Her language about everything was full of ideal expressions.
She said to her child,
“Is your stomach-ache better, my angel?”
Madame Bovary senior found nothing to censure except perhaps this mania of knitting jackets for orphans instead of mending her own house-linen; but, harassed with domestic quarrels, the good woman took pleasure in this quiet house, and she even stayed there till after Easter, to escape the sarcasms of old Bovary, who never failed on Good Friday to order chitterlings.
Besides the companionship of her mother-in-law, who strengthened her a little by the rectitude of her judgment and her grave ways, Emma almost every day had other visitors.
These were Madame Langlois, Madame Caron, Madame Dubreuil, Madame Tuvache, and regularly from two to five o’clock the excellent Madame Homais, who, for her part, had never believed any of the tittle-tattle about her neighbour.
The little Homais also came to see her; Justin accompanied them.
He went up with them to her bedroom, and remained standing near the door, motionless and mute.
Often even Madame Bovary; taking no heed of him, began her toilette.
She began by taking out her comb, shaking her head with a quick movement, and when he for the first time saw all this mass of hair that fell to her knees unrolling in black ringlets, it was to him, poor child! like a sudden entrance into something new and strange, whose splendour terrified him.
Emma, no doubt, did not notice his silent attentions or his timidity.
She had no suspicion that the love vanished from her life was there, palpitating by her side, beneath that coarse holland shirt, in that youthful heart open to the emanations of her beauty.
Besides, she now enveloped all things with such indifference, she had words so affectionate with looks so haughty, such contradictory ways, that one could no longer distinguish egotism from charity, or corruption from virtue.
One evening, for example, she was angry with the servant, who had asked to go out, and stammered as she tried to find some pretext. Then suddenly—
“So you love him?” she said.
And without waiting for any answer from Felicite, who was blushing, she added,
“There! run along; enjoy yourself!”
In the beginning of spring she had the garden turned up from end to end, despite Bovary’s remonstrances.
However, he was glad to see her at last manifest a wish of any kind.
As she grew stronger she displayed more wilfulness.
First, she found occasion to expel Mere Rollet, the nurse, who during her convalescence had contracted the habit of coming too often to the kitchen with her two nurslings and her boarder, better off for teeth than a cannibal.
Then she got rid of the Homais family, successively dismissed all the other visitors, and even frequented church less assiduously, to the great approval of the druggist, who said to her in a friendly way—
“You were going in a bit for the cassock!”
As formerly, Monsieur Bournisien dropped in every day when he came out after catechism class.
He preferred staying out of doors to taking the air “in the grove,” as he called the arbour.
This was the time when Charles came home.
They were hot; some sweet cider was brought out, and they drank together to madame’s complete restoration.
Binet was there; that is to say, a little lower down against the terrace wall, fishing for crayfish.
Bovary invited him to have a drink, and he thoroughly understood the uncorking of the stone bottles.
“You must,” he said, throwing a satisfied glance all round him, even to the very extremity of the landscape, “hold the bottle perpendicularly on the table, and after the strings are cut, press up the cork with little thrusts, gently, gently, as indeed they do seltzer-water at restaurants.”
But during his demonstration the cider often spurted right into their faces, and then the ecclesiastic, with a thick laugh, never missed this joke—
“Its goodness strikes the eye!”
He was, in fact, a good fellow and one day he was not even scandalised at the chemist, who advised Charles to give madame some distraction by taking her to the theatre at Rouen to hear the illustrious tenor, Lagardy.
Homais, surprised at this silence, wanted to know his opinion, and the priest declared that he considered music less dangerous for morals than literature.
But the chemist took up the defence of letters.
The theatre, he contended, served for railing at prejudices, and, beneath a mask of pleasure, taught virtue.
“‘Castigat ridendo mores,’ Monsieur Bournisien!
Thus consider the greater part of Voltaire’s tragedies; they are cleverly strewn with philosophical reflections, that made them a vast school of morals and diplomacy for the people.”
“I,” said Binet, “once saw a piece called the
‘Gamin de Paris,’ in which there was the character of an old general that is really hit off to a T.
He sets down a young swell who had seduced a working girl, who at the ending—”
“Certainly,” continued Homais, “there is bad literature as there is bad pharmacy, but to condemn in a lump the most important of the fine arts seems to me a stupidity, a Gothic idea, worthy of the abominable times that imprisoned Galileo.”
“I know very well,” objected the cure, “that there are good works, good authors. However, if it were only those persons of different sexes united in a bewitching apartment, decorated rouge, those lights, those effeminate voices, all this must, in the long-run, engender a certain mental libertinage, give rise to immodest thoughts and impure temptations.
Such, at any rate, is the opinion of all the Fathers.
Finally,” he added, suddenly assuming a mystic tone of voice while he rolled a pinch of snuff between his fingers, “if the Church has condemned the theatre, she must be right; we must submit to her decrees.”
“Why,” asked the druggist, “should she excommunicate actors? For formerly they openly took part in religious ceremonies.
Yes, in the middle of the chancel they acted; they performed a kind of farce called ‘Mysteries,’ which often offended against the laws of decency.”
The ecclesiastic contented himself with uttering a groan, and the chemist went on—
“It’s like it is in the Bible; there there are, you know, more than one piquant detail, matters really libidinous!”
And on a gesture of irritation from Monsieur Bournisien—