The Lemoine Affair Read Free Page A

can justify, has not
     seemed very fortunate; we have detected in it, or thought we did, let’s say, a faint
     whiff of mystification. Some people have even gone so far as to utter, not without
     some semblance of justification, the word “gamble.” Has Mr. Flaubert at least won
     this gamble? That is what we are about to examine in all candor, but without ever
     forgetting that the author is the son of a much to be lamented man whom we have all
     known, a professor at the École de Médecine in Rouen, who left his mark and his influence
     on his profession and in his province; or that this likeable son—whatever opinion
     you may proffer about what our over-hasty young are not afraid, boosted by friendship,
     to hail already as his “talent”—deserves, in any case, every consideration for the
     renowned simplicity of his narrations, always sure and perfectly executed—he, the
     very opposite of simplicity as soon as he picks up a pen!—by the refinement and invariable
     delicacy of his procedure.
    The narrative begins with a scene that, if it had been better directed, could have
     given us a rather favorable idea of Mr. Flaubert, in that immediate and unexpected
     genre of the sketch, the study drawn from reality. We are at the Palais de Justice,
     in the Criminal Court, where the Lemoine case is underway, during an adjournment of
     the hearing. The windows have just been closed by order of the magistrate. And here
     an eminent lawyer assures me that the magistrate would in fact not be sitting there,
     but would more naturally and properly have withdrawn to the council chamber during
     the adjournment. This of course is only a minor detail. But how do you, who have just
     told us (as if you had actually counted them!) the number of elephants and onagers
     in the Carthaginian army, how do you hope, I ask you, to have your word believed when,
     for a reality that is so nearby, so easily verifiable, so basic even and not in the
     least detailed, you commit such blunders! But we’ll move on: the author wanted an
     opportunity to describe the magistrate, and he didn’t let one escape him. This magistrate
     has “a clown’s face” (which is enough to make the reader lose interest), “a gown too
     narrow for his girth” (a rather clumsy characterization that portrays nothing), “aspirations
     to wit.” We’ll again overlook the clown’s face! The author is of a school that never
     sees anything noble or decent in humanity. Mr. Flaubert, however, a thorough Norman
     if ever there was one, comes from a land of subtle chicanery and lofty cunning that
     has given France quite a few prominent lawyers and magistrates, I don’t want to single
     outanyone here. Without even limiting ourselves to the boundaries of Normandy, the image
     of a magistrate such as Jeannin about whom Mr. Villemain has given us more than one
     delicate description, of a Mathieu Marais, a Saumaise, a Bouhier, even of the pleasant
     Patru, of one of these men who are distinguished by the wisdom of their advice and
     who are of such compelling merit, would be as interesting, I believe, and as true
     as that of the magistrate with “a clown’s face” who is shown to us here. Enough about
     the clown’s face! But if he has “aspirations to wit,” how do you know about it, since
     he hasn’t even opened his mouth yet? Similarly, a little later on, the author will
     point out to us, among the crowd he describes, a “reactionary.” That is a common enough
     designation today. But here, I ask Mr. Flaubert again: “A reactionary? How can you
     recognize one at a distance? Who told you? How do you know about it?” The author evidently
     is amusing himself, and all these characteristics are invented on a whim. But that’s
     nothing yet; we’ll go on. The author continues portraying the public, or rather purely
     chosen “models” he has grouped together in his studio at his leisure: “Taking an orange
     out of his pocket, a black