Is she making fun of me?” thought Rodolphe.

      Emma’s gesture, however, had only been meant for a warning; for Monsieur Lheureux was accompanying them, and spoke now and again as if to enter into the conversation.

      “What a superb day! Everybody is out! The wind is east!”

      And neither Madame Bovary nor Rodolphe answered him, whilst at the slightest movement made by them he drew near, saying, “I beg your pardon!” and raised his hat.

      When they reached the farrier’s house, instead of following the road up to the fence, Rodolphe suddenly turned down a path, drawing with him Madame Bovary. He called out —

      “Good evening, Monsieur Lheureux! See you again presently.”

      “How you got rid of him!” she said, laughing.

      “Why,” he went on, “allow oneself to be intruded upon by others? And as to-day I have the happiness of being with you — ”

      Emma blushed. He did not finish his sentence. Then he talked of the fine weather and of the pleasure of walking on the grass. A few daisies had sprung up again.

      “Here are some pretty Easter daisies,” he said, “and enough of them to furnish oracles to all the amorous maids in the place.”

      He added, “Shall I pick some? What do you think?”

      “Are you in love?” she asked, coughing a little.

      “H’m, h’m! who knows?” answered Rodolphe.

      The meadow began to fill, and the housewives hustled you with their great umbrellas, their baskets, and their babies. One had often to get out of the way of a long file of country folk, servant-maids with blue stockings, flat shoes, silver rings, and who smelt of milk, when one passed close to them. They walked along holding one another by the hand, and thus they spread over the whole field from the row of open trees to the banquet tent.

      But this was the examination time, and the farmers one after the other entered a kind of enclosure formed by a long cord supported on sticks.

      The beasts were there, their noses towards the cord, and making a confused line with their unequal rumps. Drowsy pigs were burrowing in the earth with their snouts, calves were bleating, lambs baaing; the cows, on knees folded in, were stretching their bellies on the grass, slowly chewing the cud, and blinking their heavy eyelids at the gnats that buzzed round them. Plough-men with bare arms were holding by the halter prancing stallions that neighed with dilated nostrils looking towards the mares. These stood quietly, stretching out their heads and flowing manes, while their foals rested in their shadow, or now and then came and sucked them. And above the long undulation of these crowded animals one saw some white mane rising in the wind like a wave, or some sharp horns sticking out, and the heads of men running about. Apart, outside the enclosure, a hundred paces off, was a large black bull, muzzled, with an iron ring in its nostrils, and who moved no more than if he had been in bronze. A child in rags was holding him by a rope.

      Between the two lines the committee-men were walking with heavy steps, examining each animal, then consulting one another in a low voice. One who seemed of more importance now and then took notes in a book as he walked along. This was the president of the jury, Monsieur Derozerays de la Panville. As soon as he recognised Rodolphe he came forward quickly, and smiling amiably, said —

      “What! Monsieur Boulanger, you are deserting us?”

      Rodolphe protested that he was just coming. But when the president had disappeared —

      “Ma foi!*” said he, “I shall not go. Your company is better than his.”

      *Upon my word!

      And while poking fun at the show, Rodolphe, to move about more easily, showed the gendarme his blue card, and even stopped now and then in front of some fine beast, which Madame Bovary did not at all admire. He noticed this, and began jeering at the Yonville ladies and their dresses; then he apologised for the negligence of his own. He had that incongruity of common and elegant in which the habitually vulgar think they see the revelation of an eccentric existence, of the perturbations of sentiment, the tyrannies of art, and always a certain contempt for social conventions, that seduces or exasperates them. Thus his cambric shirt with plaited cuffs was blown out by the wind in the opening of his waistcoat of grey ticking, and his broad-striped trousers disclosed at the ankle nankeen boots with patent leather gaiters.

      These were so polished that they reflected the grass. He trampled on horses’s dung with them, one hand in the pocket of his jacket and his straw