Madame Bovary - Page 215/262

What was the meaning of all these fits of temper? He explained

everything through her old nervous illness, and reproaching himself with

having taken her infirmities for faults, accused himself of egotism, and

longed to go and take her in his arms.

"Ah, no!" he said to himself; "I should worry her."

And he did not stir.

After dinner he walked about alone in the garden; he took little Berthe

on his knees, and unfolding his medical journal, tried to teach her

to read. But the child, who never had any lessons, soon looked up with

large, sad eyes and began to cry. Then he comforted her; went to fetch

water in her can to make rivers on the sand path, or broke off branches

from the privet hedges to plant trees in the beds. This did not spoil

the garden much, all choked now with long weeds. They owed Lestiboudois

for so many days. Then the child grew cold and asked for her mother.

"Call the servant," said Charles. "You know, dearie, that mamma does not

like to be disturbed."

Autumn was setting in, and the leaves were already falling, as they did

two years ago when she was ill. Where would it all end? And he walked up

and down, his hands behind his back.

Madame was in her room, which no one entered. She stayed there all

day long, torpid, half dressed, and from time to time burning Turkish

pastilles which she had bought at Rouen in an Algerian's shop. In order

not to have at night this sleeping man stretched at her side, by dint of

manoeuvring, she at last succeeded in banishing him to the second floor,

while she read till morning extravagant books, full of pictures of

orgies and thrilling situations. Often, seized with fear, she cried out,

and Charles hurried to her.

"Oh, go away!" she would say.

Or at other times, consumed more ardently than ever by that inner flame

to which adultery added fuel, panting, tremulous, all desire, she threw

open her window, breathed in the cold air, shook loose in the wind her

masses of hair, too heavy, and, gazing upon the stars, longed for some

princely love. She thought of him, of Leon. She would then have given

anything for a single one of those meetings that surfeited her.

These were her gala days. She wanted them to be sumptuous, and when he

alone could not pay the expenses, she made up the deficit liberally,

which happened pretty well every time. He tried to make her understand

that they would be quite as comfortable somewhere else, in a smaller

hotel, but she always found some objection.