“Let us go on,” said Leon.

The old fellow started off again; then, having got back to the chapel of the Virgin, he stretched forth his arm with an all-embracing gesture of demonstration, and, prouder than a country squire showing you his espaliers, went on—­

“This simple stone covers Pierre de Breze, lord of Varenne and of Brissac, grand marshal of Poitou, and governor of Normandy, who died at the battle of Montlhery on the 16th of July, 1465.”

Leon bit his lips, fuming.

“And on the right, this gentleman all encased in iron, on the prancing horse, is his grandson, Louis de Breze, lord of Breval and of Montchauvet, Count de Maulevrier, Baron de Mauny, chamberlain to the king, Knight of the Order, and also governor of Normandy; died on the 23rd of July, 1531—­a Sunday, as the inscription specifies; and below, this figure, about to descend into the tomb, portrays the same person.  It is not possible, is it, to see a more perfect representation of annihilation?”

Madame Bovary put up her eyeglasses.  Leon, motionless, looked at her, no longer even attempting to speak a single word, to make a gesture, so discouraged was he at this two-fold obstinacy of gossip and indifference.

The everlasting guide went on—­

“Near him, this kneeling woman who weeps is his spouse, Diane de Poitiers, Countess de Breze, Duchess de Valentinois, born in 1499, died in 1566, and to the left, the one with the child is the Holy Virgin.  Now turn to this side; here are the tombs of the Ambroise.  They were both cardinals and archbishops of Rouen.  That one was minister under Louis XII.  He did a great deal for the cathedral.  In his will he left thirty thousand gold crowns for the poor.”

And without stopping, still talking, he pushed them into a chapel full of balustrades, some put away, and disclosed a kind of block that certainly might once have been an ill-made statue.

“Truly,” he said with a groan, “it adorned the tomb of Richard Coeur de Lion, King of England and Duke of Normandy.  It was the Calvinists, sir, who reduced it to this condition.  They had buried it for spite in the earth, under the episcopal seat of Monsignor.  See! this is the door by which Monsignor passes to his house.  Let us pass on quickly to see the gargoyle windows.”

But Leon hastily took some silver from his pocket and seized Emma’s arm.  The beadle stood dumfounded, not able to understand this untimely munificence when there were still so many things for the stranger to see.  So calling him back, he cried—­

“Sir! sir!  The steeple! the steeple!”

“No, thank you!” said Leon.

“You are wrong, sir!  It is four hundred and forty feet high, nine less than the great pyramid of Egypt.  It is all cast; it—­”

Leon was fleeing, for it seemed to him that his love, that for nearly two hours now had become petrified in the church like the stones, would vanish like a vapour through that sort of truncated funnel, of oblong cage, of open chimney that rises so grotesquely from the cathedral like the extravagant attempt of some fantastic brazier.