Madame Bovary (25 page)

The Square was packed right up to the housefronts. People could be seen leaning on their elbows at every window, standing in every doorway, and Justin, in front of the display window of the pharmacy, seemed completely transfixed by the contemplation of what he was gazing at. Despite the silence, Monsieur Lieuvain’s voice dissipated in the air. It came to you in shreds of phrases, interrupted now and then by the scraping of the chairs in the crowd; then one would suddenly hear, emanating from behind, the prolonged bellow of an ox, or the bleats of the lambs answering one another at the street corners. For the animals had been driven in that close by the cowherds and shepherds, and they lowed from time to
time even as they reached out with their tongues and tore off a scrap of foliage hanging down over their muzzles.

Rodolphe had drawn close to Emma, and he was saying rapidly, in a low voice:

“Doesn’t it revolt you, the way society conspires? Is there a single feeling it doesn’t condemn? The noblest instincts, the purest sympathies, are persecuted, maligned, and if at last two poor souls should find each other, everything is organized to prevent their coming together. They’ll try, all the same, they’ll beat their wings, they’ll call out to each other. Oh, even so! —sooner or later, in six months, in ten years, they’ll come together, they’ll love each other, because fate demands it and they were born for each other.”

He sat with his arms crossed over his knees, and, lifting his face toward Emma, he looked at her fixedly from very near. She could distinguish in his eyes little lines of gold radiating out all around his black pupils, and she could even smell the scent of the pomade with which his hair was glazed. Then a languor came over her; she recalled the vicomte who had waltzed with her at La Vaubyessard, whose beard had given off the same smell of vanilla and lemon as this hair; and reflexively she half closed her eyelids the better to breathe it in. But as she did this, straightening in her chair, she saw in the distance, on the farthest horizon, the old stagecoach, the
Hirondelle
, slowly descending the hill of Les Leux, trailing a long plume of dust behind it. It was in that yellow carriage that Léon had so often returned to her; and by that very road he had left forever! She believed she could see him across the square, at his
window; then everything blurred together, some clouds passed; it seemed to her that she was still circling in the waltz, under the blaze of the chandeliers, in the arms of the vicomte, and that Léon was not far off, that he was coming … and yet she could still sense Rodolphe’s head next to her. And so the sweetness of this sensation permeated her desires of earlier times, and like grains of sand before a gust of wind, they whirled about in the subtle whiff of the fragrance that was spreading through her soul. Again and again she opened wide her nostrils to breathe in the freshness of the ivy around the capitals. She drew off her gloves, she dried her hands; then, with her handkerchief, she fanned her face, while through the pulsing at her temples she could hear the murmur of the crowd and the voice of the Councilor intoning his phrases.

He was saying:

“Persist! Persevere! Listen neither to the promptings of routine nor to the rash counsels of reckless empiricism! Apply yourselves above all to improving the soil, to enriching manures, to developing fine breeds—equine, bovine, ovine, and porcine! Let this agricultural fair be for you a sort of peaceful arena in which the victor, as he leaves, will hold out his hand to the vanquished and fraternize with him, wishing him better success next time! And you, venerable servants! humble workers in our households, whose arduous labors no government until this day has acknowledged, come forward and receive the recompense for your silent virtues, and be persuaded that the State, henceforth, has its eyes fixed upon you, that it encourages you, that it protects you, that it will accede to your just demands and lighten, insofar as it can, the burden of your arduous sacrifices!”

Then Monsieur Lieuvain sat down; Monsieur Derozerays stood up and began another speech. His was perhaps not as flowery as the Councilor’s; but it merited respect for its more positive style, that is, for its more specialized knowledge and loftier considerations. Thus, less space was taken up by praise of the government; religion and agriculture occupied more. Clearly shown was the relationship between the two, and how they had always contributed to civilization. Rodolphe was talking with Madame Bovary about dreams, presentiments, magnetism. Going back to the cradle of human society, the orator was depicting those primitive times in which men lived on acorns deep in the forest. Then they had left off their animal skins, donned cloth, dug furrows, planted vines. Was this a good thing? Weren’t there more drawbacks than advantages in this discovery? This was the problem Monsieur Derozerays had set himself. From magnetism, Rodolphe had gradually moved
on to affinities, and while the chairman cited Cincinnatus at his plow, Diocletian planting his cabbages, and the emperors of China inaugurating the new year by sowing seed, the young man was explaining to the young woman that these irresistible attractions had their source in some previous existence.

“You and I, for instance—” he was saying, “why did we meet? What chance decreed it? It must be that, like two rivers flowing across the intervening distance and converging, our own particular inclinations impelled us toward each other.”

And he grasped her hand; she did not withdraw it.

“For all-around good farming!—” cried the chairman.

“A few days ago, for example, when I came to your house …”

“To Monsieur Bizet, of Quincampoix—”

“Did I know that I would be coming here with you?”

“Seventy francs!”

“A hundred times I’ve tried to leave you, and yet I’ve followed you, I’ve stayed with you.”

“For manures—”

“As I would stay with you tonight, tomorrow, every day, my whole life!”

“To Monsieur Caron, of Argueil, a gold medal!”

“For never before have I been so utterly charmed by anyone’s company.”

“To Monsieur Bain, of Givry-Saint-Martin!—”

“So that I’ll carry the memory of you away with me …”

“For a merino ram …”

“Whereas you’ll forget me. I will have passed like a shadow.”

“To Monsieur Belot, of Notre-Dame …”

“No! I will—won’t I—have a place in your thoughts, in your life?”

“Porcine breed, prize
ex aequo:
to Messieurs Lehérissé and Cullembourg, sixty francs!”

Rodolphe squeezed her hand, and he felt it warm and trembling like a captive dove that wants to fly away again; but whether because she was trying to free it or because she was responding to that pressure, she moved her fingers; he exclaimed:

“Oh, thank you! You’re not rejecting me! How good you are! I’m yours; you know that! Let me look at you, let me gaze at you!”

A gust of wind coming in through the windows ruffled the cloth on the table, and in the Square down below, all the tall headdresses of the countrywomen lifted like the wings of white butterflies fluttering.

“Use of oilseed cakes,” continued the chairman.

He was hurrying:

“Liquid manure … cultivation of flax … drainage … long-term leases … domestic service.”

Rodolphe had stopped speaking. They were gazing at each other. Intense desire made their dry lips quiver; and softly, effortlessly, their fingers intertwined.

“Catherine-Nicaise-Élisabeth Leroux, of Sassetot-la-Guerrière, for fifty-four years of service on the same farm, a silver medal—value twenty-five francs!”

“Where is she—where’s Catherine Leroux?” repeated the Councilor.

She did not come forward, and one could hear voices whispering:

“Go on!”

“No.”

“To the left!”

“Don’t be afraid!”

“Oh, how stupid she is!”

“Well, is she here or not?” shouted Tuvache.

“Yes! … Here she is!”

“Well, get her to come up!”

Then they watched as she went up onto the platform: a frightened-looking little old woman who seemed to shrink within her shabby clothes. She had thick wooden clogs on her feet, and a large blue apron over her hips. Her thin face, surrounded with a borderless bonnet, was more creased with wrinkles than a withered pippin, and from the sleeves of her red blouse hung two long hands with gnarled joints. Barn dust, caustic washing soda, and wool grease had so thoroughly encrusted, chafed, and hardened them that they seemed dirty even though they had been washed in clear water; and from the habit of serving, they remained half open, as though offering their own testimony to the great suffering they had endured. A kind of monkish rigidity dignified the expression on her face. Nothing sad or tender softened those pale eyes. Living so much among animals, she had taken on their muteness and their placidity. This was the first time she had ever been surrounded by so
many people; and, inwardly terrified by the flags, the drums, the gentlemen in black suits, and the Councilor’s Legion of Honor medal, she remained completely motionless, not knowing whether to move forward or run away, nor why the crowd was urging her on or why the members of the jury were smiling at her. Thus did she stand there in front of those beaming citizens—this half century of servitude.

“Come here, venerable Catherine-Nicaise-Élisabeth Leroux!” said the Councilor, who had taken the list of laureates from the chairman’s hands.

And examining by turns the sheet of paper and the old woman, he repeated in a fatherly tone:

“Come here, come here!”

“Are you deaf?” said Tuvache, leaping up from his chair.

And he began shouting in her ear:

“Fifty-four years of service! A silver medal! Twenty-five francs! It’s for you!”

Then, when she had her medal, she studied it. Finally, a beatific smile spread over her face, and one could hear her murmuring as she went away:

“I’ll give it to our curé, so that he will say some masses for me.”

“What fanaticism!” exclaimed the pharmacist, leaning toward the notary.

The ceremony was over; the crowd dispersed; and now that the speeches had been read, everyone was resuming his usual rank, and everything was returning to normal: the masters were bullying the servants, and the servants were beating the animals, those indolent conquering heroes heading back to the stables with a green crown between their horns.

Meanwhile, the national guard had gone up to the second floor of the town hall, brioches impaled on their bayonets, the battalion drummer carrying a basket of bottles. Madame Bovary took Rodolphe’s arm; he accompanied her back home; they separated in front of her door; then, alone, he strolled about in the meadow, waiting for the banquet to begin.

The feast was long, noisy, badly served; they were packed in together so tightly they had trouble moving their elbows, and the narrow boards that served as benches nearly broke under the weight of the guests. They ate abundantly. Each person helped himself to his fair share. The sweat ran down every forehead; and a whitish vapor, like the mist over a river on an autumn morning, hovered over the table between the hanging lamps. Rodolphe, leaning his back against the canvas of the tent, was thinking so hard about Emma that he heard nothing. Behind him, on the lawn, servants were stacking dirty plates; his neighbors were talking, he did not answer them; someone filled his glass, and a silence settled over his thoughts, despite the increases in the din. He was dreaming of what she had said and of the shape of her lips; her face, as though in so many magic mirrors, shone out from the badges of the shakos; the folds of her dress hung down the walls; and days of
love stretched endlessly ahead in the vistas of the future.

He saw her again that evening, during the fireworks; but she was with her husband, Madame Homais, and the pharmacist, who was very worried about the danger of stray rockets; and he kept leaving the others to give Binet a word of advice.

The fireworks sent to Monsieur Tuvache’s address had, out of an excess of caution, been locked away in his cellar; so the damp powder barely ignited, and the main piece, which was supposed to represent a dragon biting its tail, failed completely. From time to time, a pitiful Roman candle would go off; then the gaping crowd would erupt in a shout in which were mingled the cries of women being tickled at the waist under cover of the darkness. Emma, silent, was snuggling gently against Charles’s shoulder; then, lifting her chin, she would follow the rocket’s trail of light through the black sky. Rodolphe was watching her by the glow of the burning oil lamps.

One by one, these went out. The stars appeared. A few drops of rain began to fall. She tied her fichu over her bare head.

At that moment, the Councilor’s fiacre emerged from the inn yard. His coachman, who was drunk, immediately dozed off; and from far away one could see the mass of his body, above the hood of the carriage, between the two lanterns, swaying right and left with the pitching of the braces.

“Really,” said the apothecary, “drunkenness ought to be severely dealt with! I’d like to see them list on the door of the town hall, every week, on a special board, the names of all those who have intoxicated themselves with alcohol during the week. Also, in terms of statistics, this would provide a sort of public record to which one could, if necessary … Excuse me!”

And once again he hurried over to the captain.

The latter was on his way home. He was returning to his lathe.

“Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt,” Homais said to him, “to send one of your men or go yourself …”

“Leave me alone, will you,” answered the tax collector. “There’s nothing to worry about!”

“No cause for concern,” said the apothecary when he was back with his friends. “Monsieur Binet has assured me that all proper measures have been taken. Not a spark has fallen. The pumps are full. Let’s go home to bed.”

“My faith! I need to,” remarked Madame Homais, who was yawning vigorously; “but all the same, we’ve had a very lovely day for our fair.”

Rodolphe repeated softly, with a tender glance:

“Oh, yes! Very lovely!”

And having taken leave of one another, they turned away.