“And who would be surprised at it, gentlemen?  He only who is so blind, so plunged (I do not fear to say it), so plunged in the prejudices of another age as still to misunderstand the spirit of agricultural populations.  Where, indeed, is to be found more patriotism than in the country, greater devotion to the public welfare, more intelligence, in a word?  And, gentlemen, I do not mean that superficial intelligence, vain ornament of idle minds, but rather that profound and balanced intelligence that applies itself above all else to useful objects, thus contributing to the good of all, to the common amelioration and to the support of the state, born of respect for law and the practice of duty—­”

“Ah! again!” said Rodolphe.  “Always ‘duty.’  I am sick of the word.  They are a lot of old blockheads in flannel vests and of old women with foot-warmers and rosaries who constantly drone into our ears ’Duty, duty!’ Ah! by Jove! one’s duty is to feel what is great, cherish the beautiful, and not accept all the conventions of society with the ignominy that it imposes upon us.”

“Yet—­yet—­” objected Madame Bovary.

“No, no!  Why cry out against the passions?  Are they not the one beautiful thing on the earth, the source of heroism, of enthusiasm, of poetry, music, the arts, of everything, in a word?”

“But one must,” said Emma, “to some extent bow to the opinion of the world and accept its moral code.”

“Ah! but there are two,” he replied.  “The small, the conventional, that of men, that which constantly changes, that brays out so loudly, that makes such a commotion here below, of the earth earthly, like the mass of imbeciles you see down there.  But the other, the eternal, that is about us and above, like the landscape that surrounds us, and the blue heavens that give us light.”

Monsieur Lieuvain had just wiped his mouth with a pocket-handkerchief.  He continued—­

“And what should I do here gentlemen, pointing out to you the uses of agriculture?  Who supplies our wants?  Who provides our means of subsistence?  Is it not the agriculturist?  The agriculturist, gentlemen, who, sowing with laborious hand the fertile furrows of the country, brings forth the corn, which, being ground, is made into a powder by means of ingenious machinery, comes out thence under the name of flour, and from there, transported to our cities, is soon delivered at the baker’s, who makes it into food for poor and rich alike.  Again, is it not the agriculturist who fattens, for our clothes, his abundant flocks in the pastures?  For how should we clothe ourselves, how nourish ourselves, without the agriculturist?  And, gentlemen, is it even necessary to go so far for examples?  Who has not frequently reflected on all the momentous things that we get out of that modest animal, the ornament of poultry-yards, that provides us at once with a soft pillow for our bed, with succulent flesh for our tables, and eggs?  But I should never end if I were to enumerate one after the other all the different products which the earth, well cultivated, like a generous mother, lavishes upon her children.  Here it is the vine, elsewhere the apple tree for cider, there colza, farther on cheeses and flax.  Gentlemen, let us not forget flax, which has made such great strides of late years, and to which I will more particularly call your attention.”