Madame Bovary Page #5

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He'll do it. I'll talk to him.

- Have you said anything to him yet?|- No, but I will.

- You're afraid he can't do it?|- No, no, not at all.

Why, any physician... It's simple surgery.

It's merely a matter|of following directions.

It has been done, hasn't it?

Well, I won't say that it's been done,|but the method has been perfected.

Madame Bovary, it is typical

of the threshold|of the great advances of science.

First, the method. Second, the practice.|This is inspiration.

- You'll help him? You'll find all the books...|- Help him?

I shall devote every waking moment|to this great project.

Charles, you'd be famous.|You'd be known and respected.

And Homais will help you.

- He's finding more articles about it now.|- Where?

Where's he looking for them?|In some butcher's catalog?

- Charles Bovary, the butcher of Yonville.|- Why do you want to talk like that?

Because I don't want to talk about it at all.

Emma, I don't say that it can't be done.|Perhaps. How do I know?

But I do say that for me to attempt|an operation like this would be butchery.

How many times have I told you|that I am no surgeon?

I'm not even a good doctor.

I have a right to be a doctor|just as long as I know my limitations.

Why did you ever think up|something like this?

Do you want me to love you or don't you?

What?

Don't you understand that I'm trying?

I know you love me.|I know you're good to me.

Oh, I'd rather you were worthless|and dashing and brutal

and that you'd strike any man|who looked at me.

Emma, this is storybook.

Oh, I don't want you like that.|I don't expect it of you.

But if only you could be famous.

If you could be the kind of man|who wears the Legion of Honor.

Charles, you could push me aside|and ignore me, but how I could love you.

This is still storybook.

I can't help it. It's how I am.

Save me, Charles.

- Save me, before I...|- Before what?

I don't know. I don't know.

Dr. Bovary is your benefactor.|This isn't costing you a sou.

Look, the whole village is cheering you.|Already you're a famous case.

You'll be a hero to Yonville, to all France.

- And if...|- Leave him alone.

I don't want to be a hero.

What are you afraid of? You'll feel no pain.

Well, practically no pain at all.

A mere snip, no worse than the extraction|of certain corns.

But how jolly and brisk|you'll feel afterwards.

And how much handsomer you'll be.

Come, come, man. Where is your vanity?

You want to be rid|of that hideous deformity, don't you, eh?

And be like other people? Yes, indeed.

And what a fine figure you'll cut|strolling around, huh?

And how you'll please the ladies.

Who knows but what you may be dancing|with the girls

at the next village festivities, huh?

Oh, you'll be a gay dog, a gay dog.

I can see now there'll be no stopping you.

I'm gonna dance with the girls.

Go on, Hyppolite, I'm not able to cure you.|Go on back to work.

- What are you doing?|- Let go of him.

Dr. Bovary.

There'll be no operation.|If I'm a blunderer, all right,

but I'll not make him or anyone else|the victim of my blunders.

- Fool.|- You disgrace our village.

What happened?

Charles? The operation?

I...

I didn't perform it.

How could she have gone riding?|I have the horse.

She... Monsieur Lheureux,|the linen-draper,

he brought her a horse this morning.

I believe she bought it.

- Oh, Charles.|- Where have you been?

- Riding. I tried to come in quietly, but...|- Why?

Oh, I don't know.|I have a headache, the riding.

Some other time.

- You bought a horse.|- I'll pay for it myself. I'll use my dowry.

- Your dowry's all gone.|- I don't want to talk...

Where did you go?

Do I have to come in and report to you?|Am I a child? Can't I leave the house?

I can't have this, I can't have that.

Emma, look at me.|Don't go away from me.

- I'm so tired.|- I don't care about the money.

I know you don't, Charles.

Please. I love you so much, Emma.|You know I love you.

I know you do, Charles.|I know you do. Good night.

Please.

It's almost noon.

Oh, why must it always be|time to go home?

You, I know. You're glad.

You want to call your dogs|and go back to your hunting.

- The pheasants are excellent this year.|- Oh, you beast.

I could take my revenge on you, Rodolphe.|You know I could.

I could straighten up this room.

The way you live,|with everything piled every which way.

Guns and boots and pipes|and magazines and books.

- I like it.|- What a woman could do to this house.

Oh, I know what a woman|could do to this house.

She could destroy it.

And you, you witch,|if the woman were you...

I'm in love.|Like a silly schoolboy, I'm falling in love.

That this should have happened to me.

- Oh, Rodolphe.|- I'm bewitched.

I'm losing my interest in pheasant.

I wake up in the morning.

Do I think of my best hunter|that went lame?

No, I think of you crossing the fields,|and hope you aren't seen.

I'm losing my senses. You possess me.|You possess my house.

You know every corner of it|as if it were yours.

I detest this intrusion.

I adore my bachelor privacy,

but I adore you more.

Oh, Rodolphe, Rodolphe.

Am I joking?

Your letters.

- And what are these?|- Other letters.

Saint Petersburg, Rome.

Paris.

I kept souvenirs when I was young.|Now I no longer bother.

- I don't like it, Rodolphe.|- It's my life. I do.

- Don't torture me.|- Don't destroy me.

Tomorrow?

Isn't that wonderful?

A new spread and a new nightgown, yes.

- Hello, darling.|- Isn't she a sweetie pie?

I'll put her to bed.

- But I always...|- Is she my child or isn't she?

- But she's used to...|- Hello, darling. Oh, there, darling.

Darling, darling, it's just Mommy.|Oh, we take her shoes off, huh?

We take the shoes off. Oh, darling.

Here, Mommy will sing to you.

Oh, no, darling, darling.

Felicite. Felicite!

Oh, baby, baby.

Let me put that on you.

Here it is.

Sunset. They go down for water.

- Would you take me away, Rodolphe?|- We've a few more minutes.

No, I meant, away.

You and I, Rodolphe,

someplace, somewhere|where it's only ourselves,

and we'd never have to go home.

I don't want to go home.

We could never come back, Emma.

Your...

Your husband.

I can't face him. I can't look at him.|I go home and I...

Your child?

This is where dreams leave off, Emma.

You know how we'd live.|We couldn't take her with us.

I know.

How long can I pretend|that I have any right to her?

I lost her, Rodolphe. I lost her to Charles.

I've even lost her to my servant.

But, Madame Bovary,|two traveling trunks and traveling clothes,

an entire southern wardrobe...

These notes,|nothing yet paid on these notes.

But you renewed them for me,|at twice the interest.

Surely, surely.

But I am a business man,|and I must consider the risk.

There isn't any risk.

I'm going to Italy. I'm taking a holiday.

Of course.

Why don't I just speak|to your husband about it?

- No.|- Isn't your husband going?

He's busy.

- His practice...|- I see.

Of course, if some reputable gentleman|were willing to countersign these notes,

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