Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert (different e readers txt) đ
- Author: Gustave Flaubert
- Performer: -
Book online «Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert (different e readers txt) đ». Author Gustave Flaubert
âDonât see them; donât go out; think only of ourselves; love me!â
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 travellers, and who would not refuse. But her pride revolted at this.
âBah! so much the worse. Let him deceive me! What does it matter to me? As If I cared for him!â
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 viscount that waltzed, and Lagardy singing, all repassed before her eyes. And Leon suddenly appeared to her as far off as the others.
âYet I love him,â she said to herself.
No matter! She was not happyâshe never had been. Whence came this insufficiency in lifeâthis instantaneous turning to decay of everything on which she leant? But if there were somewhere a being strong and beautiful, a valiant nature, full at once of exaltation and refinement, a poetâs heart in an angelâs form, a lyre with sounding chords ringing out elegiac 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 satiety, 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 oâclock! 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 an archduchess.
Once, however, a wretched-looking man, rubicund and bald, came to her house, saying he had been sent by Monsieur Vincart of Rouen. 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 seven hundred francs, signed by her, and which Lheureux, in spite of all his professions, had paid away to Vincart. 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 airâ
âWhat answer am I to take Monsieur Vincart?â
âOh,â said Emma, âtell him that I havenât it. I will send next week; he must wait; yes, till next week.â
And the fellow went without another word.
But the next day at twelve oâclock she received a summons, and the sight of the stamped paper, on which appeared several times in large letters, âMaitre Hareng, bailiff at Buchy,â so frightened her that she rushed in hot haste to the linendraperâs. She found him in his shop, doing up a parcel.
âYour obedient!â he said; âI am at your service.â
But Lheureux, 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 shop-boards, he went up in front of Madame Bovary to the first door, and introduced her into a narrow closet, where, in a large bureau in sapon-wood, lay some ledgers, protected by a horizontal padlocked iron bar. Against the wall, under some remnants of calico, one glimpsed a safe, but of such dimensions that it must contain something besides bills and money. Monsieur Lheureux, in fact, went in for pawnbroking, and it was there that he had put Madame Bovaryâs gold chain, together with the earrings of poor old Tellier, who, at last forced to sell out, had bought a meagre store of grocery at Quincampoix, where he was dying of catarrh amongst his candles, that were less yellow than his face.
Lheureux sat down in a large cane armchair, saying: âWhat news?â
âSee!â
And she showed him the paper.
âWell how can I help it?â
Then she grew angry, reminding him of the promise he had given not to pay away her bills. He acknowledged it.
âBut I was pressed myself; the knife was at my own throat.â
âAnd what will happen now?â she went on.
âOh, itâs very simple; a judgment and then a distraintâthatâs about it!â
Emma kept down a desire to strike him, and asked gently if there was no way of quieting Monsieur Vincart.
âI dare say! Quiet Vincart! You donât know him; heâs more ferocious than an Arab!â
Still Monsieur Lheureux must interfere.
âWell, listen. It seems to me so far Iâve been very good to you.â And opening one of his ledgers, âSee,â he said. Then running up the page with his finger, âLetâs see! letâs see! August 3d, two hundred francs; June 17th, a hundred and fifty; March 23d, forty-six. In Aprilââ
He stopped, as if afraid of making some mistake.
âNot to speak of the bills signed by Monsieur Bovary, one for seven hundred francs, and another for three hundred. As to your little installments, with the interest, why, thereâs no end to âem; one gets quite muddled over âem. Iâll have nothing more to do with it.â
She wept; she even called him âher good Monsieur Lheureux.â But he always fell back upon âthat rascal Vincart.â Besides, he hadnât a brass farthing; no one was paying him now-a-days; they were eating his coat off his back; a poor shopkeeper like him couldnât advance money.
Emma was silent, and Monsieur Lheureux, who was biting the feathers of a quill, no doubt became uneasy at her silence, for he went onâ
âUnless one of these days I have something coming in, I mightââ
âBesides,â said she, âas soon as the balance of Barnevilleââ
âWhat!â
And on hearing that Langlois had not yet paid he seemed much surprised. Then in a honied voiceâ
âAnd we agree, you say?â
âOh! to anything you like.â
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 two hundred and fifty francs each, to fall due month by month.
âProvided that Vincart will listen to me! However, itâs settled. I donât play the fool; Iâm straight enough.â
Next he carelessly showed her several new goods, not one of which, however, was in his opinion worthy of madame.
âWhen I think that thereâs a dress at threepence-halfpenny a yard, and warranted fast colours! And yet they actually swallow it! Of course you understand one doesnât tell them what it really is!â 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 guipure that he had lately picked up âat a sale.â
âIsnât it lovely?â said Lheureux. âIt is very much used now for the backs of armchairs. Itâs quite the rage.â
And, more ready than a juggler, he wrapped up the guipure in some blue paper and put it in Emmaâs hands.
âBut at least let me knowââ
âYes, another time,â 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 balance due from the fatherâs estate. The mother-in-law replied that she had nothing more, the winding up was over, and there was due to them besides Barneville an income of six hundred 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 postscript: âDo not mention this to my husband; you know how proud he is. Excuse me. Yours obediently.â There were some complaints; she intercepted them.
To get money she began selling her old gloves, her old hats, the old odds and ends, and she bargained rapaciously, her peasant blood standing her in good stead. Then on her journey to town she picked up nick-nacks secondhand, that, in default of anyone else, Monsieur Lheureux would certainly take off her hands. She bought ostrich feathers, Chinese porcelain, and trunks; she borrowed from Felicite, from Madame Lefrancois, from the landlady at the Croix-Rouge, from everybody, no matter where.
With the money she at last received from Barneville she paid two bills; the other fifteen hundred 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 very dreary now. Tradesmen were seen leaving it with angry faces. Handkerchiefs were lying about on the stoves, and little Berthe, to the great scandal of Madame Homais, wore stockings with holes in them. If Charles timidly ventured a remark, she answered roughly that it wasnât her fault.
What was the meaning of all these fits of temper? She 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.
âAh, no!â he said to himself; âI should worry her.â
And he did not stir.
After dinner he walked about alone in the garden; he took little Berthe on his knees, and unfolding his medical journal, tried to teach her to read. But the child, who 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 sand path, 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 Lestiboudois for so many days. Then the child grew cold and asked for her mother.
âCall the servant,â said Charles. âYou know, dearie, that mamma does not like to be disturbed.â
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 pastilles which she had bought at Rouen in an Algerianâs shop. In order not to have at night this sleeping man stretched at her side, by dint of manoeuvring, 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
Comments (0)