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time to swallow a plate of soup； they presented themselves at the
doors of the theatre； which were still closed。
Chapter Fifteen
The crowd was waiting against the wall； symmetrically enclosed
between the balustrades。 At the corner of the neighbouring
streets huge bills repeated in quaint letters 〃Lucie de
Lammermoor…Lagardy…Opera…etc。〃 The weather was fine； the people
were hot； perspiration trickled amid the curls； and handkerchiefs
taken from pockets were mopping red foreheads； and now and then a
warm wind that blew from the river gently stirred the border of
the tick awnings hanging from the doors of the public…houses。 A
little lower down； however； one was refreshed by a current of icy
air that smelt of tallow； leather； and oil。 This was an
exhalation from the Rue des Charrettes； full of large black
warehouses where they made casks。
For fear of seeming ridiculous； Emma before going in wished to
have a little stroll in the harbour； and Bovary prudently kept
his tickets in his hand； in the pocket of his trousers； which he
pressed against his stomach。
Her heart began to beat as soon as she reached the vestibule。 She
involuntarily smiled with vanity on seeing the crowd rushing to
the right by the other corridor while she went up the staircase
to the reserved seats。 She was as pleased as a child to push with
her finger the large tapestried door。 She breathed in with all
her might the dusty smell of the lobbies； and when she was seated
in her box she bent forward with the air of a duchess。
The theatre was beginning to fill； opera…glasses were taken from
their cases； and the subscribers； catching sight of one another；
were bowing。 They came to seek relaxation in the fine arts after
the anxieties of business； but 〃business〃 was not forgotten； they
still talked cottons； spirits of wine； or indigo。 The heads of
old men were to be seen； inexpressive and peaceful； with their
hair and complexions looking like silver medals tarnished by
steam of lead。 The young beaux were strutting about in the pit；
showing in the opening of their waistcoats their pink or
applegreen cravats； and Madame Bovary from above admired them
leaning on their canes with golden knobs in the open palm of
their yellow gloves。
Now the lights of the orchestra were lit； the lustre； let down
from the ceiling； throwing by the glimmering of its facets a
sudden gaiety over the theatre； then the musicians came in one
after the other； and first there was the protracted hubbub of the
basses grumbling； violins squeaking； cornets trumpeting； flutes
and flageolets fifing。 But three knocks were heard on the stage；
a rolling of drums began； the brass instruments played some
chords； and the curtain rising； discovered a country…scene。
It was the cross…roads of a wood； with a fountain shaded by an
oak to the left。 Peasants and lords with plaids on their
shoulders were singing a hunting…song together； then a captain
suddenly came on； who evoked the spirit of evil by lifting both
his arms to heaven。 Another appeared； they went away； and the
hunters started afresh。 She felt herself transported to the
reading of her youth； into the midst of Walter Scott。 She seemed
to hear through the mist the sound of the Scotch bagpipes
re…echoing over the heather。 Then her remembrance of the novel
helping her to understand the libretto； she followed the story
phrase by phrase； while vague thoughts that came back to her
dispersed at once again with the bursts of music。 She gave
herself up to the lullaby of the melodies； and felt all her being
vibrate as if the violin bows were drawn over her nerves。 She had
not eyes enough to look at the costumes； the scenery； the actors；
the painted trees that shook when anyone walked； and the velvet
caps； cloaks； swordsall those imaginary things that floated
amid the harmony as in the atmosphere of another world。 But a
young woman stepped forward； throwing a purse to a squire in
green。 She was left alone； and the flute was heard like the
murmur of a fountain or the warbling of birds。 Lucie attacked her
cavatina in G major bravely。 She plained of love； she longed for
wings。 Emma； too； fleeing from life； would have liked to fly away
in an embrace。 Suddenly Edgar…Lagardy appeared。
He had that splendid pallor that gives something of the majesty
of marble to the ardent races of the South。 His vigorous form was
tightly clad in a brown…coloured doublet； a small chiselled
poniard hung against his left thigh； and he cast round laughing
looks showing his white teeth。 They said that a Polish princess
having heard him sing one night on the beach at Biarritz； where
he mended boats； had fallen in love with him。 She had ruined
herself for him。 He had deserted her for other women； and this
sentimental celebrity did not fail to enhance his artistic
reputation。 The diplomatic mummer took care always to slip into
his advertisements some poetic phrase on the fascination of his
person and the susceptibility of his soul。 A fine organ；
imperturbable coolness； more temperament than intelligence； more
power of emphasis than of real singing； made up the charm of this
admirable charlatan nature； in which there was something of the
hairdresser and the toreador。
》From the first scene he evoked enthusiasm。 He pressed Lucy in his
arms； he left her； he came back； he seemed desperate； he had
outbursts of rage； then elegiac gurglings of infinite sweetness；
and the notes escaped from his bare neck full of sobs and kisses。
Emma leant forward to see him； clutching the velvet of the box
with her nails。 She was filling her heart with these melodious
lamentations that were drawn out to the accompaniment of the
double…basses； like the cries of the drowning in the tumult of a
tempest。 She recognised all the intoxication and the anguish that
had almost killed her。 The voice of a prima donna seemed to her
to be but echoes of her conscience； and this illusion that
charmed her as some very thing of her own life。 But no one on
earth had loved her with such love。 He had not wept like Edgar
that last moonlit night when they said； 〃To…morrow！ to…morrow！〃
The theatre rang with cheers； they recommenced the entire
movement； the lovers spoke of the flowers on their tomb； of vows；
exile； fate； hopes； and when they uttered the final adieu； Emma
gave a sharp cry that mingled with the vibrations of the last
chords。
〃But why；〃 asked Bovary； 〃does that gentleman persecute her？〃
〃No； no！〃 she answered； 〃he is her lover！〃
〃Yet he vows vengeance on her family； while the other one who
came on before said； 'I love Lucie and she loves me！' Besides； he
went off with her father arm in arm。 For he certainly is her
father； isn't hethe ugly little man with a cock's feather in
his hat？〃
Despite Emma's explanations； as soon as the recitative duet began
in which Gilbert lays bare his abominable machinations to his
master Ashton； Charles； seeing the false troth…ring that is to
deceive Lucie； thought it was a love…gift sent by Edgar。 He
confessed； moreover； that he did not understand the story because
of the music； which interfered very much with the words。
〃What does it matter？〃 said Emma。 〃Do be quiet！〃
〃Yes； but you know；〃 he w