She began by looking all about, to see if anything had changed since the last time she was here. She found the foxgloves and the wallflowers in the same places, the tufts of nettles wreathing the big stones, and the veneer of lichen along the three windows, whose ever-tight shutters were dropping off with rot, from their rusty iron bars. Her thoughts, aimless at first, wandered about at random, like her greyhound making circles in the countryside, yelping after yellow butterflies, giving chase to field mice, or nibbling the poppies on the edge of a field of wheat. Then her ideas settled little by little, and, seated on the turf, digging into it with little stabs of her parasol’s tip, Emma kept saying to herself:
“Why, dear God, did I marry?”
She wondered if, by other combinations of chance, there might not have been a way to have met a different man; and she tried to imagine what they might have been, these incidents that had never occurred, this other life, this husband that she did not know. Not all of them were like this one, in fact. He could have been handsome, witty, distinguished, engaging, like those whom her old friends at the convent had doubtless married. What were they doing, these days? In town, among the roar of the streets, the buzzing of theaters and the brightness of the ball, their lives would be spent where the heart swells, where the senses bloom. But this life of hers was as cold as a barn in which the dormer-window faces north, and boredom, that silent spider, was spinning its shadowy web in every nook and cranny of her heart. She recalled prize-giving days, when she would mount the rostrum to collect her little crowns. With her hair in plaits, her white dress and her open prunella shoes, she had a pretty manner, and the gentlemen, when she returned to her chair, would lean toward her to pay her compliments; the courtyard was full of barouches, from the carriage doors they bid her farewell, the music master passed, saluting her with his violin case. How far away it all was, how far away!
She called Djali, took her between her knees, ran her fingers over the long slender head and said to her:
“Come, give mistress a kiss, you who are free of sorrows.”
Then, contemplating the melancholy air of the elegant animal as it slowly yawned, she was moved to pity, and, comparing it to herself, talked to it aloud, as though comforting an afflicted soul.
Squalls of wind would come from time to time, sea breezes which, rolling in one bound over the entire Caux plateau, brought a salty freshness some distance into the fields. The rushes hissed close to the ground, and the leaves of the beech trees rustled in a swift shudder, while their summits, ever swaying, went on with their lofty murmur. Emma tightened her shawl against her shoulders and stood up.
In the avenue, a green light dimmed by the foliage lit the creeping moss that creaked softly underfoot. The sun was going down; the sky was red between the branches, and the matching tree trunks set in a straight line resembled a gloomy colonnade standing out against a backdrop of gold; a fear took hold of her, she called Djali, returned to Tostes by the highway, subsided onto a sofa, and would not speak for the entire evening.
But, toward the end of September, something extraordinary fell into her life: she was invited to La Vaubyessard, the home of the Marquis d’Andervilliers.
Secretary of State under the Restoration, the Marquis, seeking an entry into political life, prepared his candidacy for the Chamber of Deputies over a long period. In winter he distributed firewood left and right, and, in the General Council, called for roads in his district with exaggerated zeal. He had suffered, during the hot summer days, from an abscess in the mouth, which Charles had miraculously relieved him of, by poking it with a lancet just in time. The steward, sent to Tostes to pay for the operation, related that evening how he had seen some superb cherries in the doctor’s small garden. So, as the cherry trees at La Vaubyessard grew poorly, Monsieur le Marquis asked Bovary for a few cuttings, made it his duty to thank him personally, spotted Emma, deemed her to have a pretty figure and that her greeting was by no means peasantlike; so much so that up at the chateau it was not thought to be beyond the bounds of condescension, nor to be committing an impropriety, for the young couple to be invited.
One Wednesday, at three o’clock, Monsieur and Madame Bovary, riding in their gig, set off for La Vaubyessard, with a large trunk tied behind and a hat box placed in front of the splashboard. In addition, Charles had a box between his legs.
They arrived at nightfall, as the lamps were beginning to be lit in the park, so as to light the way for the carriages.
VIII
The chateau, a modern construction in the Italianate style, with two projecting wings and three flights of steps, was deployed at the bottom of a vast lawn where a few cows grazed between tufts of tall, well-spaced trees, while small clusters of shrubs, rhododendron, syringa and guelder rose puffed out their clumps of uneven greenery over the curving line of the gravel drive. A river passed under a bridge; through the mist, thatched buildings could be distinguished here and there in the meadow, whose gentle slope bordered two small hills covered in woods, and beyond, in the massed foliage, lay the coach houses and stables ranged in two parallel lines, the preserved remains of the old demolished chateau.
Charles’s gig stopped in front of the central flight of steps; servants appeared; the Marquis came forward and, offering his arm to the doctor’s wife, showed her in to the entrance hall.
It was flagged in marble and very lofty, and the sound of footsteps and voices echoed as in a church. Opposite rose a straight staircase, and to the left a gallery, looking out onto a garden, led to the billiard-room where, from the door, the cannoning of ivory balls could be heard. As she crossed to go to the drawing-room, Emma saw serious-faced men around the game, chins resting on high cravats and all wearing insignia, smiling silently as they thrust their cues. On the dark paneling of the wainscot, huge gilded frames bore names at the bottom, in black letters. She read: “Jean-Antoine d’Andervilliers d’Yverbonville, count of Vaubyessard and Baron of Fresnaye, fell at the Battle of Coutras, the 20th of October 1587.” And on another: “Jean-Antoine-Henry-Guy d’Andervilliers of La Vaubyessard, admiral of France and Knight of the Order of St. Michael, wounded at the Battle of Hougue-Saint-Vast, the 29th of May 1692, died at La Vaubyessard the 23rd of January 1693.” She could scarcely make out those that followed, for the light from the lamps, directed down upon the green billiard cloth, left a shadow hovering in the room. Darkening the long straight row of canvases, it shattered against them into a web of fine lines, following the craquelure of the varnish; and here and there from all these large black squares edged in gold emerged some lighter portion of the painting: a pale brow, two eyes that gazed at you, wigs uncoiling onto the dusty shoulders of red coats, or the buckle of a garter above a plump calf.
The Marquis opened the drawing-room door; one of the ladies rose (the Marquise herself), came forward to meet Emma and bid her be seated by her side, on a small sofa, where she began to talk to her in a friendly fashion, as if she had known her for a long time. She was a woman of around forty, with handsome shoulders, a hook nose, a drawling voice, and who wore, that evening, on her chestnut locks, a simple fichu of threaded lace which fell behind in a triangle. A fair-haired young person sat nearby, in a long-backed chair; and the gentlemen, who each had a little flower in their dress-coat buttonhole, were chatting with the ladies, all around the fireplace.
At seven o’clock, dinner was served. The men, more numerous, sat at the first table, in the hallway, and the ladies at the second, in the dining room, with the Marquis and Marquise.
As she went in, Emma felt shrouded in warm air, a mingling of flower scents and elegant linen, the aroma of meats and the fragrancy of truffles. The flames from the candles in the candelabra lengthened on the silver dish covers; the cut-glass crystal, dulled by condensation, sent back wan rays; bouquets were lined up the length of the table, and, on the wide-bordered plates, the napkins, tricked out to look like a bishop’s miter, each held between the gape of their two folds a tiny oval loaf. The red claws of lobsters overshot the d
ishes; fat fruits in openwork baskets climbed in tiers from a moss bed; the quails had kept their feathers, vapors rose; and, in silk stockings, in short breeches, in white cravat, in lace frills, solemn as a judge, the steward, sliding ready-carved dishes between the shoulders of the guests, made the chosen piece leap up with a flick of his spoon. On the great, brass-hooped porcelain stove, the statue of a woman draped to the chin gazed motionless upon the packed room.
Madame Bovary noticed that several ladies had not put their gloves in their glass.
Nevertheless, at the top end of the table, alone among all these women, bent over his heaped plate, and with a napkin tied at the back like a child, an old man ate, letting drops of sauce fall from his mouth. He had bloodshot eyes and wore a little pigtail tied with a black ribbon. This was the Marquis’s father-in-law, the old Duc de Laverdière, once the favorite of the Comte d’Artois, back in the days of hunting parties at Le Vaudreuil, chez the Marquis de Conflans, and who had been, it was said, the lover of Queen Marie-Antoinette between Messieurs de Coigny and de Lauzun. He had led a boisterous life of debauch, full of duels, wagers, abducted women, had gobbled up his fortune and appalled his entire family. A servant, behind his chair, imparted aloud in his ear the names of the dishes that he would indicate with his finger, stammering away; and over and over Emma’s eyes returned of their own volition to that old flap-mouthed man, as to something extraordinary and august. He had lived at court and slept in the bed of queens!
Iced champagne was poured. Emma’s whole body quivered when she felt the cold in her mouth. She had never seen pomegranates nor eaten pineapple. Even the powdered sugar seemed to her whiter and finer than elsewhere.
The ladies then went up to their rooms to prepare themselves for the ball.
Emma dressed with the fastidious meticulousness of an actress at her debut. She arranged her hair as the hairdresser had recommended, and she slipped into her gauzy barège dress, spread out on the bed. Charles’s trousers were too tight across his stomach.
“The foot straps will restrain me when I dance,” he said.
“Dance?” rejoined Emma.
“Why, yes!”
“But have you lost your mind? You’ll be a laughing stock! Stay in your seat. Besides, it’s more seemly for a doctor,” she added.
Charles held his tongue. He walked up and down, waiting until Emma was dressed.
He was looking at her from behind, in the mirror, between two candles. Her dark eyes seemed darker. The smooth sides of her hair, bulging softly over the ears, gleamed with a blue luster. A rose in her chignon trembled on an unfixed stem, with imitation drops of water on the end of its leaves. Her dress was a pale saffron, set off by three posies of pompom roses with a splash of greenery.
Charles came to kiss her on the shoulder.
“Leave me alone,” she said, “you’re ruffling me.”
They heard a violin’s ritornello and the sounds of a horn. She descended the stairs, trying not to run.
The quadrilles had begun. A great many people were arriving. They pushed forward. She seated herself near the door, on a bench.
When the dance had finished, the floor stayed free for the groups of men to stand and chat and the liveried servants to bring large trays. Along the line of seated women, the painted fans fluttered, the nosegays part-concealed the smiles on the faces, and the scent-bottles with their gold stoppers turned in half-open hands whose white gloves traced the shape of the nails and squeezed the flesh at the wrist. The lacework trimmings, the diamond brooches, the medallion bracelets, quivered on the bodices, glimmered on the breasts, rustled on the bare arms. The confections of hair, pressed down in little curls over the brows and twisted at the nape, had, in crowns, in bunches or in branches, forget-me-nots, jasmine, pomegranate flowers, ears of wheat and cornflowers. Peaceful in their own seats, mothers with grim faces wore turbans of red.
Emma’s heart throbbed a little when, her partner taking her by the fingertips, she took her place in line and awaited the stroke of the bow to give the off. But soon the emotion subsided; and, swinging to the musicians’ rhythm, she glided forward, her head nodding slightly. A smile rose to her lips at certain finesses of the violin, which played on its own, at times, when the other instruments fell silent; one could hear the clear noise of gold louis pouring out onto the baize tables in the next room; then everything would start up again at once, the cornet sending forth a ringing burst, the feet keeping time as they fell, the skirts swelling out and rustling, the hands proffered, released; the same eyes, lowered before you, returning to fix their gaze on yours.
A few men (fifteen or so) aged between twenty-five and forty, scattered among the dancers or chatting in the doorways, were distinguished from the crowd by a family air, whatever their differences of age, dress or looks.
Their clothes, better made, seemed to be cut from a more supple cloth, and their hair, gathered into curls over the temples, appeared to be glossed by a more delicate pomade. They had the complexion of wealth, that white complexion enhanced by the pale sheen of porcelain, the shimmer of satin, the luster of noble furniture, and which is healthily maintained by a judicious diet of exquisite foods. Their necks turned comfortably on low cravats; their long whiskers fell on turned-down collars, they wiped their lips on handkerchiefs embroidered with a large initial, from which a sweet fragrance emerged. Those who were starting to age had a youthful air, while a certain ripeness had spread over the faces of the young. The calm sense of passions daily gratified wafted within their indifferent glances; and their gentle manners were pierced through by that particular brutishness, imparted by the domination of semi-compliant things, in which power is exercised and where vanity amuses itself, the handling of blood horses and the company of lost women.
Three steps from Emma, a gentleman in a blue coat was chatting about Italy with a pale young woman, wearing a set of pearls. He was extolling the impressive size of the columns of St. Peter’s, Tivoli, Vesuvius, Castellamare and the Cascine, the roses of Genoa, the Coliseum by moonlight. Emma lent her other ear to a conversation full of words she was unable to understand. Guests were gathered about a very young man who, the previous week, had beaten Miss Arabella and Romulus, and won two thousand sous jumping a ditch, in England. One was complaining of his coursers getting fat; another, the printer’s errors that had completely altered the name of his horse.
The ballroom’s air grew heavy; the lamps were dimming. The crowd ebbed into the billiard-room. A servant got up on a chair and broke two panes; at the noise of the splintering glass, Madame Bovary turned her head and noticed, in the garden, faces of gazing peasants pressed against the windows. And so she remembered Les Bertaux. Again she saw the farm, the muddy pond, her father in a smock under the apple trees, and again she saw her own self, skimming the cream with her finger off the pans of milk, in the dairy. But under the lightning flashes of the present moment, her past life, so clear up to now, faded away entirely, and she almost doubted that she had ever lived it. She was here; and then, around the ball, there lay nothing but shadow, spread over everything else. So she ate a maraschino ice, that she held with her left hand in a silver gilt shell, with her eyes half-closed, the spoon between her teeth.
Near her, a lady let her fan fall. A dancer was passing.
“Would you be so kind, monsieur,” said the lady, “as to pick up my fan? It is behind this sofa!”
The gentleman bowed, and, as he made to reach out with his arm, Emma saw the young lady’s hand cast something white, folded in a triangle, into his hat. The gentleman retrieved the fan and offered it to the lady, respectfully; she thanked him with a nod and began to inhale the fragrance of her flowers.
After the dinner, where there were Spanish wines and Rhenish wines, rich crayfish bisques and milk-of-almond soups, Trafalgar puddings and all kinds of cold meats set in jellies that quivered in the dishes, the carriages began to ride away, one after the other. On lifting the corner of the fine muslin curtain, you could see the light from their lan
terns sliding into the dark. The benches cleared; a few cardplayers remained; the musicians cooled their fingertips on their tongues; Charles was half asleep, back propped against a door.
At three o’clock in the morning, the cotillion began. Emma did not know how to waltz. Everyone was waltzing, Mademoiselle d’Andervilliers herself and the Marquise; there was no one left but the chateau guests, around a dozen people.
However, one of the waltzers, known familiarly as the “Vicomte,” and whose gaping waistcoat seemed molded to his chest, came yet a second time to invite Madame Bovary, assuring her that he would guide her and she would carry it off well.
They started slowly, then proceeded faster. They were reeling round: all reeled round and about them, the lamps, the furniture, the paneling, the parquet, like a disc on a spindle. As they passed near the doors, the bottom of Emma’s dress grazed his trousers; their legs interlaced; he glanced down at her, she glanced up at him; a torpor came over her, she stopped. They set off again; and, moving faster, the Vicomte, sweeping her away, disappeared with her to the far end of the gallery, where, panting for breath, she all but fell down, and, for an instant, leaned her head on his chest. And then, still reeling round, but not as fast, he led her back to her seat; she fell back against the wall and put her hand over her eyes.
When she opened them again, in the middle of the drawing-room a lady seated on a stool had three waltzers on their knees in front of her. She chose the Vicomte, and the violin started up again.
Everyone watched them. They whirled past again and again, she with her body motionless and chin down, and he always in the same pose, shoulders thrown back, elbow rounded, chin forward. She could certainly dance, that one! They went on for ages and wore all the others out.
A few minutes more of chat, and, after bidding each other good night, or rather good morning, the chateau guests went off to bed.
Madame Bovary (Modern Library) Page 7
