This novel is, at heart, a story of desire and obsession. A young student, Frederic Moreau, catches a moment with the older Madame Arnoux, while traveling home to Nogent-sur-Seine on a steamship. It would begin a lifelong infatuation with the married lady. The novel’s plot, set by Flaubert in early nineteenth century Paris, intertwines the politics and intrigues of the post-Bourbon Restoration through the Revolution of 1848 and its aftermath.
Frederic lets his life be steered by fate and a certain capricious flippancy. “He asked himself in all seriousness whether he was to be a great painter or a great poet; and he decided in favour of painting, for the demands of the profession would bring him closer to Madame Arnoux. So he had found his vocation!” Living in Paris, ostensibly to study law, Frederic gradually ingratiates his way into Monsieur Arnoux’s circle of artists and republican radicals. But all the while he dreams of Madame. He lives for their brief, often silent, interactions. “He loved her without reservation, without hope, unconditionally; and in those mute transports, which were like bursts of gratitude, he would have liked to cover her forehead with a shower of kisses.” Even as Frederic gains an inheritance, which sets him up comfortably, if modestly, for life, he seems to float about with no set course, save for his fixation on Madame Arnoux. Speaking to her husband, Frederic can’t help exclaim, “What can a fellow do in an age of decadence like ours? Great painting has gone out of fashion. Besides, you can put a bit of art into every sphere of life. You know how devoted I am to the cause of beauty!” Frederic also becomes involved in all of the political intrigues floating around Parisian circles. Having no firm opinions of his own, he mixes easily with the old aristocracy, the capitalists, the republican reformers, and the socialist radicals alike. “Some people have got logs in their fireplace, truffles on their table, a comfortable bed, a library, a carriage, every luxury. If somebody else has to shiver in a garret, dine for a franc, work like a black, and flounder in poverty—is that their fault?” Stymied in his true love, Frederic distracts himself with minor flings. “He felt that something irreparable had just happened, and that he had lost his great love. And the other woman was there beside him, the happy, easy love! Tired out, full of contradictory desires, and no longer even knowing what he wanted, he felt an infinite melancholy, a longing to die.” Of course, Frederic could never get Madame Arnoux out of his mind. Every chance encounter with her stirred up his dormant passions in a way nothing else could. “She had not held out her hand to him, had not said a single affectionate word, had not even invited him to come and see her; but in spite of all that, he would not have exchanged this meeting for the most wonderful adventures, and he savoured its sweetness as he continued on his way.”
In February 1848, Paris burns, the National Guard sides with the people, and the monarchy is sent fleeing. “The people, less out of vengeance than from a desire to assert its supremacy, tore up curtains, smashed mirrors, chandeliers, sconces, tables, chairs, stools—everything that was moveable, right down to albums of drawings and needlework baskets. They were the victors, so surely they were entitled to enjoy themselves. The rabble draped themselves mockingly in lace and cashmere.” As early as June, the tables turn—the National Guard brutally suppresses the radical workers’ rebellion and conservative elements reestablish control of Paris and the country. “Despite their victory, equality—as if to punish its defenders and ridicule its enemies—asserted itself triumphantly: an equality of brute beasts, a common level of bloody atrocities; for the fanaticism of the rich counterbalanced the frenzy of the poor, the aristocracy shared the fury of the rabble, and the cotton nightcap was just as savage as the red bonnet. The public’s reason was deranged as if by some great natural upheaval. Intelligent men lost their sanity for the rest of their lives.” Frederic navigates these political storms distractedly, as he broodingly tries to steer his own affairs of love. He embarks on a handful of serious affairs. He honestly attempts to replace the place in his heart held by Madame Arnoux. To no avail. “Women’s hearts were like those desks full of secret drawers that fit one inside another; you struggle with them, you break your fingernails, and at the bottom you find a withered flower, a little dust, or nothing at all! Perhaps he was afraid too of finding out too much.”
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