‘Yet they say he has parts,’ objected the landlady.
‘Parts!’ replied Monsieur Homais; ‘he parts! In his own line it is possible,’ he added in a calmer tone. And he went on – ‘Ah! that a merchant, who has large connections, a jurisconsult, a doctor, a chemist, should be thus absent-minded, that they should become whimsical or even peevish, I can understand; such cases are cited in history. But at least it is because they are thinking of something. Myself, for example, how often has it happened to me to look on the bureau for my pen to write a label, and to find, after all, that I had put it behind my ear?’
Madame Lefrançois just then went to the door to see if the ‘Hirondelle’ were not coming. She started. A man dressed in black suddenly came into the kitchen. By the last gleam of the twilight one could see that his face was rubicund and his form athletic.
‘What can I do for you, Monsieur le Curé?’ asked the landlady, as she reached down from the chimney one of the copper candlesticks placed with their candles in a row. ‘Will you take something? A thimbleful of Cassis? A glass of wine?’
The priest declined very politely. He had come for his umbrella, that he had forgotten the other day at the Ernemont convent, and after asking Madame Lefrançois to have it sent to him at the presbytery in the evening, he left for the church, from which the Angelus was ringing.
When the chemist no longer heard the noise of his boots along the square, he thought the priest’s behaviour just now very unbecoming. This refusal to take any refreshment seemed to him the most odious hypocrisy; all priests tippled on the sly, and were trying to bring back the days of the tithe.
The landlady took up the defence of her curé.
‘Besides, he could double up four men like you over his knee. Last year he helped our people to bring in the straw; he carried as many as six trusses at once, he is so strong.’
‘Bravo!’ said the chemist. ‘Now just send your daughters to confess to fellows with such a temperament! I, if I were the Government, I’d have the priests bled once a month. Yes, Madame Lefrançois, every month – a good phlebotomy – in the interests of the police and morals.’
‘Be quiet, Monsieur Homais. You are an infidel; you’ve no religion.’
The chemist answered: ‘I have a religion, my religion, and I even have more than all these others with their mummeries and their juggling. I adore God, on the contrary. I believe in the Supreme Being, in a Creator, whatever he may be. I care little who has placed us here below to fulfil our duties as citizens and fathers of families; but I don’t need to go to church to kiss silver-plates, and fatten, out of my pocket, a lot of for-nothings who live better than we do. For one can know him as well in a wood, in a field, or even contemplating the eternal vault like the ancients. My God! mine is the God of Socrates, of Franklin, of Voltaire, and of Béranger! I am for the profession of faith of the “Savoyard Vicar,” and the immortal principles of ’89! And I can’t admit of an old boy of a God who takes walks in his garden with a cane in his hand, lodges his friends in the belly of whales, dies uttering a cry, and rises again at the end of three days; things absurd in themselves, and completely opposed, moreover, to all physical laws, which proves to us, by the way, that priests have always wallowed in turbid ignorance, in which they would fain engulf the people with them.’
He ceased, looking round for an audience, for in his bubbling over the chemist had for a moment fancied himself in the midst of the town council. But the landlady no longer heeded him; she was listening to a distant rolling. One could distinguish the noise of a carriage mingled with the clattering of loose horseshoes that beat against the ground, and at last the ‘Hirondelle’ stopped at the door.
A great yellow box on two large wheels, which, reaching to the tilt, prevented travellers from seeing the road and dirtied their shoulders. The small panes of the narrow windows rattled in their sashes when the coach was closed, and retained here and there patches of mud amid the old layers of dust, that not even storms of rain had altogether washed away. It was drawn by three horses, the first a leader, and when it came downhill its bottom jolted against the ground.
Some of the inhabitants of Yonville came out into the square; they all spoke at once, asking for news, for explanations, for hampers. Hivert did not know whom to answer. It was he who did the errands of the place in town. He went to the shops and brought back rolls of leather for the shoemaker, old iron for the farrier, a barrel of herrings for his mistress, caps from the milliner’s, locks from the hairdresser’s, and all along the road on his return journey he distributed his parcels, which he threw, standing upright on his seat and shouting at the top of his voice, over the enclosures of the yards.
An accident had delayed him. Madame Bovary’s greyhound had run across the field. They had whistled for him a quarter of an hour; Hivert had even gone back a mile and a half expecting every moment to catch sight of her; but it had been necessary to go on. Emma had wept, grown angry; she had accused Charles of this misfortune. Monsieur Lheureux, a draper, who happened to be in the coach with her, had tried to console her by a number of examples of lost dogs recognising their masters at the end of long years. One, he said, had been told of, who had come back to Paris from Constantinople. Another had gone one hundred and fifty miles in a straight line, and swum four rivers; and his own father had possessed a poodle, which, after twelve years of absence, had all of a sudden jumped on his back in the street as he was going to dine in town.
2
Emma got out first, then Félicité, Monsieur Lheureux, and a nurse, and they had to wake up Charles in his corner, where he had slept soundly since night set in.
Homais introduced himself; he offered his homages to madame and his respects to monsieur; said he was charmed to have been able to render them some slight service, and added with a cordial air that he had ventured to invite himself, his wife being away.
When Madame Bovary was in the kitchen she went up to the chimney. With the tips of her fingers she caught her dress at the knee, and having thus pulled it up to her ankle, held out her foot in its black boot to the fire above the revolving leg of mutton. The flame lit up the whole of her, penetrating with a crude light the woof of her gowns, the fine pores of her fair skin, and even her eyelids, which she blinked now and again. A great red glow passed over her with the blowing of the wind through the half-open door. On the other side of the chimney a young man with fair hair watched her silently.
As he was a good deal bored at Yonville, where he was a clerk at the notary’s, Monsieur Guillaumin, Monsieur Léon Dupuis (it was he who was the second habitué of the Lion d’Or) frequently put back his dinner-hour in the hope that some traveller might come to the inn, with whom he could chat in the evening. On the days when his work was done early, he had, for want of something else to do, to come punctually, and endure from soup to cheese a tête-à-tête with Binet. It was therefore with delight that he accepted the landlady’s suggestion that he should dine in company with the new-comers, and they passed into the large parlour where Madame Lefrancois, for the purpose of showing off, had had the table laid for four.
Homais asked to be allowed to keep on his skullcap, for fear of coryza; then, turning to his neighbour – ‘Madame is no doubt a little fatigued; one gets jolted so abominably in our “Hirondelle”.’
‘That is true,’ replied Emma; ‘but moving about always amuses me. I like change of place.’
‘It is so tedious,’ sighed the clerk, ‘to be always riveted to the same places.’
‘If you were like me,’ said Charles, ‘constantly obliged to be in the saddle – ’
‘But,’ Léon went on, addressing himself to Madame Bovary, ‘nothing, it seems to me, is more pleasant – when one can,’ he added.
‘Moreover,’ said the druggist, ‘the practice of medicine is not very hard work in our part of the world, for the state of our roads allows us the use of gigs, and generally, as the farmers are prosperous, they pay pretty well. We have, medically speaking, besides the ordinary cases of enteritis, bronchitis, bilious affections, etc., now and then a few intermittent fevers at harvest-time; but, on the whole, little of a serious nature, nothing special to note, unless it be a great deal of scrofula, due, no doubt, to the deplorable hygienic conditions of our peasant dwellings. Ah! you will find many prejudices to combat, Monsieur Bovary, much obstinacy of routine, with which all the efforts of your science will daily come into collision; for people still have recourse to novenas, to relics, to the priest, rather than come straight to the doctor or the chemist. The climate, however, is not, truth to tell, bad, and we even have a few nonagenarians in our parish. The thermometer (I have made some observations) falls in winter to 4 degrees, and in the hottest season rises to 25 or 30 degrees Centrigade at the outside, which gives us 24 degrees Réaumur as the maximum, or otherwise 54 degrees Fahrenheit (English scale), not more. And, as a matter of fact, we are sheltered from the north winds by the forest of Argueil on the one side, from the west winds by the St Jean range on the other; and this heat, moreover, which on account of the aqueous vapours given off by the river and the considerable number of cattle in the fields, which, as you know, exhale much ammonia, that is to say, nitrogen, hydrogen, and oxygen (no, nitrogen and hydrogen alone), and which sucking up into itself the humus from the ground, mixing together all those different emanations, unites them into a stack, so to say, and combining with the electricity diffused through the atmosphere, when there is any, might in the long run, as in tropical countries, engender insalubrious miasmata, – this heat, I say, finds itself perfectly tempered on the side whence it comes, or rather whence it should come – that is to say, the southern side – by the southeastern winds, which, having cooled themselves passing over the Seine, reach us sometimes all at once like breezes from Russia.’
‘But I suppose you have some walks in the neighbourhood?’ continued Madame Bovary, addressing the young man.
‘Oh, very few,’ he answered. ‘There is a place they call La Pâture, on the top of the hill, on the edge of the forest. Sometimes, on Sundays, I go and stay there with a book, watching the sunset.’
‘I think there is nothing so admirable as sunsets,’ she resumed; ‘but especially by the side of the sea.’
‘Oh, I adore the sea!’ said Monsieur Léon.
‘Then do you not think,’ continued Madame Bovary, ‘that the mind travels more freely on this limitless expanse, the contemplation of which elevates the soul and gives ideas of the infinite, the ideal?’
‘It is the same with mountainous landscapes,’ continued Léon. ‘A cousin of mine who travelled in Switzerland last year told me that one could not conceive the poetry of the lakes, the charm of the waterfalls, the gigantic effect of the glaciers. One sees pines of incredible size hanging over torrents, cottages suspended over precipices, and, when the clouds open, whole valleys a thousand feet below. Such spectacles must stir one to enthusiasm, incline one to prayer, or ecstasy; and I no longer marvel at that celebrated musician who, the better to inspire his imagination, was in the habit of playing the piano before some imposing site.’
‘You play?’ she asked.
‘No, but I am very fond of music,’ he replied.
‘Ah! don’t you listen to him, Madame Bovary,’ interrupted Homais, bending over his plate. ‘That’s sheer modesty. Why, my dear fellow, the other day in your room you were singing “L’Ange Gardien” ravishingly. I heard you from the laboratory. You gave it like an actor.’
Léon, in fact, lodged at the chemist’s, where he had a small room on the second floor, overlooking the Place. He blushed at the compliment of his landlord, who had already turned to the doctor, and was enumerating to him, one after the other, all the principal inhabitants of Yonville. He was telling anecdotes, giving information; the fortune of the notary was not known exactly, and ‘there was the Tuvache household’, who made a good deal of show.
Emma continued, ‘And what music do you prefer?’
‘Oh, German music; the music that makes you dream.’
‘Have you been to the opera?’
‘Not yet; but I shall go next year, when I am living at Paris to finish reading for the bar.’
‘As I had the honour of putting it to your husband,’ said the chemist, ‘with regard to this poor Yanoda who has run away, you will find yourself, thanks to his extravagance, in the possession of one of the most comfortable houses of Yonville. Its greatest convenience for a doctor is a door giving on the Walk, where one can go in and out unseen. Moreover, it contains everything that is agreeable in a household – a laundry, kitchen with offices, sitting-room, fruit-room, etc. He was a gay dog, who didn’t care what he spent. At the end of the garden, by the side of the water, he had an arbour built just for the purpose of drinking beer in summer; and if madame is fond of gardening she will be able – ’
‘My wife doesn’t care about it,’ said Charles; ‘although she has been advised to take exercise, she prefers always sitting in her room reading.’
‘Like me,’ replied Léon. ‘And indeed, what is better than to sit by one’s fireside in the evening with a book, while the wind beats against the window and the lamp is burning?’
‘What, indeed?’ she said, fixing her large black eyes wide open upon him.
‘One thinks of nothing,’ he continued; ‘the hours slip by. Motionless we traverse countries we fancy we see, and your thought, blending with the fiction, playing with the details, follows the outline of the adventures. It mingles with the characters, and it seems as if it were yourself palpitating beneath their costumes.’
‘That is true! that is true!’ she said.
‘Has it ever happened to you,’ Léon went on, ‘to come across some vague idea of one’s own in a book, some dim image that comes back to you from afar, and as the completest expression of your own slightest sentiment?’
‘I have experienced that,’ she replied.
‘That is why I especially love the poets,’ he said. ‘I think verse more tender than prose, and that it moves far more easily to tears.’
‘Still it is tiring, in the long run,’ continued Emma. ‘Now I, on the contrary, adore stories that rush breathlessly along, and frighten one. I detest commonplace heroes and moderate sentiments, such as there are in nature.’
