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morning of the solemnity all the inhabitants at their doors

were chatting over the preparations. The pediment of the

town hall had been hung with garlands of ivy; a tent had

been erected in a meadow for the banquet; and in the

middle of the Place, in front of the church, a kind of

bombarde was to announce the arrival of the prefect and

the names of the successful farmers who had obtained

prizes. The National Guard of Buchy (there was none at

Yonville) had come to join the corps of firemen, of whom

Binet was captain. On that day he wore a collar even

higher than usual; and, tightly buttoned in his tunic, his

figure was so stiff and motionless that the whole vital

portion of his person seemed to have descended into his

legs, which rose in a cadence of set steps with a single

movement. As there was some rivalry between the tax-

collector and the colonel, both, to show off their talents,

drilled their men separately. One saw the red epaulettes

and the black breastplates pass and re-pass alternately; there

was no end to it, and it constantly began again. There had

never been such a display of pomp. Several citizens had

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scoured their houses the evening before; tri-coloured flags

hung from half-open windows; all the public-houses were

full; and in the lovely weather the starched caps, the

golden crosses, and the coloured neckerchiefs seemed

whiter than snow, shone in the sun, and relieved with the

motley colours the sombre monotony of the frock-coats

and blue smocks. The neighbouring farmers’ wives, when

they got off their horses, pulled out the long pins that

fastened around them their dresses, turned up for fear of

mud; and the husbands, for their part, in order to save

their hats, kept their handkerchiefs around them, holding

one corner between their teeth.

The crowd came into the main street from both ends

of the village. People poured in from the lanes, the alleys,

the houses; and from time to time one heard knockers

banging against doors closing behind women with their

gloves, who were going out to see the fete. What was

most admired were two long lamp-stands covered with

lanterns, that flanked a platform on which the authorities

were to sit. Besides this there were against the four

columns of the town hall four kinds of poles, each bearing

a small standard of greenish cloth, embellished with

inscriptions in gold letters.

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On one was written, ‘To Commerce"; on the other,

‘To Agriculture"; on the third, ‘To Industry"; and on the

fourth, ‘To the Fine Arts.’

But the jubilation that brightened all faces seemed to

darken that of Madame Lefrancois, the innkeeper.

Standing on her kitchen-steps she muttered to herself,

‘What rubbish! what rubbish! With their canvas booth! Do

they think the prefect will be glad to dine down there

under a tent like a gipsy? They call all this fussing doing

good to the place! Then it wasn’t worth while sending to

Neufchatel for the keeper of a cookshop! And for whom?

For cowherds! tatterdemalions!’

The druggist was passing. He had on a frock-coat,

nankeen trousers, beaver shoes, and, for a wonder, a hat

with a low crown.

‘Your servant! Excuse me, I am in a hurry.’ And as the

fat widow asked where he was going—

‘It seems odd to you, doesn’t it, I who am always more

cooped up in my laboratory than the man’s rat in his

cheese.’

‘What cheese?’ asked the landlady.

‘Oh, nothing! nothing!’ Homais continued. ‘I merely

wished to convey to you, Madame Lefrancois, that I

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usually live at home like a recluse. To-day, however,

considering the circumstances, it is necessary—‘

‘Oh, you’re going down there!’ she said

contemptuously.

‘Yes, I am going,’ replied the druggist, astonished. ‘Am

I not a member of the consulting commission?’

Mere Lefrancois looked at him for a few moments, and

ended by saying with a smile—

‘That’s another pair of shoes! But what does agriculture

matter to you? Do you understand anything about it?’

‘Certainly I understand it, since I am a druggist—that is

to say, a chemist. And the object of chemistry, Madame

Lefrancois, being the knowledge of the reciprocal and

molecular action of all natural bodies, it follows that

agriculture is comprised within its domain. And, in fact,

the composition of the manure, the fermentation of

liquids, the analyses of gases, and the influence of

miasmata, what, I ask you, is all this, if it isn’t chemistry,

pure and simple?’

The landlady did not answer. Homais went on—

‘Do you think that to be an agriculturist it is necessary

to have tilled the earth or fattened fowls oneself? It is

necessary rather to know the composition of the

substances in question—the geological strata, the

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atmospheric actions, the quality of the soil, the minerals,

the waters, the density of the different bodies, their

capillarity, and what not. And one must be master of all

the principles of hygiene in order to direct, criticize the

construction of buildings, the feeding of animals, the diet

of domestics. And, moreover, Madame Lefrancois, one

must know botany, be able to distinguish between plants,

you understand, which are the wholesome and those that

are deleterious, which are unproductive and which

nutritive, if it is well to pull them up here and re-sow

them there, to propagate some, destroy others; in brief,

one must keep pace with science by means of pamphlets

and public papers, be always on the alert to find out

improvements.’

The landlady never took her eyes off the ‘Cafe

Francois’ and the chemist went on—

‘Would to God our agriculturists were chemists, or that

at least they would pay more attention to the counsels of

science. Thus lately I myself wrote a considerable tract, a

memoir of over seventy-two pages, entitled, ‘Cider, its

Manufacture and its Effects, together with some New

Reflections on the Subject,’ that I sent to the Agricultural

Society of Rouen, and which even procured me the

honour of being received among its members—Section,

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Agriculture; Class, Pomological. Well, if my work had

been given to the public—’ But the druggist stopped,

Madame Lefrancois seemed so preoccupied.

‘Just look at them!’ she said. ‘It’s past comprehension!

Such a cookshop as that!’ And with a shrug of the

shoulders that stretched out over her breast the stitches of

her knitted bodice, she pointed with both hands at her

rival’s inn, whence songs were heard issuing. ‘Well, it

won’t last long,’ she added. ‘It’ll be over before a week.’

Homais drew back with stupefaction. She came down

three steps and whispered in his ear—

‘What! you didn’t know it? There is to be an execution

in next week. It’s Lheureux who is selling him out; he has

killed him with bills.’

‘What a terrible catastrophe!’ cried the druggist, who

always found expressions in harmony with all imaginable

circumstances.

Then the landlady began telling him the story that she

had heard from Theodore, Monsieur Guillaumin’s servant,

and although she detested Tellier, she blamed Lheureux.

He was ‘a wheedler, a sneak.’

‘There!’ she said. ‘Look at him! he is in the market; he

is bowing to Madame Bovary, who’s got on a green

bonnet. Why, she’s taking Monsieur Boulanger’s arm.’

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‘Madame Bovary!’ exclaimed Homais. ‘I must go at

once and pay her my respects. Perhaps she’ll be very glad

to have a seat in the enclosure under the peristyle.’ And,

without heeding Madame Lefrancois, who was calling him

back to tell him more about it, the druggist walked off

rapidly with a smile on his lips, with straight knees,

bowing copiously to right and left, and taking up much

room with the large tails of his frock-coat that fluttered

behind him in the wind.

Rodolphe, having caught sight of him from afar,

hurried on, but Madame Bovary lost her breath; so he

walked more slowly, and, smiling at her, said in a rough

tone—

‘It’s only to get away from that fat fellow, you know,

the druggist.’ She pressed his elbow.

‘What’s the meaning of that?’ he asked himself. And he

looked at her out of the corner of his eyes.

Her profile was so calm that one could guess nothing

from it. It stood out in the light from the oval of her

bonnet, with pale ribbons on it like the leaves of weeds.

Her eyes with their long curved lashes looked straight

before her, and though wide open, they seemed slightly

puckered by the cheek-bones, because of the blood

pulsing gently under the delicate skin. A pink line ran

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along the partition between her nostrils. Her head was

bent upon her shoulder, and the pearl tips of her white

teeth were seen between her lips.

‘Is she making fun of me?’ thought Rodolphe.

Emma’s gesture, however, had only been meant for a

warning; for Monsieur Lheureux was accompanying them,

and spoke now and again as if to enter into the

conversation.

‘What a superb day! Everybody is out! The wind is

east!’

And neither Madame Bovary nor Rodolphe answered

him, whilst at the slightest movement made by them he

drew near, saying, ‘I beg your pardon!’ and raised his hat.

When they reached the farrier’s house, instead of

following the road up to the fence, Rodolphe suddenly

turned down a path, drawing with him Madame Bovary.

He called out—

‘Good evening, Monsieur Lheureux! See you again

presently.’

‘How you got rid of him!’ she said, laughing.

‘Why,’ he went on, ‘allow oneself to be intruded upon

by others? And as to-day I have the happiness of being

with you—‘

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Emma blushed. He did not finish his sentence. Then he

talked of the fine weather and of the pleasure of walking

on the grass. A few daisies had sprung up again.

‘Here are some pretty Easter daisies,’ he said, ‘and

enough of them to furnish oracles to all the amorous maids

in the place.’

He added, ‘Shall I pick some? What do you think?’

‘Are you in love?’ she asked, coughing a little.

‘H’m, h’m! who knows?’ answered Rodolphe.

The meadow began to fill, and the housewives hustled

you with their great umbrellas, their baskets, and their

babies. One had often to get out of the way of a long file

of country folk, servant-maids with blue stockings, flat

shoes, silver rings, and who smelt of milk, when one

passed close to them. They walked along holding one

another by the hand, and thus they spread over the whole

field from the row of open trees to the banquet tent.

But this was the examination time, and the farmers one

after the other entered a kind of enclosure formed by a

long cord supported on sticks.

The beasts were there, their noses towards the cord,

and making a confused line with their unequal rumps.

Drowsy pigs were burrowing in the earth with their

snouts, calves were bleating, lambs baaing; the cows, on

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knees folded in, were stretching their bellies on the grass,

slowly chewing the cud, and blinking their heavy eyelids

at the gnats that buzzed round them. Plough-men with

bare arms were holding by the halter prancing stallions

that neighed with dilated nostrils looking towards the

mares. These stood quietly, stretching out their heads and

flowing manes, while their foals rested in their shadow, or

now and then came and sucked them. And above the long

undulation of these crowded animals one saw some white

mane rising in the wind like a wave, or some sharp horns

sticking out, and the heads of men running about. Apart,

outside the enclosure, a hundred paces off, was a large

black bull, muzzled, with an iron ring in its nostrils, and

who moved no more than if he had been in bronze. A

child in rags was holding him by a rope.

Between the two lines the committee-men were

walking with heavy steps, examining each animal, then

consulting one another in a low voice. One who seemed

of more importance now and then took notes in a book as

he walked along. This was the president of the jury,

Monsieur Derozerays de la Panville. As soon as he

recognised Rodolphe he came forward quickly, and

smiling amiably, said—

‘What! Monsieur Boulanger, you are deserting us?’

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Rodolphe protested that he was just coming. But when

the president had disappeared—

‘Ma foi!*’ said he, ‘I shall not go. Your company is

better than his.’

*Upon my word!

And while poking fun at the show, Rodolphe, to move

about more easily, showed the gendarme his blue card,

and even stopped now and then in front of some fine

beast, which Madame Bovary did not at all admire. He

noticed this, and began jeering at the Yonville ladies and

their dresses; then he apologised for the negligence of his

own. He had that incongruity of common and elegant in

which the habitually vulgar think they see the revelation

of an eccentric existence, of the perturbations of

sentiment, the tyrannies of art, and always a certain

contempt for social conventions, that seduces or

exasperates them. Thus his cambric shirt with plaited cuffs

was blown out by the wind in the opening of his waistcoat

of grey ticking, and his broad-striped trousers disclosed at

the ankle nankeen boots with patent leather gaiters.

These were so polished that they reflected the grass. He

trampled on horses’s dung with them, one hand in the

pocket of his jacket and his straw hat on one side.

‘Besides,’ added he, ‘when one lives in the country—‘

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‘It’s waste of time,’ said Emma.

‘That is true,’ replied Rodolphe. ‘To think that not one