Homais was enjoying himself. Although he was even more intoxicated with

the luxury than the rich fare, the Pommard wine all the same rather

excited his faculties; and when the omelette au rhum* appeared, he began

propounding immoral theories about women. What seduced him above all

else was chic. He admired an elegant toilette in a well-furnished

apartment, and as to bodily qualities, he didn't dislike a young girl.

* In rum.

Leon watched the clock in despair. The druggist went on drinking,

eating, and talking.

"You must be very lonely," he said suddenly, "here at Rouen. To be sure

your lady-love doesn't live far away."

And the other blushed-"Come now, be frank. Can you deny that at Yonville--"

The young man stammered something.

"At Madame Bovary's, you're not making love to--"

"To whom?"

"The servant!"

He was not joking; but vanity getting the better of all prudence, Leon,

in spite of himself protested. Besides, he only liked dark women.

"I approve of that," said the chemist; "they have more passion."

And whispering into his friend's ear, he pointed out the symptoms by

which one could find out if a woman had passion. He even launched into

an ethnographic digression: the German was vapourish, the French woman

licentious, the Italian passionate.

"And negresses?" asked the clerk.

"They are an artistic taste!" said Homais. "Waiter! two cups of coffee!"

"Are we going?" at last asked Leon impatiently.

"Ja!"

But before leaving he wanted to see the proprietor of the establishment

and made him a few compliments. Then the young man, to be alone, alleged

he had some business engagement.

"Ah! I will escort you," said Homais.

And all the while he was walking through the streets with him he talked

of his wife, his children; of their future, and of his business; told

him in what a decayed condition it had formerly been, and to what a

degree of perfection he had raised it.

Arrived in front of the Hotel de Boulogne, Leon left him abruptly, ran

up the stairs, and found his mistress in great excitement. At mention of

the chemist she flew into a passion. He, however, piled up good reasons;

it wasn't his fault; didn't she know Homais--did she believe that he

would prefer his company? But she turned away; he drew her back, and,

sinking on his knees, clasped her waist with his arms in a languorous

pose, full of concupiscence and supplication.

She was standing up, her large flashing eyes looked at him seriously,

almost terribly. Then tears obscured them, her red eyelids were lowered,

she gave him her hands, and Leon was pressing them to his lips when a

servant appeared to tell the gentleman that he was wanted.




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