Madame Bovary (29 page)

His foot formed an almost straight line with his leg, which did not prevent it from also being turned inward, so that it was a pes equinus mixed with a little of the varus, or a slight varus strongly marked by the pes equinus. But with this pes equinus, as broad, in fact, as a horse’s hoof,
with its roughened skin, stringy tendons, large toes, and black toenails representing the nails of the horseshoe, the strephopod would gallop, from morning to night, like a deer. One was always seeing him in the square, skipping around the carts, thrusting his unequal limb out in front of him. In fact, he seemed stronger on that leg than on the other. Through having served so long, it had developed something like the moral qualities of patience and energy, and when he was given a heavy piece of work to do, he would throw his weight on that leg by preference.

Now, since it was a pes equinus, it was necessary to cut the Achilles tendon, only later tackling the anterior tibial muscle so as to get rid of the varus; for the doctor did not dare risk both operations at once, and in fact he was quaking already, for fear of assaulting some important part of the foot with which he was unfamiliar.

Neither Ambroise Paré, applying a ligature directly to an artery for the first time since Celsus, fifteen centuries before; nor Dupuytren, about to open an abscess through a thick layer of encephalon; nor Gensoul, when he performed the first ablation of the superior maxilla, had a heart that pounded so, a hand so tremulous, a mind so tense as Monsieur Bovary approaching Hippolyte, his
tenotomy knife
in his hand. And as in a hospital, one saw, on a table to one side, a pile of lint, some waxed threads, a great many bandages, a pyramid of bandages, all the bandages that could be found in the apothecary. It was Monsieur Homais who had been organizing all these preparations since early morning, as much in order to dazzle the crowd as to delude himself. Charles pierced the skin; a sharp snap could be heard. The tendon was cut, the operation was done. Hippolyte could not get over his surprise; he took Bovary’s hands and
covered them with kisses.

“Now, now, calm down,” said the apothecary. “You’ll have a chance later on to show your benefactor how grateful you are!”

And he went downstairs to describe the result to five or six curious bystanders who had taken up positions in the courtyard and who imagined that Hippolyte would reappear walking upright. Then Charles, having buckled his patient into the mechanical-motion device, returned home, where Emma, very anxious, was waiting for him at the door. She threw her arms around him; they sat down at the table; he ate a great deal; and, at dessert, he even asked for a cup of coffee, a bit of intemperance he usually permitted himself only on Sundays when they had company.

The evening was delightful, full of conversation and shared dreams. They talked about their future wealth, improvements to be made in the household; he saw his reputation growing, his prosperity increasing, his wife loving him forever; and she was happy to find herself reinvigorated by a new sentiment, a healthier, better one, a feeling of some affection for this poor man who cherished her so. The thought of Rodolphe passed through her mind for a moment; but her eyes returned to Charles: she even noticed with surprise that his teeth weren’t bad at all.

They were in bed when Monsieur Homais, despite the cook, abruptly entered their room, holding in his hand a freshly written sheet of paper. It was the notice he was going to send to
Le Fanal de Rouen.
He was bringing it for them to read.

“Read it to us,” said Bovary.

He read:

“‘Despite the prejudices that still cover a part of the face of Europe like a web, the light is nevertheless beginning to penetrate into our countryside. Thus, on Tuesday last, our little city of Yonville found itself the theater for a surgical experiment that was at the same time an act of pure philanthropy. Monsieur Bovary, one of our most distinguished practitioners …’”

“Oh! That’s going too far! Too far!” said Charles, suffocating with emotion.

“No, not at all! Come now! … ‘Operated on a clubfoot …’ I didn’t use the scientific term because, you know, in a newspaper … perhaps not everyone would understand; the common people must …”

“Indeed, yes,” said Bovary. “Go on.”

“I’ll continue,” said the pharmacist. “‘Monsieur Bovary, one of our most distinguished practitioners, operated on a clubfoot by the name of Hippolyte Tautain, stableboy for the past twenty-five years at the Lion d’Or hotel, kept by Madame Widow Lefrançois, on the Place d’Armes. The novelty of the undertaking and the interest felt in the patient had attracted such a gathering of the population that there was a veritable crush on the threshold of the establishment. The operation, what is more, was performed as though by magic, and only a few drops of blood appeared on the skin, as if to announce that the rebellious tendon had at last yielded to the efforts of art. The patient, strange to say (we affirm this
de visu
), professed no pain. His condition, up to the present, is all
that could be hoped for. There is every indication that his convalescence will be brief; and
who knows but what, at the next village fair, we may see our good Hippolyte, amid a chorus of gay blades, taking part in the bacchanalian dances, thus proving to all eyes, by his verve no less than his entrechats, how fully he has recovered? All honor, therefore, to our generous men of science! All honor to those tireless intellects who devote their waking hours to the betterment or relief of their fellow men! All honor to them! All honor thrice over! Can we not now cry out that the blind shall see, the deaf shall hear, and the lame shall walk? But what fanaticism once promised to its chosen few, science now accomplishes for all men! We shall keep our readers informed of the successive stages of this most remarkable cure.’”

Which did not stop Mère Lefrançois from coming by five days later, frightened to death and shouting:

“Help! He’s dying! … I’m going out of my mind!”

Charles hurried to the Lion d’Or, and the pharmacist, seeing him pass through the square without a hat, left the pharmacy. He himself turned up breathless, red-faced, worried, and asking everyone who was climbing the stairs:

“What’s the matter with our interesting strephopod?”

The strephopod was thrashing about in dreadful convulsions, so much so that the mechanical apparatus in which his leg was enclosed was striking the wall hard enough to stave it in.

With many precautions so as not to disturb the position of the leg, they therefore removed the box, and a horrifying sight met their eyes. The shape of the foot had disappeared within a swelling so extreme that the skin seemed about to split, and the entire surface was covered with ecchymoses caused by the much-vaunted machine. Hippolyte had complained before this that it was hurting him; no one had paid any attention; they had to admit he had not been entirely wrong; and they left him free for a few hours. But scarcely had the edema gone down a little than the two experts deemed it advisable to return the limb to the apparatus, tightening it further in order to speed things up. At last, three days later, Hippolyte being unable to endure it any longer, they removed the contrivance again, and were quite astonished at the result they observed. A livid tumefaction was now spreading up the leg, with phlyctenae here and there from which a black liquid was seeping
out. Things were taking a serious turn.
Hippolyte was becoming despondent, and Mère Lefrançois moved him into the small parlor, next to the kitchen, so that he would at least have some distraction.

But the tax collector, who dined there every day, complained bitterly at such companionship. So they transported Hippolyte into the billiards room.

There he lay, whimpering under his coarse blankets, pale, unshaven, hollow-eyed, now and then turning his sweaty head on the dirty pillow where flies kept landing. Madame Bovary would come to see him. She would bring cloths for his poultices and comfort him, encourage him. He had no lack of company, in any case, especially on market days, when he was surrounded by countryfolk knocking the billiard balls, sparring with the cue sticks, smoking, drinking, singing, shouting.

“How are you?” they would say, slapping him on the shoulder. “Ah, you don’t look too good! But it’s your own fault. You should have done this, you should have done that.”

And they would tell him stories about people who had all been cured by remedies different from his own; then they would add, by way of consolation:

“The thing is, you’re cosseting yourself! You should get up! You pamper yourself like royalty! Oh, never mind, you old wag! How vile you smell!”

Indeed, the gangrene was climbing higher and higher. Bovary himself felt sick about it. He would come by at any hour, from one moment to the next. Hippolyte would look at him with eyes full of terror and, sobbing, would stammer:

“When will I be cured? … Oh, save me! … How miserable I am! How miserable I am!”

And the doctor would go away again, always advising a restricted diet.

“Don’t listen to him, my boy,” Mère Lefrançois would say; “haven’t they tormented you enough already, as it is? You’ll only make yourself weaker. Here, swallow this!”

And she would offer him some good broth, a slice of roast mutton, a piece of bacon, and now and then a small glass of eau-de-vie, which he did not feel strong enough to bring to his lips.

The Abbé Bournisien, learning that he was getting worse, asked to see
him. He began by sympathizing with him over his illness, at the same time declaring that he should rejoice in it, since it was the will of the Lord, and lose no time taking advantage of the opportunity to reconcile himself with heaven.

“For,” said the clergyman in a fatherly tone, “you were neglecting your duties a little; one rarely saw you at the divine service; how many years has it been since you approached the holy altar? I understand that your occupations, the hustle and bustle of the world, may have distracted you from tending to your salvation. But now it’s time to reflect on it. Do not despair, however; I have known some great sinners who, when they were about to appear before God (you’ve not yet reached that point, I’m well aware), implored His mercy and certainly died in the best of situations. Let us hope that, like them, you will set us a good example! For instance, as a precaution, why not recite a ‘Hail Mary, full of grace’ and an ‘Our Father, who art in heaven’ every morning and every evening? Yes! Do this for me, to oblige me. What will it cost you? … Will you promise?”

The poor devil promised. The curé came back on the following days. He would chat with the innkeeper and even tell anecdotes full of jokes and puns that Hippolyte did not understand. Then, as soon as the situation allowed, he would revert to religious subjects, his face assuming a suitable expression.

His zeal appeared to be succeeding; for the strephopod soon evinced a desire to go on a pilgrimage to Bon-Secours if he should recover: to which Monsieur Bournisien answered that he saw no objection to that; two precautions were worth more than one.
One risked nothing.

The apothecary was furious at what he called
the priest’s scheming;
it would interfere, he claimed, with Hippolyte’s convalescence, and he kept saying to Madame Lefrançois:

“Leave him alone! Leave him alone! You’re disturbing his peace of mind with your mysticism!”

But the good woman would not listen to him. He was
the cause of everything.
In a spirit of contrariness, she even hung a full basin of holy water by the patient’s bedside, along with a sprig of boxwood.

Yet religion appeared to be of no more help to him than the surgery, and the invincible rot continued to rise from his extremities toward his abdomen. It was no use their varying the potions and changing the poultices, the muscles dissolved more every day, and at last Charles responded
with an affirmative nod when Mère Lefrançois asked him if she could not, as a last resort, send for Monsieur Canivet, of Neufchâtel, who was a celebrity.

A medical doctor, fifty years old, who enjoyed a good position and was full of self-assurance, the colleague did not scruple to laugh in scorn when he uncovered the leg, gangrenous up to the knee. Then, after declaring bluntly that it would have to be amputated, he went off to the pharmacist to rail against the donkeys who had managed to reduce an unfortunate man to such a state. Shaking Monsieur Homais by the button of his frock coat, he expostulated in the pharmacy:

“These are inventions originating in Paris! They’re notions belonging to those gentlemen from the Capital! Like strabismus, chloroform, lithotrity—a collection of monstrosities that ought to be outlawed by the government! But they want to look smart, and they cram you with remedies without worrying about the consequences. We out here aren’t as clever as that; we’re not scientists, dandies, ladies’ men; we’re practitioners, healers, and we would never consider operating on someone who was in marvelous health! Correct a clubfoot? How do you correct a clubfoot? It would be like trying to straighten a hunchback, for example!”

Homais was pained, listening to this speech, and he concealed his suffering under an obsequious smile, since he needed to humor Monsieur Canivet, whose prescriptions sometimes came as far as Yonville; he therefore did not take up Bovary’s defense, but refrained from making any comment at all, and, abandoning his principles, sacrificed his dignity to the more serious interests of his business.

It was a considerable event in the village, this midthigh amputation by Doctor Canivet! All the inhabitants, that day, had risen earlier than usual, and the Grande-Rue, though full of people, had something ominous about it, as though an execution were about to take place. In the grocery, people were talking about Hippolyte’s illness; the shops were selling nothing; and Madame Tuvache, the mayor’s wife, did not budge from her window, so impatient was she to see the surgeon appear.

He arrived in his cabriolet, which he was driving himself. But because over time the springs on the right side had yielded under the weight of his corpulence, the carriage tipped a little to one side as it came on, and one could see, on the other cushion, next to him, an enormous chest covered in red sheep leather whose three brass fastenings shone magisterially.