Madame Bovary | Page 4

so
as to have our hands more free; we used from the door to toss them under the form, so
that they hit against the wall and made a lot of dust: it was "the thing."
But, whether he had not noticed the trick, or did not dare to attempt it, the "new fellow,"
was still holding his cap on his knees even after prayers were over. It was one of those
head-gears of composite order, in which we can find traces of the bearskin, shako,
billycock hat, sealskin cap, and cotton night-cap; one of those poor things, in fine, whose
dumb ugliness has depths of expression, like an imbecile's face. Oval, stiffened with
whalebone, it began with three round knobs; then came in succession lozenges of velvet
and rabbit-skin separated by a red band; after that a sort of bag that ended in a cardboard
polygon covered with complicated braiding, from which hung, at the end of a long thin
cord, small twisted gold threads in the manner of a tassel. The cap was new; its peak
shone.
"Rise," said the master.
He stood up; his cap fell. The whole class began to laugh. He stooped to pick it up. A
neighbor knocked it down again with his elbow; he picked it up once more.
"Get rid of your helmet," said the master, who was a bit of a wag.
There was a burst of laughter from the boys, which so thoroughly put the poor lad out of
countenance that he did not know whether to keep his cap in his hand, leave it on the
ground, or put it on his head. He sat down again and placed it on his knee.
"Rise," repeated the master, "and tell me your name."
The new boy articulated in a stammering voice an unintelligible name.
"Again!"
The same sputtering of syllables was heard, drowned by the tittering of the class.
"Louder!" cried the master; "louder!"
The "new fellow" then took a supreme resolution, opened an inordinately large mouth,

and shouted at the top of his voice as if calling someone in the word "Charbovari."
A hubbub broke out, rose in crescendo with bursts of shrill voices (they yelled, barked,
stamped, repeated "Charbovari! Charbovari"), then died away into single notes, growing
quieter only with great difficulty, and now and again suddenly recommencing along the
line of a form whence rose here and there, like a damp cracker going off, a stifled laugh.
However, amid a rain of impositions, order was gradually re-established in the class; and
the master having succeeded in catching the name of "Charles Bovary," having had it
dictated to him, spelt out, and re-read, at once ordered the poor devil to go and sit down
on the punishment form at the foot of the master's desk. He got up, but before going
hesitated.
"What are you looking for?" asked the master.
"My c-a-p," timidly said the "new fellow," casting troubled looks round him.
"Five hundred lines for all the class!" shouted in a furious voice stopped, like the Quos
ego*, a fresh outburst. "Silence!" continued the master indignantly, wiping his brow with
his handkerchief, which he had just taken from his cap. "As to you, 'new boy,' you will
conjugate 'ridiculus sum'** twenty times."
Then, in a gentler tone, "Come, you'll find your cap again; it hasn't been stolen."
*A quotation from the Aeneid signifying a threat.
**I am ridiculous.
Quiet was restored. Heads bent over desks, and the "new fellow" remained for two hours
in an exemplary attitude, although from time to time some paper pellet flipped from the
tip of a pen came bang in his face. But he wiped his face with one hand and continued
motionless, his eyes lowered.
In the evening, at preparation, he pulled out his pens from his desk, arranged his small
belongings, and carefully ruled his paper. We saw him working conscientiously, looking
up every word in the dictionary, and taking the greatest pains. Thanks, no doubt, to the
willingness he showed, he had not to go down to the class below. But though he knew his
rules passably, he had little finish in composition. It was the cure of his village who had
taught him his first Latin; his parents, from motives of economy, having sent him to
school as late as possible.
His father, Monsieur Charles Denis Bartolome Bovary, retired assistant-surgeon-major,
compromised about 1812 in certain conscription scandals, and forced at this time to leave
the service, had taken advantage of his fine figure to get hold of a dowry of sixty
thousand francs that offered in the person of a hosier's daughter who had fallen in love
with his good looks. A fine man, a great talker, making his spurs ring as he walked,
wearing whiskers that ran into