“And then， does it not seem to you，” continued Madame Bovary， “that the mindtravels more freely on this limitless expanse， the contemplation of whichelevates the soul， gives ideas of the infinite， the ideal？”
“It is the same with mountainous landscapes，” continued Léon. “Acousin of mine who travelled in Switzerland last year told me that one couldnot picture to oneself the poetry of the lakes， the charm of the waterfalls，the gigantic effect of the glaciers. One sees pines of incredible size acrosstorrents， cottages suspended over precipices， and， a thousand feet below one，whole valleys when the clouds open. Such spectacles must stir to enthusiasm，incline to prayer， to ecstasy； and I no longer marvel at that celebratedmusician who， the better to inspire his imagination， was in the habit ofplaying the piano before some imposing site.”
“You play？” sheasked.
“No， but I am very fond of music，” he replied.
“Ah！ don't you listento him， Madame Bovary，” interrupted Homais， bendingover his plate. “That's sheermodesty. Why， my dear fellow， the other day in your room you were singing L'Ange Gardien ravishingly. I heard you from the laboratory. You gaveit like an actor.”
Léon， in fact， lodgedat the chemist's where he had a small room on thesecond floor， overlooking the Place. He blushed at the compliment of hislandlord， who had already tumed to the doctor， and was enumerating to him， oneafter the other， all the principal inhabitants of Yonville. He was tellinganecdotes， 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， “Andwhat music do you prefer？”
“Oh， German music； that which makes youdream.”
“Have you been to the opera？”
“Not yet； but I shall go next year， when I amliving at Paris to finish reading for the bar.”
“As I had the honour of putting it to yourhusband，” said the chemist， “withregard to this poor Yanoda who has run away， you will find yourself， thanks tohis extravagance， in the possession of one of the most comfortable houses ofYonville. 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 isagreeable in a household-a laundry， kitchen with offices， sitting-room，fruit-room， and so on. He was a gay dog， who didn'tcare what he spent. At the end of the garden， by the side of the water， he hadan arbour built just for the purpose of drinking beer in summer； and if madameis fond of gardening she will be able-”
“My wife doesn't careabout it，” said Charles； “althoughshe has been advised to take exercise， she prefers always sitting in her roomreading.”
“Like me，” replied Léon. “And indeed， what is better than to sitby one's fireside in the evening with a book， while thewind beats against the window and the lamp is burning？”
“What， indeed？” shesaid， fixing her large black eyes wide open upon him.
“One thinks of nothing，” he continued； “the hours slip by. Motionlesswe traverse countries we fancy we see， and your thought， blending with thefiction， playing with the details， follows the outline of the adventures. Itmingles with the characters， and it seems as if it were yourself palpitatingbeneath their costumes.”
“That is true！ That is true？” she said.
“Has it ever happened to you，” Léon went on， “tocome across some vague idea of one's own in a book，some dim image that comes back to you from afar， and as the completestexpression of your own slightest sentiment？”
“I have experienced it，” she replied.
“That is why，” hesaid， “I especially love the poets. I think verse moretender than prose， and that it moves far more easily to tears.”
“Still in the long run it is tiring，” continued Emma. “Now I， on the contrary，adore stories that rush breathlessly along， that frighten one. I detestcommonplace heroes and moderate sentiments， such as there are in nature.”
“In fact，” observedthe clerk， “these works， not touching the heart， miss，it seems to me， the true end of art. It is so sweet， amid all thedisenchantments of life， to be able to dwell in thought upon noble characters，pure affections， and pictures of happiness. For myself， living here far fromthe world， this is my one distraction； but Yonville affords so few resources.”
“Like Tostes， no doubt，” replied Emma； “and so I always subscribedto a lending library.”
“If madame will do me the honour of makinguse of it”， said the chemist， who had just caught thelast words， “I have at her disposal a library composedof the best authors， Voltaire， Rousseau， Delille， Walter Scott， the écho desFeuilletons； and in addition I receive various periodicals， among them theFanal de Rouen daily， having the advantage to be its correspondent for thedistricts of Buchy， Forges， Neufchatel， Yonville， and vicinity.”
For two hours and a half they had been attable； for the servant Artemis， carelessly dragging her old list slippers overthe flags， brought one plate after the other， forgot everything， and constantlyleft the door of the billiard-room half open， so that it beat against the wallwith its hooks.
Unconsciously， Léon，while talking， had placed his foot on one of the bars of the chair on whichMadame Bovary was sitting. She wore a small blue silk necktie， that kept uplike a ruff a gauffered cambric collar， and with the movements of her head thelower part of her face gently sunk into the linen or came out from it. Thusside by side， while Charles and the chemist chatted， they entered into one ofthose vague conversations where the hazard of all that is said brings you backto the fixed centre of a common sympathy. The Paris theatres， titles of novels，new quadrilles， and the world they did not know； Tostes， where she had lived，and Yonville， where they were； they examined all， talked of everything till tothe end of dinner.
When coffee was served Fé1icité went away to get ready the room inthe new house， and the guests soon raised the siege. Madame Lefrancois wasasleep near the cinders， while the stable-boy， lantern in hand， was waiting toshow Monsieur and Madame Bovary the way home. Bits of straw stuck in his redhair， and he limped with his left leg. When he had taken in his other hand thecuré's umbrella， they started.
The town was asleep； the pillars of themarket threw great shadows； the earth was all grey as on a summer's night. But as the doctor's house was onlysome fifty paces from the inn， they had to say good-night almost immediately，and the company dispersed.
As soon as she entered the passage， Emma feltthe cold of the plaster fall about her shoulders like damp linen. The wallswere new and the wooden stairs creaked. In their bedroom， on the first floor， awhitish light passed through the curtainless windows.
She could catch glimpses of tree tops， andbeyond， the fields， half-drowned in the fog that lay reeking in the moonlightalong the course of the river. In the middle of the room， pell-mell， werescattered drawers， bottles， curtain-rods， gilt poles， with mattresses on thechairs and basins on the ground-the two men who had brought the furniture hadleft everything about carelessly.
This was the fourth time that she had sleptin a strange place. The first was the day of her going to the convent； thesecond， of her arrival at Tostes； the third， at Vaubyessard； and this was thefourth. And each one had marked， as it were， the inauguration of a new phase inher life. She did not believe that things could present themselves in the sameway in different places， and since the portion of her life lived had been bad， nodoubt that which remained to be lived would be better.
Chapter 3
The next day， as she was getting up， she sawthe clerk on the Place. She had on a dressing-gown. He looked up and bowed. Shenodded quickly and reclosed the window.
Léon waited all dayfor six o'clock in the evening to come， but on going tothe inn， he found no one but Monsieur Binet， already at table. The dinner ofthe evening before had been a considerable event for him； he had never tillthen talked for two hours consecutively to a “lady.” How then had he been able to explain， and in such language， thenumber of things that he could not have said so well before？ He was usuallyshy， and maintained that reserve which partakes at once of modesty anddissimulation. At Yonville he was considered “well-bred.” He listened to the arguments of the older people， and did not seemhot about politics-a remarkable thing for a young man. Then he had someaccomplishments； he painted in water-colours， could read the key of G， andreadily talked literature after dinner when he did not play cards. MonsieurHomais respected him for his education； Madame Homais liked him for hisgood-nature， for he often took the little Homais into the garden-little bratswho were always dirty， very much spoilt， and somewhat lymphatic， like theirmother. Besides the servant to look after them， they had Justin， the chemist's apprentice， a second cousin of Monsieur Homais， who had been takeninto the house from charity， and who was useful at the same time as a servant.
The druggist proved the best of neighbours.He gave Madame Bovary information as to the trades-people， sent expressly forhis own cider merchant， tasted the drink himself， and saw that the casks wereproperly placed in the cellar； he explained how to set about getting in asupply of butter cheap， and made an arrangement with Lestiboudois， thesacristan， who， besides his sacerdotal and funeral functions， looked after theprincipal gardens at Yonville by the hour or the year， according to the tasteof the customers.
The need of looking after others was not theonly thing that urged the chemist to such obsequious cordiality； there was aplan underneath it all.
He had infringed the law of the 19th Ventose，year xi！ article I， which forbade all persons not having a diploma to practisemedicine； so that， after certain anonymous denunciations， Homais had beensummoned to Rouen to see the procureur of the king in his own private room； themagistrate receiving him standing up， ermine on shoulder and cap on head. Itwas in the morning， before the cou.rt opened. In the corridors one heard theheavy boots of the gendarmes walking past， and like a far-off noise great locksthat were shut. The druggist's ears tingled as if hewere about to have an apoplectic stroke； he saw the depths of dungeons， hisfamily in tears， his shop sold， all the jars dispersed； and he was obliged toenter a café and take a glass of rum and seltzer torecover his spirits.
Little by little the memory of this reprimandgrew fainter， and he continued， as heretofore， to give anodyne consultations inhis back-parlour. But the mayor resented it， his colleagues were jealous，everything was to be feared； gaining over Monsieur Bovary by his attentions wasto earn his gratitude， and prevent his speaking out later on， should he noticeanything. So every morning Homais brought him “thepaper，” and often in the afternoon left his shop for afew moments to have a chat with the Doctor.
Charles was dull： patients did not come. Heremained seated for hours without speaking， went into his consulting room tosleep， or watched his wife sewing. Then for diversion he employed himself athome as a workman； he even tried to do up the attic with some paint which hadbeen left behind by the painters. But money matters worried him. He had spentso much for repairs at Tostes， for madame's toilette，and for the moving， that the whole dowry， over three thousand crowns， hadslipped away in two years. Then how many things had been spoilt or lost duringtheir carriage from Tostes to Yonville， without counting the plaster curr， whofalling out of the coach at an over-severe jolt， had been dashed into athousand fragments on the pavements of Quincampoix！
A pleasanter trouble came to distract him，namely， the pregnancy of his wife. As the time of her confinement approached hecherished her the more. It was another bond of the flesh establishing itself，and， as it were， a continued sentiment of a more complex union. When from afarhe saw her languid walk， and her figure without stays turning softly on herhips； when opposite one another he looked at her at his ease， while she tooktired poses in her armchair， then his happiness knew no bounds； he got up，embraced her， passed his hands over her face， called her little mamma， wantedto make her dance， and half-laughing， half-crying， uttered all kinds ofcaressing pleasantries that came into his head. The idea of having begotten achild delighted him. Now he wanted nothing. He knew human life from end to end，and he sat down to it with serenity.
Emma at first felt a great astonishment； thenwas anxious to be delivered that she might know what it was to be a mother. Butnot being able to spend as much as she would have liked， to have aswing-bassinette with rose silk curtains， and embroidered caps， in a fit ofbitterness she gave up looking after the trousseau， and ordered the whole of itfrom a village needlewoman， without choosing or discussing anything. Thus shedid not amuse herself with those preparations that stimulate the tenderness ofmothers， and so her affection was from the very outset， perhaps， to some extentattenuated.
As Charles， however， spoke of the boy atevery meal， she soon began to think of him more consecutively.
She hoped for a son； he would be strong anddark； she would call him George； and this idea of having a male child was likean expected revenge for all her impotence in the past. A man， at least， isfree； he may travel over passions and over countries， overcome obstacles， tasteof the most far-away pleasures. But a woman is always hampered. At once inertand flexible， she has against her the weakness of the flesh and legaldependence. Her will， like the veil of her bonnet， held by a string， fluttersin every wind； there is always some desire that draws her， some conventionalitythat restrains.
She was confined on a Sunday at about six o'clock， as the sun was rising.
“It is a girl！” saidCharles.
She turned her head away and fainted.
Madame Homais， as well as Madame Lefrancoisof the Lion d'Or， almost immediately came rtmning in toembrace her. The chemist， as man of discretion， only offered a few provincialfelicitations through the half-opened door. He wished to see the child andthought it well made.
Whilst she was getting well she occupiedherself much in seeking a name for her daughter. First she went over all thosethat have Italian endings， such as Clara， Louisa， Amanda， Atala； she likedGalsuinde pretty well， and Yseult or Leocadie still better. Charles wanted thechild to be called after her mother； Emma opposed this. They ran over thecalendar from end to end， and then consulted outsiders.
“Monsieur Léon，” said the chemist， “with whom I was talkingabout it the other day， wonders you do not chose Madeleine. It is very much infashion just now.”
But Madame Bovary， senior， cried out loudlyagainst this name of a sinner. As to Monsieur Homais， he had a preference forall those that recalled some great man， an illustrious fact， or a generousidea， and it was on this system that he had baptized his four children. ThusNapoLéon represented glory and Franklin liberty； Irmawas perhaps a concession to romanticism， but Athalie was a homage to thegreatest masterpiece of the French stage. For his philosophical convictions didnot interfere with his artistic tastes； in him the thinker did not stifle theman of sentiment； he could make distinctions， make allowances for imaginationand fanaticism. In this tragedy， for example， he found fault with the ideas，but admired the style； he detested the conception， but applauded all thedetails， and loathed the characters while he grew enthusiastic over theirdialogue. When he read the fine passages he was transported， but when hethought that mummers would get something out of them for their show， he wasdisconsolate； and in this confusion of sentiments in which he was involved hewould have liked at once to crown Racine with both his hands and discuss withhim for a good quarter of an hour.
At last Emma remembered that at the chatteauof Vaubyessard she had heard the Marchioness call a young lady Berthe； fromthat moment this name was chosen； and as old Rouault could not come， MonsieurHomais was requested to stand godfather. His gifts were all products from hisestablishment， to wit： six boxes of jujubes， a whole jar of racahout， threecakes of marshmallow paste， and six sticks of sugar-candy into the bargain thathe had come across in a cupboard. On the evening of the ceremony there was agrand dinner； the curé was present； there was muchexcitement. Monsieur Homais towards liqueur-time began singing Le Dieu desbonnes gens. Monsieur Ldon sang a barcarolle， and Madame Bovary， senior， whowas godmother， a romance of the time of the Empire； finally， M. Bovary， senior，insisted on having the child brought down， and began baptizing it with a glassof champagne that he poured over its head. This mockery of the first of thesacraments made the Abbé Bournisien angry； old Bovaryreplied by a quotation from La Guerre des Dieux； the curé wanted to leave； the ladies implored， Homais interfered； and theysucceeded in making the priest sit down again， and he quietly went on with thehalf-finished coffee in his saucer.
Monsieur Bovary， senior， stayed at Yonville amonth， dazzling the natives by a superb policeman's capwith silver tassels that he wore in the morning when he smoked his pipe in thesquare. Being also in the habit of drinking a good deal of brandy， he oftensent the servant to the Lion d'Or to buy him a bottle，which was put down to his son's account， and to perfumehis handkerchiefs he used up his daughter-in-law'swhole supply of eau-de-cologne.
The latter did not at all dislike hiscompany. He had knocked about the world， he talked about Berlin， Vienna， andStrasbourg， of his soldier times， of the mistresses he had had， the grandluncheons of which he had partaken； then he was amiable， and sometimes even，either on the stairs， or in the garden， would seize hold of her waist， crying， “Charles， look out for yourself.”
Then Madame Bovary， senior， became alarmedfor her son's happiness， and fearing that her husbandmight in the long-run have an immoral influence upon the ideas of the youngwoman， took care to hurry their departure. Perhaps she had more serious reasonsfor uneasiness. Monsieur Bovary was not the man to respect anything.
One day Emma was suddenly seized with thedesire to see her little girl， who had been put to nurse with the carpenter's wife， and， without looking at the calendar to see whether the sixweeks of the Virgin were yet passed， she set out for the Rollets' house， situated at the extreme end of the village， between thehighroad and the fields.
It was mid-day， the shutters of the houseswere closed and the slate roofs that glittered beneath the fierce light of theblue sky seemed to strike sparks from the crest of the gables. A heavy wind wasblowing； Emma felt weak as she walked； the stones of the pavement hurt her； shewas doubtful whether she would not go home again， or go in somewhere to rest.
At this moment Monsieur Léon came out from a neighbouring door with a bundle of papers underhis arm. He came to greet her， and stood in the shade in front of the Lheureux's shop under the projecting grey awning.
Madame Bovary said she was going to see herbaby， but that she was beginning to grow tired.
“If-” said Léon， not daring to go on.
“Have you any business to attend to？” she asked.
And on the clerk'sanswer， she begged him to accompany her. That same evening this was known inYonville， and Madame Tuvache， the mayor's wife，declared in the presence of her servant that “MadameBovary was compromising herself.”
To get to the nurse'sit was necessary to tum to the left on leaving the street， as if making for thecemetery， and to follow between little houses and yards a small path borderedwith privet hedges. They were in bloom， and so were the speedwells， eglantines，thistles， and the sweetbriar that sprang up from the thickets. Through openingsin the hedges one could see into the huts， some pigs on a dung-heap， ortethered cows rubbing their homs against the trunk of trees. The two， side byside walked slowly， she leaning upon him， and he restraining his pace， which heregulated by hers； in front of them a swarm of midges fluttered， buzzing in thewarm air.
They recognized the house by an oldwalnut-tree which shaded it.Low and covered with brown tiles， there hungoutside it， beneath the dormer-window of the garret， a string of onions.Faggots upright against a thom fence surrounded a bed of lettuce， a few squarefeet of lavender， and sweet peas strung on sticks. Dirty water was rtmning hereand there on the grass， and all round were several indefinite rags， knittedstockings， a red calico jacket， and a large sheet of coarse linen spread overthe hedge. At the noise of the gate the nurse appeared with a baby she wassuckling on one arm. With her other hand she was pulling along a poor punylittle fellow， his face covered with scrofula， the son of a Rouen hosier， whomhis parents， too taken up with their business， left in the country.
“Go in，” she said； “your little one is there asleep.”
The room on the ground-floor， the only one inthe dwelling， had at its farther end， against the wall， a large bed withoutcurtains， while a kneading-trough took up the side by the window， one pane ofwhich was mended with a piece of blue paper. In the comer behind the door，shining hob-nailed shoes stood in a row under the slab of the washstand， near abottle of oil with a feather stuck in its mouth； a Matthieu Laensberg lay onthe dusty mantelpiece amid gunflints， candle-ends， and bits of amadou. Finally，the last luxury in the apartment was a “Fame” blowing her trumpets， a picture cut out， no doubt， from someperfumer's prospectus and nailed to the wall with sixwooden shoe-pegs.
Emma's child wasasleep in a wicker-cradle. She took it up in the wrapping that enveloped it andbegan singing softly as she rocked herself to and fro.
Léon walked up anddown the room； it seemed strange to him to see this beautiful woman in hernankeen dress in the midst of all this poverty. Madam Bovary reddened； heturned away， thinking perhaps there had been an impertinent look in his eyes.Then she put back the little girl， who had just been sick over her collar.
The nurse at once came to dry her， protestingthat it wouldn't show.
“She gives me other doses，” she said： “I am always a-washing of her. Ifyou would have the goodness to order Camus， the grocer， to let me have a littlesoap， it would really be more convenient for you， as I needn't trouble you then.”
“Very well！ very well！” said Emma. “Good morning， Madame Rollet，” and she went out， wiping her shoes at the door.
The good woman accompanied her to the end ofthe garden， talking all the time of the trouble she had getting up of nights.
“I'm that worn outsometimes as I drop asleep on my chair. I'm sure youmight at least give me just a pound of ground coffee； that'ud last me a month， and I'd take it of amorning with some milk.”
After having submitted to her thanks， MadamBovary left. She had gone a little way down the path when， at the sound ofwooden shoes， she turned round. It was the nurse.
“What is it？”
Then the peasant woman， taking her asidebehind an elm tree， began talking to her of her husband， who with his trade andsix francs a year that the captain-
“Oh， be quick！” saidEmma.
“Well，” the nursewent on， heaving sighs between each word， “I'm afraid he'll be put out seeing me havecoffee alone， you know men-”
“But you are to have some，” Emma repeated； “I will give you some. Youbother me！”
“Oh， dear！ my poor， dear lady！ you see inconsequence of his wounds he has terrible cramps in the chest. He even saysthat cider weakens him.”
“Do make haste， MéreRollet！”
“Well，” the lattercontinued， making a curtsey， “if it weren't asking too much，” and she curtsied oncemore， “if you would”-and hereyes begged-”a jar of brandy，”she said at last， “and I'd rubyour little one's feet with it； they're as tender as one's tongue.”
