“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, Léon, 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 Léon 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