Madame Bovary

Rouault arrives at Charles's door one morning with seventy-five francs in forty-sou pieces, a turkey, and a speech about grief. He describes his own devastation after losing his wife — falling at the foot of a tree, striking the earth with his stick, going mad with not eating — then tells Charles it wears away, "piece by piece, crumb by crumb," though something always remains at the bottom. He ends with a practical invitation: come to the farm, shoot rabbits, let spring help. Charles follows his advice. At home, Charles discovers an unexpected pleasure in living alone — changing his meal times, coming and going without explanation, stretching out across the bed. His practice has grown; people spoke of him sympathetically for a month. He brushes his whiskers in the looking-glass and thinks himself better looking. He visits the Bertaux freely now, and these two things — his new independence and his visits to Emma — run as separate satisfactions. One afternoon he arrives to find everyone in the fields. The kitchen is dim, shutters closed, sunlight forcing itself through the slats in long broken rays across the flags. Flies drown in the dregs of cider glasses. The soot at the back of the fireplace has turned to velvet in the chimney light. Between the window and the hearth, Emma sits sewing, wearing no fichu — he can see small drops of perspiration on her bare shoulders. She offers him a drink. He refuses; she insists; they end up with curaçao. She fills his glass to the brim and pours almost nothing into her own. She tilts her head back to drink, lips pouting, neck strained — gets nothing — laughs — then with the tip of her tongue between her small teeth licks the bottom of the glass drop by drop. Charles sits in silence hearing only the throbbing in his head and the faint clucking of a hen outside. They talk. Emma shows him her bedroom, her old music books, the little prizes and oak-leaf crowns from the convent, the garden bed where she leaves flowers on the first Friday of every month for her mother's tomb. Her voice shifts as she speaks — clear, then languid, trailing into murmurs — her eyes open wide, then half-closed with boredom, her thoughts visibly drifting. She says she would dearly like to live in town, if only for the winter. Charles rides home replaying every word. He cannot sleep. He lies awake, throat parched, and gets up to drink from the water-bottle and open the window — stars, a warm wind, dogs barking — and turns his head toward the Bertaux. He tells himself he should propose, then loses his nerve each time occasion arises. Rouault has already worked out the mathematics. He thinks Charles a little meagre, not quite the son-in-law he'd have chosen, but economical, well-regarded, and unlikely to press hard on the dowry — which matters, because Rouault owes money to the mason, the harness-maker, and needs the cider-press shaft replaced. "If he asks for her," he says to himself, "I'll give her to him." At Michaelmas, Charles spends three days at the farm procrastinating. Walking out with Rouault on the last afternoon, he makes it as far as the corner of the hedge before stammering "Monsieur Rouault — Monsieur Rouault." He cannot finish. Rouault cuts him off — "Don't I know all about it?" — and takes charge of everything. He'll go back and ask Emma. If yes, the outer shutter will be thrown open; Charles can see it from the road by leaning over the hedge. Charles ties his horse to a tree and waits. Half an hour. Then nineteen minutes counted by his watch. Then the shutter bangs open, the hook still swinging. He is at the farm by nine the next morning. Emma blushes as he enters and gives a small forced laugh to keep herself in countenance. Rouault embraces his future son-in-law. The wedding is set for the following spring, once Charles is out of mourning. Emma spends the winter ordering her trousseau from Rouen and sewing chemises from borrowed fashion-plates. She had wanted a midnight wedding with torches. Rouault could not understand such an idea. There are forty-three guests, sixteen hours at the table, and the celebration continues into the following days — a thoroughly provincial wedding, and Emma's first recorded disappointment.