Chapter Two
On reaching the inn, Madame Bovary was surprised not to see the
diligence. Hivert, who had waited for her fifty-three minutes,
had at last started.
Yet nothing forced her to go; but she had given her word that she
would return that same evening. Moreover, Charles expected her,
and in her heart she felt already that cowardly docility that is
for some women at once the chastisement and atonement of
adultery.
She packed her box quickly, paid her bill, took a cab in the
yard, hurrying on the driver, urging him on, every moment
inquiring about the time and the miles traversed. He succeeded in
catching up the "Hirondelle" as it neared the first houses of
Quincampoix.
Hardly was she seated in her corner than she closed her eyes, and
opened them at the foot of the hill, when from afar she
recognised Felicite, who was on the lookout in front of the
farrier's shop. Hivert pulled in his horses and, the servant,
climbing up to the window, said mysteriously--
"Madame, you must go at once to Monsieur Homais. It's for
something important."
The village was silent as usual. At the corner of the streets
were small pink heaps that smoked in the air, for this was the
time for jam-making, and everyone at Yonville prepared his supply
on the same day. But in front of the chemist's shop one might
admire a far larger heap, and that surpassed the others with the
superiority that a laboratory must have over ordinary stores, a
general need over individual fancy.
She went in. The large arm-chair was upset, and even the "Fanal
de Rouen" lay on the ground, outspread between two pestles. She
pushed open the lobby door, and in the middle of the kitchen,
amid brown jars full of picked currants, of powdered sugar and
lump sugar, of the scales on the table, and of the pans on the
fire, she saw all the Homais, small and large, with aprons
reaching to their chins, and with forks in their hands. Justin
was standing up with bowed head, and the chemist was screaming--
"Who told you to go and fetch it in the Capharnaum."
"What is it? What is the matter?"
"What is it?" replied the druggist. "We are making preserves;
they are simmering; but they were about to boil over, because
there is too much juice, and I ordered another pan. Then he, from
indolence, from laziness, went and took, hanging on its nail in
my laboratory, the key of the Capharnaum."
It was thus the druggist called a small room under the leads,
full of the utensils and the goods of his trade. He often spent
long hours there alone, labelling, decanting, and doing up again;
and he looked upon it not as a simple store, but as a veritable
sanctuary, whence there afterwards issued, elaborated by his
hands, all sorts of pills, boluses, infusions, lotions, and
potions, that would bear far and wide his celebrity. No one in
the world set foot there, and he respected it so, that he swept
it himself. Finally, if the pharmacy, open to all comers, was the
spot where he displayed his pride, the Capharnaum was the refuge
where, egoistically concentrating himself, Homais delighted in
the exercise of his predilections, so that Justin's
thoughtlessness seemed to him a monstrous piece of irreverence,
and, redder than the currants, he repeated--
"Yes, from the Capharnaum! The key that locks up the acids and
caustic alkalies! To go and get a spare pan! a pan with a lid!
and that I shall perhaps never use! Everything is of importance
in the delicate operations of our art! But, devil take it! one
must make distinctions, and not employ for almost domestic
purposes that which is meant for pharmaceutical! It is as if one
were to carve a fowl with a scalpel; as if a magistrate--"
"Now be calm," said Madame Homais.
And Athalie, pulling at his coat, cried "Papa! papa!"
"No, let me alone," went on the druggist "let me alone, hang it!
My word! One might as well set up for a grocer. That's it! go it!
respect nothing! break, smash, let loose the leeches, burn the
mallow-paste, pickle the gherkins in the window jars, tear up the
bandages!"
"I thought you had--"said Emma.
"Presently! Do you know to what you exposed yourself? Didn't you
see anything in the corner, on the left, on the third shelf?
Speak, answer, articulate something."
"I--don't--know," stammered the young fellow.
"Ah! you don't know! Well, then, I do know! You saw a bottle of
blue glass, sealed with yellow wax, that contains a white powder,
on which I have even written 'Dangerous!' And do you know what is
in it? Arsenic! And you go and touch it! You take a pan that was
next to it!"
"Next to it!" cried Madame Hoinais, clasping her hands. "Arsenic!
You might have poisoned us all."
And the children began howling as if they already had frightful
pains in their entrails.
"Or poison a patient!" continued the druggist. "Do you want to
see me in the prisoner's dock with criminals, in a court of
justice? To see me dragged to the scaffold? Don't you know what
care I take in managing things, although I am so thoroughly used
to it? Often I am horrified myself when I think of my
responsibility; for the Government persecutes us, and the absurd
legislation that rules us is a veritable Damocles' sword over our
heads."
Emma no longer dreamed of asking what they wanted her for, and
the druggist went on in breathless phrases--
"That is your return for all the kindness we have shown you! That
is how you recompense me for the really paternal care that I
lavish on you! For without me where would you be? What would you
be doing? Who provides you with food, education, clothes, and all
the means of figuring one day with honour in the ranks of
society? But you must pull hard at the oar if you're to do that,
and get, as, people say, callosities upon your hands. Fabricando
fit faber, age quod agis.*"
* The worker lives by working, do what he will.
He was so exasperated he quoted Latin. He would have quoted
Chinese or Greenlandish had he known those two languages, for he
was in one of those crises in which the whole soul shows
indistinctly what it contains, like the ocean, which, in the
storm, opens itself from the seaweeds on its shores down to the
sands of its abysses.
And he went on--
"I am beginning to repent terribly of having taken you up! I
should certainly have done better to have left you to rot in your
poverty and the dirt in which you were born. Oh, you'll never be
fit for anything but to herd animals with horns! You have no
aptitude for science! You hardly know how to stick on a label!
And there you are, dwelling with me snug as a parson, living in
clover, taking your ease!"
But Emma, turning to Madame Homais, "I was told to come here--"
"Oh, dear me!" interrupted the good woman, with a sad air, "how
am I to tell you? It is a misfortune!"
She could not finish, the druggist was thundering--"Empty it!
Clean it! Take it back! Be quick!"
And seizing Justin by the collar of his blouse, he shook a book
out of his pocket. The lad stooped, but Homais was the quicker,
and, having picked up the volume, contemplated it with staring
eyes and open mouth.
"CONJUGAL--LOVE!" he said, slowly separating the two words. "Ah!
very good! very good! very pretty! And illustrations! Oh, this is
too much!"
Madame Homais came forward.
"No, do not touch it!"
The children wanted to look at the pictures.
"Leave the room," he said imperiously; and they went out.
First he walked up and down with the open volume in his hand,
rolling his eyes, choking, tumid, apoplectic. Then he came
straight to his pupil, and, planting himself in front of him with
crossed arms--
"Have you every vice, then, little wretch? Take care! you are on
a downward path. Did not you reflect that this infamous book
might fall in the hands of my children, kindle a spark in their
minds, tarnish the purity of Athalie, corrupt Napoleon. He is
already formed like a man. Are you quite sure, anyhow, that they
have not read it? Can you certify to me--"
"But really, sir," said Emma, "you wished to tell me--"
"Ah, yes! madame. Your father-in-law is dead."
In fact, Monsieur Bovary senior had expired the evening before
suddenly from an attack of apoplexy as he got up from table, and
by way of greater precaution, on account of Emma's sensibility,
Charles had begged Homais to break the horrible news to her
gradually. Homais had thought over his speech; he had rounded,
polished it, made it rhythmical; it was a masterpiece of prudence
and transitions, of subtle turns and delicacy; but anger had got
the better of rhetoric.
Emma, giving up all chance of hearing any details, left the
pharmacy; for Monsieur Homais had taken up the thread of his
vituperations. However, he was growing calmer, and was now
grumbling in a paternal tone whilst he fanned himself with his
skull-cap.
"It is not that I entirely disapprove of the work. Its author was
a doctor! There are certain scientific points in it that it is
not ill a man should know, and I would even venture to say that a
man must know. But later--later! At any rate, not till you are
man yourself and your temperament is formed."
When Emma knocked at the door. Charles, who was waiting for her,
came forward with open arms and said to her with tears in his
voice--
"Ah! my dear!"
And he bent over her gently to kiss her. But at the contact of
his lips the memory of the other seized her, and she passed her
hand over her face shuddering.
But she made answer, "Yes, I know, I know!"
He showed her the letter in which his mother told the event
without any sentimental hypocrisy. She only regretted her husband
had not received the consolations of religion, as he had died at
Daudeville, in the street, at the door of a cafe after a
patriotic dinner with some ex-officers.
Emma gave him back the letter; then at dinner, for appearance's
sake, she affected a certain repugnance. But as he urged her to
try, she resolutely began eating, while Charles opposite her sat
motionless in a dejected attitude.
Now and then he raised his head and gave her a long look full of
distress. Once he sighed, "I should have liked to see him again!"
She was silent. At last, understanding that she must say
something, "How old was your father?" she asked.
"Fifty-eight."
"Ah!"
And that was all.
A quarter of an hour after he added, "My poor mother! what will
become of her now?"
She made a gesture that signified she did not know. Seeing her so
taciturn, Charles imagined her much affected, and forced himself
to say nothing, not to reawaken this sorrow which moved him. And,
shaking off his own--
"Did you enjoy yourself yesterday?" he asked.
"Yes."
When the cloth was removed, Bovary did not rise, nor did Emma;
and as she looked at him, the monotony of the spectacle drove
little by little all pity from her heart. He seemed to her
paltry, weak, a cipher--in a word, a poor thing in every way. How
to get rid of him? What an interminable evening! Something
stupefying like the fumes of opium seized her.
They heard in the passage the sharp noise of a wooden leg on the
boards. It was Hippolyte bringing back Emma's luggage. In order
to put it down he described painfully a quarter of a circle with
his stump.
"He doesn't even remember any more about it," she thought,
looking at the poor devil, whose coarse red hair was wet with
perspiration.
Bovary was searching at the bottom of his purse for a centime,
and without appearing to understand all there was of humiliation
for him in the mere presence of this man, who stood there like a
personified reproach to his incurable incapacity.
"Hallo! you've a pretty bouquet," he said, noticing Leon's
violets on the chimney.
"Yes," she replied indifferently; "it's a bouquet I bought just
now from a beggar."
Charles picked up the flowers, and freshening his eyes, red with
tears, against them, smelt them delicately.
She took them quickly from his hand and put them in a glass of
water.
The next day Madame Bovary senior arrived. She and her son wept
much. Emma, on the pretext of giving orders, disappeared. The
following day they had a talk over the mourning. They went and
sat down with their workboxes by the waterside under the arbour.
Charles was thinking of his father, and was surprised to feel so
much affection for this man, whom till then he had thought he
cared little about. Madame Bovary senior was thinking of her
husband. The worst days of the past seemed enviable to her. All
was forgotten beneath the instinctive regret of such a long
habit, and from time to time whilst she sewed, a big tear rolled
along her nose and hung suspended there a moment. Emma was
thinking that it was scarcely forty-eight hours since they had
been together, far from the world, all in a frenzy of joy, and
not having eyes enough to gaze upon each other. She tried to
recall the slightest details of that past day. But the presence
of her husband and mother-in-law worried her. She would have
liked to hear nothing, to see nothing, so as not to disturb the
meditation on her love, that, do what she would, became lost in
external sensations.
She was unpicking the lining of a dress, and the strips were
scattered around her. Madame Bovary senior was plying her scissor
without looking up, and Charles, in his list slippers and his old
brown surtout that he used as a dressing-gown, sat with both
hands in his pockets, and did not speak either; near them Berthe,
in a little white pinafore, was raking sand in the walks with her
spade. Suddenly she saw Monsieur Lheureux, the linendraper, come
in through the gate.
He came to offer his services "under the sad circumstances." Emma
answered that she thought she could do without. The shopkeeper
was not to be beaten.
"I beg your pardon," he said, "but I should like to have a
private talk with you." Then in a low voice, "It's about that
affair--you know."
Charles crimsoned to his ears. "Oh, yes! certainly." And in his
confusion, turning to his wife, "Couldn't you, my darling?"
She seemed to understand him, for she rose; and Charles said to
his mother, "It is nothing particular. No doubt, some household
trifle." He did not want her to know the story of the bill,
fearing her reproaches.
As soon as they were alone, Monsieur Lheureux in sufficiently
clear terms began to congratulate Emma on the inheritance, then
to talk of indifferent matters, of the espaliers, of the harvest,
and of his own health, which was always so-so, always having ups
and downs. In fact, he had to work devilish hard, although he
didn't make enough, in spite of all people said, to find butter
for his bread.
Emma let him talk on. She had bored herself so prodigiously the
last two days.
"And so you're quite well again?" he went on. "Ma foi! I saw your
husband in a sad state. He's a good fellow, though we did have a
little misunderstanding."
She asked what misunderstanding, for Charles had said nothing of
the dispute about the goods supplied to her.
"Why, you know well enough," cried Lheureux. "It was about your
little fancies--the travelling trunks."
He had drawn his hat over his eyes, and, with his hands behind
his back, smiling and whistling, he looked straight at her in an
unbearable manner. Did he suspect anything?
She was lost in all kinds of apprehensions. At last, however, he
went on--
"We made it up, all the same, and I've come again to propose
another arrangement."
This was to renew the bill Bovary had signed. The doctor, of
course, would do as he pleased; he was not to trouble himself,
especially just now, when he would have a lot of worry. "And he
would do better to give it over to someone else--to you, for
example. With a power of attorney it could be easily managed, and
then we (you and I) would have our little business transactions
together."
She did not understand. He was silent. Then, passing to his
trade, Lheureux declared that madame must require something. He
would send her a black barege, twelve yards, just enough to make
a gown.
"The one you've on is good enough for the house, but you want
another for calls. I saw that the very moment that I came in.
I've the eye of an American!"
He did not send the stuff; he brought it. Then he came again to
measure it; he came again on other pretexts, always trying to
make himself agreeable, useful, "enfeoffing himself," as Homais
would have said, and always dropping some hint to Emma about the
power of attorney. He never mentioned the bill; she did not think
of it. Charles, at the beginning of her convalescence, had
certainly said something about it to her, but so many emotions
had passed through her head that she no longer remembered it.
Besides, she took care not to talk of any money questions. Madame
Bovary seemed surprised at this, and attributed the change in her
ways to the religious sentiments she had contracted during her
illness.
But as soon as she was gone, Emma greatly astounded Bovary by her
practical good sense. It would be necessary to make inquiries, to
look into mortgages, and see if there were any occasion for a
sale by auction or a liquidation. She quoted technical terms
casually, pronounced the grand words of order, the future,
foresight, and constantly exaggerated the difficulties of
settling his father's affairs so much, that at last one day she
showed him the rough draft of a power of attorney to manage and
administer his business, arrange all loans, sign and endorse all
bills, pay all sums, etc. She had profited by Lheureux's lessons.
Charles naively asked her where this paper came from.
"Monsieur Guillaumin"; and with the utmost coolness she added, "I
don't trust him overmuch. Notaries have such a bad reputation.
Perhaps we ought to consult--we only know--no one."
"Unless Leon--" replied Charles, who was reflecting. But it was
difficult to explain matters by letter. Then she offered to make
the journey, but he thanked her. She insisted. It was quite a
contest of mutual consideration. At last she cried with affected
waywardness--
"No, I will go!"
"How good you are!" he said, kissing her forehead.
The next morning she set out in the "Hirondelle" to go to Rouen
to consult Monsieur Leon, and she stayed there three days.
