Then， without any consideration forHippolyte， who was sweating with agony between his sheets， these gentlemenentered into a conversation， in which the druggist compared the coolness of asurgeon to that of a general； and this comparison was pleasing to Canivet， wholaunched out on the exigencies of his art. He looked upon， it as a sacredoffice， although the ordinary practitioners dishonoured it. At last， comingback to the patient， he examined the bandages brought by Homais， the same thathad appeared for the club-foot， and asked for someone to hold the limb for him.Lestiboudois was sent for， and Monsieur Canivet having turned up his sleeves，passed into the billiard-room， while the druggist stayed with Artémise and the landlady， both whiter than their aprons， and with earsstrained towards the door.
Bovary during this time did not dare to stirfrom his house. He kept downstairs in the sitting-room by the side of the firelesschimney， his chin on his breast， his hands clasped， his eyes staring. “What a mishap！” he thought， “what a mishap！” Perhaps， after all， he hadmade some slip. He thought it over， but could hit upon nothing. But the mostfamous surgeons also made mistakes； and that is what no one would ever believe！People， on the contrary， would laugh， jeer！ It would spread as far as Forges，as Neufchatel， as Rouen， everywhere！ Who could say if his colleagues would notwrite against him. Polemics would ensue； he would have to answer in the papers.Hippolyte might even prosecute him. He saw himself dishonoured， ruined， lost；and his imagination， assailed by a world of hypotheses， tossed amongst themlike an empty cask borne by the sea and floating upon the waves.
Emma， opposite， watched him； she did notshare his humiliation； she felt another-that of having supposed such a man wasworth anything. As if twenty times already she had not sufficiently perceivedhis mediocrity.
Charles was walking up and down the room； hisboots creaked on the floor.
“Sit down，” she said；“you fidget me.”
He sat down again.
How was it that she-she， who was sointelligent-could have allowed herself to be deceived again？ and through whatdeplorable madness had she thus ruined her life by continual sacrifices？ Sherecalled all her instincts of luxury， all the privations of her soul， thesordidness of marriage， of the household， her dream sinking into the mire likewounded swallows； all that she had longed for， all that she had denied herself，all that she might have had！ And for what？ for what？
In the midst of the silence that hung overthe village a heart-rending cry rose on the air. Bovary turned white tofainting. She knit her brows with a nervous gesture， then went on. And it wasfor him， for this creature， for this man， who understood nothing， who feltnothing！ For he was there quite quiet， not even suspecting that the ridicule ofhis name would henceforth sully hers as well as his. She had made efforts tolove him， and she had repented with tears for having yielded to another！
“But it was perhaps a valgus！” suddenly exclaimed Bovary， who was meditating.
At the unexpected shock of this phrasefalling on her thought like a leaden bullet on a silver plate， Emma，shuddering， raised her head in order to find out what he meant to say； and theylooked at the other in silence， almost amazed to see each other， so farsundered were they by their inner thoughts. Charles gazed at her with the dulllook of a drunken man， while he listened motionless to the last cries of thesufferer， that followed each other in long-drawn modulations， broken by sharpspasms like the far-off howling of some beast being slaughtered. Emma bit herwan lips， and rolling between her fingers a piece of coral that she had broken，fixed on Charles the burning glance of her eyes like two arrows of fire aboutto dart forth. Everything in him irritated her now； his face， his dress， whathe did not say， his whole person， his existence， in fine. She repented of herpast virtue as of a crime， and what still remained of it rumbled away beneaththe furious blows of her pride. She revelled in all the evil ironies oftriumphant adultery. The memory of her lover came back to her with dazzlingattractions； she threw her whole soul into it， borne away towards this imagewith a fresh enthusiasm； and Charles seemed to her as much removed from herlife， as absent forever， as impossible and annihilated， as if he had been aboutto die and were passing under her eyes.
There was a sound of steps on the pavement.Charles looked up， and through the lowered blinds he saw at the corner of themarket in the broad sunshine Dr. Canivet， who was wiping his brow with hishandkerchief. Homais， behind him， was carrying a large red box in his hand， andboth were going towards the chemist's.
Then with a feeling of sudden tenderness anddiscouragement Charles turned to his wife saying to her-
“Oh， kiss me， my own！”
“Leave me！” she said，red with anger.
“What is the matter？”he asked， stupefied. “Be calm； compose yourself. Youknow well enough that I love you. Come！”
“Enough！” she criedwith a terrible look.
And escaping from the room， Emma closed thedoor so violently that the barometer fell from the wall and smashed on thefloor.
Charles sank back into his arm-chair overwhelmed，trying to discover what could be wrong with her， fancying some nervous illness，weeping， and vaguely feeling something fatal and incomprehensible whirlinground him.
When Rodolphe came to the garden thatevening， he found his mistress waiting for him at the foot of the steps on thelowest stair. They threw their arms round one another， and all their rancourmelted like snow beneath the warmth of that kiss.
Chapter 12
They began to love one another again. Often，even in the middle of the day， Emma suddenly wrote to him， then from the windowmade a sign to Justin， who， taking his apron off， quickly ran to La Huchette.Rodolphe would come； she had sent for him to tell him that she was bored， thather husband was odious， her life frightful.
“But what can I do？”he cried one day impatiently.
“Ah！ if you would-”
She was sitting on the floor between hisknees， her hair loose， her look lost.
“Why， what？” saidRodolphe.
She sighed.
“We would go and live elsewhere-somewhere！”
“You are really mad！”he said laughing. “How could that be possible？”
She returned to the subject； he pretended notto understand， and turned the conversation.
What he did not understand was all this worryabout so simple an affair as love. She had a motive， a reason， and， as it were，a pendant to her affection.
Her tenderness， in fact， grew each day withher repulsion to her husband. The more she gave up herself to the one， the moreshe loathed the other. Never had Charles seemed to her so disagreeable， to havesuch stodgy fingers， such vulgar ways， to be so dull as when they foundthemselves together after her meeting with Rodolphe. Then， while playing thespouse and virtue， she was burning at the thought of that head whose black hairfell in a curl over the sunburnt brow， of that form at once so strong andelegant， of that man， in a word， who had such experience in his reasoning， suchpassion in his desires. It was for him that she filed her nails with the careof a chaser， and that there was never enough cold-cream for her skin， nor ofpatchouli for her handkerchiefs. She loaded herself with bracelets， rings， andnecklaces. When he was coming she filled the two large blue glass vases withroses， and prepared her room and her person like a courtesan expecting aprince. The servant had to be constantly washing linen， and all day Fé1icité did not stir from the kitchen， wherelittle Justin， who often kept her company， watched her at work.
With his elbows on the long board on whichshe was ironing， he greedily watched all these women'sclothes spread about him， the dimity petticoats， the fichus， the collars， andthe drawers with running strings， wide at the hips and growing narrower below.
“What is that for？”asked the young fellow， passing his hand over the crinoline or the hooks andeyes.
“Why， haven't youever seen anything？” Félicité answered laughing. “As if your mistress，Madame Homais， didn't wear the same.”
“Oh， I daresay！ Madame Homais！” And he added with a meditative air， “As ifshe were a lady like madame！”
But Félicité grew impatient of seeing him hanging round her. She was six yearsolder than he， and Theodore， Monsieur Guillaumin'sservant， was beginning to pay court to her.
“Let me alone，” shesaid， moving her pot of starch. “You'd better be off and pound almonds； you are always dangling aboutwomen. Before you meddle with such things， bad boy， wait till you've got a beard to your chin.”
“Oh， don't be cross！I'll go and clean her boots.”
And he at once took down from the shelf Emma's boots， all coated with mud， the mud of the rendezvous， thatcrumbled into powder beneath his fingers， and that he watched as it gently rosein a ray of sunlight.
“How afraid you are of spoiling them！” said the servant， who wasn't so particularwhen she cleaned them herself， because as soon as the stuff of the boots was nolonger fresh madame handed them over to her.
Emma had a number in her cupboard that shesquandered one after the other， without Charles allowing himself the slightestobservation. So also he disbursed three hundred francs for a wooden leg thatshe thought proper to make a present of to Hippolyte. Its top was covered withcork， and it had spring joints， a complicated mechanism， covered over by blacktrousers ending in a patent-leather boot. But Hippolyte， not daring to use sucha handsome leg every day， begged Madame Bovary to get him another moreconvenient one. The doctor， of course， had again to defray the expense of thispurchase.
So little by little the stable-man took uphis work again. One saw him running about the village as before， and whenCharles heard from afar the sharp noise of the wooden leg， he at once went inanother direction.
It was Monsieur Lheureux， the shopkeeper， whohad undertaken the order； this provided him with an excuse for visiting Emma.He chatted with her about the new goods from Paris， about a thousand femininetrifles， made himself very obliging， and never asked for his money. Emmayielded to this lazy mode of satisfying all her caprices. Thus she wanted tohave a very handsome ridding-whip that was at an umbrella-maker's at Rouen to give to Rodolphe. The week after Monsieur Lheureuxplaced it on her table.
But the next day he called on her with a billfor two hundred and seventy francs， not counting the centimes. Emma was muchembarrassed； all the drawers of the writing-table were empty； they owed over afortnight's wages to Lestiboudois， two quarters to theservant， for any quantity of other things， and Bovary was impatiently expectingMonsieur Derozeray's account， which he was in the habitof paying every year about Midsummer.
She succeeded at first in putting offLheureux. At last he lost patience； he was being sued； his capital was out， andunless he got some in he should be forced to take back all the goods she hadreceived.
“Oh， very well， take them！” said Emma.
“I was only joking，”he replied； “the only thing I regret is the whip. My word！I'll ask monsieur to return it to me.”
“No， no！” she said.
“Ah！ I've got you！” thought Lheureux.
And， certain of his discovery， he went outrepeating to himself in an undertone， and with his usual low whistle-
“Good！ we shall see！ we shall see！”
She was thinking how to get out of this whenthe servant coming in put on the mantelpiece a small roll of blue paper “from Monsieur Derozeray's.” Emma pounced upon and opened it. It contained fifteen napoleons； itwas the account. She heard Charles on the stairs； threw the gold to the back ofher drawer， and took out the key.
Three days after Lheureux reappeared.
“I have an arrangement to suggest to you，” he said. “If， instead of the sum agreed on，you would take-”
“Here it is，” shesaid placing fourteen napoleons in his hand.
The tradesman was dumfounded. Then， toconceal his disappointment， he was profuse in apologies and proffers ofservice， all of which Emma declined； then she remained a few moments fingeringin the pocket of her apron the two five-franc pieces that he had given her inchange. She promised herself she would economise in order to pay back later on.“Pshaw！” she thought， “he won't think about it again.”
Besides the riding-whip with its silver-gilthandle， Rodolphe had received a seal with the motto “Amornel cor”； furthermore， a scarf for a muffler， and，finally， a cigar-case exactly like the viscount's， thatCharles had formerly picked up in the road， and that Emma had kept.
These presents， however， humiliated him； herefused several； she insisted， and he ended by obeying， thinking her tyrannicaland overexacting.
Then she had strange ideas.
“When midnight strikes，” she said， “you must think of me.”
And if he confessed that he had not thoughtof her， there were floods of reproaches that always ended with the eternalquestion-
“Do you love me？”
“Why， of course I love you，” he answered.
“A great deal？”
“Certainly！”
“You haven't lovedany others？”
“Did you think you'dgot a virgin？” he exclaimed laughing.
Emma cried， and he tried to console her， adorninghis protestations with puns.
“Oh，” she went on， “I love you！ I love you so that I could not live without you， do yousee？ There are times when I long to see you again， when I am torn by all theanger 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 aresome more beautiful， but I love you best. I know how to love best. I am yourservant， 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 thatthey did not strike him as original. Emma was like all his mistresses； and thecharm of novelty， gradually falling away like a garment， laid bare the eternalmonotony of passion， that has always the same forms and the same language. Hedid not distinguish， this man of so much experience， the difference ofsentiment beneath the sameness of expression. Because lips libertine and venalhad murmured such words to him， he believed but little in the candour of hers；exaggerated speeches hiding mediocre affections must be discounted； as if thefullness 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 hisconceptions， nor of his sorrows； and since human speech is like a cracked tinkettle， on which we hammer out tunes to make bears dance when we long to movethe stars.
But with that superior critical judgment thatbelongs to him who， in no matter what circumstance， holds back， Rodolphe sawother delights to be got out of this love. He thought all modesty in the way.He treated her quite sans facon. He made of her something supple and corrupt.Hers was an idiotic sort of attachment， full of admiration for him， ofvoluptuousness for her， a beatitude that benumbed her； her soul sank into thisdrunkenness， shrivelled up， drowned in it， like Clarence in his butt ofMalmsey.
By the mere effect of her love Madame Bovary's manners changed. Her looks grew bolder， her speech more free； sheeven committed the impropriety of walking out with Monsieur Rodolphe， acigarette in her mouth， “as if to defy the people”. At last， those who still doubted doubted no longer when one daythey saw her getting out of the “Hirondelle，” her waist squeezed into a waistcoat like a man； and Madame Bovarysenior， who， after a fearful scene with her husband， had taken refuge at herson's， was not the least scandalised of the women-folk.Many other things displeased her. First， Charles had not attended to her adviceabout the forbidding of novels； then the “ways of thehouse” annoyed her； she allowed herself to make someremarks， and there were quarrels， especially one on account of Fé1icité.
Madame Bovary senior， the evening before，passing along the passage， had surprised her in company of a man-a man with abrown collar， about forty years old， who， at the sound of her step， had quicklyescaped through the kitchen. Then Emma began to laugh， but the good lady grewangry， declaring that unless morals were to be laughed at one ought to lookafter those of one's servants.
“Where were you brought up？” asked the daughter-in-law， with so impertinent a look that MadameBovary 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！” criedCharles， trying to reconcile them.
But both had fled in their exasperation. Emmawas stamping her feet as she repeated-
“Oh！ what manners！ What a peasant！”
He ran to his mother； she was beside herself.She stammered
“She is an insolent， giddy-headed thing， orperhaps worse！”
And she was for leaving at once if the otherdid not apologise. So Charles went back again to his wife and implored her togive way； he knelt to her； she ended by saying-
“Very well！ I'll goto her.”
And in fact she held out her hand to hermother-in-law with the dignity of a marchioness as she said-
“Excuse me， madame.”
Then， having gone up again to her room， shethrew herself flat on her bed and cried there like a child， her face buried inthe pillow.
She and Rodolphe had agreed that in the eventof anything extraordinary occurring， she should fasten a small piece of whitepaper to the blind， so that if by chance he happened to be in Yonville， hecould hurry to the lane behind the house. Emma made the signal； she had beenwaiting three-quarters of an hour when she suddenly caught sight of Rodolphe atthe comer of the market. She felt tempted to open the window and call him， buthe had already disappeared. She fell back in despair.
Soon， however， it seemed to her that someonewas walking on the pavement. It was he， no doubt. She went downstairs， crossedthe yard. He was there outside. She threw herself into his arms.
“Do take care！” hesaid.
“Ah！ if you knew！”she replied.
And she began telling him everything，hurriedly， disjointedly， exaggerating the facts， inventing many， and soprodigal of parentheses that he understood nothing of it.
“Come， my poor angel， courage！ Be comforted！be patient！”
“But I have been patient； I have suffered forfour years. A love like ours ought to show itself in the face of heaven. Theytorture me！ I can bear it no longer！ Save me！”
She clung to Rodolphe. Her eyes， full oftears， flashed like flames beneath a wave； her breast heaved； he had neverloved her so much， so that he lost his head and said “Whatis， it？ What do you wish？”
“Take me away，” shecried， “carry me off！. Oh， I pray you！”
And she threw herself upon his mouth， as ifto seize there the unexpected consent if breathed forth in a kiss.
“But -” Rodolpheresumed.
“What？”
“Your little girl！”
She reflected a few moments， then replied-
“We will take her！ It can't be helped！”
“What a woman！” hesaid to himself， watching her as she went. For she had run into the garden.Someone was calling her.
On the following days Madame Bovary seniorwas much surprised at the change in her daughter-in-law. Emma， in fact， wasshowing herself more docile， and even carried her deference so far as to askfor a recipe for pickling gherkins.
Was it the better to deceive them both？ Ordid she wish by a sort of voluptuous stoicism to feel the more profoundly thebitterness of the things she was about to leave？
But she paid no heed to them； on thecontrary， she lived as lost in the anticipated delight of her coming happiness.It was an eternal subject for conversation with Rodolphe. She leant on hisshoulder murmuring：
“Ah！ when we are in the mail-coach！ Do youthink about it？ Can it be？ It seems to me that the moment I feel the carriagestart， it will be as if we were rising in a balloon， as if we were setting outfor the clouds. Do you know that I count the hours？ And you？”
Never had Madame Bovary been so beautiful asat this period； she had that indefinable beauty that results from joy， fromenthusiasm， from success， and that is only the harmony of temperament withcircumstances. Her desires， her sorrows， the experience of pleasure， and herever-young illusions， that had， as soil and rain and winds and the sun makeflowers grow， gradually developed her， and she at length blossomed forth in allthe plenitude of her nature. Her eyelids seemed chiselled expressly for herlong amorous looks in which the pupil disappeared， while a strong inspirationexpanded her delicate nostrils and raised the fleshy corner of her lips， shadedin the light by a little black down. One would have thought that an artist aptin conception had arranged the curls of hair upon her neck； they fell in athick mass， negligently， and with the changing chances of their adultery， thatunbound them every day. Her voice now took more mellow infections， her figurealso； something subtle and penetrating escaped even from the folds of her gownand 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 tremblinggleam upon the ceiling， and the drawn curtains of the little cot formed as itwere a white hut standing out in the shade， and by the bedside Charles lookedat them. He seemed to hear the light breathing of his child. She would grow bignow； every season would bring rapid progress. He already saw her coming fromschool as the day drew in， laughing， with ink-stains on her jacket， andcarrying her basket on her arm. Then she would have to be sent to theboarding-school； that would cost much； how was it to be done？ Then hereflected. He thought of hiring a small farm in the neighbourhood， that hewould superintend every morning on his way to his patients. He would save upwhat he brought in； he would put it in the savings-bank. Then he would buyshares somewhere， no matter where； besides， his practice would increase； hecounted upon that， for he wanted Berthe to be well-educated， to beaccomplished， to learn to play the piano. Ah！ how pretty she would be later onwhen she was fifteen， when， resembling her mother， she would， like her， wearlarge straw hats in the summer-time； from a distance they would be taken fortwo sisters. He pictured her to himself working in the evening by their sidebeneath the light of the lamp； she would embroider him slippers； she would lookafter the house； she would fill all the home with her charm and her gaiety. Atlast， they would think of her marriage； they would find her some good youngfellow with a steady business； he would make her happy； this would last forever.
Emma was not asleep； she pretended to be； andwhile he dozed off by her side she awakened to other dreams.
