‘Did you think you’d got a virgin?’ he exclaimed laughing.
Emma cried, and he tried to console her, adorning his protestations with puns.
‘Oh,’ she went on, ‘I love you! I love you so that I could not live without you, do you see? There are times when I long to see you again, when I am torn by all the anger of love. I ask myself, Where is he? Perhaps he is talking to other women. They smile upon him; he approaches. Oh no; no one else pleases you. There are some more beautiful, but I love you best. I know how to love best. I am your servant, your concubine! You are my king, my idol! You are good, you are beautiful, you are clever, you are strong!’
He had so often heard these things said that they did not strike him as original. Emma was like all his mistresses; and the charm of novelty, gradually falling away like a garment, laid bare the eternal monotony of passion, that has always the same forms and the same language. He did not distinguish, this man of so much experience, the difference of sentiment beneath the sameness of expression. Because lips libertine and venal had murmured such words to him, he believed but little in the candour of her; exaggerated speeches hiding mediocre affections must be discounted; as if the fullness of the soul did not sometimes overflow in the emptiest metaphors, since no one can ever give the exact measure of his needs, nor of his conceptions, nor of his sorrows, and since human speech is like a cracked tin kettle, on which we hammer out tunes to make bears dance when we long to placate the stars.
But with that superior critical judgement that belongs to him who, in no matter what circumstance, holds back, Rodolphe saw other delights to be got out of this love. He thought all modesty a hindrance. He treated her cavalierly. He made of her something supple and corrupt. Hers was an idiotic sort of attachment, full of admiration for him, of voluptuousness for her, a beatitude that benumbed her; her soul sank into this drunkenness, shrivelled up, drowned in it, like Clarence in his butt of Malmsey.
By the mere effect of her love Madame Bovary’s manners changed. Her looks grew bolder, her speech more free; she even committed the impropriety of walking out with Monsieur Rodolphe, a cigarette in her mouth, ‘as if to defy people.’ At last, those who still doubted doubted no longer when one day they saw her getting out of the ‘Hirondelle’, her waist squeezed into a waistcoat like a man; and Madame Bovary, senior, who, after a fearful scene with her husband, had taken refuge at her son’s, was not the least scandalised of the womenfolk. Many other things displeased her. First, Charles had not attended to her advice about the forbidding of novels; then the ‘ways of the house’ annoyed her; she allowed herself to make some remarks, and there were quarrels, especially one on account of Félicité.
Madame Bovary, senior, the evening before, passing along the passage, had surprised her in company of a man – a man with a brown collar, about forty years old, who had quickly escaped through the kitchen at the sound of her step. Then Emma began to laugh, but the good lady grew angry, declaring that unless morals were to be laughed at one ought to look after those of one’s servants.
‘Where were you brought up?’ asked the daughter-in-law, with so impertinent a look that Madame Bovary asked her if she were not perhaps defending her own case.
‘Leave the room!’ said the young woman, springing up with a bound.
‘Emma! Mamma!’ cried Charles, trying to reconcile them.
But both had fled in their exasperation. Emma was stamping her feet as she repeated – ‘Oh! what manners! What a boor!’
He ran to his mother; she was beside herself. She stammered – ‘She is an insolent, giddy-headed thing, or perhaps worse!’
And she was for leaving at once if the other did not apologise.
So Charles went back again to his wife and implored her to give way; he knelt to her; she ended by saying – ‘Very well! I’ll go to her.’
And in fact she held out her hand to her mother-in-law with the dignity of a marchioness as she said – ‘Excuse me, madame.’
Then, having gone up again to her room, she threw herself flat on her bed and cried there like a child, her face buried in the pillow.
She and Rodolphe had agreed that in the event of anything extraordinary occurring, she should fasten a small piece of white paper to the blind, so that if by chance he happened to be in Yonville, he could hurry to the lane behind the house. Emma made the signal; she had been waiting three-quarters of an hour when she suddenly caught sight of Rodolphe at the corner of the market. She felt tempted to open the window and call him, but he had already disappeared. She fell back in despair.
Soon, however, it seemed to her that someone was walking on the pavement. It was he, no doubt. She went downstairs, crossed the yard. He was there outside. She threw herself into his arms.
‘Do take care!’ he said.
‘Ah! if you knew!’ she replied.
And she began telling him everything, hurriedly, disjointedly, exaggerating the facts, inventing many, and so prodigal of parenthesis that he understood nothing of it.
‘Come, my poor angel, courage! Be comforted! be patient!’
‘But I have been patient; I have suffered for four years. A love like ours ought to show itself in the face of heaven. They torture me! I can bear it no longer! Save me!’
She clung to Rodolphe. Her eyes, full of tears, flashed like flames beneath a wave; her breast heaved; he had never loved her so much, so that he lost his head and said – ‘What is it? What do you wish?’
‘Take me away,’ she cried, ‘carry me off! Oh, I pray you!’
And she threw herself upon his mouth, as if to seize there the unexpected consent if breathed forth in a kiss.
‘But – ’ Rodolphe resumed.
‘What?’
‘Your little girl!’
She reflected a few moments, then replied – ‘We will take her! It can’t be helped!’
‘What a woman!’ he said to himself, watching her as she went. For she had run into the garden. Someone was calling her.
On the following days Madame Bovary, senior, was much surprised at the change in her daughter-in-law. Emma, in fact, was showing herself more docile, and even carried her deference so far as to ask for a recipe for pickling gherkins.
Was it the better to deceive them both? Or did she wish by a sort of voluptuous stoicism to feel the more profoundly the bitterness of the things she was about to leave?
But she paid no heed to them; on the contrary, she lived as lost in the anticipated delight of her coming happiness. It was an eternal subject for conversation with Rodolphe. She leant on his shoulder murmuring – ‘Ah! when we are in the mail-coach! Do you think about it? Can it be? It seems to me that the moment I feel the carriage start, it will be as if we were rising in a balloon, as if we were setting out for the clouds. Do you know that I count the hours? And you?’
Never had Madame Bovary been so beautiful as at this period; she had that indefinable beauty that results from joy, from enthusiasm, from success, and that is only the harmony of temperament with circumstances. Her desires, her sorrows, the experience of pleasure, and her ever-young illusions, that had, as soil and rain and winds and the sun make flowers grow, gradually developed her, and she at length blossomed forth in all the plenitude of her nature. Her eyelids seemed chiselled expressly for her long amorous looks in which the pupil disappeared, while a strong inspiration expanded her delicate nostrils and raised the fleshy corner of her lips, shaded in the light by a little black down. One would have thought an artist apt in conception had arranged the curls of hair upon her neck; they fell in a thick mass, negligently, and with the changing chances of their adultery that unbound them every day. Her voice now took on more mellow inflections, her figure likewise; something subtle and penetrating emanated from the very folds of her gown, from the line of her foot. Charles, as when they were first married, thought her delicious and quite irresistible.
When he came home in the middle of the night, he did not dare to wake her. The porcelain night-light threw a round trembling gleam upon the ceiling, and the drawn curtains of the little cot formed as it were a white hut standing out in the shade, and by the bedside Charles looked at them. He seemed to hear the light breathing of his child. She would grow big now; every season would bring rapid progress. He already saw her coming from school as the day drew in, laughing, with ink-stains on her jacket, and carrying her basket on her arm. Then she would have to be sent to the boarding-school; that would cost much; how was it to be done? Then he reflected. He thought of hiring a small farm in the neighbourhood, that he would superintend every morning on his way to his patients. He would save up what he brought in; he would put it in the savings-bank. Then he would buy shares somewhere, no matter where; besides, his practice would increase; he counted upon that, for he wanted Berthe to be well-educated, to be accomplished, to learn to play the piano. Ah! how pretty she would be later on when she was fifteen, when, resembling her mother, she would, like her, wear large straw hats in the summer time; from a distance they would be taken for two sisters. He pictured her to himself working in the evening by their side beneath the light of the lamp; she would embroider him slippers; she would look after the house; she would fill all the home with her charm and her gaiety. At last, they would think of her marriage; they would find her some good young fellow with a steady business; he would make her happy; this would last for ever.
Emma was not asleep; she pretended to be; and while he dozed off by her side she awakened to other dreams.
To the gallop of four horses she was carried away for a week towards a new land, whence they would return no more. They went on and on, their arms entwined, without a word. Often from the top of a mountain there suddenly glimpsed some splendid city with domes, and bridges, and ships, forests of citron trees, and cathedrals of white marble, on whose pointed steeples were storks’ nests. They went at a walking-pace because of the great flagstones, and on the ground there were bouquets of flowers, offered you by women dressed in red bodices. They heard the chiming of bells, the neighing of mules, together with the murmur of guitars and the noise of fountains, whose rising spray refreshed heaps of fruit arranged like a pyramid at the foot of pale statues smiling beneath playing waters. And then, one night they came to a fishing village, where brown nets were drying in the wind along the cliffs and in front of the huts. There they would stay; they would live in a low, flat-roofed house, shaded by a palm tree, in the heart of a gulf, by the sea. They would row in gondolas, and swing in hammocks, and their existence would be easy and large as their silk gowns, warm and star-spangled as the nights they would contemplate. However, in the immensity of this future that she conjured up, nothing special stood forth; the days, all magnificent, resembled each other like waves; and it swayed in the horizon, infinite, harmonised, azure, and bathed in sunshine. But the child began to cough in her cot or Bovary snored more loudly, and Emma did not fall asleep till morning, when the dawn whitened the windows, and when little Justin was already in the square taking down the shutters of the chemist’s shop.
She had sent for Monsieur Lheureux, and had said to him – ‘I want a cloak – a large, lined cloak with a deep collar.’
‘You are going on a journey?’ he asked.
