The Greatest Works of Gustave Flaubert. Gustave Flaubert

the young man sang the praises of Lagardy in the last number. It was really superb, sublime. Then Charles insisted —

      “You would get back on Sunday. Come, make up your mind. You are wrong if you feel that this is doing you the least good.”

      The tables round them, however, were emptying; a waiter came and stood discreetly near them. Charles, who understood, took out his purse; the clerk held back his arm, and did not forget to leave two more pieces of silver that he made chink on the marble.

      “I am really sorry,” said Bovary, “about the money which you are — ”

      The other made a careless gesture full of cordiality, and taking his hat said —

      “It is settled, isn’t it? Tomorrow at six o’clock?”

      Charles explained once more that he could not absent himself longer, but that nothing prevented Emma —

      “But,” she stammered, with a strange smile, “I am not sure — ”

      “Well, you must think it over. We’ll see. Night brings counsel.” Then to Leon, who was walking along with them, “Now that you are in our part of the world, I hope you’ll come and ask us for some dinner now and then.”

      The clerk declared he would not fail to do so, being obliged, moreover, to go to Yonville on some business for his office. And they parted before the Saint-Herbland Passage just as the clock in the cathedral struck half-past eleven.

      Part III

       Table of Contents

Chapter One

       Table of Contents

      Monsieur Leon, while studying law, had gone pretty often to the dancing-rooms, where he was even a great success amongst the grisettes, who thought he had a distinguished air. He was the best-mannered of the students; he wore his hair neither too long nor too short, didn’t spend all his quarter’s money on the first day of the month, and kept on good terms with his professors. As for excesses, he had always abstained from them, as much from cowardice as from refinement.

      Often when he stayed in his room to read, or else when sitting of an evening under the lime-trees of the Luxembourg, he let his Code fall to the ground, and the memory of Emma came back to him. But gradually this feeling grew weaker, and other desires gathered over it, although it still persisted through them all. For Leon did not lose all hope; there was for him, as it were, a vague promise floating in the future, like a golden fruit suspended from some fantastic tree.

      Then, seeing her again after three years of absence his passion reawakened. He must, he thought, at last make up his mind to possess her. Moreover, his timidity had worn off by contact with his gay companions, and he returned to the provinces despising everyone who had not with varnished shoes trodden the asphalt of the boulevards. By the side of a Parisienne in her laces, in the drawing-room of some illustrious physician, a person driving his carriage and wearing many orders, the poor clerk would no doubt have trembled like a child; but here, at Rouen, on the harbour, with the wife of this small doctor he felt at his ease, sure beforehand he would shine. Self-possession depends on its environment. We don’t speak on the first floor as on the fourth; and the wealthy woman seems to have, about her, to guard her virtue, all her banknotes, like a cuirass in the lining of her corset.

      On leaving the Bovarys the night before, Leon had followed them through the streets at a distance; then having seen them stop at the “Croix-Rouge,” he turned on his heel, and spent the night meditating a plan.

      So the next day about five o’clock he walked into the kitchen of the inn, with a choking sensation in his throat, pale cheeks, and that resolution of cowards that stops at nothing.

      “The gentleman isn’t in,” answered a servant.

      This seemed to him a good omen. He went upstairs.

      She was not disturbed at his approach; on the contrary, she apologised for having neglected to tell him where they were staying.

      “Oh, I divined it!” said Leon.

      He pretended he had been guided towards her by chance, by, instinct. She began to smile; and at once, to repair his folly, Leon told her that he had spent his morning in looking for her in all the hotels in the town one after the other.

      “So you have made up your mind to stay?” he added.

      “Yes,” she said, “and I am wrong. One ought not to accustom oneself to impossible pleasures when there are a thousand demands upon one.”

      “Oh, I can imagine!”

      “Ah! no; for you, you are a man!”

      But men too had had their trials, and the conversation went off into certain philosophical reflections. Emma expatiated much on the misery of earthly affections, and the eternal isolation in which the heart remains entombed.

      To show off, or from a naive imitation of this melancholy which called forth his, the young man declared that he had been awfully bored during the whole course of his studies. The law irritated him, other vocations attracted him, and his mother never ceased worrying him in every one of her letters. As they talked they explained more and more fully the motives of their sadness, working themselves up in their progressive confidence. But they sometimes stopped short of the complete exposition of their thought, and then sought to invent a phrase that might express it all the same. She did not confess her passion for another; he did not say that he had forgotten her.

      Perhaps he no longer remembered his suppers with girls after masked balls; and no doubt she did not recollect the rendezvous of old when she ran across the fields in the morning to her lover’s house. The noises of the town hardly reached them, and the room seemed small, as if on purpose to hem in their solitude more closely. Emma, in a dimity dressing-gown, leant her head against the back of the old armchair; the yellow wallpaper formed, as it were, a golden background behind her, and her bare head was mirrored in the glass with the white parting in the middle, and the tip of her ears peeping out from the folds of her hair.

      “But pardon me!” she said. “It is wrong of me. I weary you with my eternal complaints.”

      “No, never, never!”

      “If you knew,” she went on, raising to the ceiling her beautiful eyes, in which a tear was trembling, “all that I had dreamed!”

      “And I! Oh, I too have suffered! Often I went out; I went away. I dragged myself along the quays, seeking distraction amid the din of the crowd without being able to banish the heaviness that weighed upon me. In an engraver’s shop on the boulevard there is an Italian print of one of the Muses. She is draped in a tunic, and she is looking at the moon, with forget-me-nots in her flowing hair. Something drove me there continually; I stayed there hours together.” Then in a trembling voice, “She resembled you a little.”

      Madame Bovary turned away her head that he might not see the irrepressible smile she felt rising to her lips.

      “Often,” he went on, “I wrote you letters that I tore up.”

      She did not answer. He continued —

      “I sometimes fancied that some chance would bring you. I thought I recognised you at street-corners, and I ran after all the carriages through whose windows I saw a shawl fluttering, a veil like yours.”

      She seemed resolved to let him go on speaking without interruption. Crossing her arms and bending down her face, she looked at the rosettes on her slippers, and at intervals made little movements inside the satin of them with her toes.

      At last she sighed.

      “But the most wretched thing, is it not — is to drag out, as I do,