Part III
Chapter One
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 arm-chair; the yellow wall-paper
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,
a useless existence. If our pains were only of some use to
someone, we should find consolation in the thought of the
sacrifice."
He started off in praise of virtue, duty, and silent immolation,
having himself an incredible longing for self-sacrifice that he
could not satisfy.
"I should much like," she said, "to be a nurse at a hospital."
"Alas! men have none of these holy missions, and I see nowhere
any calling--unless perhaps that of a doctor."
With a slight shrug of her shoulders, Emma interrupted him to
speak of her illness, which had almost killed her. What a pity!
She should not be suffering now! Leon at once envied the calm of
the tomb, and one evening he had even made his will, asking to be
buried in that beautiful rug with velvet stripes he had received
from her. For this was how they would have wished to be, each
setting up an ideal to which they were now adapting their past
life. Besides, speech is a rolling-mill that always thins out the
sentiment.
But at this invention of the rug she asked, "But why?"
"Why?" He hesitated. "Because I loved you so!" And congratulating
himself at having surmounted the difficulty, Leon watched her
face out of the corner of his eyes.
It was like the sky when a gust of wind drives the clouds across.
The mass of sad thoughts that darkened them seemed to be lifted
from her blue eyes; her whole face shone. He waited. At last she
replied--
"I always suspected it."
Then they went over all the trifling events of that far-off
existence, whose joys and sorrows they had just summed up in one
word. They recalled the arbour with clematis, the dresses she had
worn, the furniture of her room, the whole of her house.
"And our poor cactuses, where are they?"
"The cold killed them this winter."
"Ah! how I have thought of them, do you know? I often saw them
again as of yore, when on the summer mornings the sun beat down
upon your blinds, and I saw your two bare arms passing out
amongst the flowers."
"Poor friend!" she said, holding out her hand to him.
Leon swiftly pressed his lips to it. Then, when he had taken a
deep breath--
"At that time you were to me I know not what incomprehensible
force that took captive my life. Once, for instance, I went to
see you; but you, no doubt, do not remember it."
"I do," she said; "go on."
"You were downstairs in the ante-room, ready to go out, standing
on the last stair; you were wearing a bonnet with small blue
flowers; and without any invitation from you, in spite of myself,
I went with you. Every moment, however, I grew more and more
conscious of my folly, and I went on walking by you, not daring
to follow you completely, and unwilling to leave you. When you
went into a shop, I waited in the street, and I watched you
through the window taking off your gloves and counting the change
on the counter. Then you rang at Madame Tuvache's; you were let
in, and I stood like an idiot in front of the great heavy door
that had closed after you."
Madame Bovary, as she listened to him, wondered that she was so
old. All these things reappearing before her seemed to widen out
her life; it was like some sentimental immensity to which she
returned; and from time to time she said in a low voice, her eyes
half closed--
"Yes, it is true--true--true!"
They heard eight strike on the different clocks of the
Beauvoisine quarter, which is full of schools, churches, and
large empty hotels. They no longer spoke, but they felt as they
looked upon each other a buzzing in their heads, as if something
sonorous had escaped from the fixed eyes of each of them. They
were hand in hand now, and the past, the future, reminiscences
and dreams, all were confounded in the sweetness of this ecstasy.
Night was darkening over the walls, on which still shone, half
hidden in the shade, the coarse colours of four bills
representing four scenes from the "Tour de Nesle," with a motto
in Spanish and French at the bottom. Through the sash-window a
patch of dark sky was seen between the pointed roofs.
She rose to light two wax-candles on the drawers, then she sat
down again.
"Well!" said Leon.
"Well!" she replied.
He was thinking how to resume the interrupted conversation, when
she said to him--
"How is it that no one until now has ever expressed such
sentiments to me?"
The clerk said that ideal natures were difficult to understand.
He from the first moment had loved her, and he despaired when he
thought of the happiness that would have been theirs, if thanks
to fortune, meeting her earlier, they had been indissolubly bound
to one another.
"I have sometimes thought of it," she went on.
"What a dream!" murmured Leon. And fingering gently the blue
binding of her long white sash, he added, "And who prevents us
from beginning now?"
"No, my friend," she replied; "I am too old; you are too young.
Forget me! Others will love you; you will love them."
"Not as you!" he cried.
"What a child you are! Come, let us be sensible. I wish it."
She showed him the impossibility of their love, and that they
must remain, as formerly, on the simple terms of a fraternal
friendship.
Was she speaking thus seriously? No doubt Emma did not herself
know, quite absorbed as she was by the charm of the seduction,
and the necessity of defending herself from it; and contemplating
the young man with a moved look, she gently repulsed the timid
caresses that his trembling hands attempted.
"Ah! forgive me!" he cried, drawing back.
Emma was seized with a vague fear at this shyness, more dangerous
to her than the boldness of Rodolphe when he advanced to her
open-armed. No man had ever seemed to her so beautiful. An
exquisite candour emanated from his being. He lowered his long
fine eyelashes, that curled upwards. His cheek, with the soft
skin reddened, she thought, with desire of her person, and Emma
felt an invincible longing to press her lips to it. Then, leaning
towards the clock as if to see the time--
"Ah! how late it is!" she said; "how we do chatter!"
He understood the hint and took up his hat.
"It has even made me forget the theatre. And poor Bovary has left
me here especially for that. Monsieur Lormeaux, of the Rue
Grand-Pont, was to take me and his wife."
And the opportunity was lost, as she was to leave the next day.
"Really!" said Leon.
"Yes."
"But I must see you again," he went on. "I wanted to tell you--"
"What?"
"Something--important--serious. Oh, no! Besides, you will not go;
it is impossible. If you should--listen to me. Then you have not
understood me; you have not guessed--"
"Yet you speak plainly," said Emma.
"Ah! you can jest. Enough! enough! Oh, for pity's sake, let me
see you once--only once!"
"Well--"She stopped; then, as if thinking better of it, "Oh, not
here!"
"Where you will."
"Will you--"She seemed to reflect; then abruptly, "To-morrow at
eleven o'clock in the cathedral."
"I shall be there," he cried, seizing her hands, which she
disengaged.
And as they were both standing up, he behind her, and Emma with
her head bent, he stooped over her and pressed long kisses on her
neck.
"You are mad! Ah! you are mad!" she said, with sounding little
laughs, while the kisses multiplied.
Then bending his head over her shoulder, he seemed to beg the
consent of her eyes. They fell upon him full of an icy dignity.
Leon stepped back to go out. He stopped on the threshold; then he
whispered with a trembling voice, "Tomorrow!"
She answered with a nod, and disappeared like a bird into the
next room.
In the evening Emma wrote the clerk an interminable letter, in
which she cancelled the rendezvous; all was over; they must not,
for the sake of their happiness, meet again. But when the letter
was finished, as she did not know Leon's address, she was
puzzled.
"I'll give it to him myself," she said; "he will come."
The next morning, at the open window, and humming on his balcony,
Leon himself varnished his pumps with several coatings. He put on
white trousers, fine socks, a green coat, emptied all the scent
he had into his handkerchief, then having had his hair curled, he
uncurled it again, in order to give it a more natural elegance.
"It is still too early," he thought, looking at the hairdresser's
cuckoo-clock, that pointed to the hour of nine. He read an old
fashion journal, went out, smoked a cigar, walked up three
streets, thought it was time, and went slowly towards the porch
of Notre Dame.
It was a beautiful summer morning. Silver plate sparkled in the
jeweller's windows, and the light falling obliquely on the
cathedral made mirrors of the corners of the grey stones; a flock
of birds fluttered in the grey sky round the trefoil
bell-turrets; the square, resounding with cries, was fragrant
with the flowers that bordered its pavement, roses, jasmines,
pinks, narcissi, and tube-roses, unevenly spaced out between
moist grasses, catmint, and chickweed for the birds; the
fountains gurgled in the centre, and under large umbrellas,
amidst melons, piled up in heaps, flower-women, bare-headed, were
twisting paper round bunches of violets.
The young man took one. It was the first time that he had bought
flowers for a woman, and his breast, as he smelt them, swelled
with pride, as if this homage that he meant for another had
recoiled upon himself.
But he was afraid of being seen; he resolutely entered the
church. The beadle, who was just then standing on the threshold
in the middle of the left doorway, under the "Dancing Marianne,"
with feather cap, and rapier dangling against his calves, came
in, more majestic than a cardinal, and as shining as a saint on a
holy pyx.
He came towards Leon, and, with that smile of wheedling benignity
assumed by ecclesiastics when they question children--
"The gentleman, no doubt, does not belong to these parts? The
gentleman would like to see the curiosities of the church?"
"No!" said the other.
And he first went round the lower aisles. Then he went out to
look at the Place. Emma was not coming yet. He went up again to
the choir.
The nave was reflected in the full fonts with the beginning of
the arches and some portions of the glass windows. But the
reflections of the paintings, broken by the marble rim, were
continued farther on upon the flag-stones, like a many-coloured
carpet. The broad daylight from without streamed into the church
in three enormous rays from the three opened portals. From time
to time at the upper end a sacristan passed, making the oblique
genuflexion of devout persons in a hurry. The crystal lustres
hung motionless. In the choir a silver lamp was burning, and from
the side chapels and dark places of the church sometimes rose
sounds like sighs, with the clang of a closing grating, its echo
reverberating under the lofty vault.
Leon with solemn steps walked along by the walls. Life had never
seemed so good to him. She would come directly, charming,
agitated, looking back at the glances that followed her, and with
her flounced dress, her gold eyeglass, her thin shoes, with all
sorts of elegant trifles that he had never enjoyed, and with the
ineffable seduction of yielding virtue. The church like a huge
boudoir spread around her; the arches bent down to gather in the
shade the confession of her love; the windows shone resplendent
to illumine her face, and the censers would burn that she might
appear like an angel amid the fumes of the sweet-smelling odours.
But she did not come. He sat down on a chair, and his eyes fell
upon a blue stained window representing boatmen carrying baskets.
He looked at it long, attentively, and he counted the scales of
the fishes and the button-holes of the doublets, while his
thoughts wandered off towards Emma.
The beadle, standing aloof, was inwardly angry at this individual
who took the liberty of admiring the cathedral by himself. He
seemed to him to be conducting himself in a monstrous fashion, to
be robbing him in a sort, and almost committing sacrilege.
But a rustle of silk on the flags, the tip of a bonnet, a lined
cloak--it was she! Leon rose and ran to meet her.
Emma was pale. She walked fast.
"Read!" she said, holding out a paper to him. "Oh, no!"
And she abruptly withdrew her hand to enter the chapel of the
Virgin, where, kneeling on a chair, she began to pray.
The young man was irritated at this bigot fancy; then he
nevertheless experienced a certain charm in seeing her, in the
middle of a rendezvous, thus lost in her devotions, like an
Andalusian marchioness; then he grew bored, for she seemed never
coming to an end.
Emma prayed, or rather strove to pray, hoping that some sudden
resolution might descend to her from heaven; and to draw down
divine aid she filled full her eyes with the splendours of the
tabernacle. She breathed in the perfumes of the full-blown
flowers in the large vases, and listened to the stillness of the
church, that only heightened the tumult of her heart.
She rose, and they were about to leave, when the beadle came
forward, hurriedly saying--
"Madame, no doubt, does not belong to these parts? Madame would
like to see the curiosities of the church?"
"Oh, no!" cried the clerk.
"Why not?" said she. For she clung with her expiring virtue to
the Virgin, the sculptures, the tombs--anything.
Then, in order to proceed "by rule," the beadle conducted them
right to the entrance near the square, where, pointing out with
his cane a large circle of block-stones without inscription or
carving--
"This," he said majestically, "is the circumference of the
beautiful bell of Ambroise. It weighed forty thousand pounds.
There was not its equal in all Europe. The workman who cast it
died of the joy--"
"Let us go on," said Leon.
The old fellow started off again; then, having got back to the
chapel of the Virgin, he stretched forth his arm with an
all-embracing gesture of demonstration, and, prouder than a
country squire showing you his espaliers, went on--
"This simple stone covers Pierre de Breze, lord of Varenne and of
Brissac, grand marshal of Poitou, and governor of Normandy, who
died at the battle of Montlhery on the 16th of July, 1465."
Leon bit his lips, fuming.
"And on the right, this gentleman all encased in iron, on the
prancing horse, is his grandson, Louis de Breze, lord of Breval
and of Montchauvet, Count de Maulevrier, Baron de Mauny,
chamberlain to the king, Knight of the Order, and also governor
of Normandy; died on the 23rd of July, 1531--a Sunday, as the
inscription specifies; and below, this figure, about to descend
into the tomb, portrays the same person. It is not possible, is
it, to see a more perfect representation of annihilation?"
Madame Bovary put up her eyeglasses. Leon, motionless, looked at
her, no longer even attempting to speak a single word, to make a
gesture, so discouraged was he at this two-fold obstinacy of
gossip and indifference.
The everlasting guide went on--
"Near him, this kneeling woman who weeps is his spouse, Diane de
Poitiers, Countess de Breze, Duchess de Valentinois, born in
1499, died in 1566, and to the left, the one with the child is
the Holy Virgin. Now turn to this side; here are the tombs of the
Ambroise. They were both cardinals and archbishops of Rouen. That
one was minister under Louis XII. He did a great deal for the
cathedral. In his will he left thirty thousand gold crowns for
the poor."
And without stopping, still talking, he pushed them into a chapel
full of balustrades, some put away, and disclosed a kind of block
that certainly might once have been an ill-made statue.
"Truly," he said with a groan, "it adorned the tomb of Richard
Coeur de Lion, King of England and Duke of Normandy. It was the
Calvinists, sir, who reduced it to this condition. They had
buried it for spite in the earth, under the episcopal seat of
Monsignor. See! this is the door by which Monsignor passes to his
house. Let us pass on quickly to see the gargoyle windows."
But Leon hastily took some silver from his pocket and seized
Emma's arm. The beadle stood dumfounded, not able to understand
this untimely munificence when there were still so many things
for the stranger to see. So calling him back, he cried--
"Sir! sir! The steeple! the steeple!"
"No, thank you!" said Leon.
"You are wrong, sir! It is four hundred and forty feet high, nine
less than the great pyramid of Egypt. It is all cast; it--"
Leon was fleeing, for it seemed to him that his love, that for
nearly two hours now had become petrified in the church like the
stones, would vanish like a vapour through that sort of truncated
funnel, of oblong cage, of open chimney that rises so grotesquely
from the cathedral like the extravagant attempt of some fantastic
brazier.
"But where are we going?" she said.
Making no answer, he walked on with a rapid step; and Madame
Bovary was already, dipping her finger in the holy water when
behind them they heard a panting breath interrupted by the
regular sound of a cane. Leon turned back.
"Sir!"
"What is it?"
And he recognised the beadle, holding under his arms and
balancing against his stomach some twenty large sewn volumes.
They were works "which treated of the cathedral."
"Idiot!" growled Leon, rushing out of the church.
A lad was playing about the close.
"Go and get me a cab!"
The child bounded off like a ball by the Rue Quatre-Vents; then
they were alone a few minutes, face to face, and a little
embarrassed.
"Ah! Leon! Really--I don't know--if I ought," she whispered. Then
with a more serious air, "Do you know, it is very improper--"
"How so?" replied the clerk. "It is done at Paris."
And that, as an irresistible argument, decided her.
Still the cab did not come. Leon was afraid she might go back
into the church. At last the cab appeared.
"At all events, go out by the north porch," cried the beadle, who
was left alone on the threshold, "so as to see the Resurrection,
the Last Judgment, Paradise, King David, and the Condemned in
Hell-flames."
"Where to, sir?" asked the coachman.
"Where you like," said Leon, forcing Emma into the cab.
And the lumbering machine set out. It went down the Rue
Grand-Pont, crossed the Place des Arts, the Quai Napoleon, the
Pont Neuf, and stopped short before the statue of Pierre
Corneille.
"Go on," cried a voice that came from within.
The cab went on again, and as soon as it reached the Carrefour
Lafayette, set off down-hill, and entered the station at a
gallop.
"No, straight on!" cried the same voice.
The cab came out by the gate, and soon having reached the Cours,
trotted quietly beneath the elm-trees. The coachman wiped his
brow, put his leather hat between his knees, and drove his
carriage beyond the side alley by the meadow to the margin of the
waters.
It went along by the river, along the towing-path paved with
sharp pebbles, and for a long while in the direction of Oyssel,
beyond the isles.
But suddenly it turned with a dash across Quatremares,
Sotteville, La Grande-Chaussee, the Rue d'Elbeuf, and made its
third halt in front of the Jardin des Plantes.
"Get on, will you?" cried the voice more furiously.
And at once resuming its course, it passed by Saint-Sever, by the
Quai'des Curandiers, the Quai aux Meules, once more over the
bridge, by the Place du Champ de Mars, and behind the hospital
gardens, where old men in black coats were walking in the sun
along the terrace all green with ivy. It went up the Boulevard
Bouvreuil, along the Boulevard Cauchoise, then the whole of
Mont-Riboudet to the Deville hills.
It came back; and then, without any fixed plan or direction,
wandered about at hazard. The cab was seen at Saint-Pol, at
Lescure, at Mont Gargan, at La Rougue-Marc and Place du
Gaillardbois; in the Rue Maladrerie, Rue Dinanderie, before
Saint-Romain, Saint-Vivien, Saint-Maclou, Saint-Nicaise--in front
of the Customs, at the "Vieille Tour," the "Trois Pipes," and the
Monumental Cemetery. From time to time the coachman, on his box
cast despairing eyes at the public-houses. He could not
understand what furious desire for locomotion urged these
individuals never to wish to stop. He tried to now and then, and
at once exclamations of anger burst forth behind him. Then he
lashed his perspiring jades afresh, but indifferent to their
jolting, running up against things here and there, not caring if
he did, demoralised, and almost weeping with thirst, fatigue, and
depression.
And on the harbour, in the midst of the drays and casks, and in
the streets, at the corners, the good folk opened large
wonder-stricken eyes at this sight, so extraordinary in the
provinces, a cab with blinds drawn, and which appeared thus
constantly shut more closely than a tomb, and tossing about like
a vessel.
Once in the middle of the day, in the open country, just as the
sun beat most fiercely against the old plated lanterns, a bared
hand passed beneath the small blinds of yellow canvas, and threw
out some scraps of paper that scattered in the wind, and farther
off lighted like white butterflies on a field of red clover all
in bloom.
At about six o'clock the carriage stopped in a back street of the
Beauvoisine Quarter, and a woman got out, who walked with her
veil down, and without turning her head.
