Madame Bovary - Page 173/262

Monsieur Leon, while studying law, had gone pretty often to the

dancing-rooms, where he was even a great success amongst the grisettes,

who thought he had a distinguished air. He was the best-mannered of the

students; he wore his hair neither too long nor too short, didn't spend

all his quarter's money on the first day of the month, and kept on good

terms with his professors. As for excesses, he had always abstained from

them, as much from cowardice as from refinement.

Often when he stayed in his room to read, or else when sitting of an

evening under the lime-trees of the Luxembourg, he let his Code fall to

the ground, and the memory of Emma came back to him. But gradually this

feeling grew weaker, and other desires gathered over it, although it

still persisted through them all. For Leon did not lose all hope; there

was for him, as it were, a vague promise floating in the future, like a

golden fruit suspended from some fantastic tree.

Then, seeing her again after three years of absence his passion

reawakened. He must, he thought, at last make up his mind to possess

her. Moreover, his timidity had worn off by contact with his gay

companions, and he returned to the provinces despising everyone who had

not with varnished shoes trodden the asphalt of the boulevards. By

the side of a Parisienne in her laces, in the drawing-room of some

illustrious physician, a person driving his carriage and wearing many

orders, the poor clerk would no doubt have trembled like a child; but

here, at Rouen, on the harbour, with the wife of this small doctor

he felt at his ease, sure beforehand he would shine. Self-possession

depends on its environment. We don't speak on the first floor as on the

fourth; and the wealthy woman seems to have, about her, to guard her

virtue, all her banknotes, like a cuirass in the lining of her corset.

On leaving the Bovarys the night before, Leon had followed them

through the streets at a distance; then having seen them stop at the

"Croix-Rouge," he turned on his heel, and spent the night meditating a

plan.

So the next day about five o'clock he walked into the kitchen of the

inn, with a choking sensation in his throat, pale cheeks, and that

resolution of cowards that stops at nothing.

"The gentleman isn't in," answered a servant.

This seemed to him a good omen. He went upstairs.

She was not disturbed at his approach; on the contrary, she apologised

for having neglected to tell him where they were staying.