Part II
Chapter One
Yonville-l'Abbaye (so called from an old Capuchin abbey of which
not even the ruins remain) is a market-town twenty-four miles
from Rouen, between the Abbeville and Beauvais roads, at the foot
of a valley watered by the Rieule, a little river that runs into
the Andelle after turning three water-mills near its mouth, where
there are a few trout that the lads amuse themselves by fishing
for on Sundays.
We leave the highroad at La Boissiere and keep straight on to the
top of the Leux hill, whence the valley is seen. The river that
runs through it makes of it, as it were, two regions with
distinct physiognomies--all on the left is pasture land, all of
the right arable. The meadow stretches under a bulge of low hills
to join at the back with the pasture land of the Bray country,
while on the eastern side, the plain, gently rising, broadens
out, showing as far as eye can follow its blond cornfields. The
water, flowing by the grass, divides with a white line the colour
of the roads and of the plains, and the country is like a great
unfolded mantle with a green velvet cape bordered with a fringe
of silver.
Before us, on the verge of the horizon, lie the oaks of the
forest of Argueil, with the steeps of the Saint-Jean hills
scarred from top to bottom with red irregular lines; they are
rain tracks, and these brick-tones standing out in narrow streaks
against the grey colour of the mountain are due to the quantity
of iron springs that flow beyond in the neighboring country.
Here we are on the confines of Normandy, Picardy, and the
Ile-de-France, a bastard land whose language is without accent
and its landscape is without character. It is there that they
make the worst Neufchatel cheeses of all the arrondissement; and,
on the other hand, farming is costly because so much manure is
needed to enrich this friable soil full of sand and flints.
Up to 1835 there was no practicable road for getting to Yonville,
but about this time a cross-road was made which joins that of
Abbeville to that of Amiens, and is occasionally used by the
Rouen wagoners on their way to Flanders. Yonville-l'Abbaye has
remained stationary in spite of its "new outlet." Instead of
improving the soil, they persist in keeping up the pasture lands,
however depreciated they may be in value, and the lazy borough,
growing away from the plain, has naturally spread riverwards. It
is seem from afar sprawling along the banks like a cowherd taking
a siesta by the water-side.
At the foot of the hill beyond the bridge begins a roadway,
planted with young aspens, that leads in a straight line to the
first houses in the place. These, fenced in by hedges, are in the
middle of courtyards full of straggling buildings, wine-presses,
cart-sheds and distilleries scattered under thick trees, with
ladders, poles, or scythes hung on to the branches. The thatched
roofs, like fur caps drawn over eyes, reach down over about a
third of the low windows, whose coarse convex glasses have knots
in the middle like the bottoms of bottles. Against the plaster
wall diagonally crossed by black joists, a meagre pear-tree
sometimes leans and the ground-floors have at their door a small
swing-gate to keep out the chicks that come pilfering crumbs of
bread steeped in cider on the threshold. But the courtyards grow
narrower, the houses closer together, and the fences disappear; a
bundle of ferns swings under a window from the end of a
broomstick; there is a blacksmith's forge and then a
wheelwright's, with two or three new carts outside that partly
block the way. Then across an open space appears a white house
beyond a grass mound ornamented by a Cupid, his finger on his
lips; two brass vases are at each end of a flight of steps;
scutcheons* blaze upon the door. It is the notary's house, and
the finest in the place.
*The panonceaux that have to be hung over the doors of notaries.
The Church is on the other side of the street, twenty paces
farther down, at the entrance of the square. The little cemetery
that surrounds it, closed in by a wall breast high, is so full of
graves that the old stones, level with the ground, form a
continuous pavement, on which the grass of itself has marked out
regular green squares. The church was rebuilt during the last
years of the reign of Charles X. The wooden roof is beginning to
rot from the top, and here and there has black hollows in its
blue colour. Over the door, where the organ should be, is a loft
for the men, with a spiral staircase that reverberates under
their wooden shoes.
The daylight coming through the plain glass windows falls
obliquely upon the pews ranged along the walls, which are adorned
here and there with a straw mat bearing beneath it the words in
large letters, "Mr. So-and-so's pew." Farther on, at a spot where
the building narrows, the confessional forms a pendant to a
statuette of the Virgin, clothed in a satin robe, coifed with a
tulle veil sprinkled with silver stars, and with red cheeks, like
an idol of the Sandwich Islands; and, finally, a copy of the
"Holy Family, presented by the Minister of the Interior,"
overlooking the high altar, between four candlesticks, closes in
the perspective. The choir stalls, of deal wood, have been left
unpainted.
The market, that is to say, a tiled roof supported by some twenty
posts, occupies of itself about half the public square of
Yonville. The town hall, constructed "from the designs of a Paris
architect," is a sort of Greek temple that forms the corner next
to the chemist's shop. On the ground-floor are three Ionic
columns and on the first floor a semicircular gallery, while the
dome that crowns it is occupied by a Gallic cock, resting one
foot upon the "Charte" and holding in the other the scales of
Justice.
But that which most attracts the eye is opposite the Lion d'Or
inn, the chemist's shop of Monsieur Homais. In the evening
especially its argand lamp is lit up and the red and green jars
that embellish his shop-front throw far across the street their
two streams of colour; then across them as if in Bengal lights is
seen the shadow of the chemist leaning over his desk. His house
from top to bottom is placarded with inscriptions written in
large hand, round hand, printed hand: "Vichy, Seltzer, Barege
waters, blood purifiers, Raspail patent medicine, Arabian
racahout, Darcet lozenges, Regnault paste, trusses, baths,
hygienic chocolate," etc. And the signboard, which takes up all
the breadth of the shop, bears in gold letters, "Homais,
Chemist." Then at the back of the shop, behind the great scales
fixed to the counter, the word "Laboratory" appears on a scroll
above a glass door, which about half-way up once more repeats
"Homais" in gold letters on a black ground.
Beyond this there is nothing to see at Yonville. The street (the
only one) a gunshot in length and flanked by a few shops on
either side stops short at the turn of the highroad. If it is
left on the right hand and the foot of the Saint-Jean hills
followed the cemetery is soon reached.
At the time of the cholera, in order to enlarge this, a piece of
wall was pulled down, and three acres of land by its side
purchased; but all the new portion is almost tenantless; the
tombs, as heretofore, continue to crowd together towards the
gate. The keeper, who is at once gravedigger and church beadle
(thus making a double profit out of the parish corpses), has
taken advantage of the unused plot of ground to plant potatoes
there. From year to year, however, his small field grows smaller,
and when there is an epidemic, he does not know whether to
rejoice at the deaths or regret the burials.
"You live on the dead, Lestiboudois!" the curie at last said to
him one day. This grim remark made him reflect; it checked him
for some time; but to this day he carries on the cultivation of
his little tubers, and even maintains stoutly that they grow
naturally.
Since the events about to be narrated, nothing in fact has
changed at Yonville. The tin tricolour flag still swings at the
top of the church-steeple; the two chintz streamers still flutter
in the wind from the linen-draper's; the chemist's fetuses, like
lumps of white amadou, rot more and more in their turbid alcohol,
and above the big door of the inn the old golden lion, faded by
rain, still shows passers-by its poodle mane.
On the evening when the Bovarys were to arrive at Yonville, Widow
Lefrancois, the landlady of this inn, was so very busy that she
sweated great drops as she moved her saucepans. To-morrow was
market-day. The meat had to be cut beforehand, the fowls drawn,
the soup and coffee made. Moreover, she had the boarders' meal to
see to, and that of the doctor, his wife, and their servant; the
billiard-room was echoing with bursts of laughter; three millers
in a small parlour were calling for brandy; the wood was blazing,
the brazen pan was hissing, and on the long kitchen table, amid
the quarters of raw mutton, rose piles of plates that rattled
with the shaking of the block on which spinach was being chopped.
From the poultry-yard was heard the screaming of the fowls whom
the servant was chasing in order to wring their necks.
A man slightly marked with small-pox, in green leather slippers,
and wearing a velvet cap with a gold tassel, was warming his back
at the chimney. His face expressed nothing but self-satisfaction,
and he appeared to take life as calmly as the goldfinch suspended
over his head in its wicker cage: this was the chemist.
"Artemise!" shouted the landlady, "chop some wood, fill the water
bottles, bring some brandy, look sharp! If only I knew what
dessert to offer the guests you are expecting! Good heavens!
Those furniture-movers are beginning their racket in the
billiard-room again; and their van has been left before the front
door! The 'Hirondelle' might run into it when it draws up. Call
Polyte and tell him to put it up. Only think, Monsieur Homais,
that since morning they have had about fifteen games, and drunk
eight jars of cider! Why, they'll tear my cloth for me," she went
on, looking at them from a distance, her strainer in her hand.
"That wouldn't be much of a loss," replied Monsieur Homais. "You
would buy another."
"Another billiard-table!" exclaimed the widow.
"Since that one is coming to pieces, Madame Lefrancois. I tell
you again you are doing yourself harm, much harm! And besides,
players now want narrow pockets and heavy cues. Hazards aren't
played now; everything is changed! One must keep pace with the
times! Just look at Tellier!"
The hostess reddened with vexation. The chemist went on--
"You may say what you like; his table is better than yours; and
if one were to think, for example, of getting up a patriotic pool
for Poland or the sufferers from the Lyons floods--"
"It isn't beggars like him that'll frighten us," interrupted the
landlady, shrugging her fat shoulders. "Come, come, Monsieur
Homais; as long as the 'Lion d'Or' exists people will come to it.
We've feathered our nest; while one of these days you'll find the
'Cafe Francais' closed with a big placard on the shutters. Change
my billiard-table!" she went on, speaking to herself, "the table
that comes in so handy for folding the washing, and on which, in
the hunting season, I have slept six visitors! But that dawdler,
Hivert, doesn't come!"
"Are you waiting for him for your gentlemen's dinner?"
"Wait for him! And what about Monsieur Binet? As the clock
strikes six you'll see him come in, for he hasn't his equal under
the sun for punctuality. He must always have his seat in the
small parlour. He'd rather die than dine anywhere else. And so
squeamish as he is, and so particular about the cider! Not like
Monsieur Leon; he sometimes comes at seven, or even half-past,
and he doesn't so much as look at what he eats. Such a nice young
man! Never speaks a rough word!"
"Well, you see, there's a great difference between an educated
man and an old carabineer who is now a tax-collector."
Six o'clock struck. Binet came in.
He wore a blue frock-coat falling in a straight line round his
thin body, and his leather cap, with its lappets knotted over the
top of his head with string, showed under the turned-up peak a
bald forehead, flattened by the constant wearing of a helmet. He
wore a black cloth waistcoat, a hair collar, grey trousers, and,
all the year round, well-blacked boots, that had two parallel
swellings due to the sticking out of his big-toes. Not a hair
stood out from the regular line of fair whiskers, which,
encircling his jaws, framed, after the fashion of a garden
border, his long, wan face, whose eyes were small and the nose
hooked. Clever at all games of cards, a good hunter, and writing
a fine hand, he had at home a lathe, and amused himself by
turning napkin rings, with which he filled up his house, with the
jealousy of an artist and the egotism of a bourgeois.
He went to the small parlour, but the three millers had to be got
out first, and during the whole time necessary for laying the
cloth, Binet remained silent in his place near the stove. Then he
shut the door and took off his cap in his usual way.
"It isn't with saying civil things that he'll wear out his
tongue," said the chemist, as soon as he was along with the
landlady.
"He never talks more," she replied. "Last week two travelers in
the cloth line were here--such clever chaps who told such jokes
in the evening, that I fairly cried with laughing; and he stood
there like a dab fish and never said a word."
"Yes," observed the chemist; "no imagination, no sallies, nothing
that makes the society-man."
"Yet they say he has parts," objected the landlady.
"Parts!" replied Monsieur Homais; "he, parts! In his own line it
is possible," he added in a calmer tone. And he went on--
"Ah! That a merchant, who has large connections, a jurisconsult,
a doctor, a chemist, should be thus absent-minded, that the
should become whimsical or even peevish, I can understand; such
cases are cited in history. But at least it is because they are
thinking of something. Myself, for example, how often has it
happened to me to look on the bureau for my pen to write a label,
and to find, after all, that I had put it behind my ear!"
Madame Lefrancois just then went to the door to see if the
"Hirondelle" were not coming. She started. A man dressed in black
suddenly came into the kitchen. By the last gleam of the twilight
one could see that his face was rubicund and his form athletic.
"What can I do for you, Monsieur le Curie?" asked the landlady,
as she reached down from the chimney one of the copper
candlesticks placed with their candles in a row. "Will you take
something? A thimbleful of Cassis*? A glass of wine?"
*Black currant liqueur.
The priest declined very politely. He had come for his umbrella,
that he had forgotten the other day at the Ernemont convent, and
after asking Madame Lefrancois to have it sent to him at the
presbytery in the evening, he left for the church, from which the
Angelus was ringing.
When the chemist no longer heard the noise of his boots along the
square, he thought the priest's behaviour just now very
unbecoming. This refusal to take any refreshment seemed to him
the most odious hypocrisy; all priests tippled on the sly, and
were trying to bring back the days of the tithe.
The landlady took up the defence of her curie.
"Besides, he could double up four men like you over his knee.
Last year he helped our people to bring in the straw; he carried
as many as six trusses at once, he is so strong."
"Bravo!" said the chemist. "Now just send your daughters to
confess to fellows which such a temperament! I, if I were the
Government, I'd have the priests bled once a month. Yes, Madame
Lefrancois, every month--a good phlebotomy, in the interests of
the police and morals."
"Be quiet, Monsieur Homais. You are an infidel; you've no
religion."
The chemist answered: "I have a religion, my religion, and I even
have more than all these others with their mummeries and their
juggling. I adore God, on the contrary. I believe in the Supreme
Being, in a Creator, whatever he may be. I care little who has
placed us here below to fulfil our duties as citizens and fathers
of families; but I don't need to go to church to kiss silver
plates, and fatten, out of my pocket, a lot of good-for-nothings
who live better than we do. For one can know Him as well in a
wood, in a field, or even contemplating the eternal vault like
the ancients. My God! Mine is the God of Socrates, of Franklin,
of Voltaire, and of Beranger! I am for the profession of faith of
the 'Savoyard Vicar,' and the immortal principles of '89! And I
can't admit of an old boy of a God who takes walks in his garden
with a cane in his hand, who lodges his friends in the belly of
whales, dies uttering a cry, and rises again at the end of three
days; things absurd in themselves, and completely opposed,
moreover, to all physical laws, which prove to us, by the way,
that priests have always wallowed in turpid ignorance, in which
they would fain engulf the people with them."
He ceased, looking round for an audience, for in his bubbling
over the chemist had for a moment fancied himself in the midst of
the town council. But the landlady no longer heeded him; she was
listening to a distant rolling. One could distinguish the noise
of a carriage mingled with the clattering of loose horseshoes
that beat against the ground, and at last the "Hirondelle"
stopped at the door.
It was a yellow box on two large wheels, that, reaching to the
tilt, prevented travelers from seeing the road and dirtied their
shoulders. The small panes of the narrow windows rattled in their
sashes when the coach was closed, and retained here and there
patches of mud amid the old layers of dust, that not even storms
of rain had altogether washed away. It was drawn by three horses,
the first a leader, and when it came down-hill its bottom jolted
against the ground.
Some of the inhabitants of Yonville came out into the square;
they all spoke at once, asking for news, for explanations, for
hampers. Hivert did not know whom to answer. It was he who did
the errands of the place in town. He went to the shops and
brought back rolls of leather for the shoemaker, old iron for the
farrier, a barrel of herrings for his mistress, caps from the
milliner's, locks from the hair-dresser's and all along the road
on his return journey he distributed his parcels, which he threw,
standing upright on his seat and shouting at the top of his
voice, over the enclosures of the yards.
An accident had delayed him. Madame Bovary's greyhound had run
across the field. They had whistled for him a quarter of an hour;
Hivert had even gone back a mile and a half expecting every
moment to catch sight of her; but it had been necessary to go on.
Emma had wept, grown angry; she had accused Charles of this
misfortune. Monsieur Lheureux, a draper, who happened to be in
the coach with her, had tried to console her by a number of
examples of lost dogs recognizing their masters at the end of
long years. One, he said had been told of, who had come back to
Paris from Constantinople. Another had gone one hundred and fifty
miles in a straight line, and swum four rivers; and his own
father had possessed a poodle, which, after twelve years of
absence, had all of a sudden jumped on his back in the street as
he was going to dine in town.
