“He for the first time enjoyed the inexpressible delicacy of feminine refinements.  He had never met this grace of language, this reserve of clothing, these poses of the weary dove.  He admired the exaltation of her soul and the lace on her petticoat.  Besides, was she not ‘a lady’ and a married woman—­a real mistress, in fine?”

This, gentlemen, is a description which leaves nothing to be desired, I hope, from the point of view of conviction.  Here is another, or rather here is the continuation of the same scene: 

“She used some words which inflamed him, with some kisses which drew forth his soul.  Where had she learned these caresses almost immaterial, so profound and evasive were they?”

Oh!  I well understand, gentlemen, the disgust inspired in her by that husband who wished to embrace her upon her return; I comprehend admirably that after a rendezvous of this kind, she felt with horror at night, “that man against her flesh stretched out asleep.”

That is not all, for according to the last tableau that I cannot omit, she came to be weary of her voluptuousness.

“She was constantly promising herself a profound felicity on her next journey.  Then she confessed to herself that she felt nothing extraordinary.  This disappointment quickly gave way to a new hope, and Emma returned to him more inflamed, more eager than ever.  She undressed hastily, tearing off the thin laces of her corset that nestled around her hips like a gliding snake.  She went on tip-toe, barefooted, to see once more that the door was closed; then, pale, serious, and without speaking, with one movement she threw herself upon his breast with a long shudder.”

I notice here two things, gentlemen, an admirable picture, the product of a talented hand, but an execrable picture from a moral point of view.  Yes, M. Flaubert knows how to embellish his paintings with all the resources of art, but without the discretion of art.  With him there is no gauze, no veils, it is nature in all her nudity, in all her crudity!

Still another quotation: 

“They knew one another too well for any of those surprises of possession that increase its joys a hundred-fold.  She was as sick of him as he was weary of her.  Emma found again in adultery all the platitudes of marriage.”

The platitudes of marriage and the poetry of adultery!  Sometimes it is the pollution of marriage, sometimes the platitudes, but always the poetry of adultery.  These, gentlemen, are the situations which M. Flaubert loves to paint, and which, unfortunately, he paints only too well.

I have related three scenes:  the scene with Rodolphe, and you have seen the fall in the forest, the glorification of adultery, and this woman whose beauty became greater with this poesy.  I have spoken of the religious transition, and you saw there a prayer imprinted with adulterous language.  I have spoken of the second fall, I have unrolled before you the scenes which took place with Leon.  I have shown you the scene of the cab—­suppressed—­and I have shown you the picture of the room and the bed.  Now that we believe your convictions are formed, we come to the last scene,—­that of the punishment.