“That is true,” said Charles; “but
I was thinking especially of illnesses—of
typhoid fever, for example, that attacks students from
the provinces.”
Emma shuddered.
“Because of the change of regimen,” continued
the chemist, “and of the perturbation that results
therefrom in the whole system. And then the water
at Paris, don’t you know! The dishes at
restaurants, all the spiced food, end by heating the
blood, and are not worth, whatever people may say
of them, a good soup. For my own part, I have
always preferred plain living; it is more healthy.
So when I was studying pharmacy at Rouen, I boarded
in a boarding house; I dined with the professors.”
And thus he went on, expounding his opinions generally
and his personal likings, until Justin came to fetch
him for a mulled egg that was wanted.
“Not a moment’s peace!” he cried;
“always at it! I can’t go out for
a minute! Like a plough-horse, I have always
to be moiling and toiling. What drudgery!”
Then, when he was at the door, “By the way, do
you know the news?”
“What news?”
“That it is very likely,” Homais went
on, raising his eyebrows and assuming one of his most
serious expression, “that the agricultural meeting
of the Seine-Inferieure will be held this year at
Yonville-l’Abbaye. The rumour, at all events,
is going the round. This morning the paper alluded
to it. It would be of the utmost importance for
our district. But we’ll talk it over later
on. I can see, thank you; Justin has the lantern.”
The next day was a dreary one for Emma. Everything
seemed to her enveloped in a black atmosphere floating
confusedly over the exterior of things, and sorrow
was engulfed within her soul with soft shrieks such
as the winter wind makes in ruined castles. It
was that reverie which we give to things that will
not return, the lassitude that seizes you after everything
was done; that pain, in fine, that the interruption
of every wonted movement, the sudden cessation of
any prolonged vibration, brings on.
As on the return from Vaubyessard, when the quadrilles
were running in her head, she was full of a gloomy
melancholy, of a numb despair. Leon reappeared,
taller, handsomer, more charming, more vague.
Though separated from her, he had not left her; he
was there, and the walls of the house seemed to hold
his shadow.
She could not detach her eyes from the carpet where
he had walked, from those empty chairs where he had
sat. The river still flowed on, and slowly drove
its ripples along the slippery banks.
