第 26 页

Madame Bovary

CHAPTER ELEVEN

He had recently read a eulogy on a new method for

curing club-foot, and as he was a partisan of progress, he

conceived the patriotic idea that Yonville, in order to

keep to the fore, ought to have some operations for

strephopody or club-foot.

‘For,’ said he to Emma, ‘what risk is there? See—’ (and

he enumerated on his fingers the advantages of the

attempt), ‘success, almost certain relief and beautifying of

the patient, celebrity acquired by the operator. Why, for

example, should not your husband relieve poor Hippolyte

of the ‘Lion d’Or’? Note that he would not fail to tell

about his cure to all the travellers, and then’ (Homais

lowered his voice and looked round him) ‘who is to

prevent me from sending a short paragraph on the subject

to the paper? Eh! goodness me! an article gets about; it is

talked of; it ends by making a snowball! And who knows?

who knows?’

In fact, Bovary might succeed. Nothing proved to

Emma that he was not clever; and what a satisfaction for

her to have urged him to a step by which his reputation

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and fortune would be increased! She only wished to lean

on something more solid than love.

Charles, urged by the druggist and by her, allowed

himself to be persuaded. He sent to Rouen for Dr. Duval’s

volume, and every evening, holding his head between

both hands, plunged into the reading of it.

While he was studying equinus, varus, and valgus, that

is to say, katastrephopody, endostrephopody, and

exostrephopody (or better, the various turnings of the foot

downwards, inwards, and outwards, with the

hypostrephopody and anastrephopody), otherwise torsion

downwards and upwards, Monsier Homais, with all sorts

of arguments, was exhorting the lad at the inn to submit to

the operation.

‘You will scarcely feel, probably, a slight pain; it is a

simple prick, like a little blood-letting, less than the

extraction of certain corns.’

Hippolyte, reflecting, rolled his stupid eyes.

‘However,’ continued the chemist, ‘it doesn’t concern

me. It’s for your sake, for pure humanity! I should like to

see you, my friend, rid of your hideous caudication,

together with that waddling of the lumbar regions which,

whatever you say, must considerably interfere with you in

the exercise of your calling.’

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Then Homais represented to him how much jollier and

brisker he would feel afterwards, and even gave him to

understand that he would be more likely to please the

women; and the stable-boy began to smile heavily. Then

he attacked him through his vanity:

‘Aren’t you a man? Hang it! what would you have

done if you had had to go into the army, to go and fight

beneath the standard? Ah! Hippolyte!’

And Homais retired, declaring that he could not

understand this obstinacy, this blindness in refusing the

benefactions of science.

The poor fellow gave way, for it was like a conspiracy.

Binet, who never interfered with other people’s business,

Madame Lefrancois, Artemise, the neighbours, even the

mayor, Monsieur Tuvache—everyone persuaded him,

lectured him, shamed him; but what finally decided him

was that it would cost him nothing. Bovary even

undertook to provide the machine for the operation. This

generosity was an idea of Emma’s, and Charles consented

to it, thinking in his heart of hearts that his wife was an

angel.

So by the advice of the chemist, and after three fresh

starts, he had a kind of box made by the carpenter, with

the aid of the locksmith, that weighed about eight pounds,

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and in which iron, wood, sheer-iron, leather, screws, and

nuts had not been spared.

But to know which of Hippolyte’s tendons to cut, it

was necessary first of all to find out what kind of club-foot

he had.

He had a foot forming almost a straight line with the

leg, which, however, did not prevent it from being turned

in, so that it was an equinus together with something of a

varus, or else a slight varus with a strong tendency to

equinus. But with this equinus, wide in foot like a horse’s

hoof, with rugose skin, dry tendons, and large toes, on

which the black nails looked as if made of iron, the

clubfoot ran about like a deer from morn till night. He

was constantly to be seen on the Place, jumping round the

carts, thrusting his limping foot forwards. He seemed even

stronger on that leg than the other. By dint of hard service

it had acquired, as it were, moral qualities of patience and

energy; and when he was given some heavy work, he

stood on it in preference to its fellow.

Now, as it was an equinus, it was necessary to cut the

tendon of Achilles, and, if need were, the anterior tibial

muscle could be seen to afterwards for getting rid of the

varus; for the doctor did not dare to risk both operations at

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once; he was even trembling already for fear of injuring

some important region that he did not know.

Neither Ambrose Pare, applying for the first time since

Celsus, after an interval of fifteen centuries, a ligature to an

artery, nor Dupuytren, about to open an abscess in the

brain, nor Gensoul when he first took away the superior

maxilla, had hearts that trembled, hands that shook, minds

so strained as Monsieur Bovary when he approached

Hippolyte, his tenotome between his fingers. And as at

hospitals, near by on a table lay a heap of lint, with waxed

thread, many bandages—a pyramid of bandages—every

bandage to be found at the druggist’s. It was Monsieur

Homais who since morning had been organising all these

preparations, as much to dazzle the multitude as to keep

up his illusions. Charles pierced the skin; a dry crackling

was heard. The tendon was cut, the operation over.

Hippolyte could not get over his surprise, but bent over

Bovary’s hands to cover them with kisses.

‘Come, be calm,’ said the druggist; ‘later on you will

show your gratitude to your benefactor.’

And he went down to tell the result to five or six

inquirers who were waiting in the yard, and who fancied

that Hippolyte would reappear walking properly. Then

Charles, having buckled his patient into the machine,

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went home, where Emma, all anxiety, awaited him at the

door. She threw herself on his neck; they sat down to

table; he ate much, and at dessert he even wanted to take a

cup of coffee, a luxury he only permitted himself on

Sundays when there was company.

The evening was charming, full of prattle, of dreams

together. They talked about their future fortune, of the

improvements to be made in their house; he saw people’s

estimation of him growing, his comforts increasing, his

wife always loving him; and she was happy to refresh

herself with a new sentiment, healthier, better, to feel at

last some tenderness for this poor fellow who adored her.

The thought of Rodolphe for one moment passed

through her mind, but her eyes turned again to Charles;

she even noticed with surprise that he had not bad teeth.

They were in bed when Monsieur Homais, in spite of

the servant, suddenly entered the room, holding in his

hand a sheet of paper just written. It was the paragraph he

intended for the ‘Fanal de Rouen.’ He brought it for them

to read.

‘Read it yourself,’ said Bovary.

He read—

’ ‘Despite the prejudices that still invest a part of the

face of Europe like a net, the light nevertheless begins to

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penetrate our country places. Thus on Tuesday our little

town of Yonville found itself the scene of a surgical

operation which is at the same time an, act of loftiest

philanthropy. Monsieur Bovary, one of our, most

distinguished practitioners—’’

‘Oh, that is too much! too much!’ said Charles,

choking with emotion.

‘No, no! not at all! What next!’

’ ‘—Performed an operation on a club-footed man.’ I

have not used the scientific term, because you know in a

newspaper everyone would not perhaps understand. The

masses must—’’

‘No doubt,’ said Bovary; ‘go on!’

‘I proceed,’ said the chemist. ‘‘Monsieur Bovary, one of

our most distinguished practitioners, performed an

operation on a club-footed man called Hippolyte Tautain,

stableman for the last twenty-five years at the hotel of the

‘Lion d’Or,’ kept by Widow Lefrancois, at the Place

d’Armes. The novelty of the attempt, and the interest

incident to the subject, had attracted such a concourse of

persons that there was a veritable obstruction on the

threshold of the establishment. The operation, moreover,

was performed as if by magic, and barely a few drops of

blood appeared on the skin, as though to say that the

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rebellious tendon had at last given way beneath the efforts

of art. The patient, strangely enough—we affirm it as an

eye-witness—complained of no pain. His condition up to

the present time leaves nothing to be desired. Everything

tends to show that his convelescence will be brief; and

who knows even if at our next village festivity we shall

not see our good Hippolyte figuring in the bacchic dance

in the midst of a chorus of joyous boon-companions, and

thus proving to all eyes by his verve and his capers his

complete cure? Honour, then, to the generous savants!

Honour to those indefatigable spirits who consecrate their

vigils to the amelioration or to the alleviation of their

kind! Honour, thrice honour! Is it not time to cry that the

blind shall see, the deaf hear, the lame walk? But that

which fanaticism formerly promised to its elect, science

now accomplishes for all men. We shall keep our readers

informed as to the successive phases of this remarkable

cure.’ ‘

This did not prevent Mere Lefrancois, from coming

five days after, scared, and crying out—

‘Help! he is dying! I am going crazy!’

Charles rushed to the ‘Lion d’Or,’ and the chemist,

who caught sight of him passing along the Place hatless,

abandoned his shop. He appeared himself breathless, red,

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anxious, and asking everyone who was going up the

stairs—

‘Why, what’s the matter with our interesting

strephopode?’

The strephopode was writhing in hideous convulsions,

so that the machine in which his leg was enclosed was

knocked against the wall enough to break it.

With many precautions, in order not to disturb the

position of the limb, the box was removed, and an awful

sight presented itself. The outlines of the foot disappeared

in such a swelling that the entire skin seemed about to

burst, and it was covered with ecchymosis, caused by the

famous machine. Hippolyte had already complained of

suffering from it. No attention had been paid to him; they

had to acknowledge that he had not been altogether

wrong, and he was freed for a few hours. But, hardly had

the oedema gone down to some extent, than the two

savants thought fit to put back the limb in the apparatus,

strapping it tighter to hasten matters. At last, three days

after, Hippolyte being unable to endure it any longer, they

once more removed the machine, and were much

surprised at the result they saw. The livid tumefaction

spread over the leg, with blisters here and there, whence

there oozed a black liquid. Matters were taking a serious

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turn. Hippolyte began to worry himself, and Mere

Lefrancois, had him installed in the little room near the

kitchen, so that he might at least have some distraction.

But the tax-collector, who dined there every day,

complained bitterly of such companionship. Then

Hippolyte was removed to the billiard-room. He lay there

moaning under his heavy coverings, pale with long beard,

sunken eyes, and from time to time turning his perspiring

head on the dirty pillow, where the flies alighted. Madame

Bovary went to see him. She brought him linen for his

poultices; she comforted, and encouraged him. Besides, he

did not want for company, especially on market-days,

when the peasants were knocking about the billiard-balls

round him, fenced with the cues, smoked, drank, sang,

and brawled.

‘How are you?’ they said, clapping him on the

shoulder. ‘Ah! you’re not up to much, it seems, but it’s

your own fault. You should do this! do that!’ And then

they told him stories of people who had all been cured by

other remedies than his. Then by way of consolation they

added—

‘You give way too much! Get up! You coddle yourself

like a king! All the same, old chap, you don’t smell nice!’

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Gangrene, in fact, was spreading more and more.

Bovary himself turned sick at it. He came every hour,

every moment. Hippolyte looked at him with eyes full of

terror, sobbing—

‘When shall I get well? Oh, save me! How unfortunate

I am! How unfortunate I am!’

And the doctor left, always recommending him to diet

himself.

‘Don’t listen to him, my lad,’ said Mere Lefrancois,

‘Haven’t they tortured you enough already? You’ll grow

still weaker. Here! swallow this.’

And she gave him some good beef-tea, a slice of

mutton, a piece of bacon, and sometimes small glasses of

brandy, that he had not the strength to put to his lips.

Abbe Bournisien, hearing that he was growing worse,

asked to see him. He began by pitying his sufferings,

declaring at the same time that he ought to rejoice at them

since it was the will of the Lord, and take advantage of the

occasion to reconcile himself to Heaven.

‘For,’ said the ecclesiastic in a paternal tone, ‘you rather

neglected your duties; you were rarely seen at divine

worship. How many years is it since you approached the

holy table? I understand that your work, that the whirl of