Part 3 Chapter 5 She went on Thursdays. She got up and dressed silently in order not to awaken Charles, who would have made remarks about her getting ready too early. Next she walked up and down, went to the windows, and looked out at the plas. The early dawn was broadening between the pillars of the market, and the chemist's shop, with the shutters still up, showed in the pale light of the dawn the large letters of his signboard. When the clock pointed to a quarter past seven, she went off to the Lyon d'Or, whose d'Or Artemis opened yawning. The girl then made up the coals, covered by the cinders, and Emma remained alone in the kitchen. Now and again she went out. Yver was leisurely harnessing his horses, listening moreover to Mère le François, who, passing her head and nightcap through a grating, was charging him with commissions, and giving him explanations that would have confused anyone else. Emma kept beating the soles of her boots against the pavement of the yard. At last, when he had eaten his soup, put on his cloak, lighted his pipe, and grasped his whip, he calmly installed himself on his seat.  Those who had secured seats the evening before kept it waiting. Some even were still in bed in their houses. Yver called, shouted, swore. Then he got down from his seat, and went and knocked loudly at the doors. The wind blew through the cracked windows. The four seats, however, filled up. The carriage rolled off. Rows of apple trees followed one upon another, and the road between its two long ditches, full of yellow water, rose constantly, narrowing towards the horizon. Emma knew it from end to end. She knew that after a meadow there was a signpost, next an elm, a barn, or a hut of a lime kiln tender. Sometimes even, in the hope of getting some surprise, she shut her eyes, but she never lost the clear perception of the distance to be traversed. At last the brick houses began to follow one another more closely. The earth resounded beneath the wheels. The irondelle glided between the gardens, where, through an opening, one saw statues, a periwinkle plant, clipped hues, and a swing. Then on a sudden the town appeared, sloping down like an amphitheater and drowned in the fog, it widened out beyond the bridges, confusedly. Then the open country spread away with a monotonous movement, till it touched in the distance the vague line of the pale sky. Seen thus from above, the whole landscape looked immovable as a picture. The anchored ships were massed in one corner. The river curved round the foot of the green hills, and the aisles, gobleak in shape, lay on the water like large, motionless, black fishes. The factory chimneys belched forth immense brown fumes that were blown away at the top. One heard the rumbling of the foundries, together with the clear chimes of the churches that stood out in the mist. The leafless trees on the boulevards made violet thickets in the midst of the houses, and the roofs, all shining with the rain, threw back unequal reflections, according to the height of the quarters in which they were. Sometimes, a gust of wind drove the clouds toward the St. Catherine Hills, like aerial waves that broke silently against a cliff. A giddiness seemed to her to detach itself from this mass of existence, and her heart swelled as if the 120,000 souls that palpitated there had all at once sent into it the vapor of the passions she fancied theirs. Her love grew in the presence of this vastness, and expanded with tumble to the vague murmurings that rose towards her. She poured it out upon the square, on the walks, on the streets, and the old Norman city outspread before her eyes as an enormous capital, as a Babylon into which she was entering. She lent, with both hands against the window, drinking in the breeze. The three horses galloped the stones graded in the mud, the diligence rocked, and Yver, from afar, hailed the carts on the road while the bourgeois, who had spent the night at Guillaume Woods, came quietly down the hill in their little family carriages. They stopped at the barrier, Emma undid her overshoes, put on other gloves, rearranged her shawl, and, some twenty paces further, she got down from the Irondelle. The town was then awakening, shop boys and caps were cleaning up the shop fronts, and women with baskets against their hips, at intervals uttered sonorous cries at the corners of streets. She walked, with downcast eyes, close to the walls, and smiling with pleasure under her lowered black veil. For fear of being seen, she did not usually take the most direct road. She plunged into dark alleys, and, all perspiring, reached the bottom of the Rue Nationale, near the fountain that stands there. It is the quarter for theaters, public houses, and whores. Often a cart would pass near her, bearing some shaky sceneries. Waiters and aprons were sprinkling sand on the flagstones between green shrubs. It all smelt of absinthe, cigars, and oysters. She turned down a street. She recognized him by his curling hair that escaped from beneath his hat. Leon walked along the pavement. She followed him to the hotel. He went up, opened the door, entered. What an embrace! Then, after the kisses, the words gushed forth. They told each other the sorrows of the week, the presentiments, the anxiety for the letters. But now everything was forgotten. They gazed into each other's faces with voluptuous laughs and tender names. The bed was large of mahogany in the shape of a boat. The curtains were in red Levantine, that hung from the ceiling and bulged out too much towards the bell-shaped bedside.  The warm room, with its discreet carpet, its gay ornaments, and its calm light, seemed made for the intimacies of passion. The curtain rods, ending in arrows, their brass pegs, and the great bowls of the fire-dogs shone suddenly when the sun came in. On the chimney, between the candelabra, there were two of those pink shells in which one hears the murmur of the sea, if one holds them to the ear. They loved that dear room, so full of gaiety, despite its rather faded splendor. They always found the furniture in the same place, and sometimes hairpins that she had forgotten the Thursday before under the pedestal of the clock. They lunched by the fireside on a little round table, inlaid with rosewood, Emma carved, put bits on his plate with all sorts of coquettish ways, and she laughed with a sonorous and libertine laugh when the froth of the champagne ran over from the glass to the rings on her fingers. They were so completely lost in the possession of each other that they thought themselves in their own house, and they would live there till death, like two spouses eternally young. They said, our room, our carpet. She even said, my slippers, a gift of leons, a whim she had had. They were pink satin, bordered with swans down. When she sat on his knees, her legs, then too short, hung in the air, and the dainty shoe, that had no back to it, was held only by the toes to her bare foot. He for the first time enjoyed the inexpressible delicacy of feminine refinements. He had never met this grace of language, this reserve of clothing, these poses of the weary dove. He admired the exultation of her soul and the lace on her petticoat. Besides, was she not a lady and a married woman, a real mistress in fine? By the diversity of her humor, in turn mystical or mirthful, talkative, taciturn, passionate, careless, she awakened in him a thousand desires, called up instincts or memories. She was the mistress of all the novels, the heroine of all the dramas, the vague she of all the volumes of verse. He found again on her shoulder the amber coloring of the otolisk bathing. She had the long waist of futile chattel ends, and she resembled the pale woman of Barcelona. But above all, she was the angel. Often looking at her, it seemed to him that his soul escaping towards her spread like a wave about the outline of her head and descended drawn down into the whiteness of her breast. He knelt on the ground before her, and with both elbows on her knees looked at her with a smile, his face upturned. She bent over him and murmured as if choking with intoxication. Oh, don't move. Do not speak. Look at me. Something so sweet comes from your eyes that helps me so much. She called him child. Child, do you love me? And she did not listen for his answer in the haste of her lips that fastened to his mouth. On the clock there was a bronze cupid who smirked as he bent his arms beneath a golden garland. They had laughed at it many a time. But when they had to part, everything seemed serious to them. Motionless in front of each other, they kept repeating, till Thursday, till Thursday. Suddenly she seized his head between her hands, kissed him hurriedly on the forehead, crying adieu, and rushed down the stairs. She went to a hairdresser's in the rue de la comédie to have her hair arranged. Night fell. The gas was lighted in the shop. She heard the bell at the theater calling the mummers to the performance. And she saw, passing opposite, men with white faces and women in faded gowns going in at the stage door. It was hot in the room, small and too low where the stove was hissing in the midst of wigs and pomads. The smell of the tongs, together with the greasy hands that handled her head, soon stunned her. And she dozed a little in her wrapper. Often, as he did her hair, the man offered her tickets for a masked ball. Then she went away. She went up the streets, reached the croix rouge, put on her overshoes that she had hidden in the morning under the seat, and sank into her place among the impatient passengers. Some got out at the foot of the hill. She remained alone in the carriage. At every turning, all the lights of the town were seen more and more completely, making a great luminous vapor about the dim houses. Emma knelt on the cushions, and her eyes wandered over the dazzling light she sobbed, called on Leon, sent him tender words and kisses lost in the wind. On the hillside, a poor devil wandered about with his stick in the midst of the diligence.   The flesh hung in red shreds, and there flowed from it liquids that congealed into green scale down to the nose, whose black nostrils sniffed convulsively.  He sang a little song as he followed the carriages. Mades and the warmth of a summer day dream of love and of love always. And all the rest was about birds and sunshine and green leaves. Sometimes he appeared suddenly behind Emma, bareheaded, and she drew back with a cry. Yver made fun of him. He would advise him to get a booth at the Saint-Romain, fair, or else ask him, laughing, how his young woman was. Often they had started when, with a sudden movement, his hat entered the diligence through the small window while he clung with his other arm to the footboard between the wheels, splashing mud. His voice, feeble at first and quavering grew sharp. It resounded in the night like the indistinct moan of a vague distress, and through the ringing of the bells, the murmur of the trees, and the rumbling of the empty vehicle, it had a far-off sound that disturbed Emma. It went to the bottom of her soul like a whirlwind in an abyss and carried her away into the distances of a boundless melancholy. But Yver, noticing a weight behind, gave the blind man sharp cuts with his whip. The thong lashed his wounds, and he fell back into the mud with a yell. Then the passengers and the irondelle ended by falling asleep, some with open mouths, others with lowered chins, leaning against their neighbor's shoulder, or with their arm passed through the strap, oscillating regularly with the jolting of the carriage, and the reflection of the lantern swinging without on the cupper of the wheeler. Penetrating into the interior through the chocolate calico curtains grew sanguineous shadows over all these motionless people. Emma, drunk with grief, shivered in her clothes, feeling her feet grow colder, and colder, and death in her soul. Charles at home was waiting for her. The irondelle was always late on Thursdays. Madame arrived at last and scarcely kissed the child. The dinner was not ready. No matter, she excused the servant. This girl now seemed aloud to do just as she liked. Often her husband, noting her pallor, asked if she were unwell. No, said Emma. But he replied, you seem so strange this evening. Oh, it's nothing, nothing. They were even days when she had no sooner come in than she went up to her room, and Justin, happening to be there, moved about noiselessly, quicker at helping her than the best of maids. He put the matches ready, the candlestick, a book, arranged her nightgown, turned back the bedclothes. Come, she said, that will do. Now you can go. For he stood there, his hands hanging down, and his eyes wide open, as if enmeshed in the innumerable threads of a sudden reverie. The following day was frightful, and those that came after, still more unbearable, because of her impatience to once again seize her happiness, an ardent lust inflamed by the images of past experience, and that burst forth freely on the seventh day beneath Lyon's caresses. His ardors were hidden beneath outbursts of wonder and gratitude. Emma tasted this love in a discreet, absorbed fashion, maintained it by all the artifices of her tenderness, and trembled a little lest it should be lost later on. She often said to him with her sweet, melancholy voice, ah, you too will leave me. You will marry. You will be like all the others. He asked, what others?  One day, as they were talking philosophically of earthly disillusions, to experiment on his jealousy or yielding perhaps to an overstrong need to pour out her heart, she told him that formerly, before him, she had loved someone. Not like you, she went on quickly, protesting by the head of her child that nothing had passed between them. The young man believed her, but nonetheless questioned her to find out what he was. He was a ship's captain, my dear. Was this not preventing any inquiry and, at the same time, assuming a higher ground through this pretended fascination exercised over a man who must have been of warlike nature and accustomed to receive homage? The clerk then felt the lowliness of his position. He longed for epaulets, crosses, titles, all that would please her. He gathered that from her spendthrift habits. Emma nevertheless concealed many of these extravagant fancies, such as her wish to have a blue Tilbury to drive into Rouen, drawn by an English horse and driven by a groom in top boots. It was Justin who had inspired her with this whim by begging her to take him into her service as ballet de chambre, and if the privation of it did not lessen the pleasure of her arrival at each rendezvous, it certainly augmented the bitterness of the return. Often, when they talked together of Paris, she ended by murmuring, ah, how happy we should be there. Are we not happy? Gently answered the young man, passing his hands over her hair. Yes, that's true, she said. I am mad, kiss me. To her husband she was more charming than ever. She made him pistachio creams and played him waltzes after dinner. So he thought himself the most fortunate of men, and Emma was, without uneasiness, when one evening suddenly he said, it is mademoiselle l'empereur, isn't it, who gives you lessons? Yes. Well, I saw her just now, Charles went on, at Madame Ligère. I spoke to her about you, and she doesn't know you. This was like a thunder clap. However, she replied quite naturally, ah, no doubt she forgot my name. But perhaps, said the doctor, there are several demoiselles, l'empereur et Rouen, who are music mistresses. Possibly, then quickly. But I have my receipts here, see. And she went to the writing table, ransacked all the drawers, rummaged the papers, and at last lost her head so completely that Charles earnestly begged her not to take so much trouble about those wretched receipts. Oh, I will find them, she said. And in fact, on the following Friday, as Charles was putting on one of his boots in the dark cabinet where his clothes were kept, he felt a piece of paper between the leather and his sock. He took it out and read. Received for three months lessons and several pieces of music, the sum of 63 francs. Félicie l'empereur, professor of music. How the devil did it get into my boots? It must, she replied, have fallen from the old box of bills that is on the edge of the shelf. From that moment, her existence was but one long tissue of lies in which she enveloped her love as in veils to hide it. It was a want, a mania, a pleasure carried to such an extent that if she said she had the day before walked on the right side of the road, one might know she had taken the left. One morning when she had gone, as usual, rather lightly clothed, it suddenly began to snow. And as Charles was watching the weather from the window, he caught sight of Monsieur Bounessien in the chaise of Monsieur Tuvache, who was driving him to Rouen. Then he went down to give the priest a thick shawl that he was to hand over to Emma as soon as he reached the Croix Rouge. When he got to the inn, Monsieur Bounessien asked for the wife of the Yonville doctor. The landlady replied that she very rarely came to her establishment. So that evening, when he recognized Madame Bovary in the Irondelle, the cure told her his dilemma, without, however, appearing to attach much importance to it, for he began praising a preacher who was doing wonders at the cathedral and whom all the ladies were rushing to hear. Still, if he did not ask for an explanation, others later on might prove less discreet. So she thought well to get down each time at the Croix Rouge so that the good folk of her village who saw her on the stairs should suspect nothing. One day, however, Monsieur Le Rhe met her coming out of the Hotel de Boulogne on Lyon's arm and she was frightened, thinking he would gossip. He was not such a fool, but three days after he came to her room, shut the door and said, I must have some money. She declared she could not give him any. Le Rhe burst into lamentations and reminded her of all the kindnesses he had shown her. In fact, of the two bills signed by Charles, Emma, up to the present, had paid only one. As to the second, the shopkeeper at her request had consented to replace it by another, which again had been renewed for a long date. Then he drew from his pocket a list of goods not paid for, to wit, the curtains, the carpet, the material for the armchairs, several dresses, the diverse articles of dress, the bills for which amounted to about two thousand francs. She bowed her head. He went on. But if you haven't any ready money, you have an estate. And he reminded her of a miserable little hobble situated at Bonville, near Almal, that brought in almost nothing. It had formerly been part of a small farm sold by Monsieur Bovary Sr., for Le Rhe knew everything, even to the number of acres and the names of the neighbors. If I were in your place, he said, I should clear myself of my debts and have money left over. She pointed out the difficulty of getting a purchaser. He held out the hope of finding one, but she asked him how she should manage to sell it. Haven't you the power of attorney? He replied. The phrase came to her like a breath of fresh air. Leave me the bill, said Emma. Oh, it isn't worthwhile, said Le Rhe. He came back the following week and boasted of having, after much trouble, at last discovered a certain Lang Rois, who for a long time had had an eye on the property but without mentioning his price. Nevermind the price, she cried. But they would, on the contrary, have to wait to sound the fellow. The thing was worth a journey. And as she could not undertake it, he offered to go to the place to have an interview with Lang Rois. On his return, he announced that the purchaser proposed 4,000 francs. Emma was radiant at the news. Frankly, he added, that's a good price. She drew the half-sum at once and when she was about to pay her account, the shopkeeper said, it really grieves me on my word to see you depriving yourself all at once of such a big sum as that. Then she looked at the bank notes and dreaming of the unlimited number of rendezvous represented by those 2,000 francs she stammered. What? What? Oh, he went on, laughing good-naturedly. One puts anything one likes on receipts. Don't you think I know what household affairs are? And he looked at her fixedly, while in his hand he held two long papers that he slid between his nails. At last, opening his pocketbook, he spread out on the table four bills to order, each for 1,000 francs. Sign these, he said, and keep it all. She cried out, scandalized. But if I give you the surplus, replies Monsieur Le Rue imprudently, is that not helping you? And taking a pen he wrote at the bottom of the account, received of Madame Bovary, 4,000 francs. Now, who can trouble you? Since in six months you'll draw the arrears for your cottage and I don't make the last bill you till after you've been paid. Emma grew rather confused in her calculations and her ears tingled as if gold pieces bursting from their bags rang all round on the floor. At last Le Rue explained that he had a very good friend, Vincar, a broker at Rouen, who would discount these four bills. Then he himself would hand over to Madame the remainder after the actual debt was paid. But instead of 2,000 francs, he brought only 1,800. For the friend Vincar, which was only fair, had deducted 200 francs for commission and discount. Then he carelessly asked for a receipt. You understand, in business, sometimes, and with the date, if you please, with the date, a horizon of realizable whims opened out before Emma. She was prudent enough to lay by 1,000 crowns with which the first three bills were paid when they fell due. But the fourth, by chance, came to the house on a Thursday and Charles, quite upset, patiently awaited his wife's return for an explanation. If she had not told him about this bill, it was only to spare him such domestic worries. She sat on his knees, caressed him, cooed to him, gave him a long enumeration of all the indispensable things that had been got on credit. Really, you must confess, considering the quantity, it isn't too dear. Charles, at his wit's end, soon had recourse to the eternal Lure, who swore he would arrange matters if the doctor would sign him two bills, one of which was for 700 francs, payable in three months.  Instead of sending a reply, she came herself, and when Emma wanted to know whether he had got anything out of her, yes, he replied, but she wants to see the account. The next morning at daybreak, Emma ran to Lure to beg him to make out another account for not more than a thousand francs. For to show the one for 4,000, it would be necessary to say that she had paid two thirds and confess, consequently, the sale of the estate. A negotiation admirably carried out by the shopkeeper, and which, in fact, was only actually known later on. Despite the low price of each article, Madame Bovary Sr., of course, thought the expenditure extravagant. Couldn't you do without a carpet? Why have recovered the armchairs? In my time, there was a single armchair in a house for elderly persons. At any rate, it was so at my mother's who was a good woman, I can tell you. Everybody can't be rich. No fortune can hold out against waste. I should be ashamed to coddle myself as you do, and yet I am old. I need looking after. And there, there, fitting up gowns, falals. What, silk for lining at two francs? When you can get jacquonet for 10 sous or even for eight that would do well enough? Emma, lying on a lounge, replied as quietly as possible. Ah, Madame, enough, enough. The other went on lecturing her, predicting they would end in the workhouse. But it was Bovary's fault. Luckily, he had promised to destroy the power of attorney. What? Ah, he swore he would, went on the good woman. Emma opened the window, called Charles, and the poor fellow was obliged to confess the promise torn from him by his mother. Emma disappeared, then came back quickly and majestically handed her a thick piece of paper. Thank you, said the old woman, and she threw the power of attorney into the fire. Emma began to laugh, a strident, piercing, continuous laugh. She had an attack of hysterics. Oh, my God, cried Charles. Ah, you really are wrong. You came here and make scenes with her. His mother, shrugging her shoulders, declared it was all put on. But Charles, rebelling for the first time, took his wife's part so that Madame Bovary's senior said she would leave. She went the very next day, and on the threshold, as he was trying to detain her, she replied, no, no, you love her better than me, and you're right.  Good day, for I am not likely to come soon again, as you say, to make scenes. Charles, nevertheless, was very crestfallen before Emma, who did not hide the resentment she still felt at his want of confidence, and had needed many prayers before she would consent to have another power of attorney. He even accompanied her to Monsieur Guiamine to have a second one, just like the other, drawn up. I understand, so the notary, a man of science can't be worried with the practical details of life. And Charles felt relieved by this comfortable reflection, which gave his weakness the flattering appearance of higher preoccupation. And what an outburst the next Thursday at the hotel in their room with Lyon. She laughed, cried, sang, sent for sherbetts, wanted to smoke cigarettes, seemed to him wild and extravagant, but adorable, superb. He did not know what recreation of her whole being drove her more and more to plunge into the pleasures of life. She was becoming irritable, greedy, voluptuous, and she walked about the streets with him, carrying her head high, without fear, so she said, of compromising herself. At times, however, Emma shuddered at the sudden thought of meeting Rodolphe, for it seemed to her that, although they were separated forever, she was not completely free from her subjugation to him. One night she did not return to Yonvie at all. Charles lost his head with anxiety, and little Bertha would not go to bed without her mama and sobbed enough to break her heart. Justin had gone out searching the road at random. Monsieur Omé even had left his pharmacy. At last, at 11 o'clock, able to bear it no longer, Charles harnessed his shez, jumped in, whipped up his horse, and reached the croix rouge about two o'clock in the morning. No one there. He thought that the clerk had perhaps seen her, but where did he live? Happily, Charles remembered his employer's address and rushed off there. Day was breaking, and he could distinguish the escutcheons over the door and knocked. Someone, without opening the door, shouted out the required information, adding a few insults to those who disturbed people in the middle of the night. The house, inhabited by the clerk, had neither bell, knocker, nor porter. Charles knocked loudly at the shutters with his hands. A policeman happened to pass by. Then he was frightened and went away. I'm mad, he said. No doubt they kept her to dinner at Monsieur Lorneux, but the Lorneux no longer lived at Rouen. She probably stayed to look after Madame Dubrois, why Madame Dubrois has been dead these 10 months. Where can she be? An idea occurred to him. At a café, he asked for a directory, and hurriedly looked for the name of Mademoiselle L'Empereur, who lived at No. 74, Roue de Lorneux de Marocchignet. As he was turning into the street, Emma herself appeared at the end of it. He threw himself upon her, rather than embraced her, crying, What kept you yesterday? I was not well. What was it? Where? How? She passed her hand over her forehead and answered, Et Mademoiselle L'Empereur's. I was sure of it. I was going there. Oh, it isn't worthwhile, said Emma. She went out just now. But for the future, don't worry. I do not feel free. You see, if I know that the least the lay-up sets you like this. This was a sort of permission that she gave herself, so as to get perfect freedom in her escapades, and she profited by it freely, fully. When she was seized with the desire to see Lyon, she set out upon any priest text, and as he was not expecting her on that day, she went to fetch him at his office. It was a great delight at first, but soon he no longer concealed the truth, which was that his master complained very much about these interruptions. Pshah! Come along, she said, and he slipped out. She wanted him to dress all in black, and grow a pointed beard, to look like the portraits of Louis XIII. She wanted to see his lodgings, thought them poor. He blushed at them, but she did not notice this. Then advised him to buy some curtains like her, and as he objected to the expense, Ah! Ah! you care for your money, she said, laughing.  She asked him for some verses, some verses for herself, a love poem in honor of her. But he never succeeded in getting rhyme for the second verse, and at the last ended by copying the sonnet in a keepsake. This was less from vanity than from the one desire of pleasing her. He did not question her ideas. He accepted all her tastes. He was rather becoming her mistress than she his. She had tender words and kisses that thrilled his soul. Where could she have learned this corruption almost incorporeal in the strength of its profanity and dissimulation? Part 3 Chapter 6 of Madame Bovary This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert Part 3 Chapter 5 During the journeys he made to see her, Lyon had often dined at the chemists, and he felt obliged from politeness to invite him in turn. With pleasure, Monsieur Omey replied, Besides, I must invigorate my mind, for I am getting rusty here. We'll go to the theater, to the restaurant. We'll make a night of it. Oh, my dear tenderly murmured Madame Omey, alarmed at the vague perils he was preparing to brave. Well, what? Do you think I'm not sufficiently ruining my health living here, amid the continual emanations of the pharmacy? But there. That is the way with women. They're jealous of science, and then are opposed to our taking the most legitimate distractions. No matter. Count upon me. One of these days I shall turn up at Rouen, and we'll go the pace together. The druggist would formally have taken care not to use such an expression, but he was cultivating a gay Parisian style, which he thought in the best taste. And like his neighbor, Madame Bovary, he questioned the clerk curiously about the customs of the capital. He even talked slang to dazzle the bourgeois, saying bender, crummy, dandy, macaroni, the cheese, cut my stick, and I'll hook it for I'm going. So one Thursday, Emma was surprised to meet Monsieur Omé in the kitchen of Lyon d'Or, wearing a traveler's costume, that is to say, wrapped in an old cloak which no one knew he had, while he carried a valise in one hand and the foot warmer of his establishment in the other. He had invited his intentions to no one for fear of causing the public anxiety by his absence. The idea of seeing again the place where his youth had been spent no doubt excited him, for during the whole journey, he never ceased talking. And as soon as he had arrived, he jumped quickly out of the diligence to go in search of Lyon. In vain, the clerk tried to get rid of him. Monsieur Omé dragged him off to the large cafe de la Normandie, which he entered majestically, not raising his hat, thinking it very provincial to uncover in any public place. Emma waited for Lyon three quarters of an hour. At last she ran to his office and lost in all sorts of conjectures, accusing him of indifference and reproaching herself for her weakness. She spent the afternoon, her face, pressed against the window panes. At two o'clock they were still at a table opposite each other, the large room was emptying, the stow of pipe in the shape of a palm tree spread its gilt leaves over the white ceiling and near them, outside the window, in the bright sunshine, a little fountain gurgled in a white basement, where in the midst of watercress and asparagus, three torpid lobsters stretched across to some quails that lay heaped up in a pile on their sides. Omé was enjoying himself, although he was even more intoxicated with the luxury than the rich fare. The pomar wine, all the same, rather excited his faculties, and when the omelette or room appeared, he began propounding immoral theories about women. What seduced him above all was chic. He admired an elegant toilette in a well-furnished apartment, and as to bodily qualities, he didn't dislike a young girl. Lyon watched the clock in despair. The druggist went on drinking, eating, and talking. You must be very lonely, he said suddenly, here at Rouen. To be sure your lady-love doesn't live far away, and the other blush. Come now, be frank. Can you deny that at Yon-V, the young man stammered something. Had Madame Bovary's, you're not making love to, to whom? The servant! He was not joking. But vanity, getting the best of prudence. Lyon, in spite of himself protested, besides, he only liked dark women. I approve of that, said the chemist. They have more passion. And whispering into his friend's ear, he pointed out the symptoms by which one could find out if a woman had passion. He even launched into an ethnographic digression. The German was vaporish, the French woman licentious, the Italian passionate. And negresses asked the clerk. They are an artistic taste, said Ome. Waiter, two cups of coffee. Are we going, at last, asked Lyon impatiently? Yeah. But before leaving, he wanted to see the proprietor of the establishment, and made him a few compliments. Then the young man, to be alone, alleged he had some business engagement. Ah, I will escort you, said Ome. And all the while he was walking through the streets with him, he talked of his wife, his children, of their future and of his business, told him in what a decayed condition it had formerly been, and to what a degree of perfection he had raised it. Arrived in front of the hotel de Boulogne, Lyon left him abruptly, ran up the stairs, and found his mistress in great excitement. And mention of the chemist, she flew into a passion. He, however, piled up good reasons. It wasn't his fault. Didn't she know Ome? Did she believe that he would prefer his company? But she turned away.   Then tears obscured them. Her red eyelids were lowered. She gave him her hands, and Lyon was pressing them to his lips when a servant appeared to tell the gentleman that he was wanted. You will come back, she said. Yes, but when? Immediately. It's a trick, said the chemist when he saw Lyon. I wanted to interrupt this visit that seemed to me to annoy you. Let's go and have a glass of garus at Bridou. Lyon vowed that he must get back to his office. Then the druggist joked him about quill-drivers and the law. Leave Kaju and Bartol alone a bit. Who the devil prevents you? Be a man! Let's go to Bridou. You'll see his dog. It's very interesting. And as the clerk still insisted, I'll go with you. I'll read the paper while I wait for you, or turn over the leaves of a code. Lyon bewildered by Emma's anger, Monsieur Ome's chatter, and perhaps by the heaviness of the luncheon, was undecided. And as it were, fascinated by the chemist. He kept repeating, let's go to Bridou. It's just by here in the room Apalu. Then, through cowardice, through stupidity, through the indefinable feeling that drags us into the most distasteful acts, he allowed himself to be let off to Bridou, whom they found in his small yard, superintending three workmen, who panted as they turned the large wheel of a machine for making seltzer water. Ome gave them some good advice. He embraced Bridou. They took some garous. Twenty times Lyon tried to escape, but the other seized him by the arm, saying, presently I'm coming. We'll go to the Farnal de Rouen to see the fellows there. I'll introduce you to Thornacine. At last he managed to get rid of him, and rushed straight to the hotel. Emma was no longer there. She had just gone in a fit of anger. She detested him now. This failing to keep their rendezvous seemed to her an insult, and she tried to rake up other reasons to separate herself from him. He was incapable of heroism, weak, banal, more spiritless than a woman, avaricious too, and cowardly. Then, growing calmer, she at length discovered that she had, no doubt, culminated him. But the disparishing of those we love always alienates us from them to some extent. We must not touch our idols. The guilt sticks to our fingers. They gradually came to talking more frequently of matters outside their love, and in the letters that Emma wrote him, she spoke of flowers, verses, the moon, and the stars, naive resources of a waning passion, striving to keep itself alive by all external aids. She was constantly promising herself a profound felicity on her next journey. Then she confessed to herself that she felt nothing extraordinary. This disappointment quickly gave way to a new hope, and Emma returned to him more inflamed, more eager than ever. She undressed brutally, tearing off the thin laces of her corset that nestled around her hips like a gliding snake. She went on tiptoe, barefooted, to see once more that the door was closed, then pale, serious, and without speaking with one movement, she threw herself upon his breast with a long shutter. Yet there was upon that brow covered with cold drops on those quivering lips and those wild eyes in the strain of those arms something vague and dreary that seemed to Leon to glide between them subtly as if to separate them. He did not dare to question her, but seeing her so skilled, she must have passed, he thought, through every experience of suffering and of pleasure. What had once charmed now frightened him a little. Besides, he rebelled against his absorption daily more marked by her personality. He begrudged Emma this constant victory. He even strove not to love her. Then when he heard the creaking of her boots, he turned coward like drunkards at the sight of strong drinks. She did not fail in truth to lavish all sorts of attentions upon him from the delicacies of food to the coquetry's of dress and languishing looks. She brought roses to her breast from Yon-V which she threw into his face, was anxious about his health, gave him advice as to his conduct and in order the more surely to keep her hold on him, hoping perhaps that heaven would take part, she tied a medal of the virgin round his neck.  She would have liked to be able to watch over his life and the idea occurred to her of having him followed in the streets. Near the hotel there was always a kind of loafer who accosted travelers and who would not refuse. But her pride revolted at this, ah, so much the worse, let him deceive me. What does it matter to me as if I cared for him? One day when they had parted early and she was returning alone along the boulevard, she saw the walls of her convent, then she sat down on a form in the shade of the elm trees. How calm that time had been, how she longed for the ineffable sentiments of love that she had tried to figure to herself out of books. The first month of her marriage, her rides in the wood, the viacount that waltzed, and La Gardie singing, all repast before her eyes, and Lyon suddenly appeared to her as far off as the others. Yet, I love him, she said to herself. No matter, she was not happy, she never had been. Whence came this insufficiency in life, this instantaneous turning to decay of everything on which she lent. But if there were somewhere a being strong and beautiful, a valiant nature full at once of exultation and refinement, a poet's heart in an angel's form, a liar with sounding chords ringing out, a legiac epithalamia to heaven, why perchance should she not find him? Ah, how impossible. Besides, nothing was worth the trouble of seeking it, everything was a lie. Every smile hid a yawn of boredom, every joy a curse, all pleasure sashiety, and the sweetest kisses left upon your lips, only the unattainable desire for a greater delight. A metallic clang droned through the air, and four strokes were heard from the convent clock, four o'clock, and it seemed to her that she had been there on that form an eternity. But an infinity of passions may be contained in a minute like a crowd in a small space. Emma lived all absorbed in hers, and troubled no more about money matters than in arched duchess. Once, however, a wretched-looking man, Rubicon, then bald, came to her house, saying he had been sent by Monsieur Vincar of Rois. He took out the pins that held together the side pockets of his long green overcoat, stuck them into his sleeve, and politely handed her a paper. It was a bill for 700 francs, signed by her, and which Lure, in spite of all his professions, had paid away to Vincar. She sent her servant for him. He could not come. Then the stranger who had remained standing, casting right and left curious glances, that his thick, fair eyebrows hid, asked with a naive air, what am I to take, Monsieur Vincar? Oh, Sedeema, tell him that I haven't it. I'll send it next week. He must wait. Yes, till next week. And the fellow went without another word. But the next day, at twelve o'clock, she received the summons, and the sight of the stamped paper on which appeared several times in large letters. Maitre harang, Bélif at Bouchy, so frightened her that she rushed in hot haste to the line drapers.  You're obedient, he said, I am at your service. But Lure, all the same, went on with his work, helped by a young girl of about thirteen, somewhat hunchbacked, who was at once his clerk and his servant. Then, his clogs clattering on the shopboards, he went up in front of Madame Bovary to the front door and introduced her into a narrow closet, where, in a large bureau in the sapon wood, lay some ledgers, protected by a horizontal padlocked iron bar. Against the wall, under some remnants of calico, one glimpsed to safe, but of such dimensions that it must contain something besides bills and money. Monsieur Lure, in fact, went in for pawn-broken, and it was there that he had put Madame Bovary's gold chain, together with the earrings of poor old Tellier, who, at last forced to sell out, had bought a meager store of grocery at Queen Campois, where he was dying of Qatar amongst his candles that were less yellow than his face. Lure sat down in a large cane armchair, saying, What news? See! And she showed him the paper. Well, how can I help it? Then she grew angry, reminding him of the promise he had given not to pay away her bills. He acknowledged it, but I was pressed myself. The knife was at my throat. And what will happen now? She went on. Oh, it's very simple. A judgment, and then a restraint. That's about it. Emma kept down a desire to strike him, and asked gently if there was no way of quieting Monsieur Vincar. I dare say, quiet Vincar? You don't know him. He's more ferocious than an Arab. Still, Monsieur Lure must interfere. Well, listen, it seems to me so far I've been very good to you. And opening one of his ledgers, see, he said, then running up the page with his finger. Let's see, let's see. August 3rd, 200 francs. June 17th, 150. March 23rd, 46. In April, he stopped, as if afraid of making some mistake. Not to speak of the bills signed by Monsieur Vauvary, one for 700 francs, and another for 300. As to your little installments with interest, why, there's no end to them. One gets quite muddled over them. I'll have nothing more to do with it. She wept. She even called him her good Monsieur Lure. But he always fell back upon that rascal Vincar. Besides, he hadn't a brass farthing. No one was paying him nowadays. They were eating his coat off his back. A poor shopkeeper like him couldn't advance money. Emma was silent. And Monsieur Lure, who was biting the feathers of a quill, no doubt became uneasy at her silence, for he went on. Unless one of these days I have something coming in, I might. Besides, she said, as soon as the balance of bon vie, what? And on hearing that Langlois had not yet paid, he seemed much surprised. Then, in a honeyed voice, and we agree, you say, oh, to anything you like. On this he closed his eyes to reflect, wrote down a few figures, and declaring it would be very difficult for him that the affair was shady and that he was being bled. He wrote out four bills for 250 francs each to fold you month by month. Provided that Vincar will listen to me.  I'm straight enough. Next he carelessly showed her several new goods, not one of which, however, was, in his opinion, worthy of madame. When I think there's a dress at three pence, half penny a yard, and warranted fast colors, and yet they actually swallow it, of course. You understand. One doesn't tell them what it really is. He hoped, by this confession of dishonesty to others, to quite convince her of his probity to her. Then he called her back to show her three yards of Guipur that he had lately picked up at a sale. Isn't it lovely, Sidlera? It is very much used now for the backs of armchairs. It's quite the rage. And more ready than a juggler, he wrapped up the Guipur in some blue paper and put it in Emma's hands. But at least let me know. Yes, another time, he replied, turning on his heel. That same evening she urged Bovary to write to his mother, to ask her to send as quickly as possible the whole of the balanced you from the father's estate. The mother-in-law replied that she had nothing more. The winding-up was over, and there was due to them besides bon vie, an income of 600 francs, that she would pay them punctually. Then Madame Bovary sent in accounts to two or three patients, and she made large use of this method, which was very successful. She was always careful to add a post-cript. Do not mention this to my husband. You know how proud he is. Excuse me, yours obediently. There were some complaints, she intercepted them. To get money she began selling her old gloves, her old hats, the old odds and ends that she bargained rapaciously. Her peasant blood standing her in good stead. Then on her journey to town, she picked up knick-knacks secondhand, that in default of anyone else, Monsieur Le Reu would certainly take off her hands. She bought ostrich feathers, Chinese porcelain, and trunks. She borrowed from Felicité, from Madame de François, from the landlady at the Croix Rouge, from everybody, no matter where. With the money she had last received from Barn v., she paid two bills. The other 1,500 francs fell due. She renewed the bills, and thus it was continually. Sometimes it is true she tried to make a calculation, but she discovered things so exorbitant that she could not believe them possible. Then she recommenced, soon got confused, gave it all up, and thought no more about it. The house was dreary now. Tradesmen were seen leaving it with angry faces. Anchorchiefs were lying about on the stoves, and little Bertha, to the great scandal of Madame Ome, wore stockings with holes in them. If Charles timidly ventured a remark, she answered roughly that it wasn't her fault. What was the meaning of all these fits of temper? He explained everything through her old, nervous illness, and reproaching himself with having taken her infirmities for faults, accused himself of egotism, and longed to go and take her in his arms. Ah, no, he said to himself, I should worry her, and he did not stir. After dinner he walked about alone in the garden. He took little Bertha on his knees, and unfolding his medical journal, tried to teach her to read. But the child who had never had any lessons soon looked up with large, sad eyes, and began to cry. Then he comforted her, went to fetch water in her can to make rivers on the sandpath, or broke off branches from the privet hedges to plant trees in the beds. This did not spoil the garden much, all choked now with long weeds. They owed Leste Boudoir for so many days, then the child grew cold and asked for her mother. Call the servant, said Charles, you know, dearie, that Mama does not like to be disturbed. Autumn was setting in and the leaves were already falling, as they did two years ago when she was ill. Where would it all end? And he walked up and down his hands behind his back. Madame was in her room, which no one entered. She stayed there all day long, torpid, half dressed, and from time to time burning Turkish pasties, which she had bought at Rouen in an Algerian shop. In order not to have at night this sleeping man stretched at her side by dint of maneuvering. She at last succeeded in banishing him to the second floor, while she read till morning extravagant books full of pictures of orgies and thrilling situations. Often seized with fear, she cried out, and Charles hurried to her. Oh, go away, she would say, or at other times consumed more ardently than ever by that inner flame to which adultery added fuel, panting, tremulous, all desire. She threw open her window, breathed in the cold air, shook loose in the wind her masses of hair, too heavy, and gazing upon the stars longed for some princely love. She thought of him, of Leon. She would have given anything for a single one of those meetings that surfitted her. These were Galadais. She wanted them to be sumptuous, and when he alone could not pay the expenses, she made up the deficit liberally, which happened pretty well every time. He tried to make her understand that they would be quite as comfortable somewhere else in a smaller hotel, but she always found some objection. One day she drew six small silver guilt spoons from her bag. They were old, rouse, waiting present, begging him to pawn them at once for her, and Leon obeyed, though the proceeding annoyed him. He was afraid of compromising himself. Then, on reflection, he began to think his mistress's ways were growing odd, and that they were perhaps not wrong in wishing to separate him from her. In fact, someone had sent his mother a long anonymous letter to warn her that he was ruining himself with a married woman, and the good lady at once conjuring up the eternal bugbear of families, the vague, pernicious creature, the siren, the monster who dwells fantastically in depths of love, wrote to lawyer Duboccage, his employer, who behaved perfectly in the affair. He kept him for three quarters of an hour trying to open his eyes to warn him of the abyss into which he was falling. Such an intrigue would damage him later on when he set up for himself. He implored him to break with her, and if he would not make the sacrifice in his own interest to do it at least for his Duboccage's sake. At last Leon swore he would not see Emma again, and he reproached himself with not having kept his word. Considering all the worry and lectures this woman might still draw around the stove in the morning. Besides, he was soon to be head clerk. It was time to settle down. So he gave up his flute, exalted sentiments and poetry. For every bourgeois and the flush of his youth were it but for a day a moment as believed himself capable of immense passions of lofty enterprises. The most mediocre libertine has dreamed of sultanas. Every notary bears within him the debris of a poet. He was bored now when Emma suddenly began to sob on his breast, and his heart, like the people who can only stand a certain amount of music, dozed to the sound of a love whose delicacies he no longer noted. They knew one another too well for any of those surprises of possession that increase its joys a hundredfold.  Emma found again in adultery all the platitudes of marriage. But how to get rid of him? Then, though she might feel humiliated at the baseness of such enjoyment, she clung to it from habit or from corruption, and each day she hungered after them the more, exhausting all felicity and wishing for too much of it. She accused Leon of her baffled hopes, as if he had betrayed her. And she even longed for some catastrophe that would bring about their separation, since she had not the courage to make up her mind to do it herself. She nonetheless went on writing him love letters in virtue of the notion that a woman must write to her lover. But whilst she wrote, it was another man she saw, a phantom fashioned out of her most ardent memories. Of her finest reading, her strongest lusts, and at last he became so real, so tangible, that she palpitated, wondering, without however the power to imagine him clearly. So lost was he like a god beneath the abundance of his attributes. He dwelt in that azure land where silk ladders hang from balconies under the breath of flowers in the light of the moon. She felt him near, he was coming, and would carry her right away in a kiss. Then she fell back exhausted, for these transports of vague love wearied her more than great debauchery. She now felt constant ache all over. Often she even received summons of stamped papers that she barely looked at. She would have liked not to be alive, or to always sleep. On mid-lent, she did not return to Yangvi, but in the evening went to a masked ball. She wore velvet breeches, red stockings, a club wig, and three-cornered hat cocked on one side. She danced all night to the wild tones of the trombones. People gathered round her, and in the morning she found herself on the steps of the theater together with five or six masks, debauchers, and sailors, Leon's comrades, who were talking about having supper. The neighboring cafes were full. They caught sight of one on the harbor, a very indifferent restaurant, whose proprietors showed them to a little room on the fourth floor. The men were whispering in a corner, no doubt consorting about expenses. There were a clerk, two medical students, and a shot man, what company for her? As to women, Emma soon perceived from the tone of their voices that they must always belong to the lowest class. Then she was frightened, push back her chair, and cast down her eyes. The others began to eat. She ate nothing.  In her head she seemed to feel the floor of the ballroom rebounding again beneath the rhythmical pulsation of the thousands of dancing feet. And now the smell of the punch, the smoke of the cigars, made her giddy. She fainted, and they carried her to the window. Day was breaking, and a great stain of purple color broadened out in the pale horizon over the St. Catherine Hills. The livid river was shivering in the wind. There was no one on the bridges. The streetlamps were going out. She revived and began thinking of Bertha, asleep yonder in the servant's room. Then a cart filled with long strips of iron passed by and made a deafening metallic vibration against the walls of the houses. She slipped away suddenly, threw off her costume, told Leon she must get back, and at last was alone at the Hotel de Boulogne. Everything, even herself, was now unbearable to her. She wished that taking wing like a bird she could fly somewhere far away to regions of purity, and there grow young again. She went out, crossed the Boulevard, the Place Couchoise and the Fouberg, as far as an open street that overlooked some gardens. She walked rapidly, the fresh air calming her, and little by little the faces of the crowd, the masks, the quadrills, the lights, the supper, those women all disappeared like mists fading away. Then reaching the Quaruge, she threw herself on the bed in her little room on the second floor, where there were pictures of the Tour de Nestlé at four o'clock, Iver awoke her. When she got home, Felicite showed her behind the clock a gray paper. She read, in virtue of the seizure and execution of a judgment. What judgment, as a matter of fact, the evening before another paper had been brought that she had not yet seen, and she was stunned by these words, by order of the king, law and justice to Madame Bovary. Then skipping several lines she read, within 24 hours without fail, but what? To pay the sum of 8,000 francs, and there was even at the bottom, she will be constrained there too by every form of law and notably by a writ of restraint on her furniture and effects. What was to be done? In 24 hours, tomorrow, Le Re, she thought, wanted to frighten her again, for she saw through all his devices, the object of his kindnesses, what reassured her was the very magnitude of the sum. However, by dint of buying and not paying, of borrowing, signing bills, and renewing these bills that grew at each new falling in, she had ended by preparing a capital for Monsieur Le Re, which he was impatiently awaiting for his speculations. She presented herself at his place with an offhand air. You know what has happened to me? No doubt it's a joke. How so? He turned away slowly and folding his arm said to her, my good lady, do you think I should go on, all eternity, being your purveyor and banker for the love of God? Now be just, I must get back what I've laid out. Now be just, she cried out against the debt. Ah, so much the worse, the court has admitted it. There's a judgment, it's been notified to you. Besides, it isn't my fault, it's Vincars. Could you not own nothing, whatever? But still, now talk it over. And she began beating about the bush. She had known nothing about it, it was a surprise. Whose fault is that? Said Luda, bowing ironically.  Ah, no lecturing. It never does any harm, he replied. She turned coward, she implored him, she even pressed her pretty white and slender hand against the shopkeeper's knee. There, that'll do. Anyone think you want to seduce me?   I will show you up. I shall tell my husband. All right, I too. I'll show your husband something. And Lura drew from his strongbox the receipt for 1,800 francs that she had given him when Vincar had discounted the bills. Do you think, he added, that he'll not understand your little theft, the poor dear man? She collapsed, more overcome than if felled by the blow of a poleaxe. He was walking up and down from the window to the bureau, repeating all the while. Ah, I'll show him. I'll show him. Then he approached her, and a soft voice said, it isn't pleasant, I know. But after all, no bones are broken. And since that is the only way that is left for you paying back my money, but where am I to get any? Said Emma, wringing her hands. Bah, when one has friends like you, and he looked at her in so keen, so terrible a fashion, that she shuddered to her very heart. I promise you, she said, to sign, I've enough of your signatures. I will sell something. Get along, he said, shrugging his shoulders. You've not got anything. And he called through the people that looked down into the shop. Annette, don't forget the three coupons of number 14. The servant appeared, Emma understood, and asked how much money would be wanted to put a stop to the proceedings. It is too late. But if I brought you several thousand francs, a quarter of the sum, a third, perhaps the whole, no. It's no use. And he pushed her gently towards the staircase. I implore you, Monsieur Lyre, just a few days more. She was sobbing, there, tears now. You're driving me to despair. What do I care? He said, shutting the door. End of part three, chapter six, recording by Bob Sage. Part three, chapter seven, of Madame Bovary. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Bob Sage. Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert. Part three, chapter seven. She was stoical the next day when Matra Harang, the bailiff with two assistants, presented himself at her house to draw up the inventory for the restraint.  But in the kitchen, they counted the plates, the saucepans, the chairs, the candlesticks, and in the bedroom, all the knickknacks on the whatnot. They examined her dresses, the linen, the dressing room, and her whole existence to its most intimate details was, like a corpse on whom a postmortem is made, outspread before the eyes of these three men. Matra Harang, buttoned up in his thin black coat, wearing a white choker and very tight footstraps, repeated from time to time, allow me, Madame, you allow me. Often he uttered exclamations, charming, very pretty. Then he began writing again, dipping his pen into the horn ink stand in his left hand. When they had done with the rooms, they went up to the attic. She kept a desk there in which Redolph's letters were locked. It had to be open. Ah, a correspondence, said Matra Harang with a discreet smile. But allow me, for I must make sure the box contains nothing else. And he tipped up the papers lightly as if to shake out Napoleon's. Then she grew angered to see this coarse hand with fingers red and pulpy like slugs, touching these pages against which her heart had beaten. They went at last. Felicite came back. Emma had seen her out to watch for Bowery in order to keep him off. And they hurriedly installed the man in possession under the roof where he swore he would remain. During the evening, Charles seemed to her care-worn. Emma watched him with a look of anguish, fancying she saw an accusation in every line of his face. Then, when her eyes wandered over the chimney-piece ornamented with Chinese screens, over the large curtains, the armchairs, all those things in a word that had softened the bitterness of her life, remorse seized her, or rather an immense regret that, far from crushing, irritated her passion. Charles placidly poked the fire, both his feet on the fire-dogs. Once the man, no doubt bored in his hiding place, made a slight noise. Is anyone upstairs, said Charles? No, she replied. It's a window that has been left open and is rattling in the wind. The next day, Sunday, she went to Rouen to call on all the brokers whose name she knew. They were at their country places or on journeys. She was not discouraged, and those whom she did manage to see, she asked for money, declaring she must have some and that she would pay it back. Some laughed in her face, all refused. At two o'clock, she hurried to Leon and knocked at the door. No one answered. At length he appeared. What brings you here? Do I disturb you? No, but, and he admitted that his landlord didn't like his having women there. I must speak to you, she went on. Then he took down the key, but she stopped him. No, no, down there, in our home. And they went to their room at the Hotel de Boulogne.  She was very pale. She said to him, Leon, will you do me a service? And shaking him by both hands that she grasped tightly, she added, listen, I want 8,000 francs. But you're mad! Not yet. And thereupon, telling him the story of the destraint, she explained her distress to him. But Charles knew nothing of it. Her mother-in-law detested her. Old Rouot could do nothing, but he, Leon, he could set about finding this indispensable sum. How on earth can I?  Then he said stupidly, you're exaggerating the difficulty. Perhaps with a thousand crowns or so, the fellow could be stopped. All the greater reason to try and do something. It was impossible that they could not find 3,000 francs. Besides, Leon could be security instead of her. Go, try, try, I will love you so. He went out and came back at the end of the hour, saying with a solemn face, I have been to three people with no success. Then they remained sitting face to face at the two chimney corners motionless in silence. Emma shrugged her shoulders as she stamped her feet. He heard her murmuring, if I were in your place, I should soon get some, but where? At your office, and she looked at him. An infernal boldness looked out from her burning eyes, and their lids drew close together with a lascivious and encouraging look. So the young man felt himself growing weak beneath the mute will of this woman who was urging him to a crime. Then he was afraid, and to avoid any explanation, he smote his forehead crying. Morrell is to come back tonight. He will not refuse me, I hope.  Emma did not seem to welcome this hope with all the joy he had expected. Did she suspect the lie? He went on blushing. However, if you don't see me by three o'clock, do not wait for me, my darling. I must be off now, forgive me, goodbye. He pressed her hand, but it felt quite lifeless. Emma had no strength left for any sentiment. Four o'clock struck, and she rose to return to Yonville, mechanically obeying the force of old habits. The weather was fine. It was one of those march days, clear and sharp, when the sun shines in a perfectly white sky. The Rouen folk in Sunday clothes were walking about with happy looks. She reached the Place de Parvis. People were coming out after vespers. The crowd flowed out through the three doors, like a stream through the three arches of a bridge, and in the middle one, more motionless than a rock, stood the beetle. Then she remembered the day when, all anxious and full of hope, she had entered beneath this large nave that had opened out before her, less profound than her love, and she walked on weeping beneath her veil, giddy, staggering, almost fainting. Take care, cried her voice issuing from the gate of a courtyard that was thrown open. She stopped to let pass a black horse, pouring the ground between the shafts of a tilbury, driven by a gentleman in sable furs. Who was it? She knew him. The carriage darted by and disappeared. Why, it was he, the Viscount. She turned away. The street was empty. She was so overwhelmed, so sad, that she had to lean against a wall to keep herself from falling. Then she thought she had been mistaken. Anyhow, she did not know. All within her and around her was abandoning her. She felt lost, sinking at random into the indefinable abysses. And it was almost with joy that on reaching the Croix Rouge, she saw the good Omé, who was watching a large box full of pharmaceutical stores being hoisted on to the Irondelle. In his hand he held tied in a silk handkerchief, six cheminaux for his wife. Madame Omé was very fond of these small, heavy, turban-shaped loaves that are eaten in lent with salt butter, a last vestige of Gothic food that goes back, perhaps, to the time of the Crusades, and with which the robust Normans gorge themselves of yore, fancying they saw on the table in the light of the yellow torches between tankards of Hippocrates and huge boar's heads, the heads of Saracens to be devoured. The druggists' wife crunched them up as they had done, heroically, despite her wretched teeth. And so, whenever Omé journeyed to town, he never failed to bring her some that he bought at the Great Bakers in the Eau Massacre. Charmed to see you, he said, offering Emma a hand to help her into the Irondelle. Then he hung up his cheminol to the cords of the netting and remained bare-headed in an attitude pensive and Napoleonic. But when the blind man appeared as usual at the foot of the hill, he exclaimed, I can't understand why the authorities tolerate such culpable industries. Such unfortunate should be locked up and forced to work. Progress, my word, creeps at a snail's pace, we're floundering about in mere barbarism. The blind man held out his hat that flapped about at the door as if it were a bag in the lining that had come unnailed. This, said the chemist, is a scruffulous affection. And though he knew the poor devil, he pretended to see him for the first time, murmuring something about cornea, opaque cornea, sclerotic facies, then asked him in a paternal tone, my friend, have you long had this terrible infirmity? Instead of getting drunk at public, you'd do better to die yourself. He advised him to take good wine, good beer, and good joints. The blind man went on with his song. He seemed, moreover, almost idiotic. At last, Monsieur Omey opened his purse. Now, there's a sue. Give me back two lards, and don't forget my advice. You'll be the better for it. Yver openly cast some doubt on the efficacy of it, but the druggist said that he would cure himself with an anti-flagistic pomade of his own composition, and he gave his address. Monsieur Omey, near the market, pretty well known. Now, said Yver, for all this trouble, you'll give us your performance.   It was all her fortune. It seemed to her very fine thus to throw it away. The coach had gone on again when, suddenly, Monsieur Omey lent out through the window crying, no pheronaceous or milk food, wear wool next to the skin and expose the diseased parts to the smoke of juniper berries. The sight of the well-known objects that defiled before her eyes gradually diverted Emma from her present trouble. An intolerable fatigue overwhelmed her, and she reached her home stupefied, discouraged, almost asleep. Come what may come, she said to herself. And then, who knows? Why, at any moment, could not some extraordinary event occur? L'heure even might die. At nine o'clock in the morning, she was awakened by the sound of voices in the plas. There was a crowd round the market reading a large bill fixed to one of the posts, and she saw Justin, who was climbing onto a stone and tearing down the bill. But at this moment, the rural guards seized him by the collar. Monsieur Omey came out of his shop and maire la frangère, in the midst of the crowd, seemed to be perorating. Madame, madame, cried felicité, running in. It's abominable. The poor girl deeply moved, handed her a yellow paper that she had just torn off the door. Emma read with a glance that all her furniture was for sale. Then they looked at one another silently. The servant and the mistress had no secret, one from another. At last, felicité sighed.  Do you think, and this question meant to say, you who know the house through the servant has the master spoken sometimes of me? Yes, you do well to go there.  She took the path by the river outside the village. She reached the notary's gate quite breathless. The sky was somber and a little snow was falling. At the sound of the bell, Theodore in a red waistcoat appeared on the steps. He came to open the door almost familiarly as to an acquaintance and showed her into the dining room. A large porcelain stove crackled beneath a cactus that filled up the niche in the wall and in black wood frames against the oak-stained paper hung stubens Esmeralda and Chopin's potifar. The ready-laid table, the two silver chafing dishes, the crystal doorknobs, the parquet and the furniture all shown with the scrupulous English cleanliness. The windows were ornamented at each corner with stained glass. Now this, Dorema, is the dining room I ought to have. The notary came in pressing his palm-leaf dressing gown to his breast with his left arm, while with the other hand he raised and quickly put on again his brown velvet cap, pretentiously cocked on the right side whence looked out the ends of three fair curls drawn from the back of his head following the line of his bald skull. After he had offered her a seat, he sat down to breakfast, apologizing profusely for his rudeness. I have come, she said, to beg you, sir. What, madame? I'm listening. And she began explaining her position to him. Monsieur Guyamin knew it, being secretly associated with the linen draper for whom he always got capital for the loans on mortgages that he was asked to make. So he knew, and better than she herself, the long story of the bills, small at first, bearing different names as endorsers, made out at long date and constantly renewed up to the day. When gathering together all the protested bills, the shopkeeper had bitten his friend Vincar, taken his own name all the necessary proceedings, not wishing to pass for a tiger with his fellow citizens. She mingled her story with recriminations against LeRoe, to which the notary replied from time to time with some insignificant word. Eating his cutlet and drinking his tea, he buried his chin in his sky blue cravat into which were thrust two diamond pins, held together by a small gold chain, and he smiled a singular smile in a sugary ambiguous fashion. But noticing that her feet were damp, he said, do get closer to the stove, put your feet up against the porcelain. She was afraid of dirtying it. The notary replied in a gallant tone, beautiful things spoil nothing. Then she tried to move him, and growing moved herself, she began telling him about the porness of her home, her worries, her wants. He could understand that, an elegant woman, and without leaving off eating, he had turned completely round towards her, so that his knee brushed against her boot, whose soul curled around as it smoked against the stove. But when she asked for a thousand sews, he closed his lips and declared he was very sorry. He had not had the management of her fortune before, for there were hundreds of ways very convenient, even for a lady of turning her money to account. They might, either in the turf pits of Grumesnil, or building ground at Avra, almost without risk, have ventured on some excellent speculations. And he let her consume herself with rage at the thought of the fabulous sums that she would certainly have made. How was it, he went on, that you didn't come to me? I hardly know, she said. Why, hey, did I frighten you so much? It is I, on the contrary, who ought to complain. We hardly know one another, yet I'm very devoted to you. You do not doubt that, I hope. He held out his hand, took hers, covered it with a greedy kiss, then held it on his knee. And he played delicately with her fingers, whilst he murmured a thousand blandishments.  She felt against her cheek, his panting breath. This man oppressed her horribly. She sprang up and said to him, sir, I am waiting, for what? Said the notary, who suddenly became very pale. This money, but then yielding to the outburst of too powerful a desire, well, yes. He dragged himself toward her on his knees, regardless of his dressing gown. For pity's sake, stay, I love you. He seized her by her waist. Madame Bovary's face flushed purple.  I am to be pitied, not to be sold. And she went out. The notary remained quite stupefied, his eyes fixed on his fine embroidered slippers. They were a love gift, and the sight of them at last consoled him. Besides, he reflected that such an adventure might have carried him too far. What a wretch, what a scoundrel, what an infamy, she said to herself as she fled with nervous steps beneath the aspens of the path. The disappointment of her failure increased the indignation of her outraged modesty. It seemed to her that Providence pursued her implacably and strengthening herself in her pride. She had never felt so much esteem for herself, nor so much contempt for others. A spirit of warfare transformed her. She would have liked to strike all men to spit in their faces, to crush them. And she walked rapidly, straight on, pale, quivering, maddened, searching the empty horizon with tear-dimmed eyes as if it were rejoicing in the hate that was choking her. When she saw her house, numbness came over her. She could not go on, and yet she must. Besides, wither could she flee. Felicity was waiting for her at the door. Well, no, said Emma. And for a quarter of an hour, the two of them went over the various persons in Jan Biel, who might perhaps be inclined to help her. But each time that Felicity named someone, Emma replied, impossible, they will not. And the master will soon be in. I know that well enough. Leave me alone. She had tried everything. There was nothing more to be done now. And when Charles came in, she would have to say to him, go away. This carpet on which you were walking is no longer ours.  Then there would be a great sob. Next he would weak abundantly, and at last, the surprise passed. He would forgive her. Yes, she murmured, grinding her teeth. He will forgive me. He who would give a million if I would forgive him for having known me. Never, never. This thought of Bovary's superiority to her exasperated her. Then, whether she confessed or did not confess presently, immediately, tomorrow, he would know the catastrophe all the same. So she must wait for this horrible scene and bear the weight of his magnanimity. The desire to return to Le Reus seized her. What would be the use to write to her father? It was too late. And perhaps she began to repent now that she had not yielded to that other. When she heard the trot of a horse in the alley, it was he. He was opening the gate. He was wider than the plaster wall. Rushing to the stairs, she ran out quickly to the square, and the wife of the mayor, who was talking to L'Estiboudois in front of the church, saw her go into the tax collectors. She hurried off to tell Madame Caron, and the two ladies went up to the attic and, hidden by some linen spread across props, stationed themselves comfortably for overlooking the whole of Benet's room. He was alone in his garret, busy imitating in wood one of those indescribable bits of ivory, composed of crescents of spheres hollowed out one within the other, the whole as straight as an obelisk and of no use whatever. And he was beginning on the last piece. He was nearing his goal. In the twilight of the workshop, the white dust was flying from his tools like a shower of sparks under the hoofs of a galloping horse. The two wheels were turning, droning. Benet smiled. His chin lowered, his nostrils distended, and, in a word, seemed lost in one of those complete happinesses that no doubt belong only to commonplace occupations, which amuse the mind with facile difficulties and satisfy by a realization that beyond which such minds have not a dream. Ah, there she is, exclaimed Madame Tuvasch. But it was impossible because of the lathe to hear what she was saying. At last these ladies thought they made out the words, Franks, and Madame Tuvasch whispered in a low voice, she is begging him to give her time for paying her taxes. Apparently, replied the other. They saw her walking up and down, examining the napkin rings, the candlesticks, the banister rails against the walls, while Benet stroked his beard with satisfaction. Do you think she wants to order something of him? Said Madame Tuvasch. Why? He doesn't sell anything, objected her neighbor. The tax collectors seemed to be listening with wide open eyes as if he did not understand. She went on in a tender, suppliant manner. She came nearer to him, her breast heaving. They no longer spoke. Is she making advances? Said Madame Tuvasch. Benet was scarlet to his very ears. She took hold of his hands. Oh, it's too much. And no doubt she was suggesting something abominable to him. For the tax collector, yet he was brave, had fought at Bautin and Bautin, had been through the French campaign and had even been recommended for the cross. Suddenly, as at the sight of a serpent, recoiled as far as he could from her crying. Madame, what do you mean? Women like that ought to be whipped, said Madame Tuvasch. But where is she? Continued Madame Caron, for she had disappeared whilst they spoke. Then catching sight of her going up the grand roux and turning to the right as if making for the cemetery, they were lost in conjectures. Nurse Rollet, she said, on reaching the nurses, I am choking, unlace me. She fell on the bed sobbing. Nurse Rollet covered her with a petticoat and remained standing by her side. Then she did not answer the good woman withdrew, took her wheel, and began spinning flax. Oh, leave off, she murmured, fancying, she heard Benet's lave. What's bothering her, said the nurse to herself. Why has she come here? She had rushed thither, impelled by a kind of horror that drove her from her home.  She looked at the scales on the walls, two brands smoking end to end, and a long spider crawling over her head in a rent in the beam. At last she began to collect her thoughts. She remembered, one day, Leon, oh, how long ago that was. The sun was shining on the river, and the climatas were perfuming the air. Then, carried away as by a rushing torrent, she soon began to recall the day before. What time is it? She asked. Me, Rollet, went out, raising the fingers of her right hand to the side of the sky that was brightest, and came back slowly, saying, nearly three. Ah, thanks, thanks. For he would come. He would have found some money, but he would perhaps go down yonder, not guessing she was here, and she told the nurse to run to her house to fetch him. Be quick. But, my dear lady, I'm going, I'm going. She wondered now that she had not thought of him from the first. Yesterday he had given his word. He would not break it. And she already saw herself at La Reuse, spreading out her three bank notes on his bureau. Then she would have to invent some story to explain matters to Bovery. What should it be? The nurse, however, was a long while gone. But, as there was no clock on the cot, Emma feared she was perhaps exaggerating the length of time. She began walking around the garden step by step. She went to the path by the hedge, and returned quickly, hoping that the woman would have come back by another road. At last, weary of waiting, assailed by fears that she thrust from her no longer conscious, whether she had been here a century or a moment. She sat down in a corner, closed her eyes, and stopped her ears. The gate graded. She sprang up. Before she had spoken, Mayor Relay said to her, there is no one in your house. What? Oh, no one. And the doctor is crying. He's calling for you. They're looking for you. Emma answered nothing.  Suddenly she struck her brow and uttered a cry. For the thought of Redolphe, like a flash of lightning in a dark night, had passed into her soul. He was so good, so delicate, so generous. And besides, should he hesitate to do her this service, she would know well enough how to constrain him to it by rewaking in a single moment their lost love. So she set out towards La Ushet, not seeing that she was hastening to offer herself to that which, but a while ago, had so angered her, not in the least conscious of her prostitution. End of part three, chapter seven, recording by Bob Sage.