Leon's life in Rouen; He calls at the inn; An exchange of memories; Impossible love; An uncancelled meeting; In the cathedral; A long cab-ride.

MONSIEUR LEON, while duly prosecuting his legal studies, was a pretty frequent visitor to 'la Chaumiere', where he scored some quite enviable successes among the 'grisettes'. They considered he had a distinguished way with him. He was a pattern student. He wore his hair neither too long nor too short, he didn't get through the whole of his salary on the first day of the month, and he kept well in with the professors. His good taste and his timidity had preserved him from excess.

Often, when he stayed indoors to read, or sat of an evening under the lime-trees in the Luxembourg Gardens, he would let his text-book fall on the ground beside him, and the memory of Emma would steal into his mind. But little by little these feelings grew fainter, and other attractions supervened, though his old love still endured in spite of them. For Leon had not wholly given up heart, and there floated before him a vague, uncertain hope which swung to and fro in the distance, like a golden fruit hung from some fantastic arabesque of branches.

And now, seeing her again, after three long years of absence, all his passion awoke once more. This time he thought he really would have to bring matters to a head. Moreover, the society of his gay companions had rubbed off his shyness, and he came back to the provinces with a lofty disdain for everybody and everything that knew not the elegance of the Capital. In the presence of a daintily dressed Parisienne, or in the salon of some famous doctor, decorated with orders and driving a grand carriage and pair, the poor clerk would doubtless have trembled like a child; but here at Rouen, on the quay, alongside this little country practitioner's wife, he felt quite at his ease, and convinced that he would turn her head. Confidence in oneself depends on one's surroundings. Ground-floor manners are not the ways of the top-floor back, and the woman of wealth seems to have a sort of shield for her virtue in the bank notes she keeps inside the lining of her corsage.

When he took his leave of the Bovarys the night before, Leon had followed them at a distance down the street. Then, having seen them come to a halt at the 'Croix Rouge', he had turned on his heels and spent the night in thinking out a plan.

The result was that, the next day, about five o'clock, he walked into the kitchen of the inn, with an uncomfortable tightness about the throat, pale cheeks and the sort of headlong determination that is typical of the coward.

'Monsieur is not in,' said one of the maids.

That augured well. He went up.

She was not at all taken aback at his visit. On the contrary, she apologized for having forgotten to tell him where they were putting up.

'Oh, I guessed it,' said Leon.

He made out he had been guided to her instinctively. She began to smile, and Leon, recognizing the absurdity of his remark, told her how he had spent the morning going round to all the hotels in the place, trying to find her.

'So you have made up your mind to stay on?' he added.

'Yes,' she said, 'and I have done wrong. One has no business to go getting a taste for impracticable pleasures when there are a hundred and one things that ought to be seen to.'

'Oh, I can quite imagine...'

'Ah, I don't suppose you can, because you're not a woman, you see.'

But men, too, have their little worries, and the conversation took a philosophical turn. Emma dilated on the poverty of terrestrial affections and the eternal loneliness in which the human heart was fated to abide.

Whether it was from a desire to talk of himself, or because he was naively prompted by the melancholy of her discourse to adopt the same tone himself, Leon declared that he had been terribly depressed all through his student days. The routine got on his nerves, other professions attracted him more, and his mother, in every letter she wrote, worried and tormented him. Each became more and more explicit as to the causes of their discontent, finding a sort of pleasurable excitement in this progressive frankness. But they stopped short at a complete avowal of what was in their mind, trying, withal, to hit on a phrase that might reveal it. She did not confess that she had loved another man; he did not say he had forgotten her.

Perhaps he no longer recalled the suppers after the dance with the women in fancy dress, and of course she had forgotten all about those morning assignations when she raced through the meadow-grass to her lover's chateau. The noise of the town stole but faintly on their ears. The room seemed small, as though expressly designed to encompass them the more closely in their solitude. Emma, who was wearing a dimity dressing-gown, was leaning her mass of hair against the back of the old arm-chair. The yellow wall-paper served her as a sort of background of gold, and her bare head was mirrored in the glass, with the white line of its central parting, and the tips of her ears peeping out from underneath the strands of her hair.

'But there!' she said, 'I'm sorry. I must be boring you with my everlasting complaints.'

'Oh, no, no! You could never do that.'

'If you only knew,' she said, 'the dreams that I have dreamed.' And tears glistened in her beautiful eyes as she raised them to the ceiling.

'And I, too! Oh, I have had my trials too! Often and often I went out, I wandered along the quays, trying to deaden my senses in the noise of the crowd, yet I was never able to banish the obsession that pursued me. At a print shop down on the boulevard there's an Italian engraving that represents one of the Muses. She is draped in a tunic, and is gazing at the moon, with a wreath of forget-me-nots on her unbraided hair. Something kept impelling me to that shop. I have lingered there for hours.'

Then, with a tremor in his voice, he said,

'She was rather like you.'

Madame Bovary turned away her head so that he should not see the irresistible smile she felt stealing upon her lips.

'And many a time,' he went on, 'I wrote you letters, that I afterwards tore up.'

She did not answer.

'I used to imagine that some chance would bring you to me. I have thought I recognized you at a turn in the street. I would race after a fiacre if I saw someone at the window wearing a shawl or a veil like yours.'

She seemed resolved to let him go on speaking without interruption. Folding her arms and bending her head, she contemplated the rosettes on her slippers, and every now and then made little movements in the soft satin with her toes.

'But the most distressing thing,' she sighed at last- 'is it not?- is to live an aimless life, as I do. If our sufferings benefited anyone, there would be some consolation in the sacrifice.'

He began to sing the praises of virtue, duty, silent renunciation, for he himself had an incredible longing which he could not satisfy to bestow on someone his heart's devotion.

'I should like to be a nun in a hospital,' she said.

'Alas! sacred missions of that kind are denied to men; and I see no calling of the kind I mean, except perhaps a doctor's.'

With a slight shrug of her shoulders, Emma interrupted him to tell him the sad story of the illness that had nearly carried her off. Ah, if only it had! Her sufferings would be over now. Leon immediately belauded the peace of the grave. One night he had made his will, asking that he might be buried in that beautiful rug with the velvet stripes that she had given him. For this is how they would like it to have been, each of them constructing an ideal into which they fitted their past life. Besides speech is like a roller that always distorts people's sentiments.

'But why?' she queried, at this mention of the rug.

'Why?' And he hesitated a moment. 'Why, because I loved you!'

And patting himself on the back for having taken the fence, Leon watched her expression out of the corner of his eye.

It was like the sky when a wind chases away the clouds. The burden of heavy thoughts that had been casting a shadow on them seemed to withdraw from her blue eyes. Her whole face was radiant.

He waited, and at last she said,

'I had always thought as much.'

Then they talked about all the little things that took place in those far-off days whereof, in a single word, they had just summed up all that was sweet and all that was sad. They spoke of the clematis cradle, of the dresses she used to wear, the furniture in her bedroom and of all the things in and about the house.

'And our poor cactuses, what has become of them?'

'The frost killed them this last winter.'

'Ah! I used to think of them, do you know? Many and many a time I have seen them in my mind's eye, as I used to see them in the old days when the sun was shining on the jalousies, of a summer morning- and I used to catch the flash of your bare arms as they moved among the flowers.'

''Pauvre ami!'' she said, stretching out her hand to him.

Swiftly Leon pressed it to his lips.

'Ah, what a power, what a mysterious power you wielded over me in those days, holding my very life in thrall! One day, for example, I came to your house.... But there, you have forgotten about it all, of course.'

'No,' she said; 'but go on, tell me!'

'You were downstairs in the hall, just ready to go out, on the last stair. You were wearing a hat with little blue flowers, and, without any invitation from you, despite myself, for I could not help it, I went with you. Every moment I became more and more conscious of my stupidity, but I walked along, not exactly beside you, but yet loth to leave you altogether. When you went into a shop I hung about outside, I saw you through the window taking off your gloves and putting down your money on the counter. Then you went and rang at Madame Tuvache's. The servant came and let you in, the great heavy door closed upon you, and there I stood like a dolt.'

Madame Bovary, as she listened to all this, was amazed to find herself so old. These things, rising above the horizon of the past, seemed to widen the sphere of her existence; she was carried back as if to some illimitable region of sentimental experience, and, from time to time, with half-shut eyes, she murmured,

'Yes, it is true. Ah yes! yes!'

They heard the various clocks in the Beauvoisine quarter, which is full of boarding schools and churches and great deserted houses, strike the hour of eight. They had ceased to talk, but as they sat and gazed at each other they felt a sort of murmur in their heads, as if some vibrant message had passed to and fro along the line of their fixed regard. They had taken each other's hands, and the past and the future, memories and dreams, were blended and commingled in the sweetness of their ecstasy. The shades of night deepened upon the walls, but the bright splashes of colour of four prints depicting four scenes from 'La Tour de Nesle', with lettering in French and Spanish, glimmered obscurely in the gathering gloom. Through the sash window a wedge of dark sky was visible between two gabled roofs.

She rose to light a pair of candles on the chest of drawers; then she came and sat down again.

'Well?' said Leon.

'Well?' she replied.

He was thinking how to renew the interrupted conversation, when she said,

'How is it that no one, until now, has ever spoken to me as you have done?'

The clerk expostulated that ideal natures were difficult to understand. As for himself, he had fallen in love the first time he set eyes upon her. He had scarcely known what to do when he thought of the happiness that might have been theirs if fortune had been kind to them, if they had met each other earlier and had been joined together in an indissoluble bond.

'I have thought of that too, sometimes,' she answered.

'What a dream!' murmured Leon. And delicately fingering the blue border of her long white girdle, he added,

'What is to hinder us from beginning all over again now?'

'No, dear,' she replied. 'I am too old... you are too young... Forget all about me. Others will love you... and you them.'

'Not as I love you,' he cried.

'What a child you are, to be sure! Come, let us be sensible! There, I mean it!'

She explained how impossible it was that there could be any such thing as love between them, and that they must remain, as they had been before, just a pair of excellent friends.

Was she serious when she spoke thus? Doubtless Emma herself could not have told, deeply conscious as she was of the alluring danger and of the need to repel it, and, gazing at him with compassion in her eyes, she gently repelled the shy caresses which his tremulous hands essayed.

'Forgive me,' he faltered, drawing back.

Emma was conscious of a vague alarm at this timidity. There was more of peril in it than in Rodolphe's boldness when he came towards her with his arms outspread. Never had any man seemed so handsome in her eyes. There was something exquisitely disarming in his adoring candour. He lowered the long, curving lashes of his eyes. The smooth surface of his skin was flushed- she thought- with desire for her, and Emma was seized with an irresistible longing to press her lips upon it. Then, leaning over in the direction of the clock, as though to see what time it was, she exclaimed,

'Gracious, look at the time! How we have been rambling on!'

He understood, and rose to look for his hat.

'Why, I forgot all about the theatre, and my poor husband left me behind on purpose. Monsieur Lormaux, who lives in the Rue Grand Pont, was to have taken me, with his wife.' And now she wouldn't have another chance, for she was going back tomorrow.

'Are you really?' said Leon.

'I am.'

'But I must see you again,' he said. 'I had something I wanted to tell you...'

'What is it?'

'Something.... Oh, something very serious, very important! Ah, but no! You won't go back. You can't. If you only knew.... Listen... You have not realized... you have not guessed!'

'And yet you're a good talker.'

'Ah, you laugh! But no! There, you mustn't go like this! Let me see you again, I implore you... Once... just once!'

'Well....'

And she stopped. And then, as if on second thoughts, she said,

'Oh, no. Not here!'

'Wherever you like.'

'Will you....?'

She seemed to be thinking. Then suddenly she flashed,

'Tomorrow, at eleven, in the Cathedral.'

'I shall be there,' he cried, seizing both her hands, which she dragged from his grasp.

They were both standing up, he slightly behind her, Emma lowering her head. He bent over and imprinted a long and passionate kiss on the nape of her neck.

'You are mad! Ah, you are mad!' she went on, with little deep laughs, as kiss after kiss rained down upon her.

Then, thrusting his head over her shoulder, he seemed to be seeking her eyes' consent. And they fell upon him, full of chilling majesty.

Leon went three steps back, towards the door. He stood still on the threshold and whispered tremblingly,

'Tomorrow!'

She made answer with a nod, and vanished like a bird into the adjoining room.

That night Emma wrote an interminable letter, excusing herself from keeping the appointment. It was all over now, and, for their own sakes, it were better for them not to meet. But when the letter was sealed up she was in a quandary, as she did not know Leon's address.

'I will give it to him myself,' she said; 'he is sure to come.' Next day, with his window wide open, Leon was singing on his balcony and polishing his patent shoes himself. He put on a pair of white breeches, some very smart socks and a green coat, and he emptied all the scent he had upon his handkerchief. Then, having had his hair frizzed, he unfrizzed it, in order to give it an appearance of greater natural elegance.

'It's too early yet,' thought he, glancing at the hairdresser's cuckoo-clock, and seeing it was only nine.

He turned over the leaves of an old fashion-paper, went out, smoked a cigar, strolled along past three turnings, decided it was time he started, and began leisurely to make his way in the direction of Notre-Dame.

It was a beautiful summer morning. The sun was sparkling on the plate in the silversmiths' shops, and the light, as it fell slantwise on the Cathedral, lit up little shimmering sprays of light along the edges of the grey stones. A flock of birds was wheeling in the cloudless sky, round about the fretted turrets. There was a great hubbub in the market-place, that was fragrant with the flowers that were ranged along the pavement- roses, jasmine, carnations, narcissi and jonquils irregularly interspaced with fresh greenery, valerian and groundsel. The fountain in the centre was gurgling pleasantly, and seated under their spreading umbrellas, amid cantelupes piled up in pyramids, bare-headed market-women were busily wrapping paper round bunches of violets.

The young man bought a bunch. It was the first time he had ever bought flowers for a woman, and, as he inhaled their perfume, his bosom swelled with pride, as though the homage which he destined for another were reflected on himself.

However, he was afraid of being observed, so he made his way resolutely into the church.

The beadle was stationed on the threshold, in the centre of the left porch, underneath the 'Marianne dansante', his plumed hat on his head, his rapier at his thigh, his cane in his hand, more stately than a cardinal and glittering like a piece of altar-plate.

He stepped forward to meet Leon, and smiling the sort of benign and wheedling smile which ecclesiastics put on when asking questions of little children, he said,

'Monsieur is doubtless a stranger. Would Monsieur care to see over the church?'

'No,' said Leon.

He began by strolling about just inside the entrance. Then he went out and looked across the market-place. There was no Emma in sight. Re-entering the Cathedral, he went up into the choir. The nave was mirrored in the surface of the brimming holy-water stoups, with the beginnings of the arches and some portions of the windows. But the reflection of the stained glass, though broken at the marble's rim, was continued farther on, upon the flagstones, like a many-coloured carpet. The brilliant daylight from without was projected throughout the whole length of the Cathedral in three enormous rays, through the three open doors. From time to time a sacristan would glide across the transepts, making the sideways genuflexion of a devotee in a hurry. The crystal lustres hung motionless from the ceiling. Within the choir a silver lamp was burning, and from the side chapels and the darker portions of the church there stole from time to time a sound like the exhalation of a sigh, accompanied by the noise of a grille shut to, that echoed on and on beneath the vaulted roof.

Leon, with measured tread, paced gravely up and down the aisles. Never had life seemed so good. A little while and she would come, delicious, trembling, glancing behind her to see who might be looking, with her flowered dress, her gold lorgnon, her dainty shoes, and all the manifold refinements so new to his experience, the ineffable charm of virtue on the brink of surrender. The fane encompassed her about like some stately bower, the vaulted roof leaned down to catch, amid the shadows, the whispered avowal of her love, the painted windows shone with glory to shed a light upon her countenance, and the censers would burn that she might float like an angel amid the perfumed cloud.

Meantime she did not come. He planted himself on a chair, and his eyes lighted on a window of blue-stained glass portraying fishermen carrying baskets. He looked at it long and attentively. He counted the fishes' scales, the button-holes in the doublets, while, all the time, his thoughts were wandering in quest of Emma.

The beadle stood some distance off, inwardly furious with this person, who had the impertinence to admire the Cathedral all by himself. There seemed to be something unnatural, something monstrous about such conduct: it seemed as if the man were robbing him; it almost amounted to sacrilege.

Suddenly there was a flurry of silk upon the stones, the brim of a hat, a black veil.... It was she! Leon rose and hastened to meet her.

Emma was pale, and she was walking quickly.

'Read this!' she said, holding out a paper. 'Oh no! never mind!'

And she quickly tore away her hand, and entered the Lady Chapel, where she knelt down beside a chair and began to pray.

Leon felt annoyed at this capricious display of piety; then he experienced a certain charm at beholding her, in the very moment of love's tryst, lost in her devotions like some Andalusian marquise. And finally he grew rapidly impatient, for she seemed as though she would never finish.

Emma prayed, or rather forced herself to pray, hoping that some unlooked-for power of resolution would descend on her from above; and in order to enlist heaven's aid she feasted her eyes on the splendours of the tabernacle, breathed in the perfume of the white violets that filled the great vases, and inclined her ear to the silence of the church, which did but accentuate the tumult of her breast.

She rose, and they were about to depart when the beadle came rapidly towards them, saying,

'Madame is doubtless a stranger here. Would Madame care to see over the church?'

'No, no,' cried the clerk.

'Why not?' said she.

For she was fain to seek support for her tottering virtue from the Virgin, the statues, the tombs and anything that might present itself. And so, to begin at the beginning, the beadle took them back to the entrance, overlooking the market, and there, pointing with his staff to a large circular space paved with black stones, without carving or inscription, he said majestically,

'That is the circumference of the lovely bell of Amboise. It weighed fifteen tons. It hasn't its fellow in the whole of Europe. The craftsman who cast it died of joy....'

'Let's go now,' said Leon.

The worthy man put himself again in motion. Back in the Lady Chapel once more, he extended his arms with a sort of comprehensive gesture of demonstration, and, prouder than a country landowner showing off his wall fruit, he proceeded,

'This simple stone marks the resting-place of Pierre de Breze, Lord of la Varenne and Brissac, Grand Marshal of Poitou, and Governor of Normandy, who was killed in the Battle of Montlhery on the 16th July, 1465.'

Leon bit his lips, in a fury of impatience.

'And on the right, this figure, encased in steel and mounted on a prancing steed, is his grandson, Louis de Breze, Lord of Breval and Montchauvet, Count of Maulevrier, Baron of Mauny, Chamberlain to the King, Knight of the Order, and likewise, Governor of Normandy, who died on the 23rd July, 1531, that day being a Sunday, as recorded on the inscription; and underneath, this man, about to descend into the grave, is an exact portrait of the same person. You will agree that it would be impossible to find a more perfect representation of the final end.'

Madame Bovary put up her lorgnon. Leon stood and looked at her, not attempting to utter a word, all the courage taken out of him by this double obstacle of volubility and indifference.

The everlasting guide went on,

'Next to him here- this kneeling figure of a woman weeping- is his wife, Diane de Poitiers, Countess of Breze, Duchess of Valentinois, born 1499, died 1566; and on the left the figure holding the child is the Blessed Virgin. Now just turn round this way. These are the Amboise tombs. They were both Cardinal-Archbishops of Rouen. That one, who held office under King Louis XII, did a great deal for the Cathedral. In his will he left thirty thousand gold crowns to the poor.'

And still on the move, talking all the time, he pushed them into a chapel all lumbered up with railings. He shifted one or two of them and brought to light a sort of block which might undoubtedly have been a rudely carved statue.

'This statue,' he said, with a prolonged groan, 'once adorned the tomb of Richard Coeur de Lion, King of England and Duke of Normandy. It was the Calvinists, sir, that made it like this. Out of pure vandalism they took and buried it in the ground under the Bishop's episcopal throne. Look, here is the private doorway to the Bishop's house. Now let us pass on to the windows of La Gargouille.'

But Leon quickly produced a piece of silver and grasped Emma by the arm. The beadle looked completely dumbfounded, quite unable to understand this premature munificence when there were still so many things to show the stranger. So he started shouting after him.

'Hi! Monsieur. The steeple! the steeple!'

'No, thanks!' said Leon.

'Oh, but Monsieur, what a pity! It's four hundred and forty feet high- only nine feet less than the Great Egyptian Pyramid. It's all made of cast iron, it...'

Leon was for making off with all speed. It seemed to him that his love, which, for two hours had been immobilized in the church like the stones of which it was built, was now in danger of going up like smoke through this sort of truncated pipe, oblong cage, or fretted chimney that sticks up like a comic nose on the Cathedral as though an ingenious tinker had been indulging in some extravagant fancy.

'Where are we going now?' said she.

He did not answer, but continued to walk at a rapid pace, and Madame Bovary was already dipping her finger in the holy-water stoup when they heard someone panting along behind them, his gasps punctuated at regular intervals by the tap-tap of a stick. Leon turned round.

'Monsieur!'

'What?'

There was the beadle, lugging along a score of big paper-bound volumes piled up against his belly. They were works dealing with the Cathedral.

'Imbecile!' growled Leon, as he flung out of the building.

A street arab was playing about on the pavement.

'Go and get me a fiacre!'

The youngster sped away like a ball down the Rue des Quatre Vents, and they stood looking at one another for a minute or so, rather out of countenance.

'Leon, really... I don't know whether I ought.' She was coquetting a little. 'It's not the proper thing to do. You know it isn't!'

'Why not?' answered the clerk. 'It's done in Paris, right enough.'

That was an irresistible argument, it convinced her.

However, no fiacre hove in sight. Leon was terribly afraid she would go back to the church. At last the vehicle appeared.

'At any rate go out through the North Door,' shouted the beadle, who was standing at the top of the steps. 'You'll see 'The Resurrection, The Last Judgement, Paradise, King David' and 'The Reprobates in Hell-fire'.'

'Where to, sir?' said the cabby.

'Where you like,' said Leon, pushing Emma inside. And the lumbering machine set off.

It descended the Rue Grand Pont, crossed the Place des Arts, the Quai Napoleon, the Pont Neuf and pulled up sharp alongside the statue of Pierre Corneille.

'Go on,' said a voice from inside.

The conveyance again got in motion, and following the down-hill road after leaving the Carrefour la Fayette, it drove at full gallop into the station yard.

'No, no, straight on!' shouted the voice again.

The fiacre came out through the big gates and, having got on to the Broadway, was jogging along soberly amid the big elm-trees. The coachy mopped his forehead, stuck his leather hat between his legs and, steering his vehicle clear of the network of alleys, kept down near the green by the waterside.

Along by the river the vehicle went, along the towing-path, with its pavement of hard cobbles, down towards Oyssel, past the islands.

All of a sudden it turned aside through Quatremares, Sotteville, the Grande Chaussee, the Rue d'Elbeuf and halted for the third time outside the Jardin des Plantes.

'Go on, will you?' shouted the voice more furiously.

Forthwith getting under way again, it went along by Saint Sever, the Quai des Curandiers, the Quai aux Mentes, back again over the bridge, across the Place du Champ de Mars, behind the workhouse grounds, where aged men in black coats were walking in the sun along a terrace green with ivy. It climbed the Boulevard Bouvreuil, proceeded along the Boulevard Cauchoise and all up Mont Riboudet as far as the Cote de Deville.

Then it turned round and came back again, driving aimlessly anywhere and everywhere. It was seen at Saint Pol, at Lescure, at Mont Gargan, at la Rouge-Marc, at the Place du Gaillardbois; in the Rue Maladrerie, the Rue Dinanderie, outside Saint Romain's, Saint Vivien's, Saint Maclou's, Saint Nicaise's, in front of the Customs House, at the Vieille Tour, the Trois Pipes and the Monumental Cemetery. From time to time the driver would cast despairing glances at the taverns as he drove past. He could not for the life of him understand what mania for locomotion possessed these individuals that they inexorably refused to stop. He made as if to pull up once or twice, and, immediately, exclamations of wrath broke out behind him. Whereupon he slashed his sweating jades harder than ever, heedless how his old caravan lurched and swayed, running into this, just shaving that, not caring what happened, demoralized, and nearly crying with thirst, fatigue and utter weariness of spirit.

And on the quays, amid the lorries and the barrels, along the streets, at every corner, the citizens stared in amazement at what amounted to a portent in a country town, to wit, a vehicle with drawn blinds, which kept continually coming into view, sealed up like a tomb and rocking like a ship at sea.

Once, in the middle of the day, in the open country, when the sun was beating its fiercest against the old plated carriage-lamps, a little white hand peeped out beneath the blinds of yellow canvas and flung away a lot of scraps of paper, which floated in the wind and settled farther on, like white butterflies, on a field of red clover in full bloom.

Finally, about six, the carriage pulled up in a side street in the Beauvoisine quarter and a woman got out. She walked with her veil down, glancing neither to the right nor to the left.

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