The idea of seeing again the place where his youth had been spent no doubt excited him, for during the whole journey he never ceased talking, and as soon as he had arrived, he jumped quickly out of the diligence to go in search of Leon.  In vain the clerk tried to get rid of him.  Monsieur Homais dragged him off to the large Cafe de la Normandie, which he entered majestically, not raising his hat, thinking it very provincial to uncover in any public place.

Emma waited for Leon three quarters of an hour.  At last she ran to his office; and, lost in all sorts of conjectures, accusing him of indifference, and reproaching herself for her weakness, she spent the afternoon, her face pressed against the window-panes.

At two o’clock they were still at a table opposite each other.  The large room was emptying; the stove-pipe, in the shape of a palm-tree, spread its gilt leaves over the white ceiling, and near them, outside the window, in the bright sunshine, a little fountain gurgled in a white basin, where; in the midst of watercress and asparagus, three torpid lobsters stretched across to some quails that lay heaped up in a pile on their sides.

Homais was enjoying himself.  Although he was even more intoxicated with the luxury than the rich fare, the Pommard wine all the same rather excited his faculties; and when the omelette au rhum* appeared, he began propounding immoral theories about women.  What seduced him above all else was chic.  He admired an elegant toilette in a well-furnished apartment, and as to bodily qualities, he didn’t dislike a young girl.

     * In rum.

Leon watched the clock in despair.  The druggist went on drinking, eating, and talking.

“You must be very lonely,” he said suddenly, “here at Rouen.  To be sure your lady-love doesn’t live far away.”

And the other blushed—­

“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, Leon, 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 Leon 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.