Chapter 1
Monsieur Léon， whilestudying law， had gone pretty often to the dancing-rooms， where he was even agreat success amongst the grisettes， who thought he had a distinguished air. Hewas the best-mannered of the students； he wore his hair neither too long nortoo short， didn't spend all his quarter's money on the first day of the month， and kept on good terms withhis professors. As for excesses， he had always abstained from them， as muchfrom cowardice as from refinement.
Often when he stayed in his room to read， orelse when sitting of an evening under the lime-trees of the Luxembourg， he lethis Code fall to the ground， and the memory of Emma came back to him. Butgradually this feeling grew weaker， and other desires gathered over it， althoughit still persisted through them all. For Léon did notlose all hope； there was for him， as it were， a vague promise floating in thefuture， like a golden fruit suspended from some fantastic tree.
Then， seeing her again after three years ofabsence his passion reawakened. He must， he thought， at last make up his mindto possess her. Moreover， his timidity had worn off by contact with his gaycompanions， and he returned to the provinces despising everyone who had notwith varnished shoes trodden the asphalt of the boulevards. By the side of aParisienne in her laces， in the drawing-room of some illustrious physician， aperson driving his carriage and wearing many orders， the poor clerk would nodoubt have trembled like a child； but here， at Rouen， on the harbour， with thewife of this small doctor he felt at his ease， sure beforehand he would shine.Self-possession depends on its environment. We don'tspeak on the first floor as on the fourth； and the wealthy woman seems to have，about her， to guard her virtue， all her banknotes， like a cuirass in the liningof her corset.
On leaving the Bovarys the night before， Léon had followed them through the streets at a distance； then havingseen them stop at the “Croix-Rouge，” he turned on his heel， and spent the night meditating a plan.
So the next day about five o'clock he walked into the kitchen of the inn， with a chokingsensation in his throat， pale cheeks， and that resolution of cowards that stopsat nothing.
“The gentleman isn'tin，” answered a servant.
This seemed to him a good omen. He wentupstairs.
She was not disturbed at his approach； on thecontrary， she apologised for having neglected to tell him where they werestaying.
“Oh， I divined it！”said Léon.
He pretended he had been guided towards herby chance， by， instinct. She began to smile； and at once， to repair his folly，Léon told her that he had spent his morning in lookingfor her in all the hotels in the town one after the other.
“So you have made up your mind to stay？” he added.
“Yes，” she said， “and I am wrong. One ought not to accustom oneself to impossiblepleasures when there are a thousand demands upon one.”
“Oh， I can imagine！”
“Ah！ no； for you， you are a man！”
But men too had had their trials， and theconversation went off into certain philosophical reflections. Emma expatiatedmuch on the misery of earthly affections， and the eternal isolation in whichthe heart remains entombed.
To show off， or from a naive imitation ofthis melancholy which called forth his， the young man declared that he had beenawfully bored during the whole course of his studies. The law irritated him，other vocations attracted him， and his mother never ceased worrying him inevery one of her letters. As they talked they explained more and more fully themotives of their sadness， working .themselves up in their progressiveconfidence. But they sometimes stopped short of the complete exposition oftheir thought， and then sought to invent a phrase that might express it all thesame. She did not confess her passion for another； he did not say that he hadforgotten her.
Perhaps he no longer remembered his supperswith girls after masked balls； and no doubt she did not recollect therendezvous of old when she ran across the fields in the morning to her lover's house. The noises of the town hardly reached them， and the roomseemed small， as if on purpose to hem in their solitude more closely. Emma， ina dimity dressing-gown， leant her head against the back of the old arm-chair；the yellow wall-paper formed， as it were， a golden background behind her， andher bare head was mirrored in the glass with the white parting in the middle，and the tip of her ears peeping out from the folds of her hair.
“But pardon me！” shesaid. “It is wrong of me. I weary you with my eternalcomplaints.”
“No， never， never！”
“If you knew，” shewent on， raising to the ceiling her beautiful eyes， in which a tear wastrembling， “all that I had dreamed！”
“And I！ Oh， I too have suffered！ Often I wentout； I went away. I dragged myself along the quays， seeking distraction amidthe din of the crowd without being able to banish the heaviness that weighedupon me. In an engraver's shop on the boulevard thereis an Italian print of one of the Muses. She is draped in a tunic， and she islooking at the moon， with forget-me-nots in her flowing hair. Something droveme there continually； I stayed there hours together.”Then in a trembling voice， “She resembled you a little.”
Madame Bovary turned away her head that hemight not see the irrepressible smile she felt rising to her lips.
“Often，” he went on， “I wrote you letters that I tore up.”
She did not answer. He continued-
“I sometimes fancied that some chance wouldbring you. I thought I recognised you at street-corners， and I ran after allthe carriages through whose windows I saw a shawl fluttering， a veil likeyours.”
She seemed resolved to let him go on speakingwithout interruption. Crossing her arms and bending down her face， she lookedat the rosettes on her slippers， and at intervals made little movements insidethe satin of them with her toes.
At last she sighed.
“But the most wretched thing， is it not-is todrag out， as I do， a useless existence. If our pains were only of some use tosomeone， we should find consolation in the thought of the sacrifice.”
He started off in praise of virtue， duty， andsilent immolation， having himself an incredible longing for self-sacrifice thathe could not satisfy.
“I should much like，”she said， “to be a nurse at a hospital.”
“Alas！ men have none of these holy missions，and I see nowhere any calling-unless perhaps that of a doctor.”
With a slight shrug of her shoulders， Emmainterrupted him to speak of her illness， which had almost killed her. What apity！ She should not be suffering now！ Léon at onceenvied the calm of the tomb， and one evening he had even made his will， askingto be buried in that beautiful mg with velvet stripes he had received from her.For this was how they would have wished to be， each setting up an ideal towhich they were now adapting their past life. Besides， speech is a rolling-millthat always thins out the sentiment.
But at this invention of the mg she asked， “But why？”
“Why？” He hesitated. “Because I loved you so！” And congratulatinghimself at having surmounted the difficulty， Léonwatched her face out of the comer of his eyes.
It was like the sky when a gust of winddrives the clouds across. The mass of sad thoughts that darkened them seemed tobe lifted from her blue eyes； her whole face shone. He waited. At last shereplied -
“I always suspected it.”
Then they went over all the trifling eventsof that far-off existence， whose joys and sorrows they had just summed up inone word. They recalled the arbour with clematis， the dresses she had worn， thefurniture of her room， the whole of her house.
“And our poor cactuses， where are they？”
“The cold killed them this winter.”
“Ah！ how I have thought of them， do you know？I often saw them again as of yore， when on the summer mornings the sun beatdown upon your blinds， and I saw your two bare arms passing out amongst theflowers.”
“Poor friend！” shesaid， holding out her hand to him.
Léon swiftly pressedhis lips to it. Then， when he had taken a deep breath：
“At that time you were to me I know not whatincomprehensible force that took captive my life. Once， for instance， I went tosee you； but you， no doubt， do not remember it.”
“I do，” she said； “go on.”
“You were downstairs in the ante-room， readyto go out， standing on the last stair； you were wearing a bonnet with smallblue flowers； and without any invitation from you， in spite of myself， I wentwith you. Every moment， however， I grew more and more conscious of my folly，and I went on walking by you， not daring to follow you completely， andunwilling to leave you. When you went into a shop， I waited in the street， andI watched you through the window taking off your gloves and counting the changeon the counter. Then you rang at Madame Tuvache's； youwere let in， and I stood like an idiot in front of the great heavy door thathad closed after you.”
Madame Bovary， as she listened to him，wondered that she was so old. All these things reappearing before her seemed towiden out her life； it was like some sentimental immensity to which shereturned； and from time to time she said in a low voice， her eyes half closed，
“Yes， it is true-true-true！”
They heard eight strike on the differentclocks of the Beauvoisine quarter， which is full of schools， churches， andlarge empty hotels. They no longer spoke， but they felt as they looked uponeach other a buzzing in their heads， as if something sonorous had escaped fromthe fixed eyes of each of them. They were hand in hand now， and the past， thefuture， reminiscences and dreams， all were confounded in the sweetness of thisecstasy. Night was darkening over the walls， on which still shone， half hiddenin the shade， the coarse colours of four bills representing four scenes fromthe Tour de Nesle， with a motto in Spanish and French at the bottom. Throughthe sash-window a patch of dark sky was seen between the pointed roofs.
She rose to light two wax-candles on thedrawers， then she sat down again.
“Well！” said Léon.
“Well！” she replied.
He was thinking how to resume the interruptedconversation， when she said to him-
“How is it that no one until now has everexpressed such sentiments to me？”
The clerk said that ideal natures weredifficult to understand. He from the first momem had loved her， and hedespaired when he thought of the happiness that would have been theirs， ifthanks to fortune， meeting her earlier， they had been indissolubly bound to oneanother.
“I have sometimes thought of it，” she were on.
“What a dream！”murmured Léon. And fingering gently the blue binding ofher long white sash， he added， “And who prevents usfrom beginning now？”
“No， my friend，” shereplied； “I am too old； you are too young. Forget me！Others will love you； you will love them.”
“Not as you！” hecried.
“What a child you are！ Come， let us besensible. I wish it.”
She showed him the impossibility of theirlove， and that they must remain， as formerly， on the simple terms of afraternal friendship.
Was she speaking thus seriously？ No doubtEmma did not herself know， quite absorbed as she was by the charm of theseduction， and the necessity of defending herself from it； and contemplatingthe young man with a moved look， she gemly repulsed the timid caresses that histrembling hands attempted.
“Ah！ forgive me！” hecried， drawing back.
Emma was seized with a vague fear at thisshyness， more dangerous to her than the boldness of Rodolphe when he advancedto her open-armed. No man had ever seemed to her so beautiful. An exquisitecandour emanated from his being. He lowered his long fine eyelashes， thatcurled upwards. His cheek， with the soft skin reddened， she thought， withdesire of her person， and Emma felt an invincible longing to press her lips toit. Then， leaning towards the clock as if to see the time：
“Ah！ how late it is！”she said； “how we do chatter！”
He understood the hint and took up his hat.
“It has even made me forget the theatre. Andpoor Bovary has left me here especially for that. Monsieur Lormeaux， of the RueGrand-Pont， was to take me and his wife.”
And the opportunity was lost， as she was toleave the next day.
“Really！” said Léon.
“Yes.”
“But I must see you again，” he went on. “I wanted to tell you-”
“What？”
“Something-important-serious. Oh， no！Besides， you will not go； it is impossible. If you should-listen to me. Thenyou have not understood me； you have not guessed-”
“Yet you speak plainly，” said Emma.
“Ah！ you can jest. Enough！ enough！ Oh， forpity's sake， let me see you once-only once！”
“Well-” She stopped；then， as if thinking better of it， “Oh， not here！”
“Where you will.”
“Will you-” Sheseemed to reflect； then abruptly， “To-morrow at eleveno'clock in the cathedral.”
“I shall be there，”he cried， seizing her hands， which she disengaged.
And as they were both standing up， he behindher， and Emma with her head bent， he stooped over her and pressed long kisseson her neck.
“You are mad！ Ah！ you are mad！” she said， with sounding little laughs， while the kisses multiplied.
Then bending his head over her shoulder， heseemed to beg the consent of her eyes. They fell upon him full of an icydignity.
Léon stepped back togo out. He stopped on the threshold； then he whispered with a trembling voice， “Tomorrow！”
She answered with a nod， and disappeared likea bird into the next room.
In the evening Emma wrote the clerk aninterminable letter， in which she cancelled the rendezvous； all was over； theymust not， for the sake of their happiness， meet again. But when the letter wasfinished， as she did not know Léon's address， she was puzzled.
“I'll give it to himmyself，” she said； “he willcome.”
The next morning， at the open window， andhumming on his balcony， Léon himself varnished hispumps with several coatings. He put on white trousers， fine socks， a greencoat， emptied all the scent he had into his handkerchief， then having had hishair curled， he uncurled it again， in order to give it a more natural elegance.
“It is still too early，” he thought， looking at the hairdresser'scuckoo-clock， that pointed to the hour of nine. He read an old fashion journal，went out， smoked a cigar， walked up three streets， thought it was time， andwent slowly towards the porch of Notre Dame.
It was a beautiful summer morning. Silverplate sparkled in the jeweller's windows， and the lightfalling obliquely on the cathedral made mirrors of the comers of the greystones； a flock of birds fluttered in the grey sky round the trefoilbell-turrets； the square， resounding with cries， was flagrant with the flowersthat bordered its pavement， roses， jasmines， pinks， narcissi， and tube-roses，unevenly spaced out between moist grasses， catmint， and chickweed for thebirds； the fountains gurgled in the centre， and under large umbrellas， amidstmelons， piled up in heaps， flower-women， bare-headed， were twisting paper roundbunches of violets.
The young man took one. It was the first timethat he had bought flowers for a woman， and his breast， as he smelt them，swelled with pride， as if this homage that he meant for another had recoiledupon himself.
But he was afraid of being seen； heresolutely entered the church. The beadle， who was just then standing on thethreshold in the middle of the left doorway， under the “Dancing Marianne，” with feather cap， andrapier dangling against his calves， came in， more majestic than a cardinal， andas shining as a saint on a holy pyx.
He came towards Léon，and， with that smile of wheedling benignity assumed by ecclesiastics when theyquestion children-
“The gentleman， no doubt， does not belong tothese parts？ The gentleman would like to see the curiosities of the church？”
“No！” said the other.
And he first went round the lower aisles.Then he went out to look at the Place. Emma was not coming yet. He went upagain to the choir.
The nave was reflected in the full fonts withthe beginning of the arches and some portions of the glass windows. But thereflections of the paintings， broken by the marble rim， were continued fartheron upon the flag-stones， like a many-coloured carpet. The broad daylight fromwithout streamed into the church in three enormous rays from the three openedportals. From time to time at the upper end a sacristan passed， making theoblique genuflexion of devout persons in a hurry. The crystal lustres hungmotionless. In the choir a silver lamp was burning， and from the side chapelsand dark places of the church sometimes rose sounds like sighs， with the clangof a closing grating， its echo reverberating under the lofty vault.
Léon with solemnsteps walked along by the walls. Life had never seemed so good to him. Shewould come directly， charming， agitated， looking back at the glances thatfollowed her， and with her flounced dress， her gold eyeglass， her thin shoes，with all sorts of elegant trifles that he had never enjoyed， and with theineffable seduction of yielding virtue. The church like a huge boudoir spreadaround her； the arches bent down to gather in the shade the confession of herlove； the windows shone resplendent to illumine her face， and the censers wouldburn that she might appear like an angel amid the fumes of the sweet-smellingodours.
But she did not come. He sat down on a chair，and his eyes fell upon a blue stained window representing boatmen carryingbaskets. He looked at it long， attentively， and he counted the scales of thefishes and the button-holes of the doublets， while his thoughts wandered offtowards Emma.
The beadle， standing aloof， was inwardlyangry at this individual who took the liberty of admiring the cathedral byhimself. He seemed to him to be conducting himself in a monstrous fashion， tobe robbing him in a sort， and almost committing sacrilege.
But a rustle of silk on the flags， the tip ofa bonnet， a lined cloak - it was she！ Léon rose and ranto meet her.
Emma was pale. She walked fast.
“Read！” she said，holding out a paper to him. “Oh， no！”
And she abruptly withdrew her hand to enterthe chapel of the Virgin， where， kneeling on a chair， she began to pray.
The young man was irritated at this bigotfancy； then he nevertheless experienced a certain charm in seeing her， in themiddle of a rendezvous， thus lost in her devotions， like an Andalusianmarchioness； then he grew bored， for she seemed never coming to an end.
Emma prayed， or rather strove to pray， hopingthat some sudden resolution might descend to her from heaven； and to draw downdivine aid she filled full her eyes with the splendours of the tabernacle. Shebreathed in the perfumes of the full-blown flowers in the large vases， andlistened to the stillness of the church， that only heightened the tumult of herheart.
She rose， and they were about to leave， whenthe beadle came forward， hurriedly saying-
“Madame， no doubt， does not belong to theseparts？ Madame would like to see the curiosities of the church？”
“Oh， no！” cried theclerk.
“Why not？” said she.For she clung with her expiring virtue to the Virgin， the sculptures， the tombs- anything.
Then， in order to proceed “by rule，” the beadle conducted them right tothe entrance near the square， where， pointing out with his cane a large circleof block-sto nes without inion or carving-
“This，” he saidmajestically， “is the circumference of the beautifulbell of Ambroise. It weighed forty thousand pounds. There was not its equal inall Europe. The workman who cast it died of the joy-”
“Let us go on，” saidLéon.
The old fellow started off again； then，having got back to the chapel of the Virgin， he stretched forth his arm with anall-embracing gesture of demonstration， and， prouder than a country squireshowing you his espaliers， went on-
“This simple stone covers Pierre de Brézé， lord of Varenne and of Brissac， grandmarshal of Poitou， and governor of Normandy， who died at the battle of Montlhéry on the 16th of July， 1465.”
Léon bit his lips，fuming.
“And on the right， this gentleman all encasedin iron， on the prancing horse， is his grandson， Louis de Brézé， lord of Breval and of Montchauvet， Countde Maulevrier， Baron de Mauny， chamberlain to the king， Knight of the Order，and also governor of Normandy； died on the 23rd of July， 1531-a Sunday， as theinion specifies； and below， this figure， about to descend into the tomb，portrays the same person. It is not possible， is it， to see a more perfectrepresentation of annihilation？”
Madame Bovary put up her eyeglasses. Lrén， motionless， looked at her， no longer even attempting to speak asingle word， to make a gesture， so discouraged was he at this two-foldobstinacy of gossip and indifference.
The everlasting guide went on-
“Near him， this kneeling woman who weeps ishis spouse， Diane de Poitiers， Countess de Brrzr， Duchess de Valentinois， bornin 1499， died in 1566， and to the left， the one with the child is the HolyVirgin. Now turn to this side； here are the tombs of the Ambroise. They wereboth cardinals and archbishops of Rouen. That one was minister under Louis XII.He did a great deal for the cathedral. In his will he left thirty thousand goldcrowns for the poor.”
And without stopping， still talking， hepushed them'into a chapel full of balustrades， some putaway， and disclosed a kind of block that certainly might once have been anill-made statue.
“Truly，” he said witha groan， “it adorned the tomb of Richard Coeur de Lion，King of England and Duke of Normandy. It was the Calvinists， sir， who reducedit to this condition. They had buried it for spite in the earth， under theepiscopal seat of Monsignor. See！ this is the door by which Monsignor passes tohis house. Let us pass on quickly to see the gargoyle windows.”
But Léon hastily tooksome silver from his pocket and seized Emma's arm. Thebeadle stood dumfounded， not able to understand this untimely munificence whenthere were still so many things for the stranger to see. So calling him back，he cried-
“Sir！ sir！ The steeple！ the steeple！”
“No， thank you！” saidLéon.
“You are wrong， sir！ It is four hundred andforty feet high， nine less than the great pyrarmid of Egypt. It is all onet” it-”
Léon was fleeing， forit seemed to him that his love， that for nearly two hours now had become petrifiedin the church like the stones， would vanish like a vapour through that sort oftruncated funnel， of oblong cage， of open chimney that rises so grotesquelyfrom the cathedral like the extravagant attempt of some fantastic brazier.
“But where are we going？” she said.
Making no answer， he walked on with a rapidstep； and Madame Bovary was already， dipping her finger in the holy water whenbehind them they heard a panting breath interrupted by the regular sound of acane. Léon turned back.
“Sir！”
“What is it？”
And he recognised the beadle， holding underhis arms and balancing against his stomach some twenty large sewn volumes. Theywere works “which treated of the cathedral.”
“Idiot！” growled Léon， rushing out of the church.
A lad was playing about the close.
“Go and get me a cab！”
The child bounded off like a ball by the RueQuatre-Vents； then they were alone a few minutes， face to face， and a littleembarrassed.
“Ah！ Léon！ Really-Idon't know-if I ought，” shewhispered. Then with a more serious air， “Do you know，it is very improper-”