Madame Bovary (23 page)

It was here at last, the day of the famous Agricultural Fair! On the morning of the solemn occasion, all the townspeople were at their doors talking about the preparations; the pediment of the town hall had been festooned with ivy; a tent for the banquet had been set up in a field; and, in the middle of the Square, in front of the church, a sort of ancient cannon was to signal the arrival of the Prefect and the naming of the prizewinning farmers. The national guard from Buchy (there was none at Yonville) had come to join the fire brigade, of which Binet was captain. On this day he was wearing a collar even higher than usual; and his chest, buttoned up tight in his tunic, was so stiff and motionless that all the vitality of his being seemed to have descended into his two legs, which rose in cadence, in rhythmic steps, with a single motion. Because a rivalry existed between the tax collector and the colonel, each of them, to show off his talents,
took his men separately through their maneuvers. The red epaulets and the black breastplates could be seen turn by turn passing back and forth. There was no end to it, and it kept beginning again! Never had there been such a display of magnificence! A number of townspeople, the day before, had washed their houses; tricolored flags were hanging from the half-open windows; all the taverns were full; and in the good weather that prevailed, the starched headdresses, the gold crosses, and the multicolored fichus gleamed whiter than snow, sparkled in the bright sun, and relieved with their scattered hues the somber monotony of the frock coats and blue smocks. The farmwives from the surrounding regions, after descending from their horses, withdrew the large pin with which they had held their dresses tucked up close around their bodies for fear of spots; while their husbands, by contrast, in order to protect their hats, kept a pocket handkerchief over them, holding one corner
between their teeth.

The crowd was entering the main street from both ends of the village. They flowed into it from lanes, alleys, houses, and now and then one could hear a knocker falling back against a door behind a townswoman in cotton gloves who was coming out to see the festivities. Particularly admired were two long triangular frames covered with little colored-glass oil lamps that flanked a platform on which the officials were going to sit; and against the four columns of the town hall there were also four polelike affairs, each bearing a little banner of greenish cloth embellished with an
inscription in gold letters. One read “Commerce,” another “Agriculture,” the third “Industry,” and the fourth “Fine Arts.”

But the jubilation brightening all faces seemed to be casting a gloom over Madame Lefrançois, the innkeeper. Standing on the steps of her kitchen, she was murmuring into her chin:

“What stupidity! What stupidity—them and their piece of canvas! Do they really think the prefect’ll enjoy having his dinner out there under a tent like a circus clown? They say all this fuss is for the good of our district! Then why go clear to Neufchâtel for a third-rate cook! And who’s it for, anyways—cowherds! riffraff! …”

The apothecary came by. He was wearing a black frock coat, nankeen trousers, beaver-skin shoes, and, wonder of wonders, a hat—a low-crowned hat.

“Your servant!” he said; “I beg your pardon, I’m in a hurry.”

And when the stout widow asked him where he was going:

“It seems funny to you, doesn’t it, seeing as I’m usually locked up in my laboratory tighter than the old man’s rat in his cheese.”

“What cheese are you talking about?” asked the innkeeper.

“Never mind, never mind! It doesn’t matter!” Homais went on. “I was merely trying to express to you, Madame Lefrançois, that I normally remain entirely secluded within my own home. And yet today, given the circumstances, one must really …”

“Ah! You’re going out there?” she said with a scornful look.

“Yes, I am,” replied the pharmacist, surprised; “I’m a member of the advisory committee, aren’t I?”

Mère Lefrançois contemplated him for a few moments and then answered with a smile:

“That’s different! But what has farming to do with you? Do you know anything about it?”

“Certainly I know something about it, since I am a pharmacist, which is to say a chemist! And since the object of chemistry, Madame Lefrançois, is a knowledge of the reciprocal and molecular action of all natural bodies, it follows that agriculture falls within its domain! And indeed, take the composition of manures, the fermentation of liquids, the analysis of gases, and the influence of noxious emanations—what is all that, I ask you, if not chemistry pure and simple?”

The innkeeper said nothing in reply. Homais continued:

“Do you think that, in order to be an agronomist, you need to till the soil or fatten the poultry yourself? No—but you do need to understand the constitution of the substances involved, the geological strata, the effects of the atmosphere, the quality of soils, minerals, waters, the density of the different bodies, and their capillary attraction! And so forth. And you need to be deeply familiar with all your principles of hygiene, in order to direct and review the construction of the buildings, the regimen of the animals, the feeding of the servants! You must also, Madame Lefrançois, know your botany; be able to distinguish among the plants, you know, tell which are salubrious and which deleterious, which are unproductive and which nutritive, if it’s a good idea to pull them up in this spot and resow them over there, propagate these, destroy those others; in short, you need to keep up with the latest science by reading
pamphlets and public papers, you must always keep your hand in, be prepared to point out which improvements …”

The innkeeper had not stopped staring at the door of the Café Français. The pharmacist continued:

“Would to God our farmers were chemists, or at least that they would pay more attention to the advice of the scientists! For instance, I myself recently wrote a rather powerful little work, a treatise of over seventy-two pages, entitled ‘On Cider, Its Fabrication and Its Effects; Followed by a Number of New Reflections on the Subject,’ which I sent to the Agronomic Society of Rouen; and which even earned me the honor of being received among its members—agricultural section, pomology division; well, now, if my work had been made available to the public …”

But the pharmacist stopped, because Madame Lefrançois seemed so preoccupied.

“Just look at them!” she said; “it’s beyond understanding! such a hole-in-the-wall!”

And with shrugs that pulled the stitches of her sweater tight across her chest, she gestured with both hands toward her rival’s establishment, out of which now came the sound of singing.

“Anyway, it won’t be there much longer,” she added; “another few days and that’ll be the end of it.”

Homais drew back in amazement. She descended her three steps and spoke in his ear:

“What! You don’t know? They’re going to shut him down this week.
Lheureux’s the one that’s forcing him to sell. He’s killed him with promissory notes.”

“What a dreadful catastrophe!” cried the pharmacist, who was always prepared with expressions to fit every imaginable circumstance.

And so the innkeeper began telling him the story, which she had had from Théodore, Monsieur Guillaumin’s servant, and even though she despised Tellier, she blamed Lheureux. He was a wheedler, a toady.

“Ah! There—” she said, “there he is now, in the market; he’s bowing to Madame Bovary; she’s got a green hat on. And she’s holding Monsieur Boulanger’s arm.”

“Madame Bovary!” said Homais. “I must go and pay my respects. Perhaps she’d like to have a seat in the enclosure, under the peristyle.”

And without listening to Mère Lefrançois, who was calling him back to tell him more, the pharmacist went off with a quick step, a smile on his lips, and his knees pointing straight ahead, distributing a profusion of greetings right and left and filling a good deal of space with the large skirts of his black coat, which floated in the breeze behind him.

Rodolphe, having spotted him from a distance, had quickened his pace; but Madame Bovary was out of breath; he therefore slowed down and said to her, smiling, in a savage tone:

“I was trying to avoid that coarse fellow—you know, the pharmacist.”

She nudged him with her elbow.

“What does that mean?” he wondered.

And he observed her out of the corner of his eye as they walked on.

Her profile was so calm that one could guess nothing from it. It stood out in the bright light, within the oval of her bonnet, whose pale ribbons resembled the leaves of rushes. Her eyes with their long curved lashes were gazing ahead, and, though wide open, they seemed a bit narrowed by her cheekbones, because of the blood that beat gently under her delicate skin. The membrane between her nostrils was of a translucent rose color. She was inclining her head toward her shoulder, and one could see between her lips the nacreous tips of her white teeth.

“Is she making fun of me?” mused Rodolphe.

But that gesture of Emma’s had been no more than a warning; for Monsieur Lheureux was walking alongside them, and he spoke to them from time to time, as though to begin a conversation:

“What a splendid day! Everyone is out! The wind is from the east!”

And Madame Bovary scarcely answered him, no more did Rodolphe, while at their slightest motion the dry-goods merchant would draw closer, saying, “I beg your pardon?” and touching his hat.

When they were in front of the blacksmith’s, instead of following the road all the way to the gate, Rodolphe abruptly turned aside into a path, drawing Madame Bovary along with him; he cried out:

“Goodbye, Monsieur Lheureux! Nice seeing you!”

“How you dismissed him!” she said, laughing.

“Why,” he answered, “should one allow others to push their way in? And since, today, I have the good fortune to be with you …”

Emma blushed. He did not finish his sentence. Then he talked about the fine weather and how pleasant it was to walk on the grass. A few late oxeyes had appeared.

“Look at those pretty daisies,” he said. “Enough good oracles for all the girls around here who are in love.”

He added:

“Should I pick one? What do you think?”

“Are you in love?” she asked, coughing a little.

“Well! Who knows!” answered Rodolphe.

The meadow was beginning to fill, and the housewives would bump into you with their great umbrellas, their baskets, and their small children. One often had to give way before a long file of countrywomen, farm maids in blue stockings, flat shoes, and silver rings, who smelled of milk when one passed near them. They walked holding hands and thus covered the entire length of the meadow, from the row of aspens to the banquet tent. But it was time for the judging, and one after another the farmers were entering a kind of arena formed by a long rope supported on posts.

The animals were there, their noses turned to the rope, their unequal hindquarters forming a ragged line. Drowsy pigs were burrowing in the earth with their snouts; calves were bawling; sheep were bleating; cows, one leg folded in, spread their bellies over the grass and, slowly chewing their cuds, blinked their heavy eyelids under the flies that buzzed around them. Bare-armed carters held the halters of rearing stallions that whinnied with widened nostrils in the direction of the mares, who remained calm, reaching out their heads and hanging manes while their foals rested
in their shadow or came now and then to suckle from them; and over the long undulation of all these massed bodies, one could see a white mane rising in the wind, like a wave, or sharp horns thrusting up, and the heads of men running. Off to one side, beyond the enclosure, a hundred paces away, was a big black bull wearing a muzzle and an iron ring in its nose, as
motionless as a bronze statue. A child in rags held it by a rope.

Meanwhile, between the two rows, a group of gentlemen were advancing with heavy steps, examining each animal, then conferring with one another in low voices. One of them, who seemed more important, was taking a few notes, as he walked, in a notebook. This was the chairman of the jury: Monsieur Derozerays de la Panville. As soon as he recognized Rodolphe, he came forward briskly and said to him with a friendly smile:

“Why, Monsieur Boulanger, are you deserting us?”

Rodolphe protested that he would be along shortly. But when the chairman had gone off:

“Oh, no,” he said. “Indeed I will not be along shortly; I value your company above his any day.”

And even as he poked fun at the fair, Rodolphe showed the policeman his blue card so that they could walk about more freely, and he even stopped now and then in front of some handsome
specimen
, which Madame Bovary did not much admire. He noticed this and then began to make jokes about the ladies of Yonville and the way they dressed; then he asked her forgiveness for the carelessness of his own appearance. It was that incoherent mix of the ordinary and the elegant that common people generally take for evidence of an eccentric lifestyle, chaotic passions, the tyrannical dictates of art, and always a certain contempt for social conventions, which either charms or exasperates them. Thus, the breast of his cambric shirt, with its pleated cuffs, swelled as the wind caught it in the opening of his vest of gray twill, and his broad-striped trousers revealed at the ankles his low nankeen boots, vamped in patent leather. They were so highly
polished they mirrored the grass; and in them he was trampling the horse dung underfoot, one hand in his jacket pocket and his straw hat tipped to the side.

“Besides,” he added, “when you live in the country …”

“It’s all a waste of effort,” said Emma.

“True!” replied Rodolphe. “Just imagine—not one of these good people is capable of understanding even the cut of a coat!”

Then they talked about the mediocrity of provincial life, how stifling it was, how fatal to one’s illusions.

“And so I myself,” said Rodolphe, “sink into such melancholy …”

“You!” she broke in, surprised. “But I thought you were very happy.”

“Oh, yes, I seem to be, because when I’m with other people, I’m able to hide my face behind a mask of mockery; and yet how often, at the sight of a cemetery, in the moonlight, have I asked myself if I would not do better to go join those who sleep there …”