Chapter Seven
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 sorrow 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, in fine, that the interruption of every wonted movement,
the sudden cessation of any prolonged vibration, brings on.
As on the return from Vaubyessard, 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 along 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 arbour. 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 centre of her boredom; it
burnt there more brightly than the fire travellers 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 tete-a-tete--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 empurpled her pale sky
was overspread and faded by degrees. In the supineness of her
conscience she even took her repugnance towards 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 the
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 prie-dieu, and in a
month spent fourteen francs on lemons for polishing her nails;
she wrote to Rouen for a blue cashmere gown; she chose one of
Lheureux'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 a la Chinoise,
in flowing curls, in plaited coils; she parted in 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, filled her 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 to, she swallowed the
brandy to the last drop.
In spite of her vapourish airs (as the housewives of Yonville
called 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
ambition has 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 grey 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--
"Bah!" she answered, "what does it matter?"
Charles fled to his study and wept there, both his elbows on the
table, sitting in an arm-chair 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 senior.
"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 in 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, where cotton checks, blankets, and
woollen 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 Homais' reputation in the
neighbouring 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 and 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 gaiters; he was coming towards 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 Felicite, 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 an estate 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 fifteen thousand
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 all 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 spurted out, splashing against the
looking-glass.
"Hold the basin nearer," exclaimed Charles.
"Lor!" 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 syncope sets in, and more especially with people of
strong constitution like this man."
At these words the rustic let go 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. "O dear! two at once!"
And in his emotion he could hardly put on the compress.
"It is nothing," said Monsieur 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 cambric handkerchief; she moistened his
temples with little dabs, and then blew upon them softly. The
ploughman revived, but Justin's syncope still lasted, and his
eyeballs disappeared in the pale sclerotics like blue flowers in
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 around her on the flags of the room; and as
Emma 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 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
phlebotomy's 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 talk
to me, boast about yourself! Here's a fine fitness for practising
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."
Justin did not answer. The chemist went on--
"Who asked you to come? You are 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 Justin, who was rearranging his dress, had gone, they talked
for a little while about fainting-fits. Madame Bovary 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 La Huchette), 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 patients, 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'd adore 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. Virginie is decidedly beginning to grow fat. She is so
finikin about her pleasures; and, besides, she has a mania for
prawns."
The fields were empty, and around him Rodolphe only heard 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 at 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 neighbours, and
husband, all sorts of worries. Pshaw! 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 Arguiel 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 venison, 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. We'll begin boldly, for
that's the surest way."
