Complete Works of Gustave Flaubert

by Gustave Flaubert

  Deslauriers ne cacha pas qu’il avait profité de son désespoir pour s’en assurer par lui-même.

  — “Comme tu me l’avais permis, du reste.”

  Cet aveu était une compensation au silence qu’il gardait touchant sa tentative près de Mme Arnoux. Frédéric l’eût pardonnée, puisqu’elle n’avait pas réussi. Bien que vexé un peu de la découverte, il fit semblant d’en rire ; et l’idée de la Maréchale lui amena celle de la Vatnaz.

  Deslauriers ne l’avait jamais vue, non plus que bien d’autres qui venaient chez Arnoux ; mais il se souvenait parfaitement de Regimbart.

  — “Vit-il encore ?”

  — “A peine ! Tous les soirs, régulièrement, depuis la rue de Grammont jusqu’à la rue Montmartre, il se traîne devant les cafés, affaibli, courbé en deux, vidé, un spectre !”

  — “Eh bien, et Compain ?”

  Frédéric poussa un cri de joie, et pria l’ex-délégué du Gouvernement provisoire de lui apprendre le mystère de la tête de veau.

  — “C’est une importation anglaise. Pour parodier la cérémonie que les royalistes célébraient le 30 janvier, des Indépendants fondèrent un banquet annuel, où l’on mangeait des têtes de veau, et on buvait du vin rouge dans des crânes de veau, en portant des toasts à l’extermination des Stuarts. Après thermidor, des terroristes organisèrent une confrérie toute pareille, ce qui prouve que la bêtise est féconde.”

  — “Tu me parais bien calmé sur la politique ?”

  — “Effet de l’âge”, dit l’avocat.

  Et ils résumèrent leur vie.

  Ils l’avaient manquée tous les deux, celui qui avait rêvé l’amour, celui qui avait rêvé le pouvoir. Quelle en était la raison ?

  — “C’est peut-être le défaut de ligne droite”, dit Frédéric.

  — “Pour toi, cela se peut. Moi, au contraire, j’ai péché par excès de rectitude, sans tenir compte de mille choses secondaires, plus fortes que tout. J’avais trop de logique, et toi de sentiment.”

  Puis, ils accusèrent le hasard, les circonstances, l’époque où ils étaient nés.

  Frédéric reprit :

  — “Ce n’est pas là ce que nous croyions devenir autrefois, à Sens, quand tu voulais faire une histoire critique de la Philosophie, et moi, un grand roman moyen âge sur Nogent, dont j’avais trouvé le sujet dans Froissart : Comment messire Brokars de Fénestranges et l’évêque de Troyes assaillirent messire Eustache d’Ambrecicourt. Te rappelles-tu ?”

  Et, exhumant leur jeunesse, à chaque phrase, ils se disaient :

  — “Te rappelles-tu ?”

  Ils revoyaient la cour du collège, la chapelle, le parloir, la salle d’armes au bas de l’escalier, des figures de pions et d’élèves, un nommé Angelmarre, de Versailles, qui se taillait des sous-pieds dans de vieilles bottes, M. Mirbal et ses favoris rouges, les deux professeurs de dessin linéaire et de grand dessin, Varaud et Suriret, toujours en dispute, et le Polonais, le compatriote de Copernic, avec son système planétaire en carton, astronome ambulant dont on avait payé la séance par un repas au réfectoire, — puis une terrible ribote en promenade, leurs premières pipes fumées, les distributions des prix, la joie des vacances.

  C’était pendant celles de 1837 qu’ils avaient été chez la Turque.

  On appelait ainsi une femme qui se nommait de son vrai nom Zoraïde Turc ; et beaucoup de personnes la croyaient une musulmane, une Turque, ce qui ajoutait à la poésie de son établissement, situé au bord de l’eau, derrière le rempart ; même en plein été, il y avait de l’ombre autour de sa maison, reconnaissable à un bocal de poissons rouges près d’un pot de réséda sur une fenêtre. Des demoiselles en camisole blanche, avec du fard aux pommettes et de longues boucles d’oreilles, frappaient aux carreaux quand on passait, et, le soir, sur le pas de la porte, chantonnaient doucement d’une voix rauque.

  Ce lieu de perdition projetait dans tout l’arrondissement un éclat fantastique. On le désignait par des périphrases : “L’endroit que vous savez, — une certaine rue, — au bas des Ponts.” Les fermières des alentours en tremblaient pour leurs maris, les bourgeoises le redoutaient pour leurs bonnes, parce que la cuisinière de M. le sous-préfet y avait été surprise ; et c’était, bien entendu, l’obsession secrète de tous les adolescents.

  Or, un dimanche, pendant qu’on était aux Vêpres, Frédéric et Deslauriers, s’étant fait préalablement friser, cueillirent des fleurs dans le jardin de Mme Moreau, puis sortirent par la porte des champs, et, après un grand détour dans les vignes, revinrent par la Pêcherie et se glissèrent chez la Turque, en tenant toujours leurs gros bouquets.

  Frédéric présenta le sien, comme un amoureux à sa fiancée. Mais la chaleur qu’il, faisait, l’appréhension de l’inconnu, une espèce de remords, et jusqu’au plaisir de voir, d’un seul coup d’oeil, tant de femmes à sa disposition, l’émurent tellement, qu’il devint très pâle et restait sans avancer, sans rien dire. Toutes riaient, joyeuses de son embarras ; croyant qu’on s’en moquait, il s’enfuit ; et, comme Frédéric avait l’argent, Deslauriers fut bien obligé de le suivre.

  On les vit sortir. Cela fit une histoire, qui n’était pas oubliée trois ans après.

  Ils se la contèrent prolixement, chacun complétant les souvenirs de l’autre ; et, quand ils eurent fini :

  — “C’est là ce que nous avons eu de meilleur !” dit Frédéric.

  — “Oui, peut-être bien ? C’est là ce que nous avons eu de meilleur !” dit Deslauriers.

  FIN

  BOUVARD AND PÉCUCHET

  Translated by D. F. Hannigan

  This unfinished satirical work was published posthumously in 1881, a year after Flaubert’s death. Although conceived in 1863 as Les Deux Cloportes, Flaubert did not begin the novel in earnest until 1872, at a time when he was threatened with financial ruin. Over time, the novel obsessed him to the degree that he claimed to have read over 1500 books in preparation of it composition. It was intended it to be his masterpiece, although it received lukewarm reviews, with many critics failing to appreciate its merits.

  The novel concerns the adventures of two Parisian copy-clerks, François Denys Bartholomée Bouvard and Juste Romain Cyrille Pécuchet, who are of the same age and temperament. They meet one hot summer day in 1838 by the canal Saint-Martin and form an instant, symbiotic friendship. When Bouvard inherits a sizable fortune, the two decide to move to the countryside. They find a 94-acre property near the town of Chavignolles in Normandy, between Caen and Falaise. Their search for intellectual stimulation leads them, over the course of years, to flounder through almost every branch of knowledge. Flaubert uses their quest to expose the hidden weaknesses of the sciences and arts, as nearly every project Bouvard and Pécuchet set their minds on comes to grief. Their endeavours are interleaved with the story of their deteriorating relations with the local villagers; and the Revolution of 1848 is the occasion for much despondent discussion.

  The manuscript breaks off near the end of the novel. According to Flaubert's notes, the townsfolk, enraged by Bouvard and Pécuchet's antics, try to force them out of the area, or have them committed.

  The original manuscript

  The titlepage of the first edition

  The first English edition

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I.

  Kindred Souls.

  CHAPTER II.

  Experiments in Agriculture.

  CHAPTER III.

  Amateur Chemists.

  CHAPTER IV.

  Researches in Archæology.

  CHAPTER V.

  Romance and the Drama.

  CHAPTER VI.

  Revolt of the People.

  CHAPTER VII.

  "Unlucky in Love."

  CHAPTER VIII.

  New Diversions.

  The 1989 French television adaptation

  CHAPTER I.

  Kindred Souls.

  As there were thirty-three degrees of heat the Boulevard Bourdon was absolutely deserted.

  Farther
down, the Canal St. Martin, confined by two locks, showed in a straight line its water black as ink. In the middle of it was a boat, filled with timber, and on the bank were two rows of casks.

  Beyond the canal, between the houses which separated the timber-yards, the great pure sky was cut up into plates of ultramarine; and under the reverberating light of the sun, the white façades, the slate roofs, and the granite wharves glowed dazzlingly. In the distance arose a confused noise in the warm atmosphere; and the idleness of Sunday, as well as the melancholy engendered by the summer heat, seemed to shed around a universal languor.

  Two men made their appearance.

  One came from the direction of the Bastille; the other from that of the Jardin des Plantes. The taller of the pair, arrayed in linen cloth, walked with his hat back, his waistcoat unbuttoned, and his cravat in his hand. The smaller, whose form was covered with a maroon frock-coat, wore a cap with a pointed peak.

  As soon as they reached the middle of the boulevard, they sat down, at the same moment, on the same seat.

  In order to wipe their foreheads they took off their headgear, each placing his beside himself; and the little man saw "Bouvard" written in his neighbour's hat, while the latter easily traced "Pécuchet" in the cap of the person who wore the frock-coat.

  "Look here!" he said; "we have both had the same idea — to write our names in our head-coverings!"

  "Yes, faith, for they might carry off mine from my desk."

  "'Tis the same way with me. I am an employé."

  Then they gazed at each other. Bouvard's agreeable visage quite charmed Pécuchet.

  His blue eyes, always half-closed, smiled in his fresh-coloured face. His trousers, with big flaps, which creased at the end over beaver shoes, took the shape of his stomach, and made his shirt bulge out at the waist; and his fair hair, which of its own accord grew in tiny curls, gave him a somewhat childish look.

  He kept whistling continually with the tips of his lips.

  Bouvard was struck by the serious air of Pécuchet. One would have thought that he wore a wig, so flat and black were the locks which adorned his high skull. His face seemed entirely in profile, on account of his nose, which descended very low. His legs, confined in tight wrappings of lasting, were entirely out of proportion with the length of his bust. His voice was loud and hollow.

  This exclamation escaped him:

  "How pleasant it would be in the country!"

  But, according to Bouvard, the suburbs were unendurable on account of the noise of the public-houses outside the city. Pécuchet was of the same opinion. Nevertheless, he was beginning to feel tired of the capital, and so was Bouvard.

  And their eyes wandered over heaps of stones for building, over the hideous water in which a truss of straw was floating, over a factory chimney rising towards the horizon. Sewers sent forth their poisonous exhalations. They turned to the opposite side; and they had in front of them the walls of the Public Granary.

  Decidedly (and Pécuchet was surprised at the fact), it was still warmer in the street than in his own house. Bouvard persuaded him to put down his overcoat. As for him, he laughed at what people might say about him.

  Suddenly, a drunken man staggered along the footpath; and the pair began a political discussion on the subject of working-men. Their opinions were similar, though perhaps Bouvard was rather more liberal in his views.

  A noise of wheels sounded on the pavement amid a whirlpool of dust. It turned out to be three hired carriages which were going towards Bercy, carrying a bride with her bouquet, citizens in white cravats, ladies with their petticoats huddled up so as almost to touch their armpits, two or three little girls, and a student.

  The sight of this wedding-party led Bouvard and Pécuchet to talk about women, whom they declared to be frivolous, waspish, obstinate. In spite of this, they were often better than men; but at other times they were worse. In short, it was better to live without them. For his part, Pécuchet was a bachelor.

  "As for me, I'm a widower," said Bouvard, "and I have no children."

  "Perhaps you are lucky there. But, in the long run, solitude is very sad."

  Then, on the edge of the wharf, appeared a girl of the town with a soldier, — sallow, with black hair, and marked with smallpox. She leaned on the soldier's arm, dragging her feet along, and swaying on her hips.

  When she was a short distance from them, Bouvard indulged in a coarse remark. Pécuchet became very red in the face, and, no doubt to avoid answering, gave him a look to indicate the fact that a priest was coming in their direction.

  The ecclesiastic slowly descended the avenue, along which lean elm trees were placed as landmarks, and Bouvard, when he no longer saw the priest's three-cornered head-piece, expressed his relief; for he hated Jesuits. Pécuchet, without absolving them from blame, exhibited some respect for religion.

  Meanwhile, the twilight was falling, and the window-blinds in front of them were raised. The passers-by became more numerous. Seven o'clock struck.

  Their words rushed on in an inexhaustible stream; remarks succeeding to anecdotes, philosophic views to individual considerations. They disparaged the management of the bridges and causeways, the tobacco administration, the theatres, our marine, and the entire human race, like people who had undergone great mortifications. In listening to each other both found again some ideas which had long since slipped out of their minds; and though they had passed the age of simple emotions, they experienced a new pleasure, a kind of expansion, the tender charm associated with their first appearance on life's stage.

  Twenty times they had risen and sat down again, and had proceeded along the boulevard from the upper to the lower lock, each time intending to take their departure, but not having the strength to do so, held back by a kind of fascination.

  However, they came to parting at last, and they had clasped each other's hands, when Bouvard said all of a sudden:

  "Faith! what do you say to our dining together?"

  "I had the very same idea in my own head," returned Pécuchet, "but I hadn't the courage to propose it to you."

  And he allowed himself to be led towards a little restaurant facing the Hôtel de Ville, where they would be comfortable.

  Bouvard called for the menu. Pécuchet was afraid of spices, as they might inflame his blood. This led to a medical discussion. Then they glorified the utility of science: how many things could be learned, how many researches one could make, if one had only time! Alas! earning one's bread took up all one's time; and they raised their arms in astonishment, and were near embracing each other over the table on discovering that they were both copyists, Bouvard in a commercial establishment, and Pécuchet in the Admiralty, which did not, however, prevent him from devoting a few spare moments each evening to study. He had noted faults in M. Thiers's work, and he spoke with the utmost respect of a certain professor named Dumouchel.

  Bouvard had the advantage of him in other ways. His hair watch-chain, and his manner of whipping-up the mustard-sauce, revealed the greybeard, full of experience; and he ate with the corners of his napkin under his armpits, giving utterance to things which made Pécuchet laugh. It was a peculiar laugh, one very low note, always the same, emitted at long intervals. Bouvard's laugh was explosive, sonorous, uncovering his teeth, shaking his shoulders, and making the customers at the door turn round to stare at him.

  When they had dined they went to take coffee in another establishment. Pécuchet, on contemplating the gas-burners, groaned over the spreading torrent of luxury; then, with an imperious movement, he flung aside the newspapers. Bouvard was more indulgent on this point. He liked all authors indiscriminately, having been disposed in his youth to go on the stage.

  He had a fancy for trying balancing feats with a billiard-cue and two ivory balls, such as Barberou, one of his friends, had performed. They invariably fell, and, rolling along the floor between people's legs, got lost in some distant corner. The waiter, who had to rise every time to search for them on all-fours under the benches
, ended by making complaints. Pécuchet picked a quarrel with him; the coffee-house keeper came on the scene, but Pécuchet would listen to no excuses, and even cavilled over the amount consumed.

  He then proposed to finish the evening quietly at his own abode, which was quite near, in the Rue St. Martin. As soon as they had entered he put on a kind of cotton nightgown, and did the honours of his apartment.

  A deal desk, placed exactly in the centre of the room caused inconvenience by its sharp corners; and all around, on the boards, on the three chairs, on the old armchair, and in the corners, were scattered pell-mell a number of volumes of the "Roret Encyclopædia," "The Magnetiser's Manual," a Fénelon, and other old books, with heaps of waste paper, two cocoa-nuts, various medals, a Turkish cap, and shells brought back from Havre by Dumouchel. A layer of dust velveted the walls, which otherwise had been painted yellow. The shoe-brush was lying at the side of the bed, the coverings of which hung down. On the ceiling could be seen a big black stain, produced by the smoke of the lamp.

  Bouvard, on account of the smell no doubt, asked permission to open the window.

  "The papers will fly away!" cried Pécuchet, who was more afraid of the currents of air.

  However, he panted for breath in this little room, heated since morning by the slates of the roof.

  Bouvard said to him: "If I were in your place, I would remove my flannel."

  "What!" And Pécuchet cast down his head, frightened at the idea of no longer having his healthful flannel waistcoat.

  "Let me take the business in hand," resumed Bouvard; "the air from outside will refresh you."

  At last Pécuchet put on his boots again, muttering, "Upon my honour, you are bewitching me." And, notwithstanding the distance, he accompanied Bouvard as far as the latter's house at the corner of the Rue de Béthune, opposite the Pont de la Tournelle.