Part 28

Homais attacked the subject of confession. Bournisien defended it; he dwelt on the restitutions it brought about. He cited various anecdotes of thieves who had suddenly turned honest. Soldiers, having drawn near the tribunal of penitence, had felt the scales fall from their eyes. There was at Fribourg a minister...

His companion was asleep. Then, as he was somewhat stifling in the too heavy atmosphere of the room, he opened the window, which woke the chemist.

— Come now, a pinch! he said to him. Accept, it clears the head.

Continuous howlings trailed in the distance, somewhere.

— Do you hear a dog howling? said the chemist.

— It is said they scent the dead, replied the ecclesiastic. It is like the bees: they fly from the hive at the death of persons. Homais did not take up these prejudices, for he had fallen asleep again.

Mr. Bournisien, the more robust, continued for some time to move his lips softly; then, by degrees, he dropped his chin, let go his big black book, and began to snore.

They were facing one another, belly forward, face puffed, brow sullen, after so much disagreement meeting at last in the same human weakness; and they stirred no more than the corpse beside them, which seemed to be sleeping.

Charles, on entering, did not wake them. It was the last time. He had come to bid her farewell.

The aromatic herbs were still smoking, and bluish wreaths of vapor mingled at the edge of the casement with the fog that came in. There were a few stars, and the night was mild.

The wax of the tapers fell in great drops upon the sheets of the bed. Charles watched them burn, wearying his eyes against the radiance of their yellow flame.

Moires trembled over the satin gown, white as a moonbeam. Emma was disappearing beneath it; and it seemed to him that, spreading outside herself, she was vaguely losing herself in the surroundings of things, in silence, in night, in the passing wind, in the damp scents that rose.

Then, all at once, he saw her in the garden at Tostes, on the bench, against the thorn hedge, or else at Rouen in the streets, on the threshold of their house, in the yard at the Bertaux. He still heard the laugh of the lads in merriment dancing under the apple trees; the room was full of the perfume of her hair, and her gown rustled in his arms with a sound of sparks. It was the same, that one!

For a long while he thus recalled all the vanished felicities, her attitudes, her gestures, the timbre of her voice. After one despair, another came; and always, inexhaustibly, like the waves of a tide that overflows.

He had a terrible curiosity: slowly, with the tips of his fingers, trembling, he lifted her veil. But he gave a cry of horror that woke the other two. They dragged him downstairs, into the sitting room.

Then Félicité came to say that he was asking for locks of hair.

— Cut some! replied the chemist.

And, as she dared not, he advanced himself, scissors in hand. He trembled so violently that he pricked the skin of the temples in several places. At last, bracing himself against his emotion, Homais dealt two or three great random cuts, which made white marks in that beautiful black hair.

The chemist and the priest sank back into their occupations, not without sleeping from time to time, of which they accused each other at every fresh awakening. Then Mr. Bournisien sprinkled the room with holy water and Homais threw a little chlorine on the floor.

Félicité had taken care to put out for them, on the chest of drawers, a bottle of brandy, a cheese, and a large brioche. So the chemist, who could stand it no longer, sighed, toward four o'clock in the morning:

— Upon my word, I should sustain myself with pleasure!

The ecclesiastic did not need pressing; he went out to say his mass, returned; then they ate and clinked glasses, laughing a little, without knowing why, excited by that vague gaiety which comes over you after sessions of sadness; and, at the last small glass, the priest said to the chemist, tapping him on the shoulder:

— We shall end by understanding one another!

They met downstairs, in the vestibule, the workmen who were arriving. Then Charles, for two hours, had to undergo the torture of the hammer resounding on the planks. Then she was lowered into her oak coffin, which was fitted into the two others; but, as the shell was too wide, it was necessary to stop up the interstices with the wool of a mattress. At length, when the three lids were planed, nailed, soldered, she was exposed before the door; the house was thrown wide open, and the people of Yonville began to flock in.

Old Rouault arrived. He fainted in the Square at the sight of the black cloth.

X

He had not received the chemist's letter until thirty-six hours after the event; and, out of regard for his sensibility, Mr. Homais had worded it in such a way that it was impossible to know what to make of it.

The good man fell at first as if struck with apoplexy. Next he understood that she was not dead. But she might be... At last he had put on his blouse, taken his hat, hung a spur on his shoe, and set off at full gallop; and, all along the road, old Rouault, panting, devoured himself with anguish. Once even he was obliged to get down. He could no longer see, he heard voices around him, he felt himself going mad.

Day broke. He caught sight of three black hens sleeping in a tree; he shuddered, terrified at the omen. Then he promised the Holy Virgin three chasubles for the church, and that he would go barefoot from the cemetery of the Bertaux to the chapel of Vassonville.

He entered Maromme hailing the inn people, burst the door open with a shoulder, bounded to the sack of oats, poured a bottle of sweet cider into the manger, and remounted his nag, which fired with all four hoofs.

He told himself that no doubt she would be saved; the doctors would discover a remedy, that was certain. He recalled all the miraculous cures that had been related to him.

Then she appeared to him dead. She was there, before him, stretched on her back, in the middle of the road. He drew on the rein and the hallucination vanished.

At Quincampoix, to give himself heart, he drank three coffees one after another.

He thought they had made a mistake of name in writing. He felt for the letter in his pocket, felt it there, but dared not open it.

He came to suppose that perhaps it was a joke, a revenge of someone, a fancy of a man on a spree; and, besides, if she were dead, one would know? But no! the country had nothing extraordinary about it: the sky was blue, the trees swayed; a flock of sheep passed. He caught sight of the village; he was seen running, bent low over his horse, which he belabored with great blows, and whose girths dripped with blood.

When he had recovered consciousness, he fell weeping into Bovary's arms:

— My daughter! Emma! my child! explain to me?

And the other answered with sobs:

— I do not know, I do not know! it is a curse!

The chemist separated them.

— These horrible details are useless. I shall inform the gentleman. Here is the crowd coming. Some dignity, zounds! some philosophy!

The poor lad wished to appear firm, and he repeated several times:

— Yes... courage!

— Well, cried the good man, I shall have some, thunder of God! I am going to see her to the end.

The bell was tolling. All was ready. They had to set out.

And, seated in a stall of the choir, one near the other, they saw pass before them and continually repass the three cantors who intoned the psalms. The serpent blew at full chest. Mr. Bournisien, in full vestments, sang in a shrill voice; he saluted the tabernacle, raised his hands, stretched out his arms. Lestiboudois moved about the church with his whalebone lathe; near the lectern, the coffin rested between four rows of tapers. Charles had a mind to rise and extinguish them.

He tried, however, to stir himself to devotion, to fling himself into the hope of a future life where he should see her again. He imagined that she had gone on a journey, far away, a long while since. But, when he thought that she was there beneath, and that all was finished, that they were carrying her into the earth, he fell into a fierce, black, desperate rage. At times he believed he felt nothing more; and he savored this softening of his grief, while reproaching himself for being a wretch.

There was heard upon the flagstones a sound like that of an iron-tipped staff striking them at equal intervals. It came from the back, and stopped short in the side aisles of the church. A man in a thick brown jacket knelt down painfully. It was Hippolyte, the lad of the Lion d'Or. He had put on his new leg.

One of the cantors came making the round of the nave to collect, and the big coins, one after another, rang in the silver plate.

— Make haste, then! I am suffering, I! cried Bovary, throwing at him angrily a five-franc piece.

The man of the church thanked him with a long reverence.

They sang, they knelt, they rose, it had no end! He recalled that once, in the early days, they had together attended mass, and they had placed themselves on the other side, to the right, against the wall. The bell began again. There was a great movement of chairs. The bearers slipped their three staves under the coffin, and they left the church.

Justin then appeared on the threshold of the chemist's shop. He went back in suddenly, pale, staggering.

They stood at the windows to see the procession pass. Charles, in front, arched his waist. He affected a brave air and saluted with a nod those who, issuing from the lanes or doors, ranged themselves in the crowd.

The six men, three on each side, walked at a slow pace and panting a little. The priests, the cantors, and the two choir boys recited the De profundis; and their voices went over the country, rising and falling in undulations. At times they disappeared at the turnings of the path; but the great silver cross always reared itself among the trees.

The women followed, covered with black mantles with hoods drawn back; they carried in the hand a large taper that burned, and Charles felt himself fainting at this continual repetition of prayers and torches, under those sickly sweet odors of wax and cassock. A fresh breeze was blowing, the rye and the colza were green, drops of dew trembled at the edge of the path, on the thorn hedges. All sorts of joyful noises filled the horizon: the clatter of a cart rolling afar in the ruts, the cry of a cock that repeated itself, or the gallop of a foal that one saw fleeing under the apple trees. The pure sky was speckled with pink clouds; bluish smokes settled upon the thatched cottages covered with irises; Charles, in passing, recognized the farmyards. He remembered mornings like this one, when, after visiting some patient, he came out of them, and returned toward her.

The black cloth, sown with white tears, lifted from time to time, disclosing the coffin. The weary bearers slackened; and it advanced by continuous jerks, like a shallop that rolls at every wave.

They arrived.

The men continued down to a place on the grass where the grave was dug.

They ranged themselves all around; and, while the priest spoke, the red earth, thrown back on the edges, ran down by the corners, without noise, continually.

Then, when the four ropes were arranged, they pushed the coffin upon them. He watched it descend. It kept descending.

At last a thud was heard; the ropes, creaking, came up. Then Bournisien took the spade that Lestiboudois handed him; with his left hand, while sprinkling with the right, he vigorously pushed a great shovelful; and the wood of the coffin, struck by the pebbles, made that formidable noise which seems to us the reverberation of eternity.

The ecclesiastic passed the sprinkler to his neighbor. It was Mr. Homais. He shook it gravely, then held it out to Charles, who sank to his knees in the earth, and threw it in full hands while crying: "Farewell!" He threw her kisses; he dragged himself toward the grave to be engulfed with her.

They led him away; and he soon grew calm, experiencing perhaps, like all the others, the vague satisfaction of having done with it.

Old Rouault, on returning, quietly began to smoke a pipe, which Homais, in his heart, judged improper. He noticed likewise that Mr. Binet had abstained from appearing, that Tuvache "had slipped away" after mass, and that Théodore, the notary's servant, wore a blue coat, "as if one could not find a black coat, since it is the custom, the devil!" And to communicate his observations he went from one group to another. They were deploring the death of Emma, and especially Lheureux, who had not failed to come to the burial.

— That poor little lady! what grief for her husband!

The chemist resumed:

— Without me, do you know, he would have done himself some fatal mischief!

— Such a good person! to think, though, that I saw her still on Saturday last in my shop!

— I have not had the leisure, said Homais, to prepare a few words that I should have cast upon her tomb.

On returning, Charles undressed, and old Rouault put on his blue blouse again. It was new, and, as he had, during the journey, often wiped his eyes with the sleeves, it had run upon his face; and the trace of tears made lines there in the layer of dust that soiled it.

Madame Bovary mother was with them. They all three were silent. At last the good man sighed:

— Do you remember, my friend, that I came to Tostes once, when you had just lost your first deceased? I consoled you in those days. I found what to say; but now...

Then, with a long moan that heaved all his chest:

— Ah! it is the end for me, you see! I have seen my wife depart..., my son after..., and here is my daughter, today!

He wished to go back at once to the Bertaux, saying he could not sleep in that house. He refused even to see his little granddaughter.

— No! No! that would grieve me too much. Only, you will kiss her well for me! Farewell!... you are a good fellow! And then, I shall never forget that, said he, striking his thigh; do not fear! you shall always receive your turkey.

But, when he was at the top of the hill, he turned aside, as formerly he had turned aside on the road to Saint-Victor, on parting from her. The windows of the village were all aflame under the oblique rays of the sun, which was setting in the meadow. He put his hand before his eyes; and he perceived on the horizon an enclosure of walls where trees, here and there, made black clumps among white stones, then he continued his road, at a slow trot, for his nag was limping.

Charles and his mother remained in the evening, despite their fatigue, very long talking together. They spoke of the days of old and of the future. She would come to live at Yonville, she would keep his house, they would not part again. She was ingenious and caressing, rejoicing inwardly at recovering an affection that had escaped her for so many years. Midnight struck. The village, as usual, was silent, and Charles, awake, still thought of her.

Rodolphe, who, to divert himself, had beaten the woods all day, slept quietly in his castle; and Léon, yonder, slept also.

There was another who, at that hour, did not sleep.

On the grave, among the firs, a child wept kneeling, and his breast, broken by sobs, panted in the shadow, under the pressure of an immense regret sweeter than the moon and more unfathomable than the night. The gate suddenly creaked. It was Lestiboudois; he came for his spade that he had forgotten earlier. He recognized Justin climbing the wall, and then knew what to think of the malefactor who was stealing his potatoes.

XI

Charles, the next day, had the little one brought back. She asked for her mamma. They answered her that she was away, that she would bring her toys. Berthe spoke of it again several times; then, in the long run, she thought no more of it. The gaiety of this child rent Bovary's heart, and he had to undergo the intolerable consolations of the chemist.

The money matters soon began again, Mr. Lheureux urging his friend Vinçart anew, and Charles engaged himself for exorbitant sums; for never would he consent to let the least of the furnishings that had belonged to her be sold. His mother was exasperated thereat. He grew more indignant than she. He was quite changed. She left the house.

Then everyone began to profit. Mademoiselle Lempereur claimed six months of lessons, though Emma had never taken one (despite that receipted bill she had shown Bovary): it was a convention between the two of them; the lending library claimed three years of subscription; Mother Rolet claimed the carriage of a score of letters; and, as Charles asked for explanations, she had the delicacy to reply:

— Ah! I know nothing! it was for her affairs.

At each debt he paid, Charles thought he was done with it. Others kept arising, continually.

He was dunned for arrears of old visits. They showed him the letters his wife had sent. Then apologies had to be made.

Félicité now wore Madame's dresses; not all, for he had kept a few, and he went to see them in her dressing room, where he shut himself in; she was about his size, and often Charles, catching sight of her from behind, was seized with an illusion, and cried:

— Oh! stay! stay!

But, at Whitsuntide, she decamped from Yonville, carried off by Théodore, and stealing all that remained of the wardrobe.

It was about that time that the widow Dupuis had the honor to inform him of the "marriage of Mr. Léon Dupuis, her son, notary at Yvetot, with Mademoiselle Léocadie Lebœuf, of Bondeville." Charles, among the congratulations he addressed to him, wrote this phrase:

"How happy my poor wife would have been!"

One day, wandering aimlessly in the house, he had gone up to the attic, he felt under his slipper a little ball of fine paper. He opened it and read: "Courage, Emma! courage! I will not make the unhappiness of your existence." It was Rodolphe's letter, fallen to the ground between boxes, which had remained there, and that the wind from the dormer had just now pushed toward the door. And Charles remained quite motionless and agape in that same spot where formerly, still paler than he, Emma, in despair, had wished to die. At last he discovered a little R at the foot of the second page. What was it? he recalled Rodolphe's attentions, his sudden disappearance, and the constrained air he had worn on meeting her since, two or three times. But the respectful tone of the letter deceived him.

— They must have loved each other platonically, said he to himself.

Besides, Charles was not one of those who sound things to the bottom: he shrank from the proofs, and his uncertain jealousy was lost in the immensity of his grief.

She must, he thought, have been adored. All men, surely, had coveted her. She seemed to him the more beautiful for it; and he conceived a permanent, furious desire for her, which inflamed his despair and had no bounds, because it was now unrealizable.

To please her, as if she still lived, he adopted her predilections, her ideas; he bought varnished boots, he took to white cravats. He put cosmetic on his mustaches, he subscribed, like her, to bills of exchange. She corrupted him beyond the tomb.

He was obliged to sell the silverware piece by piece, then he sold the furniture of the drawing room. All the apartments were stripped; but the chamber, her chamber, had remained as of old. After his dinner, Charles went up there. He pushed before the fire the round table, and drew up his armchair. He sat facing it. A candle burned in one of the gilded candlesticks. Berthe, near him, colored prints.

He suffered, the poor man, to see her so ill clad, with laceless half-boots and the armholes of her blouses torn to the hips, for the charwoman took little care of her. But she was so sweet, so gentle, and her little head bent so gracefully, letting her good blonde hair fall back on her pink cheeks, that an infinite delight invaded him, pleasure all mingled with bitterness like those ill-made wines that smell of resin. He mended her toys, made her puppets of cardboard, or resewed the torn belly of her dolls. Then, if he met the workbox, a ribbon trailing, or even a pin left in a crack of the table, he fell to dreaming, and looked so sad that she became sad like him.

No one now came to see them; for Justin had fled to Rouen, where he has become a grocer's boy, and the apothecary's children frequented the little one less and less, Mr. Homais not caring, given the difference of their social conditions, that the intimacy should prolong itself.

The Blind, whom he had been unable to cure with his ointment, had gone back to the slope of Bois-Guillaume, where he narrated to travelers the vain attempt of the chemist, to such a point that Homais, when he went to town, hid behind the curtains of the Hirondelle, to avoid meeting him. He execrated him; and, in the interest of his own reputation, wishing to be rid of him by force, he planted against him a hidden battery, which betrayed the depth of his intelligence and the scoundrelism of his vanity. For six consecutive months, one could therefore read in the Fanal de Rouen paragraphs conceived thus:

"All persons who direct themselves toward the fertile regions of Picardy will have remarked, no doubt, on the slope of Bois-Guillaume, a wretch afflicted with a horrible facial ulcer. He importunes you, persecutes you, and levies a veritable tax on travelers. Are we still in those monstrous times of the Middle Ages, when it was permitted vagabonds to display through our public squares the leprosy and scrofula they had brought back from the crusade?"

Or else:

"Despite the laws against vagrancy, the approaches of our great cities continue to be infested by bands of paupers. Some are seen circulating isolated, and who, perhaps, are not the least dangerous. What are our magistrates thinking of?"

Then Homais invented anecdotes:

"Yesterday, on the slope of Bois-Guillaume, a skittish horse..." And followed the account of an accident caused by the presence of the Blind.

He did so well that the man was incarcerated. But he was released. He began again, and Homais began again. It was a struggle. He had the victory; for his enemy was condemned to perpetual confinement in a hospice.

This success emboldened him; and from then on there was not in the arrondissement a dog run over, a barn burned, a woman beaten, of which he did not at once inform the public, always guided by the love of progress and the hatred of priests. He established comparisons between the primary schools and the Ignorantin brothers, to the detriment of the latter, recalled the Saint Bartholomew in connection with an allowance of a hundred francs made to the church, and denounced abuses, launched sallies. That was his word. Homais was sapping; he was becoming dangerous.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”