The Greatest Works of Gustave Flaubert. Gustave Flaubert
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the linendraper, from 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 dates, and constantly renewed up to the day, when, gathering together all the protested bills, the shopkeeper had bidden his friend Vincart take in 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 Lheureux, 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 poorness 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 sole curled round as it smoked against the stove.
But when she asked for a thousand sous, 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-peats of Grumesnil or building-ground at Havre, 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 am 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. His insipid voice murmured like a running brook; a light shone in his eyes through the glimmering of his spectacles, and his hand was advancing up Emma’s sleeve to press her arm. 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 towards 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. She recoiled with a terrible look, crying —
“You are taking a shameless advantage of my distress, sir! 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, and as it were rejoicing in the hate that was choking her.
When she saw her house a numbness came over her. She could not go on; and yet she must. Besides, whither could she flee?
Felicite 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 Yonville who might perhaps be inclined to help her. But each time that Felicite named someone Emma replied —
“Impossible! they will not!”
“And the master’ll 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 are walking is no longer ours. In your own house you do not possess a chair, a pin, a straw, and it is I, poor man, who have ruined you.”
Then there would be a great sob; next he would weep abundantly, and at last, the surprise past, 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 Lheureux’s 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 whiter 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 Lestiboudois in front of the church, saw her go in to the taxcollector’s.
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 Binet’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; Binet 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 realisation of that beyond which such minds have not a dream.
“Ah! there she is!” exclaimed Madame Tuvache.
But it was impossible because of the lathe to hear what she was saying.
At last these ladies thought they made out the word “francs,” and Madame Tuvache 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 Binet stroked his beard with satisfaction.
“Do you think she wants to order something of him?” said Madame Tuvache.
“Why, he doesn’t sell anything,” objected her neighbour.
The taxcollector seemed to be listening with wide-open