Once rid of the nurse， Emma again tookMonsieur Léon's arm. She walkedfast for some time， then more slowly， and looking straight in front of her， hereyes rested on the shoulder of the young man， whose frock-coat had ablack-velvety collar. His brown hair fell over it， straight and carefullyarranged. She noticed his nails which were longer than one wore them atYonville. It was one of the clerk's chief occupationsto trim them， and for this purpose he kept a special knife in his writing desk.
They returned to Yonville by the water-side.In the warm season the bank， wider than at other times， showed to their footthe garden walls whence a few steps led to the river. It flowed noiselessly，swift， and cold to the eye； long， thin grasses huddled together in it as thecurrent drove them， and spread themselves upon the limpid water like streaminghair； sometimes at the tip of the reeds or on the leaf of a water-lily aninsect with fine legs crawled or rested. The sun pierced with a ray the smallblue bubbles of the waves that， breaking， followed each other； branchless oldwillows mirrored their grey backs in the water； beyond， all around， the meadowsseemed empty. It was the dinner-hour at the farms， and the young woman and hercompanion heard nothing as they walked but the fall of their steps on the earthof the path， the words they spoke， and the sound of Emma's dress rustling round her.
The walls of the gardens with pieces ofbottle on their coping were hot as the glass windows of a conservatory.Wallflowers had sprung up between the bricks， and with the tip of her opensunshade Madame Bovary， as she passed， made some of their faded flowers crumbleinto a yellow dust， or a spray of overhanging honeysuckle and clematis caughtin its fringe and dangled for a moment over the silk.
They were talking of a troupe of Spanishdancers who were expected shortly at the Rouen theatre.
“Are you going？” sheasked.
“If I can，” heanswered.
Had they nothing else to say to one another？Yet their eyes were full of more serious speech， and while they forcedthemselves to find trivial phrases， they felt the same languor stealing overthem both. It was the whisper of the soul， deep， continuous， dominating that oftheir voices. Surprised with wonder at this strange sweetness， they did notthink of speaking of the sensation or of seeking its cause. Coming joys， liketropical shores， throw over the immensity before them their inborn softness， anodorous wind， and we are lulled by this intoxication without a thought of thehorizon that we do not even know.
In one place the ground had been trodden downby the cattle； they had to step on large green stones put here and there in themud.
She often stopped a moment to look where toplace her foot， and tottering on a stone that shook， her arms outspread， herform bent forward with a look of indecision， she would laugh， afraid of fallinginto the puddles of water.
When they arrived in front of her garden，Madame Bovary opened the little gate， ran up the steps and disappeared.
Léon retumed to hisoffice. His chief was away； he just glanced at the briefs， then cut himself apen， and at last took up his hat and went out.
He went to La Pfiture at the top of theArgueil hills at the beginning of the forest； he threw himself upon the groundunder the pines and watched the sky through his fingers.
“How bored I am！” hesaid to himself， “how bored I am！”
He thought he was to be pitied for living inthis village， with Homais for a friend and Monsieru Guillaumin for master. Thelatter， entirely absorbed by his business， wearing gold-rimmed spectacles andred whiskers over a white cravat， understood nothing of mental refinements，although he affected a stiff English manner， which in the beginning hadimpressed the clerk.
As to the chemist'sspouse， she was the best wife in Normandy， gentle as a sheep， loving herchildren， her father， her mother， her cousins， weeping for other's woes， letting everything go in her household， and detestingcorsets； but so slow of movement， such a bore to listen to， so common inappearance， and of such restricted conversation， that although she was thirty，he only twenty， although they slept in rooms next each other and he spoke toher daily， he never thought that she might be a woman for another， or that shepossessed anything else of her sex than the gown.
And what else was there？ Binet， a fewshopkeepers， two or three publicans， the curé， andfinally， Monsieur Tuvache， the mayor， with his two sons， rich， crabbed， obtusepersons， who farmed their own lands and had feasts among themselves， bigoted toboot， and quite unbearable companions.
But from the general background of all thesehuman faces Emma's stood out isolated and yet farthestoff； for between her and him he seemed to see a vague abyss.
In the beginning he had called on her severaltimes along with the druggist. Charles had not appeared particularly anxious tosee him again， and Léon did not know what to do betweenhis fear of being indiscreet and the desire for an intimacy that seemed almostimpossible.
Chapter 4
When the first cold days set in Emma left herbedroom for the sitting-room， a long apartment with a low ceiling， in whichthere was on the mantelpiece a large bunch of coral spread out against thelooking-glass. Seated in her arm chair near the window， she could see thevillagers pass along the pavement.
Twice a day Léon wentfrom his office to the “Lion d'Or”. Emma could hear him coming from afar； she leant forward listening，and the young man glided past the curtain， always dressed in the same way， andwithout turning his head. But in the twilight， when， her chin resting on herleft hand， she let the embroidery she had begun fall on her knees， she oftenshuddered at the apparition of this shadow suddenly gliding past. She would getup and order the table to be laid.
Monsieur Homais called at dinner-time.Skull-cap in hand， he came in on tiptoe， in order to disturb no one， alwaysrepeating the same phrase， “Good evening， everybody.” Then， when he had taken his seat at the table between the pair， heasked the doctor about his patients， and the latter consulted his as to theprobability of their payment. Next they talked of “whatwas in the paper.” Homais by this hour knew it almostby heart， and he repeated it from end to end， with the reflections of thepenny-a-liners， and all the stories of individual catastrophes that hadoccurred in France or abroad. But the subject becoming exhausted， he was notslow in throwing out some remarks on the dishes before him. Sometimes even，half-rising， he delicately pointed out to madame the tenderest morsel， orturning to the servant， gave her some advice on the manipulation of stews andthe hygiene of seasoning. He talked aroma， osmazome， juices， and gelatine in abewildering manner. Moreover， Homais， with his head fuller of recipes than hisshop of jars， excelled in making all kinds of preserves， vinegars， and sweetliqueurs； he knew also all the latest inventions in economic stoves， togetherwith the art of preserving cheese and of curing sick wines.
At eight o'clockJustin came to fetch him to shut up the shop. Then Monsieur Homais gave him asly look， especially if Fé1icité was there， for he half noticed that his apprentice was fond of thedoctor's house.
“The young dog，” hesaid， “is beginning to have ideas， and the devil takeme if I don't believe he's inlove with your servant！”
But a more serious fault with which hereproached Justin was his constantly listening to conversation. On Sunday， forexample， one could not get him out of the drawing-room， whither Madame Homaishad called him to fetch the children， who were falling asleep in thearm-chairs， and dragging down with their backs calico chair-covers that weretoo large.
Not many people came to these soirées at the chemist's， his scandal-mongeringand political opinions having successfully alienated various respectablepersons from him. The clerk never failed to be there. As soon as he heard thebell he ran to meet Madame Bovary， took her shawl， and put away under theshopr-counter the thick list shoes that she wore over her boots when there wassnow.
First they played some hands at trente-et-un；next Monsieur Homais played écarté with Emma； Léon behind her gave her advice.
Standing up with his hands on the back of herchair he saw the teeth of her comb that bit into her chignon. With every movementthat she made to throw her cards the fight side of her dress was drawn up. Fromher turned-up hair a dark colour fell over her back， and growing graduallypaler， lost itself little by little in the shade. Then her dress fell on bothsides of her chair， puffing out full of folds， and reached the ground. When Léon occasionally felt the sole of his boot resting on it， he drewback as if he had trodden upon some one.
When the game of cards was over， the druggistand the Doctor played dominoes， and Emma， changing her place， leant her elbowon the table， turning over the leaves of L'Illustration.She had brought her ladies' journal with her. Léon sat down near her； they looked at the engravings together， andwaited for one another at the bottom of the pages. She often begged him to readher the verses； Léon declaimed them in a languid voice，to which he carefully gave a dying fall in the love passages. But the noise ofthe dominoes annoyed him. Monsieur Homais was strong at the game； he could beatCharles and give him a double-six. Then the three hundred finished， they bothstretched themselves out in front of the fire， and were soon asleep. The firewas dying out in the cinders； the teapot was empty， Léonwas still reading. Emma listened to him， mechanically turning around thelampshade， on the gauze of which were painted clowns in carriages， andtight-rope dances with their balancing-poles. Léonstopped， pointing with a gesture to his sleeping audience； then they talked inlow tones， and their conversation seemed the more sweet to them because it wasunheard.
Thus a kind of bond was established betweenthem， a constant commerce of books and of romances. Monsieur Bovary， littlegiven to jealousy， did not trouble himself about it.
On his birthday he received a beautifulphrenological head， all marked with figures to the thorax and painted blue.This was an attention of the clerk's. He showed himmany others， even to doing errands for him at Rouen； and the book of a novelisthaving made the mania for cactuses fashionable， Léonbought some for Madame Bovary， bringing them back on his knees in the “Hirondelle，” pricking his fingers on theirhard hairs.
She had a board with a balustrade fixedagainst her window to hold the pots. The clerk， too， had his small hanging garden；they saw each other tending their flowers at their windows.
Of the windows of the village there was oneyet more often occupied； for on Sundays from morning to night， and everymorning when the weather was bright， one could see at the dormer-window of thegarret the profile of Monsieur Binet bending over his lathe， whose monotonoushumming could be heard at the “Lion d'Or”.
One evening on coming home Léon fotmd in his room a rug in velvet and wool with leaves on a paleground. He called Madame Homais， Monsieur Homais， Justin， the children， thecook； he spoke of it to his chief； every one wanted to see this rug. Why didthe doctor's wife give the clerk presents？ It lookedqueer. They decided that she must be his lover.
He made this seem likely， so ceaselessly didhe talk of her charms and of her wit； so much so， that Binet once roughlyanswered him—
“What does it matter to me since I'm not in her set？”
He tortured himself to find out how he couldmake his declaration to her， and always halting between the fear of displeasingher and the shame of being such a coward， he wept with discouragement anddesire. Then he took energetic resolutions， wrote letters that he tore up， putit off to times that he again deferred. Often he set out with the determinationto dare all； but this resolution soon deserted him in Emma's presence， and when Charles， dropping in， invited him to jump intohis chaise to go with him to see some patient in the neighbourhood， he at onceaccepted， bowed to madame， and went out. Her husband， was he not somethingbelonging to her？
As to Emma， she did not ask herself whethershe loved. Love， she thought， must come suddenly， with great outbursts andlightnings-a hurricane of the skies， which falls upon life， revolutionises it，roots up the will like a leaf， and sweeps the whole heart into the abyss. Shedid not know that on the terrace of houses it makes lakes when the pipes arechoked， and she would thus have remained in her security when she suddenlydiscovered a rent in the wall of it.
Chapter 5
It was a Sunday in February， an afternoonwhen the snow was falling.
They had all， Monsieur and Madame Bovary，Homais， and Monsieur Léon， gone to see a yarn-mill thatwas being built in the valley a mile and a half from Yonville. The druggist hadtaken NapoLéon and Athalie to give them some exercise，and Justin accompanied them， carrying the umbrellas on his shoulder.
Nothing， however， could be less curious thanthis curiosity. A great piece of waste ground， on which pell-mell， amid a massof sand and stones， were a few break-wheels， already rusty， surrounded by aquadrangular building pierced by a number of little windows. The building wasunfinished； the sky could be seen through the joists of the roofing. Attachedto the stop-plank of the gable a bunch of straw mixed with corn-ears flutteredits tricoloured ribbons in the wind.
Homais was talking. He explained to thecompany the future importance of this establishment， computed the strength ofthe floorings， the thickness of the walls， and regretted extremely not having ayard-stick such as Monsieur Binet possessed for his own special use.
Emma， who had taken his arm， bent lightlyagainst his shoulder， and she looked at the sun's discshedding afar through the mist his pale splendour. She turned. Charles wasthere. His cap was drawn down over his eyebrows， and his two thick lips weretrembling， which added a look of stupidity to his face； his very back， his calmback， was irritating to behold， and she saw written upon his coat all theplatitude of the bearer.
While she was considering him thus， tastingin her irritation a sort of depraved pleasure， Léonmade a step forward. The cold that made him pale seemed to add a more gentlelanguor to his face； between his cravat and his neck the somewhat loose collarof his shirt showed the skin； the lobe of his ear looked out from beneath alock of hair， and his large blue eyes， raised to the clouds， seemed to Emmamore limpid and more beautiful than those mountain-lakes where the heavens aremirrored.
“Wretched boy！”suddenly cried the chemist.
And he ran to his son， who had justprecipitated himself into a heap of lime in order to whiten his boots. At thereproaches with which he was being overwhelmed NapoLéonbegan to roar， while Justin dried his shoes with a wisp of straw. But a knifewas wanted； Charles offered his.
“Ah！” she said toherself， “he carried a knife in his pocket like apeasant.”
The hoar-frost was falling， and they turnedback to Yonville.
In the evening Madame Bovary did not go toher neighbour's， and when Charles had left and she feltherself alone， the comparison re-began with the clearness of a sensation almostactual， and with that lengthening of perspective which memory gives to things.Looking from her bed at the clean fire that was burning， she still saw， as shehad down there， Léon standing up with one hand behindhis cane， and with the other holding Athalie， who was quietly sucking a pieceof ice. She thought him charming； she could not tear herself away from him； sherecalled his other attitudes on other days， the words he had spoken， the soundof his voice， his whole person； and she repeated， pouting out her lips as iffor a kiss-
“Yes， charming！ charming！ Is he not in love？” she asked herself； “but with whom？ With me？”
All the proofs arose before her at once； herheart leapt. The flame of the fire threw a joyous light upon the ceiling； sheturned on her back， stretching out her arms.
Then began the eternal lamentation： “Oh， if Heaven had out willed it！ And why not？ What prevented it？”
When Charles came home at midnight， sheseemed to have just awakened， and as he made a noise undressing， she complainedof a headache， then asked carelessly what had happened that evening.
“Monsieur Léon，” he said， “went to his room early.”
She could not help smiling， and she fellasleep， her soul filled with a new delight.
The next day， at dusk， she received a visitfrom Monsieur Lherueux， the draper. He was a man of ability， was thisshopkeeper. Born a Gascon but bred a Norman， he grafted upon his southernvolubility the cunning of the Cauchois. His fat， flabby， beardless face seemeddyed by a decoction of liquorice， and his white hair made even more vivid thekeen brilliance of his small black eyes. No one knew what he had been formerly；a pedlar said some， a banker at Routot according to others. What was certainwas that he made complex calculations in his head that would have frightenedBinet himself. Polite to obsequiousness， he always held himself with his backbent in the position of one who bows or who invites.
After leaving at the door his hat surroundedwith crape， he put down a green bandbox on the table， and began by complainingto madame， with many civilities， that he should have remained till that daywithout gaining her confidence. A poor shop like his was not made to attract a “fashionable lady”； he emphasized the words；yet she had only to command， and he would undertake to provide her withanything she might wish， either in haberdashery or linen， millinery or fancy goods，for he went to town regularly four times a month. He was connected with thebest houses. You could speak of him at the “TroisFrbres，” at the “Barbe d'Or，” or at the “GrandSauvage”； all these gentlemen knew him as well as theinsides of their pockets. To-day， then he had come to show madame， in passing，various articles he happened to have， thanks to the most rare opportunity. Andhe pulled out half-a-dozen embroidered collars from the box.
Madame Bovary examined them. “I do not require anything，” she said.
Then Monsieur Lheureux delicately exhibitedthree Algerian scarves， several packets of English needles， a pair of strawslippers， and finally， four eggcups in cocoanut wood， carved in open work byconvicts. Then， with both hands on the table， his neck stretched out， hisfigure bent forward， open-mouthed， he watched Emma'slook， who was walking up and down undecided amid these goods. From. time totime， as if to remove some dust， he filliped with his nail the silk of thescarves spread out at full length， and they rustled with a little noise， makingin the green twilight the gold spangles of their tissue scintillate like littlestars.
“How much are they？”
“A mere nothing，” hereplied， “a mere nothing. But there's no hurry； whenever it's convenient. We arenot Jews.”
She reflected for a few moments， and ended byagain declining Monsieur Lheureux's offer. He repliedquite unconcernedly-
“Very well. We shall understand one anotherby and by. I have always got on with ladies-if I didn'twith my own！”
Emma smiled.
“I wanted to tell you，” he went on good-naturedly， after his joke， “that it isn't the money I should troubleabout. Why， I could give you some， if need be.”
She made a gesture of surprise.
“Ah！” said he quicklyand in a low voice， “I shouldn'thave to go far to find you some， rely on that.”
And he began asking after Pere Tellier， theproprietor of the “CaféFrancais，” whom Monsieur Bovary was then attending.
“What's the matterwith Pére Tellier？ He coughs so that he shakes hiswhole house， and I'm afraid he'llsoon want a deal covering rather than a flannel vest. He was such a rake as ayoung man！ Those sort of people， madame， have not the least regularity； he's burnt up with brandy. Still it's sad， allthe same， to see an acquaintance go off.”
And while he fastened up his box hediscoursed about the doctor's patients.
“It's the weather， nodoubt，” he said， looking frowningly at the floor， “that causes these illnesses. I， too， don'tfeel the thing. One of these days I shall even have to consult the doctor for apain I have in my back. Well， good-bye， Madame Bovary. At your service； yourvery humble servant.” And he closed the door gently.
Emma had her dinner served in her bedroom ona tray by the fireside； she was a long time over it； everything was well withher.
“How good I was！” shesaid to herself， thinking of the scarves.
She heard some steps on the stairs. It was Léon. She got up and took from the chest of drawers the first pile ofdusters to be hemmed. When he came in she seemed very busy.
The conversation languished； Madame Bovarygave it up every few minutes， whilst he himself seemed quite embarrassed.Seated on a low chair near the fire， he turned round in his fingers the ivorythimble-case. She stitched on， or from time to time turned down the hem of thecloth with her nail. She did not speak； he was silent， captivated by hersilence， as he would have been by her speech.
“Poor fellow！” shethought.
“How have I displeased her？” he asked himself.
At last， however， Léonsaid that he should have， one of these days， to go to Rouen on some officebusiness.
“Your music subion is out； am I torenew it？”
“No，” she replied.
“Why？”
“Because-”
And pursing her lips she slowly drew a longstitch of grey thread.
This work irritated Léon. It seemed to roughen the ends of her fingers. A gallant phrasecame into his head， but he did not risk it.
“Then you are giving it up？” he went on.
“What？” she askedhurriedly. “Music？ Ah！ yes！ Have I not my house to lookafter， my husband to attend to， a thousand things， in fact， many duties thatmust be considered first？”
She looked at the clock. Charles was late.Then， she affected anxiety. Two or three times she even repeated， “He is so good！”
The clerk was fond of Monsieur Bovary. Butthis tenderness on his behalf astonished him unpleasantly； nevertheless he tookup on his praises， which he said everyone was singing， especially the chemist.
“Ah！ he is a good fellow，” continued Emma.
“Certainly，” repliedthe clerk.
And he began talking of Madame Homais， whosevery untidy appearance generally made them laugh.
“What does it matter？” interrupted Emma. “A good housewife doesnot trouble about her appearance.”
Then she relapsed into silence.
It was the same on the following days； hertalks， her manners， everything changed. She took interest in the housework，went to church regularly， and looked after her servant with more severity.
She took Berthe from nurse. When visitorscalled， Félicité brought herin， and Madame Bovary undressed her to show off her limbs. She declared sheadored children； this was her consolation， her joy， her passion， and sheaccompanied her caresses with lyrical outburst which would have reminded anyonebut the Yonville people of Sachette in Notre Dame de Paris.
When Charles came home he found his slippersput to warm near the fire. His waistcoat now never wanted lining， nor his shirtbuttons， and it was quite a pleasure to see in the cupboard the night-capsarranged in piles of the same height. She no longer grumbled as formerly attaking a turn in the garden； what he proposed was always done， although she didnot understand the wishes to which she submitted without a murmur； and when Léon saw him by his fireside after dinner， his two hands on hisstomach， his two feet on the fender， his two cheeks red with feeding， his eyesmoist with happiness， the child crawling along the carpet， and this woman withthe slender waist who came behind his arm-chair to kiss his forehead：
“What madness！” hesaid to himself. “And how to reach her！”
And thus she seemed so virtuous andinaccessible to him that he lost all hope， even the faintest. But by thisrenunciation he placed her on an extraordinary pinnacle. To him she stoodoutside those fleshly attributes from which he had nothing to obtain， and inhis heart she rose ever， and became farther removed from him after themagnificent manner of an apotheosis that is taking wing. It was one of thosepure feelings that do not interfere with life， that are cultivated because theyare rare， and whose loss would afflict more than their passion rejoices.