Leon bit his lips, fuming.

"And on the right, this gentleman all encased in iron, on the

prancing horse, is his grandson, Louis de Breze, lord of Breval and of

Montchauvet, Count de Maulevrier, Baron de Mauny, chamberlain to the

king, Knight of the Order, and also governor of Normandy; died on the

23rd of July, 1531--a Sunday, as the inscription specifies; and below,

this figure, about to descend into the tomb, portrays the same person.

It is not possible, is it, to see a more perfect representation of

annihilation?"

Madame Bovary put up her eyeglasses. Leon, motionless, looked at her,

no longer even attempting to speak a single word, to make a gesture,

so discouraged was he at this two-fold obstinacy of gossip and

indifference.

The everlasting guide went on-"Near him, this kneeling woman who weeps is his spouse, Diane de

Poitiers, Countess de Breze, Duchess de Valentinois, born in 1499, died

in 1566, and to the left, the one with the child is the Holy Virgin. Now

turn to this side; here are the tombs of the Ambroise. They were both

cardinals and archbishops of Rouen. That one was minister under Louis

XII. He did a great deal for the cathedral. In his will he left thirty

thousand gold crowns for the poor."

And without stopping, still talking, he pushed them into a chapel

full of balustrades, some put away, and disclosed a kind of block that

certainly might once have been an ill-made statue.

"Truly," he said with a groan, "it adorned the tomb of Richard Coeur de

Lion, King of England and Duke of Normandy. It was the Calvinists, sir,

who reduced it to this condition. They had buried it for spite in the

earth, under the episcopal seat of Monsignor. See! this is the door by

which Monsignor passes to his house. Let us pass on quickly to see the

gargoyle windows."

But Leon hastily took some silver from his pocket and seized Emma's

arm. The beadle stood dumfounded, not able to understand this untimely

munificence when there were still so many things for the stranger to

see. So calling him back, he cried-"Sir! sir! The steeple! the steeple!"

"No, thank you!" said Leon.

"You are wrong, sir! It is four hundred and forty feet high, nine less

than the great pyramid of Egypt. It is all cast; it--"

Leon was fleeing, for it seemed to him that his love, that for nearly

two hours now had become petrified in the church like the stones, would

vanish like a vapour through that sort of truncated funnel, of oblong

cage, of open chimney that rises so grotesquely from the cathedral like

the extravagant attempt of some fantastic brazier.




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