Chapter 1
We were in class when the head-master camein， followed by a “new fellow，”not wearing the school uniform， and a school servant carrying a large desk.Those who had been asleep woke up， and everyone rose as if just surprised athis work.
The head-master made a sign to us to sitdown. Then， turning to the class-master， he said to him in a low voice： “Monsieur Roger， here is a pupil whom I recommend to your care； he'll be in the second. If his work and conduct are satisfactory， hewill go into one of the upper classes， as becomes his age.”
The “new fellow，” standing in the corner behind the door so that he could hardly beseen， was a country lad of about fifteen， and taller than any of us. His hairwas cut square on his forehead like a village chorister's； he looked sensible， but very ill at ease. Although he was notbroad-shouldered， his short school jacket of green cloth with black buttonsmust have been tight about the arm-holes， and showed at the opening of thecuffs red wrists accustomed to being bare. His legs， in blue stockings， lookedout from beneath yellow trousers， drawn tight by braces； He wore stout，ill-cleaned， hob-nailed boots.
We began repeating the lesson. He listenedwith all his ears， as attentive as if at a sermon， not daring even to cross hislegs or lean on his elbow； and when at two o'clock thebell rang， the master was obliged to tell him to fall into line with the restof us.
When we came back to work， we were in thehabit of throwing our caps on the ground so as to have our hands more free； weused from the door to toss them under the form， so that they hit against thewall and made a lot of dust： it was “the thing”.
But， whether he had not noticed the trick， ordid not dare to attempt it， the “new fellow，” was still holding his cap on his knees even after prayers wereover. It was one of those head-gears of composite order， in which we can findtraces of the bearskin， shako， billycock hat， sealskin cap， and cottonnight-cap； one of those poor things， in fine， whose dumb ugliness has depths ofexpression， like an imbecile's face. Oval， stiffenedwith whalebone， it began with three round knobs； then came in successionlozenges of velvet and rabbit-skin separated by a red band； after that a sortof 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 inthe manner of a tassel. The cap was new； its peak shone.
“Rise，” said themaster.
He stood up； his cap fell. The whole classbegan to laugh. He stooped to pick it up. A neighbor knocked it down again withhis 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 oflaughter from the boys， which so thoroughly put the poor lad out of countenancethat he did not know whether to keep his cap in his hand， leave it on theground， or put it on his head. He sat down again and placed it on his knee.
“Rise，” repeated themaster， “and tell me your name.”
The new boy articulated in a stammering voicean unintelligible name.
“Again！”
The same sputtering of syllables was heard，drowned by the tittering of the class.
“Louder！” cried themaster； “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 withbursts of shrill voices (they yelled， barked， stamped， repeated “Charbovari！ Charbovari”)， then died awayinto single notes， growing quieter only with great difficulty， and now andagain suddenly recommencing along the line of a form whence rose here andthere， like a damp cracker going off， a stifled laugh.
However， amid a rain of impositions， orderwas gradually reestablished in the class； and the master having succeeded incatching the name of “Charles Bovary”， having had it dictated to him， spelt out， and reread， at onceordered the poor devil to go and sit down on the punishment form at the foot ofthe master's desk. He got up， but before going hesitated.
“What are you looking for？” asked the master.
“My c-a-p，” timidlysaid the “new fellow，” castingtroubled looks round him.
“Five hundred lines for all the class！” shouted in a furious voice stopped， like the Quos ego， a freshoutburst. “Silence！” continuedthe master indignantly， wiping his brow with his handkerchief， which he hadjust 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 beenstolen.”
Quiet was restored. Heads bent over desks，and the “new fellow” remainedfor two hours in an exemplary attitude， although from time to time some paperpellet flipped from the tip of a pen came bang in his face. But he wiped hisface with one hand and continued motionless， his eyes lowered.
In the evening， at preparation， he pulled outhis pens from his desk， arranged his small belongings， and carefully ruled hispaper. We saw him working conscientiously， looking up every word in thedictionary， and taking the greatest pains. Thanks， no doubt， to the willingnesshe showed， he had not to go down to the class below. But though he knew hisrules passably， he had little finish in composition. It was the curé 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 BartolomeBovary， retired assistant-surgeon-major， compromised about 1812 in certainconion scandals， and forced at this time to leave the service， had thentaken advantage of his fine figure to get hold of a dowry of sixty thousandfrancs that offered in the person of a hosier'sdaughter who had fallen in love with his good looks. A fine man， a greattalker， making his spurs ring as he walked， wearing whiskers that ran into hismoustache， his fingers always garnished with rings and dressed in loud colours，he had the dash of a military man with the easy go of a commercial traveller.Once married， he lived for three or four years on his wife's fortune， dining well， rising late， smoking long porcelain pipes，not coming in at night till after the theatre， and haunting cafes. Thefather-in-law died， leaving little； he was indignant at this， “went in for the business，” lost some moneyin it， then retired to the country， where he thought he would make money.
But， as he knew no more about farming thancalico， as he rode his horses instead of sending them to plough， drank hiscider in bottle instead of selling it in cask， ate the finest poultry in hisfarmyard， and greased his hunting-boots with the fat of his pigs， he was notlong in finding out that he would do better to give up all speculation.
For two hundred francs a year he managed tofind on the border of the provinces of Caux and Picardy， a kind of place halffarm， half private house； and here， soured， eaten up with regrets， cursing hisluck， jealous of everyone， he shut himself up at the age of forty-five， sick ofmen， he said， and determined to live in peace.
His wife had adored him once on a time； shehad bored him with a thousand servilities that had only estranged him the more.Lively once， expansive and affectionate， in growing older she had become (afterthe fashion of wine that， exposed to air， turns to vinegar) ill-tempered，grumbling， irritable. She had suffered so much without complaint at first，until she had seem him going after all the village drabs， and until a score ofbad houses sent him back to her at night， weary， stinking drunk. Then her priderevolted. After that she was silent， burying her anger in a dumb stoicism thatshe maintained till her death. She was constantly going about looking afterbusiness matters. She called on the lawyers， the president， remembered whenbills fell due， got them renewed， and at home ironed， sewed， washed， lookedafter the workmen， paid the accounts， while he， troubling himself aboutnothing， eternally besotted in sleepy sulkiness， whence he only roused himselfto say disagreeable things to her， sat smoking by the fire and spitting intothe cinders.