Chapter Nine
There is always after the death of anyone a kind of stupefaction;
so difficult is it to grasp this advent of nothingness and to
resign ourselves to believe in it. But still, when he saw that
she did not move, Charles threw himself upon her, crying--
"Farewell! farewell!"
Homais and Canivet dragged him from the room.
"Restrain yourself!"
"Yes." said he, struggling, "I'll be quiet. I'll not do anything.
But leave me alone. I want to see her. She is my wife!"
And he wept.
"Cry," said the chemist; "let nature take her course; that will
solace you."
Weaker than a child, Charles let himself be led downstairs into
the sitting-room, and Monsieur Homais soon went home. On the
Place he was accosted by the blind man, who, having dragged
himself as far as Yonville, in the hope of getting the
antiphlogistic pomade, was asking every passer-by where the
druggist lived.
"There now! as if I hadn't got other fish to fry. Well, so much
the worse; you must come later on."
And he entered the shop hurriedly.
He had to write two letters, to prepare a soothing potion for
Bovary, to invent some lie that would conceal the poisoning, and
work it up into an article for the "Fanal," without counting the
people who were waiting to get the news from him; and when the
Yonvillers had all heard his story of the arsenic that she had
mistaken for sugar in making a vanilla cream. Homais once more
returned to Bovary's.
He found him alone (Monsieur Canivet had left), sitting in an
arm-chair near the window, staring with an idiotic look at the
flags of the floor.
"Now," said the chemist, "you ought yourself to fix the hour for
the ceremony."
"Why? What ceremony?" Then, in a stammering, frightened voice,
"Oh, no! not that. No! I want to see her here."
Homais, to keep himself in countenance, took up a water-bottle on
the whatnot to water the geraniums.
"Ah! thanks," said Charles; "you are good."
But he did not finish, choking beneath the crowd of memories that
this action of the druggist recalled to him.
Then to distract him, Homais thought fit to talk a little
horticulture: plants wanted humidity. Charles bowed his head in
sign of approbation.
"Besides, the fine days will soon be here again."
"Ah!" said Bovary.
The druggist, at his wit's end, began softly to draw aside the
small window-curtain.
"Hallo! there's Monsieur Tuvache passing."
Charles repeated like a machine---
"Monsieur Tuvache passing!"
Homais did not dare to speak to him again about the funeral
arrangements; it was the priest who succeeded in reconciling him
to them.
He shut himself up in his consulting-room, took a pen, and after
sobbing for some time, wrote--
"I wish her to be buried in her wedding-dress, with white shoes,
and a wreath. Her hair is to be spread out over her shoulders.
Three coffins, one of oak, one of mahogany, one of lead. Let no
one say anything to me. I shall have strength. Over all there is
to be placed a large piece of green velvet. This is my wish; see
that it is done."
The two men were much surprised at Bovary's romantic ideas. The
chemist at once went to him and said--
"This velvet seems to me a superfetation. Besides, the expense--"
"What's that to you?" cried Charles. "Leave me! You did not love
her. Go!"
The priest took him by the arm for a turn in the garden. He
discoursed on the vanity of earthly things. God was very great,
was very good: one must submit to his decrees without a murmur;
nay, must even thank him.
Charles burst out into blasphemies: "I hate your God!"
"The spirit of rebellion is still upon you," sighed the
ecclesiastic.
Bovary was far away. He was walking with great strides along by
the wall, near the espalier, and he ground his teeth; he raised
to heaven looks of malediction, but not so much as a leaf
stirred.
A fine rain was falling: Charles, whose chest was bare, at last
began to shiver; he went in and sat down in the kitchen.
At six o'clock a noise like a clatter of old iron was heard on
the Place; it was the "Hirondelle" coming in, and he remained
with his forehead against the windowpane, watching all the
passengers get out, one after the other. Felicite put down a
mattress for him in the drawing-room. He threw himself upon it
and fell asleep.
Although a philosopher, Monsieur Homais respected the dead. So
bearing no grudge to poor Charles, he came back again in the
evening to sit up with the body; bringing with him three volumes
and a pocket-book for taking notes.
Monsieur Bournisien was there, and two large candles were burning
at the head of the bed, that had been taken out of the alcove.
The druggist, on whom the silence weighed, was not long before he
began formulating some regrets about this "unfortunate young
woman." and the priest replied that there was nothing to do now
but pray for her.
"Yet," Homais went on, "one of two things; either she died in a
state of grace (as the Church has it), and then she has no need
of our prayers; or else she departed impertinent (that is, I
believe, the ecclesiastical expression), and then--"
Bournisien interrupted him, replying testily that it was none the
less necessary to pray.
"But," objected the chemist, "since God knows all our needs, what
can be the good of prayer?"
"What!" cried the ecclesiastic, "prayer! Why, aren't you a
Christian?"
"Excuse me," said Homais; "I admire Christianity. To begin with,
it enfranchised the slaves, introduced into the world a
morality--"
"That isn't the question. All the texts-"
"Oh! oh! As to texts, look at history; it, is known that all the
texts have been falsified by the Jesuits."
Charles came in, and advancing towards the bed, slowly drew the
curtains.
Emma's head was turned towards her right shoulder, the corner of
her mouth, which was open, seemed like a black hole at the lower
part of her face; her two thumbs were bent into the palms of her
hands; a kind of white dust besprinkled her lashes, and her eyes
were beginning to disappear in that viscous pallor that looks
like a thin web, as if spiders had spun it over. The sheet sunk
in from her breast to her knees, and then rose at the tips of her
toes, and it seemed to Charles that infinite masses, an enormous
load, were weighing upon her.
The church clock struck two. They could hear the loud murmur of
the river flowing in the darkness at the foot of the terrace.
Monsieur Bournisien from time to time blew his nose noisily, and
Homais' pen was scratching over the paper.
"Come, my good friend," he said, "withdraw; this spectacle is
tearing you to pieces."
Charles once gone, the chemist and the cure recommenced their
discussions.
"Read Voltaire," said the one, "read D'Holbach, read the
'Encyclopaedia'!"
"Read the 'Letters of some Portuguese Jews,'" said the other;
"read 'The Meaning of Christianity,' by Nicolas, formerly a
magistrate."
They grew warm, they grew red, they both talked at once without
listening to each other. Bournisien was scandalized at such
audacity; Homais marvelled at such stupidity; and they were on
the point of insulting one another when Charles suddenly
reappeared. A fascination drew him. He was continually coming
upstairs.
He stood opposite her, the better to see her, and he lost himself
in a contemplation so deep that it was no longer painful.
He recalled stories of catalepsy, the marvels of magnetism, and
he said to himself that by willing it with all his force he might
perhaps succeed in reviving her. Once he even bent towards he,
and cried in a low voice, "Emma! Emma!" His strong breathing made
the flames of the candles tremble against the wall.
At daybreak Madame Bovary senior arrived. Charles as he embraced
her burst into another flood of tears. She tried, as the chemist
had done, to make some remarks to him on the expenses of the
funeral. He became so angry that she was silent, and he even
commissioned her to go to town at once and buy what was
necessary.
Charles remained alone the whole afternoon; they had taken Berthe
to Madame Homais'; Felicite was in the room upstairs with Madame
Lefrancois.
In the evening he had some visitors. He rose, pressed their
hands, unable to speak. Then they sat down near one another, and
formed a large semicircle in front of the fire. With lowered
faces, and swinging one leg crossed over the other knee, they
uttered deep sighs at intervals; each one was inordinately bored,
and yet none would be the first to go.
Homais, when he returned at nine o'clock (for the last two days
only Homais seemed to have been on the Place), was laden with a
stock of camphor, of benzine, and aromatic herbs. He also carried
a large jar full of chlorine water, to keep off all miasmata.
Just then the servant, Madame Lefrancois, and Madame Bovary
senior were busy about Emma, finishing dressing her, and they
were drawing down the long stiff veil that covered her to her
satin shoes.
Felicite was sobbing--"Ah! my poor mistress! my poor mistress!"
"Look at her," said the landlady, sighing; "how pretty she still
is! Now, couldn't you swear she was going to get up in a minute?"
Then they bent over her to put on her wreath. They had to raise
the head a little, and a rush of black liquid issued, as if she
were vomiting, from her mouth.
"Oh, goodness! The dress; take care!" cried Madame Lefrancois.
"Now, just come and help," she said to the chemist. "Perhaps
you're afraid?"
"I afraid?" replied he, shrugging his shoulders. "I dare say!
I've seen all sorts of things at the hospital when I was studying
pharmacy. We used to make punch in the dissecting room!
Nothingness does not terrify a philosopher; and, as I often say,
I even intend to leave my body to the hospitals, in order, later
on, to serve science."
The cure on his arrival inquired how Monsieur Bovary was, and, on
the reply of the druggist, went on--"The blow, you see, is still
too recent."
Then Homais congratulated him on not being exposed, like other
people, to the loss of a beloved companion; whence there followed
a discussion on the celibacy of priests.
"For," said the chemist, "it is unnatural that a man should do
without women! There have been crimes--"
"But, good heaven!" cried the ecclesiastic, "how do you expect an
individual who is married to keep the secrets of the
confessional, for example?"
Homais fell foul of the confessional. Bournisien defended it; he
enlarged on the acts of restitution that it brought about. He
cited various anecdotes about thieves who had suddenly become
honest. Military men on approaching the tribunal of penitence had
felt the scales fall from their eyes. At Fribourg there was a
minister--
His companion was asleep. Then he felt somewhat stifled by the
over-heavy atmosphere of the room; he opened the window; this
awoke the chemist.
"Come, take a pinch of snuff," he said to him. "Take it; it'll
relieve you."
A continual barking was heard in the distance. "Do you hear that
dog howling?" said the chemist.
"They smell the dead," replied the priest. "It's like bees; they
leave their hives on the decease of any person."
Homais made no remark upon these prejudices, for he had again
dropped asleep. Monsieur Bournisien, stronger than he, went on
moving his lips gently for some time, then insensibly his chin
sank down, he let fall his big black boot, and began to snore.
They sat opposite one another, with protruding stomachs,
puffed-up faces, and frowning looks, after so much disagreement
uniting at last in the same human weakness, and they moved no
more than the corpse by their side, that seemed to be sleeping.
Charles coming in did not wake them. It was the last time; he
came to bid her farewell.
The aromatic herbs were still smoking, and spirals of bluish
vapour blended at the window-sash with the fog that was coming
in. There were few stars, and the night was warm. The wax of the
candles fell in great drops upon the sheets of the bed. Charles
watched them burn, tiring his eyes against the glare of their
yellow flame.
The watering on the satin gown shimmered white as moonlight. Emma
was lost beneath it; and it seemed to him that, spreading beyond
her own self, she blended confusedly with everything around her--
the silence, the night, the passing wind, the damp odours rising
from the ground.
Then suddenly he saw her in the garden at Tostes, on a bench
against the thorn hedge, or else at Rouen in the streets, on the
threshold of their house, in the yard at Bertaux. He again heard
the laughter of the happy boys beneath the apple-trees: the room
was filled with the perfume of her hair; and her dress rustled in
his arms with a noise like electricity. The dress was still the
same.
For a long while he thus recalled all his lost joys, her
attitudes, her movements, the sound of her voice. Upon one fit of
despair followed another, and even others, inexhaustible as the
waves of an overflowing sea.
A terrible curiosity seized him. Slowly, with the tips of his
fingers, palpitating, he lifted her veil. But he uttered a cry of
horror that awoke the other two.
They dragged him down into the sitting-room. Then Felicite came
up to say that he wanted some of her hair.
"Cut some off," replied the druggist.
And as she did not dare to, he himself stepped forward, scissors
in hand. He trembled so that he pierced the skin of the temple in
several places. At last, stiffening himself against emotion,
Homais gave two or three great cuts at random that left white
patches amongst that beautiful black hair.
The chemist and the cure plunged anew into their occupations, not
without sleeping from time to time, of which they accused each
other reciprocally at each fresh awakening. Then Monsieur
Bournisien sprinkled the room with holy water and Homais threw a
little chlorine water on the floor.
Felicite had taken care to put on the chest of drawers, for each
of them, a bottle of brandy, some cheese, and a large roll. And
the druggist, who could not hold out any longer, about four in
the morning sighed--
"My word! I should like to take some sustenance."
The priest did not need any persuading; he went out to go and say
mass, came back, and then they ate and hobnobbed, giggling a
little without knowing why, stimulated by that vague gaiety that
comes upon us after times of sadness, and at the last glass the
priest said to the druggist, as he clapped him on the shoulder--
"We shall end by understanding one another."
In the passage downstairs they met the undertaker's men, who were
coming in. Then Charles for two hours had to suffer the torture
of hearing the hammer resound against the wood. Next day they
lowered her into her oak coffin, that was fitted into the other
two; but as the bier was too large, they had to fill up the gaps
with the wool of a mattress. At last, when the three lids had
been planed down, nailed, soldered, it was placed outside in
front of the door; the house was thrown open, and the people of
Yonville began to flock round.
Old Rouault arrived, and fainted on the Place when he saw the
black cloth!
