Madame Bovary

Gradually Rodolphe's fears take possession of her. She listened for steps, cries, the noise of the ploughs, and stopped short, white and trembling more than the aspen leaves swaying overhead. One morning she saw what seemed a carbine barrel aimed at her — a small tub half-buried in a ditch. A man stepped out like a Jack-in-the-box: Captain Binet, in gaiters and cap, trembling lips and a red nose, lying illegally in ambush for wild ducks. At sight of Emma he seemed relieved. 'And you're out so early?' 'Yes — I am just coming from the nurse.' She turned on her heel. Good evening, Monsieur Binet. Emma regretted leaving so abruptly. The nurse excuse was the worst possible: everyone knew the little Bovary had been at home for a year, and this path led only to La Huchette. She spent the whole day racking her brain. That evening Charles took her to the chemist's by way of distraction. The first person she saw was Binet, standing at the counter lit by the gleams of the red bottle, asking for half an ounce of vitriol — which Homais corrected to oxalic acid, to clean rust from his hunting things. 'Nevertheless' said the tax-collector with a sly look, 'there are people who like [wet weather].' Emma was stifling. Then Madame Homais appeared with the children and asked cheerfully: 'And how's the little woman? Why didn't you bring her?' Emma hushed her with a finger — but Binet, absorbed in his bill, had probably heard nothing. When at last he went out Emma uttered a deep sigh. 'How hard you are breathing!' said Madame Homais. 'Well — it's rather warm.' All through the winter, three or four times a week in the dead of night, Rodolphe came to the garden. Emma had on purpose taken away the key of the gate, which Charles thought lost. To call her, Rodolphe threw a sprinkle of sand at the shutters. But sometimes he had to wait — Charles had a mania for chatting by the fireside. She was wild with impatience. At last she would pretend to read very quietly, as if the book amused her, until Charles called her to bed. Then, the candles dazzling him, he turned to the wall and fell asleep. She escaped, smiling, palpitating, undressed. Rodolphe had a large cloak; he wrapped her in it and drew her without a word to the end of the garden. It was in the arbour, on the same seat of old sticks where formerly Leon had looked at her so amorously on the summer evenings. She never thought of him now. The stars shone through the leafless jasmine branches; the river flowed behind them; masses of shadow loomed in the darkness and sometimes, vibrating with one movement, rose up and swayed like immense black waves pressing forward to engulf them. When the night was rainy they took refuge in the consulting-room, where she had hidden a kitchen candle behind the books. Rodolphe settled down there as if at home and could not refrain from making jokes about Charles, which rather embarrassed Emma. She would have liked him more serious — more dramatic. When she thought she heard a noise in the alley: 'Someone is coming!' He blew out the light. 'Have you your pistols?' 'Why?' 'To defend yourself.' 'From your husband? Oh, poor devil!' And he finished with a gesture: I could crush him with a flip of my finger. Emma was wonder-stricken at his bravery, though she felt in it a sort of indecency and naive coarseness that scandalised her. She was growing very sentimental. She insisted on exchanging miniatures, handfuls of hair, and was asking for a ring — a real wedding ring, in sign of an eternal union. She talked of the evening chimes, the voices of nature, their respective mothers. Gazing at the moon: 'I am sure that above there together they approve of our love.' But she was so pretty, so ingenuous. This love without debauchery was a new experience for him. Sure of being loved, he no longer kept up appearances, and insensibly his ways changed. He had no longer, as formerly, words so gentle that they made her cry, nor passionate caresses that made her mad — so that their great love, which engrossed her life, seemed to lessen beneath her like the water of a stream absorbed into its channel, and she could see the bed of it. She redoubled in tenderness; he concealed his indifference less and less. It was not affection; it was like a continual seduction. He subjugated her; she almost feared him. Appearances, nevertheless, were calmer than ever; and at the end of six months they were to one another like a married couple, tranquilly keeping up a domestic flame. It was the time of year when old Rouault sent his turkey in remembrance of the setting of his leg. Emma cut the string and read his letter: he hoped this turkey was a little more tender and heavier than the others; next time he might send a turkeycock, or some dabs. The cart-shed covering had blown off in the night wind. The harvest not overgood. He had turned away a dainty shepherd. A pedlar who had a tooth drawn by Bovary had told him business was looking up; they had had coffee together. He had planted an Orleans plum-tree for Berthe in the garden. The spelling mistakes were interwoven one with the other, and Emma followed the kindly thought that cackled right through the letter like a hen half hidden in the hedge of thorns. The writing had been dried with ashes from the hearth; a little grey powder slipped from the letter on to her dress, and she almost thought she saw her father bending over the hearth to take up the tongs. She remembered the summer evenings all full of sunshine, the colts galloping when anyone passed, the bees wheeling round in the light and striking against her window like rebounding balls of gold. What happiness there had been at that time, what freedom, what hope! Nothing was left of them now — she had got rid of them all in all her successive conditions of life, like a traveller who leaves something of his wealth at every inn along his road. But what then made her so unhappy? She raised her head, looking round as if to seek the cause. An April ray was dancing on the china of the whatnot; the fire burned; the day was bright, the air warm, and she heard her child shouting with laughter in the garden. Berthe was rolling on the lawn, lying flat on her stomach at the top of a rick. Emma rushed out, embraced her: 'How I love you, my poor child!' She washed her ears, changed her linen, her stockings, her shoes, asked a thousand questions about her health, kissed her again and cried a little — then gave her back to the servant, who stood thunderstricken at this excess of tenderness. That evening Rodolphe found her more serious than usual. 'That will pass over,' he concluded. 'It's a whim.' And he missed three rendezvous running. When he did come, she showed herself cold and almost contemptuous. Emma then repented — even asked herself if it had not been better to have been able to love Charles. But he gave her no opportunities for such a revival of sentiment; and the druggist came just in time to provide her with one.