Chapter 7
She thought， sometimes， that， after all， thiswas the happiest time of her life-the honeymoon， as people called it. To tastethe full sweetness of it， it would have been necessary doubtlesg to fly tothose lands with sonorous names where the days after marriage are full oflaziness most suave. In post-chaises behind blue silken curtains to ride slowlyup steep roads， listening to the song of the postilion reechoed by themountains， along with the bells of goats and the muffled sound of a waterfall；at sunset on the shores of gulfs to breathe in the perfume of lemon trees； thenin the evening on the villa-terraces above， hand in hand to look at the stars，making plans for the future. It seemed to her that certain places on earth mustbring happiness， as a plant peculiar to the soil， and that cannot thriveelsewhere. Why could not she lean over balconies in Swiss chalets， or enshrineher melancholy in a Scotch cottage， with a husband dressed in a black velvetcoat with long tails， and thin shoes， a pointed hat and frills？
Perhaps she would have liked to confide allthese things to someone. But how tell an undefinable uneasiness， variable asthe clouds， unstable as the winds？ Words failed her-the opportunity， thecourage.
If Charles had but wished it， if he hadguessed it， if his look had but once met her thought， it seemed to her that asudden plenty would have gone out from her heart， as the fruit falls from atree when shaken by a hand. But as the intimacy of their life became deeper，the greater became the gulf that separated her from him.
Charles'sconversation was commonplace as a street pavement， and everyone's ideas trooped through it in their everyday garb， without excitingemotion， laughter， or thought. He had never had the curiosity， he said， whilehe lived at Rouen， to go to the theatre to see the actors from Paris. He couldneither swim， nor fence， nor shoot， and one day he could not explain some termof horsemanship to her that she had come across in a novel.
A man， on the contrary， should he not knoweverything， excel in manifold activities， initiate you into the energies ofpassion， the refinements of life， all mysteries？ But this one taught nothing，knew nothing， wished nothing. He thought her happy； and she resented this easycalm， this serene heaviness， the very happiness she gave him.
Sometimes she would draw； and it was greatamusement to Charles to stand there bolt upright and watch her bend over hercardboard， with eyes half-closed the better to see her work， or rolling，between her fingers， little bread-pellets. As to the piano， the more quicklyher fingers glided over it the more he wondered. She struck the notes withaplomb， and ran from top to bottom of the keyboard without a break. Thus shakenup， the old instrument， whose strings buzzed， could be heard at the other endof the village when the window was open， and often the bailiff's clerk， passing along the highroad bare-headed and in listslippers， stopped to listen， his sheet of paper in his hand.
Emma， on the other hand， knew how to lookafter her house. She sent the patients' accounts inwell-phrased letters that had no suggestion of a bill. When they had aneighbour to dinner on Sundays， she managed to have some tasty dish-piled uppyramids of greengages on vine leaves， served up preserves turned out intoplates-and even spoke of buying finger-glasses for dessert. From all this muchconsideration was extended to Bovary.
Charles finished by rising in his own esteemfor possessing such a wife. He showed with pride in the sitting room two smallpencil sketched by her that he had had framed in very large frames， and hung upagainst the wallpaper by long green cords. People returning from mass saw himat his door in his wool-work slippers.
He came home late-at ten o'clock， at midnight sometimes. Then he asked for something to eat，and as the servant had gone to bed， Emma waited on him. He took off his coat todine more at his ease. He told her， one after the other， the people he had met，the villages where he had been， the preions ha had written， and， wellpleased with himself， he finished the remainder of the boiled beef and onions，picked pieces off the cheese， munched an apple， emptied his water-bottle， andthen went to bed， and lay on his back and snored.
As he had been for a time accustomed to wearnightcaps， his handkerchief would not keep down over his ears， so that his hairin the morning was all tumbled pell-mell about his face and whitened with thefeathers of the pillow， whose strings came untied during the night. He alwayswore thick boots that had two long creases over the instep running obliquelytowards the ankle， while the rest of the upper continued in a straight line asif stretched on a wooden foot. He said that “was quitegood enough for the country.”
His mother approved of his economy， for shecame to see him as formerly when there had been some violent row at her place；and yet Madame Bovary senior seemed prejudiced against her daughter-in-law. Shethought “her ways too fine for their position”； the wood， the sugar， and the candles disappeared as “at a grand establishment，” and the amount offiring in the kitchen would have been enough for twenty-five courses. She puther linen in order for her in the presses， and taught her to keep an eye on thebutcher when he brought the meat. Emma put up with these lessons. Madame Bovarywas lavish of them； and the words “daughter” and “mother” wereexchanged all day long， accompanied by little quiverings of the lips， each oneuttering gentle words in a voice trembling with anger.
In Madame Dubuc'stime the old woman felt that she was still the favorite； but now the love ofCharles for Emma seemed to her a desertion from her tenderness， an encroachmentupon what was hers， and she watched her son's happinessin sad silence， as a ruined man looks through the windows at people dining inhis old house. She recalled to him as remembrances her troubles and hersacrifices， and， comparing these with Emma'snegligence， came to the conclusion that it was not reasonable to adore her soexclusively.
Charles knew not what to answer： he respectedhis mother， and he loved his wife infinitely； he considered the judgment of theone infallible， and yet he thought the conduct of the other irreproachable.When Madam Bovary had gone， he tried timidly and in the same terms to hazardone or two of the more anodyne observations he had heard from his mamma. Emmaproved to him with a word that he was mistaken， and sent him off to hispatients.
And yet， in accord with theories she believedright， she wanted to make herself in love with him. By moonlight in the gardenshe recited all the passionate rhymes she knew by heart， and， sighing， sang tohim many melancholy adagios； but she found herself as calm after as before， andCharles seemed no more amorous and no more moved.
When she had thus for a while struck theflint on her heart without getting a spark， incapable， moreover， ofunderstanding what she did not experience as of believing anything that did notpresent itself in conventional forms， she persuaded herself without difficultythat Charles's passion was nothing very exorbitant. Hisoutbursts became regular； he embraced her at certain fixed times. It was onehabit among other habits， and， like a dessert， looked forward to after themonotony of dinner.
A gamekeeper， curédby the doctor of inflammation of the lungs， had given madame a little Italiangreyhound； she took her out walking， for she went out sometimes in order to bealone for a moment， and not to see before her eyes the eternal garden and thedusty road. She went as far as the beeches of Banneville， near the desertedpavilion which forms an angle of the wall on the side of the country. Amidstthe vegetation of the ditch there are long reeds with leaves that cut you.
She began by looking round her to see ifnothing had changed since last she had been there. She found again in the sameplaces the foxgloves and wallflowers， the beds of nettles growing round the bigstones， and the patches of lichen along the three windows， whose shutters，always closed， were rotting away on their rusty iron bars. Her thoughts，aimless at first， wandered at random， like her greyhound， who ran round andround in the fields， yelping after the yellow butterflies， chasing theshrew-mice， or nibbling the poppies on the edge of a cornfield. Then graduallyher ideas took definite shape， and， sitting on the grass that she dug up withlittle prods of her sunshade， Emma repeated to herself， “Good heavens！ Why did I marry？” She askedherself if by some other chance combination it would have not been possible tomeet another man； and she tried to imagine what would have been theseunrealised events， this different life， this unknown husband. All， surely，could not be like this one. He might have been handsome， witty， distinguished，attractive， such as， no doubt， her old companions of the convent had married.What were they doing now？ In town， with the noise of the streets， the buzz ofthe theatres and the lights of the ballroom， they were living lives where theheart expands， the senses bourgeon out. But she-her life was cold as a garretwhose dormer window looks on the north， and ennui， the silent spider， wasweaving its web in the darkness in every comer of her heart. She recalled theprize days， when she mounted the platform to receive her little crowns， withher hair in long plaits. In her white frock and open prunella shoes she had apretty way， and when she went back to her seat， the gentlemen bent over her tocongratulate her； the courtyard was full of carriages； farewells were called toher through their windows； the music master with his violin case bowed inpassing by. How far all of this！ How far away！
She called Djali， took her between her knees，and smoothed the long delicate head， saying， “Come，kiss mistress； you have no troubles.”
Then noting the melancholy face of thegraceful animal， who yawned slowly， she softened， and comparing her to herself，spoke to her aloud as to somebody in trouble whom one is consoling.
Occasionally there came gusts of winds，breezes from the sea rolling in one sweep over the whole plateau of the Cauxcountry， which brought even to these fields a salt freshness. The rushes， closeto the ground， whistled； the branches trembled in a swift rustling， while theirsummits， ceaselessly swaying， kept up a deep murmur. Emma drew her shawl roundher shoulders and rose.
In the avenue a green light dimmed by theleaves lit up the short moss that crackled softly beneath her feet. The sun wassetting； the sky showed red between the branches， and the thinks of the trees，uniform， and planted in a straight line， seemed a brown colonnade standing outagainst a background of gold. A fear took hold of her； she called Djali， andhurriedly returned to Tostes by the high road， threw herself into an armchair，and for the rest of the evening did not speak.
But towards the end of September somethingextraordinary fell upon her life； she was invited by the Marquis d'Andervilliers to Vaubyessard.
Secretary of State under the Restoration， theMarquis， anxious to re-enter political life， set about preparing for hiscandidature to the Chamber of Deputies long beforehand. In the winter hedistributed a great deal of wood， and in the Conseil General alwaysenthusiastically demanded new roads for his arrondissement. During the dog-dayshe had suffered from an abscess， which Charles had curédas if by miracle by giving a timely little touch with the lancet. The stewardsent to Tostes to pay for the operation reported in the evening that he hadseen some superb cherries in the doctor's littlegarden. Now cherry trees did not thrive at Vaubyessard； the Marquis askedBovary for some slips； made it his business to thank his personally； saw Emma；thought she had a pretty figure， and that she did not bow like a peasant； sothat he did not think he was going beyond the bounds of condescension， nor， onthe other hand， making a mistake， in inviting the young couple.
On Wednesday at three o'clock， Monsieur and Madame Bovary， seated in their dog-cart， set outfor Vaubyessard， with a great trunk strapped on behind and a bonnet-box infront of the apron. Besides these Charles held a bandbox between his knees.
They arrived at nightfall， just as the lampsin the park were being lit to show the way for the carriages.
Chapter 8
The chateau， a modem building in Italianstyle， with two projecting wings and three flights of steps， lay at the foot ofan immense green-sward， on which some cows were grazing among groups of largetrees set out at regular intervals， while large beds of arbutus， rhododendron，syringas， and guelder roses bulged out their irregular clusters of green alongthe curve of the gravel path. A river flowed under a bridge； through the mistone could distinguish buildings with thatched roofs scattered over the fieldbordered by two gently sloping， well timbered hillocks， and in the backgroundamid the trees rose in two parallel lines the coach houses and stables， allthat was left of the mined old chateau.
Charles's dog-cartpulled up before the middle flight of steps； servants appeared； the Marquiscame forward， and， offering his arm to the doctor'swife， conducted her to the vestibule.
It was paved with marble slabs， was verylofty， and the sound of footsteps and that of voices reechoed through it as ina church. Opposite rose a straight staircase， and on the left a galleryoverlooking the garden led to the billiard room， through whose door one couldhear the click of the ivory balls. As she crossed it to go to the drawing room，Emma saw standing round the table men with grave faces， their chins resting onhigh cravats. They all wore orders， and smiled silently as they made theirstrokes. On the dark wainscoting of the walls large gold frames bore at thebottom names written in black letters. She read： “Jean-Antoined'Andervilliers d'Yvervonbille，Countde la Vaubyessard and Baron de la Fresnay， killed at the battle of Coutras onthe 20th of October， 1857.” And on another： “Jean-Antoine-Henry-Guy d'Andervilliers de laVaubyessard， Admiral of France and Chevalier of the Order of St. Michael，wounded at the battle of the Hougue-Saint-Vaast on the 29th of May， 1692； diedat Vaubyessard on the 23rd of January 1693.”
One could hardly make out those thatfollowed， for the light of the lamps lowered over the green cloth threw a dimshadow round the room. Burnishing the horizontal pictures， it broke up againstthese in delicate lines where there were cracks in the varnish， and from allthese great black squares framed in with gold stood out here and there somelighter portion of the painting-a pale brow， two eyes that looked at you，perukes flowing over and powdering red-coated shoulders， or the buckle of agarter above a well-rounded calf.
The Marquis opened the drawing room door； oneof the ladies (the Marchioness herself) came to meet Emma. She made her sitdown by her on an ottoman， and began talking to her as amicably as if she hadknown her a long time. She was a woman of about forty， with fine shoulders， ahook nose， a drawling voice， and on this evening she wore over her brown hair asimple guipure fichu that fell in a point at the back. A fair young woman satin a high-backed chair in a comer； and gentlemen with flowers in theirbuttonholes were talking to ladies round the fire.
At seven dinner was served. The men， who werein the majority， sat down at the first table in the vestibule； the ladies atthe second in the dining room with the Marquis and Marchioness.
Emma， on entering， felt herself wrapped roundby the warm air， a blending of the perfume of flowers and of the fine linen， ofthe fumes of the viands， and the odour of the truffles. The silver dish coversreflected the lighted wax candles in the candelabra， the cut crystal coveredwith light steam reflected from one to the other pale rays； bouquets wereplaced in a row the whole length of the table； and in the large-bordered plateseach napkin， arranged after the fashion of a bishop'smitre， held between its two gaping folds a small oval shaped roll. The redclaws of lobsters hung over the dishes； rich fruit in open baskets was piled upon moss； there were quails in their plumage； smoke was rising； and in silkstockings， knee-breeches， white cravat， and frilled shirt， the steward， graveas a judge， offering ready carved dishes between the shoulders of the guests， witha touch of the spoon gave you the piece chosen. On the large stove of porcelaininlaid with copper baguettes the statue of a woman， draped to the chin， gazedmotionless on the room full of life.
Madame Bovary noticed that many ladies hadnot put their gloves in their glasses.
But at the upper end of the table， aloneamongst all these women， bent over his full plate， and his napkin tied roundhis neck like a child， an old man sat eating， letting drops of gravy drip fromhis mouth. His eyes were bloodshot， and he wore a little queue tied with blackribbon. He was the Marquis's father-in-law， the oldDuke de Laverdiére， once on a time favourite of theCount d'Artois， in the days of the Vaudreuilhunting-parties at the Marquis de Conflans'， and hadbeen， it was said， the lover of Queen Marie Antoinette， between Monsieur deCoigny and Monsieur de Lanzun. He had lived a life of noisy debauch， full ofduels， bets， elopements； he had squandered his fortune and frightened all hisfamily. A servant behind his chair named aloud to him in his ear the dishesthat he pointed to stammering， and constantly Emma'seyes turned involuntarily to this old man with hanging lips， as to somethingextraordinary. He had lived at court and slept in the bed of queens！
Iced champagne was poured out. Emma shiveredall over as she felt it cold in her mouth. She had never seen pomegranates nortasted pineapples. The powdered sugar even seemed to her whiter and finer thanelsewhere.
The ladies afterwards went to their rooms toprepare for the ball.
Emma made her toilet with the fastidious careof an actress on her debut. She did her hair according to the directions of thehairdresser， and put on the barége dress spread outupon the bed. Charles's trousers were tight across thebelly.
“My trouser-straps will be rather awkward fordancing，” he said.
“Dancing？” repeatedEmma.
“Yes！”
“Why， you must be mad！ They would make fun ofyou； keep your place. Besides， it is more becoming for a doctor，” she added.
Charles was silent. He walked up and downwaiting for Emma to finish dressing.
He saw her from behind in the glass betweentwo lights. Her black eyes seemed blacker than ever. Her hair， undulatingtowards the ears， shone with a blue lustre； a rose in her chignon trembled onits mobile stalk， with artificial dewdrops on the tip of the leaves. She wore agown of pale saffron trimmed with three bouquets of pompon roses mixed withgreen.
Charles came and kissed her on her shoulder.
“Let me alone！” shesaid； “you are tumbling me.”
One could hear the flourish of the violin andthe notes of a horn. She went downstairs restraining herself from running.
Dancing had begun. Guests were arriving.There was some crushing. She sat down on a form near the door.
The quadrille over， the floor was occupied bygroups of men standing up and talking and servants in livery bearing largetrays. Along the line of seated women painted fans were fluttering， bouquetshalf hid smiling faces， and gold stoppered scent-bottles were turned inpartly-closed hands， whose white gloves outlined the nails and tightened on theflesh at the wrists. Lace trimmings， diamond brooches， medallion braceletstrembled on bodices， gleamed on breasts， clinked on bare arms. The hair，well-smoothed over the temples and knotted at the nape， bore crowns， orbunches， or sprays of mytosotis， jasmine， pomegranate blossoms， ears of corn，and corn-flowers. Calmly seated in their places， mothers with forbiddingcountenances were wearing red turbans.
Emma's heart beatrather faster when， her partner holding her by the tips of the fingers， shetook her place in a line with the dancers， and waited for the first note tostart. But her emotion soon vanished， and， swaying to the rhythm of theorchestra， she glided forward with slight movements of the neck. A smile roseto her lips at certain delicate phrases of the violin， that sometimes playedalone while the other instruments were silent； one could hear the clear clinkof the louis d'or that were being thrown down upon thecard tables in the next room； then all struck again， the cornet-à-piston uttered its sonorous note， feet marked time， skirts swelledand rustled， hands touched and parted； the same eyes falling before you metyours again.
A few men (some fifteen or so)， oftwenty-five to forty， scattered here and there among the dancers or talking atthe doorways， distinguished themselves from the crowd by a certain air ofbreeding， whatever their differences in age， dress， or face.
Their clothes， better made， seemed of finercloth， and their hair， brought forward in curls towards the temples， glossywith more delicate pomades. They had the complexion of wealth-that clearcomplexion that is heightened by the pallor of porcelain， the shimmer of satin，the veneer of old furniture， and that an ordered regimen of exquisite nurturemaintains at its best. Their necks moved easily in their low cravats， theirlong whiskers fell over their turned-down collars， they wiped their lips uponhandkerchiefs with embroidered initials that gave forth a subtle perfume. Thosewho were beginning to grow old had an air of youth， while there was somethingmature in the faces of the young. In their unconcerned looks was the calm ofpassions daily satiated， and through all their gentleness of manner piercedthat peculiar brutality， the result of a command of half-easy things， in whichforce is exercised and vanity amused-the management of thoroughbred horses andthe society of loose women.
A few steps from Emma a gentleman in a bluecoat was talking of Italy with a pale young woman wearing a parure of pearls.
They were praising the breadth of the columnsof St. Peter's， Tivoly， Vesuvius， Castellamare， andCassines， the roses of Genoa， the Coliseum by moonlight. With her other earEmma was listening to a conversation full of words she did not understand. Acircle gathered round a very young man who the week before had beaten “Miss Arabella” and “Romolus，” and won two thousand louis jumping a ditch in England. Onecomplained that his racehorses were growing fat； another of the printers' errors that had disfigured the name of his horse.
The atmosphere of the ball was heavy； thelamps were growing dim. Guests were flocking to the billiard room. A servantgot upon a chair and broke the window-panes. At the crash of the glass MadameBovary tumed her head and saw in the garden the faces of peasants pressedagainst the window looking in at them. Then the memory of the Bertaux came backto her. She saw the farm again， the muddy pond， her father in a blouse underthe apple trees， and she saw herself again as formerly， skimming with herfinger the cream off the milk-pans in the dairy. But in the refulgence of thepresent hour her past life， so distinct until then， faded away completely， andshe almost doubted having lived it. She was there； beyond the ball was onlyshadow overspreading all the rest. She was just eating a maraschino ice thatshe held with her left hand in a silver-gilt cup， her eyes half-closed， and thespoon between her teeth.
A lady near her dropped her fan. A gentlemenwas passing.
“Would you be so good，” said the lady， “as to pick up my fan thathas fallen behind the sofa？”
The gentleman bowed， and as he moved tostretch out his arm， Emma saw the hand of a young woman throw something white，folded in a triangle， into his hat. The gentleman， picking up the fan， offeredit to the lady respectfully； she thanked him with an inclination of the head，and began smelling her bouquet.
After supper， where were plenty of Spanishand Rhine wines， soups à la bisque and au lait d'amandes， puddings à la Trafalgar， and allsorts of cold meats with jellies that trembled in the dishes， the carriages oneafter the other began to drive off. Raising the comers of the muslin curtain，one could see the light of their lanterns glimmering through the darkness. Theseats began to empty， some card-players were still left； the musicians werecooling the tips of their fingers on their tongues. Charles was half asleep，his back propped against a door.
At three o'clock thecotillion began. Emma did not know how to waltz. Everyone was waltzing，Mademoiselle d'Andervilliers herself and the Marquis；only the guests staying at the castle were still there， about a dozen persons.
One of the waltzers， however， who wasfamiliarly called Viscount， and whose low cut waistcoat seemed moulded to hischest， came a second time to ask Madame Bovary to dance， assuring her that hewould guide her， and that she would get through it very well.
