The conversation seemed at an end when thechemist thought fit to shoot a Parthian arrow.
“I've known priestswho put on ordinary clothes to go and see dancers kicking about.”
“Come， come！” saidthe curé.
“Ah！ I've known some！” And separating the words of his sentence， Homais repeated， “I have-known-some！”
“Well， they were wrong，” said Bournisien， resigned to anything.
“By Jove！ they go in for more than that，” exclaimed the druggist.
“Sir！” replied theecclesiastic， with such angry eyes that the druggist was intimidated by them.
“I only mean to say，”he replied in less brutal a tone， “that toleration isthe surest way to draw people to religion.”
“That is true！ that is true！” agreed the good fellow， sitting down again on his chair. But hestayed only a few moments.
Then， as soon as he had gone， Monsieur Homaissaid to the doctor：
“That's what I call acock-fight. I beat him， did you see， in a way！ - Now take my advice. Takemadame to the theatre， if it were only for once in your life， to enrage one ofthese ravens， hang it！ If anyone could take my place， I would accompany youmyself. Be quick about it. Lagardy is only going to give one performance； he's engaged to go to England at a high salary. From what I hear， he's a regular dog； he's rolling in money； he's taking three mistresses and a cook along with him. All these greatartists burn the candle at both ends； they require a dissolute life， that suitsthe imagination to some extent. But they die at the hospital， because theyhaven't the sense when young to lay by. Well， apleasant dinner！ Goodbye till to-morrow.”
The idea of the theatre quickly germinated inBovary's head， for he at once communicated it to hiswife， who at first refused， alleging the fatigue， the worry， the expense； but，for a wonder， Charles did not give in， so sure was he that this recreationwould be good for her. He saw nothing to prevent it： his mother had sent themthree hundred francs which he had no longer expected； the current debts werenot very large， and the falling in of Lheureux's billswas still so far off that there was no need to think about them. Besides，imagining that she was refusing from delicacy， he insisted the more； so that bydint of worrying her she at last made up her mind， and the next day at eight o'clock they set out in the “Hirondelle.”
The druggist， whom nothing whatever kept atYonville， but who thought himself bound not to budge from it， sighed as he sawthem go.
“Well， a pleasant journey！” he said to them； “happy mortals that youare！”
Then addressing himself to Emma， who waswearing a blue silk gown with four flounces：
“You are as lovely as a Venus. You'll cut a figure at Rouen.”
The diligence stopped at the “Croix-Rouge” in the Place Beauvoisine. Itwas the inn that is in every provincial faubourg， with large stables and smallbedrooms， where one sees in the middle of the court chickens pilfering the oatsunder the muddy gigs of the commercial travellers - a good old house， withworm-eaten balconies that creak in the wind on winter nights， always full ofpeople， noise， and feeding， whose black tables are sticky with coffee andbrandy， the thick windows made yellow by the flies， the damp napkins stainedwith cheap wine， and that always smells of the village， like ploughboys dressedin Sundayclothes， has a cafe on the street， and towards the countryside akitchen-garden. Charles at once set out. He muddled up the stage-boxes with thegallery， the pit with the boxes； asked for explanations， did not understandthem； was sent from the box-office to the acting-manager； came back to the inn，returned to the theatre， and thus several times traversed the whole length ofthe town from the theatre to the boulevard.
Madame Bovary bought a bonnet， gloves， and abouquet. The doctor was much afraid of missing the beginning， and， withouthaving had time to swallow a plate of soup， they presented themselves at thedoors of the theatre， which were still closed.
Chapter 15
The crowd was waiting against the wall，symmetrically enclosed between the balustrades. At the corner of the neighbouringstreets huge bills repeated in quaint letters Lucie deLammermoor-Lagardy-Opera-etc.” The weather was fine，the people were hot， perspiration trickled amid the curls， and handkerchiefstaken from pockets were mopping red foreheads； and now and then a warm windthat blew from the river gently stirred the border of the tick awnings hangingfrom the doors of the public-houses. A little lower down， however， one wasrefreshed by a current of icy air that smelt of tallow， leather， and oil. Thiswas an exhalation from the Rue des Charrettes， full of large black warehouseswhere they made casks.
For fear of seeming ridiculous， Emma beforegoing in wished to have a little stroll in the harbour， and Bovary prudentlykept his tickets in his hand， in the pocket of his trousers， which he pressedagainst his stomach.
Her heart began to beat as soon as shereached the vestibule. She involuntarily smiled with vanity on seeing the crowdrushing to the right by the other corridor while she went up the staircase tothe reserved seats. She was as pleased as a child to push with her finger thelarge tapestried door. She breathed in with all her might the dusty smell ofthe lobbies， and when she was seated in her box she bent forward with the airof a duchess.
The theatre was beginning to fill；opera-glasses were taken from their cases， and the subscribers， catching sightof one another， were bowing. They came to seek relaxation in the fine artsafter the anxieties of business； but “business” was not forgotten； they still talked cottons， spirits of wine， orindigo. The heads of old men were to be seen， inexpressive and peaceful， withtheir hair and complexions looking like silver medals tarnished by steam oflead. The young beaux were strutting about in the pit， showing in the openingof their waistcoats their pink or applegreen cravats， and Madame Bovary fromabove admired them leaning on their canes with golden knobs in the open palm oftheir yellow gloves.
Now the lights of the orchestra were lit， thelustre， let down from the ceiling， throwing by the glimmering of its facets asudden gaiety over the theatre； then the musicians came in one after the other；and first there was the protracted hubbub of the basses grumbling， violinssqueaking， flutes and flageolets firing. But three knocks were heard on thestage， a rolling of drums began， the brass instruments played some chords， andthe curtain rising， discovered a country-scene.
It was the cross-roads of a wood， with afountain shaded by an oak to the left. Peasants and lords with plaids on theirshoulders were singing a hunting-song together； then a captain suddenly cameon， who evoked the spirit of evil by lifting both his arms to heaven. Anotherappeared； they went away， and the hunters started afresh.
She felt herself transported to the readingof her youth， into the midst of Walter Scott. She seemed to hear through themist the sound of the Scotch bagpipes re-echoing over the heather. Then herremembrance of the novel helping her to understand the libretto， she followed thestory phrase by phrase， while vague thoughts that came back to her dispersed atonce again with the bursts of music. She gave herself up to the lullaby of themelodies， and felt all her being vibrate as if the violin bows were drawn overher nerves. She had not eyes enough to look at the costumes， the scenery， theactors， the painted trees that shook when anyone walked， and the velvet caps，cloaks， swords-all those imaginary things that floated amid the harmony as inthe atmosphere of another world. But a young woman stepped forward， throwing apurse to a squire in green. She was left alone， and the flute was heard likethe murmur of a fountain or the warbling of birds. Lucie attacked her cavatinain G major bravely. She plained of love； she longed for wings. Emma， too，fleeing from life， would have liked to fly away in an embrace. SuddenlyEdgar-Lagardy appeared.
He had that splendid pallor that givessomething of the majesty of marble to the ardent races of the South. Hisvigorous form was tightly clad in a brown-coloured doublet； a small chiselledponiard hung against his left thigh， and he cast round laughing looks showinghis white teeth. They said that a Polish princess having heard him sing onenight on the beach at Biarritz， where he mended boats， had fallen in love withhim. She had ruined herself for him. He had deserted her for other women， andthis sentimental celebrity did not fail to enhance his artistic reputation. Thediplomatic mummer took care always to slip into his advertisements some poeticphrase on the fascination of his person and the susceptibility of his soul. Afine organ， imperturbable coolness， more temperament than intelligence， morepower of emphasis than of real singing， made up the charm of this admirablecharlatan nature， in which there was something of the hairdresser and thetoreador.
From the first scene he evoked enthusiasm. Hepressed Lucy in his arms， he left her， he came back， he seemed desperate； hehad outbursts of rage， then elegiac gurglings of infinite sweetness， and thenotes escaped from his bare neck full of sobs and kisses. Emma leant forward tosee him， clutching the velvet of the box with her nails. She was filling herheart with these melodious lamentations that were drawn out to theaccompaniment of the double-basses， like the cries of the drowning in thetumult of a tempest. She recognised all the intoxication and the anguish thathad almost killed her. The voice of a prima donna seemed to her to be butechoes of her conscience， and this illusion that charmed her as some very thingof her own life. But no one on earth had loved her with such love. He had notwept like Edgar that last moonlit night when they said， “Tomorrow！ tomorrow！” The theatre rang withcheers； they recommenced the entire movement； the lovers spoke of the flowerson their tomb， of vows， exile， fate， hopes； and when they uttered the finaladieu， Emma gave a sharp cry that mingled with the vibrations of the lastchords.
“But why，” askedBovary， “does that gentleman persecute her？”
“No， no！” sheanswered； “he is her lover！”
“Yet he vows vengeance on her family， whilethe other one who came on before said， ‘I love Lucieand she loves me！' Besides， he went off with her fatherarm in arm. For he certainly is her father， isn't he -the ugly little man with a cock's feather in his hat？”
Despite Emma'sexplanations， as soon as the recitative duet began in which Gilbert lays barehis abominable machinations to his master Ashton， Charles， seeing the falsetroth-ring that is to deceive Lucie， thought it was a love-gift sent by Edgar.He confessed， moreover， that he did not understand the story because of themusic， which interfered very much with the words.
“What does it matter？” said Emma. “Do be quiet！”
“Yes， but you know，”he went on， leaning against her shoulder， “I like tounderstand things.”
“Be quiet！ be quiet！”she cried impatiently.
Lucie advanced， half supported by her women，a wreath of orange blossoms in her hair， and paler than the white satin of hergown. Emma dreamed of her marriage day； she saw herself at home again amid thecorn in the little path as they walked to the church. Oh， why had not she， likethis woman， resisted， implored？ She， on the contrary， had been joyous， withoutseeing the abyss into which she was throwing herself. Ah！ if in the freshnessof her beauty， before the soiling of marriage and the disillusions of adultery，she could have anchored her life upon some great， strong heart， then virtue，tenderness， voluptuousness， and duty blending， she would never have fallen fromso high a happiness. But that happiness， no doubt， was a lie invented for thedespair of all desire. She now knew the smallness of the passions that artexaggerated. So， striving to divert her thoughts， Emma determined now to see inthis reproduction of her sorrows only a plastic fantasy， well enough to pleasethe eye， and she even smiled internally with disdainful pity when at the backof the stage under the velvet hangings a man appeared in a black cloak.
His large Spanish hat fell at a gesture hemade， and immediately the instruments and the singers began the sextet. Edgar，flashing with fury， dominated all the others with his clearer voice； Ashtonhurled homicidal provocations at him in deep notes； Lucie uttered her shrillplaint， Arthur at one side， his modulated tones in the middle register， and thebass of the minister pealed forth like an organ， while the voices of the womenrepeating his words took them up in chorus delightfully. They were all in a rowgesticulating， and anger， vengeance， jealousy， terror， and stupefactionbreathed forth at once from their half-opened mouths. The outraged loverbrandished his naked sword； his guipure ruffle rose with jerks to the movementsof his chest， and he walked from right to left with long strides， clankingagainst the boards the silver-gilt spurs of his soft boots， widening out at theankles. He， she thought must have an inexhaustible love to lavish it upon thecrowd with such effusion. All her small fault-findings faded before the poetryof the part that absorbed her； and， drawn towards this man by the illusion ofthe character， she tried to imagine to herself his life that life resonant，extraordinary， splendid， and that might have been hers if fate had willed it.They would have known one another， loved one another. With him， through all thekingdoms of Europe she would have travelled from capital to capital， sharinghis fatigues and his pride， picking up the flowers thrown to him， herselfembroidering his costumes. Then each evening， at the back of a box， behind thegolden trellis-work she would have drunk in eagerly the expansions of this soulthat would have sung for her alone； from the stage， even as he acted， he wouldhave looked at her. But the mad idea seized her that he was looking at her； itwas certain. She longed to run to his arms， to take refuge in his strength， asin the incarnation of love itself， and to say to him， to cry out， “Take me away！ carry me with you！ let us go！ Thine， thine！ all myardour and all my dreams！”
The curtain fell.
The smell of the gas mingled with that of thebreaths， the waving of the fans， made the air more suffocating. Emma wanted togo out； the crowd filled the corridors， and she fell back in her arm-chair withpalpitations that choked her. Charles， fearing that she would faint， ran to therefreshment-room to get a glass of barley-water.
He had great difficulty in getting back tohis seat， for his elbows were jerked at every step because of the glass he heldin his hands， and he even spilt three-fourths on the shoulders of a Rouen ladyin short sleeves， who feeling the cold liquid running down to her loins，uttered cries like a peacock， as if she were being assassinated. Her husband，who was a millowner， railed at the clumsy fellow， and while she was with herhandkerchief wiping up the stains from her handsome cherry-coloured taffetagown， he angrily muttered about indemnity， costs， reimbursement. At lastCharles reached his wife， saying to her， quite out of breath-
“Mafoi！ I thought I should have had to staythere. There is such a crowd-such a crowd！”
He added：
“Just guess whom I met up there！ Monsieur Léon！”
“Léon？”
“Himself！ He's comingalong to pay his respects.” And as he finished thesewords the ex-clerk of Yonville entered the box.
He held out his hand with the ease of a gentleman；and Madame Bovary extended hers， without doubt obeying the attraction of astronger will. She had not felt it since that spring evening when the rain fellupon the green leaves， and they had said good-bye standing at the window. Butsoon recalling herself to the necessities of the situation， with an effort sheshook off the torpor of her memories， and began stammering a few hurried words.
“Ah， good-day！ What！ you here？”
“Silence！” cried avoice from the pit， for the third act was beginning.
“So you are at Rouen？”
“Yes.”
“And since when？”
“Tum them out！ turn them out！” People were looking at them. They were silent.
But from that moment she listened no more；and the chorus of the guests， the scene between Ashton and his servant， thegrand duet in D major， all were for her as far off as if the instruments hadgrown less sonorous and the characters more remote. She remembered the games atcards at the druggist's， and the walk to the nurse's， the reading in the arbour， the tête-à-tête by the fireside-all that poor love， socalm and so protracted， so discreet， so tender， and that she had neverthelessforgotten. And why had he come back？ What combination of circumstances hadbrought him back into her life？ He was standing behind her， leaning with hisshoulder against the wall of the box； now and again she felt herself shudderingbeneath the hot breath from his nostrils falling upon her hair.
“Does this amuse you？” said he， bending over her so closely that the end of his moustachebrushed her cheek. She replied carelessly-
“Oh， dear me， no， not much.”
Then he proposed that they should leave thetheatre and go and take an ice somewhere.
“Oh， not yet； let us stay，” said Bovary. “Her hair's undone； this is going to be tragic.”
But the mad scene did not at all interestEmma， and the acting of the singer seemed to her exaggerated.
“She screams too loud，” said she， turning to Charles， who was listening.
“Yes-a little，” hereplied， undecided between the frankness of his pleasure and his respect forhis wife's opinion.
Then with a sigh Lron said-
“The heat is-”
“Unbearable！ Yes！”
“Do you feel unwell？”asked Bovary.
“Yes， I am stifling； let us go.”
Monsieur Lron put her long lace shawlcarefully about her shoulders， and all three went off to sit down in theharbour， in the open air， outside the windows of a cafe.
First they spoke of her illness， althoughEmma interrupted Charles from time to time， for fear， she said， of boringMonsieur Lron； and the latter told them that he had come to spend two years atRouen in a large office， in order to get practice in his profession， which wasdifferent in Normandy and Paris. Then he inquired after Berthe， the Homais，Mrre Lefrancois， and as they had， in the husband'spresence， nothing more to say to one another， the conversation soon came to anend.
People coming out of the theatre passed alongthe pavement， humming or shouting at the top of their voices， “O bel ange， ma Lucie！” Then Lron， playingthe dilettante， began to talk music. He had seen Tambourini， Rubini， Persiani，Grisi， and， compared with them， Lagardy， despite his grand outbursts， wasnowhere.
“Yet，” interruptedCharles， who was slowly sipping his rum-sherbet， “theysay that he is quite admirable in the last act. I regret leaving before theend， because it was beginning to amuse me.”
“Why，” said theclerk， “he will soon give another performance.”
But Charles replied that they were going backnext day. “Unless，” he added，turning to his wife， “you would like to stay alone，kitten？”
And changing his tactics at this unexpected opportunitythat presented itself to his hopes， the young man sang the praises of Lagardyin the last number. It was really superb， sublime. Then Charles insisted， *
“You would get back on Sunday. Come， make upyour mind. You are wrong if you feel that this is doing you the least good.”
The tables round them， however， wereemptying； a waiter came and stood discreetly near them. Charles， whounderstood， took out his purse； the clerk held back his arm， and did not forgetto leave two more pieces of silver that he made chink on the marble.
“I am really sorry，”said Bovary， “about the money which you are-”
The other made a careless gesture full ofcordiality， and taking his hat said：
“It is settled， isn'tit？ To-morrow at six o'clock？”
Charles explained once more that he could notabsent himself longer， but that nothing prevented Emma-
“But，” she stammered，with a strange smile， “I am not sure-”
“Well， you must think it over. We'll see. Night brings counsel.” Then to Léon， who was walking along with them， “Now thatyou are in our part of the world， I hope you'll comeand ask us for some dinner now and then.”
The clerk declared he would not fail to doso， being obliged， moreover， to go to Yonville on some business for his office.And they parted before the Saint-Herbland Passage just as the clock in thecathedral struck half-past eleven.