Flaubert, Zola, and The Incorporation of Disciplinary Knowledge

Flaubert, Zola, and
the Incorporation of
Disciplinary Knowledge
Larry Duffy
Flaubert, Zola, and the Incorporation
of Disciplinary Knowledge
Palgrave Studies in Modern European Literature
Published in association with the Centre for Modern European Literature,

University of Kent, UK
Series Editors: Thomas Baldwin, Ben Hutchinson and
Shane Weller
Editorial Advisory Board: Brian Boyd, Michael Caesar, Claus Clüver, Patrick
ffrench, Alison Finch, Robert Gordon, Karen Leeder, Marjorie Perloff, Jean-
Michel Rabaté, Andrew Michael Roberts, Ritchie Robertson, Hubert van den Berg
Many of the most significant modern European writers and literary movements
have traversed national, linguistic and disciplinary borders. Palgrave Studies in
Modern European Literature is dedicated to publishing works that take account
of these various kinds of border crossing. Areas covered by the series include
European Romanticism, the avant-garde, modernism and postmodernism, liter-
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tific) upon modern European literature.
Titles include:
Anna Katharina Schaffner and Shane Weller (editors)
MODERNIST EROTICISMS: European Literature After Sexology
Thomas Baldwin, James Fowler and Ana de Medeiros (editors)
QUESTIONS OF INFLUENCE IN MODERN FRENCH LITERATURE
Ros Murray
ANTONIN ARTAUD: The Scum of the Soul
David Williams
WRITING POSTCOMMUNISM
Towards a Literature of the East European Ruins
Palgrave Studies in Modern European Literature

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Flaubert, Zola, and
the Incorporation of
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Larry Duffy
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Duffy, Larry.
Flaubert, Zola and the Incorporation of Disciplinary Knowledge / Larry Duffy.
pages cm. — (Palgrave Studies in Modern European Literature)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
1. French literature—19th century—History and criticism. 2. Knowledge,

Theory of, in literature. 3. Human body in literature. 4. Flaubert,
Gustave, 1821–1880—Criticism and interpretation. 5. Zola, Émile,
1840–1902—Criticism and interpretation. I. Title.
PQ298.D85 2014
840.9'008—dc23 2014026514
Typeset by MPS Limited, Chennai, India.

A la mémoire de
M. M. DUFFY, Institutrice
et de
D. J. DUFFY, Pharmacien-Chimiste à Derry (Irlande du Nord)
Les engrais doivent être complétés par l’addition des matières qui leur
manquent.
– Flaubert, note from A. de Gasparin, Cours d’agriculture (1860)
Messieurs, le Roi! Mais non, c’est le Doyen.

– Fabre (‘Le Phocéen’), L’Orfilaïde (1836)
Il est indifférent que le fait générateur soit reconnu comme absolument vrai; ce
fait sera surtout une hypothèse scientifique, empruntée aux traités médicaux.
Mais lorsque ce fait sera posé, lorsque je l’aurai accepté comme un axiome, en
déduire mathématiquement tout le volume, et être alors d’une absolue vérité.
– Zola, letter to Albert Lacroix, 1868
[J]amais il n’avait eu si grande joie de se voir imprimé depuis le jour de sa

thèse inaugurale…
– Flaubert, plan for Madame Bovary
Contents
Series Editors’ Preface viii

Acknowledgements xii
Author’s Note xiv
List of Abbreviations xv
Note on Translations xvi
Note on Manuscripts and Transcriptions xvii
Introduction: Knowledge, Incorporated 1

Part I Flaubert and Professional Incorporations
1 Madame Bovary and the Incorporation of Pharmacy 35
2 Medical and Literary Discourses of Disciplinary Struggle
and Regulation 63
Part II Flaubert, le corps redressé
3 Diagnosing the Aveugle, Correcting the Body: Ophthalmia
and Orthopaedics 95
4 Correcting the Aveugle: Monstrosity, Aliénisme,
and the Haunting of the Social Body 121
Part III Zola: Professional, Pathological, and Therapeutic
Incorporations
5 La Bête humaine and the Incorporation of Psychiatry: du
monstre lombrosien à l’anormal zolien, de la mécanique
à la thermodynamique 155
6 Textual Healing: Le Docteur Pascal’s Incorporation
of Hypodermic Therapy 194
Conclusion: Taxidermy, Taxonomy, and l’esthétique naturaliste 218
Notes 230
Bibliography 239
Index 252
vii
Series Editors’ Preface
Many of the most significant European writers and literary movements

in the modern period have traversed national, linguistic and disciplinary
borders. The principal aim of the Palgrave Studies in Modern European
Literature series is to create a forum for work that takes account of
these border crossings, and that engages with individual writers, gen-
res, topoi and literary movements in a manner that does justice to
their location within European artistic, political and philosophical
contexts. Of course, the title of this series immediately raises a number
of questions, at once historical, geo-political and literary-philosophical:
What are the parameters of the modern? What is to be understood as
European, both politically and culturally? And what distinguishes lit-
erature within these historical and geo-political limits from other forms
of discourse?
These three questions are interrelated. Not only does the very idea
of the modern vary depending on the European national tradition
within which its definition is attempted, but the concept of literature
in the modern sense is also intimately connected to the emergence
and consolidation of the European nation-states, to increasing secu-
larization, urbanization, industrialization and bureaucratization, to
the Enlightenment project and its promise of emancipation from
nature through reason and science, to capitalism and imperialism, to
the liberal-democratic model of government, to the separation of the
private and public spheres, to the new form taken by the university, and
to changing conceptions of both space and time as a result of techno-
logical innovations in the fields of travel and communication.
Taking first the question of when the modern may be said to com-
mence within a European context, if one looks to a certain Germanic
tradition shaped by Friedrich Nietzsche in The Birth of Tragedy (1872),
then it might be said to commence with the first ‘theoretical man’,
namely Socrates. According to this view, the modern would include
everything that comes after the pre-Socratics and the first two great
Attic tragedians, Aeschylus and Sophocles, with Euripides being the first
modern writer. A rather more limited sense of the modern, also derived
from the Germanic world, sees the Neuzeit as originating in the late
fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries. Jakob Burckhardt, Nietzsche’s
colleague at the University of Basel, identified the states of Renaissance
viii
Series Editors’ Preface ix
Italy as prototypes for both modern European politics and modern

European cultural production. However, Italian literary modernity
might also be seen as having commenced two hundred years earlier,
with the programmatic adoption of the vernacular by its foremost rep-
resentatives, Dante and Petrarch.
In France, the modern might either be seen as beginning at the turn of
the seventeenth to the eighteenth century, with the so-called ‘Querelle
des anciens et des modernes’ in the 1690s, or later still, with the French
Revolution of 1789, while the Romantic generation of the 1830s might
equally be identified as an origin, given that Chateaubriand is often
credited with having coined the term modernité in 1833. Across the
Channel, meanwhile, the origins of literary modernity might seem
different again. With the Renaissance being seen as ‘Early Modern’,
everything thereafter might seem to fall within the category of the
modern, although in fact the term ‘modern’ within a literary context
is generally reserved for the literature that comes after mid-nineteenth-
century European realism. This latter sense of the modern is also present
in the early work of Roland Barthes, who in Writing Degree Zero (1953)
asserts that modern literature commences in the 1850s, when the
literary becomes explicitly self-reflexive, not only addressing its own
status as literature but also concerning itself with the nature of language
and the possibilities of representation.
In adopting a view of the modern as it pertains to literature that is
more or less in line with Barthes’s periodization, while also acknowledg-
ing that this periodization is liable to exceptions and limitations, the
present series does not wish to conflate the modern with, nor to limit
it to, modernism and postmodernism. Rather, the aim is to encourage
work that highlights differences in the conception of the modern –
differences that emerge out of distinct linguistic, national and cultural
spheres within Europe – and to prompt further reflection on why it
should be that the concept of the modern has become such a critical
issue in ‘modern’ European culture, be it aligned with Enlightenment
progress, with the critique of Enlightenment thinking, with decadence,
with radical renewal, or with a sense of belatedness.
Turning to the question of the European, the very idea of modern
literature arises in conjunction with the establishment of the European
nation-states. When European literatures are studied at university,
they are generally taught within national and linguistic parameters:
English, French, German, Italian, Scandinavian, Slavic and Eastern
European, and Spanish literature. Even if such disciplinary distinc-
tions have their pedagogical justifications, they render more difficult
x Series Editors’ Preface
an appreciation of the ways in which modern European literature

is shaped in no small part by intellectual and artistic traffic across
national and linguistic borders: to grasp the nature of the European
avant-gardes or of high modernism, for instance, one has to consider
the relationship between distinct national or linguistic traditions.
While not limiting itself to one methodological approach, the present
series is designed precisely to encourage the study of individual writers
and literary movements within their European context. Furthermore,
it seeks to promote research that engages with the very definition of the
European in its relation to literature, including changing conceptions
of centre and periphery, of Eastern and Western Europe, and how these
might bear upon questions of literary translation, dissemination and
reception.
As for the third key term in the series title – literature – the forma-
tion of this concept is intimately related both to the European and
to the modern. While Sir Philip Sidney in the late sixteenth century,
Martin Opitz in the seventeenth, and Shelley in the early nineteenth
produce their apologies for, or defences of, ‘poetry’, it is within the
general category of ‘literature’ that the genres of poetry, drama and
prose fiction have come to be contained in the modern period. Since
the Humboldtian reconfiguration of the university in the nineteenth
century, the fate of literature has been closely bound up with that
particular institution, as well as with emerging ideas of the canon and
tradition. However one defines it, modernity has both propagated and
problematized the historical legacy of the Western literary tradition.
While, as Jacques Derrida argues, it may be that in all European lan-
guages the history and theorization of the literary necessarily emerges
out of a common Latinate legacy – the very word ‘literature’ deriving
from the Latin littera (letter) – it is nonetheless the case that within a
modern European context the literary has taken on an extraordinarily
diverse range of forms. Traditional modes of representation have been
subverted through parody and pastiche, or abandoned altogether; gen-
res have been mixed; the limits of language have been tested; indeed,
the concept of literature itself has been placed in question.
With all of the above in mind, the present series wishes to promote
work that engages with any aspect of modern European literature (be it
a literary movement, an individual writer, a genre, a particular topos)
within its European context, that addresses questions of translation,
dissemination and reception (both within Europe and beyond), that
considers the relations between modern European literature and the
Series Editors’ Preface xi
other arts, that analyses the impact of other discourses (philosophical,

political, scientific) upon that literature, and, above all, that takes each
of those three terms – modern, European and literature – not as givens,
but as invitations, even provocations, to further reflection.
Thomas Baldwin
Ben Hutchinson
Shane Weller
Acknowledgements
This book has been a long time in its incorporation. There are a number
of people and institutions without whom it certainly would not exist
in its current shape and form. Its initiation and pursuit has been linked
with employment at the University of Queensland and the University
of Kent. It was early during my time at the first of these two institutions
that I had a number of conversations with Peter Cryle, then director of
the Centre for the History of European Discourses, about how a genetic
approach to discursive corpora could be complemented and enhanced
by a genealogical one. This was the starting point for the present work.
I would also like to thank Peter for his support in applications for travel
grants for conference attendance and research during its early stages,
and for advising Michael Davis, also of CHED, to send me a book on
pharmacy during the Revolution and Empire to review. The book in
question pointed me in the direction of Cadet de Gassicourt, and led to
the discovery of Guillaume Dubuc (both discussed in Chapters 1 and 2).
I would like to thank its author, Jonathan Simon, for providing me with
a transcription of a letter from the editors of the Bulletin de Pharmacie
to the Société de Pharmacie de Paris (discussed in Chapter 1), and for
clarification regarding its likely date.
I would like to acknowledge the Centre for the Interdisciplinary Study
of Sexuality and Gender in Europe at the University of Exeter, which,
under its then director, Lisa Downing, facilitated – through its partner-
ship in an international collaborative research travel grant from the
University of Queensland – a research visit to the UK in 2008, and a
platform for work in progress. I would also like to thank David Houston
Jones at Exeter for his involvement in that collaborative venture. An
earlier visit to Exeter was part-funded by the School of Languages and
Comparative Cultural Studies at the University of Queensland.
Other sources of financial support I would like to acknowledge are
the University of Queensland, for Early Career Researcher funding
which facilitated travel to Paris in 2004–5 and 2006, and the Australian
Academy of the Humanities, for a Humanities Travelling Fellowship
which allowed me to spend a month in Paris in 2007–8. I would like
again to thank the University of Queensland for funding a Special
Study Programme in Paris for the first half of 2009, during which early
drafts of several of the chapters of this book took shape. In applying
xii
Acknowledgements xiii
for funding from various sources, I have relied on the generous support
of numerous referees, including Anne Freadman, Brian Nelson, Geoff
Woollen, Tim Unwin, and Lisa Downing.
During the development of this project, I enjoyed numerous opportu-
nities to present work in progress at conferences and seminars. I would
like to express my thanks to the following people for their provision of
platforms: to Elizabeth Stephens and Alison Moore for inviting me to
give a paper at the Bodies of Knowledge conference at the State Library
of Queensland; to Alain Pagès for inviting me to speak at the Séminaire
Zola in Paris (and to the students of Censier for going on strike and
preventing the talk from taking place, if not from being written in
advance, and reworked for the present volume …); to Bernard Andrieu
for bringing me to Nancy to talk about gymnastics (and thereby intro-
ducing me to the notion of redressement); to Mary Orr for encouraging
me to develop my interest in Homais, and in particular to present my
work on him at the Flaubert: Twenty-First Century Perspectives confer-
ence at the University of Southampton in 2010; to Adrian Tudor and
Michael Harrigan for inviting me to talk at the Modern Languages
Research Seminar at the University of Hull; to Chantal Morel of the
Émile Zola Society for an invitation to talk at the Institut Français in
London; to Andrew Watts, not only for providing me with a platform at
the University of Birmingham French Research Seminar, but also for
allowing me to present my research to his finalists; to Steven Wilson, for
an invitation to talk at a Medical Humanities study day at the Queen’s
University of Belfast.
I would like to thank the School of European Culture and Languages
at the University of Kent for granting early study leave in 2012, and a
brief period of additional study leave in 2013. More generally, I would
like to thank colleagues in SECL, and in the School of Languages and
Comparative Cultural Studies at the University of Queensland, for their
moral support and collegiality during the development of this project.
For logistical support, there are a number of people I would like to
thank: Catherine O’Beirne, for providing a spacious and very afford-
able apartment in Paris in 2009; Desmond Duffy, for accommodation
in London; Svend Nygaard and Ena Nygaard Jørgensen, for providing a
writing retreat on the west coast of Jutland.
Finally, for their constant love and support: Anne Grydehøj, Sigurd
Grydehøj, and Marta Grydehøj Duffy.
Author’s Note
Part of Chapter 1 has appeared as ‘Madame Bovary and the Institutional

Transformation of Pharmacy’, Dix-neuf, 15.1 (2011): 70–82.
Elements of Chapter 5 have appeared in the following publications:
‘Du monstre lombrosien à l’anormal zolien: pathologies discursives de
la Bête humaine’, Les Cahiers naturalistes, 83 (2009): 91–104; ‘Monomania
and Perpetual Motion in Alienist, Scientific and Literary Discourse’,
French Cultural Studies, 21.3 (2010): 155–66.
An early incarnation of Chapter 6 appeared as ‘Incorporations hypo-
dermiques et épistémologiques chez Zola: Science et littérature’, Revue
romane, 44.2 (2009): 293–311.
Part of the Conclusion has appeared as ‘Des Oiseaux en Saint-Esprit:
A Further Note on Taxidermy in Flaubert’, French Studies Bulletin, 33
(2012): 48–51.
xiv
List of Abbreviations
Certain primary texts are referred to frequently throughout this book.

They are abbreviated as follows, and followed by volume number where
relevant.
OC Gustave Flaubert (1964) Œuvres complètes, ed. Bernard Masson,

2 vols (Paris: Seuil).
OCZ Émile Zola (1966–70) Œuvres complètes, 15 vols (Paris: Cercle du
Livre Précieux).
RM Émile Zola (1960–7) Les Rougon-Macquart. Histoire naturelle et
sociale d’une famille sous le second Empire, ed. Henri Mitterand,
5 vols (Paris: Gallimard).
xv
Note on Translations
Quotations in French in this book are accompanied by English transla-

tions. Where available, I have used accessible published translations;
other translations – mainly of previously untranslated nineteenth-
century medical texts – are my own. Where necessary, I have modified
published translations, but left page references to the published ver-
sions so that readers may identify the relevant passages in context. This
is mostly in relation to medical terms. For example, Margaret Mauldon’s
translation of Madame Bovary translates ‘imbécile’ as ‘halfwit’, which
is a perfectly culturally plausible equivalent, and appropriate for a gen-
eral readership. However, because of this book’s specific medical focus,
I have retained the pathological term ‘imbecile’, which is relevant as it
recurs frequently in Madame Bovary, particularly in a characterisation of
the symbolically important Blind Beggar. Likewise, Emma’s pathological
lying becomes ‘une manie’, which I have rendered as ‘mania’ because
of the prevalence and importance of the term in contemporary proto-
psychiatric discourse.
xvi
Note on Manuscripts and
Transcriptions
The manuscript dossier for Madame Bovary is held at the Bibliothèque

municipale de Rouen. It contains the following elements, accompanied
by their respective cotes:
Brouillons (drafts): cote Ms g 223, vols 1–6.

Manuscrit définitif : cote Ms g 221.
Manuscrit du copiste: cote Ms g 222.
Plans/scénarios: cote Ms gg 9.
For brouillons, references are to the relevant volume number, so that Ms

g 223, vol. 6, folio 122 verso, for example will be referenced as (6, fo
122v). Plans and scénarios will be denoted by P, the manuscrit du copiste
C and the manuscrit définitif D. Hence folio 143 of the manuscrit définitif
will be referenced as (D, fo 143).
The manuscripts for Madame Bovary can be consulted (and searched)
on the website of the Centre Flaubert at the Université de Rouen: http://
flaubert.univ-rouen.fr/
Most of Zola’s manuscripts (and most of Flaubert’s for L’Éducation
sentimentale) are filed under Nouvelles acquisitions françaises at the
Bibliothèque nationale de France, and are referenced by their N.a.f.
volume number and folio. Hence Nouvelles acquisitions françaises,
vol. 10274, folio 201 will be referenced in the present volume as (N.a.f.
10274, fo 201).
In references to the avant-texte, strikethrough indicates a deletion
from, and <…> containing text in italics an addition to, the first manu-
script version.
xvii
Introduction: Knowledge,
Incorporated
This book emerges from a project that at its inception was concerned
primarily with the methods and processes whereby Gustave Flaubert
and Émile Zola, the two pre-eminent documentary novelists of the
nineteenth century, incorporated extra-literary material into their fic-
tional works. Their extensive incorporative activity is evident from the
substantial manuscript corpora that both authors accumulated; these
corpora of documentary and preparatory material contain traces linking
published fiction to specific extra-literary works, as well as to extensive
notes on such works.
The putative project was grounded in ‘genetic studies’, that is, in
that branch of literary scholarship examining processes of textual gen-
esis through interpretations ‘based directly on preparatory material or
variant states of all or part of a given text, whether in manuscript or
in print’ (Falconer 1993: 3).1 Although it was implicitly to be a com-
parative study, part of its brief was nevertheless to seek out points of
‘genetic convergence’ between two authors who were perceived as being
in many ways radically different, at the very least in terms of tem-
perament: one pessimistic about the human condition (and about the
potential of human attempts to represent it), contemptuous of the real
and extremely concerned with style; the other an enthusiastic believer
in progress, for whom the real was the scientific basis of a somewhat
didactic art, and whose concern, stylistically, was for plausibility based
on narrative coherence. Such ‘genetic convergence’ can, according to
its identifier, P. M. Wetherill (1990: 20), be situated within the ambi-
ent intellectual, or rather, disciplinary, culture of nineteenth-century
France: ‘il doit s’agir de procédés de découpage et d’organisation qui, en
dépit de tout ce qui sépare Zola de Flaubert, sont profondément ancrés
dans la mentalité d’une époque’ [‘it must be a matter of processes of
1
2 Introduction: Knowledge, Incorporated
editing and organisation that, in spite of everything separating Zola

from Flaubert, are profoundly anchored in the mentality of an age’].
What gradually became apparent as research progressed was that more
significant and striking than their being exemplars of particular proce-
dures and methods of incorporation as practical documentary activity –
bringing extra-literary (scientific, medical, historiographical …) material
into the literary text – was the concern of these two authors in a more
general, and emphatically metaphorical, sense, with the multiple facets
of what this book refers to as the incorporation of knowledge. It is no
less the case that such multifaceted incorporation is grounded within
a culture of disciplinary knowledge in the nineteenth century, but pre-
cisely on account of that fact, incorporation goes far beyond the material
processes whereby contemporary knowledge is imported into, and inte-
grated within, the body of the literary text. The key to the complexity
of incorporation is the body – if not indeed the bodies – on which it is
metaphorically premised. For Flaubert and Zola, as we shall see in this
study, as well as being engaged, in terms of their practice as writers, in
acts of textual incorporation, are acutely concerned with bodies, and
with numerous processes of incorporation centred upon them. This is
at least partly because of the kind of knowledge their works incorporate,
that is, disciplinary knowledge: knowledge drawn from the unprece-
dentedly complex and prolific bodies of discourse built up around newly
configured professions and disciplines from the French Revolution
onwards, particularly in the field of medicine. What this means, firstly,
is that there is a significant concern with disciplinary, in particular with
pharmaceutical and medical, administrations to the body: both Flaubert
and Zola represent in their works the literal incorporation of curative
and poisonous substances, as well as the more figurative incorporation –
through medical treatments – of therapeutic knowledge, within the
physiological body. And while substances are incorporated, the body – a
historically contingent, rather than fixed, entity – is itself incorporated,
is modified to become a renewed body. Moreover, the physiological
body is not the only body: disciplinary knowledge is conceived of as a
body, or ensemble of bodies. The works of both authors also articulate
the incorporation, the coming into being, the becoming bodily, of dis-
ciplinary and professional bodies in the nineteenth century, and again,
specifically those concerned with the human physiological body: these
are bodies of professional individuals, but at the same time bodies of
disciplinary discourse about the body, that have an impact on the body,
and are internalised, incorporated within it. Many such discourses also
place the body at the heart of discussions which previously would have
been within the metaphysical domain.
This book’s central argument is that in incorporating – ingesting, refash-
ioning, blending, producing – disciplinary knowledge and discourse,
literary works by Flaubert and Zola are also offering commentary on how
knowledge is incorporated, about how bodies of knowledge – and espe-
cially the professions that produce them – come to be constituted, and
then come themselves to be incorporated into a wider, and expanding,
body or archive of knowledge.
That much of the ‘extra-literary’ material incorporated into the works
of these writers is medical, and directly concerned with the physiologi-
cal body and the substances, pathological phenomena and practices it
incorporates, makes the metaphorical and thus interpretive potential
of ‘incorporation’ all the more powerful. Susan Harrow’s Zola, The Body
Modern (2010) makes a compelling case for the ‘corporeality’ of Zola’s
writing, that is, for the centrality of the body to his œuvre. This is a cor-
poreality that necessarily goes beyond the focus on sexuality character-
ising much discussion of the body in Zola and more generally, such as
in the works, for example, of Brooks (1993), Beizer (1994), Bernheimer
(1989), and Laqueur (1990). Crucially, and as part of a timely project to
bring modern and postmodern critical perspectives to Zola scholarship,
Harrow (2010: 16) identifies a ‘relationship between the writing of the
body and the body of writing’. Following Harrow’s lead, this book will
be concerned, analogically, with the relationship between the writing of
processes of incorporation, and the processes of incorporation whereby
the body (or bodies) of writing – constituted by Zola’s and Flaubert’s
corpora – comes into being. Referring to the characteristic preoccupa-
tion with the body to be found in Zola’s work, Harrow asks:
How does this rich, compelling, often disturbing corporeality emerge

in the body of writing, in a textual corps or corpus that invites the
reader to explore its (stylistic) alterations, eruptions, elisions, sac-
cades, metamorphoses and abstractions? How might the body’s
rhythms, its organicity and its volatility, find their analogue in the
body of representation, in the fluctuations of repetition and ellipsis,
in the dilations and contractions of style? How, put simply, might the
representation of the body connect with the body of representation?
One of the questions raised by this book is similarly analogical: how

does the representation of incorporative processes – administrations
to, operations upon, ingestion by the human, but also disciplinary

or professional, body – connect with the incorporation of knowledge
within the body of representation? But the point is that it is not only
the incorporated literary textual body that concerns us. We are also
concerned with bodies of disciplinary discourse.
Of greatest critical interest for this study is this discursive aspect, in
particular how Flaubert and Zola figure, through their representations
of processes of incorporation of the types outlined above, the interac-
tion of literary and extra-literary discourse. In their representations
of the body incorporating curative substances or disciplinary knowledge,
this book will argue, can be found an articulation of a critical reflection
on how discourses – literary, medical, pharmaceutical, scientific –
become incorporated in terms of their coming into being, but also
in terms of their being blended with others to become incorporated
as synthesised discourse breaking down barriers between supposedly
discrete fields of knowledge separated into categories by a prevalent
epistemological découpage.
This book, then, is about how bodies of knowledge about the body
are incorporated: how they come into being as bodies, how they are
incorporated within the physiological body, where they situate the
body, how they become incorporated within wider discursive bodies,
how they incorporate the workings of disciplinary power, how they
are incorporated by – and how they incorporate – the literary text in
its representation of real and metaphorical bodies in their interactions
with others around them.
Body, text, discipline
Our notion of incorporation by the textual or discursive body is clearly

premised on the long-standing metaphorical analogy between body –
corps, corpus – and text. This association goes at least as far back as its
scriptural expression in terms of Word made flesh, taken further litur-
gically as incorporation through the consumption of that Word made
flesh as ‘host’. In the Renaissance, the body was considered the ‘liber
corporum’ written by God, and in eighteenth-century anatomy a body
was routinely referred to by surgeons as a ‘book’ (Waldby 2000: 67). This
textual, ‘cybernetic’ (Hamon 1975: 494) nature of the body crystallised
with the birth of the clinic in the early nineteenth century, when the
body could be read not just as a text but as an archive of information:
this becomes particularly important in early forensic medicine. In recent
years we have seen further real development of the body as archive in
such initiatives as the Visible Human Project (Waldby 2000: 7).
What is crucial about the text–body analogy in the present study is

that the text, as body, interacts with its milieu. For Mary Douglas (1984:
115), ‘[t]he body is a model which can stand for any bounded system.
Its boundaries can represent any boundaries which are threatened or
precarious.’ By analogy, the text is a bounded system whose boundaries
are fundamentally and productively unstable, always open to question,
to destabilisation, to penetration, to contamination, through the very
fact of being linked to an extra-textual environment that is itself dis-
cursive and in constant flux. This is the basis of much poststructuralist
understanding of the text and its problematic relationship with what
is – impossibly, supposedly – outside or beyond it. ‘Il n’y a pas de hors-
corps’, as it were, to paraphrase Jacques Derrida (1967: 227): that is, at
least for the purposes of this study, the body, like the text, is always
implicated in what surrounds it. A key concept here – and one relevant
to any analogy with the body – is intertextuality, here defined by Julia
Kristeva (1968: 312), who sees the text as implicitly involved in trans-
formations, and thus adopts a ‘méthode transformationnelle’ [‘transfor-
mational method’] in approaches to it:
La méthode transformationnelle nous amène […] à situer la struc-

ture littéraire dans l’ensemble social considéré comme un ensemble
textuel. Nous appellerons intertextualité cette interaction textuelle
qui se produit à l’intérieur d’un seul texte. Pour le sujet connaissant,
l’intertextualité est une notion qui sera l’indice de la façon dont un
texte lit l’histoire et s’insère en elle.
[The transformational method leads us to situate the literary structure

in the social ensemble considered as a textual ensemble. We will call
intertextuality that textual action which is produced within an individ-
ual text. For the conscious subject, intertextuality is a notion indicative
of the way in which a text reads history and inserts itself within it.]
Kristeva’s formulation foregrounds the impact of the intertextual inter-

action within the text itself as it interacts with its textual milieu, but
the process is implicitly one grounded in reciprocity, and has an impact
within a greater textual or discursive body.
If we were to pursue the incorporation analogy and link it to intertex-
tuality, we might see it in bodily terms as the interaction between the
body and its environment. We might, then, at the most basic level of the
metaphor of text as body, see incorporation as a form of intertextual
transfer, in that it involves the appropriation of material from other
texts, and its refashioning within the host textual body, which itself – as
according to the dual meaning of ‘host’ – is also incorporated within

a wider body. Like the body, in constant interaction with its ambient
milieu, the text, as according to another characterisation of intertex-
tuality (Still and Worton 1990: 1), ‘cannot exist as a hermetic or self-
sufficient whole, and so does not function as a closed system’. But the
body’s ambient milieu consists of more than other texts. Incorporation
necessarily goes beyond text, and this is essential for our purpose, as we
are not dealing solely with texts, but with discourses, disciplines, and
professions.
Roland Barthes (1994a: 1502) writes somewhat enigmatically of the
characterisation of the text as ‘le corps certain’. Barthes has also written
(1994b: 1683–4) of the poststructuralist consensus emerging in the late
1960s and early 1970s according to which the text is understood – to
begin with, on historically etymological grounds – as a ‘tissu’, fabric, tissue.
Barthes does not elaborate explicitly on the bodily connotations of ‘tissu’,
but in his outline of contemporary thinking on the text – perceived as
complex and complicating network rather than, as previously, concealing
veil – he does, unwittingly or not, use a bodily metaphor, ‘sein’ [literally
‘breast’, figuratively ‘heart’]:
[L]a théorie actuelle du texte se détourne du texte-voile et cherche

à percevoir le tissu dans sa texture, dans l’entrelacs des codes, des
formules, des signifiants, au sein duquel le sujet se place et se défait,
telle une araignée qui se dissoudrait elle-même dans sa toile.
[Current theorising of the text is moving away from the text-veil and
attempts to apprehend the tissue in its texture, in the interstices of
the codes, formulae and signifiers at the heart of which the subject is
located and is undone, much as a spider dissolving in its own web.]
The important thing is that the text – and the subject – are necessarily
imbricated in a network, which has bodily connotations.
A more explicit link between writing as ‘tissu’ and the body is made by
Michel Foucault (2003a: 50–1; 2006b: 49), in one of a series of lectures at
the Collège de France in which the progressive investment of the body
with disciplinary discourse and power in the nineteenth century is a
major feature (and which will consequently be referred to frequently in
this book). Foucault (2003a: 50; 2006b: 49) asserts the centrality of writ-
ing to a process beginning in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries
whereby disciplinary power extends and, importantly, localises itself
throughout the social body – ‘devient capillaire’ [‘becomes capillary’]
and ‘prend corps’ [‘is embodied’], as he puts it elsewhere (1997: 25;

2003c: 27) – and characterises this process in terms linking writing with
the body (2003a: 50–1; 2006b: 49):
[L]es corps, les comportements, les discours des gens sont peu à peu
investis par un tissu d’écriture, par une sorte de plasma graphique qui
les enregistre, les code, les transmet le long de l’échelle hiérarchique
et finit par les centraliser. Vous avez là un rapport, je crois, nouveau,
un rapport direct et continu de l’écriture au corps.
[Bodies, behaviour and discourse are gradually besieged by a tissue

of writing, by a sort of graphic plasma which records them, codifies
them, and passes them up through the hierarchy to a centralised
point. You have there what I think is a new relationship, a direct and
continuous relationship between writing and the body.]
Writing is not only textual, consisting of interwoven strands of tissu,

but is also likened to plasma, corpuscles incorporated within the blood
vessels of bodies both real and figurative: the physiological body, disci-
plinary practices, and discourse. If, for Foucault (1969: 34; 2002: 25–6),
the book ‘est pris dans un système de renvois à d’autres livres, d’autres
textes, d’autres phrases: nœud dans le réseau’ [‘is caught up in a system
of references to other books, other texts, other sentences: it is a node
within a network’], the body too, itself invested with the graphic plasma
of écriture, is similarly implicated in a vast network of discourse, and,
importantly, discipline.
The body, discipline and incorporation
In the nineteenth century, the human body becomes, more than ever
before, the site of discourse. That it becomes a privileged site of liter-
ary discourse is not unrelated to the fact that it becomes a supremely
privileged site of disciplinary discourses, that is, of bodies of knowledge
associated with professional disciplines and related practices. As such
it also becomes a frequently disputed site of disciplinary power, which
exerts itself over the body in numerous ways, including attempts to
reshape and reform it. For Foucault (2003a: 15; 2006b: 14), ‘ce qu’il y
a d’essentiel dans tout pouvoir, c’est que son point d’application, c’est
toujours, en dernière instance, le corps’ [‘what is essential in all power is
that ultimately its point of application is always the body’]. Disciplinary
power’s ever-increasing control over the body is intimately related to the
reshaping of the body of knowledge, so that (1975: 252–3; 1991: 217)

‘le dressage minutieux et concret des forces utiles’ [‘the meticulous,
concrete training of useful forces’] enacted by disciplinary power on
the human body is accompanied by ‘un cumul et une centralisation du
savoir’ [‘an accumulation and a centralisation of knowledge’].
Central to the rise of the discipline, for Foucault (1975: 230–1; 1991:
197–8), is the notion of ‘découpage’ [‘decomposition’, ‘segmenta-
tion’, ‘carving up’]. This is a term originally used to characterise an
organisation of space, a mechanism for quarantining plague sufferers in
the early modern period. But it comes to denote the way in which the
body becomes invested with discipline: the body is carved up ration-
ally into different parts, and trained to perform localised exercises.
Discipline, then, relates to the way the body is trained (Foucault 1975:
200; 1991: 170):
Le pouvoir disciplinaire en effet est un pouvoir qui […] a pour fonc-

tion majeure de ‘dresser’ […]. Il n’enchaîne pas les forces pour les
réduire; il cherche à les lier de manière, tout ensemble, à les multiplier
et à les utiliser. Au lieu de plier uniformément et par masse tout ce
qui lui est soumis, il sépare, analyse, différencie, pousse ses procédés
jusqu’aux singularités nécessaires et suffisantes.
[Disciplinary power is indeed a power of which the major function is

to ‘train’. It does not link forces together in order to reduce them, it
seeks to bind them together in such a way as to multiply and exploit
them. Instead of plying everything subordinate to it into a uniform
mass, it separates, analyses, differentiates, carries its procedures of
decomposition to necessary and sufficient single units.]
Foucault, referring to a seventeenth-century military manual, charac-

terises this modern organisation of the operations of power as ‘le bon
dressement’ [‘the correct training’]. By the nineteenth century, this is a
notion that applies to the organisation of knowledge as much as to the
training of the body. The rise of disciplines and of their investment of
the body comes in parallel with, and indeed is related to, new ways of
organising knowledge. The nineteenth century is also witness to a pre-
occupation with the rectification, the straightening of the body, the priv-
ileging of ‘le corps redressé’ as Georges Vigarello (1978) refers to it. The
project of righting, rectifying, the body, or, even better, of training the
body to rectify itself, pervades medical discourse (as we will see in Part II
of the present volume), but is also deeply embedded in educational
practice. Educational encyclopaedias, according to Vigarello (1978: 152),

are in thrall to ‘un imaginaire nouveau […] qui offre une systématique
de mouvements élémentaires et précis s’intégrant dans un véritable
programme’ [‘a new imaginary which offers a system of precise and
elementary movements integrated within a veritable programme’]. The
format of the encyclopaedia itself mirrors the systematisation of discrete
and targeted disciplinary exercises, the point being (Vigarello 1978: 152)
to ‘découper pour ensuite mieux combiner, répéter pour mieux affirmer
et renforcer’ [‘to segment all the better then to combine, to repeat all
the better to affirm and reinforce’]. This is the principle underpinning
nineteenth-century gymnastics, in which ‘les mouvements’ are ‘divisés
and cloisonnés’ [‘divided and cloistered’] to an extreme degree.
Gymnastics, moreover, is predicated on an organisation similar to that
of writing, of discourse, of knowledge. According to Francisco Amoros
(1848, I: 127), a retired colonel who became the leading ‘gymnasiarque’
in early nineteenth-century France, the specific exercises performed
by the body, applied to its various respective parts, were ‘à la gymnas-
tique ce que l’art d’épeler est à la lecture’ [‘to gymnastics what the art
of spelling is to reading’]. Both body and discourse could be as it were
‘découpés’ [‘segmented’]. This joint découpage is given its most explicit
literary expression in Flaubert’s posthumous novel Bouvard et Pécuchet,
in which a chapter, a découpage as it were, is devoted to the eponymous
protagonists’ study of gymnastics as part of their more general pursuit
of the totality of knowledge, split up into discrete components: the
text whose targeted prescriptions they attempt to incorporate within
their bodies (OC II: 262; Flaubert 2005: 170) is Amoros’s Nouveau Manuel
Complet d’Éducation physique, gymnastique et morale (1839) supplemented
by an Atlas containing hundreds of illustrations of gymnastic manœuvres.
Flaubert’s novel famously critiques the nineteenth century’s encyclo-
paedic obsession, which attempts to master and catalogue, if not to
‘redresser’ every domain of human activity and knowledge. Amoros’s
manual (and its Atlas) are typical of this kind of encyclopaedic discourse
in their structure and in their totalising purview of bodily activity as
well as of bodily knowledge. And it is precisely in the body that the
difficulties experienced by the two bonshommes manifest themselves.
In her study of Bouvard et Pécuchet, Stéphanie Dord-Crouslé (2000: 56)
identifies a ‘somatisation des déceptions’ [‘somatisation of disappoint-
ments’], which goes hand in hand with the incorporation of savoirs,
items or fields of knowledge, within the body. For bodily reasons, the
bodies of Bouvard and Pécuchet are incapable of disporting them-
selves in the manner prescribed by Amoros, and they suffer bodily
consequences: ‘sueur’ [‘sweat’] and ‘étourdissements’ [‘fainting fits’]

(OC II: 262, 263; Flaubert 2005: 171, 172). It is an important episode
because, for Flaubert, the body is a privileged site of knowledge. In this
case, the body is incapable of incorporating bodily knowledge. And the
two heroes attribute the failure of their gymnastic experiment, as of all their
other epistemological experiments, to knowledge rather than to them-
selves, human bodies. What Flaubert is critiquing, ultimately, is not
knowledge or its pursuit, but a particular way of attempting to master it,
bring it under control, and ‘redress’ it, which is analogous with the way
in which, vainly, attempts are made to ‘redress’ the body. For Flaubert,
the redressement of the body is closely related to, and indeed is part of, a
stupid and futile attempt to redress, straighten, render logical, clear and
harmonious, the body of knowledge.
One of the paradoxes of the nineteenth-century découpage des savoirs
is that those engaged in the segmentation of knowledge into discrete
parts are also engaged in straddling multiple fields of discourse, calling
into question the very boundaries they promote. To continue with the
example of Amoros, the prolific gymnasiarque’s publications persistently
claim a medical dimension; like other gymnasiarques, and indeed like
many amateur healers, Amoros is not a doctor, but is recommended
by several doctors, including, in his Traité pratique du pied-bot, Vincent
Duval (1839: 148), a leading orthopaedist, and, significantly, a leading
advocate of medical specialism who has his professional fingers, as it
were, in many pies.
Amoros is denounced by doctors as well. A polemical pamphlet
reacting to a medical denunciation – typical of discourse produced
by disciplinary struggles involving professional bodies concerned
with the body – lists (1827: 6) a number of medical luminaries
who recognise the ‘connaissances physiologiques du fondateur de la
Gymnastique en France’ [‘physiological knowledge of the founder
of Gymnastics in France’]. His gymnastic method is not merely for
enhancing the ‘tempérament’ or constitution (OC II: 262; Flaubert
2005: 170), but also (Amoros 1827: 21) for ‘le traitement des difformi-
tés’ [‘the treatment of deformities’]. It constitutes (Amoros 1827: 15)
an ‘orthopédie gymnastique’ [‘gymnastic orthopaedics’]. Gymnastics
represents, ultimately, ‘un moyen précieux de curation dans les cas
nombreux où quelque partie de la machine humaine prend une direc-
tion vicieuse, et cesse d’être en harmonie avec l’ensemble’ [‘a precious
means of healing in the many cases in which some part of the human
machine has taken a vicious direction, and ceases to be in harmony
with the ensemble’].
The case of Amoros, then, and the incorporation of his particular

disciplinary discourse as performed by Bouvard and Pécuchet and by the
text in which they appear, provide an example of how literature articu-
lates a connection between attempts to reconfigure the physiological
body, not least as a site of disciplinary discourse, and attempts to reshape
the body of knowledge. While not offering a definitive and univer-
sal affirmation of such a connection, the present volume examines,
through readings of works by Flaubert, Zola, and various medical
authors (including amateur healers), some suggestive aspects of it by
identifying and exploiting a powerful bodily metaphor that is powerful
because it is concerned not just with the body and its constituent parts,
but also with its interaction with other bodies. We are dealing not
merely with intertextually incorporative operations, that is, examining
the way in which literary texts treat extra-textual discourses, but also
with their articulation of the incorporation of professions – specifically,
in the present volume, the health professions – and their discourses in
nineteenth-century France. Incorporation is, in a sense, a process of
becoming: becoming text, becoming a profession or institution, becom-
ing a body, whether textual, social, politic, corporate, or physiological.
All of the chapters of this book are concerned, in one way or another,
with the incorporation of medical, paramedical, pharmaceutical,
and parapharmaceutical discourses. The ‘incorporation of medical
discourses’ means a number of things in the present study, some of
which I will identify now, in what is a non-exhaustive list. Firstly,
it refers to the use of text, ideas, and practices drawn from medical
writings, a staple of the work of Flaubert and Zola. This crucially
includes the seamless blending of medical and literary discourse, which,
I shall argue, represents a critique of supposed distinctions between
them. Secondly, it denotes the rise, the coming into being, the expan-
sion of certain health professions and their remit, notably medicine
and pharmacy. Thirdly, it is used to characterise the implication within
scientific and literary discourse of the rise of particular fields, not just
in terms of the emergence of new scientific ideas and their transcend-
ence of old ones, but in terms of conditions arising from institutional
changes such as those happening at the time of the French Revolution,
the Empire, and the July Monarchy. Fourthly, it denotes the situation of
medical discourse within the body as it is represented in literary texts.
Fifthly, though not finally, as lots of other varied and localised instances
of incorporation are discussed in this book, it denotes medicine’s own
situation within the body of certain phenomena previously considered
to be in the metaphysical domain.
Methodology: pour une généalogie génétique,

une génétique généalogique
How, then, from a methodological point of view, to approach the

incorporation of discourses of incorporation within the literary text?
Much discussion of what can be recognised as falling under the heading
of the incorporation of knowledge, or ‘savoirs’, in the works of Flaubert
and Zola has been carried out, quite understandably, within the field of
genetic criticism. This study, retaining at least some of its original meth-
odological orientation mentioned at the beginning of this introduction,
itself makes extensive use of manuscript dossiers, and does so in a non-
teleological manner; that is, it sees the genetic artefact – brouillon, note,
plan, and so on – as being part of the same corpus as the ‘definitive’
version of a text, which is seen as one stage in a process of revisions,
elisions, suppressions, all in some sense incorporative. Moreover, this
genetic corpus is, crucially, part of a larger corpus which will be termed
genealogical, in a sense explained presently below.
Much valuable work (among others: Matsuzawa and Séginger 2010;
Leclerc 2001; Rey and Séginger 2009; Sugaya 2010) has been carried
out recently concerning the ‘mise en texte des savoirs’ (Matsuzawa
and Séginger 2010), which is a good way of characterising the object
of genetic criticism concerned specifically with extra-literary discourse
and its incorporation – for want of a better word – within the literary
text. Where this study parts company with genetic criticism is that it
sees the relationship between the text and its discursive environment
not solely in terms of the ‘mise en texte’, literally, the putting into text,
of knowledge, but also in terms of a ‘mise du texte’, a placing or situ-
ation of the text, indeed of the textual corpus and its genetic compo-
nents, within wider discursive and disciplinary configurations. Precisely
because the examples of such configurations treated in this book are
disciplinary, and invest the physiological as well as the textual body,
we cannot discuss them in textual terms alone, or at least we must
bear in mind the bodily nature of the text. A use by Foucault of the
term ‘texte’ is instructive in this regard: referring to the way in which
madness, or rather discourse on madness, invested governmental con-
cerns during the seventeenth century, he remarks (1972: 109; 2006a: 77)
that the widespread practice of internment crystallises at a moment
when ‘[la folie] commence à former texte avec les problèmes de la cité’
[‘madness begins to form text with the problems of the city’, emphasis
added]. Neither madness nor the cité are self-evidently textual; what
is being stressed here are discursive relations between entities that are
not immediately recognisable as discursive. The ‘mise du texte dans les

savoirs’ that I have proposed – allowing for a reciprocal incorporation
of the literary text within the wider body of discourse as it constitutes
itself through its own incorporation of ‘plasma graphique’ from that
body – can be seen in terms of the implicitly incorporative ‘formation
of text’ between supposedly disparate bodies; likewise, the literary text
can be seen to ‘faire corps’ – form a body or bodies – with other texts or
discursive configurations.
Any study of genesis, then, within the present volume, is less con-
cerned with transfer of information from outside the text to within the
text than with a dynamic relationality between discourses. We might
term our approach genealogical as well as genetic, in a sense related to
Michel Foucault’s neo-Nietzschean understanding of the term. The key
element of that understanding for our purposes is the precedence of
relationality over origins. According to Michael Mahon (1992: 108),
Foucauldian genealogy ‘seeks the historical conditions of […] entities
and events, but […] distances itself from the quest for their origins’.
In that light, our consideration of a discursive entity such as Madame
Bovary, or an event such as the incorporation of the pharmaceutical
profession in the early nineteenth century, will not seek or valorise –
for their own sake – specific material sources, or specific scientific
ideas. The wider genealogical corpus in which such entities and events
can be situated, incorporated, is of greater significance than a genetic
corpus, which itself is subsumed within its much more extensive coun-
terpart. A focus on genesis alone risks descending into a search for
sources, and, moreover, risks treating scientific and medical writings
precisely as mere sources, rather than as coordinates – as literary texts,
as well as extra-literary ones, should be considered – within complex
constellations.
The approach in this book is genealogical, then, in that it seeks the
historical discursive conditions for particular discursive events, both
within literature and without, and it does so by reading énoncés [‘utter-
ances’, ‘statements’] – texts, networks of texts, genetic artefacts – in
genealogical contexts rather than merely genetic ones, by seeking the
provenance, the ‘descent’ (Foucault 1994, II: 140; 1984b: 80), of texts,
rather than their sources or origins, in terms of a dynamic relationality
rather than of teleological transmission from without the body into the
body between discourses (literary, extra-literary) seen as categorically
different. These problematics will be discussed at length in Chapter 6
below, in which we will see that they are in fact addressed precisely by
Émile Zola’s 1893 novel Le Docteur Pascal.
Significantly, our situation of texts – both literary and disciplinary – in

wider contexts means that direct genetic linkage is not presumed. The
point is to identify discursive correspondences, parallel articulations
of discursive phenomena, rather than to provide proof of direct tex-
tual connections. Even where the latter exist, they are not viewed in
isolation but themselves resituated within contexts developed on their
account. An example of how an element of genetic information might
be treated genealogically can be found in Chapter 2 of the present vol-
ume: in Madame Bovary, a detail about arsenic poisoning is traceable
to the toxicologist Mathieu Orfila’s Traité de Médecine légale (1836a).
Instead of restricting our analysis to the direct connection between
these two works, or claiming further linkage between them, we con-
sider that connection within the wider disciplinary, professional, and
institutional contexts in which Orfila is implicated. The identification
of these contexts, and of a range of similar discourses within them
expressed in various texts, allows us to identify in turn the articulation
within Flaubert’s novel of a particular discourse concerning disciplinary
regulation of the health professions.
Our approach presumes moreover that the relationship, or certainly
the distinction, between literary and ‘non-literary’ writing, between, for
instance, the novel and the medical treatise, is inherently a problematic
one for a number of reasons. When medical or scientific discourses are
present in novels, it is not just a question of the former – which are
already implicated in culture – being transplanted into the latter. For
the historian of science Laura Otis (1994: 216):
The premise that influence flows from science to literature implicitly

valorizes science as the source of truth to which literature responds.
Such an approach ignores the ways in which scientific theories, no
less than literary theories and literature, are social constructions that
reflect the prevailing concerns of the culture. Science is not a mono-
lithic ‘source’, but a complex field of discursive and experimental
activities that has its own dissonances, fault lines, and convergences.
This very sound principle – echoing our concern for the disciplinary and
not always textual basis for what texts and bodies incorporate – is the
basis for the choice of texts to be analysed in this study. Our field consists
of a constellation of discursive coordinates in which literary texts are in a
minority. This necessarily means that literary texts are not our only object
of study; moreover, they are not treated as being categorically different
as expressions of discourse from their medical or scientific counterparts.
Corpus: disciplinary discourse, Flaubert, Zola
At the Collège de France in January 1976, Michel Foucault (1997: 9–10;

2003c: 8) offered a provisional definition of ‘généalogie’ as ‘le couplage
des connaissances érudites et des mémoires locales, couplage qui permet
la constitution d’un savoir historique des luttes […]’ [‘the coupling
together of scholarly erudition and local memories, which allows us
to constitute a historical knowledge of struggles […]’]. The possibility
of such a ‘couplage’ emerges from what Foucault refers to as ‘retours
de savoir’ (1997: 8), ‘returns of knowledge’ (2003c: 6–7), by which
he means the ‘insurrection’ of ‘savoirs assujettis’, subjugated items or
fields of knowledge which had been either subsumed within formalised
systems and grand narratives, or simply disregarded as being unortho-
dox, unsystematic, conceptually inferior, or lacking in scientific rigour.
A genealogical approach must therefore transcend contingent hierar-
chies of value attributed to discourses, and valorise minor, localised
knowledge as much as major authoritative énoncés.
This book’s corpus consists, broadly speaking, of literary, medical, and
scientific discourse. Its title, although it contains the names associated
with two (significant) ‘author functions’ (Foucault 2004: 301–10; 1984c:
107–17), also refers to ‘disciplinary discourse’, and indeed, this latter
component of the corpus is no less important than the others. It is also,
necessarily, extremely varied. The disciplinary and subdisciplinary fields
covered include (in no particular order of importance): medicine, chem-
istry, pharmacy, alchemy, toxicology, forensic medicine, public hygiene,
medical training, agriculture, horticulture, psychiatry and its forerun-
ners, criminal anthropology, degeneration theory, taxidermy, derma-
tology, orthopaedics, ophthalmology, gymnastics, statistics, obstetrics,
homeopathy and other unconventional modes of healing, mechanics,
dynamics, geometry, hypodermics, law, theology, sexology, and, of
course, literature. The kinds of documents articulating these discourses
within our corpus are equally varied, including novels, letters, national
and local learned journals whose purpose is to fight turf wars as much as
to disseminate knowledge, obituaries, graveside orations, court reports
from the Gazette des Tribunaux and the Annales d’hygiène publique,
accounts of professional disciplinary hearings, pamphlets, advertising
copy, proceedings of local learned societies, and medical treatises which
are frequently – explicitly or implicitly – polemical tracts. Indeed, these
latter documents in particular provide a good illustration of ‘couplage’,
in that they tend to be perceived as being part of an amorphous and
systematised medical discourse, but frequently reveal themselves on
closer inspection to be implicated in struggles that go beyond their

medical or scientific content, struggles that are not necessarily about
scientific ideas, but about professional conflict and control. Moreover,
minor, localised treatises can be as revealing as – if not more reveal-
ing than – defining works in particular fields about the ways in which
disciplines and professions become incorporated, both in the sense of
their development, their becoming bodies, and also in the sense of their
maintenance through regulation of their bodily integrity.
This is not, then, a work of literary criticism, unless it is accepted that
medical and other disciplinary writings have literary qualities. It is not
intended as a contribution to Flaubert or Zola studies as such, although
it contains extensive discussion of literary works associated with these
two author functions considered alongside and in relation to discipli-
nary discourses as they become incorporated. It is not so much a book
about novels and what they incorporate as one about texts in recipro-
cally incorporative relationships that are incorporated within a larger
corpus, a larger archive, of disciplinary knowledge.
As for the two authors whose works constitute the major literary
elements of the corpus, there are fairly straightforward reasons for their
inclusion. Flaubert and Zola, as stated earlier, may safely be regarded
as the nineteenth century’s key exponents of documentary fictions,
in terms of their programmatic composition methods, revealed in the
substantial genetic archives they accumulated, which confirm consid-
erable documentary interest in contemporary disciplinary discourses,
particularly in relation to medicine, and, significantly, in the body.
These authors are better placed than others as offering means of access-
ing discourse about incorporative practices as well as discourses about
disciplines in the process of incorporation.
Flaubert
Flaubert’s works reveal a clear interest in knowledge, the problem

of its acquisition and organisation, medicine and other disciplinary
discourses, and the body. This is true of almost all his works, but there
are a few distinctions to be made here in order to justify the choice of
Madame Bovary as the principal Flaubert text in our corpus. Flaubert’s first
published and best-known novel, in which disciplinary discourses are
represented in two of the central characters – a doctor and a pharmacist –
may appear a self-evident choice, but why is it the focus of all four
Flaubert chapters in this book, to the exclusion of other Flaubert texts?
All Flaubert’s major works are concerned to some extent with the
incorporation of knowledge, and are based on massive documentation.

Salammbô, for example, is a case in point. For Yvan Leclerc (2010: 45):
Sous chaque mot, sous chaque phrase de Salammbô, se trouve un

‘piédestal’ de savoir: un livre lu pour le cyprès, un autre pour les
symptômes hystériques de l’héroïne […].
[Under each word, under each sentence in Salammbô, can be found a

‘pedestal’ of knowledge: a book read for the cypress tree, another for
the hysterical symptoms of the heroine […].]
Likewise, La Tentation de Saint-Antoine, famously discussed in terms of

‘la bibliothèque fantastique’, clearly addresses deeply epistemological
concerns: as Foucault (1983: 106) puts it, ‘on ne porte plus le fantastique
dans son cœur; […] on le puise à l’exactitude du savoir; sa richesse est
en attente dans le document’ [‘the fantastic is no longer carried within
one’s heart; it is sourced from the exactitude of knowledge; its wealth
awaits within the document’]. The present study is expressly concerned,
however, with what Niklas Bender (2010: 47, 210), drawing on Hugo
Friedrich (1973: 23), refers to as ‘textes actualistes’, as distinct from
‘textes historiques’. The focus is on the incorporation of discourses
contemporary with what is being represented, on nineteenth-century
literary discourse’s incorporative representation of nineteenth-century
discursive events, that is, of the coming into being of particular disci-
plines and professions.
Bender proposes a further distinction between marked and unmarked
medical discourse, and has written about non-explicit medical discourse
present in Salammbô and l’Éducation sentimentale. This book’s focus
being on the body, it understandably deals with representations of
disciplinary discourses – in particular, medicine and pharmacy – that
are for the most part explicit. However, there are degrees of explicitness
which have a bearing on our understanding of incorporation as literary
practice problematising the distinction between the literary and the
extra-literary.
Of ‘actualist’ Flaubert texts treating knowledge, the body and disci-
plines investing it, Bouvard et Pécuchet would at first sight appear to be
an obviously core element of a corpus of incorporative texts, a locus
classicus of the incorporation of disciplinary knowledge, and indeed, it
has been extensively covered by criticism (Leclerc 1988; Dord-Crouslé
2000; Sugaya 1997, 2010) precisely in those terms. It is, in Foucault’s
terms (1983: 118) ‘un livre fait de livres; l’encyclopédie érudite
d’une culture’ [‘a book made from books; the erudite encyclopaedia of
a culture’]. The ‘bibliothèque’ is an ‘espace gris’ [‘a grey area’], ‘celle-ci,
dans Bouvard, est visible, inventoriée, dénommée et analysée’ [‘in
Bouvard, the library is visible, inventorised, denominated and analysed’].
Bouvard et Pécuchet, like the project of its protagonists, can be seen
to be an ‘expository’ text in the understanding of Philippe Hamon
(1989). It mentions medical texts and writers explicitly – how could
it help doing so, given that it is explicitly about the accumulation
of knowledge? For Claude Mouchard (1983: 169), the novel is a ‘cas
singulier’ [‘singular case’], as distinct from other Flaubert novels, in
which ‘[t]out est refondu dans la substance romanesque’ [‘everything
is refashioned as novelistic substance’]; in Bouvard et Pécuchet, ‘les livres
resurgissent en mille points’; ‘entre chantier et roman, la limite s’est
crevée’ [‘books make a thousandfold reappearances’; ‘between drawing
board and novel, the borderline has collapsed’]. Madame Bovary, on the
other hand, is an incorporative text on several levels, in that while, like
its posthumous successor, it draws on contemporary disciplinary dis-
course, it performs a crucial additional act of incorporation in blending
seamlessly the extra-literary and the literary within the textual body
to an extent that Bouvard et Pécuchet does not. It does not wear its dis-
cursive heart on its narrative sleeve, so to speak. Madame Bovary may,
in Bender’s understanding, contain marked discussion of disciplinary
matters, but there is still much there that is not explicit, and it is one of
this book’s aims to situate that novel within discourses which are not
visible on its narrative surface.
Madame Bovary is also a strategically localised work, explicitly actualis-
ing Moeurs de Province. Madame Bovary is not only set in a specific provin-
cial location, it also incorporates a substantial amount of local learned
discourse, particularly in the field of pharmacy, which in Chapter 1
I will argue is the key incorporative profession. It is a text which allows
us precisely to study disciplinary and power relations at local, capillary
level, as well as in terms of overarching discursive developments on
the national scale, both in terms of the discourse articulated within it,
and in terms of the contexts in which it may be situated. As such, it is
the lieu classique of the genealogical ‘couplage’. Finally, as we shall see,
Madame Bovary is the theatre of numerous problematic incorporative
operations enacted on the physiological and social bodies which have
a bearing on the incorporation of discourse and on a difficult coming
to terms with modernity, beginning from the very moment when, as
Tony Tanner (1979: 237) puts it, ‘le nouveau’ is incorporated painfully
into ‘nous’.
Zola
Zola is, as we have seen (Harrow 2010: 14), a pathological chronicler of

corporeality. He is also an irrepressible user of incorporative metaphor.
Witness the department store in Au Bonheur des Dames expansively
engulfing Paris and thus incorporating an ever larger mass, all the while
swallowing its female clientele; the ‘ogre repu’ of the mine in Germinal
insatiably swallowing and grinding down human flesh; the expansion
of the French colonial empire into the Middle East through the creation
of a railway network in l’Argent, one of many Zola novels about capitalist
accumulation; the representation of that railway network ‘comme un corps
géant’ [‘like a giant body’] extending its reach throughout the national
territory in La Bête humaine; the market district functioning as a giant
stomach in Le Ventre de Paris; the rapacious consumption of Nana, whose
body is constantly on display, pandering to the insatiable sexual appetites of
what Zola (N.a.f. 10313, fo 208) characterises as ‘toute une société se ruant
sur le cul’ [‘a whole society chasing ass’], and is ultimately consumed by
pourriture. For Otis (1994: 58), Zola’s project is ultimately ‘centred around
an image of accumulation’. Accumulation is a subject, but also a practice
on the part of the documentary novelist: ‘Accumulation, memory and
reproduction […] characterize the narrative structure, as each novel draws
upon previous ones and lays the foundation for future ones.’ Moreover, as
well as systematically using incorporation as a thematic and metaphorical
device, Zola is actively engaged in the accumulation and documentation
of contemporary scientific knowledge.
For Otis (1994: 58), ‘Zola’s liberal use of metaphor, which makes him
a unique writer of fiction, at the same time links him to the scientific
writers of his period.’ Indeed, this is a major element of what this book
understands by incorporation, as well as a major element of Zola’s
project: the collapsing of membranous boundaries between scientific
and literary writing. If, for Zola (at least aspirationally if not in fantas-
tically metaphorical practice), literature can and indeed must take on
the aspect of scientific writing, it is certainly the case that nineteenth-
century scientific writing – which is, after all, writing – uses literary
devices, not least in its explanations of how the body functions and is
constituted. A signal example is a text underpinning Zola’s plan for the
entire Rougon-Macquart series, Charles Letourneau’s La Physiologie des
Passions (1868), on which Zola took extensive notes (see in particular
N.a.f. 10345, fo 35). Letourneau’s work is emblematic of an incorpora-
tive project concerned with situating psychological phenomena within
the body, specifically (1868: 4–5) within ‘le système nerveux, constitué
par un tissu spécial, le tissu nerveux’ [‘the nervous system, constituted

by a special fabric, nerve tissue’], to which ‘la méthode scientifique nous
oblige à rapporter tout ce que les psychologues et les métaphysiciens
ont attribué à une entité abstraite, l’âme’ [‘scientific method obliges
us to bring everything that psychologists and metaphysicians have
attributed to an abstract entity, the soul’]. Incorporation is predicated
metaphorically on a self-governing network which is also (Letourneau
1868: 219) a body politic, a state:
[L]’homme, envisagé sainement, et non à travers les verres colorés

de la métaphysique, n’est, au même titre que tous les êtres organisés,
qu’un agrégat d’éléments histologiques, fibres ou cellules, formant
une république vivante, fédérative, régie, […] par un pouvoir uniteur
et intelligent, le système nerveux.
[Man, envisaged wisely, and not through the tinted glasses of meta-
physics, is, in the same way as all organised beings, nothing other
than an aggregate of histological elements, fibres or cells, forming
a living, federative republic, governed by a unifying and intelligent
power, the nervous system.]
A further governmental role is provided by blood, the function of

which (Letourneau 1868: 3) ‘est d’apporter […] les aliments de la vie,
et de reprendre en même temps les résidus inutiles ou nuisibles que des
organes glandulaires spéciaux se chargent d’éliminer hors des frontières
de la république’ [‘is to supply the victuals of life, and to gather up at
the same time the redundant or harmful residues that special glandular
organs take it upon themselves to expel outside the frontiers of the
republic’]. Explanation of the body’s incorporative functions relies on
the metaphor of a state with defined boundaries, at constant risk of
contamination, but which, critically, is capable of self-regulation.
What this book is interested in is not merely the medical detail about
the body that Zola incorporates from Letourneau, but also what can be
seen as a poetics of bodily representation which is not merely the preserve
of literary writers. This will be examined in two late Rougon-Macquart
texts, La Bête humaine and Le Docteur Pascal. But clearly this poetics, not
least in terms of incorporative metaphor, is present, as outlined above,
in numerous novels in the Rougon-Macquart series: amidst such richness,
why, then, the focus here on two texts to the exclusion of others?
Leaving aside the fact that the body and its vicissitudes in Zola’s
œuvre have recently been comprehensively covered in Harrow’s work,
these two works are, I think, particular cases in offering implicit critical
commentary on incorporation in numerous understandings of the
term. In the case of La Bête humaine, the rationale is similar to that
for the inclusion of Madame Bovary: medical discourse is incorporated
within the text at the level of the récit, to use Genette’s term (1972: 72),
and, moreover, in a novel heavily documented from contemporary psy-
chiatric writings, is almost entirely absent at the level of the narrative.
There are no doctors. It is therefore a masterwork in incorporation. It
also takes incorporation one self-referential step further than, say, Nana,
in that the blending operation, the removal of traces, is germane to one
of the key themes of the text itself: the invisibility of signs of psychopa-
thology at the surface level of the abnormal, dangerous individual, and,
by extension, the invisibility of signs of degeneration on the veneer of
civilisation. Everything is within the body.
Le Docteur Pascal is the other Zola text under examination. It is
included because it represents within its narrative the development of
an incorporative process which at the level of the récit is, I will argue,
analogous with the incorporation of discourse within the literary text.
This novel, the ‘résumé et conclusion’ of Zola’s incorporative project,
not only offers critical reflection on the relationship between the body,
the text and their respective milieux, but also articulates a genealogical
approach to discourse.
Structure and content
The book is divided into three sections, two on Flaubert, one on Zola,
though, as stated above, these are sections about specific types of incor-
porative disciplinary discourse which find expression in Flaubert’s or
Zola’s works, rather than sections purely ‘on’ these authors and their
works. Part I considers professional bodies in terms of two kinds
of incorporation: their coming into being as professions, and their
maintenance of their corporate integrity through self-regulation.
Part II examines attempts to correct the physiological and social bodies
through treatment of their wayward members. Part III looks at various
kinds of incorporation as represented by Zola: the subtle incorporation
of psychiatric discourse within the criminal justice system, and within
the text of La Bête humaine, the growing incorporation or somatisation
(Foucault 1999: 150; 2003b: 167), that is, the grounding within the
body, of mental illness and its cultural markers, the use of these mark-
ers as grounds for exclusion from professional bodies and ultimately
from the social body, and, finally, therapies which regenerate the body
through incorporation as a good in itself, which also signally provide

the basis of a metaphor for the textual incorporation of disciplinary
discourse.
The first part of the book, then, is concerned with the incorporation
of the pharmaceutical and medical professions in the nineteenth
century, in terms of their reconfiguration and establishment during the
Revolution and Empire, and their consolidation through mechanisms
of corporate self-regulation, which paradoxically involve exclusion: in
order to maintain its corporate integrity, the professional body decon-
taminates itself, purges itself of toxic elements. While concerned princi-
pally with institutions and their constitution as professional bodies, this
part of the book is also concerned with the incorporative relationship of
the literary text to the disciplinary discourse.
Chapter 1, the first of four on Madame Bovary, addresses the theme
of incorporation on several levels. It deals, on an institutional level,
with the incorporation of the pharmaceutical profession in the early
nineteenth century, which, critically, parallels that of the medical
profession. That is, it charts, through a reading of pharmaceutical,
medical, scientific, and institutional documents of the early nineteenth
century, notably articles in pharmaceutical and scientific periodicals,
the coming into being of reconfigured professional bodies and asso-
ciated bodies of discourse and knowledge. Throughout, it identifies
the presence, within the textual body of Madame Bovary, of elements
of these bodies of discourse, particularly of pharmacy’s reshaping of
itself as a professional corps replacing the artisanal corporation of the
eighteenth century, presenting itself at once as the repository of a
philosophical science like the chemistry which had abandoned it as
a poor relation in the wake of the chemical revolution associated with
Lavoisier, and as a health profession on a par with medicine, with
which it has become institutionally aligned. It is significant here, as
elsewhere, that the changes in science and medicine that have come
about in the early nineteenth century are institutional ones, rather than
ones simply based on new scientific ideas. They are moreover related to
political developments, in particular the administrative reshaping of the
French body politic following the Revolution and the rise of Bonaparte,
a critical moment in the emergence of ‘la société disciplinaire’ [‘the
disciplinary society’], which, according to Foucault (1975: 253; 1991: 217),
‘au moment de sa pleine éclosion, prend encore avec l’Empereur le
vieil aspect de pouvoir de spectacle’ [‘at the moment of its full blos-
soming, still assumes with the Emperor the old aspect of the power of
spectacle’]. We shall see how the new professional rhetoric of pharmacy
permeates this body politic at this critical and problematic moment in

the emergence of disciplinary power, through exposition of Madame
Bovary’s incorporation of pharmaceutical discourse as it is expounded on
a national level, and crucially also at the provincial level. In order to do
so, we shall confront the writings of pharmaceutical sommités, leading
lights at national level, and local scientific luminaries – committed to
the dissemination of scientific enlightenment through national and
local Académies and their associated journals – with the utterances of
the human embodiment of the new rhetoric of pharmacy in Madame
Bovary, the pharmacien-chimiste Homais.
Pharmacy is central to the incorporative dimension of Madame
Bovary, not just for the novel’s articulation of aspects of its professional
development, but also because it is precisely the discipline concerned
with the incorporative blending of substances and their incorporation
within the physiological body. It is, moreover, a discipline defined by
its hybridity, combining the commercial with the scientific and the
medical, the theoretical with the practical. This hybridity intensifies in
the early nineteenth century as pharmacists, at national and provincial
levels, assert their theoretical expertise as credential for authority over
numerous domains of practical activity in the commercial and agricul-
tural fields. I shall argue that pharmacy’s hybridity and incorporative
dimension are key elements in a problematisation by Madame Bovary of
the relationship of mimetic literary discourse with other discourses, and
in particular of any presumed distinction between them.
Chapter 2, still within the domain of the incorporation, expansion,
and consolidation of professional bodies in nineteenth-century France,
goes much further beyond the textual membranes of Madame Bovary
than does Chapter 1. The principal narratives in this chapter’s analysis
are not in fact Flaubert’s – although his have an important presence –
but those of health professionals who are also prolific authors. Flaubert’s
novel is a body of evidence providing, so to speak, corroboration of
discourses in operation during the July Monarchy. The discourses in
question are concerned with the policing and regulation of the health
professions – pharmacy and medicine, brought closer together institu-
tionally during the Revolution and Empire – and the professional, polit-
ical, and personal struggles arising from this regulation, which on the
one hand is legislatively ordained by the state, but implemented largely
autonomously by non-statutory bodies within the health professions.
The regulatory discourse and its associated practices are strikingly bod-
ily in their rhetoric. Concern for the integrity of professional bodies is
expressed in language which frequently resorts to metaphors of bodily
contamination and unwelcome penetration. This is unsurprising, as the

institutional framework for professional regulation or ‘police médicale’
is closely related to the rising discipline of jurisprudential forensic
medicine, or ‘la médecine légale’. The key figure in both of these
domains (as in many others) in the early-to-mid-nineteenth century
is the institutionally ubiquitous Mathieu Orfila, doctor, pharmacist,
toxicologist, Dean of the Faculté de Médecine de Paris and author of the
highly influential Traité de Médecine Légale (1836), on which Flaubert is
documented as having drawn for information on arsenic poisoning and
other matters.
After an outline of Orfila’s institutional and discursive presence
within the health professions during the July Monarchy (and beyond),
and identification of his oblique discursive presence within Madame
Bovary, this second chapter considers reactions to Orfila’s regime of
professional regulation and disciplinary incorporation through contain-
ment and exclusion of contaminating elements. These reactions are in
the form of works by a selection of his professional adversaries, which,
at face value, appear to be works of medical scholarship or vulgarisa-
tion, but which turn out to be polemical works of denunciation which
consist largely of narratives of persecution at the hands of the Dean,
who also presides ex-officio over a panoptical and hierarchical network
of disciplinary spies reporting infractions of professional norms estab-
lished under the Empire, which bears a strong structural resemblance to
the eighteenth-century network of police spies which Foucault (1975:
249; 1991: 214) records as constituting ‘une surveillance permanente,
exhaustive, omniprésente, capable de tout rendre visible, mais à la
condition de se rendre elle-même invisible’ [‘permanent, exhaustive,
omnipresent surveillance, capable of making all visible, as long as it
could itself remain invisible’], and which functions as ‘un regard sans
visage qui transforme tout le corps social en un champ de perception:
des milliers d’yeux postés partout, des attentions mobiles et toujours en
éveil’ [‘a faceless gaze which transforms the whole social body into a
field of perception: thousands of eyes posted everywhere, mobile atten-
tions ever on the alert’]. The anti-Orfila texts which we will examine are
respectively by the prominent unorthodox healer and scientific vulgar-
iser François-Vincent Raspail, who came into hostile contact with Orfila
in high-profile court cases concerning arsenic and alleged charlatanism,
and two much less prominent figures: Dr Noël Dupré, campaigner for
independent medical education, and Charles-Nicolas Halmagrand,
a physician accused and acquitted of abortion, and then, according to
his own highly polemical account – purporting to be a medical treatise
on abortion as it pertains to la médecine légale – ruthlessly persecuted

by Orfila for allegedly having brought the medical profession into
disrepute. Although the circumstances of each of these practitioners
are different, and each has particular personal reasons for denouncing
Orfila, they are all coincidentally also advocates of ‘l’enseignement libre’
or independent medical instruction; that is, they object in principle to a
hermetic disciplinary or professional body, outside which practice is not
legitimate, and indeed is presented rhetorically as poisoning that body.
While most of Chapter 2 is concerned with the disciplinary struggles
between Orfila and his opponents recorded in non-fictional texts,
elements of the narratives of struggle presented here are identified as
inhabiting the textual body of Madame Bovary, in particular in the
utterances of Flaubert’s pharmacist, Homais. This is not to claim that
there is direct genetic linkage between Flaubert’s novel and the works
of these other authors, but that all their corpora contain tropes that are
representative of a particular discourse of struggle and containment,
grounded within the regime of police médicale, itself closely related to
médecine légale, which has anomaly and especially contamination at its
discursive heart. If Mathieu Orfila embodies these two discursive phe-
nomena historically, and at national level, from the point of view of the
authority promulgating them, Homais embodies them locally within a
work of fiction from the point of view of their operation on the indi-
vidual practitioner. He embodies specifically the tensions between these
two closely related areas, presented as being two sides of the same coin,
on the one hand promoting the association of his profession with the
investigation of crimes and the provision of expertise to the criminal
justice system, while on the other lamenting, and indeed fearing, the
petty intrusion of the ‘règlement absurde’ [‘absurd regulation’] into his
business activities. Madame Bovary, in articulating the contradictions aris-
ing from a doubly toxicological – that is, both literal and metaphorical –
discourse of bodily integrity at risk from contamination from without
by poisonous substances, or from within by dysfunctional elements,
itself becomes disruptively incorporated into the wider discursive con-
figuration of which it subtly incorporates key elements within its own
textual body. The subtlety of the incorporation process can be seen in
the way in which explicit references to the regulatory regime are toned
down and made implicit between draft and published versions.
Part II of the book is concerned with anomaly within and deviation
from the normative body, both physiological and social. Where Part I
is concerned with the incorporation of pharmacy, medicine, and
related areas such as toxicology and police médicale, Part II addresses the
incorporation of two discursive bodies that are not so obviously related

to one another: orthopaedics and psychiatry. Nor are these discursive
bodies obviously related at first sight to the figure haunting the narra-
tive of Madame Bovary who, I will suggest, offers a critical link between
them: the Aveugle, Flaubert’s Blind Beggar, whose representation is the
cornerstone of Part II’s analysis of the connections between discourses
which promote the correction of deviant elements of the human body,
and those which promote the correction, or exclusion from the social
body, of deviant individuals, for reasons, moreover, of disciplinary
disruption.
Chapter 3 has this book’s greatest concentration of medical detail.
Its starting point is the proliferation of critical interpretations of the
Aveugle’s role, which matches the proliferation of possible diagnoses
of his ailment, both within and without the text. This proliferation
is to be expected if the Aveugle is to remain the enigmatic figure that his
symbolic role requires. That said, the symptoms identified in the novel
correspond strongly with those of a dermatological condition described
in a Traité pratique de la maladie scrofuleuse, and thus plausibly confirm
Homais’s unfairly maligned diagnosis of ‘une affection scrofuleuse’
[‘a scrofulous affection’]. The dermatological condition in question –
‘ophthalmie scrofuleuse’ or scrofulous opthalmia, affecting the eyes and
their immediate surroundings – is also a lymphatic condition rooted
in the patient’s constitution, and, significantly, an orthopaedic condi-
tion. Indeed, the Traité identifying scrofulous conditions such as those
with which the Aveugle is afflicted as falling within the purview of
orthopaedics, and emphatically claiming parenté between ‘scrofuleux’
[‘scrofula sufferers’] and ‘bossus’ [‘hunchbacks’], is by Vincent Duval,
none other than the author of the ‘volume du Dr Duval’ (OC I: 633)
[‘Dr Duval’s treatise’ (Flaubert 2004: 155)]. The Traité pratique du pied-
bot, first published in 1839, is the text which Homais recommends
to Charles Bovary, who in turn disastrously implements its surgical
prescriptions on the club foot of Hippolyte the stable boy, thus setting
in motion a chain of events that will culminate in Emma’s spiral into
debt and suicide. Vincent Duval, significantly, as well as being an advo-
cate of the straightening of the body, is also an advocate of specialism
within medicine, of the ‘découpage’, the disciplinary ‘bon dressement’
of knowledge and discourse.
If the Aveugle represents – among other things – a symbolic recall
of the hideousness of the consequences of the club foot operation, it
is under the orthopaedic umbrella, so to speak, that the Aveugle and
Hippolyte are further linked in clinical terms. They are both emblems
of deformity – and orthopaedics regards both scrofules and deviant

limbs as falling under the rubric of ‘difformités’ – but there is a further
critical clinical link between them in addition to the orthopaedic one
between the Aveugle’s ‘difformité’ and Hippolyte’s pre-operative state,
and it is dermatological. Skin links the Aveugle’s repulsive condition
with Hippolyte’s hideous post-operative state, the description of which
focuses heavily on skin lesions, and also, curiously, contains numerous
references to eyes, which I argue allude to the specific condition of
‘ophthalmie scrofuleuse’, and to the (presumed) blindness of the
Aveugle. Ocular questions of blindness and vision thus highlighted
are further linked to the question of Enlightenment and resistance to
it, the former of which is self-appointedly represented by Homais, and
the latter of which is characterised suggestively by the pharmacist in
simultaneously bodily and discursive terms, through the metaphor of
the ‘réseau’ or network. The network of obfuscating discourse serves to
obstruct Enlightenment, just as the net or veil conceals the face. But
concealment from view is precisely the prescription offered by con-
temporary discourses of disability voiced through Homais: Hippolyte’s
deviant affliction must be corrected so as not to offend the eye, and the
Aveugle, ultimately, if only to suit Homais’s business interests, must be
kept out of sight.
Chapter 4 takes as its starting point the imagery of monstrosity char-
acterising the orthopaedic and dermatological deviation and deformity
highlighted in Chapter 3. Noting that monstrosity is frequently repre-
sented as deviation from the human, as animal, it identifies an equine
theme pervading the representation of such deformity, particularly in
Hippolyte and the Aveugle, and links it to contemporary medical dis-
course on nightmares, already flagged in Chapter 1 as having epistemo-
logical resonances. Study of the genetic dossier of Madame Bovary reveals
that the nightmare is further intimately linked with fear and loathing of
the Aveugle on the part of Emma and Homais, who both perceive him
at the draft stage of Flaubert’s novel as a ‘cauchemar’ [‘nightmare’]. The
word is absent from the published novel, but key characteristics of the
nightmare found in medical discourse remain.
Monstrosity is on the one hand, then, associated with the symbolic
hantise represented by the Aveugle as a grotesquely deformed individ-
ual. But this hantise has a social dimension. In order to investigate this
dimension as it relates to Madame Bovary, monstrosity is also considered
in this chapter in terms of a number of shifts in which it is grounded,
in particular one it underwent itself. Michel Foucault, discussing the
history of the emergence of aliénisme and psychiatry as a disciplinary
body in the early nineteenth century, identifies a ‘passage du monstre

à l’anormal’ (1999: 102; 2003b: 110). I will argue in Chapter 4 that
this shift ‘from the monster to the abnormal’ is articulated in Madame
Bovary’s representation of Homais’s struggle with the Aveugle, in terms
both of Homais’s lurid language alluding to monstrosity and proposed
means – through exclusion – of dealing with it, and of that struggle’s
outcome. The Aveugle is ultimately excluded from the social body, and
Homais’s florid denunciation of monstrosity, appealing simultaneously
to medieval imagery of leprosy, to notions of contagion (conjuring the
plague and the disciplinary measures used to control it), and to the
rhetoric of what Foucault (1972: 76–109; 2006a: 44–77) terms ‘le grand
renfermement’ [‘the great confinement’], certainly plays a key role.
However, as a consideration of aliéniste discourse and mental health
legislation of the early nineteenth century as well as of specific circum-
stances obtaining in the Seine-Inférieure reveals, the institutional and
social conditions of possibility for the Aveugle’s de-incorporation from
a body politic consequently purified are not monstrosity, but abnormal-
ity, deviance from norms whereby the Aveugle can be categorised as a
social menace.
The book’s final part offers readings of two works by Émile Zola
which incorporate substantial amounts – arguably more than any other
novels in the Rougon-Macquart series – of medical discourse: La Bête
humaine and Le Docteur Pascal. There is quite a contrast between these
two novels’ incorporation of such discourse: the former novel barely
mentions medicine (while in fact implicitly, as I shall argue, articulat-
ing the incorporation of the psychiatric profession, as well as some of
its key ideas), whereas the other’s central character is a doctor, a family
archivist building up an arbre généalogique, a family tree predicated on
hereditary characteristics, while at the same time developing a new
therapy for restoring the physiological body’s integrity through self-
regulation. What these apparently incongruous novels have in common
is that they affirm the body as the site of discourse. La Bête humaine, in
its representation of a psychopathic character who goes unnoticed by
society, articulates a new paradigm within the medical understanding of
mental illness, drawing on contemporary sources which situate psycho-
pathic and other deviant tendencies – seen as physiological rather than
psychological or metaphysical – deep within the fabric of the body;
if instinctual, psychopathic tendencies are hidden from view within
the physiological body, they are also, under the veneer of civilisation,
embedded within the social body; psychiatric discourse, moreover,
by analogy, is concealed deep within the body of a text on the narrative
level of which no one spots the signs of madness. Le Docteur Pascal

draws on an emerging body of medical discourse which situates
memory, the storage of information by the human organism, within the
body rather than in the mind; the body thus becomes an archive, a text,
and indeed is treated metaphorically as such by Zola in what I will argue
is a meditation on the bodily, and specifically incorporative, nature of
the discursive project that is the Rougon-Macquart corpus.
Chapter 5, then, considers La Bête humaine in relation to a number of
medical and scientific discourses from the end, middle, and beginning of
the nineteenth century. It takes as its starting point an overlap between
the medical profession and the criminal justice system, the advocacy
of which by Michelet is noted by Zola in his preparation of his novel.
This overlap, this ‘engrenage psychiatro-judiciaire’ [‘meshing together
of the psychiatric and the judicial’] identified by Foucault (1999: 259;
2003b: 274) as emerging in nineteenth-century France as the psychiat-
ric profession incorporated itself and enhanced its power through its
involvement in criminal cases requiring its expert judgement, is com-
pletely absent from the narrative of Zola’s novel, except for occasional
apparent allusions by a prosecuting magistrate to the work of the Italian
criminal anthropologist Cesare Lombroso, roughly contemporary with
the novel, in the form of the supposed physical characteristics of born
criminals. I shall argue in this chapter that the allusion to Lombroso is
in fact somewhat of a red herring, and that the novel’s actual under-
standing of the homicidal psychopathology represented in it is rooted,
rather, in aliéniste, that is proto-psychiatric, discourse from the middle
of the nineteenth century, which has a much stronger presence in Zola’s
preparatory material for the Rougon-Macquart cycle as a whole than in
the genetic dossier for La Bête humaine. A range of works by mid-century
aliénistes – including those on which Zola took notes while planning the
series rather than the novel – is considered, and is identified as having
been incorporated within the text of La Bête humaine, which is deeply
sensitive to the ‘passage du monstre à l’anormal’ mentioned above.
Modern society, still problematically coming to terms with the medical,
scientific, and technological paradigms of its very modernity, is con-
stantly on the lookout for the monster, and fails to see the danger of the
abnormal, that is, almost normal – were it not for his homicidal mania –
individual lurking under the surface of civilisation, deeply incorporated
within the implicitly pathologised social body.
If the social imaginary, trapped in a pre-psychiatric paradigm, fails to
spot the abnormal psychopath, the abnormal psychopath is similarly
unable to recognise the systemically embedded rather than superficial
nature of his affliction. I have argued elsewhere (Duffy 2005: 223–4) that
Zola’s psychopath Jacques Lantier’s failure to recognise the nature of his
illness is reflected in his failure to recognise the thermodynamic nature
of the functioning of his locomotive. In the second part of Chapter 5,
I take this argument further through a historical overview of associations
made between insanity and the seemingly inexhaustible desire – on
the part of amateur scientists – to create perpetual motion. The quest
for perpetual motion is precisely one of ‘ces connaissances imparfaites et
mal fondées’ [‘those imperfect, ill-based elements of knowledge’], these
‘philosophies d’ombre qui hantent les littératures’ [‘shady philosophies
that haunt literature’] which Foucault (1969: 185; 2002: 153) identifies
as being the stuff of a history of ideas existing alongside that of science:
‘histoire de l’alchimie plutôt que de la chimie, des esprits animaux ou
de la phrénologie plutôt que de la physiologie’ [‘the history of alchemy
rather than chemistry, of animal spirits or phrenology rather than
physiology’]. Perpetual-motionism, while, like these other examples,
culturally pervasive, is progressively marginalised as eccentric. Up until
the mid-nineteenth century, associations between perpetual-motionism
and insanity were made by established scientists asserting the
impossibility – in terms of classical mechanics and dynamics – of perpetual
motion. Perpetual-motionists, like circle-squarers, are seen primarily
as harmless eccentrics with vaguely esoteric interests, successors to
necromancers and alchemists. However, by the early-to-mid-nineteenth
century, the associations earlier made by scientists are now being made
chiefly by doctors (including Zola’s mid-century aliéniste sources), and
specifically around the disease entity known as monomania, a very flex-
ible and comprehensive concept which at its most basic level denotes a
fixation on a particular object. This pathological association of mono-
mania with perpetual motion comes at a time when the latter’s impos-
sibility is expressed in thermodynamic terms, that is, in terms of the
inevitable degeneration of systems. My argument is that in its implicit
evocation of the parallels between the degeneration of complex systems
and the pathological degeneration of the human subject, Zola’s novel is
in fact engaging critically with the tension in alienist discourse between
monomania as localised fixation, and monomania as symptom of sys-
temically degenerative pathology. This concern with systemic patho-
logical conditions as opposed to localised, superficial phenomena has
a wider resonance with the very Zolian incorporative notion that just
as the body is not isolated from its ambient and social milieu, neither
can the text be seen in isolation from the textual networks in which it
is implicated.
The interaction of the body with its milieu, and by analogy, of the
interaction of the literary text with its discursive milieu, is the central
theme of the book’s final chapter. But the physiological body in question
is not simply metaphorically a repository of pathological information.
If, as according to Chapter 5, mental illness is by the second half of the
nineteenth century firmly incorporated, located within the body, at the
moment that psychiatry becomes incorporated as a profession, another
incorporation is taking place within the discourse of what became
known as the ‘maladies de la mémoire’ [‘illnesses of the memory’].
Just as emphatically material repositories – archives, encyclopaedias,
museums, and libraries – stored documents and highly ordered and
classified information, it was now the body, and not the mind, that
stored memories. The work of anthropologist Paul Broca situated
the faculties of language, and of memory, within the body, whereas
previously these had been assumed to be in the metaphysical domain.
For Otis (1994: 3), this incorporation of memory – now a knowable,
positive quantity – within the body played a number of ideological roles,
not least in relation to the notion of the national body politic as an
organic repository of cultural memory. Information became a form of
stimulus, which could be inscribed upon the body.
It is this new understanding of the body’s incorporation of informa-
tion that is the focus of Chapter 6’s reading of the final novel in Zola’s
Rougon-Macquart series, Le Docteur Pascal, which itself incorporates
medical discourse from this precise domain in a self-reflexive consid-
eration of how the literary text incorporates extra-literary material,
and of the effects of such epistemological stimuli upon its organically
conceived coherence. Pascal Rougon, the novel’s eponymous hero, is
engaged in the process of accumulating family knowledge, building up
a Rougon-Macquart family archive consisting of dossiers documenting
the hereditary traits of its individual members, represented visually on a
family tree: his purpose in doing so is to seek out the origin of his own
specific inherited characteristics. This family tree has markedly bodily
characteristics; its material signs of wear are likened to those of the fam-
ily matriarch, Tante Dide. Like her body, the family tree, the genealogi-
cal text, is worn down by history, and is an inscribed corporeal record
of its interaction with its environment, of its continued incorporation
of new members, new information, new events.
While pursuing this genealogical project, Pascal is also engaged
in the development of a new therapeutics, based on the revitalisa-
tion of the body through hypodermic injections. The basis of this
therapeutics is the non-specificity of the substance injected. This idea,
drawn from contemporary medical writings – specifically, a work on

hypodermic injections and transfusions by a Dr Jules Chéron – is, I
argue, at the novel’s conceptual heart, and functions as a metaphor for
the operation Zola has been performing throughout the development
of the Rougon-Macquart cycle: injecting contemporary discourse into
the fictional text, incorporating it, blending it creatively to produce
a coherent textual organism of interlinked components, the whole
predicated on an interlinked epistemological network of infinite com-
plexity. The point is that as with Pascal’s hypodermic injections, the
nature of the discursive substance ‘injected’ into the textual body, the
corpus, is immaterial: its curative effect on the ‘jeu de l’organisme’, on
bodily integrity and coherence, both internally among its component
parts, and with the exterior environment, is what counts. This inter-
relationality is central to the problematics of the chapter’s analysis,
grounded in an opposition identified by Michel Foucault (1994, II: 140;
1984b: 80) in his reading of Nietzsche, between two words connoting
origins: Ursprung, denoting a specific origin or source, and Herkunft,
which Foucault renders as ‘provenance’ [‘descent’]. ‘Provenance’ is a
form of origin which is by definition predicated on interrelationality,
rather than on the notion of a single source. This, for Foucault, is a
much more productive way of understanding history, and I argue that
this is a notion being expressed by Le Docteur Pascal in its representa-
tion of the realisation on the part of its protagonist – ‘simultaneously
a Nietzschean and a positivist’ (Otis 1994: 74) – that he can only
understand his inherited traits in terms of the genealogical relationships
between the members of his extended family, rather than by seeking
a single specific source among his ancestors. Zola’s novel, then, offers
a rejection of specificity as means of healing or understanding the
physiological, familial, or textual body. Context and relationality are
crucial to the apprehension of the body’s meaning.
This is in some sense an element of the rationale of the present
study, which, having started as a project with a genetic remit examin-
ing the incorporation of specific extra-textual detail within bounded
literary corpora, has gradually expanded its notion of incorporation
from a genetic to a genealogical sphere. The following chapters show,
I hope, how the nineteenth-century textual body expands far beyond
its membranous surface, and participates in a much wider incorporation
of knowledge than merely in terms of what it ingests on a material
documentary level.
Part I
Flaubert and Professional
Incorporations
1
Madame Bovary and the
Incorporation of Pharmacy
This chapter examines the incorporation within the literary text of

the discursive shifts and institutional changes that occur as a profes-
sion reincorporates itself, and considers how the nature of that textual
incorporation is suggestively connected not only to that profession’s
discursive incorporation as disciplinary body through interaction and
overlap with other discourses, but also to its incorporative activities
concerned with its essential mission: the admixture of substances and
their administration to the physiological body. The connections claimed
here are plausible primarily because the profession in question here is
pharmacy, which underwent a major transformation in France around
the beginning of the nineteenth century, linked to other institutional
and social changes, not least the scientific and French revolutions. The
repercussions of pharmacy’s disciplinary and professional refashioning
were still being felt during the July Monarchy – the period represented in
the literary text that will be our cultural point of reference in this chap-
ter as in others, Madame Bovary. I will argue that Madame Bovary, rather
than coincidentally representing the pharmacist – simply on account
of his being a middle-class professional – as representative of the rising
bourgeoisie and its purportedly universal values, in fact problematises,
through its incorporation of the rhetoric of what we might term a new
pharmaceutical ideology, and its articulation of key institutional and
legislative developments, the relationship between literary discourse,
specifically mimetic fictional discourse, and contemporary scientific
discourse. Pharmacy is, then, not a random choice of discipline or
profession: it is by its nature a hybrid vocation, straddling scientific
and commercial spheres, and is – usefully for the novelist preoccupied
with what is said – emblematic of the expansion and intermingling of
disciplinary fields and their discourses in the nineteenth century.
35
36 Flaubert and Professional Incorporations
Homo pharmaceuticus
Homais, then, Flaubert’s infamous representative of the pharmaceutical

profession, has long been a figure of derision for critics, as well as for
the novel in which he appears. He is in many respects an easy target, a
caricature of the self-seeking, anti-clerical petit-bourgeois. However, there
is perhaps rather much more to him than this. Michel Crouzet’s landmark
article, ‘“Ecce” Homais’ (1989), painstakingly analyses the apothicaire
of Yonville as a kind of pompous everyman – his name derived, as a
scenario for the novel (9, fo 46v) suggests, from Homo – embodying the
self-interested received ideas of the early-to-mid-nineteenth-century bour-
geoisie and promoting them as if universal principles.1 At the same time,
Homais combines the high-minded philosophical rhetoric afforded by
membership of a profession bearing scientific credentials with the basic
economic imperatives of that profession and its artisanal antecedents. An
important point that Crouzet makes (1989: 980) is that it is not sufficient
simply to consider Homais in terms of his being ‘un objet de satire sociale’
[‘an object of social satire’]. Simply to regard him as representative of
bourgeois stupidity is to participate in the very rhetoric which Madame
Bovary citationally undermines. Rather, his bêtise lies precisely in the fact
that he is profusely informed, intelligent ‘parfaitement!’ [‘perfectly!’], as
Thibaudet (1935: 120) memorably put it.2 Moreover, he is not a mere
mentality or personality: he embodies and produces a profusion of dis-
course and savoir [‘knowledge’] as a pharmacist, that is, as a chemist. It
is his status as pharmacist, considered within its nineteenth-century pro-
fessional, institutional context that this chapter will argue is inseparable
from his production of knowledge.
It is not as if the pharmaceutical aspects of Madame Bovary have been
ignored by previous criticism. Lilian Furst (1993) touches on pharmacy
in a documentation of the contemporary medical context in which
the novel (among others) should be read. Douglas Siler (1981), in a
meticulously detailed genetic account of the medical sources consulted
for the narrative of Emma’s death, traces the pharmacist’s pronounce-
ments on various matters to specific medical texts. Héla Michot-Dietrich
argues for a homeopathic reading, suggesting (1987: 317) that Flaubert
‘presents a clear homeopathic case history in each of Emma’s illnesses’,
and even goes so far as to suggest (1987: 314) that the pharmacist’s
name is a pun on ‘Hom[ais-]opathy’. Discussions of the novel’s
pharmaceutical content grounded in critical theory have, unsurprisingly,
addressed the connection between pharmacy and discourse; Homais’s
activity as pharmacist dispensing substances that can be remedy or
Madame Bovary and the Incorporation of Pharmacy 37
poison can quite productively be linked to his incessant production

of prescriptive discourse. Maryline Lukacher, reading the novel as an
‘exploration of the double-bind logic of the pharmakon’ (1985: 37), tack-
les the suggestive connection between the pharmacist and the Platonic
(or Derridean) pharmakos – the sorcerer or charlatan dispensing poisons
(Derrida 1972: 149) – and identifies Emma as the site not only of phar-
maceutical substances – both remedial and poisonous – administered
to the body, but also of literary discourse, which is by analogy a kind
of pharmakon. For Emptaz (2003), Homais’s role as pharmacist is that of
‘celui qui assure la circulation du savoir et des idées’ [‘he who assures the
circulation of knowledge and ideas’]. Indeed, as embodiment of Hermès,
the messenger, ‘il divulgue les informations, garantit la communication’
[‘he divulges information, guarantees communication’].
While Homais-as-pharmacist has hardly, then, been overlooked by
criticism, what has received rather less attention is the historically
specific disciplinary and institutional context in which he practises his
profession. Yet the development of pharmacy as both discipline and
profession from the late eighteenth century onwards is in fact of great
significance to Madame Bovary. The novel incorporates key details of
pharmaceutical history and its discourses as found in contemporary
scientific periodicals and treatises, and as expressed in earlier publica-
tions and disciplinary debate. In so doing, it articulates the institutional
development, at national and local levels, of pharmacy as a profes-
sion in the early nineteenth century. By articulating in fictional form
the recasting of the relationships of pharmacy with other disciplines
and professions, the novel reconsiders pharmacy’s – and, implicitly,
literature’s – disciplinary limits. As with other fields of knowledge
and cultural production in the period, pharmacy’s parameters are in
flux: Homais’s profession, like his discursive practice more generally,
encroaches on other epistemological domains, just as he as business-
man encroaches on Charles Bovary’s commercial territory. In this he
is representative not just of pharmacy, but of expanding professional
disciplines and epistemological fields more generally. We shall discuss
Homais’s diversification into other fields presently, but first a clearer
institutional contextualisation for pharmacy is needed.
Nos sommités pharmaceutiques: institutional revolution,

the Bulletin de Pharmacie, and Cadet de Gassicourt
Two factors are crucial in the early nineteenth-century development

of pharmacy. One is the profound transformation in its relationship
with chemistry; the other is the bringing of medicine under centralised

control during the Revolution and Empire. Chemistry had until the
late eighteenth century been intimately associated with pharmacy,
understood as an art or craft. Scientific chemists, more or less
indistinguishable from apothecaries, were concerned primarily with the
pharmaceutical contribution of their science to the healing of the sick.
Chemistry was in effect a subdivision of pharmacy. However, as Jonathan
Simon (2005: 8, 22, 85) recounts, the chemical revolution associated
with Lavoisier, whose Traité élémentaire de chimie [Elementary Treatise on
Chemistry] (1789) expressed chemistry in terms of a new nomenclature
rather than in terms of its eventual practical applications, had elevated
chemistry to the level of a ‘philosophical’ science. Pharmacy, with its
comparatively mundane and artisanal concerns, became excluded from
what had become an emphatically theoretical science now necessar-
ily asserting independence from practical applications. The chemical
revolution, as Simon (2005: 2–3) contends, has tended to be seen as a
struggle between competing scientific theories, rather than as a process
involving a reshaped discipline staking its claims in institutional, pro-
fessional, and social terms. Accordingly, the status of pharmacy is seen
simply to have been downgraded in the aftermath of a battle of ideas,
and the reaction of pharmacy as profession to the changed disciplinary
status of chemistry has been overlooked. That reaction – one of acute
concern over the scientific status of pharmacy – came in two stages. In
the pre-Revolutionary period, pharmacists had chiefly been concerned
with how they should assert themselves as practical professionals, to dis-
tance themselves from the ‘pure’ chemists who had abandoned them.
After reforms enacted during the Revolution and Empire, however,
and in order to give pharmacy more scientific credibility within new
institutional frameworks, emphasis shifted to the appeal of associating
pharmacy with chemistry, since the latter was now an established scien-
tific discipline grounded in Enlightenment principles and philosophical
systems. Pharmacy, then, having at first tried to distance itself from the
chemistry which had abandoned it, thus asserted itself in the immedi-
ate post-Napoleonic period as a ‘philosophical’ science through stressed
association with chemistry, and also in ways similar to medicine which,
through figures such as Bichat, was claiming the status of experimental
science enjoyed by physics and chemistry (Léonard 1981: 26–8).
A key organ promoting this new image of pharmacists as chemists,
scientists, and philosophers is the Bulletin de Pharmacie, launched in
1809 by members of the Société de Pharmacie de Paris disenchanted
with their organisation’s reticence in asserting itself as a scientific body
standing up to the disdain of chemists. Indeed, just as much as it was a

periodical, the Bulletin was a faction in a disciplinary turf war. In a let-
ter to the leadership of the Société de Pharmacie, the editors of the new
journal send a shot across the bows, effectively setting themselves up as
a rival organisation (Parmentier, Cadet et al. n.d., emphasis in original):
Les travaux importants auxquels nous allons nous livrer ne nous

permettant pas de perdre notre temps aux Séances de votre Société;
nous vous prions de prévenir vos collègues de l’intention où
nous sommes de n’être plus portés sur votre catalogue; il est désor-
mais impossible que des Pharmaciens observateurs, forts des principes
qu’ils ont puisés aux leçons des grands maîtres; qui se sont mis au courant
des méthodes naturelles, des Systèmes Philosophiques, et mis d’amitié avec
les premiers Chymistes et Physiciens de l’Europe, puissent aller de pair
avec des Pharmaciens qui ne sont que des manipulateurs plus ou moins
adroits et dépourvus des connoissances qui éclairent leur art; En effet,
monsieur, n’est-il pas désolant pour nous, de nous voir dédaignés par
des Chymistes qui ne s’occupent que de Théorie, nous qui nous sommes
rendus si recommandables par tant de travaux utiles, qui avons
éclairé du flambeau lumineux de notre génie, une Science ingrate; Et
nous serons regardés comme des Perroquets?3
[The important projects to which we are going to devote ourselves

not permitting us to waste our time at the Meetings of your Society,
we request that you alert your colleagues to our intention no longer
to be included in your catalogue; it is henceforth impossible for
observational Pharmacists, fortified with the principles which they have
drawn from the lessons of the great maîtres, who have informed them-
selves of natural methods, of Philosophical Systems, and have established
friendships with the foremost Chemists and Physicists in Europe, to be
associated with Pharmacists who are only manipulators of a greater or
lesser degree of skill and deprived of the knowledge that enlightens their art.
Indeed, Monsieur, is it not devastating for us, to see ourselves disdained
by Chemists concerned only with Theory, we who have made ourselves
so commendable through so many useful works, who have enlight-
ened with the luminous torch of our genius an ungrateful Science?
And we are to be looked on as Parrots?]
The point being articulated here is that whereas old-style pharma-

cists, currently standing aloof from chemists, have no knowledge of
theory, and new-style chemists know nothing other than theory, the
new observational pharmacy, although thus far underappreciated,

is endowed with both enlightened (and enlightening) theoretical
knowledge – gleaned from both chemistry and physics – and useful
practical skills. Rather than being engaged ‘comme des Perroquets’
[‘like Parrots’] in the endless second-hand repetition of formulae, as
disdainful theoretical chemists might misrepresent them as being,
especially if their more traditionalist colleagues reject new theoreti-
cal knowledge, these enlightened chemists have something radically
new – advantageously rooted in both theory and practice – to offer.
Observational pharmacy is thus the essential scientific discipline, the
essential healing profession, and its value derives from its hybridity,
which comes to be the distinguishing factor in rhetorical representa-
tions of it, not least in terms of justifying, on the grounds of its theoreti-
cal validity as science, its incorporative applicability to numerous areas
of practical activity far beyond the healing of the sick.
The first article in the inaugural issue of the Bulletin, ‘Considérations
sur l’état actuel de la pharmacie’ [‘Considerations on the Present State
of Pharmacy’], is a polemic arguing for a ‘chimie pharmaceutique’
[‘pharmaceutical chemistry’] with privileged professional status. Its
author, one of the signatories – if not indeed the principal author – of
the letter to the Société de Pharmacie de Paris, and also responsible for
a ‘fort beau rapport’ [‘a very fine article’] on poisoned sausages invoked
in Madame Bovary by Homais as Emma writhes in moribund agony, is
styled by Flaubert’s pharmacist as ‘une de nos sommités pharmaceu-
tiques, un de nos maîtres, l’illustre Cadet de Gassicourt’ (OC I: 683)
[‘one of our leading pharmaceutical lights, one of our masters, the
celebrated Cadet de Gassicourt!’ (Flaubert 2004: 287)]. Institutionally,
Charles-Louis Cadet de Gassicourt is indeed a ‘sommité’ [a ‘leading
light’] given his status as ‘Pharmacien de l’Empereur’ (Cadet 1809b:
520), and veteran – as well as chronicler (1818) – of Napoleon’s
Austrian campaign of 1809; he is a key player in pharmacy’s rea-
lignment with chemistry and in its claims to scientific and indeed
philanthropic status. The author of his obituary in the Journal de
Pharmacie – successor to the Bulletin – clearly regards him as central to
the refashioning of pharmacy as a professional discipline. He and the
chemist-agrarian Parmentier (a co-signatory of the letter to the Société
de Pharmacie), ‘ces deux promoteurs des sciences philanthropiques’
[‘those two promoters of the philanthropic sciences’] are pharmacy’s
‘plus nobles ornemens’ [‘noblest adornments’] (Virey 1822: 1–2). The
social vocation of pharmacy is reflected in Cadet’s setting up of a
Conseil de salubrité publique – at the heart of what was to become widely
known as ‘hygiène publique’ – of which he was the secrétaire-rapporteur.

While he held this role, he was a prolific producer of learned discourse,
scourge of charlatans threatening to contaminate the pharmaceutical
body, and champion of its professional rights:
Il ne se passait pas de séance sans qu’il fît de nombreux rapports; ces

travaux, quoique ignorés et sans éclat, étaient toujours frappés au coin
de l’utilité générale, et empreints de l’amour du bien public. C’est de là,
comme d’une haute citadelle, qu’il précipita tant de fois le charlatanisme,
qu’il revendiqua pour l’art pharmaceutique des droits trop méconnus, et
rendit à la médecine de si éminens services. (Virey 1822: 9)
[There did not occur a single meeting without his producing numer-
ous reports; these works, however much they might be ignored and
untrumpeted, always bore the stamp of general utility, and were
imprinted with the love of the public good. It was from this stand-
point, as from a high citadel, that he cast down charlatanism so
many times, that he insisted on rights for the pharmaceutical craft
that were much too underestimated, and performed such eminent
services for medicine.]
Cadet is, then, a standard-bearer for the new pharmacy, particularly for its
application beyond its own disciplinary boundaries, by definition highly
flexible because of pharmacy’s hybrid status. Douglas Siler (1981: 735)
confirms Cadet as indirect source of Homais’s invocation of poisoned
boudins in Madame Bovary, but his critical significance for the novel is in
symbolising the new pharmacy with which Homais wishes to be associ-
ated, that is, as Cadet’s obituary indicates, a pharmacy which wishes to be
allied with the new chemistry, as well as with medicine, and is at the same
time vigorously and prolifically engaged in promoting public health and
the public good. Cadet is also – as we will see in the following chapter –
intensely concerned for the integrity of the pharmaceutical profession,
constantly at threat from the contaminating effects of charlatanism.
Cadet’s ‘Considérations’ avoid mentioning pharmacy’s subordinate
status, preferring instead (1809a: 5) the rhetorical strategy of praising
its noble history:
Avant que les Sciences naturelles et physiques […] aient eu chacune

un domaine particulier et des limites tracées, elles étaient toutes con-
fondues dans la pharmacie. Il n’y avait de Chimistes, de Naturalistes,
que les Pharmaciens, ou les Médecins qui s’occupaient de pharmacie.
[Before the natural and physical Sciences each had its own particular
domain and defined boundaries, they were all mixed together in
pharmacy. There were no Chemists or Naturalists but Pharmacists,
or Doctors engaged in pharmacy.]
Pharmacy can now content itself with being the ‘honorable source de la
Chimie philosophique’ (1809a: 5) [‘honourable source of philosophical
Chemistry’]. This new ‘Chimie philosophique’, founded by Lavoisier,
had shifted the object of chemistry from practical applications to
theoretical, analytical pursuits, so that pharmacy, as a practical healing
art, was abandoned; ‘il fut aisé de sentir que cette Science prenait un si
grand essor qu’elle allait se séparer de la Pharmacie’ (Cadet 1809a: 6)
[‘it was easy to sense that this Science was undergoing such rapid
development that it was going to separate itself from Pharmacy’]. The
solution for pharmacy, in Cadet’s view, lies in adopting, as chemistry
has, new methods and nomenclature, so that it can rise (Cadet 1809a:
7) ‘au niveau de la Médecine et de la Chimie’ [‘to the level of Medecine
and Chemistry’]. Cadet (1809a: 11) asserts, moreover, the equivalent
standing of pharmacy with other professions by waxing lyrical on
‘l’avocat qui défend l’honneur ou la fortune des citoyens, le notaire
qui tient le dépôt des contrats civils’ [‘the lawyer who defends the
honour or the fortune of citizens, the notary to whom civil contracts
are entrusted’] as counterparts to ‘le Savant ou l’Artiste habile qui tient
dans sa main la santé et la vie de ceux qui s’adressent à lui’ [‘the skilled
Scientist or Artist in whose hands reside the health and life of those
who consult him’].
Homais: pharmacist, chemist, philosopher
Cadet’s assertion of the polyvalent disciplinary potential of pharmacy

is echoed in Madame Bovary, notably by Homais’s first, contrived,
pronouncement on professional matters: ‘Ah! qu’un négociant qui
a des relations considérables, qu’un jurisconsulte, un médecin, un
pharmacien soient tellement absorbés qu’ils en deviennent fantasques
et bourrus même je le comprends […]’ (OC I: 600) [‘Ah! If a businessman
with important connections, a magistrate, a doctor, a pharmacist were
so absorbed in their affairs that they became odd or even churlish – now
that I understand’ (2004: 69)]. Homais also shares Cadet’s concern with
pharmacy’s equal footing with other professions. As his profession de foi
(OC I: 600; 2004: 69–70) indicates, he is a man of the Enlightenment,
and, as his commentary on corpses after Emma’s death indicates, he is

appropriately a ‘philosophe’ (OC I: 685) in professional contexts:
J’en ai vu d’autres à l’Hôtel-Dieu, quand j’étudiais la pharmacie!

Nous faisions du punch dans l’amphithéâtre aux dissections! Le
néant n’épouvante pas un philosophe; et même, je le dis souvent,
j’ai l’intention de léguer mon corps aux hôpitaux, afin de servir plus
tard à la Science. (OC I: 686)
[I saw plenty of these, at the Hôtel-Dieu, when I was studying

pharmacy! We used to make punch in the theatre, while we were
doing dissections. A philosopher does not fear death. As I’ve repeat-
edly declared, I even intend to bequeath my body to the hospitals,
so that I may, one day, be of some utility to Science. (Flaubert
2004: 295)]
But there is more here than simple affirmation of professional status.

Homais’s words also reveal something of the institutional dimensions
of his status as pharmacist. There is another ‘philosophe’ in the novel,
Dr Larivière, who belongs to ‘la grande école chirurgicale sortie du tablier
de Bichat, à cette génération, maintenant disparue, de praticiens philos-
ophes’ (OC I: 682) [‘that great surgical school established by Bichat, that
now vanished generation of philosopher-practitioners’ (2004: 285)].
Homais implicitly associates himself, as a fellow philosophe, with clinical
medicine, a new phenomenon emerging during the Empire, the land-
mark event being the publication of Bichat’s Anatomie générale (1801).
Death and observation are the main planks of Bichat’s anatomy (sup-
planting the rationalism and vitalism which had previously held sway);
they are also central to Homais’s account of his training, and indeed
to the novel, in which Emma’s demise, clinically observed, is a pivotal
moment, and in which Charles’s death is followed by an unmistakably
clinical act, performed by Canivet, very much a man in the tradition of
the corpse-opening Bichat (OC I: 692; Flaubert 2004: 311): ‘Il l’ouvrit et
ne trouva rien’ [‘He opened him up, but found nothing’].
According to Lilian Furst (1993: 40), ‘which type of training Homais has
undergone is not specified’. This is not quite true; the novel specifies not
only the legislation enshrining the regime of pharmaceutical training, but
also the local institution in which it takes place, namely the ‘Hôtel-Dieu’
(OC I: 686; Flaubert 2004: 295), which we may presume to be the one in
Rouen, as Homais has earlier mentioned his studying pharmacy in that city
(OC I: 615; Flaubert 2004: 109). What is significant is that the Hôtel-Dieu
is a teaching hospital in which doctors are trained; for under reforms

enacted in the Napoleonic period, doctors and pharmacists were brought
together institutionally, and trained alongside one another. The centralisa-
tion imposed on pharmacy during the Empire (following an earlier shift
away from ‘corporations’ of apothecaries, spicers, and barbers) similarly
affected medicine, enshrined in parallel – frequently the same – legislation.
Yet this centralisation had a significant localising dimension. According
to Simon (2005: 118–19), the two most far-reaching items of legislation
regulating the medical and pharmaceutical professions passed during the
Revolutionary and Napoleonic periods – which happen also to be those
most directly relevant to Madame Bovary – are the laws of 19 Ventôse and
21 Germinal in year XI (1803). The major provision of 19 Ventôse was
mandatory clinical training for anyone practising medicine, which ruled
out many practitioners, especially in rural areas. It is precisely of this provi-
sion that Homais has fallen foul. Not long after the Bovarys have arrived in
Yonville, Homais begins to ingratiate himself with Charles.
Le besoin de s’occuper d’autrui ne poussait pas seul le pharmacien

à tant de cordialité obséquieuse, et il y avait là-dessous un plan.
Il avait enfreint la loi du 19 ventôse an XI, article Ier, qui défend à
tout individu non porteur de diplôme l’exercice de la médecine; si
bien que, sur des dénonciations ténébreuses, Homais avait été mandé
à Rouen, près M. le procureur du roi […]. (OC I: 603)
[All this deferential friendliness on the part of the pharmacist was not
prompted purely by his love of meddling; there was a purpose behind
it. He had infringed Article One of the Law of 19 Ventôse of the Year
XI, which forbids the practice of medicine to anyone not holding a
diploma; as a result, Homais had been denounced anonymously, and
summoned to Rouen, to appear before the Royal Prosecutor in his
private chambers. (Flaubert 2004: 78)]
Following his dressing-down, Homais is shaken (and stirred, to the

extent of having to drink a Seltzer cocktail), but gradually resumes
‘des consultations anodines dans son arrière-boutique’ [‘anodyne con-
sultations in the back of his shop’] (OC I: 603; Flaubert 2004: 78).4 In
order to prevent future accusations of infringing the law – which he
in fact continues to do – he curries favour with Charles, his business
and professional rival, whose legal professional status in fact parallels
Homais’s. For not only did the law of 19 Ventôse prohibit the practice
of medicine to those not qualified as doctors, it also recast the model
of medical practice and training. The old division between doctors and
surgeons was replaced with one between a new elite of doctors and sur-
geons trained at national level in six (later three) medical schools, and a
lower tier of officiers de santé trained locally under a kind of apprenticeship,
and certified by a medical Jury in the département to which their practice
was restricted.5 There is essentially, then, a bipartite division between
rural areas and major urban centres. The law of 21 Germinal establishes
parallel provisions for pharmacy. Elite pharmacists are to be trained in
the medical schools: local pharmacists trained and apprenticed locally
are certified by the same Jury as the officiers de santé, and subject to the
same territorial restrictions (Ramsey 1988: 77–80). At this local level,
therefore, medicine and pharmacy are closely aligned institutionally; in
Yonville, the doctor and the pharmacist – who have studied, respectively,
at the ‘Hôtel-Dieu’ (OC I: 686; Flaubert 2004: 295) and at the ‘hôpital’
(OC I: 577; Flaubert 2004: 11) – will almost certainly in fact have been
trained at the same institution in Rouen, and accredited by the same Jury.
What complicates their status as business rivals is a further provi-
sion of 21 Germinal. Under Article 27, only the officier de santé was
allowed to dispense medicines, that is to act as a de facto pharmacist.
Pharmacists, however, were expressly prohibited (under article 32) from
dispensing medicine without a doctor’s prescription (Philippe 1853:
228, 230; Gelfand 1980: 171). Charles, effectively abandoning an open
market in Tostes – ‘Il n’y avait là qu’un vieux médecin’ (OC I: 578)
[‘There was only an old doctor there’ (Flaubert 2004: 12)] – is thus,
once in Yonville, a threat to Homais, while at the same time essential
to his business. So Homais ingratiates himself with Charles, to avoid
any potential conflict and resultant accusations of malpractice, which
enables him at the same time to continue consultations, to the extent
that every Wednesday, his shopfront
ne désemplissait pas et l’on s’y poussait, moins pour acheter des

médicaments que pour prendre des consultations, tant était fameuse
la réputation du sieur Homais dans les villages circonvoisins. Son
robuste aplomb avait fasciné les campagnards. Ils le regardaient
comme un plus grand médecin que tous les médecins. (OC I: 617)
[was never empty and people thronged there, not so much to

purchase medicine as to seek consultations, so famous was the
reputation of Sieur Homais in the surrounding villages. His robust
confidence had entranced the country folk. They viewed him as a
greater doctor than all the doctors. (Flaubert 2004: 113)]
The pharmacist’s continued encroachment upon the doctor’s territory

is therefore testimony as much to the new institutional order as to
the persistent appeal of unconventional healing practices in the early
nineteenth century.6 Homais’s systematic practice more generally is
to stress the expansion of his profession’s domain, and the collapse of
boundaries between it and other epistemological fields. Such practice
certainly fits with his pompous and grasping disposition – as Emptaz
(2003) observes, ‘Homais n’est pas un homme à se laisser emprison-
ner dans une discipline unique’ [‘Homais is not a man to let himself
be imprisoned in one single discipline’] – but it is also consistent with
pharmacy’s contemporary professional discourse. Cadet’s article enti-
tled ‘Chimie’ [‘Chemistry’] in the Dictionnaire des sciences médicales –
lying uncut on Charles’s bookshelf (OC I: 585; Flaubert 2004: 30)
in contrast with Homais’s enthusiasm for edification through ‘bro-
chures et papiers publics’ (OC I: 619) [‘pamphlets and publications’
(Flaubert 2004: 119)] – defines chemistry as the ‘science qui apprend
à connaître la nature des corps, ou mieux encore l’action intime et
réciproque de leurs molécules intégrantes les unes sur les autres’ [‘sci-
ence which instructs us on knowing the nature of bodies, or better
still the intimate and reciprocal action of their constituent molecules
upon one another’] (Cadet 1813a: 44). Note the remarkable similarity
of this definition to that volunteered by Homais to Mme Lefrançois,
landlady of the Lion d’Or, on the occasion of the Comices agricoles,
the agricultural fair that is the centrepiece of Part II, Chapter 8 of
the novel:
[J]e suis pharmacien, c’est à dire chimiste! Et la chimie, ayant pour

objet la connaissance de l’action réciproque et moléculaire de
tous les corps de la nature, il s’ensuit que l’agriculture se trouve
comprise dans son domaine. Et, en effet, composition des engrais,
fermentation des liquides, analyse des gaz et influence des miasmes,
qu’est-ce que tout cela, je vous le demande, si ce n’est de la chimie
pure et simple? (OC I: 619)
[I’m a pharmacist, that is a chemist! And chemistry, Madame

Lefrançois, having as its object the knowledge of the reciprocal and
molecular action of all bodies in nature, it follows that agriculture
should be included in its domain. And indeed, composition of
manures, fermentation of liquids, analysis of gases and influence
of miasmas, what is all that, I ask you, if it isn’t chemistry pure and
simple? (Flaubert 2004: 119)]
Homais’s statement rearticulates Cadet’s definition, reasserting

pharmacy’s renewed claim to scientific status. But it additionally
broaches the matter of disciplinary boundaries – boundaries which
pharmacy, on account of its defining hybridity, can transcend. Pharmacy
is striving to be considered not only as part of medicine, but also as part
of chemistry. Homais thus exploits his profession’s double association –
with medicine to attract custom, and with chemistry to impose his
discursive command upon agriculture, the Comices providing the ideal
opportunity to deploy his expansionist disciplinary rhetoric of enlight-
enment: ‘Plût à Dieu que nos agriculteurs fussent des chimistes, ou que
du moins ils écoutassent davantage les conseils de la science!’ (OC I:
619) [‘Would to God that our farmers were chemists, or at least that
they were more accepting of scientific advice!’ (Flaubert 2004: 120)].
Crouzet writes of Homais’s all-consuming expository enthusiasm for
‘l’emboîtement vertigineux des connaissances et des techniques qui
fait de l’agriculture une application de la chimie, elle-même confondue
avec la pharmacie et établie comme un savoir de Tout’ (1989: 993) [‘the
vertiginous imbrication of various forms of knowledge and technology
which makes of agriculture an application of chemistry, itself amalga-
mated with pharmacy and established as a science of Everything’]. But
Homais’s investment in the interdisciplinary overlap of chemistry, phar-
macy, and agriculture is not simply down to what Crouzet (1989: 993)
refers to as his ‘ivresse épistémologique’ [‘epistemological intoxication’].
If pharmacy was indeed restyling itself as ‘chimie’ [‘chemistry’],
the intrusion of pharmacy into the agricultural domain was actual practice
at provincial and national levels. The leading pharmacists of the Empire
were not only soldiers, like Cadet; they were also indeed agriculturalists,
a key example being Parmentier, strongly associated with the initial
importation – from Germany – of potatoes in France. Like Cadet,
Parmentier was a military pharmacist – ‘Premier Pharmacien des Armées’ –
and founding co-editor of the Bulletin de Pharmacie, on whose tomb-
stone in Père Lachaise cemetery – directly adjacent to Cadet’s – can be
found a carving of a basket of potatoes alongside a chemist’s alambic
and a military cannon, as well as real potatoes still left by admirers.
The connection between (military) pharmacy and agriculture is given
further subtle expression via Flaubert’s recurrently allusive choice of
character names. Lestiboudois, the gravedigger who grows potatoes in
Yonville’s cemetery, ‘tirant ainsi des cadavres de la paroisse un double
bénéfice’ (OC I: 599) [‘thus netting a double profit from the corpses of
the parish’ (Flaubert 2004: 66)] shares his surname with Jean-Baptiste
Lestiboudois, chief pharmacist to the French army in the mid-eighteenth
century, and author of a 1737 mémoire on potatoes (Anon. 1826,

II: 281).7 Lestiboudois, moreover, according to early scenarios (P, fo 3,
fo 9, fo 15), was a prospective surname for Emma. A further trace of the
military health professions in the novel is Bovary père’s former occupation
as ‘aide-chirurgien-major’ (OC I: 576; Flaubert 2004: 7), a military
surgeon’s aide in the Napoleonic campaigns.8 But the surname which
most tellingly alludes, albeit obliquely, to the intrusion of pharmacy into
agriculture and other fields, and moreover underscores the importance of
the local dimension of this blurring of boundaries, is Dubuc.
Dubuc
The surname of Charles’s late wife Héloïse (OC I: 578, 580; Flaubert
2004: 12, 19) is shared with another regular contributor to the Bulletin
de Pharmacie, as well as to the local learned periodical, the Précis
analytique des travaux de l’Académie des Sciences, Belles-lettres et Arts
de Rouen [‘Analytical Précis of the Works of the Rouen Academy of
Sciences, Letters and Arts’]. Variously styling himself as ‘Chimiste’ or
‘Pharmacien’, or ‘Pharmacien-Chimiste’, of Rouen, Guillaume Dubuc
was a ‘membre de plusieurs sociétés savantes’ [‘member of several
learned societies’] – unlike Homais, who ‘l’était d’une seule’ (OC I:
691) [‘only belonged to one’ (Flaubert 2004: 309)]. From the 115 opus-
cules appearing over thirty years in the Précis, the Bulletin de Pharmacie
and elsewhere – many of them published in a special 1837 edition by
Dubuc fils, also a pharmacist, ‘avec luxe et à ses frais’ [‘luxuriously and
at his own expense’] (Des Alleurs 1839: 27) – we can see that Dubuc is
precisely a pharmacist – that is, a chemist – who strives to expand the
field of chemistry’s practical applications, to ‘défricher quelques por-
tions de son vaste domaine’ [‘open up to cultivation some portions of
its vast domain’] as he puts it in his 1809 Discours de réception [inaugu-
ral speech] at the Académie (Vitalis 1810: 57). The local context of the
Seine-Inférieure is one in which ‘l’utile application que M. Dubuc se
plaît à faire de ses connaissances chimiques à l’agriculture’ [‘the useful
application to agriculture in which Monsieur Dubuc delights in put-
ting his chemical knowledge to use’] (Marquis 1826: 30) is the obvious
means of disciplinary expansion.
Accordingly, throughout his career, Dubuc brings practical agricul-
tural matters within the ambit of scientific enquiry. Like Cadet de
Gassicourt, he features in the first edition of the Bulletin de Pharmacie,
with a Mémoire (1809) on the extraction of sugar from apples. This was
a topic of considerable currency given the blockade on sugar and other
materials from Caribbean colonies, a factor also informing Cadet’s

ruminations (1813b) on the torréfaction of coffee from local rather than
imported ingredients. Indeed, many of Dubuc’s opuscules are concerned
with sugar and apples – staples of the pharmacist’s practical activity.
Sugar abounds in many forms in the officine of the jam-making Homais
(OC I: 657–8; Flaubert 2004: 218–19) who, in order to find a suitable
‘mensonge’ [‘lie’] to conceal Emma’s suicide (OC I: 685; Flaubert 2004:
291), exploits its resemblance to arsenic, another key ‘poudre blanche’
[‘white powder’] (OC I: 680; Flaubert 2004: 280), which, as James
Whorton records (2010: 139–41), was frequently confused for sugar
during the nineteenth century.9 Apples, as well as being an important
source of sugar, are also the source of another substance looming large
in Dubuc’s writings: cider (1824, 1837b, 1837c). Dubuc’s prolific output
in this domain is highlighted in his obituary in the Précis, which draws
attention to his particular predilection:
Nous passons à dessein, Messieurs, sur différents opuscules qui n’ont

qu’un intérêt secondaire […] pour arriver à de nouvelles recherches
de Dubuc sur le sujet favori de ses pensées, je veux parler des amé-
liorations à introduire dans la fabrication des cidres, mémoire lu à l’une
des séances publiques de la Société d’Agriculture. (Avenel 1839: 184)
[Here, Messieurs, we will expressly pass over various opuscules

which are of only secondary interest […] to arrive at some new
research by Dubuc into the favourite subject of his thoughts, by
which I mean his improvements to be introduced into the fabrication of
ciders, a paper read out at one of the public meetings of the Society
of Agriculture.]
Dubuc’s writings clearly provide models for the preoccupations of

Homais, author – as he announces at the Comices agricoles – of ‘un fort
opuscule, un mémoire de plus de soixante et douze pages, intitulé: Du
cidre, de sa fabrication et de ses effets; suivi de quelques réflexions nouvelles
à ce sujet, que j’ai envoyé à la Société agronomique de Rouen’ (OC I:
619) [‘a substantial little treatise, a monograph of more than seventy-
two pages, entitled: “Cider, its Manufacture and its Effects, followed by
a Number of Fresh Observations on this Subject”, which I sent to the
Agronomical Society of Rouen’ (Flaubert 2004: 120)]. A rappel of this
mémoire (OC I: 691; Flaubert 2004: 309) points out that Homais has also
published work on a parasite that destroys apple trees: ‘des observations
sur le puceron laniger, énvoyées à l’Académie’ [‘Observations on the
woolly aphis, submitted to the Academy’] – presumably the Académie

de Rouen. Again, Dubuc is the author of several articles on this subject,
culminating in ‘Un dernier mot sur le puceron laniger’ [‘A Final Word
on the Woolly Aphis’] (Des Alleurs 1833: 27). Dubuc’s key interests are
listed in the funeral oration – worthy of the Comices agricoles – given
by Amand-Gabriel Ballin, Dubuc’s successor as archiviste-bibliothécaire
of the Académie, ‘dont il était presque le doyen’ [‘of which Dubuc was
almost the Dean’]:
Messieurs, le zèle infatigable de notre digne confrère n’était point entière-

ment absorbé par la chimie: il contribua, en 1819, à la réorganisation
de la société d’Agriculture, dont il enrichit les cahiers de ses nombreuses
et utiles observations. L’analyse des terres arables, la fabrication du
cidre, les engrais et les stimulants fixèrent son attention […]; il s’occupa
d’une manière très-active du puceron laniger, et indiqua même des
moyens de le détruire qui paraissent efficaces, mais dont l’emploi offre
malheureusement de grandes difficultés. (Dubuc 1837a: VIII)
[Messieurs, the infatigable zeal of our honoured colleague was not

entirely absorbed by chemistry: he contributed, in 1819, to the
reorganisation of the Agricultural Society, whose annals he enriched
with his numerous and useful observations. The analysis of arable
land, the fabrication of cider, manure and fertilisers were the focus
of his attention […]; he busied himself in very active fashion with
the woolly aphis, and even proposed means of destroying it which
appear effective but the use of which unfortunately presents great
difficulties.]10
While Dubuc’s diverse activities clearly transcend the limits of a narrowly

defined ‘chimie’, chemistry can always be invoked to embellish them
with scientific prestige. A consistent feature of his writings is the use
in titles of the prefix ‘chimico-’ to precede the adjective designating
the particular field of the opuscule in question: for example, ‘Notice
chimico-œnologique’ for several articles on cider; ‘Notice chimico-
toxicologique’ for an article on arsenic; ‘Travail chimico-géorgique’
for an article analysing arable soil, and ‘Mémoire chimico-médical’
for a piece on cholera and the miasmatic gases potentially causing it
(1837a: 323–30). The latter mémoire (1837a: 325, 329) discusses ‘les
émanations aériformes’ [‘aeriform emanations’], ‘l’ammoniaque’ [‘ammo-
niac’], ‘azote, nitrogène’ [‘azote, nitrogen’], ‘hydrogène’, and ‘[le] fluide
électrique’ [‘electric fluid’] in the atmosphere leading – particularly in
India – to ‘miasmes’ [‘miasmas’]. This in particular shares many features

with Homais’s pronouncements on the local climate:
[C]ette chaleur, cependant, qui à cause de la vapeur d’eau dégagée

par la rivière et la présence considérable de bestiaux dans les prairies,
lesquels exhalent, comme vous savez, beaucoup d’ammoniaque,
c’est-à-dire azote, hydrogène et oxygène (non, azote et hydrogène
seulement), et qui, pompant à elle l’humus de la terre, confondant
toutes ces émanations différentes, les réunissant en un faisceau, pour
ainsi dire, et se combinant de soi-même avec l’électricité répandue
dans l’atmosphère, lorsqu’il y en a, pourrait à la longue, comme dans
les pays tropicaux, engendrer des miasmes insalubres […]. (OC I: 601)
[However, this warmth, because of the water vapour that rises off
the river and the presence of a considerable number of cattle in
the meadows, which exhale, as you are aware, a vast quantity of
ammonia, that is to say nitrogen, hydrogen and oxygen (no, only
nitrogen and hydrogen), absorbing the humus from the soil into
itself, mixing together all these different emanations, making them
into a bundle, so to speak, and spontaneously combining with the
electricity present in the atmosphere, when there is any, might even-
tually, as occurs in tropical climes, engender insalubrious miasmas.
(Flaubert 2004: 73)]
Elsewhere, Dubuc has a tendency, echoed by Homais’s insistence on

offering ‘Saccharum’ to Larivière (OC I: 683; Flaubert 2004: 287), to use
Latin terminology to elevate the mundane to the philosophically scien-
tific. In a paper on conjoined hen’s eggs, ‘que j’ai montrés à M. Flaubert’
(1828: 30) [‘which I showed to Monsieur Flaubert’] (the novelist’s father
was médecin-en-chef at the Hôtel-Dieu during Dubuc’s tenure as phar-
macien-en-chef) he remarks (1828: 31) that such a ‘monstruosité œuvée’
[‘ovoid monstrosity’] surpasses in its peculiarity a single ‘œuf dans un
œuf, ovum in ovo’ [‘egg within an egg, ovum in ovo’].
From the content and style of their utterances, then, it can be seen
that there are striking similarities in Homais’s and Dubuc’s interests
and discourse. This does not mean that Homais is ‘based’ on the real
personage of Dubuc or that the latter should be enshrined as a real-life
‘source’, although the evidence of such striking discursive similarities
clearly undermines René Dumesnil’s assertion (1951: 305) that ‘nous
savons que le pharmacien Jouanne, authentiquement pharmacien à
Ry, fut exactement Homais’ [‘we know that the pharmacist Jouanne,
authentically a pharmacist in Ry, was exactly Homais’]. Such a question

is germane to what Gothot-Mersch (1962: 229) rightly denounces as ‘un
faux problème’ [‘a false problem’], namely reductive attempts to identify
Madame Bovary as an account of the ‘affaire Delamare’, or Yonville as a
specific place, rather than as a composite of discourses articulating the
scene of mœurs de province. Of much greater import than any presumed
real-life resemblance is Homais’s pervasive discursive presence, echoing
Dubuc’s prolific activities and publications for the Académie de Rouen.
An 1825 lecture on saltpetre to the Académie neatly encapsulates the
irrepressibly profuse nature of Dubuc’s output, which corresponds strik-
ingly with the key Flaubertian thematic concern of relentless repetition:
‘Il finit en promettant à l’Académie de lui communiquer incessamment
le résultat de nouvelles expériences sur le même objet’ [‘He finished by
promising the Academy that he would communicate without delay the
result of new experiments on the same matter’] (Marquis 1825: 28).
As in the case of the prolific Cadet de Gassicourt, noted for his incessant
production of reports, and in that of Homais, who swiftly, self-servingly,
and often prematurely communicates news to the Fanal de Rouen, there
is a curious correlation between the status of pharmacist and that of
messenger. The hybrid profession of pharmacy, which allows ease of
movement between the high philosophical calling of chemistry and
numerous areas of practical activity, is well suited to the individual who
wishes to impose his discursive authority and display his knowledge on a
full compendium of issues, and is the ideal disciplinary mechanism for
allowing Homais to be, as Crouzet suggests (1989: 989), both philosophe
and bourgeois, moving effortlessly between the scientific and the com-
mercial, the ‘besoin général’ [‘universal demand’] and ‘fantaisies indivi-
duelles’ (OC I: 657) [‘personal whim’ (Flaubert 2004: 218)], the centre
and the periphery. This polyvalency and discursive hyperactivity is what
informs the contemporary ideology of pharmacy at both national and
provincial level: at the pinnacle of the profession Cadet de Gassicourt,
prolific secrétaire-rapporteur of the Conseil de salubrité, is valued (Virey
1822: 10) for his capacity to embody the position of ‘l’honnête homme’
[‘the honest man’]; at local level, Dubuc is emblematic of the pharma-
ceutical profession in the provinces after its institutional reorganisation,
and of a particular type of provincial scientific rhetoric; at the same
time he is in touch with the centre through his status as correspondent
of the Académie de Médecine de Paris, and regular contributor to the
Bulletin de Pharmacie. He is on a higher institutional plane than Homais,
who is in a sense his discursive product and representative (if not indeed
his former student). Where Dubuc is the regional representative of a
reconfigured pharmaceutical body keen to stamp its newly acquired

but still uncertain scientific authority upon various areas of everyday
activity, Homais could be one of a number of Dubucuscules through
whom disciplinary power functions at ‘capillary’ level (Foucault 1997:
25; 2003c: 27; 1975: 231; 1991: 198) throughout the Seine-Inférieure.
Pharmacy, literature, prescription
But Dubuc and Homais are more than mere messengers, links in a
pyramidal chain of disciplinary command at the pinnacle of which
stand the likes of Cadet de Gassicourt and his confrères. A counterpart to
the dissemination of information is its accumulation and organisation,
second nature to the taxonomically proficient pharmacist. Dubuc, long-
standing archiviste-bibliothécaire, exercises control over communications
by and within the Académie. Homais is also a librarian-archivist, both
as labeller and classifier of medicines and poisons, and in terms of the
general control he exercises over what information circulates within
Yonville, and what reaches the wider world. Just as in his pharmaceuti-
cal capacity he exercises control over, indeed, manipulates what is to
be introduced into the body, Homais also operates as arbiter of material
for intellectual consumption; these roles are analagous since after all, ‘il
y a la mauvaise littérature comme il y a la mauvaise pharmacie’ (OC I:
648) [‘there’s bad literature just as there’s bad pharmacy’ (Flaubert 2004:
193)]. When Emma arrives in Yonville, Homais the librarian offers her
the use of ‘une bibliothèque composée des meilleurs auteurs: Voltaire,
Rousseau, Delille, Walter Scott, l’Écho des feuilletons, etc.’ (OC I: 602)
[‘a library composed of the best authors: Voltaire, Delille, Walter Scott,
L’Écho des feuilletons, etc.’ (Flaubert 2004: 75–6)], not failing either to
exploit an opportunity to mention that he is the correspondent of the
Fanal de Rouen for several administrative ‘circonscriptions’ [‘districts’].
According to a passage in several drafts and in the manuscrit définitif
deleted at the last moment, not only does Homais enjoy this role as
a correspondent, he also has an archive of back copies of the various
publications with which he is in touch, ‘le tout cartonné par lui-même
et enfermé dans un bas d’armoire qu’il appelait la succursale de sa bib-
liothèque’ (D fo 163) [‘the lot bound in boards by himself and locked up
in the bottom of a wardrobe, which he called the annex to his library’].
Homais’s prescriptive activity in literature is thus linked to his role as an
accumulator, classifier, and storer of discourse, as in pharmacy it is linked
to his labelling, classification, decanting, and admixture of medicines
and poisons. His physical subdivision of quantities of information, and
their deposition in discrete locations, are intensely pharmaceutical: the

term ‘apothicaire’ is, after all, as Cadet de Gassicourt reminds us in his
article in the Dictionnaire des Sciences Médicales thus entitled (1812a:
248), derived from the Greek apothêkê, denoting ‘boîte, boutique’ [‘box,
shop’]: two nouns which correspond respectively to Homais’s archival
and commercial imperatives.11 Other boxes with which the pharmacist is
linked include the famous ‘boîte’ (OC I: 635) [‘box’ (Flaubert 2004: 159)]
in which Hippolyte’s leg is placed after the club-foot operation, and,
in a draft, the ‘Grande cuve oblongue’ [‘large oblong vat’] in Homais’s
back room purporting to be a bathing ‘établissement’ [‘establishment’] –
proposed as a cure for Emma’s vapeurs (3, fo 28v).
It is not clear whether, after her encounter with the pharmacist’s
library, Emma’s choice of reading material is in fact influenced directly
by his offer, but it does later arouse the concern of Madame Bovary
mère, who sees her daughter-in-law’s despondent condition as being
the result of reading ‘“des romans, de mauvais livres, des ouvrages qui
sont contre la religion et dans lesquels on se moque des prêtres par des
discours tirés de Voltaire”’ (OC I: 617) [‘“novels, wicked books, books
against religion, full of speeches from Voltaire that make fun of priests”’
(Flaubert 2004: 112)]. Her objections are articulated in ‘de longues
conférences au sujet d’Emma’ [‘long discussions about Emma’] (ibid.),
prompted by the latter’s apparent illness, seemingly a relapse of the
earlier ‘maladie nerveuse’ (OC I: 594) [‘nervous complaint’ (2004: 61)]
prompting the move to Yonville. In the published version of the novel,
these discussions involve Charles and his mother, whose objections
are moral ones. But in several drafts concerning these ‘conférences’,
right up until the manuscrit du copiste, ‘L’apothicaire en était’ (C fo 199)
[‘The apothecary was involved in them’]. Indeed, Charles hardly gets
a word in. What is distinctive about the suppressed dialogue is that it
presents two seemingly opposing discourses on the supposedly nefari-
ous effects of reading novels, one moral, one medical. Homais has
of course proposed the use of his library to Emma in the first place, and
at first attempts to rebut Charles’s mother’s objections to Emma’s read-
ing by arguing – citing the example of literary representations of exotic
Mediterranean women who ‘ont de la religion’ [‘have religion’] and
yet ‘assistent aux combats de taureaux’ [‘attend bullfights’] – that faith
is no defence against loose morality. But flattered by Madame Bovary
mère’s designation of him as an ‘homme de science’ [‘man of science’],
and, ‘radouci par le compliment’ [‘softened up by the compliment’],
the pharmacist launches into a disquisition on the physiological dan-
gers of the kind of bodily stimulation that comes from reading novels,
beginning with the observation that ‘la mollesse du lit lorsqu’on

y joint l’habitude de la lecture peut devenir extrêmement funeste’ [‘the
softness of the bed when one adds the habit of reading can become
extremely harmful’], and asserting that ‘le nerf optique, continuelle-
ment obligé de porter au cerveau les sensations, l’ébranle’ [‘the optic
nerve, continually obliged to carry sensations to the brain, disturbs
it’]. What we see, in fact, is a medicalisation and at the same time a
somatisation – a resituation within the body – of aesthetic perception
and of previously moral concerns, consistent also, moreover, with
what Lisa Downing (2012: 337) refers to as the ‘secularization of dis-
cursive authority’ that took place in early nineteenth-century France.
It is plausible, however, that Madame Bovary mère’s pronouncements,
although invoking religious morality, are themselves, in their talk of
‘vapeurs’ (OC I: 617) [‘vapours’ (Flaubert 2004: 112)] and the need for
physical exertion to offstay them, at least partly informed by earlier
medical discourse now entrenched in the popular imagination, such as
Tissot’s counsel (1775: 168) against reading for women, on the grounds
that ‘une lecture continuée produit toutes les maladies nerveuses’ [‘the
continued practice of reading produces all types of nervous malady’],
and that the ten-year-old girl ‘qui lit au lieu de courir’ [‘who reads
instead of running’] will become ‘à vingt ans une femme à vapeurs’ [‘at
twenty years a woman liable to vapours’].12
The nightmare of discursive struggle and the poison

of reading
Homais too echoes the concerns of Tissot, who warns (1764: 241)
against ‘les lits mols’ [‘soft beds’], which are a potential cause of mas-
turbation, particularly in conjunction with ‘cauchemars’ [‘nightmares’].
Homais’s observation rearticulates Tissot’s warnings about soft beds and
reading; soon afterwards, in his continued enumeration of the physical
consequences of reading for the nervous system, he also makes the link
with nightmares:
[L]e sommeil, s’il se présente, est continuellement agité par des

épistomachies, autrement dit des cauchemars, et bientôt arrivent les
différents phénomènes de magnétisme et de somnambulisme.
[Sleep, if it presents itself, is constantly agitated by epistomachian
episodes, in other words nightmares, and along soon come the dif-
ferent phenomena of magnetism and somnambulism.]
Homais’s curious Graeco-Latin neologism ‘épistomachie’ can be read in

more than one way.13 One interpretation is that the pharmacist substi-
tutes Latin for Greek, ‘stomachie’ for ‘gastrie’, in an ostentatious alterna-
tive to ‘épigastrie’. But why should stomach complaints be synonymous
with nightmares? An answer may be found in early nineteenth-century
medical literature on nightmares, which identifies the stomach as being
a site of some importance. The Dictionnaire des Sciences médicales (Petit
1818: 306) groups the causes of nightmares with ‘celles qui disposent
aux affections gastriques’ [‘those which dispose one to gastric affec-
tions’], and highlights the susceptibility to nightmares of ‘ceux chez
qui l’on observe quelques signes d’embarras gastrique’ [‘those in whom
signs of gastric difficulty are observed’] (as well as of ‘les esprits faibles
qui sont frappés profondément par […] certaines lectures’ [‘weak charac-
ters struck profoundly by certain reading matter’]). Similarly, the author
of the first monograph devoted entirely to the nightmare as exemplar
(Dubosquet 1815: 5) of ‘les maladies nerveuses’ [‘nervous complaints’],
as well as identifying excessive comfort in the guise of ‘un lit trop chaud,
le poids des couvertures’ [‘an over-warm bed, the weight of the covers’]
as classic causes, identifies (1815: 7) ‘une violente douleur dans la région
épigastrique’ [‘a violent pain in the epigastric region’] as a symptom
accompanying nightmares, and views the nightmare as a phenomenon
that ‘le mauvais état de l’estomac est susceptible d’occasionner’ [‘the
poor condition of the stomach is liable to cause’].
In linking nightmares with stomach complaints, then, Homais
is – albeit somewhat exaggeratedly in asserting synonymity – dispensing
contemporary medical wisdom, as well as anticipating the Dictionnaire
des idées reçues in its assertion that ‘toutes les maladies viennent
de l’estomac’ [‘all illnesses come from the stomach’]. However, there
is another key feature of historical and contemporary accounts
of the nightmare, which lends itself to an alternative interpretation of
the pharmacist’s neologism. Historically, cultural representations
of nightmares have frequently involved struggle between the subject
and a beast, or demonic creature, typically seated on the subject’s
chest or stomach (Downing 2012: 334); this, as we shall see in further
discussion of the nightmare in Chapter 4 below, is also true of early
nineteenth-century medical accounts. For Homais, the nightmare is
synonymous with ‘épistomachie’, which in an alternative etymologi-
cal reading might be understood, by analogy with ‘tauromachie’ – and
he has just mentioned ‘combats de taureaux’ [‘bullfights’] – as a kill-
ing (‘machie’) of, or struggle with, knowledge or science (epistêmê).
Knowledge would thus be the beast or demon with which the subject
grapples, and indeed, in both moral and medical readings of Emma’s

situation – supposedly opposing viewpoints which are reconciled – the
problem identified is a debilitating struggle with knowledge or discourse.
It is Charles, however, who bears the trace of the nightmare in the
narrative’s account of the reading allegedly responsible for Emma’s nervous
condition. Plausibly anticipating her sudden rearing up from her death-
bed ‘comme un cadavre que l’on galvanise’ (OC I: 684) [‘like a galvanised
corpse’ (Flaubert 2004: 290)], Charles habitually wakes up ‘en sursaut’
[‘with a start’] – a classic nightmare symptom (Dubosquet 1815: 7) – on
nights when Emma has stayed up to struggle with the knowledge she
has fruitlessly being trying to accumulate during ‘lectures’ [‘reading’].
These ‘lectures’ are as aimless and, ultimately, as disconnected
and decontextualised as ‘ses tapisseries, qui, toutes commencées,
encombraient son armoire’ (OC I: 616) [‘her needlework, pieces of
which, half done, cluttered up her wardrobe’ (Flaubert 2004: 111–12)],
which moreover foreshadow the similarly disjointed ‘tapisserie déclouée’
[‘loose upholstery’ (Flaubert 2004: 266)] of the Hirondelle, of which the
blind beggar’s out-held hat resembles a ‘poche’ [pocket].14
Homais concludes his disquisition on reading and its effects by stat-
ing that he is holding back from going to ‘le fond de la chose’, ‘[le] cœur
du sujet’, but specifying that the heart of the matter is examination of:
‘Les Rapports du moral et du physique et comment la littérature et

les travaux artistiques se rattachent à la physiologie.’
[‘The Relationships between the moral and the physical and how
literature and artistic works are connected to physiology’.]
Homais is performing two operations here. First, he articulates the

reconciliation of moral or cultural and medical discourses, which
frequently say the same thing despite appearing superficially contradictory.
He is also affirming the ongoing somatisation and thus secularisation of
psychological phenomena previously within the domain of religious
morality. These operations are intimately related to the incorporative –
and pharmaceutical – admixture of cultural and medical discourses. Any
censorship to be imposed is to be on medical grounds.
Homais, then, while ostensibly socially liberal, is driven by his com-
mitment to medical discourse to situate himself within the tradition of
medical censorship and allies himself – as part of a sometimes contra-
dictory struggle with knowledge – with traditional moral censorship.
Following the lengthy ‘conférences’, the final version of which,
involving only Charles and his mother, is divested of its explicitly medical
as opposed to religious content, ‘il fut résolu que l’on empêcherait

Emma de lire des romans’ (OC I: 617) [‘it was decided that Emma was
to be prevented from reading novels’ (Flaubert 2004: 112)]. To this
end, Charles’s mother takes it upon herself to visit the bookseller in
Rouen, whom she accuses – in style indirect libre – of being engaged
in a ‘métier d’empoisonneur’ [‘poisoner’s trade’]. The irony is that it
is in fact Homais – precisely in the trade of dispensing poisons – who
poisons Emma through his prescriptions for her cultural consumption:
he prescribes for Emma a spectacle based on a novel – The Bride of
Lammermoor, by Walter Scott, one of the authors in his library –
exposing the poisonous effects of reading (which precipitates her affair
with Léon and her suicide by poisoning – enacted with arsenic from
Homais’s shop); if ‘des douleurs intolérables à l’épigastre’ (OC I: 683)
[‘intolerable pain in the epigastrium’ (Flaubert 2004: 286)] are night-
marish symptoms of Emma’s poisoning by Homais’s arsenic, they are
also, like ‘épistomachies’, the result of consumption of the poison of
reading that Homais – in the penultimate draft – warns against, and yet
prescribes. Later (OC I: 659; Flaubert 2004: 221), Homais – as we have
seen, a censorious proscriber as much as a prescriber – admonishes his
apprentice (again, someone playing a specific institutional role within
the new pharmaceutical order) for reading L’Amour conjugal.15 This
admonition – concerned with category distinctions regarding who can
consume what – directly follows on another, regarding Justin’s intrusion
into the Capharnaüm, a kind of secret pharmaceutical archive where
Homais (OC I: 658; Flaubert 2004: 219) ‘passait de longues heures à éti-
queter, à transvaser, à reficeler; et il le considérait non comme un simple
magasin, mais comme un véritable sanctuaire’ [‘would often spend long
hours alone, labelling, decanting, repackaging; and he thought of it not
as a simple store, but as a veritable sanctuary’].
Hybrid discipline, hybrid discourses
Homais as the high priest of a nomenclatural, archival, disciplinary

culture contrasts with Charles Bovary, who is everywhere deeply
uncomfortable with labels, initially failing his examinations because
those applied to each disciplinary field constituting his training
are (OC I: 577; Flaubert 2004: 11) ‘tous noms dont il ignorait les
étymologies et qui étaient comme autant de portes de sanctuaires pleins
d’augustes ténèbres’ [‘all words of unfamiliar etymology which were like
portals to sanctuaries full of sacred mysteries’]. The various subdivisions
are ‘sanctuaires’ – like the Capharnaüm, places of confusion.
Intrusion by the apprentice into the master’s sanctuary results in a

tirade supremely hypocritical in its implicit insistence on the high scien-
tific vocation of pharmacy in that so many of Homais’s pronouncements
and practices indicate precisely the opposite: that pharmacy is to be
applied to the most banal spheres of activity – in this case jam-making.
Here, in another subtle articulation of the claim of pharmacy to pro-
fessional status, he proclaims (OC I: 658; Flaubert 2004: 219): ‘il faut
établir des distinctions et ne pas employer à des usages presque domes-
tiques ce qui est destiné pour les pharmaceutiques! C’est comme si on
découpait une poularde avec un scalpel, comme si un magistrat …’ [‘It’s
essential to establish distinctions and not use for practically domestic
purposes what is intended for pharmaceutical products! It’s as if you
were to carve up a chicken with a scalpel, as if a magistrate were to …’].
Such flexibility and hybridity are precisely what Homais’s
pharmaceutical activity involves, in theory and in practice, in
its disciplinary expansion into other fields, and emblematically in its
application to agriculture. Homais, like pharmacy, wants to extend the
profession’s practical reach, collapsing distinctions (while hypocritically
stressing their importance), and at the same time to be associated
with a ‘philosophical’ science. Justin’s sacrilege not only violates the
Capharnaüm, but also the very notion of pharmacy as a profession
on the same plane as medicine or law. His act raises the possibility of
reversion to a previous state of affairs in which the apothecary was a
mere artisan (OC I: 658; Flaubert 2004: 219): ‘autant s’établir épicier’
[‘I might as well set myself up as a grocer’].
Following Homais’s tirade comes a detailed description, in Emma’s
presence, of the location and the lethal nature of his provision of arsenic,
a substance surrounding which there are specific institutional roles for
doctors and chemists. According to the Materia Medica section of the
first edition of the Bulletin de Pharmacie (Boullay 1809: 372), it is the
role of doctors to determine arsenic’s ‘mode d’action sur l’économie ani-
male’ [‘mode of action on the animal economy’], and that of chemists –
like doctors, increasingly involved in the criminal justice system
via ‘la médecine légale’, as we shall see in greater detail in the next
chapter – to ‘décéler sa présence dans les mélanges variés avec lesquels le
crime l’associe’ [‘detect its presence in the various mixtures with which
crime associates it’]. The chemist’s role is no longer a purely extractive,
therapeutic one, but an analytical, observational one. This is in line with
contemporary science more generally: according to Léonard (1981: 32),
‘la révolution scientifique réside, en médecine comme dans les autres
branches, dans le maître-mot d’“analyse”’ [‘the scientific revolution
resides, in medicine as in other branches of science, in the master-word

“analysis”’]. None, it would appear, could surpass the analytical
thoroughness of Dubuc, who describes the analytical experiments ‘qu’il
fut chargé de faire à diverses époques par les tribunaux, dans plusieurs
cas d’empoisonnement’ (1825: 28) [‘that he was entrusted with carrying
out on various occasions by the courts, in several poisoning cases’],
including burying arsenic-dusted meat in the ground for six years.
Homais’s patience does not extend this far, but time-consuming analysis
is his scientific imperative when Emma poisons herself. His reaction is
not to introduce – as Larivière suggests – his fingers into her throat,
but to introduce some ‘acide arsénieux’ [‘arsenical acid’] into a tube for
analysis (OC I: 683; Flaubert 2004: 287), ‘car il savait qu’il faut, dans tous
les empoisonnements, faire une analyse’ (OC I: 681) [‘for he knew that
in all cases of poisoning, an analysis must be carried out’ (Flaubert 2004:
283)]. This reasoning – potentially contributing to Emma’s death – is the
critical consequence of the refashioning of the pharmacist’s practical
healing art as the chemist’s analytical science.
This refashioning usefully forms the basis of the critical tension at the
heart of Homais’s contradictory representativity in Madame Bovary as the
ideal specimen of modern humanity and its recent disciplinary discourses.
Pursuing the analogy between literature and pharmacy – one prescribed,
after all, by Homais – we might say that the novel’s own pharmaceutical
practice is to extract, ingest, analyse and regurgitate the discursive remedies
and poisons of the likes of Dubuc (among others), thereby destabilising the
relationship between the literary and the extra-literary. There is no pure –
sacred – notion of an uncontaminated philosophical discipline or purely
‘literary’ work. As with geographical boundaries in the hybrid ‘contrée
bâtarde’ (OC I: 598) [‘bastard region’ (Flaubert 2004: 63)] where the novel
is set, the boundaries of what is literary and extra-literary are blurred, as are
those between scientific and professional disciplines, of which pharmacy is
a compellingly suggestive example in terms of its versatile applicability to
other fields. The literature–pharmacy analogy voiced by Homais, far from
being a joke, is in fact crucial to what Flaubert’s novel actually does, which
is to extend its interactions with non-fictional discourses so as to bring
out what is novel or derivative about them. Just as pharmacy encroaches
on other areas such as agriculture, just as it has a problematic relationship
with chemistry and medicine, literature encroaches on, and is encroached
on by other discourses.
Homais is therefore a literary character who, irrespective of any resem-
blance to a flesh-and-blood referent, embodies discursively a certain type
of pharmaceutical rhetoric rooted in the institutional transformation
of pharmacy and medicine enacted in the early nineteenth century as

it manifested itself in the provinces. The work of Cadet de Gassicourt
and Dubuc, echoed by Homais, shows pharmacy asserting its scientific
status, applying itself to other fields such as agriculture, and at the same
time shadowing chemistry’s extension – via forensic toxicology – of
its disciplinary tentacles into the criminal justice system, an intrusion
analogous to that enacted by psychiatry, the archetype of disciplinary
overreach in the Foucauldian account (2003a: 249–50; 2006b: 249).
Pharmacy – key to Homais’s embodiment of power through knowledge – is
in a sense the Flaubertian archetype of the disciplinary pouvoir-savoir, its
early nineteenth-century transformation constituting (Foucault 2004:
291) the ‘conditions de fonctionnement’ [‘conditions of operation’] for
the discursive practices of Cadet de Gassicourt, Dubuc, Homais, and
ultimately the novelist who collapses the discursive boundaries between
literature and other epistemological fields. The pharmaceutical model of
the writer’s practice lends itself to a particular type of literary discourse,
one attentive to aesthetic form while strongly oriented around episte-
mological content, emphatically asserting its artistic credentials while
at the same time engaging concretely with the world it represents, in
a manner usually termed ‘realist’. The question of whether Madame
Bovary is a ‘realist’ novel is beyond the scope of the present work.
What can be said uncontroversially is that the novel’s approach to
mimesis is not so much about Stendhal’s ‘miroir qui se promène sur
une grande route’ (1958: 82, 363) [‘mirror going along a highway’
(1998: 80, 371)] as about articulating what is said and written else-
where, in the sense of Laurent Adert’s Bakhtinian characterisation of
the Flaubertian novel as ‘le pur et simple déroulement de l’archive
du discours collectif’ (1996: 59) [‘the pure and simple unfolding of
the archive of collective discourse’]. This chapter, however, qualifies the
medical component of that archive – which includes related professions
such as pharmacy – as providing the documentary novelist with an ideal
context in which to examine and problematise knowledge and the rela-
tionships between literary and extra-literary discourse. Moreover, the
hybrid profession of pharmacy is the archival discipline par excellence,
concerned with the accumulation, storage, classification, dissemina-
tion, and withholding of knowledge and discourse as well as of cures
and poisons. Madame Bovary incorporates discourse concerned pre-
cisely with the administration of substances – harmful or curative – to
the body, to the extent of providing a model for literature itself, or
at least for a type of documentary literary practice which engages
materially with reality beyond its ever-expanding representative scope.
In terms of our theoretical concept of incorporation, and our

methodological approach, we have seen, moreover, in this chapter
how this engagement does not necessarily imply direct links between
the literary text and other texts. Our concern, for example, is not with
whether Flaubert read Dubuc’s opuscules; although it is perfectly plausi-
ble that he did, and indeed that he knew Dubuc – his father’s colleague –
personally, there is no concrete evidence of a direct material connection.
The evidence is simply that there is a strong correlation between
Dubuc’s and Homais’s dits et écrits, and that is sufficient for making
the point that Homais’s discourse is typical of what is being said, and
is representative of pharmacy during the July Monarchy, informed by
developments since the Revolution. The genetic archive is important
insofar as it is a component of the geneaological one in which the novel
is incorporated, which crucially includes the institutional reshaping of
the profession.
The image of Flaubert as the scalpel-wielding, dissecting surgeon
invoked to describe his approach to writing is well known. As much as
he is the surgeon with the scalpel, this chapter has argued that Flaubert
is also the pharmacist, extracting the essence of various discourses
before compounding them, mixing them, incorporating them in
the analytical, observational, pharmaceutical novel, and in so doing
expanding – as well as problematising – the epistemological reach of
literature and its effects.
2
Medical and Literary
Discourses of Disciplinary
Struggle and Regulation
As Emma Bovary succumbs to arsenic poisoning, Homais the pharmacist –

‘c’est à dire chimiste!’ (OC I: 619) [‘that is, a chemist’ (Flaubert 2004:
119)] – adds some icing to the cake of his much-advertised scientific eru-
dition by displaying his knowledge of the emerging field of toxicology
to Docteur Larivière, summoned from Neufchâtel:
[J]’ai lu que différentes personnes s’étaient trouvées intoxiquées,

docteur, et comme foudroyées par des boudins qui avaient subi une
trop véhémente fumigation! Du moins, c’était dans un fort beau rap-
port, composé par une de nos sommités pharmaceutiques, un de nos
maîtres, l’illustre Cadet de Gassicourt! (OC I: 683)
[And I’ve even read, Doctor, of cases where people have been poisoned,
completely prostrated, after eating blood sausages that had undergone
an excessively powerful fumigation! At least, that is reported in a
very fine article composed by one of our pharmaceutical luminaries,
one of our masters, the celebrated Cadet de Gassicourt! (Flaubert
2004: 287)]
There are two significant health professionals associated with this

pronouncement. One, explicitly mentioned, with whom Homais demon-
stratively associates himself professionally, is Charles-Louis Cadet de
Gassicourt, who, as we know from the previous chapter, was instrumen-
tal in shaping pharmacy as a profession in nineteenth-century France, in
two key respects: the articulation of pharmacy’s claim to scientific status
as chemistry in the face of the disdain of ‘pure’ chemists who had seen
pharmacy as artisanal poor relation in the wake of Lavoisier’s chemical
revolution, and the expansion – enabled precisely through this claim – of
63
its disciplinary remit to areas such as agriculture and forensic medicine.

Pharmacy’s new disciplinary ideology, as shaped by Cadet, and by a new
institutional context in which pharmaceutical training parallels medical
training, is voiced continually by Homais, keen to promote himself as a
scientist, and to usurp the status and prosperity of the local representa-
tive of the medical profession. His allusion to this ‘sommité’ is thus no
coincidence. The other, unnamed, figure linked to Homais’s anecdote,
no less a sommité, is Mateu-Josep-Bonaventura Orfila (1787–1853), pio-
neering toxicologist and Dean of the Faculté de Médecine de Paris during
the July Monarchy. Mathieu Orfila – as he became known in France –
quotes Cadet’s fort beau rapport in his 1836 Traité de Médecine Légale,
a defining work of forensic medicine (Orfila 1836a, III: 513, n.1).
Douglas Siler, in a painstakingly thorough work of genetic scholarship,
identifies Orfila as the immediate source for Homais’s anecdote: Flaubert’s
notes reveal that he consulted the Traité de Médecine Légale for informa-
tion on arsenic and the effects of poisoning on the body (Siler 1981: 735).1
But just as Cadet is much more than a dropped name, Orfila is much
more than a source to whom oblique allusion is made. If we look
beyond the genetic corpus – consisting of documents immediately
and materially contingent to the preparation of Flaubert’s novel – to a
genealogical one – incorporating institutional developments and the
wider epistemological field in which Madame Bovary is implicated as a
discursive coordinate – we learn that Orfila is an immensely influential,
powerful and indeed controversial figure in nineteenth-century French
medicine and pharmacy; his institutional role during the July Monarchy,
like Cadet’s during the Empire, is crucial in shaping the context for
Madame Bovary as a document figuring the practice and interplay of
medicine and pharmacy in mid-nineteenth-century provincial France,
particularly in relation to the conflict and tension between regulatory
authorities and practitioners. This is a conflict also given expression in
Bouvard et Pécuchet.
This chapter is not – any more than the previous one – an attempt
to trace real-life ‘sources’ for literary works in which certain real-life
individuals are mentioned or alluded to. Nor indeed is it intended as a
contribution to Flaubert studies, seeking principally to provide further
enlightenment on the well-documented aesthetic qualities of those
works. Rather, it takes a ‘cultural studies’ approach in its attempt to
identify wider discursive and disciplinary contexts in which those works –
along with others, literary and non-literary, associated with particular
‘author functions’ (Foucault 2004: 301–10; 1984c: 107–17) – might be
situated, through consideration of narratives of the professional and at
Disciplinary Struggle and Regulation 65
the same time personal struggles between a powerful and influential

figure representative of disciplinary authority, and a certain kind of
logorrheic professional enemy with progressive political opinions and
unorthodox views on medical practice.2 Three such enemies of Mathieu
Orfila – all of whom share ideological, professional, and rhetorical
affinities with a literary character, Flaubert’s pharmacist, Homais, him-
self in constant and fearful struggle with disciplinary authority – will
be discussed: François-Vincent Raspail, republican and unorthodox
self-styled chemist, Dr Noël Dupré, campaigner for ‘l’enseignement
libre’, or independent medical education, and, finally and chiefly,
Dr Charles-Nicolas Halmagrand, acquitted suspected abortionist, alleged
purveyor of faux remèdes, medical instructor, municipal councillor, and
eclectically prolific author. In their writings, all three persistently allege
persecution (by Orfila) of those deemed guilty of the slightest dissent
from or infringement of a new orthodoxy of heavy regulation in medi-
cal instruction and public health; in Halmagrand’s case, this persecution
occurs in spite of, indeed as recompense for, services to humanity which
he finds himself compelled to enumerate.
Orfila, Médecine légale and the rhetoric

of contamination
Their nemesis Orfila’s life can be summarised briefly. Born in Minorca,

he studied chemistry, medicine, and pharmacy in Valencia, Barcelona,
and Paris, where he worked with the distinguished chemists Fourcroy
and Vauquelin; a naturalised French citizen since 1818, he was
Professeur de médecine légale et de chimie médicale and Dean of the
Faculté de médecine de Paris from 1831 until February 1848, when he
was ‘destitué’ for his presumed Orléanist sympathies (Bérard 1853: 8).
He was the founder of forensic toxicology in France, the author
of several works defining the field, including the Traité des Poisons
(1814) and Leçons de Médecine Légale (1828), and founding editor of
the influential Annales d’hygiène publique et de médecine légale, which
contained numerous case histories to which he was a substantial
contributor, including the Rivière dossier (Foucault et al. 1973: 250–3;
1978: 163–5; Orfila 1836b: 202–5). A senior academic and author, he
was also regularly an expert witness in poisoning cases throughout
France, frequently accompanied by his acolytes Charles-Prosper
Ollivier d’Angers and Alphonse Devergie, who themselves, like Orfila,
loom large in accounts of the imbrication of medicine, particularly
toxicology and early psychiatry, with the criminal justice system.
Significant about Orfila is that his background is in pharmacy and

toxicology; he is simultaneously doctor and pharmacist, and thus
representative of the new institutional framework shaped during the
Empire in which pharmaceutical and medical training become aligned.
His professional specialism is concerned with the body and the intrusion
of foreign substances into it, but his disciplinary role has two other impor-
tant dimensions. Firstly, he is the pre-eminent figure in the development
of jurisprudential forensic medicine, la médecine légale, which enjoys an
enormously comprehensive disciplinary reach in the nineteenth century,
covering areas from arsenic poisoning and abortion to evasion of military
service and monomania; secondly, he enjoys comparable status in the
domain of police médicale, or hygiène publique, two terms that are used to
denote public health regulation. We will consider these two areas in turn.
A perusal of the Traité de Médecine Légale’s table of contents (Orfila
1836a, I: v–xiv) is sufficient to confirm the comprehensive reach of la
médecine légale as a mechanism for detecting bodily anomaly attributable
to criminal design. The Traité contains detailed instructions on how to
detect abortion, concealed pregnancy, sodomy, rape – in short, how
to detect any deviation from how things should be in the body, any
presence, metaphorical or literal, of deleterious foreign elements. The
areas falling under the remit of médecine légale are outlined in this list
from Orfila’s introduction, in which deviations from bodily norms are
included alongside contaminating intrusions upon it:
[N]ous traiterons successivement des âges dans les diverses périodes

de la vie, de l’identité, de la défloration, du viol, du mariage, de la
grossesse, de l’accouchement, des naissances tardives et précoces, de
la superfétation, de l’infanticide, de l’avortement, de l’exposition,
de la substitution, de la suppression et de la supposition de part, de
la viabilité du fœtus, de la paternité et de la maternité, des mala-
dies simulées, dissimulées, imputées, des qualités intellectuelles et
morales, de la mort, de la survie, de l’asphyxie, des blessures, et de
l’empoisonnement. (Orfila 1836a, I: 5)
[We will deal, in order, with ages in the various periods of life, with
identity, with deflowerment, with rape, with marriage, with preg-
nancy, with childbirth, with late and premature births, with infan-
ticide, with abortion, with exposition, substitution, suppression and
supposition of involvement, with the viability of the foetus, with
paternity and maternity, with simulated, dissimulated and imputed
illnesses, with intellectual and moral qualities, with death, with
survival, with asphyxia, with wounds, and with poisoning.]
These seemingly diverse areas, a significant number of which are clearly

concerned with sexuality and reproduction, are, indeed, closely related
in that in some sense they all deal with anomaly, aberration from norms,
from how the body is in its normative state. If, as for Foucault (2003a:
208; 2006b: 210), early psychiatry is concerned with power over anom-
aly, at a time when anomaly replaces illness, so too is médecine légale.
A bodily inscription occasioned by some external element indicates that
things are not as they should be. The body – dead or alive – is in a sense
an archive exposing positive knowledge. In the Traité, the early sections
deal with the various ages of the body, that is, what the body should be
like at any given stage in its development. This way, deviations from
the norm can be more easily detected. One section lasting several dozen
pages describes the normative appearance of the body at every identifia-
ble stage from conception until birth. A subsequent section discusses the
body from infancy to old age. In both cases significant attention is given
to the normative appearance of sexual organs. It is not that surprising,
therefore, that there is then a leap to a section on ‘les divers attentats à
la pudeur pour lesquels le magistrat invoque les lumières du médecin’
[‘the various attacks on modesty for which the magistrate invokes the
enlightenment of the physician’]. The detailed descriptions of the
normative body are a build-up to descriptions of aberrations caused by
aberrant sexual intrusions upon or into it. There is a curious toxicologi-
cal element to the sections on pédérastie, which can be found in works
on médecine légale throughout the nineteenth century. One of the most
influential works was Fodéré’s 1813 Traité de Médecine légale et d’hygiène
publique, ou de Police de Santé, Adapté aux Codes de l’Empire français, et aux
connaissances actuelles [‘Treatise on Legal Medicine and Public Hygiene,
or Health Regulation, Adapted to the Codes of the French Empire, and
to Current Knowledge’], which, as its title suggests, sets the agenda in
the field for the post-Napoleonic era. The section on pédérastie opens
with the following exasperated declamation (Fodéré 1813, IV: 374): ‘Que
ne puis-je éviter de salir ma plume de l’infâme turpitude des pédérastes!’
[‘How impossible it is for me to avoid defiling my pen with the infamous
turpitude of pederasts!’] It is worth noting the concern about unavoid-
able contamination of the author’s discursive instrument. The same
tone is adopted in Orfila’s work, in which ‘sodomie’ is presented as an
activity which risks poisoning the lives of young men and polluting
the social body, and which goes into much greater detail about means
whereby such turpitude may be detected.
Much more extensive detail again is provided by Orfila’s succes-
sor Ambroise Tardieu’s Traité des attentats aux mœurs [‘Treatise on
Attacks against Morality’], first published in 1857 – the year of the
Madame Bovary and Fleurs du mal trials – and reprinted in several

editions from the late 1850s onwards. Tardieu’s work enjoys particular
notoriety in works of sexological scholarship (for example, Rosario
1997: 72–7), but it is important to situate it within the wider context
of médecine légale. If Orfila’s four-volume Traité de Médecine légale
devoted considerable sections to the different areas of the field,
the archive-expanding Tardieu wrote several full-length treatises
on the same varied areas of médecine légale, including ‘vices de
conformation des organes sexuels’ [‘vices in the conformation of
the sexual organs’], madness, hanging, infanticide, abortion, and
poisoning. In any event, his Traité des attentats aux mœurs, in its
substantial section on pédérastie, again expresses disgust at contami-
nation, quoting Fodéré’s line approvingly, and stating (1859: 119)
that ‘comme lui, j’ai longtemps hésité à faire entrer dans cette étude
le tableau repoussant de la pédérastie; mais je ne pouvais m’empêcher
de reconnaître qu’elle en forme le complément indispensable’ [‘like
him, I have often hesitated at bringing into this study the repulsive
tableau of pederasty; but I could not prevent myself from acknowledg-
ing that it forms the indispensable complement to my work’]. Against
his better nature, he thus reluctantly allows his textual body to be
penetrated by a ‘complément’ at once indispensable and ‘dangéreux’
[‘dangerous’].3 The repulsive tableau of pederasty is thus, at least as far
as Tardieu’s text is concerned, a kind of pharmakon (Derrida 1972: 115),
a poison that is also the essential remedy necessary to maintain
the integrity of the textual body incorporated, completed, by that
poison’s incorporation within it.
Contamination, then, the (often reluctant) incorporation of a
deleterious foreign body, is at one and the same time repulsive and
strangely necessary if the integrity of the disciplinary textual body is
to be preserved. The same fear of disciplinary, professional integrity
being compromised is expressed frequently in similar terms using
metaphors of contamination and pollution. This is illustrated in an
anecdote related by Cadet de Gassicourt in the Bulletin de Pharmacie –
of which, it will be recalled, he is the founding editor – in 1821.
Two young ladies come into his pharmacy and ask for ‘Spencer’s
préservatifs’, on the grounds that an article in the Dictionnaire
des Sciences médicales recommends that ‘capotes de santé’ [‘health
bonnets’] or ‘redingotes anglaises’ [‘English riding-coats’] be kept
by pharmacists. Cadet (1821: 29) is outraged at the proposal of ‘cet
inconcevable article’ [‘this inconceivable article’], whose anonymous
author is disparaged suggestively as appearing ‘pénétré des avantages
que l’on peut retirer de l’usage des redingotes anglaises’ [‘penetrated

by the advantages that can be obtained from the use of English riding-
coats’], and concludes (1821: 30) that:
Ce n’est pas au moment où le gouvernement jette du lustre sur la

pharmacie, en l’admettant à faire partie d’une académie royale,
qu’elle consentirait à s’avilir en convertissant ses officines en archives
de prostitution.
[It is not at the very moment when the government is bestowing

prestige on pharmacy, in admitting it as part of a Royal academy, that
it would consent to debase itself in converting its dispensaries into
archives of prostitution.]
Pharmacy – as archival body of curative substances and knowledge – is

threatened with contamination by connotations of sexual or reproductive
impropriety as well as of charlatanism – vêtements parasyphilitiques [‘para-
syphilitic garments’] falling within the class of ‘remèdes secrètes’ [‘secret
remedies’] in Cadet’s view – at the very moment when it is on the point
of spreading its disciplinary remit, contaminating as it were the scientific
sphere at large, through incorporation within the consecrated scientific
body of an academy.
We have just seen how the fear of contamination actually goes far
beyond fear of the literal ingestion of poison by the body, but extends –
not least in a particularly sexual way – to the textual body of the medical
treatise, and, significantly, to the professional body of disciplines under-
going reconfiguration, re-incorporation. But at an institutional level,
this is no coincidence, and Mathieu Orfila, in his institutional role and
presence, provides an emblematic illustration of this. Detection of bodily
anomaly as part of forensic medicine is, as we have seen, one major area
of Orfila’s policing activity. But Orfila seeks out poisoner as well as poison,
pharmakos as well as pharmakon.4 In the forensic context outlined above,
Orfila knows how to smell a rat, sometimes almost literally: he informs
readers of the Traité de Médecine Légale that a typical ruse of avoiders of
military service is the feigning of haemorrhoids through the insertion
into the anus – with the aid of springs – of rat bladders, easily detect-
able by the accomplished physician (Orfila 1836a, I: 410). But another
role he plays, as part of police médicale or public health promotion and
regulation, is the policing of his confrères: the smelling of rats within the
medical and pharmaceutical professions, and the expulsion of such toxic
elements from the institutional bodies that he regulates.
Police médicale is first defined by Paul Mahon in his seminal Médecine

légale (1807), of which Orfila’s work is by his own admission a
development. For Mahon (1807, III.ii: 1), in a supplementary half-volume
entitled Police médicale appended to his highly influential work, ‘la
Police médicale est une des parties les plus importantes de cette science
que l’on a appelée Police, et de laquelle dépendent, dans un corps poli-
tique, la sûreté intérieure et le bonheur des membres qui le composent’
[‘Police médicale is one of the most important parts of that science we
call Police, and on which depend, in a body politic, internal security and
the happiness of the members who constitute it’]. For Orfila, the body
whose integrity is to be protected is as professional as it is politic, and
police médicale, as much as it is about anything, is about the detection
of anomalies in the professional body as well as the physiological
one. His powers of detection, regulation, and expulsion are exercised
not only through the Faculté, but also through the Association des
Médecins de Paris, an independent body founded by him in 1833,
which his enemies allege is a mysterious undercover organisation spy-
ing on (and anonymously denouncing) practitioners in order to further
the commercial interests of its members. And he has many enemies:
‘un cortège de mécontents et d’aigris, une foule d’envieux, une pléïade
d’adversaires’ [‘a parade of malcontents and embittered people, a mob
of envious individuals, a constellation of adversaries’], as a latter-day
hagiographer (Fayol 1930: 242) puts it.
Raspail and the regime of anonymous denunciation
Foremost among these was François-Vincent Raspail (1794–1878), the

most distinguished of unconventional health practitioners in nineteenth-
century France. Raspail was also a politician, standing as a republican pres-
idential candidate in 1848, a free-thinker, and a prolific and outspoken
campaigning journalist. Though never obtaining formal qualifications,
indeed spurning them on the grounds that they restricted rather than
affirmed the bearer’s knowledge, he managed nevertheless to work as a
self-styled medical and pharmaceutical expert, both in tending to the sick
and in publishing widely read works such as the Nouveau système de chimie
organique (1838), and the Manuel annuaire de la Santé (1845). Their appeal is
documented in Bouvard et Pécuchet, in which the eponymous bonshommes,
having acquired the Manuel, are enthusiastic consumers of his patent
remedies, the best known of which were camphor and ‘eau sédative’:
La clarté de la doctrine les séduisit. Toutes les affections proviennent

des vers. […]. Ce qu’il y a de mieux pour s’en délivrer, c’est le camphre.
Bouvard et Pécuchet l’adoptèrent. Ils en prisaient, ils en croquaient et

distribuaient des cigarettes, des flacons d’eau sédative et des pilules
d’aloès. (OC II: 223)
[They were seduced by the clarity of the doctrine. All infections are
the result of worms. […]. The best thing for getting rid of them is
camphor. Bouvard and Pécuchet adopted it. They sniffed it, they
chewed it and distributed camphorated cigarettes, vials of sedative
water and aloe pills. (Flaubert 2005: 61)]
Their incorporation of Raspail’s ‘doctrine’ into their body of accu-

mulated knowledge is paralleled by their enthusiastic ingestion of
camphor; mixed results following their dissemination of his products,
however, dampen their enthusiasm. Like Raspail, they are sceptical of
the value of formal qualifications, and potentially subject to discipli-
nary sanction for their lack of them: ‘un diplôme n’est pas toujours un
argument’ [‘a diploma is not always an argument’], remarks Pécuchet
scornfully to Dr Vaucorbeil, whereupon the doctor, ‘attaqué dans son
gagne-pain’ [‘attacked in his livelihood’] – that is, for pecuniary rather
than altruistic reasons – angrily threatens him: ‘“Nous le verrons quand
vous irez devant les tribunaux pour exercice illégal de la médecine!”’
OC II: 224) [‘We’ll see when you get hauled into court for practising
medicine without a licence!’ (Flaubert 2005: 64)]. Flaubert’s posthu-
mous novel, then, does not simply lampoon Raspail’s ‘doctrine’, but, in
its representation of its protagonists’ largely vain attempts to apply it
in their treatment of a range of patients and of the resulting argument
with Vaucorbeil featuring Raspailian rhetoric about the overemphasis
placed on qualifications, as well as a threat from authority, identifies the
context of disciplinary conflict and regulation in which the practices of
unorthodox healers like Bouvard, Pécuchet, and Raspail can be located.
Raspail, a self-declared ‘homme de lettres ou chimiste, deux titres qui
n’ont pas besoin de diplômes’ [‘man of letters or chemist, two titles
which have no need of diplomas’] regularly found himself ‘devant les
tribunaux’ [‘before the courts’] (Raspail 1846: 12). Although, despite
his lack of qualifications, Raspail was highly regarded and largely toler-
ated within the medical profession, he did have one important enemy,
Orfila. The enmity stemmed from regular encounters from the 1830s
onwards in high-profile arsenic cases, most notably that in which Raspail
was the key forensic witness for Marie Lafarge née Capelle, known
(Fayol 1930: 236) as ‘la sainte de l’arsénic’ [‘the patron saint of arsenic’],
accused of poisoning her husband and sentenced to travaux forcés à
perpétuité – life with hard labour – in 1840. Orfila was, so to speak, the
arsenic-finder-in-chief, seen by adversaries as ‘un intermédiaire entre

l’accusation et le bourreau’ (Fayol 1930: 209). Like the médecin aliéniste,
the toxicologue enjoyed an ever-increasing presence in the criminal
justice system, and, after provincial chemists in the town of Tulle failed
to find any arsenic in Lafarge’s body, Orfila was summoned, and quickly
found traces of the poison with his ‘appareil Marsh’ [Marsh apparatus],
a newly developed device for the detection of arsenic by means of a
test introduced by the British pharmacist and toxicologist James Marsh
in 1836 (Whorton 2010: 85–9). The device was championed in France
by Orfila, who, in order to get round criticisms of its tendency to show
positive results for the most infinitesimal amounts of arsenic present,
claimed that there were two types of arsenic: l’arsenic normal, and the
type that could only be present as a result of deliberate attempts at poi-
soning. Raspail had been scathing about this theory, objecting (1839:
41) at a poisoning trial in Dijon in 1838 that:
Je ne sache aucun procédé propre à faire distinguer l’arsenic de

l’arsenic, l’arsenic dit normal, et l’arsenic donné en empoisonne-
ment. Celui qui avancerait, dans l’état actuel de la science, de tels
tours de force, mériterait d’être traduit devant les tribunaux comme
faux témoin. […]. L’arsenic est partout autour de nous, dans les
ornements de nos appartements, dans nos ustensiles, dans le fumier,
et partant dans la terre des cimetières, etc.
[I know of no procedure capable of distinguishing arsenic from arse-

nic, so-called normal arsenic, and arsenic given as poison. Anyone
who would advance, under the current state of science, such incred-
ible feats, must deserve to be traduced before the courts as a false
witness. […]. Arsenic is everywhere around us, in the furnishings
of our homes, in our utensils, in manure, and hence in the soil of
cemeteries, etc.]
It was on this basis again that Raspail disputed the validity of Orfila’s
analysis at Lafarge’s appeal, but the sentence stood. Doubtless on
account of the national profile of the case and widespread sympathy
for ‘la pauvre calomniée’ [‘the poor slandered woman’], as she styled
herself, Lafarge was eventually pardoned by Napoleon III in 1852, dying
soon afterwards (Whorton 2010: 93–4).
The struggle did not end with the Lafarge case, and was not restricted
to the question of arsenic. A significant clash between Raspail and Orfila
occurred in 1846, this time from the point of view of police médicale.
It had been Raspail’s practice to lend his name to pharmacists. Doctors

prescribed Raspail’s remedies, which the patient could then purchase
at a pharmacy, allowed to display Raspail’s lucrative griffe on its labels,
or indeed his name on its shopfront, as is the case (OC I: 598; Flaubert
2004: 65) with the establishment belonging to Flaubert’s archetypal
pharmacist:
Sa maison, du haut en bas, est placardée d’inscriptions écrites en

anglaise, en ronde, en moulée: “Eaux de Vichy, de Seltz et de Barèges,
robs dépuratifs, médecine Raspail, racabout des Arabes, pastilles
Darcet, pâte Regnault, bandages, bains, chocolats de santé, etc.”
[His house is plastered from top to botttom with notices handwrit-

ten in different scripts – cursive, round, and block capitals – ‘Vichy,
Seltzer and Barèges Waters; purgative syrups; Raspail’s Remedy;
Arabian Raccahout; Darcet’s lozenges; Regnault’s ointment; band-
ages; baths; laxative chocolates, etc.’]
This extract, far from merely expressing the commercial imperatives

of a uniquely grasping literary character with an inveterate penchant
for advertising, is reflective, rather, of contemporary practice among
pharmacists. Raspail had entered in 1845 into a business arrangement
with a pharmacist, Morel, and a doctor from the Faculté de médecine,
Cottereau. Patients consulted Cottereau – also a médecin-légiste associ-
ated with Orfila, it transpired – in Raspail’s presence, in premises rented
by the latter in the rue des Francs-Bourgeois, and Cottereau prescribed
Raspail’s remedies, which the patients then procured at Morel’s phar-
macy. Raspail, moreover, claimed (1846: 29) not to have made ‘une
obole’ [‘a bean’] from this altruistic arrangement. But Raspail soon
learned that Morel was passing off ordinary water as eau sédative, and
ruining his good name through association (Raspail 1846: 8):
A défaut d’annonces mensongères, Morel avait, pour attirer fraud-

uleusement le public, mon nom écrit en grosses lettres sur tous les
murs de son officine. Son enseigne portait ces mots: Seule maison
garantie par M. Raspail.
[Stopping short of misleading advertisements, Morel had, in order

to attract the public on fraudulent premises, my name written on all
the walls of his dispensary. His sign bore the following words: Only
establishment guaranteed by M. Raspail.]
Not only was Morel a fraud exploiting Raspail’s popularity; he was also
(Raspail 1846: 8) a plant, recommended to Raspail by the Comte de
Pontcarré, an ‘ami occulte’ [‘secret friend’] and ‘joyeux convive […]
des sieurs Orfila, Montalivet, et autres gens de cette trempe, qui ne
sont pas, vous le savez, mes amis’ [‘merry companion of Messrs Orfila,
Montalivet, and other people of that ilk, who are not, as you know, my
friends’].
Ce n’était pas un service qu[e] [Pontcarré] m’avait demandé, c’était

un piège qu’il m’avait tenu. Morel, son prétendu pupille, au lieu d’un
associé sérieux, n’était, en définitive, que l’instrument de cette police
médicale que mes modestes succès empêchent tant de dormir.
[It was not a favour that Pontcarré had asked of me, it was a trap
which he had laid for me. Morel, his supposed charge, instead
of being a serious associate, was, in fact, nothing other than the
instrument of the police médicale which my modest successes prevent
so much from sleeping.]
The whole enterprise was thus a plot to discredit Raspail by bringing

his remedies into disrepute. Then, on account of the medical consul-
tations, Raspail was denounced by the Association des Médecins de
Paris, the independent and non-statutory watchdog-cum-widow’s-fund
founded by Orfila, as having infringed what Raspail (1846: 52) refers to
as ‘cette loi déjà si défectueuse du 19 ventôse an XI, loi dont Napoléon
se repentit tant de fois’ [‘that already extremely defective law of 19
ventôse Year XI, a law over which Napoleon repented so many times’].
This is the law (Simon 2005: 118–19), it will be recalled from Madame
Bovary (OC I: 603; Flaubert 2004: 78), ‘qui défend à tout individu
non porteur de diplôme l’exercice de la médecine’ [‘which forbids the
practice of medicine to anyone not holding a diploma’] and of which
Homais, hauled up before the procureur du roi ‘sur des dénonciations
ténébreuses’ [‘on the basis of shadowy denunciations’] also falls foul.
The professional context for these denunciations is much less murky
at draft stage: Homais (2, fo 94v) is summoned ‘sur les dénonciations
anonymes d’un <certain> Sieur gobinet médecin <exerçant> à Buchy,
jaloux de ses succès’ [‘on the basis of the anonymous denunciations
of a certain Sieur Gobinet a doctor practising in Buchy, jealous of his
success’]. Flaubert’s pharmacist is nevertheless able to resume ‘des
consultations anodines dans son arrière-boutique’ [‘innocuous consul-
tations in his back room’], but remains fearful of being placed – as he
decries (OC I: 658; Flaubert 2004: 220) in his admonition of his

apprentice, Justin, for his intrusion into the Capharnaüm – on ‘le
banc des criminels, en cour d’assises’ [‘in the dock, at the Assizes’] and
vigilant about detested public health regulation, the dreaded police
médicale: ‘le gouvernement nous persécute, et l’absurde législation qui
nous régit est comme une véritable épée de Damoclès suspendue sur
notre tête!’ [‘The government’s constantly on our backs, and the idiotic
legislation that regulates us is literally a sword of Damocles hanging
over our heads!’].
But Homais’s fear, as can be seen from the brouillon just quoted, and
indeed also – less explicitly – from the final version of the episode (OC I:
603; Flaubert 2004: 78), is of (anonymous) professional denunciation
as much as of (public) governmental persecution: ‘des confrères étaient
jaloux, il fallait tout craindre’ [‘some of his colleagues were jealous of
him, he had to be fearful of any eventuality’]. Such fear of collegial
denunciation is shared by Charles Bovary (OC I: 636; Flaubert 2004:
163), foremost in whose mind after the pied-bot disaster is not the
eventual legal consideration that ‘Hippolyte même pouvait lui faire
un procès’ [‘Hippolyte might even sue him’], but a professional, repu-
tational, discursive concern: ‘Qui sait si des confrères n’écriraient pas
contre lui?’ [‘Who could say whether colleagues wouldn’t write letters
denouncing him?’].5
Homais’s tirade against his apprentice echoes another one that can
also be placed in the context of médécine légale and police médicale.
One of the paradoxes – for Homais – of la médecine légale as it applies
to the pharmaceutical profession is that the pharmacist can be sum-
monsed as either witness or defendant. Homais fears the appearance
before the courts that could be imposed on him at any time under
the regulations of police médicale, but at the same time his profession’s
involvement in the criminal justice system and the responsibility
that come with that are a source of satisfaction and pride. When
Justin faints during the bleeding of Rodolphe’s servant, Homais
contrives, in his admonition of his apprentice for losing his cool, to
pronounce (OC I: 618; Flaubert 2004: 115) on the public forensic role
of pharmacists:
[V]oilà de belles dispositions à exercer plus tard la pharmacie; car tu

peux te trouver appelé en des circonstances graves, par-devant les
tribunaux, afin d’y éclairer la conscience des magistrats; et il faudra
pourtant garder son sang-froid, raisonner, se montrer homme, ou
bien passer pour un imbécile!
[You’ll certainly make a fine pharmacist one day; you could be

summoned to appear in court, you know, over some matter of grave
importance, to enlighten the conscience of the magistrates, and
you’ll have to keep your head, and produce reasoned arguments,
prove you’re a real man, not an imbecile.]
Homais’s use of the verb ‘éclairer’ [‘enlighten’] is not by chance; nor

is it simply part of his self-promotion as man of the Enlightenment. It
is a key element of médecine légale, which, as seen in Orfila’s definition, is
‘l’ensemble des connaissances médicales propres à éclairer diverses questions
de droit’ [‘the sum of those aspects of medical knowledge which can be
invoked to throw light on diverse questions of law’] (Orfila 1836a, I: 1).
Homais therefore on the one hand is happy to promote his profession’s
association with forensic medicine, but at the same time decries that
aspect of it concerned with regulation of pharmacy. That this is a profes-
sional issue is reinforced by the fact that this rhetoric is deployed – for
public consumption – under the guise of professional advice to his
apprentice, that is, within the contemporary institutional incorporation
of pharmacy, but also within the new framework of forensic medicine
and medical regulation defined if not embodied by Mathieu Orfila.
Raspail’s persecutor, rather than – as it is in Homais’s lament – the
government, is identified as Orfila in person, acting through the
Association des Médecins de Paris. The Association’s stated intention was
to function as a société de prévoyance [provident society] for doctors’ wid-
ows, as is explained by Orfila in court, here in Raspail’s account (1846: 20):
‘C’est moi’ [Orfila], dit-il, ‘qui l’ai fondée en 1833: elle a, pour but,
de soulager les infortunes des médecins, de leurs veuves et de leurs
enfants; 2o elle se préoccupe de la considération du corps médical;
elle veille à ce que la médecine ne soit exercée que par des médecins
ou officiers de santé, et provoque au besoin les poursuites de la jus-
tice contre les délinquants. Je n’ai qu’à me féliciter d’avoir organisé
une telle association. […]. La société a des statuts approuvés par M.
le ministre de l’intérieur et par M. le préfet de police. Aux termes de
l’art. 18 de ces statuts, douze commissions, composées chacune de 20
à 25 membres par arrondissement, sont organisées pour rechercher
les abus et signaler à la commission centrale les personnes qui, dans
Paris, se livrent à l’art de guérir sans diplôme.’
[‘It was I’, he said, ‘who founded it in 1833; it has as its aim the
relief of the financial troubles of doctors, their widows and their
children; secondly, it is concerned with the esteem in which the

medical professional body is held; it exercises vigilance to ensure
that medicine is only practised by doctors and health officers, and if
necessary initiates the legal pursuit of offenders. I can only congratu-
late myself on having organised such an association. The society has
statutes approved by the Minister of the Interior and by the Prefect of
Police. Under the terms of article 18 of these statutes, twelve commis-
sions, each composed of 20–25 members per district, are organised
for seeking out abuses and alerting the central commission to those
persons who, in Paris, engage in the art of healing without diplomas.’]
The Association’s real purpose, according to Raspail (1846: 24–5), was

to spy on competitors, who could be denounced anonymously on the
slightest premise and kept out of the market:
M. Orfila vous a donc dit que l’association des 400 médecins de Paris
avait trois buts: le premier, philanthropique envers ses membres mal-
heureux ou valétudinaires, et envers les veuves qu’ils laissent dans la
pauvreté; le second, philanthropique envers la societé, que l’association
veut préserver du danger du charlatanisme; le troisième, enfin, et c’est
celui à l’endroit duquel l’association se montre un peu plus chatouil-
leuse que d’habitude, c’est de dénoncer à l’autorité quiconque, hors
de son sein, comprenez-le bien, hors de son sein, viendrait porter la
moindre atteinte aux privilèges de l’exercice légal de la médecine.
[So M. Orfila has told you that the association of 400 doctors in Paris
had three goals: the first, one of philanthropy towards its needy or
retired members, and towards the widows whom they leave in poverty;
the second, one of philanthropy towards society, which the association
wishes to preserve from the dangers of charlatanism; the third, finally,
and this is the one concerning which the association shows itself to
be a little more touchy than usual, is to denounce to the authorities
anyone who, outwith it, let that be clear, outwith it, would occasion the
slightest attack on the privileges of the legal practice of medicine.]
Moreover (Raspail 1846: 26):
les fonds qui ont été versés pour actes de bienfaisance servent à
acheter secrètement des médicaments particuliers, dans les pharma-
cies et chez les médecins, qu’ils envoient ensuite au procureur du roi
avec une lettre de dénonciation anonyme.
[the funds which have been paid in for acts of benevolence are used
for secret purchases of particular medicines, in pharmacies and from
doctors, which they then send to the Royal Prosecutor with a letter
of anonymous denunciation.]
Raspail was duly found guilty, but only ordered to pay a token fine. In
fact, the conviction appears to have done him no harm, and rather than
suppressing his activity or silencing him, prompts a series of anti-Orfila
pamphlets, including the one providing an account of the trial, in the
preface to which he compares himself to Homais’s hero (OC I: 600;
Flaubert 2004: 70), Benjamin Franklin, who, like the pharmacist (OC I:
603; Flaubert 2004: 78) and himself, was (Raspail 1846: 5) ‘obligé de
comparaître devant les tribunaux, sur la plainte d’individus qu’il n’avait
même jamais connus’ [‘obliged to appear before the courts, on the
complaints of individuals whom he had never even known’].
Dupré and l’enseignement libre
Raspail, despite his powerful enemies, was highly regarded in some

sections of the medical profession, in particular by a tendency campaigning
for what was known as ‘l’enseignement libre’ [‘free instruction’] – a faction
openly in conflict with the individual responsible for strict regulation of
the teaching of medicine: Orfila had in 1842 imposed severe restrictions
on the previous practice whereby ‘professeurs libres’ [‘independent teach-
ers’] could give independent lectures on medical theory and practice
wherever they liked, but most notably at the École Pratique. A figurehead
for this tendency was Noël Dupré, professor at the École Pratique, who
was, like Raspail, a prolific pamphleteer. Author of numerous publica-
tions promoting ‘la liberté de l’enseignement médical’ [‘freedom in
medical instruction’], and founder of a journal, L’Indépendance médicale et
pharmaceutique, ‘Organe de l’enseignement libre’ [‘Organ of free instruc-
tion’], Dupré persists in the 1860s, long after Orfila’s death, in identifying
the Dean as being the driving force behind the restriction, and ongoing
vindictive persecution, of independent medical instructors:
Orfila eut, il y a à peu près vingt-deux ou vingt-trois ans, la malheureuse

idée de ces réformes qui devaient réduire l’enseignement d’anatomie et
de médecine opératoire aux conditions où il se trouve aujourd’hui. Les
nouvelles mesures eurent pour effet d’éliminer le plus grand nombre
des professeurs particuliers. C’était le but que l’on voulait atteindre.
Ceux qui résistèrent disparurent tour à tour. (Dupré 1865: 31)
[Orfila, around twenty-two or twenty-three years ago, had the

unfortunate idea of those reforms which were to reduce the teaching
of anatomy and operatory medicine to the conditions in which it
finds itself today. The new measures had the effect of eliminating the
greater number of independent teachers. That was the desired goal.
Those who resisted disappeared each in their turn.]
Dupré was also the author of a twenty-page didactic poem outlining the
ideas of Raspail, and simultaneously condemning his removal from his
position as ‘professeur libre’ at the École pratique as a direct result of
Orfila’s reforms of the early 1840s, after which:
Hélas! il ne vint pas, nous eûmes beau l’attendre,

Le professeur aimé que nous aimions entendre.
Ainsi l’avait voulu la docte faculté
Dans sa haute justice elle avait décrété,
Que, n’ayant pas diplôme, un pareil hérétique
Devait être banni de l’École pratique. (Dupré 1883: 6)
[Alas! Despite our waiting, he did not appear

The well-loved professor whom we loved to hear
Thus had it been willed by the learned Faculty
In its lofty justice having issued a decree
That, bereft of diploma, such a heretic
Must be banished from the École pratique.]6
Elsewhere, in a ‘discours d’adieu’, a farewell speech to students,

Dupré presents a litany of the grim fates of medical teaching col-
leagues hounded out of their jobs by Orfila, in what he repeatedly
describes (Dupré 1866: 10) in 1865 as a ‘lutte’ [‘struggle’] lasting
twenty-four years. This is a struggle in which Orfila and his acolyte
successors, responsible for ‘de nouveaux règlements renchérissant sur
ceux dont Orfila était l’auteur et qui avaient déjà porté un coup si
terrible à l’enseignement particulier’ [‘new regulations going even
further than those of which Orfila was the author and which had
already dealt such a terrible blow to independent instruction’], have
been his adversaries. Dupré ends up as the ‘seul debout des anciens
professeurs qui ont assisté au début de cette lutte suivie de si funestes
résultats’ [‘the only one left standing of the former teachers who were
present at the beginning of this struggle leading to such infamous
results’].
The strange case of Dr Halmagrand and Professor Orfila
The beginning of this struggle had been in the early 1840s, and its
ramifications went beyond ‘l’enseignement libre’, frequently enmeshed
with other matters. It is in that light that we might advert to an unu-
sually titled work by another adversary of Orfila, Dr Charles-Nicolas
Halmagrand’s Considérations médico-légales sur l’Avortement, suivies de
quelques réflexions sur la Liberté de l’Enseignement Médical (1844) [‘Medico-
legal Considerations on Abortion, followed by some reflections on
freedom in medical instruction’]. This short form of the title already
contains a considerable amount of diverse information, and begs the
question of the connection between abortion, jurisprudential forensic
medicine, and ‘l’enseignement libre’. However, there appears to have
been no scholarly consideration of this work beyond the question of
abortion. Le Naour and Valenti, in their comprehensive account of abor-
tion in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, Histoire de l’avortement,
refer (2003: 22) to this work simply by way of documentation of aspects
of the emerging ethical debate on therapeutically necessary abortion,
merely quoting Halmagrand’s assertion (1844: 53) that abortion should
only be a recourse in the event of a threat to the mother’s life, and
appearing to assume that his work is a straightforward medical discus-
sion of abortion ethics and obstetric practice. It is at least in part an
informative work on this subject, being one of relatively few works
on abortion published prior to legislation passed in 1852 recognising
‘l’avortement thérapeutique’ [‘therapeutic abortion’] (Le Naour and
Valenti 2003: 28), after which much more was written, in the literary
field as well as the medical. But Halmagrand’s text is much more than
a medical treatise, much more than an account of an abortion trial. For
although, as the title continues, the work is indeed (Halmagrand 1844:
title page) ‘à propos d’un procès en cour d’assises’ [‘about a trial in
the Assizes Court’], it is also a ‘mémoire adressé à l’Académie royale
de médecine de Paris’ [‘paper addressed to the Royal Academy of
Medicine in Paris’], published moreover at its author’s expense because,
as he points out in a preamble (Halmagrand 1844: 3–4) addressed to its
members, the Académie refused to hear his paper on ‘les questions méd-
ico-légales qui avaient été invoquées pour me détruire’ [‘the questions
of forensic medicine which had been invoked in order to destroy me’].
It becomes clear that this work is primarily a polemical plea to a body
of confrères against ‘des misérables qui ont voulu ternir mes travaux,
briser mon avenir’ [‘wretches who have intended to tarnish my works
and shatter my future’], in spite of great ‘dévoûment’ [sic], [‘devotion’],
both to his students at the École pratique, and, ‘de retour d’Angleterre,
où j’avais été observer le Choléra’ [‘on my return from England, where
I had been to observe the Cholera’], to his fellow citizens ‘au moment
où ce fléau accablait la population parisienne’ [‘at the moment when
the population of Paris was overcome by this scourge’]. This latter
‘dévoûment’ – shared, as we shall see, with Homais – is one to which
he repeatedly returns in this work and others, including one written
twenty years after the events, which provides (Halmagrand 1861: 18) a
succinct summary of his trials (both judicial and disciplinary):
C’était sous l’administration du régime conservateur que j’avais

été traîné injustement et impitoyablement sur le banc de la Cour
d’Assises de la Seine, en récompense de mon dévouement à Londres
et à Paris, lors du choléra de 1832. Après un acquittement unanime et
solonnel, j’avais été contraint de subir un deuxième et un troisième
jugement à la barre de la Faculté de Paris, sous les poursuites incon-
cevables du Doyen Orfila.
[It was under the conservative regime that I had been unjustly and
mercilessly dragged into the dock of the Seine Assizes Court, as rec-
ompense for my devotion in London and Paris during the cholera of
1832. After a unanimous and solemn acquittal, I had been forced to
undergo a second and third trial at the bar of the Faculté de Paris, as
a result of inconceivable pursuits by Dean Orfila.]
While this résumé hints at a wider political dimension and at the

author’s dissent from the prevailing regime, it also suggests that the dis-
ciplinary power of the medical profession has – nefariously – superseded
the authority of the legal system.
The 1844 work, anything but succinct, claims in its preface (Halmagrand
1844: 7) to be ‘la seule exacte’ [‘the only exact’] relation of events. It
aims to provide a corrective to press accounts of the court case involv-
ing the author, which had pointed to his ‘fortune précaire’ [‘precarious
fortune’] as basis for his alleged recourse to abortion provision. The text
proper begins with the narrative of the events behind the court case.
Halmagrand, then based in Paris, had on 26 March 1841 been called to
attend a woman ‘qui se plaignait de douleurs dans les lombes et les aines’
(1844: 8) [‘complaining of pains in the loins and the groin’]. He returned
daily for a week, each time prescribing rest and refreshing drinks. On
8 April, the patient’s condition having worsened considerably, with abun-
dant bleeding, the portière of her immeuble asked what was wrong with
her: ‘je lui répondis que c’était une perte, ou peut-être une fausse couche’
(Halmagrand 1844: 10) [‘I replied to her that there had been a loss of blood,
or perhaps a miscarriage’]. The next day, the portière and two other women
invited him into the loge, and blackmailed him for 1000 francs. The day
after that he made a declaration to M. le Procureur du roi about having
been (Halmagrand 1844: 10–11) ‘l’objet d’une espèce de guet-apens que
je croyais devoir signaler’ [‘the object of a kind of ambush that I thought
I must report’]. A week later, the commissaire de police arrived with Orfila’s
associate Alphonse Devergie, and placed Halmagrand in preventive deten-
tion for two months until his trial on charges of performing an abortion.
Before narrating the trial, however, Halmagrand devotes a chapter to his and
his wife’s suffering during his time on remand, referring again (1844: 17)
scathingly to the fortune précaire that was supposedly the basis of his
career as an abortionist, and then, ‘en face du tableau de nos tribulations
et de nos misères’ [‘in the face of my tribulations and privations’], which
include his wife’s death, devotes two chapters to ‘les services que nous
avons rendus’ [‘the services which I have rendered’].
The first of these chapters consists of a series of testimonials
(1844: 18–20) which Halmagrand has collected. Professor Sanson
affirms, for example, that ‘[p]ar les services qu’il a rendus, par ses talens
et par son caractère, M. le docteur Halmagrand me paraît digne de la
croix d’honneur’ [‘in the services which he has rendered, in his talent
and in his character, Doctor Halmagrand appears to me to be worthy
of the Legion of Honour’]. M. Desgenettes opines that ‘les ouvrages
de M. Halmagrand, ses fonctions scientifiques et ses services pendant
l’épidémie qui a ravagé l’Europe, le placent dans une position qui le
désigne à la reconnaissance nationale comme savant et comme citoyen,
etc.’ [‘Monsieur Halmagrand’s publications, his academic duties and
the services he performed during the epidemic that ravaged Europe,
place him in a position which marks him out for national recognition
as a scholar and a citizen, etc.’]. The mayor of the tenth arrondissement
remarks that ‘à l’époque du choléra il a donné des preuves de science
et de philanthropie par la publication d’ouvrages estimés’ [‘at the time
of the cholera he proved himself as a man of science and philanthropy
through publication of esteemed works’].
But testimonials, even though they should have, in Halmagrand’s curi-
ously Homaisian formulation, ‘dépouillé les préjugés sinistres qui obscur-
cissent comme une ombre épaisse les abords d’une affaire ténébreuse’
[‘stripped away the sinister prejudices that obscure like a thick shadow
the surroundings of a mysterious affair’], are not enough.7 In extraordi-
nary circumstances a man must abandon false modesty: ‘je suis obligé de
m’entourer moi-même de tous mes titres à l’estime et à la bienveillance

publique’ [‘I am obliged to surround myself with everything entitling me
to esteem and public goodwill’]. Central among these is his role during
the cholera epidemic of 1832 (Halmagrand 1844: 23):
Mon zèle fut sans bornes; je m’exposai à la fureur de cet ennemi

inconnu jusqu’à m’inoculer du sang des cholériques morts, à me
coucher auprès d’eux et à goûter du lait et des matières vomies
de cholériques; aucun de ces essais, qui me font maintenant fris-
sonner, ne me coûta alors, tant mon dévoûment à la science était
grand.
Quand ce fléau arriva en France, je l’attendis sur son terrain et le
combattis, fort des armes que j’avais acquis à l’étranger. Je ne fus
point porté pour la médaille, car on me jugeait avoir mérité davan-
tage. Je fus présenté pour la croix.
[My zeal was limitless; I exposed myself to the rage of that unknown
enemy, going so far as to inoculate myself with the blood of dead
cholera sufferers, to sleep alongside them and to taste the milk and
vomited matter of cholera patients; none of these tests, which now
make me shudder, were of any cost to me then, so great was my
devotion to science.
When this scourge arrived in France, I awaited it on her terrain and
fought it, fortified with the arms which I had acquired abroad. I was
not put forward for the Medal of Honour, for I had been judged to
have merited more. I was presented for the Cross of Honour.]
Indeed, several of his character referees nominate him for an award

which, on account of his ‘titres’ and personal endorsements he clearly
implicitly believes he deserves.
Halmagrand’s repeated deployment of titres and testimonials is paral-
leled in condensed form by a similarly self-promoting rhetorical opera-
tion performed habitually (as context and tense indicate) by Flaubert’s
pharmacist, whose self-promoting self-belief is betokened here (OC I:
691; Flaubert 2004: 308–9) by style indirect libre, free indirect discourse,
then lapsing into first-person direct discourse:
Homais désirait la croix. Les titres ne lui manquaient point:

1o S’être, lors du choléra, signalé par un dévouement sans bornes;
2o avoir publié, et à mes frais, différents ouvrages d’utilité publique,
tels que […].
[Homais yearned for the cross of the Legion of Honour. His claim
was not without foundation: (1) He had distinguished himself, at the
time of the cholera epidemic, by his limitless devotion to duty. (2) He
had published, and at my own expense, various of works of public
utility, among them […].]
Homais ends up obtaining the coveted ‘croix’ (OC I: 692; Flaubert

2004: 311), but Halmagrand, who highlights, like the pharmacist, his
‘dévouement […] lors du choléra’, his ‘titres’, and his (frequently self-
funded) ‘ouvrages’, makes no further mention of this coveted honour.
The narrative shifts to an account (Halmagrand 1844: 24) – again hint-
ing at liberal political sympathies – of his potentially risky interven-
tion to save the hand of a young man caught up in the insurrection
of 1834.8 The rest of this chapter lists his teaching achievements at
the École pratique, and his publications. And indeed, he is a prolific
writer on diverse subjects. He is the author of a thesis on amputation,
a treatise on childbirth, a work (Halmagrand 1830) on Les monumens
historiques des Égyptiens [‘Historic Monuments of the Egyptians’], a Traité
complet de l’officier de santé [‘Complete Treatise on the Health Officer’],
and a Manuel Complet des Aspirans au grade d’officier de santé, contenant
l’ensemble des questions soumises aux candidats, avec toutes les réponses qui
y correspondent [‘Complete Manual for Aspirants to the Rank of Health
Officer, Containing the Entirety of Questions Put to Candidates, with
All the Answers Corresponding Thereto’]. From the latter work (1832),
the questions and answers on the examination for the role of officier de
santé can be learned by heart by aspirans to that grade, such as Charles
Bovary, who (OC I: 577–8; Flaubert 2004: 12) ‘prépara sans discontinuer
les matières de son examen, dont il apprit d’avance toutes les questions
par cœur’ [‘crammed unremittingly for his examination, learning off
all the questions by heart in advance’]. And he continues to publish
until the 1870s – what is striking about his later œuvre is the frequency
with which his shamefully unrecognised ‘dévoûment lors du choléra’
[‘devotion in the time of cholera’] recurs, and with which he lashes out
at hidden persecutors who have taken against him, to the extent that,
as the chapter of his Considérations médico-légales sur l’Avortement listing
his achievements concludes (Halmagrand 1844: 26), ‘la récompense
attachée par le gouvernement’ [‘the recompense determined by the
government’] has turned out to be ‘LA PRISON’.
One might imagine that Halmagrand would now cut to the chase and
discuss his trial, or the ‘considérations médico-légales sur l’avortement’
[‘forensic considerations on abortion’] flagged in the title. Instead, he
links his struggle against the fléau [‘scourge’] of cholera to something

else entirely (1844: 27):
Aux services que j’ai rendus à la science je crois devoir joindre ici
celui que je rendis à la société et aux tribunaux eux-mêmes, en
repoussant un fléau moral qui menaçait il y a quinze ans de confon-
dre toutes les notions de la justice.
[To the services which I have rendered to science I believe I must add
here the one which I rendered to society and to the courts them-
selves, in repelling a moral scourge which threatened fifteen years
ago to confound all notions of justice.]
The fléau in question is monomania. Halmagrand provides an entire

chapter devoted to the Cornier case, a landmark in the rise of
‘médecins-légistes’, in which monomanie homicide was accepted as a
defence for a young woman who in 1826 cut off her infant’s head and
threw it out of a window.9 Halmagrand recounts how he published a
brochure which went against the monomania consensus, affirming the
jurist Dupin’s much-quoted opinion that if monomania were accepted
as a defence, ‘on verrait Charenton remplacer la Bastille’ [‘we would see
the Charenton asylum replacing the Bastille’], and drawing him into
‘une lutte qui ne pouvait que m’être funeste’ [‘a struggle which could
only be nefarious for me’] by incurring the disfavour of those now per-
secuting him, ‘le premier antagoniste de l’admission de la monomanie
instantanée’ [‘the first person to come out against the acceptance of
the notion of instantaneous monomania’], despite his vindication by
Cornier’s subsequent confession (Halmagrand 1844: 29–30).10
The account of the trial itself is the least polemical part of the text.
Much more impassioned is Halmagrand’s denunciation of its lurid
reporting in the most prominent contemporary newspaper specialis-
ing in reports of court cases, the Gazette des Tribunaux. The Gazette
(Anon. 1841: 841) does indeed depict him as an eccentric, paranoid,
and evasive character who cannot fully account for himself, pro-
viding responses that have no bearing on the questions prompting
them. Asked whether he instructed his patient to keep quiet about
the alleged abortion, he replies bizarrely: ‘Je ne puis me rappeler si je
suis ou non rentré’ [‘I cannot remember whether or not I came back’].
In response to another question, he refuses to answer, insisting that
‘il y a en face de moi des personnes qui causent, cela me trouble’
[‘there are people facing me who are talking; that disturbs me’]. The
report does indeed attribute his abortion specialism to his fortune

précaire [‘precarious fortune’], which, however, unlike Halmagrand, it
mentions only once.
It is finally in an eleventh chapter that Halmagrand goes into some
technical medical detail, in what appears to be a convincing account of
how he could not plausibly have performed an abortion in the circum-
stances. Likewise, the procès-verbaux [formal statements] of the Orfila-
linked expert witnesses Ollivier and Devergie are inconclusive: an abortion
could have taken place, but there is no proof that it did, especially since no
aborted foetus has been found (Halmagrand 1844: 62–3). For Halmagrand
(1844: 74), extensively quoting works by Marc and Orfila, this absence
of ‘le corps du délit’ [corpus delicti] should have meant that no charges
should have been brought.11 He is acquitted, but his troubles have only
just begun.
Some months after the trial, Halmagrand encounters the juge
d’instruction from his case on a suburban railway platform, illustrated in a
detailed diagram (1844: 81). He is apostrophé, buttonholed, by Monsieur
L., who accuses Halmagrand of giving him dirty looks. Halmagrand
(1844: 83) remarks to him: ‘si vous eussiez connu la médecine légale,
vous ne m’auriez pas fait asseoir sur le banc de la cour d’assises’ [‘if you
had known anything about forensic medicine, you would not have put
me in the dock at the Assizes Court’]. For this impudence, he is arrested
the next day, and jailed for eight days.
Not long afterwards, he is invited to a private audience by Orfila,
who asks him to resign from the Association des Médecins de Paris and
to desist from teaching at the École Pratique. He refuses. And ‘c’est à
dater de cette époque que commencent toutes les menées employées
par notre confrère Orfila pour me nuire’ (Halmagrand 1844: 94, emphasis
Halmagrand’s) [‘it was from that time on that all the schemes employed
by our colleague Orfila to ruin me begin’]. There follows a long sequence
of attempts by Orfila to engineer Halmagrand’s ‘radiation’ [striking off],
against which Halmagrand manages to rally the support of enough col-
leagues, until at a special meeting of the Association, Orfila ‘s’écria avec
colère, avec cet accent africo-espagnol qu’on lui connaît: “Messieurs,
JE DONNE MA DEMISSION”’ (Halmagrand 1844: 96, capitalisation in
original) [‘cried out in anger, with that Africo-Spanish accent for which
he is known: “Gentlemen, I TENDER MY RESIGNATION”’]. This was
an idle threat on the part of ‘l’ambitieux toxicologiste’ [‘the ambitious
toxicologist’], who did not, however, let up; ‘la vendetta de l’Espagnol
ne fut pas satisfaite’ [‘the Spaniard’s vendetta was not satisfied’], recounts
Halmagrand (1844: 97), using very similar language to that used later
by Raspail (1847: 34) in his struggle with ‘la morgue espagnole’ [‘his
Spanish arrogance’], ‘le gâteau épicé de sel baléare’ [‘the cake spiced
with Balearic salt’] (Ligou 1968: 428) who has an italicised vendetta
(Raspail 1847: 2) against him too.
The coup de grâce comes when ‘L’Espagnol’ [‘The Spaniard’], as
Halmagrand increasingly refers to this pervasively contaminatory for-
eign body, unearths a report of a court case concerning a disputed pat-
ent for Oxalmo, a vinegar-based remedy for flueurs blanches (fluors alba
or leucorrhoea) which a former student of Halmagrand, now an officier de
santé, has been advertising in the press, including, for example, in July
1840 in the Gazette des Tribunaux (Anon. 1840: 888):
Brevet d’Invention. OXALMO – TONIQUE MAILHAT, Préservatif et

curatif des Flueurs Blanches chez GARDET, Pharmacien, 13, rue de
la Tixerandie.
[Patent. OXALMO – MAILHAT’S TONIC, for the prevention and

treatment of Fluors Alba, available from GARDET, Pharmacist, 13,
rue de la Tixerandie.]
It emerges that the former student, who, like Raspail, sells his prod-
uct through association with pharmacists, obtained the recipe from
Halmagrand (1844: 100):
Je lui en donnai la formule; il prit un brevet en son nom, et me

reconnut la moitié de la propriété par une simple lettre. Ce médi-
cament fut annoncé un petit nombre de fois sans que mon nom y
figurât jamais.12
[I gave him the formula; he took out a patent in his name, and
acknowledged my ownership of half of the property by way of a
simple letter. This medicine was advertised a small number of times
without my name ever appearing.]
Halmagrand claims ignorance that his ‘homme d’affaires’ [business

agent] had gone to court on his behalf to claim the patent for him,
and protests moreover that he did not receive ‘une obole’ [‘a bean’].
However:
[O]n en conclut que moi Halmagrand, étant un charlatan, je ne

devais plus faire partie de l’association. Ma radiation fut proposée,
admise, et le président Orfila satisfait.
Après mes études et mes travaux, après les services que j’ai rendus,
soit comme professeur, soit comme praticien, me voici donc placé
au nombre des charlatans exploitant la crédulité publique! Mais les

médecins les plus honorables, n’ont-ils pas attaché leurs noms à telle
ou telle préparation pharmaceutique sans être taxés de charlata-
nisme? (Halmagrand 1844: 98–100)
[It was thereby concluded that as I, Halmagrand, was a charlatan,
I must no longer belong to the association. My striking off was
proposed, accepted, and Dean Orfila satisfied.
After my studies and works, after the services which I have ren-
dered, either as a teacher, or as a practitioner, here was I placed
among the number of those charlatans exploiting public credulity!
But have not the most honourable doctors associated their names
with such and such a pharmaceutical preparation without being
accused of charlatanism?]
He now becomes a pariah. The Académie, having initially welcomed

him to read his mémoire, a paper entitled De la valeur des signes ration-
nels de l’avortement en expertise légale [‘On the value of rational signs
of abortion in the provision of expert forensic opinion’], suddenly
refuses (Halmagrand 1844: 101–2) after the distribution of a mysteri-
ous handwritten circular, forcing him to have his work published
at his own expense, so that the members of the Académie, now
separated from him by ‘une barrière infranchissable’ (1844: 4) [‘an
unbreachable barrier’], might read what had been intended for them
to hear.
‘Las de pareilles discussions’ [‘Weary of discussions of this kind’],
Halmagrand decamps to Orléans, where he hopes to be able to practise in
the Hôtel-Dieu and give lectures. As an 1845 article by the pseudonymous
Docteur Noir (1846: 63) puts it:
M. Halmagrand alla chercher quelque repos hors de Paris. Il choisit

la ville d’Orléans pour s’y établir. “Là du moins, se disait-il, je ne ren-
contrerai point l’influence hostile d’Orfila.” Il se trompait: M. Orfila
est partout.
[Monsieur Halmagrand went in search of some rest outside of Paris.

He chose the city of Orléans in which to establish himself. “There
at least”, he thought, “I will not encounter the hostile influence of
Orfila.” He was wrong. Monsieur Orfila is everywhere.]
Halmagrand’s arrival in Orléans coincides (1844: 102) with the presence

of Orfila’s men Ollivier and Devergie, in town for ‘une expertise
médico-légale’ [‘provision of an expert forensic opinion’]. Halmagrand’s

selfless offer to provide free medical instruction is declined by the
Conseil municipal, because of calumnies spread by the two visiting
doctors, including that he had been banished from Paris ‘pour
vente de remèdes secrètes’ [‘for selling secret remedies’]. Thus begins
the section of the work justifying the part of the title referring to ‘la
liberté de l’enseignement médical’ [‘freedom of medical instruction’].
Soon the doctor is in court again – and fined – for giving unauthorised
medical classes. He denies the charge on the grounds that his courses
were private rather than public. Although it is not difficult to situ-
ate his thwarted attempts to teach within a generalised institutional
clampdown by Orfila on ‘l’enseignement libre’ [‘free instruction’],
Halmagrand takes it very personally (1844: 119), convinced that Orfila
is out to get him specifically:
C’est encore lui qui me fait poursuivre à Orléans, par le ministère

public, par l’intermédiaire de M. le recteur de l’Académie, qui ne peut
rien lui refuser. Et pourquoi? Pour se venger de ce que je lui ai résisté.
[It is he still who has me pursued in Orléans, by the public ministry,

through the intermediary of the Rector of the Academy, who cannot
refuse him anything. And why? To avenge himself on my resistance
to him.]
The work ends with a chauvinistic tirade, directly addressed to Orfila,

about the persecution of an honourable Frenchman by a Spanish
interloper trying to reinstate the Inquisition, and, in a very long foot-
note (Halmagrand 1844: 121, n. 1), a Raspailian rubbishing of the
ambitieux toxicologue’s arsenic-detecting abilities. Halmagrand is in
fact an admirer of Raspail, as he reveals in his 1845 opus on the his-
tory and purpose of pedagogy, Origine de l’Université, which includes a
twelve-page quotation from Raspail (1845: 350–62) after a paragraph
praising him as ‘un des hommes les plus instruits de notre époque […],
un chimiste réunissant la pratique de l’art à la théorie de la science’
[‘one of the most learned men of our era, a chemist linking the practice
of the art with scientific theory’], and as someone truly deserving of the
title ‘prince de la science’ [‘prince of science’], implicitly unlike Orfila,
to whom it is attributed sarcastically on numerous occasions by Raspail
(for example, 1847: 5).
We learn from Halmagrand’s subsequent writings that he spends
the rest of his career vainly trying to get into the Hôtel-Dieu as a sur-
geon, thwarted at every turn by mysterious forces, despite the services
to humanity which he continues to document. As late as 1872 he

publishes a pamphlet about his virtuous actions in setting up field
hospitals in Orléans during its bombardment by Prussia, which
contrives to signal yet again (Halmagrand 1872: 10) his Homaisian
‘dévouement lors du choléra’ [‘devotion in the time of cholera’].
Yet despite all the calumnies against him, he becomes a well-respected
citizen, after whom a square is named in Orléans. In his obituary in Le
Progrès médical (Anon. 1892: 38), he is described as ‘un des doyens du
monde médical’ [‘one of the doyens of the medical world’], ‘un con-
seiller municipal d’Orléans, où il a apporté de sérieuses améliorations au
point de vue de l’hygiène et de la salubrité’ [‘a municipal councillor in
Orléans, where he brought some serious improvements from the point
of view of hygiene and salubrity’]. Similar esteem accrued at national
level for that other victim of la police médicale, Raspail, a republican
hero after whom a Parisian boulevard is named. In their surmounting
of disciplinary persecution as public-spirited solid citizens, they are akin
to Homais, who, despite ‘des dénonciations ténébreuses’ [‘shadowy
denunciations’], and an ongoing paranoia that the authorities are out
to get him, triumphs in his numerous struggles and obtains the croix
d’honneur (OC I: 692; Flaubert 2004: 311).
Anti-regulatory rhetoric and the workings

of disciplinary power
What we have seen in the foregoing exposition of narratives of

professional struggle, persecution, and vindication is that there are
numerous common features in the content, concerns, and rhetoric of the
énoncés [‘utterances’] of a range of health professionals and amateur heal-
ers in nineteenth-century France – including fictional ones – operating
under a prevailing culture of regulation and anonymous denunciation
functioning as a condition of possibility for those énoncés, and ulti-
mately, in the case of the fictional ones, for the literary énoncés within
which they are framed. The chief fictional representative of the health
professions discussed here, despite his egregiously overbearing personal-
ity, is, in terms of his professional rhetoric, far from unique, and far from
being uniquely literary. Homais is an archetype, but not merely, as ‘objet
de satire sociale’ [‘object of social satire’] in Crouzet’s terms (1989: 980) of
the pompous bourgeois. Rather, he is the archetype of the health profes-
sional expanding the remit of his disciplinary practice, and at the same
time subject to disciplinary power. Homais, as we saw in the previous
chapter, asserts on the one hand the expansionist contemporary rhetoric
of pharmacy within the context of the institutional reorganisation of
the health professions. Such reorganisation, however, involves struggle

and containment as necessary counterparts to disciplinary expansion,
and what we see in Homais is a health professional who is both subject
of, and subject to, the operations of disciplinary power, his expansionist
urges and rhetoric tempered by the regulatory threat. Proud of his profes-
sion’s involvement in médecine légale, he nevertheless fears the attentions
of its counterpart, police médicale.
Within this arena of disciplinary struggle, expansion, and containment,
professionals similar to Homais – paranoid, prolific, self-publishing,
self-promoting, verbose, repetitive, subject to the anonymously foisted
attentions of feared regulatory power – demonstrably exist in reality
as well as in fiction, and articulate strikingly similar concerns in their
writings. The numerous struggles in which these figures can be con-
textualised – and on which they are mostly on the same side – include
those of contagionism versus miasmatism, extreme codification versus
light-touch regulation, Orléanisme versus republicanism or liberalism,
official police médicale versus tolerance of alternative therapies and asso-
ciated business arrangements.13 And despite their incessant complaints
of persecution and lack of recognition, none of them fares too badly in
the long run. It is tempting to view their struggles, and their civic as
well as professional trajectories, in the light of Foucault’s observation
(1997: 26; 2003c: 29) that:
Le pouvoir fonctionne. Le pouvoir s’exerce en réseau et, sur ce réseau,

non seulement les individus circulent, mais ils sont toujours en
position de subir et aussi d’exercer ce pouvoir. Ils ne sont jamais la
cible inerte ou consentante du pouvoir, ils en sont toujours les relais.
Autrement dit, le pouvoir transite par les individus, il ne s’applique
pas à eux.
[Power functions. Power is exercised through networks, and

individuals do not simply circulate in those networks; they are in
a position both to submit to and to exercise this power. They are
never the inert or consenting targets of power; they are always its
relays. In other words, power passes through individuals. It is not
applied to them.]
Rather as Homais – as prolific correspondent, as regurgitator of cliché,

as promoter of his profession’s concerns – is a medium of discourse, he
can be read in this light as a transit point for the operations of discipli-
nary power. Sujet and assujetti, he is simultaneously discipliner (of his
children, of Justin, of the Aveugle, of Hippolyte, of Charles, of Emma …)
and disciplined (by Canivet, by Larivière, by the procureur du roi, by

his shadowy denouncer(s) …). Archetypal rather than unique, Homais
produces discourse echoing that of Parisian and provincial doctors and
pharmacists (Halmagrand, Cadet, Orfila, Raspail, and others, notably
Guillaume Dubuc, discussed in the previous chapter). These irrepressibly
prolific professionals generate the surfeit of information with which
the Flaubertian project is critically preoccupied – a surfeit produced,
however, not just by the logorrhoeic tendencies of individuals. Madame
Bovary, in some sense a salute to their discursive indefatigability, situates
it within the operations of disciplinary power and struggle producing
it, to which power struggles concerning sovereignty are secondary.
Homais, supposedly a progressive free-thinker, is able cynically (OC I:
691; Flaubert 2004: 309) to ‘inclin[er] vers le Pouvoir’ [‘make overtures
to Power’], and engage in platitudes about ‘notre bon roi’ [‘our good
king’], safe in the knowledge – confirmed by his success – that dis-
ciplinary power trumps capitalised sovereign Power. Madame Bovary,
then, as a document of the July Monarchy, can be seen, ultimately, as
engaging in subtle articulation of the functioning, through discourse,
of disciplinary as against sovereign power under that regime, in terms
both of disciplinary overreach and of the lengths to which profes-
sional bodies will go, through regulation, to protect their disciplinary
integrity. Pharmacy, through its claim to scientific status, intrudes
into numerous fields, allowing Homais to expand his remit, just as
Halmagrand’s authorship of a work on Egyptian monuments is justified
on the grounds that ‘la médecine touche à toutes les branches élevées
de l’esprit humain’ (Halmagrand 1844: 26) [‘medicine reaches all the
higher branches of the human mind’]. But the novel also hints at the
simultaneous intrusion of médecine légale, intimately linked with both
pharmacy and regulatory police médicale, into various domains; the pro-
vision and analysis of poison are subtly linked to its detection, and to
the constant threat of the detection and exposure of poisoners. Homais
may cite Cadet de Gassicourt in self-promotion as pharmacien-chimiste,
but Orfila, the unspoken detector of poison and poisoners is, if ‘visible
nulle part’ [‘nowhere visible’] within Flaubert’s narrative, contaminat-
ingly ‘présent partout’ [‘everywhere present’] (Flaubert 1980: 204) in the
wider discursive context of disciplinary struggle and regulatory power in
the articulation of which Flaubert’s text participates.
Part II
Flaubert, le corps redressé
3
Diagnosing the Aveugle,
Correcting the Body: Ophthalmia
and Orthopaedics
The Blind Beggar in Madame Bovary is a somewhat overdetermined

figure. There has been much critical discussion of the Aveugle, despite
his superficially minor status as a character, and his restriction to four
short episodes in Part III of Flaubert’s novel. ‘The spectrum of opinions
on the meaning of the blind beggar’s role’, affirms Murray Sachs (1968:
72), ‘has been disconcertingly broad’. Discussion tends to fall – broadly
speaking – into the following categories. First, and mainly, there is
criticism examining the symbolic meaning or role of the Aveugle,
which sees him as foreshadowing death, or representing shocking real-
ity trumping Emma’s romantic delusions, or signifying a blindness
common to all in the society represented by the novel, or paradoxi-
cally embodying some visionary quality, or indeed signifying nothing
outside of Emma’s romantic attributions of meaning to him (Demorest
1931; Thibaudet 1935; Sachs 1968; Wetherill 1970). William Paulson
(1987: 206) sums up the totality of such critical perspectives in saying
that ‘they treat him as a kind of absolute object in the text, symbol or
antisymbol’. A second critical approach is characterised by Paulson’s
which, in his own words (ibid.), attempts – as others have not – ‘to read
Flaubert’s presentation of the beggar as a response to or in the context
of prior discursive and textual treatment of the blind’. A potential prob-
lem here is that this approach relies to an extent on the assumption that
the Aveugle is in fact blind (which, as this chapter and the following
one will illustrate, is, while plausible, far from certain). Third, there is
criticism which sets out to identify the Blind Beggar’s particular ailment,
an emblematic example of which is Mary Donaldson-Evans’s diagnostic
article ‘A Pox on Love’ (1990), which argues that the Aveugle’s skin
condition – declared by Homais the pharmacist to be ‘une affection
scrofuleuse’ (OC I: 675) [‘a scrofulous affection’ (Flaubert 2004: 266)],
95
96 Flaubert, le corps redressé
which his ointment fails to cure – is (Donaldson-Evans 1990: 20–1)

both clinically consistent and culturally associated with venereal dis-
ease, and thus serves (ibid.: 19) as a symbolic embodiment of Emma’s
degradation, as well as a signifier of a generalised cultural anxiety about
sex and its effects. An important point Donaldson-Evans makes is that
no clear diagnosis is provided by the novel.
Indeed, diagnoses in Madame Bovary tend to be a matter of subjective
and questionable opinion on the part of characters. As with criticism of
the Aveugle, there is no clear diagnostic consensus. Emma’s initial ill-
ness, as diagnosed by Charles’s ‘ancien maître’ [‘old teacher’] at the end
of Part I, is reported (OC I: 597; Flaubert 2004: 61) in style indirect libre:
‘C’était une maladie nerveuse’ [‘It was a nervous complaint’]. Likewise,
after the pivotal club foot operation in Part II, after which Emma reverts
to her adulterous ways, Charles really does not know what is wrong
with Emma: ‘Charles s’affaissa dans son fauteuil, bouleversé, cherchant
ce qu’elle pouvait avoir, imaginant une maladie nerveuse’ (OC I: 637)
[‘Charles slumped down in his armchair and wept, trying to think what
could be the matter with her, imagining it must be a nervous complaint’
(Flaubert 2004: 165)]. In Part III, as Emma’s spiral of debt affects her
manner of interaction with others, causing ‘emportements’ [‘tempers’],
Charles ‘expliquait tout par son ancienne maladie nerveuse’ (OC I: 671)
[‘blamed everything on her old nervous complaint’ (Flaubert 2004:
256)]. Any number of conditions can be applied plausibly to any num-
ber of symptoms, incorporated within the aetiological body of overarch-
ing disease entities. Such is the case with the Aveugle, the subject of this
and the following chapter, who is a critical point of access to discussion
of this proliferation, precisely because his symptoms are so enigmati-
cally proliferating, and invite diagnosis from numerous perspectives.
While agreeing with Donaldson-Evans to an extent, in that there is no
single, explicit, verifiable diagnosis of the Aveugle’s condition, and that
Homais’s diagnosis, because of the nature of the pharmacist’s character
and of his prescriptive track record (notably, in recommending the club
foot operation), invites some scepticism, I will argue in this chapter that
the chemist’s diagnosis is in fact, discursively, a plausible one, perfectly
consistent with contemporary medical characterisations of symptoms
such as those presented by the Aveugle, which are indeed those of a par-
ticular variant of scrofula, a variant moreover linked symptomatically to
forms of blindness and therapeutically to the emerging disciplinary field
of orthopaedics. While stopping short of claiming a definitive diagnosis
of the Blind Beggar’s condition, the chapter will consider compelling
correlations between symptoms and contemporary medical discourse.
Diagnosing the Aveugle: Ophthalmia and Orthopaedics 97
It is impossible to know the true nature of the Aveugle’s ailment; and

indeed, it is essential to the novel, aesthetically, that he should remain
enigmatic. Indeed, as we will discover in the next chapter, even an accu-
rate diagnosis would be immaterial in terms of the social consequences
of the Aveugle’s condition, or rather, of his status as marginal monster,
which is in fact more important than his actual condition. It remains,
however, that plausible rather than exact diagnosis is possible. Indeed,
the point is that multiple plausible diagnoses are possible, due to the
proliferating discourses emerging within medicine establishing special-
ised territories. The specific area of medicine in relation to which the
Aveugle will be discussed here – the focus on which is not intended to
invalidate the contextual field that Donaldson-Evans has identified – is
the emerging field of orthopaedics. It is representative of rising disci-
plines in that it covers multiple bases, and interacts with other fields.
What is striking about the main exponent of orthopaedic diagnostics
and therapeutics to be discussed here is firstly that his subdiscipline
extends to other areas, in particular to dermatology, but also that he
is an advocate of medical specialism, a new and controversial notion
which breaks the sum of knowledge down into discrete components.
Just as other diagnoses are not ruled out, nor is the symbolic signifi-
cance of the Aveugle discounted. However, his meaning, both in this
chapter and the next, will be considered specifically in terms of medical
discourses identifiable within the corpus.
Une affection scrofuleuse
The narrative of the first encounter with the Aveugle (OC I: 664;
Flaubert 2004: 236–7) does not specify a condition, but does enumerate
symptoms in exhaustive detail:
Il y avait dans la côte un pauvre diable vagabondant avec son bâton,

tout au milieu des diligences. Un amas de guenilles lui recouvrait
les épaules, et un vieux castor défoncé, s’arrondissant en cuvette,
lui cachait la figure; mais, quand il le retirait, il découvrait, à la
place des paupières, deux orbites béantes tout ensanglantées. La
chair s’effiloquait par lambeaux rouges; et il en coulait des liquides
qui se figeaient en gales vertes jusqu’au nez, dont les narines noires
reniflaient convulsivement. Pour vous parler, il se renversait la
tête avec un rire idiot; – alors ses prunelles bleuâtres, roulant d’un
mouvement continu, allaient se cogner, vers les tempes, sur le bord
de la plaie vive.
[A poor devil of a tramp with a stick wandered about on this hillside,

right in among the vehicles. His clothes were layers of rags and a
battered old beaver-skin hat, turned down all round like a basin, hid
his face; but, when he removed his hat, he revealed, where his eyelids
should have been, two gaping, bloodstained sockets. The flesh was
constantly flaking away in bloody shreds, and from it oozed liquid
that formed into green viridescent scabs right down to his nose,
where his black nostrils kept sniffling convulsively. When he was
about to speak to you, he would fling back his head with an idiotic
laugh – and then his bluish eyeballs, rolling incessantly round in the
sockets, would, near the temples, come right up against the edges of
the open sores.]
Homais – in the second episode involving the Blind Beggar – is the only
character to attempt a diagnosis (OC I: 675; Flaubert 2004: 266): ‘– Voilà,
dit le pharmacien, une affection scrofuleuse!’ [‘“What we have here”,
pronounced the pharmacist, “is a scrofulous affection!”’]
The validity of this diagnosis is seemingly later called into question
by the failure of Homais’s pommade antiphlogistique to cure the supposed
scrofuleux, who ‘narrait aux voyageurs la vaine tentative du pharmacien’
(OC I: 690) [‘entertained travellers with accounts of the pharmacist’s
futile efforts’ (Flaubert 2004: 306)]. However, the symptoms described
in the first episode involving the Aveugle are in fact strikingly consist-
ent with a subcategory of scrofula known as ‘ophthalmie scrofuleuse’
[‘scrofulous opthalmia’] described in a work entitled Traité théorique
et pratique de la maladie scrofuleuse, first published in 1850, by Dr
Vincent Duval. Of this condition, Duval (1852: 431) observes: ‘Cette
affection est une des manifestations les plus communes de la maladie
scrofuleuse’ [‘This affection is one of the most common manifesta-
tions of the scrofulous illness’]. We will return presently to ‘la maladie
scrofuleuse’ and Duval’s more general understanding of it; suffice it
to say at this stage that like many nineteenth-century disease entities
(such as monomania, hysteria, and so on) it incorporates a number of
‘affections’ that are (1852: 3) ‘très-nombreuses et très-diversifiées’ [‘very
numerous and very diversified’], but is essentially a condition rooted in
the ‘système lymphatique’ [‘lymphatic system’], historically associated
with ‘les engorgements des ganglions lymphatiques, principalement de
ceux du cou’ [‘engorgements of the lymphatic ganglia, mainly those
of the neck’], and is more properly (1852: 4) a ‘subinflammation’, an
‘irritation congestive, sécrétoire, excrétoire, indurante, ramollissante et
suppurante’ [a ‘congestive, secretory, excretory, itch-inducing, softening

and suppurating irritation’]; its ‘véritable nature’ (1852: 5) is ‘une
accumulation de liquides blancs dans les parties qui en sont le siège’
[‘an accumulation of white liquids in the parts which are its seat’]. It
is evident already that Duval’s dermatological concerns go far beyond
the surface of the body: scrofula is a condition which produces medical
knowledge of the networks and substances underpinning it.
The first of the Aveugle’s features to be mentioned in the novel’s
description of him are not in fact the symptoms of his condition, but
external attributes such as his ‘bâton’ [‘stick’], the ‘amas de guenilles’
[‘layers of rags’] covering his shoulders, and the ‘vieux castor défoncé’
[‘battered old beaver-skin hat’] hiding his face. The hat recalls the
‘coiffure d’ordre composite’ [‘head covering of composite order’]
of another – in addition to Hippolyte (OC I: 635; Flaubert 2004:
160) – of the novel’s three ‘pauvre[s] diables’ [‘poor devils’], Charles
Bovary, ‘une de ces pauvres choses [...] dont la laideur muette a des
profondeurs d’expression come le visage d’un imbécile’ (OC I: 575)
[‘one of those pathetic objects […] whose mute ugliness reveals great
depths, like the face of an imbecile’ (Flaubert 2004: 5–6)]. What is
important here, however, is the hat’s function: it is plausibly, just as
much a means of sparing the public the sight of the beggar’s hideous
features, as a protection against light. One of the key symptoms of
‘l’ophthalmie scrofuleuse’ for Duval (1852: 432) is ‘une photophobie
opiniâtre’ [‘stubborn photophobia’], with the result that ‘les mal-
ades, dans leur horreur de la lumière, tiennent la tête inclinée sur
la poitrine, les mains portées au devant de leurs yeux comme une
visière’ [‘the sufferers, in their horror of light, hold their heads bent
on their chests, their hands held in front of their eyes like visors’];
from photophobia and excess tear production also result ‘des coryzas
fort tenaces’ [‘stubborn cases of rhinitis’]. Duval recommends protec-
tion from light by means of ‘un morceau de taffetas vert ou noir, fixé
sur le front au moyen du serre-tête ou du bonnet’ [‘a piece of green
or black taffeta, fixed onto the forehead by means of a headband
or bonnet’]. If the Blind Beggar has turned down his hat to create a
‘visière’ [‘visor’] to protect him from the light, yet another potential
symbolic signification is resistance to Enlightenment, in which sense
the ‘visière’ [‘peak’] of Charles’s cap (OC I: 575; Flaubert 2004: 6)
might also be understood. Hats, are, of course, a recurrent motif in
Madame Bovary, which, along with resistance to Enlightenment, we
will discuss presently.
Once the Aveugle’s hat is removed, his hideous symptoms are

revealed. They are consistent with those of sufferers from ‘opthalmies
scrofuleuses’, as described by Duval (1852: 432–3):
Leurs yeux deviennent hideux [...], ils ont les bords des paupières
rouges, renversés en dehors, épais, boursouflés et comme charnus,
couverts chaque matin de croûtes qui revêtent des ulcérations sans
cesse renaissantes à force de s’être collés ensemble, les cils finissent
par n’avoir plus de bulbe; ils tombent et parfois d’horribles poils
blancs les remplacent.
[Their eyes become hideous; the edges of their eyelids are red, turned
out, thick, swollen and somewhat fleshy, covered every morning
in incrustations which adorn endlessly recurring ulcerations, on
account of having stuck together; the eyelashes end up losing their
bulbs; they fall out and sometimes horrible white hairs replace them.]
These symptoms – similar to those enumerated in Bouilhet’s letter to

Flaubert of 18 September 1855 (in response to Flaubert’s request for
‘renseignements médicaux’ [‘medical information’] (1980: 593)), which
mentions ‘les yeux sanguinolents’ [‘bleeding eyes’], ‘les paupières
retournées, boursouflées et rouges’ [‘inverted, swollen and red eyelids’]
(ibid.: 971) – are accompanied frequently by ‘épanchements sanguins’
[‘effusions of blood’]; blood vessels become inflamed and develop into
‘faisceaux’ [‘fascicules’], at the extremities of which appear ‘pustules ou
phlyctènes’ [‘pustules or phlyctenules’], ‘d’où sort une sérosité plus ou
moins purulente’ [‘from which emerges a serous fluid, purulent to a
greater or lesser degree’]. Irritation of the ‘sclérotique’ [‘sclera’] and the
‘cornée’ [‘cornea’], as well as ‘opacité’ [‘opacity’] of the latter – all raised
by Homais in his diagnosis, all offered by Bouilhet as terms to be used by
the pharmacist in demonstration of his knowledge (Flaubert 1980: 972),
and all mentioned on the same page of Duval’s treatise (1852: 434) – are
also common.
Duval makes a distinction between acute and chronic ‘ophthalmies
scrofuleuses’. The latter are much more common, because of the nature
of scrofula: ‘L’ophthalmie aiguë est moins fréquente chez les scrofuleux
que l’ophthalmie chronique. Cela tient à la constitution des sujets, qui
imprime […] le cachet de chronicité à toutes leurs affections’ [‘Acute
ophthalmia is less frequent in scrofula patients than chronic ophthalmia.
This is down to the constitution of the sufferers, which imprints the mark
of chronicity on all their affections’]. The chronic variety, rooted, then,
in the entire constitution, also have a number of specific symptoms not
found in their acute counterparts, including spreading beyond the eye

to the eyelids to create ‘foyers purulents et fongosités d’un rouge foncé’
[‘seats of purulence and dark red fungal infections’], that is, ‘éraillement
des paupières’ [‘inversion of the eyelids’], and ‘amaurose’ [‘amaurosis’],
that is, blindness.1 These symptoms require time to develop (‘six mois, un
an ou plus’ [‘six months, a year or more’]). Just after Homais provides his
diagnosis of the Aveugle – who has, in accordance with a pattern of behav-
iour established as habitual [‘comme d’habitude’ (‘as usual’)], removed
his hat – we learn that ‘bien qu’il connût ce pauvre diable, il feignit de le
voir pour la première fois’ (OC I: 675) [‘although he knew the poor devil,
he pretended to be seeing him for the first time’ (Flaubert 2004: 266)].
After muttering his way through the litany of symptoms of ‘une
affection scrofuleuse’ [‘a scrofulous affection’], seemingly not for the first
time either, the pharmacist asks: ‘Y a-t-il longtemps, mon ami, que tu as
cette épouvantable infirmité?’ (OC I: 675) [‘How long, my good man, have
you been suffering from this appalling affliction?’ (Flaubert 2004: 266)].
This sequence, emphasising Homais’s disingenuousness, arguably implies
that the Aveugle’s symptoms have been present for some time: if he
is indeed suffering from an ‘ophthalmie scrofuleuse’, it is a chronic
one. The first of Homais’s ensuing suggestions seems to recognise that
the Aveugle’s condition is one rooted in his constitution, and thus one
requiring general treatment not focused specifically on the outward
skin condition: ‘Il l’engageait à prendre de bon vin, de bonne bière, de
bons rôtis’ (OC I: 675) [‘He advised him to drink good wine and good
beer, and eat good roast meat’ (Flaubert 2004: 267)]. Indeed, it is on this
plausible if implicitly clichéd holistic basis – as well as for its irony value
in being the advice of a prosperous and well-fed man to a destitute and
malnourished one – that Bouilhet, in his letter of 18 September 1855
(Flaubert 1980: 971), advises Flaubert of such a prescription: ‘comme
toutes ces affections partent d’un vice scrofuleux, il lui conseillera, avec
bonté, le bon regime, le bon vin, la bonne bière’ [‘as all these ailments
derive from a scrofulous defect, he will advise him, in a kindly manner,
to adopt a good diet, good wine, good beer’]. Despite its plausibility,
precisely on account of which Bouilhet proposes it, however, this kind
of treatment is unlikely to work for ‘ophthalmie scrofuleuse’. Indeed,
it is one that is explicitly warned against by an unnamed doctor –
possibly his younger self – cited approvingly at length by Duval.2
‘D’après les idées reçues’ [‘according to received ideas’], says this ‘jeune
médecin qui suivait alors le cours d’ophthalmologie du savant docteur
Rognetta’ [‘young doctor then following the learned Dr Rognetta’s
ophthalmology course’], ‘il suffit que l’opthalmie puisse être enrôlée
parmi les affections scrofuleuses pour réclamer les remèdes dits toniques
ou excitants’ [‘it is sufficient for ophthalmia to be listed among scrofulous

affections for remedies designated tonic or stimulant to be insisted on’].
The terms ‘tonique’ and ‘excitant’ are widely and erroneously held to
be synonymous. Wine, for example, an ‘excitant’, is not necessarily
‘tonique’. In ‘les ouvrages classiques’ [‘the classic texts’], it is maintained
that ‘l’ophthalmie scrofuleuse réclame un traitement général tonique
et une médication locale spécifique’ [‘scrofulous ophthalmia requires
general tonic treatment and specific local medication’]. Because of this, it
is wrongly assumed that wine, because not focused on specific symptoms,
but of use in some holistic treatments, is an appropriate tonic in all cases.
However, the scrofulous condition ‘n’est au fond qu’une subphlogose
chronique du système lymphatique’ [‘is really only a chronic subphlogo-
sis of the lymphatic system’], that is, a kind of inflammation which an
‘excitant’ might inflame further. ‘Les auteurs, par conséquent, qui con-
seillent l’usage du vin, d’une nourriture substantielle et excitante pour
combattre l’état scrofuleux général, ne formulent-ils pas une ordonnance
contraire aux véritables indications curatives?’ [‘Are not those authors,
therefore, who counsel the use of wine, and substantial and stimulat-
ing food in order to combat a general scrofulous state, formulating a
prescription contrary to actual curative indications?’] (Duval 1852: 445).
If Homais’s ‘traitement général tonique’ is, then, wrong-headed, vain,
unlikely to be put into practice by a destitute patient, and based upon
received wisdom, what of his ‘médication locale spécifique’, the famous
‘pommade antiphlogistique de sa composition’ (OC I: 675) [‘antiphlo-
gistic salve of his own making’ (Flaubert 2004: 267)] proposed after the
coach-driver Hivert openly calls into question the efficacy of the pharma-
cist’s recommendations? Duval does indeed recommend (1852: 438–40)
a comprehensive ‘déploiement antiphlogistique’ [‘antiphlogistical
deployment’], consisting of ‘saignées’ [‘bleedings’], the application of
‘sangsues’ [‘leeches’] to the eyelids, ‘réfrigérants’ [‘coolants’], ‘purgatifs
salins’ [‘saline purgatives’], ‘limonade au citrate de magnésie’ [‘magnesia
citrate lemonade’], ‘crème de tartre soluble’ [‘soluble cream of tartar’],
along with various floral and herbal ‘décoctions’, ‘lotions’, and
‘vésicatoires’ to be applied to the eyes, neck, and face. However,
these are for the treatment of acute scrofulous ophthalmia, whereas
(1852: 440) ‘le traitement de l’ophthalmie scrofuleuse chronique’
[‘the treatment of chronic scrofulous ophthalmia’] is one ‘dont les
antiphlogistiques directs, saignées, émollients, doivent être bannis’ [‘from
which direct antiphlogistics, bleedings, emollients, must be banished’].
This clearly rules out the use of any ‘pommade antiphlogistique’, by
definition directly applied.
The Blind Beggar’s symptoms arguably indicate that his condition is a

chronic one. Homais, in proposing a general tonic treatment, albeit an
unsuitable one, seems to recognise to some extent that the condition
is chronic, or at least enduring, as his need to feign lack of any prior
knowledge of the patient further suggests. However, he then proposes a
direct localised treatment which can only provide relief to acute cases,
and which is inappropriate in chronic ones, much less susceptible if
not indeed immune to effective treatment. As Bouilhet points out to
Flaubert (Flaubert 1980: 971, emphasis Bouilhet’s), ‘l’affection de ton
mendiant étant à coup sûr chronique, il est absurde tout d’abord d’avoir
l’idée de l’en débarrasser’ [‘your beggar’s complaint being surely chronic,
it is absurd to begin with to imagine unburdening him of it’].
Homais’s therapeutic counsel, then, although elements of it are
individually consistent with treatments for certain types of scrofula,
is clearly inconsistent and self-contradictory, and unlikely to cure
the Aveugle of what appears to be a case of ‘ophthalmie scrofuleuse
chronique’. However, his diagnosis of ‘une affection scrofuleuse’ – tacitly
assumed, moreover, by Bouilhet in his correspondence with Flaubert on
the matter – is perfectly plausible, and his specific technical vocabulary,
along with the treatments he offers, although they are the wrong ones in
this instance, clearly have some clinical basis, and can be seen as being
within the same discursive configuration as contemporary diagnostic
and therapeutic discussion of scrofules and their ophthalmic variants.
Similarly, Homais is aware of contemporary thinking on scrofules from
the point of view of hygiene: in summarising public health issues the new
officier de santé is likely to encounter in Yonville, he cites – using a his-
torical term (Duval 1852: 4) for scrofula – ‘beaucoup d’humeurs froides,
et qui tiennent sans doute aux déplorables conditions hygiéniques de
nos logements de paysan’ (OC I: 601) [‘a considerable number of cases
of scrofula, which doubtless are a consequence of our farm labourers’
deplorably unhygienic living conditions’ (Flaubert 2004: 72)]. This is
entirely consistent with Duval’s concern (1852: 438) about ‘conditions
hygiéniques mauvaises’ [‘poor hygienic conditions’], resulting, for
example, in ‘les ophthalmies scrofuleuses que l’on observe chez les
enfants, dans les taudis des pauvres ouvriers’ [‘the scrofulous ophthal-
mia observed in children in the hovels of poor workers’]. What we have
here, then, is a case of imperfectly absorbed knowledge, separated into
discrete and unconnected components, rather than fully assimilated; if,
as for Duval (1852: 6), ‘le système lymphatique’ [‘the lymphatic system’] –
principal site of scrofula – ‘est regardé à juste titre comme le principal
instrument de l’absorption intersticielle qui effectue la décomposition
des corps’ [‘is rightly seen as the principal instrument of interstitial

absorption effecting the decomposition of bodies’], Homais’s
epistemological lymphatic system, so to speak, is chronically afflicted,
leaving him subject to ‘épistomachies’ (see pp. 55–8 above and pp. 130,
133 below) and incapable of effective intellectual digestion.
Scrofulous and orthopaedic deviations
It is not clear where Homais has acquired his ill-absorbed knowledge on

‘affections scrofuleuses’ and ‘humeurs froides’, but it is clear from a read-
ing of his pronouncements alongside Duval’s work that it is consistent
with at least one representative example of medical discourse on these
matters, in particular on the ophthalmic manifestation of scrofula, as
plausibly presented by the Aveugle. Moving from this genealogical
perspective – which does not presume any direct link between texts –
to a genetic one, we know from Flaubert’s correspondence that the
source of Homais’s therapeutic encouragements was Bouilhet, who sup-
plied information on possible symptoms of ‘les affections scrofuleuses’
as well as on plausible but erroneous treatments. Bouilhet also provided
information for the novel’s other major instance of the poor absorption
and misapplication of therapeutic knowledge, the club-foot operation –
key aspects of which, as we shall see, resonate strongly with several
aspects of the Aveugle’s affliction and responses to it. Indeed, Bouilhet
clearly envisages a link between the two cases, and proposes the follow-
ing treatment for the Aveugle: ‘Ce serait une opération parallèle à celle
du pied bot’ [‘It would be an operation parallel to the club-foot one’].
In the case of the operation that does actually happen, the text of the
novel itself names intradiegetically the documentary source – on which
Bouilhet provided extensive notes – as ‘le volume du docteur Duval’
(OC I: 633) [‘Dr Duval’s treatise’ (Flaubert 2004: 155)] which Charles
Bovary orders from Rouen to read up on the ‘nouvelle méthode pour
la cure des pieds bots’ [‘new method for curing club foot’] of which
Homais has read ‘l’éloge’ (OC I: 633). It is quite clear from the litany
of Greek neologisms quoted from it – ‘stréphocatopodie’, ‘stréphen-
dopodie’, ‘stréphexopodie’ – (OC I: 633) that this is the Traité pratique
du pied-bot, by Vincent Duval (1839: 13–14). Although it is Charles
who incompetently carries out the operation, it is Homais who is the
channel, the (chronically afflicted) discursive interface, for Duval’s
orthopaedic discourse. The text of the novel may appear superficially
to be ridiculing Duval’s inventive verbosity, but as Florence Emptaz
(2001: 225) points out, arguing that Duval himself ‘se moque du jargon
médical’ [‘mocks medical jargon’], it is in fact Homais’s taking Duval’s

ironic prose seriously – indeed, his failure to entertain the notion that
medical writing, as writing, can be ironic, rhetorical, literary, rather than
merely functioning as a repository of facts – that is being lampooned.
Duval jokingly introduces the proliferating Greek terminology precisely
to ridicule those authors for whom simple vernacular terms do not have
enough scientific cachet: ‘ces diverses désignations, déviation du pied
en dedans, en dehors, en dessus, en haut, en bas, parfaitement claires et
positives du reste, sentent un peu la périphrase, et pourraient d’ailleurs,
à certaines personnes, ne point paraître assez savantes’ (1839: 13) [‘these
diverse designations, inward, outward, upward, downward deviation of
the foot, perfectly clear and positive as they are, have something of the
periphrastic about them, and may, moreover, to certain persons, not
seem sufficiently learned’]. He then ironically states that readers can
shorten and simplify awkward formulations for sufferers from these
conditions ‘en disant tout simplement les stréphendopodes, les stréphexo-
podes, les stréphanopodes, les stréphocatopodes’ [‘by saying quite simply –
strephendopodes, strephexopodes, strephanopodes, strephocatopodes’]. As
Emptaz highlights (2001: 225), Flaubert’s text (OC I: 633; Flaubert
2004: 155) picks up on this irony in formulations such as ‘pour parler
mieux’ [‘to put it better’] and ‘autrement dit’ [‘in other words’]. Duval
tellingly proposes the use of ‘les anciennes dénominations’ [‘the old
terms’] alongside his new ones, ‘sans toutefois attacher à ces dernières
une bien grande importance’ [‘without for all that attaching to these
latter ones any very great importance’]. It is clear that they are not really
meant to be taken entirely seriously. A representative contemporary
‘éloge’ [‘eulogy’] of ‘l’ouvrage que vient de publier M. Duval’ [‘the work
just published by Dr Duval’] (Anon. 1839: 306) – of the kind Homais
might have read – remarks (with unwitting foresight) that ‘de toutes les
découvertes de la chirurgie moderne, aucune peut-être n’est appelée à
de plus heureuses destinées que celle dont son livre traite ex professo’ [‘of
all discoveries of modern surgery, perhaps none is called to such glori-
ous destinies as the one which his book treats ex professo’]. Despite such
fulsome praise for a treatment involving (ibid.: 308) a ‘unique incision
par le ténotome’ [‘unique incision with the ténotome’] that in creating
‘un craquement sensible’ [‘an audible snap’] ‘laisse à peine échapper
deux ou trois gouttes de sang’ [‘lets out barely two or three drops of
blood’], this analyse by an anonymous medical reviewer – employing
terms used in the narrator’s and Homais’s accounts (OC I: 634; Flaubert
2004: 157–8) of the club-foot operation – baulks (Anon. 1839: 307) at
Duval’s neologisms, ‘des synonymies plus exactes sans doute, mais qui,
bien que tirées de grec, ne seront peut-être pas adoptées par la généralité
des praticiens’ [‘synonymies that are doubtless more accurate, but
which, although derived from Greek, will perhaps not be adopted by
the generality of practitioners’].
For Duval, then, the preferred nomenclature – ‘pour être bien
intelligible’ [‘so that we may be quite intelligible’] – is ‘DÉVIATION’, of
which all-encompassing term there are merely variants: en dedans [inward],
en dehors [outward], en haut [upward], en bas [downward], and so on.
This is not surprising, as Duval’s professional mission was the correction
of deviations: he was a pre-eminent figure in orthopaedic medicine,
self-styled ‘Directeur des traitements orthopédiques dans les hôpitaux
de Paris’ [‘Director of orthopaedic treatments in the hospitals of Paris’],
founder of an ‘établissement orthopédique’ [‘orthopaedic establishment’],
promoter (‘Inspecteur des bains de Plombières’) of therapeutic bathing
in the Vosges, and author of an Aperçu sur les différentes difformités du
corps announcing (1833: 11) ‘cet art tout nouveau de l’orthopédie’ [‘the
completely new art of orthopaedics’]. Dr Canivet’s scornful remarks –
‘Redresser des pieds bots! est-ce qu’on peut redresser les pieds bots?
C’est comme si l’on voulait, par exemple, rendre droit un bossu!’ (OC I:
636) [‘Straighten a club foot! However can you straighten a club foot! It
would be like trying to straighten a hunchback!’ (Flaubert 2004: 161)] –
while contemptuous of the practices promoted by Duval, in fact share
Duval’s assumption of the connection between different deformities.
Significantly, Duval was a leading promoter of medical specialisation
at a time when this was something new, radical, and indeed
controversial. As medicine progressively adopted scientific methods in
the early nineteenth century, medical knowledge became carved up
institutionally (Weisz 2006: 15) ‘into disciplinary units cultivated and
taught by specialists’. The danger of such continuous subdivision of
medical knowledge, for the critics of specialisation, was that in practice
it led to ‘the arbitrary and harmful separation and isolation of subjects’
(ibid.: 19). Moreover, incomplete, partial knowledge was the chief cause
of competing schools selling equally false theories against one another
(ibid.: 20).
Vincent Duval was at the forefront of this movement towards greater
specialisation and innovation, doubtless responsible for what Canivet –
on the side of ‘guérisseurs’ [‘healers’] rather than ‘savants’ [‘know-
it-alls’] – denounces as ‘des inventions de Paris!’ (OC I: 636) [‘damn-fool
nonsense from Paris!’ (Flaubert 2004: 161)]. Described in the Annales
d’hygiène publique et de médecine légale (Anon. 1840: 234) as ‘Imbu de
cette doctrine que le fractionnement de la science est une condition
indispensable de progrès’ [‘Intoxicated by the doctrine that the splitting

up of science into fragments is an indispensable condition of progress’],
he was the founder of the Revue des spécialités et innovations médicales
et chirurgicales, conceived as ‘une encyclopédie médicale et chirurgi-
cale, collection successive de monographies inédites sur des sujets la
plupart incomplètement traités’ (ibid.: 235) [‘a medical and surgical
encyclopaedia, an ongoing collection of previously unpublished articles
on subjects which for the most part have been treated incompletely’].
Duval’s intellectual mission, complementing his orthopaedic mission
to straighten deviations in the human body, was, then, completion of
an incomplete body of knowledge, seen as an ever-expanding aggregate
of specialised components. This is another context – in addition to the
immediate one of Raspailian amateur healing – in which Bouvard and
Pécuchet’s unsuccessful attempts to cure a bossu (OC II: 223; Flaubert
2005: 61) [‘hunchback’], as part of an intellectual project rather similar
to Duval’s involving the accumulation of disaggregated knowledge, can
be seen. This project, like the cure of the bossu – ‘le bossu ne se redres-
sait pas’ (ibid.) [‘the hunchback could not be straightened up’] – is
ultimately a failure.
It is in the light of Duval’s overarching orthopaedic specialism, and
in particular of his seemingly paradoxical incorporation of his varied
sub-specialisms (dermatology, ophthalmology, balneology) into one
body under the orthopaedic umbrella, that his respective works on club
foot and scrofules are best seen. In both cases, he is dealing with what he
regards as ‘déviations’ and ‘difformités’, terms which recur frequently
(eight and ten times respectively) throughout his Traité pratique de la
maladie scrofuleuse. In his introduction to this Traité, he stresses (1852: 1)
that it is in his twenty years of orthopaedic practice that he has built
up his great experience of scrofulous cases. Moreover (Duval 1852: vi):
On ne sait pas assez combien en pathologie bossus et scrofuleux se

touchent, ni ce qu’il y a d’étroits rapports entre l’état rachitique, les
déviations de toute sorte, et cette constitution désastreuse.
[It is not sufficiently appreciated how closely in pathological terms

hunchbacks and scrofulous individuals are related, nor how close are
the relations between the rachitic state, deviations of every kind, and
this disastrous constitution.]
Duval’s work affirms scrofula and its treatment as falling within the
purview of orthopaedics, if it does not indeed appear to present other
conditions as being somehow rooted constitutionally in scrofula.

Specifically among the poor (1833: 6), ‘déviations de la colonne verté-
brale’ [‘deviations of the vertebral column’] develop ‘sous l’influence
du rachitis et des scrophules’ [‘under the influence of ricketts and
scrofula’]; scrofula becomes the basis of deformities to be corrected, and,
in addition, scrofulitic conditions are themselves deformities.3 A scrofu-
lous ophthalmic lesion, such as the ‘éraillement des paupières’ [‘rolling
back of the eyelids’], can be referred to, for example (1852: 436–7), as
‘cette difformité’ [‘this deformity’]. Skin lesions that are not themselves
deformities are linked with other deformities:
Très-souvent la difformité pour laquelle on me consultait ne

constituait […] qu’un accessoire dans la condition générale du sujet,
affecté en outre de lésions locales antérieures.
[Very often the deformity on which I was being consulted was only an
accessory to the general condition of the subject, affected moreover
by existing local lesions.]
Scrofula may superficially present itself as a skin condition, manifesting

symptoms on the surface of the body, but it is the lymphatic network
underpinning the skin, and indeed underpinning the functioning of
the whole pathologised body, which is its site, and implicitly also the
site of other deformities thereby linked to ‘une constitution scrofuleuse’
[‘a scrofulous constitution’], including club foot.
Club foot is the subject of a chapter of the Traité pratique de la mala-
die scrofuleuse on ‘Arthrite chronique du pied’ [‘chronic arthritis of the
foot’] containing three detailed case studies. Each of the three club-foot
patients has a ‘pied équin’ [‘equine foot’]; two of these ‘pieds-bots’ are
associated with ‘une constitution scrofuleuse’ [‘a scrofulous constitu-
tion’], the other with ‘une constitution lymphatico-sanguine’ [‘a lym-
phatico-sanguine constitution’]. In this latter case Jules C … of Rouen
has a ‘pied équin consécutif’ (Duval 1852: 344) – that is, one not present
from birth – which, on pleading by the patient for fear of ‘l’amputation
qu’un chirurgien célèbre lui avait fait entrevoir’ [‘the amputation which
a celebrated surgeon had told him to expect’], is successfully cured by
the ‘section du tendon d’Achille’ [‘section of the Achilles tendon’],
leaving ‘notre malade’ [‘our patient’] able to walk about again within
weeks. In the work specifically on club foot, Duval’s case histories also
promote the notion of deformities being related to a whole range of
symptoms. The case of Céline Martin of Caudebec, for instance (Duval
1839: 296), exemplifies (as if, moreover, to anticipate the Dictionnaire
des idées reçues in its assertion (OC II: 308) that ‘toutes les maladies
viennent de l’estomac’) ‘les rapports les plus évidens entre les affections
gastro-intestinales, les inflammations de l’appareil cérébro-spinal et
les difformités des membres’ [‘the most evident relationships between
gastro-intestinal complaints, inflammations of the cerebro-spinal
apparatus and limb deformities’]. Starting at a very young age, the
unfortunate Mlle Martin suffered successively (1839: 296–7) from ‘vers
dans le tube intestinal’ [‘worms in the intestinal tube’], ‘fréquentes
convulsions’, measles, ‘une inflammation purulente des conjunctives’,
‘passée à l’état chronique’ [‘a purulent conjunctival inflammation which
had reached the chronic state’], and the resulting loss of an eye, all of
which were related to ‘la difformité de son pied’ [‘the deformity of her
foot’], which the attentions of Dr Flaubert of Rouen failed to cure using
‘des attelles de fer’ [‘iron splints’].4 In her adolescence (Duval 1839:
298), Mlle Martin was lucky to retain her other eye, which was treated
by an ointment prescribed by an ‘oculiste’, but continued to suffer,
from a ‘maladie de poitrine’ [‘chest complaint’], continued convulsions,
irregular menstruation, and ‘accidens nerveux’ [‘nervous accidents’]
combated by ‘bains de siège’ [‘bathing of the nether regions’].5 Finally,
Duval (1839: 301) was able to redress her ‘stréphendopodie (varus)’ after
a ‘cure’ that was ‘une des plus difficiles’ [‘one of the most difficult’]. The
chief significance of the Martin case history, though it is doubtless of
interest to psychobiographical criticism, is in its proliferation of symp-
toms related to an orthopaedically treatable ‘difformité’ seen as an indi-
cator of a complex pathological constitutional state, all aspects of which
fall within the remit of the rising subdiscipline of orthopaedic medicine.
By contrast, what is significant about the representation of the club
foot in Madame Bovary is that there are no other symptoms, least of all a
chronic scrofulous condition. Hippolyte – who presumably has his équin
from birth, or at least for a considerable time, since ‘à force d’avoir servi,
elle avait contracté comme des qualités morales de patience et d’énergie’
[‘long years of service had, as it were, endowed it with moral attributes –
qualities of patience and energy’ (Flaubert 2004: 156)] – leads a perfectly
untroubled existence to which his positively presented pied-bot – a non-
essential and non-debilitating attribute – is at least incidental if not indeed
beneficial.6 His disability, if indeed it is one, does not affect his ability to
do his job. He does not need to be ‘cured’, because there is nothing really
wrong with him. Tellingly, he does not have any kind of associated skin
condition. However, the episode of the club-foot operation, significantly,
contains numerous references to skin, and Hippolyte does indeed develop
skin lesions, after and as a result of the operation. If Emma’s nervous trou-
bles, unlike la Guérine’s (OC I: 611; Flaubert 2004: 98), come ‘après le
mariage’ [‘after marriage’] rather than before, Hippolyte’s truly hideous

afflictions come after, rather than before, an episode which, for Florence
Emptaz (2001: 63) ‘dénonce une orthopédie inefficace et dangereuse, et,
par là même, met en cause le fantasme orthomorphique qui, depuis le
début du siècle, anime le monde médical’ [‘denounces an ineffective and
dangerous orthopaedic therapy, and, precisely thereby, calls into question
the orthomorphic fantasy which, since the beginning of the century, had
been animating the medical world’].7
According to Emptaz (2001: 59), ‘L’orthopédie […] subit dans l’œuvre
de Flaubert un traitement particulier’ [‘Orthopaedics is subject, in
Flaubert’s work, to a particular form of treatment’]. A key feature of
the particularity of this specialism’s treatment in Madame Bovary is that
rather than merely being a branch of medicine ridiculed in one episode
for its attempts to ‘embellir la race humaine’ [‘beautify the human
race’], as Bouilhet (Flaubert 1980: 971) puts it (in reference to respective
attempts to treat both Hippolyte and the Aveugle), to achieve the ‘embel-
lissement du malade’ (OC I: 633) [‘improvement in appearance for the
patient’ (Flaubert 2004: 154)] (as Homais puts it), it is also an archetype
of a specialist discipline expanding its remit, as exemplified by Duval’s
claims in his book on scrofula, which recuperate varied outward – and
mainly dermatological – symptoms as correlates of constitutionally
rooted ‘difformités’ [‘deformities’] which can be cured orthopaedically.
The club-foot episode – based on incompetent application of orthopae-
dic treatment – is linked symbolically, through that treatment’s hideous
results rather than the condition to which it is applied, to the scrofulous
condition of the Aveugle, which recalls not Hippolyte’s initial condition,
but his post-operative state. And it is through the membranous motif of
skin that the travesty of the linkage between orthopaedics and scrofula –
specifically, ophthalmic scrofula – is effected.
Skin, eyes, réseaux
The ordeal begins when ‘Charles piqua la peau’ [‘Charles pierced the
skin’ (Flaubert 2004: 157)], so from the outset, it is, so to speak, bound
in skin. Once things go wrong, Homais and Charles are witness (OC I:
635; Flaubert 2004: 159) to ‘un spectacle affreux’ [‘a horrifying sight’],
which consists of lesions to the skin caused by subcutaneous bleeding:
Les formes du pied disparaissaient dans une telle bouffissure, que la

peau tout entière semblait près de se rompre, et elle était couverte
d’ecchymoses […].
[The shape of the foot had completely disappeared beneath a swelling

of such severity that the skin seemed on the point of bursting, and it
was covered with ecchymoses […].]
In an earlier draft (4, fo 71), the scene is described as being not just
frightening but visually repellent – ‘un spectacle hideux’ [‘a hideous
spectacle’] – and with a wider variety of lesions: ‘ecchymose érésypèle
œdème’ [‘ecchymosis erysipelas oedema’].8 After a further three days
of orthopaedic treatment in the ‘fameuse machine’, the symptoms
which the two health professionals witness (OC I: 635; Flaubert
2004: 159), ‘tout en s’étonnant beaucoup’ [‘quite amazed’] , are also
skin-based:
Une tuméfaction livide s’étendait sur la jambe, et avec des phlyctènes

de place en place, par où suintait un liquide noir.
[A livid tumefaction was spreading right up the leg, which was

mottled with phlyctenae from which oozed a black liquid.]
‘Phlyctènes’, according to the Dictionnaire des Sciences médicales

(Devilliers 1820: 480), are raised, bulb-like skin lesions distinguishing
themselves from others by the fact that they contain ‘de la sérosité’, that
is, purulent liquid. In an earlier draft (4, fo 88v) of the post-operative
scene, the ‘liquide noir’ is a ‘cérosité [sic] noirâtre’ [‘blackish serous
fluid’]. ‘Phlyctènes’ are very frequently a symptom of ‘ophthalmies’ –
indeed, the English term ‘phlyctenule’ is an exclusively ophthalmic
term – and are, moreover, a symptom specifically of ‘ophthalmies scrof-
uleuses’, appearing on the cornea and irritating the movement of the
eyelids (Duval 1852: 433, 437).
Emptaz has demonstrated how feet, skin, and dermatological irrita-
tions are closely related in Madame Bovary, a signal example being the
identification of Homais on his first appearance (OC I: 599; Flaubert
2004: 66–7) as ‘[u]n homme en pantoufles de peau verte, quelque peu
marqué de petite vérole’ [‘a man wearing green animal-skin slippers,
his face slightly pock-marked’]. And indeed, this connection is consist-
ent with the link in contemporary medical discourse – as expressed
specifically by Duval – between physical deformities and the compre-
hensive condition of ‘la maladie scrofuleuse’ [‘the scrofulous illness’],
which encompasses numerous ailments rooted in the lymphatic
network that manifest themselves in the skin. But there is arguably
in Madame Bovary a further connection, also present in the medical
literature – as is evident in both of Duval’s major works – linking

deformity and skin with the eyes, and vision, or lack of it, which
further serves to link several episodes and characters in the novel
directly or indirectly to the Aveugle. The club-foot episode, pivotal
to the novel, is also central in this regard. Hippolyte’s dermatological
symptoms may only coincidentally include symptoms similar to those
of scrofulous opthalmia, but, just as the episode resonates throughout
the novel, they are echoed by explicitly ocular symptoms elsewhere.
The leaking ‘liquide noir’ [‘black liquid’] can be seen as foreshadowing
the ‘liquides’ flowing from the ‘lambeaux rouges’ surrounding the
Aveugle’s eyes. Genetically, this liquid, a ‘cérosité noirâtre’ [‘blackish
serous fluid’] in a previous draft, is plausibly linked to the ‘sérosité
blanche’ (6, fo 248ro) emerging from Emma’s eyes in an earlier draft
of her deathbed scene, the final version of which (OC I: 684; Flaubert
2004: 289) retains an ocular emphasis: ‘Ses yeux, en roulant, pâlis-
saient comme deux globes de lampe qui s’éteignent’ [‘Her rolling eyes
dimmed like lamp globes as they fade into darkness’]. This is not the
only instance of rolling eyes in the novel. On his first appearance, the
Aveugle’s ‘prunelles bleuâtres’ [‘bluish eyeballs’] – recalling Justin’s,
disappearing (OC I: 618; Flaubert 2004: 114–15) ‘dans leur sclérotique
pâle, comme des fleurs bleues dans du lait’ [‘into the white sclera of
his eyes like blue flowers into milk’] after an instance of bloodletting –
are (OC I: 664; Flaubert 2004: 236–7) ‘roulant d’un mouvement
continu’ [‘rolling incessantly round’]. On his second appearance,
during his encounter with Homais, he is described (OC I: 675;
Flaubert 2004: 267) as ‘roulant ses yeux verdâtres’ [‘rolling his green-
ish eyes’]. When Homais, already incensed by Justin’s intrusion into
the Capharnaüm, finds that his apprentice has been reading L’Amour
conjugal, he is described (OC I: 659; Flaubert 2004: 221) as ‘roulant
les yeux, suffoqué, tuméfié, apoplectique’ [‘choking, rolling his
eyes, swollen-cheeked, apoplectic’]. Rolling of the eyes is juxtaposed
here with respiratory, dermatological, and nervous conditions, and
indeed the classic symptom of ophthalmie scrofuleuse, ‘éraillement des
paupières’, where the eyelids are rolled back and turned inside out, is
etymologically derived from old French ‘esraailler’, meaning specifi-
cally to roll the eyes.9 ‘Éraillement’, though frequently used in relation
to the eyes, can also be used to describe skin, as in the case (OC I:
625; Flaubert 2004: 134) of Catherine Leroux, the prizewinner at the
Comices agricoles, whose ‘longues mains, à articulations noueuses’
[‘long hands, with gnarled joints’] are ‘encroûtées, éraillées, durcies’
[‘encrusted, abraded, and calloused’].
In an earlier draft of Homais’s tirade against Justin, a further

association – evoking again the various afflictions of the Aveugle, whose
‘face hideuse’ [‘hideous face’] appears to Emma on her deathbed –
is made between rolling eyes, skin lesions, and monstrous hideousness:
Homais (5, fo 99) becomes ‘hideux comme un monstre d’opéra, roulant
les yeux, tuméfié, apoplectique’ [‘hideous like an opera monster,
rolling his eyes, swollen, apoplectic’]. Like Hippolyte’s leg (OC I: 635;
Flaubert 2004: 159) with its ‘tuméfaction livide’ [‘livid tumefaction’],
Homais’s face is ‘tuméfié’ [‘swollen’]. There is a parallel with another
eye-rolling ‘monstre d’opéra’, Lagardy the tenor, who (OC I: 650;
Flaubert 2004: 198) ‘roulait des regards’ [‘cast eye-rolling glances’],
and whose perfect physical appearance is, Donaldson-Evans (1990: 17)
convincingly argues, a contrastive counterpart to the Aveugle’s hide-
ous mien. Like Homais, Emma, and the Aveugle, Hippolyte (OC I:
633; Flaubert 2004: 155), while considering Homais’s exhortation to
undergo surgery, also rolls his eyes: ‘Hippolyte roulait des yeux stupides’
[‘Hippolyte rolled his stupid eyes’]. The novel’s other combination
of eye-rolling and seemingly pathological stupidity is manifested
(OC I: 675; Flaubert 2004: 267) by the Aveugle, ‘qui paraissait,
d’ailleurs, presque idiot’ [‘who seemed, moreover, practically an idiot’].
Hippolyte’s eyes may indeed be stupid because of their intellectually
photophobic failure to see the light; soon after his encounter with
Homais, the stréphopode is denounced (OC I: 633; Flaubert 2004: 155)
for ‘cet aveuglement à se refuser aux bienfaits de la science’ [‘such
blind rejection of the blessings of science’]. Soon after the operation,
his eyes are truly afflicted, as (OC I: 635; Flaubert 2004: 159, 160) he
lies in agony, ‘les yeux caves’, ‘les yeux pleins d’épouvante’ [‘hollow
eyed’, ‘with eyes full of terror’].
Elsewhere, there are numerous instances of what might be read as
ophthalmological symptoms. Emma’s eyes, after she takes arsenic, are
(OC I: 681; Flaubert 2004: 282) ‘agrandis’ [‘dilated’], recalling Charles’s
doting perception of her in the early days of their marriage (OC I: 585;
Flaubert 2004: 31): ‘ses yeux lui paraissaient agrandis, surtout quand elle
ouvrait plusieurs fois de suite ses paupières’ [‘her eyes seemed to him
to have become larger, especially when she blinked her lids repeatedly
on waking’]. This results in the figurative disappearance of another
eye (Charles’s): ‘[s]on œil, à lui, se perdait dans ces profondeurs’ [‘his
own eye would lose itself in these depths’]. Later in her torment (OC I:
683–4; Flaubert 2004: 290), she ‘ouvrait démesurément les paupières’
[‘her eyes were abnormally wide open’], displaying ‘ce geste hideux et
doux des agonisants’ [‘that hideous, feeble gesture of the dying’] and
leaving Charles’s eyes ‘rouges comme des charbons’ [‘red as burning

coals’]. As she dies, she has ‘prunelles fixes et béantes’ [‘her wide-open
eyes staring fixedly’], recalling the ‘orbites béantes’ [‘gaping sockets’]
of the Aveugle, whose ‘face hideuse’ she thinks she sees on entering
her death throes. Earlier (OC I: 675; Flaubert 2004: 265), as she insists
Léon should find money for her, just before her second encounter
with the Aveugle, ‘une hardiesse infernale s’échappait de ses prunelles
enflammées, et les paupières se rapprochaient d’une façon lascive et
encourageante’ [‘a diabolical recklessness emanated from her blazing
eyes, and her eyelids came closer together in a lascivious and inviting
manner’]. The combination of a leakage – albeit of an abstract quality –
from inflamed eyes with eyelids brought close together is suggestively
resonant with ophthalmie scrofuleuse, key symptoms of which (Duval
1852: 431) are the ‘agglutination des paupières entre elles’ [‘sticking
together of the eyelids’], and – consistent with her excessive opening
of her eyelids – the ‘resserrement des paupières’ [‘retraction of the
eyelids’].
While Emma is clearly not clinically suffering from ophthalmie scrof-
uleuse in the way that the Aveugle plausibly is, the novel’s representa-
tion of her eyes arguably alludes repeatedly to the Aveugle’s condition.
Other figurative allusions to his plight include references to what might
be termed non-clinical photophobia. Léon (OC I: 675; Flaubert 2004:
265), wishing to avoid ‘tout éclaircissement’ [‘any kind of clarification’],
makes the physical gesture – ‘se frappa le front’– of raising his hand to
his forehead. Emma is frequently veiled, such as on leaving her last
meeting with Léon (OC I: 675; Flaubert 2004: 265), ‘pleurant sous son
voile’ [‘weeping under her veil’] while recalling her descent (OC I: 657;
Flaubert 2004: 218) from the fiacre after the baisade, ‘le voile baissé’ [‘her
veil lowered’]. For Léon (OC I: 653; Flaubert 2004: 207), ‘un voile pareil
au vôtre’ [‘a veil like yours’] has – so he claims – even come to function
as a metonymy for Emma during his Parisian absence. And after her
death, her hideous ocular symptoms resemble a veil of sorts (OC I: 686;
Flaubert 2004: 293–4):
[U]ne sorte de poussière blanche lui parsemait les cils, et ses yeux
commençaient à disparaître dans une pâleur visqueuse qui ressem-
blait à une toile mince, comme si des araignées avaient filé dessus.
[A kind of white dust powdered her eyelashes, and her eyes seemed
to be disappearing behind a pale, viscous film, a diaphanous veil, as
if spiders had been weaving webs there.]
This ‘toile’, spun as if by a ‘hideuse araignée’ [‘hideous spider’] in an

earlier version (1, fo 196v bis), is at once a membrane and a web, a net-
work akin to one raised by Homais following the club-foot operation, to
which Emma and the Aveugle are all the more thereby strongly linked.10
The pharmacist’s article for the Fanal de Rouen – which explicitly,
and somewhat evangelically, associates the curing of blindness with
orthopaedic treatment (as well as with improved communication) by
announcing that ‘les aveugles verront, les sourds entendront et les
boiteux marcheront’ [‘the blind will see, the deaf will hear, and the lame
will walk’] – opens with the following proclamation (OC I: 634; Flaubert
2004: 157):11
Malgré les préjugés qui recouvrent encore une partie de la face

de l’Europe comme un réseau, la lumière cependant commence à
pénétrer dans nos campagnes.
[In spite of the web of prejudices still veiling part of the face of
Europe, light is, nevertheless, beginning to penetrate into our
countryside.]
What is clear first of all from this statement, because so prevalent

elsewhere, is Homais’s concern with Enlightenment, which has been
resisted by what he has clearly conceived in its resemblance to a ‘réseau’
[a ‘web’ or ‘network’] as a configuration of obscurantist discourse; such
light-resisting obstinacy doubtless accounts for Hippolyte’s ‘aveugle-
ment’ (OC I: 633) [‘blindedness’ (Flaubert 2004: 155)].12 Another strik-
ing detail is the pharmacist’s reference to the ‘face’ of Europe: national
and international territory is conceived of as bodily. This is the case else-
where in the novel, as for example, in Lieuvain’s speech at the Comices
agricoles referring (OC I: 622; Flaubert 2004: 127) to national infrastruc-
ture as ‘des voies nouvelles de communication, comme autant d’artères
nouvelles dans le corps de l’État’ [‘new channels of communication,
like so many new arteries within the body politic’]. But the most sug-
gestive detail here is the word ‘réseau’ [‘web’, ‘network’] itself. Over and
above the concept of discourse as a network, what in fact is the ‘réseau’
to which the prejudices partially covering Europe’s face are collectively
likened? There are two main possible explanatory frameworks here, one
medical, one lay. Both, however, have medical resonances with further
ramifications throughout the novel.
A specifically anatomical definition of ‘réseau’ can be found in the
Dictionnaire des sciences médicales (P. 1820: 538): ‘un entrelacement
de ramuscules artériels, veineux, lymphatiques ou nerveux, qui sont

tellement distribués les uns par rapport aux autres, qu’ils figurent une
espèce de rets ou de filet’ [‘a lacework of arterial, veinous, lymphatic
or nervous ramuscules, which are distributed in such a way in relation
to one another as to represent a kind of snare or net’]. If this were the
meaning of ‘réseau’ in Homais’s article, which is entirely plausible
given his desire to impress his public with his knowledge of medical
terminology, the ‘face’ of Europe, already conceived of in bodily terms,
would be scientifically and intellectually photophobic, so to speak, on
account of a lamentable facial skin condition attributable to an inflamed
and therefore visible network of blood or lymph vessels or nerves, con-
stituted metaphorically by a network of unscientific and superstitious
discourses, implicitly understood metaphorically as bodily, and as
part of a social body conceived as the site of discourse. Part of Europe
(France? the Seine-Inférieure? Yonville? ‘nos campagnes’ [‘our coun-
tryside’]? the unspecified collective site of Mœurs de province?), in this
reading, would be afflicted by a debilitating scrofulous facial condition,
symptomatic of an inability to absorb savoirs through its epistemologi-
cal lymphatic system. If the lymphatic system, for Duval (1852: 9) in the
Traité de la maladie scrofuleuse, consists of ‘des réseaux à mailles toujours
plus larges’, ‘des mailles de grandeurs différentes qui sont […] la trame
du corps humain’ [‘increasingly widely-meshed networks’, ‘meshes of
different width which are the warp and weft of the human body’], the
social body would depend on such a system of absorption of knowledge
consisting of networks of discourse and channels for its dissemination.
Another physiological meaning of ‘réseau’ – and one within the diges-
tive domain – is the stomach chamber of ruminants in which food is
initially digested before being regurgitated for further chewing. This is
clearly not Homais’s intended meaning, but ‘réseau’ is nevertheless a
term which has Bovarian resonances, in this case with the novel’s
bovine motif, as well as with that of discursive regurgitation of what
has already been consumed. In fact, bovine digestion is also linked with
eyelids, at the Comices (OC I: 620; Flaubert 2004: 122): ‘les vaches […],
ruminant lentement, clignaient leurs paupières lourdes’ [‘the cows,
as they chewed their cud slowly, blinked their heavy eyelids’].
A ruminant’s ‘réseau’ is also known as a ‘bonnet’, doubtless on account
of its concave hat-like shape, and possibly also because it is a network,
resembling an item of ‘bonneterie’, that is hosiery or knitwear.
Hats are, as we have seen in passing above, a recurrent motif in
Madame Bovary. Christophe Ippolito, in an extended discussion of hats,
specifically of cotton ‘bonnets’ in Flaubert’s novel, highlights (2001: 141)
the recurrent presence of ‘bonnetiers’. However, Ippolito misreads

‘bonnetier’ as being a ‘maker or merchant of bonnets’, whereas the
term denotes rather a maker or merchant of knitted goods, that is,
of ‘bonneterie’.13 This misunderstanding aside, it is still the case that
‘bonneterie’ is etymologically related to hats through derivation from
‘bonnet’, and indeed, it is precisely the flexibility of meaning involved
in this relationship that makes the novel’s use of the term all the
richer, in its signification of networked connections involving literal
networkers – makers of knitted fabrics for covering, typically, the feet
and legs – and, of course, because of the derivation from ‘bonnet’, hats
and other articles composed of networks of fabric for covering the head
(or, in several cases in Madame Bovary, the face). Mère Rollet’s ‘pension-
naire’ (OC I: 648; Flaubert 2004: 83) is a ‘pauvre marmot chétif, couvert
de scrofules au visage, le fils d’un bonnetier de Rouen, que ses parents,
trop occupés de leur négoce, laissaient à la campagne’ [‘frail little chap
with scrofulous sores all over his face, the son of a Rouen knitted-goods
merchant whose parents, too involved with their business, had left
to board in the country’].14 This child appears to represent a link, via
‘scrofules’ and ‘bonneterie’, between the distinctively behatted pair of
the Aveugle and Charles, another ‘marmot’ placed by his mother – ‘la
fille d’un marchand bonnetier’ [‘a hosier’s daughter’]) – with a wet-
nurse (OC I: 576; Flaubert 2004: 6, 8). The importance of the network
is thus subtly articulated. Networks are linked both to dermatological
conditions rooted in the diaphanous membranes underneath the skin,
and to the devices covering them, and whatever else lies below the sur-
face; through the knitted motif of ‘bonneterie’, they are further linked
to feet and legs.
Returning to Homais’s article in the Fanal, we might observe that
‘bonneterie’, as an industry involving the creation of items from ‘tissu
à mailles’ [literally, ‘meshwork fabric’] is not too far removed from the
contextually most relevant lay definition of ‘réseau’, as according to the
1835 Dictionnaire de l’Académie française:
Il se dit plus ordinairement d’un ouvrage de fil, de soie, de fil d’or ou

d’argent, fait par petites mailles, en forme de rets.
[Most usually said of fabric made from thread, silk, gold or silver
thread, in narrow mesh, in the form of a net.]
In this case, then, the ‘réseau’ – in Homais’s context – is a device for cov-
ering the face, protecting it from light: indeed, a work of ‘bonneterie’,
whether a hat or veil. Such resistance to Enlightenment could be seen

as being akin to the photophobia of the ophthalmically scrofulitic; the
‘réseau’ also parallels Emma’s veil, and – at least in terms of function –
the Aveugle’s ‘castor’ covering his scrofulitic eyes. Another explicit link-
age in the novel of the concept of discourse – specifically, unreliable
if not indeed untruthful discourse – as an organised network with the
motif of the veil can be found following Emma’s first encounter with
the Aveugle, when Charles finds the forged receipt for piano lessons in
the suitably foot-and-skin-related location of ‘ses bottes’ [‘his boots’],
‘entre le cuir et la chaussette’ [‘between the leather and his sock’]
(OC I: 666; Flaubert 2004: 240): ‘A partir de ce moment, son existence
ne fut plus qu’un assemblage de mensonges, où elle enveloppait son
amour comme dans des voiles, pour le cacher’ [‘From that moment
on, her existence was nothing but an assemblage of lies, in which she
enveloped her love as if in layers of veils, in order to hide it’]. Her very
existence is a discursive construct functioning like an interconnected
network of veils – themselves complex networks – to conceal, under its
various layers, a love which deviates from the norm, and which at the
same time needs to be kept from view, like a disfigured face or other
deformity. Moreover, her spinning of this obfuscating web of lies has
a pathological dimension: ‘C’était un besoin, une manie, un plaisir’
[‘it was a necessity, a mania, a pleasure’]. As well as being a compulsive
urge, a ‘manie’, falling within the remit of early nineteenth-century
alienist discourse (Pinel 1800), it is also, in an earlier draft (5, fo 244v),
‘presque une infirmité naturelle’ [‘almost a natural infirmity’]. The tis-
sue, the ‘réseau’ as it were, of lies is an affliction as pathological as what
it conceals is deviant.
Disability, deviation, deformity, discourse
Emma’s pathological urge to conceal the deviant and the hideous is

unsurprising in the context of the society in which she lives, given
its adherence to contemporary discourses of disability and deformity,
founded on notions of deviation from norms, that is, on abnormality,
which is still frequently conceived of in terms of a monstrosity that
it has superseded. This will be the starting point for the next chapter.
A set of conclusions for this one, which are partial, given that the two
chapters are in a sense of a piece, might be expressed as follows.
Diagnoses within Madame Bovary are unreliable not simply because
those who make them invite scepticism, but because symptoms of
any condition are grounded within discourses that are as multiple and
profuse as they are plausible. It is impossible to accept with certainty any

diagnosis of the already symbolically overdetermined Aveugle, because
he has too many symptoms of too many conditions; it is equally futile
to try to ascribe Emma’s unhappiness to a ‘maladie nerveuse’. This
does not mean, however, that diagnoses cannot be plausible, and one
framework – among many – within which it is possible to propose a
diagnosis of the Aveugle is that of the field of orthopaedics, which
enjoys particular significance in relation to Madame Bovary because it is
one which is directly depicted in the form of the club foot operation:
the novel’s treatment (of Homais’s treatment …) of Hippolyte and the
Aveugle can be situated within a wider field of discourses on the correc-
tion of bodily deformities, and on what Bouilhet and Homais refer to as
‘embellissement’ [‘beautification’, ‘embellishment’]. Orthopaedics is in
a sense – as a network of diagnostic and therapeutic discourse – a locus
classicus of discursive proliferation in its appropriation of various condi-
tions, and in its self-application to numerous fields, in particular in its
incorporation of a dermatological disease entity such as scrofula. The
relationship between skin conditions (and specifically their ophthalmic
variants) and orthopaedic ‘deformities’ asserted by Vincent Duval’s
extension of his specialism’s remit into the dermatological realm is
crucial to Madame Bovary as work of mimetic art grounded in the his-
torically contingent ‘real’: if there are symbolic connections between
characters, in particular between the scrofulitic Aveugle and the
deformed and then mutilated Hippolyte, but also between both of these
characters and Charles and Emma, they are paralleled and bolstered by
connections rooted in contemporary medical discourse between condi-
tions the characters are suffering from, either clinically or figuratively.
But as well as offering a critique of orthopaedic discourse on its
own terms as an unnecessary means of ‘embellissement’, the novel
also offers a critique of its branching into other areas, and thereby
also of the ‘specialism’, the ‘découpage’ as it were, implicit within
this paradoxical expansion. This then raises – as well as the contradic-
tion between encroachment on other areas, and the establishment of
discrete sub-fields of knowledge – an epistemological dimension to
the novel’s representation of the rectification of the body: an unnec-
essary and potentially harmful consequence of a self-congratulatory
Enlightenment. It is curious that one of the key advocates of such
rectification – Vincent Duval – is also an advocate of the reconstitution
of the body of knowledge through specialisation and accumulation of
disaggregated savoirs, ridiculed elsewhere, notably in Bouvard et Pécuchet,
by Flaubert. Duval is not mentioned in Madame Bovary other than in
relation to his club-foot specialism, but the way in which information

about this specialism is disseminated is intimately connected to new
means of dissemination of specialised and disaggregated knowledge.
In the case of the club-foot operation, what both Hippolyte’s body and
the body of accumulated knowledge incorporate – through the efforts
of Homais – is a discrete piece of medical specialisation, which remains
unconnected with experience or knowledge of the body as a whole, and
disregards the fact that imperfect bodies can still function effectively.
The network or ‘réseau’ is crucial in this regard. We have seen how
various ‘networks’ function as means of concealment. Such conceal-
ment can be seen as part of a fabric of obfuscating, exclusionary
discourse. What we will see in the next chapter is how exclusionary
discourses of disability, monstrosity, and marginalisation are used to
sow fears, and how these fears are linked to the symbolic role of the
Aveugle. We have already seen how this deviant, hideous monster is
linked with Hippolyte through the grounding of their respective condi-
tions within the corrective discourse of orthopaedics and its offshoots,
and also through the perceived hideousness of their afflictions (in
Hippolyte’s case, his post-operative state). Like Hippolyte, the Aveugle
is someone who needs to be straightened out, or, if failing to return to a
predetermined norm, kept out of sight. Both, we will see, through other
symbolic, psychological connotations, haunt Emma and Homais in
particular, and the social imaginary of the July Monarchy more gener-
ally. Within that regime, there are discursive and legal mechanisms for
dealing with deviation.
4
Correcting the Aveugle:
Monstrosity, Aliénisme, and the
Haunting of the Social Body
In a letter to Louis Bouilhet of 30 May 1855, Flaubert writes (1980:

579): ‘Tu devrais bien me dire quelle espèce de monstre il faut mettre
dans la côte du Bois-Guillaume’ [‘You should really tell me what kind
of monster I should put on the hill at Bois-Guillaume’]. Flaubert’s italics,
suggesting ironically that the notion of monstrosity is a cliché to be
undermined, also hold open the possibility that what he is in fact look-
ing for, rather than an actual monster, is someone considered a monster
by society to haunt the Bois-Guillaume: that is, someone onto whom
social fears can be projected. In the previous chapter we saw how some
of Bouilhet’s markers of monstrosity are put into practice in terms of
physical symptoms. In this chapter we will focus, rather, on the social
perception of deformity, and on the effects on the social imaginary of
Flaubert’s monstre, as well as on the social and individual consequences
of his deviation.
Bodily and statistical deviations
Discourses of monstrosity – of the kind hinted at towards the end of

the last chapter – can be found in two disciplines which become very
influential in the nineteenth century: orthopaedics, as we saw just
above, and statistics. We have seen how key works by a leading ortho-
paedic specialist repeatedly – even when not discussing orthopaedics
per se – use the terms ‘difformité’ and ‘déviation’, which imply a ‘form’
and ‘norm’ from which they deviate. By way of example, one of Duval’s
case histories (1839: 212–13), involving the cure of the pied-bot of a ten-
year-old boy deriving from ‘une gastro-entéro-céphalite’ [‘a case of
gastro-entero-cephalitis’] complicated by ‘convulsions’ brought on
by teething when he was three, concludes with a clear opposition of
121
orthopaedic deformity with normality: twenty-three days after the

section of the Achilles tendon, ‘toute la difformité avait disparu, le pied
était redevenu normal’ [‘the deformity in its entirety had disappeared;
the foot had returned to normal’].1 Another case history (1839: 219–21),
again deriving from ‘une gastro-entéro-céphalite’, involves a young girl
‘atteinte d’une monstrueuse déviation du pied en bas’ [‘afflicted by
a monstrous downward deviation of the foot’]. Indeed, ‘la déviation
paraissait si monstrueuse’ [‘the deviation appeared so monstrous’] that
Duval’s colleagues argue that a failure – no worse than the present state
of affairs – would be worth the risk of ‘un moyen curatif’ [‘curative
means’]. After three weeks ‘le pied avait repris sa condition normale’
[‘the foot had regained its normal condition’]. Normality is thus
repeatedly opposed to a monstrosity frequently presented as deriving
from an infirmity affecting the whole bodily system, implying that the
patient is constitutionally afflicted, defined as essentially, pathologically
abnormal. As in the case of scrofulitic skin lesions, a localised condition
is pathologised as being an indicator of something much more
fundamental.
Monstrosity and hideousness as markers of deviation recur frequently
in Madame Bovary, not least in relation to Hippolyte’s pre- and
post-operative conditions. Prior to the operation, Homais exhorts
Hippolyte (OC I: 633; Flaubert 2004: 155) to allow himself to be rid of
his ‘hideuse claudication’ [‘hideous claudification’]. The final text of the
novel conflates two draft versions of this term: ‘insupportable claudica-
tion’ (4, fo 56) [‘unbearable limp’] and ‘hideuse difformité’ (4, fo 58)
[‘hideous deformity’]. Although ‘difformité’ is lost, the notion that its
consequence, although it is clearly not debilitating or practically ‘insup-
portable’ for Hippolyte, should be an affront to the public is retained.
It is not the shape of Hippolyte’s body per se which is a hideous affront,
but the fact that he noticeably stands out through his limp, which,
rather than an ‘insupportable’ inconvenience – which of course it is
not, unless Homais means that it is ‘insupportable’, unacceptable, to
viewers – is a monstrous mark of difference that must be removed from
the community because of its potential effects on observers. The actual
term ‘monstruosité’ is absent from the final version, but is used at draft
stage to describe the sight of Hippolyte’s leg after the operation as ‘une
monstruosité inconnue à la science, un ensemble indescriptible où les os
les tendons les muscles semblaient confondus’ (4, fo 88v) [‘a monstrosity
unknown to science, an indescribable ensemble where bones, tendons
and muscles seemed blended together’]. Its monstrosity derives from the
fact that the club foot is no longer recognisable, no longer categorisable,
Correcting the Aveugle: Monstrosity, Aliénisme, and the Social Body 123
as either ‘varus’ or ‘équin’. It is now hideously unclassifiable, like Charles

Bovary’s ‘coiffure […] d’ordre composite’ (OC I: 575) [‘head covering of
composite order’ (Flaubert 2004: 5–6)], described at draft stage (1, fo 6)
as ‘une monstruosité en matière de chapellerie’ [‘a monstrosity in the
matter of hatmaking’], again because it does not fit into a recognisable
category. Donaldson-Evans (1990: 20) reads the Aveugle as ‘a medical
composite, a “living” counterpart to […] Charles’s cap’. In this sense
his monstrosity is linked to his composite status, and to the difficulty
of providing an accurate diagnosis on the basis of his varied and
proliferating symptoms.
Another potential allusion to monstrosity during the club-foot
episode is the likening of Charles to Ambroise Paré (OC I: 634; Flaubert
2004: 156) as he begins the operation. Although this can clearly be read
as an ironic juxtaposition of the incompetent officier de santé with the
celebrated surgeon, it is also possibly an allusion to Paré’s famous work
Des Monstres et Prodiges (1573), coming just before Charles makes a
monster (according to the Homaisian worldview) even more monstrous.
Charles and Emma attempt (OC I: 638; Flaubert 2004: 167) to console
Hippolyte by offering him a means – in the form of a luxury prosthetic
leg – of concealing his accentuated monstrosity. He prefers, however,
to leave aesthetic considerations aside and use a wooden leg as it is
more practical. The ‘bâton’ (OC I: 638) [‘wooden leg’ (Flaubert 2004:
168)], moreover, serves within the novel as an audible reminder of the
horrendous episode of which it is the consequence, recalled further by
the ‘bâton’ (OC I: 664, 684) [‘stick’ (Flaubert 2004: 236, 290)] of the
novel’s chief emblem of monstrosity and hideousness, the Aveugle,
which could just as easily be a walking stick for an orthopaedic infirmity
as a means of guiding a partially sighted person. Indeed, a draft (5, fo
225) for his first appearance in the novel contains the following (deleted)
description: ‘scrofuleux, rachitique, presqu’idiot idiot, il marchait avec
un bâton’ [‘scrofulous, rachitic, almost idiotic idiotic, he walked with
the aid of a stick’]. A marginal addition in a subsequent draft (5, fo
227) refers to ‘le corps courbé’ [‘a bent body’]. The Aveugle’s condition,
moreover, is not merely hideous, like Hippolyte’s. In a draft (6, fo 127v),
Homais offers to rid the Blind Beggar of his ‘hideuse infirmité’; in the
final version, this has become an ‘épouvantable infirmité’ (OC I: 675)
[‘dreadful infirmity’ (Flaubert 2004: 267)], that is, one which causes
terror to the observer, rather than one that is simply unsightly.
While monstrosity and hideousness may, in Madame Bovary, be
signifiers of the grotesque, they are clearly, in their mid-nineteenth-
century context, in Homais’s rhetoric as in Duval’s writings on pieds-bots
and scrofules, indicators of deviation from norms. A significant shift in

the status and meaning of monstrosity occurred in the early nineteenth
century, coming hand in hand with a shift in the understanding and
representation of disability. This is intimately connected, according to
Lennard Davis, with the rise of statistics. For Davis (1995: 23), one of
the key critical principles in what has come to be known as ‘disability
studies’ is that ‘to understand the disabled body, one must return to the
concept of the norm, the normal body’. Disability as it was understood
in the nineteenth century and beyond came to be defined by statistics,
so that disability came to be seen as marginality, and deviation from a
statistical as well as bodily norm:
With the concept of the norm comes the concept of deviations or

extremes. When we think of bodies, in a society where the concept
of the norm is operative, then people with disabilities will be
thought of as deviants. This […] is in contrast to societies with the
concept of an ideal, in which all people have a non-ideal status.
(Davis 1995: 29)
Previously, then, monstrosity had been part of a continuum at the other

extreme of which stood an ideal which no one attained; all human
beings were imperfect. But the nineteenth century is witness to a shift
akin to that characterised by Michel Foucault (1999: 102; 2003b: 110)
as ‘le passage du monstre à l’anormal’ [‘the transition from the mon-
ster to the abnormal’] – a significant element in the discussion of early
psychiatry and Zola’s La Bête humaine in Chapter 5 below. Foucault is
referring specifically to the characterisation of the criminally insane,
in a context where the rising psychiatric profession was asserting its
power, and abnormality – in psychiatry as more generally, deviation
from a statistically based norm – was a potentially hidden pathological
quality that only the psychiatric profession, in its own erudite opinion,
was qualified to identify. The concept applies equally well, however,
to discussions of disability and bodily deformity, since normality and
abnormality were such comprehensive and influential notions. The
notion of normality, and by extension of abnormality, only enters
European languages in the 1830s and 1840s. The adjective ‘normal’
in French exists only as a geometric notion (from 1753), then as an
administrative one concerned with the maintenance of equal standards
in public institutions (with the foundation of the Écoles normales in
1793), before becoming a medical one in 1834, defined thus by the Petit
Robert: ‘État normal: état d’un être vivant, d’un organe qui n’est affecté
d’aucune modification pathologique’ [‘Normal state: state of a living

being or organ which is not affected by any pathological modification’].
It is surely not coincidence that this etymological development
occurs at the same time as the emergence of statistics as a major dis-
cipline. Its leading French-speaking figurehead was the Franco-Belgian
mathematician and astronomer Adolphe Quetelet (1796–1874), who in
the 1830s was party to the establishment of some of the major statisti-
cal institutions in Europe, including the Statistical Society of London.
The key theoretical concept promoted by Quetelet in his writings on
statistics, which draw philosophically on Victor Cousin’s notion of the
juste milieu, is that of the homme moyen, the mean or average man, seen
(Quetelet 1835, II: 251) as ‘dans une nation ce que le centre de gravité
est dans un corps’ [‘to a nation, what the centre of gravity is to a body’].2
The ‘homme moyen’ – to which Homais the pharmacist’s name is a pos-
sible allusion – is (Quetelet 1848: 13–14) a historically contingent and
variable notion founded on statistics:
En réunissant les individus d’un même âge et d’un même sexe et

en prenant la moyenne de leurs constantes particulières, on obtient
des constantes que j’attribue à un être fictif que je nomme l’homme
moyen chez ce peuple.
[By bringing together the individuals of same age and sex and taking the
mean of their individual constants, we obtain constants which I attrib-
ute to a fictional being that I name the average man in a given people.]
Quetelet (1835, II: 266–7) promotes the ‘homme moyen’ as an analo-

gous replacement for the notion of an unattainable classical ideal:
Si l’homme moyen était parfaitement déterminé, on pourrait […] le

considérer comme le type du beau; et tout ce qui s’éloignerait le plus
de ressembler à ses proportions ou à sa manière d’être constituerait les
difformités et les maladies; ce qui serait dissemblable, non-seulement
sous le rapport des proportions et de la forme, mais ce qui sortirait
encore des limites observées, serait monstruosité.
[If the average man were perfectly determined, he could be considered

as the type of the beautiful; and everything that most diverged from
resembling his proportions or his manner of being would constitute
deformities and illnesses; what would be unlike him, not only in
terms of proportions and form, but what departed further from the
limits observed, would be monstrosity.]
The ‘homme moyen’, like the ‘type du beau’ [‘type of the beautiful’]
is an ‘être fictif’ [‘fictional being’], but is useful in defining real beings
in terms of their relative deviation from the norm this fictional one
represents.
Although Quetelet is a mathematician and an astronomer rather than
a physician, his statistical writings have a strong focus on the human
body, and on health and illness. This reflects the interests of contempo-
rary statisticians more generally. As Davis (1995: 29) points out, one of
the most curious aspects of the statistical discipline in the nineteenth
century is that its pioneers were eugenicists who believed that the body
could be perfected:
[T]here is a real connection between figuring the statistical measure

of humans and then hoping to improve humans so that devia-
tions from the norm diminish […]. [A] symbiotic relationship exists
between statistical science and eugenic concerns. Both bring into
society the concept of a norm, particularly a normal body, and thus
in effect create the concept of the disabled body.
In the case of Hippolyte, Davis argues (1995: 40), it is a matter of making

him, in accordance with the statistically informed proto-eugenicist
prerogatives of the time, less equine and more human.
The nightmare of equine deformity
Hippolyte’s equine quality – suggested moreover by his name – is in fact

an advantage which enhances rather than impairs his mobility (OC I:
634; Flaubert 2004: 156):
[A]vec cet équin, large en effet comme un pied de cheval, à peau

rugueuse, à tendons secs, à gros orteils, et où les ongles noirs figu-
raient les clous d’un fer, le stréphopode, depuis le matin jusqu’à la
nuit, galopait comme un cerf.
[[W]ith this equinus, which was indeed as big as a horse’s hoof,

and had rough skin, stringy tendons, very large toes and black nails
resembling horseshoe nails, the strephopod bounded about like a
deer from dawn to dusk.]
Moreover, he is implicitly, in Canivet’s terms (OC I: 636; Flaubert

2004: 161), ‘quelqu’un qui se porte à merveille’ [‘someone who’s
perfectly well’] and who therefore does not require treatment. However,
Hippolyte’s club foot is presented to him by Homais as ‘hideuse’,
implicitly unacceptable to the community because of its status as
monstrous deviation from human norms.
Equine attributes are presented as symbols of deviance elsewhere in
the novel and in its genetic corpus, notably in the case of the emblem-
atically deviant Aveugle. From an early draft of his first appearance
(5, fo 225), we learn – immediately before the mention of his
‘scrofuleux, rachitique’ state discussed above – of ‘<ses gros sabots où
deux rondelles métalliques reluisaient comme les fers d’un cheval>’ [‘his big
clogs where two metal buckles gleamed like a horse’s shoes’].3 As well
as the horseshoes echoing Hippolyte’s foot, in terms both of its medical
designation and of the iron-shod hoof it resembles, the Aveugle has
‘hooves’ in the form of ‘sabots’. The ‘plaques en fer’ [‘iron plates’] – as
the ‘rondelles’ are designated in preceding and subsequent brouillons –
might also be read as connoting either corrective orthopaedic devices, or
indeed dermatological lesions, such as the ‘<plaques> grisâtres et velues’
[‘greyish, downy blotches’] referred to in another brouillon (5, fo 226),
or the gangrenous ‘plaques noires’ [‘black blotches’] on Hippolyte’s leg
in drafts (4, fo 73; 4, fo 88v) of the aftermath of the club-foot operation.
The question arises, understandably, of why – other than in terms
of Duval’s nomenclatural likening of deviant human limbs to horses’
legs – equinity should be associated with deviance. One possibility is
that the horse is an easy source of analogies concerning control over
the unruly. Horses require taming, correction, discipline, setting on the
correct path, righting, (re)dressement. This is doubtless why orthopaedic
discourse, such as in the Martin case history cited in the previous
chapter, can use terms such as ‘attelles’ to refer to devices for straight-
ening deviant limbs, implicitly regarded as having strayed from the
straight and narrow, and requiring correction. And horses are viewed
in Madame Bovary as being potentially troublesome. Examples include
the horse that panics on arrival at les Bertaux (OC I: 578; Flaubert
2004: 14) or the horse linked to the Aveugle by Homais in anecdotes
concocted for the Fanal de Rouen: ‘“Hier, dans la côte du Bois-Guillaume,
un cheval ombrageux …” Et suivait le récit d’un accident occasionné
par la présence de l’Aveugle’ (OC I: 690) [‘“Yesterday, on the hill
at Bois-Guillaume, a skittish horse …” And he launched into the
description of an accident caused by the presence of the blind man’
(Flaubert 2004: 306)]. This might plausibly be, or at the very least
represent an allusion to, Bovary’s horse abandoned by Justin in the
Aveugle’s haunt, ‘dans la côte du bois Guillaume, fourbu et aux trois
quarts crevé’ [‘on the hill at Bois-Guillaume, foundered and almost

dead’ (Flaubert 2004: 282)]. It is worth noting that the horse is not
merely exhausted, but that it is suffering from a ‘fourbure’, an inflam-
mation of the feet resulting in limping.4
It is possible also that the equine motif, linking numerous characters
in Madame Bovary, in particular the Aveugle and Hippolyte, and
further linked with orthopaedic deformity, monstrosity, deviance, and
unruliness (one of Emma’s key characteristics), also, precisely because
of these connotations, symbolises fears of otherness and marginality.
It does so moreover through its strong cultural association with the
nightmare. According to Dubosquet (1815: 5), for whom the nightmare
can sometimes be classed among ‘les maladies nerveuses’:
Le caractère principal de cette affection consiste dans le sentiment

d’une forte pression, que le malade attribue à un poids quelconque,
et le plus souvent à un être vivant, placé sur la poitrine. Les formes les
plus communes sous lesquelles ce poids se présente à l’imagination
sont celles d’un cheval monstrueux, d’un homme difforme, d’une
vieille femme, qui sauteraient sur la poitrine du malade.
[The principal character of this condition consists of the sensation

of a strong exertion of pressure, which the sufferer attributes to a
weight of some sort, and most often to a living creature, placed on
the chest. The most common forms in which this weight presents
itself to the imagination of the sufferer are those of a monstrous
horse, a deformed man, an old woman, who appear to jump upon
the chest of the sufferer.]
The Aveugle is that nightmare, that deformed man with equine

associations (linking him to Hippolyte), and he is in particular Emma’s
and Homais’s nightmare. The word ‘cauchemar’ appears at draft stage
in the case of both Emma and Homais to characterise their fear of his
appearance outside the Hirondelle; the final version of the novel con-
notes this through the nightmare’s cultural and symbolic associations.5
Both characters’ experiences, and (at draft stage) remarkably similar reac-
tions to him, hold the key to the social fear that the Aveugle conjures, his
hantise of the social imaginary. We will consider Emma’s and Homais’s
nightmares – each incontrovertibly linked to the Aveugle – in turn.
In an early brouillon (5, fo 226v) of the Aveugle’s first appearance in
the novel, in which he is merely referred to as ‘(le pauvre) <rachitique,
bossu, les yeux rouges. air idiot>’ [‘(the beggar) with rickets, hunchbacked,
with red eyes. halfwitted appearance’], the effect on Emma of his

presence is described thus:
un cauchemar – une peur d’enfant. quand elle entendait sa voix,

angoisse – se cachait les yeux dans son châle pr ne pas le voir
[a nightmare – a child’s fear. when she heard his voice, anxiety –

would hide her eyes in her shawl so as not to see him]
In the Hirondelle, her hiding of her eyes mirrors the beggar’s habitual
concealment of his face. But there are also further echoes in her eyes
of his. In another draft (5, fo 224), with an implied association between
the nightmare and Emma’s ‘maladie nerveuse’, this ‘cauchemar’ [‘night-
mare’] ‘lui arrivait au moment où elle avait les nerfs excités. lui faisait
l’effet comme si on lui eût brûlé les yeux – elle avait fini par le prendre en
haine l’exécrait’ [‘came to her at the moment when her nerves were
excited. had the effect on her as if her eyes had been burned’ – she had
ended up developing a hatred for him loathed him’]. Yet another ver-
sion (ibid.) has a somewhat different emphasis on the significant ocular
aspect: ‘il lui semblait, à voir ce misérable, qu’on lui brûlait <arrachait> à
elle-même les paupières’ [‘it seemed to her, on seeing this wretch, that it
was her own eyelids that were being burned ripped away’]. It is as if the
Aveugle’s hideous scrofulous symptoms, firmly located in the eyelids, are
being imposed on her by the very sight of him. The Aveugle is her worst
fear partly because of the resemblance between them, and because of the
possibility that she might be reminded of this resemblance. But Emma’s
is also plausibly a social fear. Early in the novel she imagines the high
society of Paris, its ‘vie nombreuse […] classée en tableaux distincts’ (OC I:
594) [‘its teeming life classified into separate tableaux’ (Flaubert 2004: 52)].
Suppressed from the final version is her vision (1, fo 270v) of all the layers
of Parisian society, including ‘tout en bas, dans l’ombre’, that inspiring
the greatest fear: ‘déguenillé, les yeux rouges & plus muet que les bêtes
le peuple hideux’ [‘ragged, red-eyed and quieter than beasts the hideous
common people’]. Red-eyed hideousness clearly bears class connotations.
Emma only awakens from her habitual nightmare in the Hirondelle
when Hivert, sensing a ‘contrepoids’ (OC I: 665) [‘counterweight’],
lashes out at the hideous creature – a deformed man with equine
features – straddling the vehicle.6 But it is on the occasion of another
awakening, or rather, of two awakenings in succession, that his night-
marish qualities, and their effects, are made most manifest.7 Emma,
around the time of her death, indeed, both before and after it, can
be seen as displaying symptoms identified by Dubosquet as those of

the nightmare. On her death-bed, Emma looks about her, ‘comme
quelqu’un qui se réveille d’un songe’ [‘like someone waking from a
dream’], then looks in her mirror and ‘retomba sur l’oreiller’ [‘fell
back down onto the pillow’], whereupon her ‘poitrine aussitôt se mit
à haleter rapidement’ (OC I: 684) [‘breast began rising and falling in
rapid gasps’ (Flaubert 2004: 289)]. For Dubosquet, one set of nightmare
symptoms is respiratory: the ‘malade’ presents ‘une respiration bruy-
ante’ (1815: 10) [‘loud breathing’] and is typically ‘suffoqué par l’objet
qu’il croit être placé sur sa poitrine’ (1815: 9) [‘suffocated by the object
he believes placed on his chest’]. In Emma’s case, the heavy breathing
occurs prior to death; however, it is after her death that the weight
bearing down on her manifests itself, to Charles, who – not for the first
time (see p. 57 in Chapter 1 above) – experiences the nightmare vicari-
ously: ‘il semblait à Charles que des masses infinies, qu’un poids énorme
pesait sur elle’ (OC I: 686) [‘to Charles it seemed that an infinite mass,
a colossal weight, was pressing down upon her’ (Flaubert 2004: 294)].8
In line with the principle recalled in the Dictionnaire des idées reçues
that ‘toutes les maladies viennent de l’estomac’ [‘all illnesses come
from the stomach’], the nightmare also has gastric symptoms, as also
mentioned in Chapter 1 above (pp. 56, 58). In a representative case
history, Dubosquet (1815: 7) identifies ‘une violente douleur dans la
région épigastrique’ [‘a violent pain in the epigastric region’] as a key
symptom, which has the result that the patient ‘se réveille en sursaut’
[‘wakes with a start’]. Emma, too, in Homais’s account for Dr Larivière,
presents ‘des douleurs intolérables à l’épigastre’ (OC I: 683) [‘intolerable
pain in the epigastrium’ (Flaubert 2004: 286)]. Curiously, this symptom
of the nightmare – the ‘épistomachies’ (‘autrement dit cauchemars’) also
referred to in Chapter 1 above (pp. 55–8 ), perhaps? – is also an indicator of
‘courbature de la colonne vertébrale’ [‘curvature of the spinal column’]
in Vincent Duval’s work on scrofules. The scrofulously deformed patient
experiences ‘une douleur dans l’épigastre […] parfois vive au point de
réveiller les malades en sursaut’ [‘a pain in the epigastrium sometimes
so acute as to wake the patients with a start’]; this pain can be experi-
enced ‘dans un côté de la poitrine […] avec la même intensité que dans
l’épigastre’ [‘in one side of the chest with the same intensity as in the
epigastrium’] (1852: 385). This combination of symptoms – stomach
pains prior to sudden waking – can thus be either those of the suf-
ferer of scrofulous deformity, or of the nightmare sufferer. And these
are precisely Emma’s symptoms, experienced as she is haunted by her
deformed (indeed, ‘courbé’), quasi-equine, demonic nemesis.
Just before her expiry, Emma hears the equine ‘gros sabots’ [literally,
‘heavy clogs’, or, allusively, ‘heavy hooves’] and ‘bâton’ [‘stick’] of the
Blind Beggar, and manifests the sudden waking that is characteristic of
the nightmare, in a way which possibly alludes to a quasi-Frankenstein-
ian monstrosity of her own (Dubosquet 1815: 7) – ‘elle se releva comme
un cadavre que l’on galvanise’ [‘she reared up like a galvanised corpse’] –
before articulating her reaction (OC I: 684; Flaubert 2004: 290) to a vision
of the nightmare’s deformed human manifestation:
– L’aveugle! s’écria-t-elle.
[“The blind man!” she cried.]
It is at this point (ibid.), at the moment of death, as she stares into the
abyss, that she believes she can see ‘la face hideuse du misérable, qui
se dressait dans les ténèbres éternelles comme un épouvantement’ [‘the
wretch’s hideous face, rearing up through the dark shadows of eternity
like a symbol of ultimate terror’].
The hideous Aveugle becomes the sum of all fears, the ultimate
‘épouvantement’, the ultimate nightmare. ‘For Emma’, according to
Wetherill (1970: 37), ‘he is a source of physical revulsion, deep fascination,
and deep apprehension. […]. For Homais, he is totally different.’ Hardly
‘totally’, for the nightmare is what the Aveugle represents for Homais as
well as for Emma, albeit in a much less complex way, but with striking
similarities. For Homais, as we have seen above, the Aveugle’s affliction
is ‘cette épouvantable infirmité’ [‘this dreadful infirmity’]. At draft stage
(6, fo 117v), the word ‘épouvantable’ replaces ‘dégoûtante’ and ‘hideuse’,
and clearly intensifies the Aveugle’s hideousness as not merely something
unpleasant to look at, but something genuinely terrifying. And Homais has
good reason to be terrified, not least professionally, having already received
an ‘admonestation épouvantable’ [‘dreadful admonition’] (2, 175v) from
the Procureur du roi for illegal practice of medicine. Once the Aveugle
starts spreading the word that the pharmacist’s pommade antiphlogistique
does not work, he becomes a nightmare, at draft stage (6, fo 320) ‘une
sorte de cauchemar qui le poursuivait’ [‘a kind of nightmare that followed
him’].9 His experience of the nightmare represented by the Aveugle, and
his reaction to this persistent haunting, are remarkably similar to those of
Emma, who, as we saw above (5, fo 215v) ‘l’exécrait de toute la haine de
l’épouvante’ [‘loathed him with all the hatred of what was terrifying’]. Of
Homais’s fear and loathing of the nightmare, we learn (6, fo 323v):
<Un remords un cauchemar Il avait fini par le prendre en haine. l’exécrer>.

[A sense of remorse a nightmare He had ended up developing a

hatred for him, loathing him]
Moreover, where Emma, on the occasions of the Aveugle’s appearance

outside the diligence (in the first episode involving him), ‘se cachait les
yeux pour ne pas le voir’ [‘hid her eyes so as not to see him’] Homais (in
the last episode) ‘se cachait dans l’Hirondelle <pour ne pas l’apercevoir>’
[‘hid in the Hirondelle so as not to catch sight of him’]. There is clearly
a parallel between these two parametric episodes involving the Aveugle
and the fear he generates, one focused on Emma, one on Homais.
In the final version – where the word ‘cauchemar’ does not need to
be mentioned, because the nightmare is already connoted culturally by
the Aveugle’s deformity and its associated equine motifs – the specific
reactions outlined here are suppressed in the case of Emma, who merely
‘se retirait avec un cri’ [‘would recoil, with a cry’], but is still taken
nevertheless ‘parmi les espaces d’une mélancolie sans bornes’ (OC I:
665) [‘into the reaches of an infinite melancholy’ (Flaubert 2004: 237)].
However, they are retained in the case of Homais, and are presented as
a direct result of his failure – echoing Charles’s failure, on his advice, to
cure Hippolyte – to cure the Aveugle, who publicises the pharmacist’s
‘vaine tentative’ [‘futile effort’]
à tel point que Homais, lorsqu’il allait à la ville, se dissimulait derrière

les rideaux de l’Hirondelle, afin d’éviter sa rencontre. Il l’exécrait; et,
dans l’intérêt de sa propre réputation, voulant s’en débarrasser à toute
force, il dressa contre lui une batterie cachée, qui décelait la profon-
deur de son intelligence et la scéleratesse de sa vanité. (OC I: 690)
[to the extent that Homais, on his trips to the city, would hide
behind the curtains of the Hirondelle to avoid encountering him. He
loathed him; and wanting, in the interests of his own reputation, to
unburden himself of him at all costs, he mounted a covert campaign
against him, thereby revealing the depth of his intelligence and the
unscrupulousness of his egotism. (Flaubert 2004: 306)]
Homais’s terror and revulsion at his nightmarish haunting by the

loathed Aveugle result in a determination to ‘s’en débarrasser’ [‘unbur-
den himself of him’]. It may be presumed that the term is Homais’s,
used in style indirect libre, since it is an expression he uses on two other
occasions: in his entreaties to Hippolyte and the Aveugle to unburden
themselves of their respective conditions, both hideous, unacceptable,
terrifying to the community.10 The Aveugle, then, impediment to the
onward march – in step with Progress – of Homais’s success, is himself – as

the rhetoric skilfully deployed by the pharmacist will convincingly
imply – the very embodiment of a horrendous affliction of which the
social body (like its self-appointed mouthpiece), needs to be unbur-
dened. And like Hippolyte’s club foot, the Aveugle, since he cannot be
cured, since he cannot be brought under control, set on the straight and
narrow, must be removed altogether.
Thus begins the famous ‘lutte’ [‘struggle’] between Homais and the
Aveugle. In many ways this struggle can be seen as an ‘épistomachie’ –
a struggle between Homais and his nightmarishly beast-like enemy
grounded in epistemological shifts and conflicts occurring in the early
nineteenth century, a struggle precisely around knowledge in the process
of reconfiguration. To defeat his enemy, Homais exploits his knowledge
of a number of disciplinary, discursive, and rhetorical fields, as well as
contemporary legislation founded on alienist discourse, and effectively
promoting the rise of the psychiatric profession. Homais succeeds
ultimately in linking traditional notions of monstrosity and deformity,
via the latest thinking on abnormality and deviance – drawn from the
rising disciplines of statistics and psychiatry – to contemporary social
fears. We cannot know for sure what the Aveugle’s actual condition
is, or indeed if he is even blind. His actual condition ultimately has
no bearing on the consequences of his struggle with Homais. What
we do know is that he presents some symptoms which fall under the
umbrella of orthopaedics, dermatology, and ophthalmology, and which
are linked symbolically to other characters in Madame Bovary, but that
the ultimate significance of these symptoms is in their marking out
of the Aveugle as an outcast, an emblem of the nightmare, and an
incurable threat to the reputation of a health professional at a moment
when the health professions had been reorganised, and when (as seen
in Chapter 2) their members were constantly in fear of potentially
ruinous regulation and denunciation. Crucially, whatever symptoms
he presents, these are not in any sense credible medical reasons for
his removal from society, which can therefore only be understood in
terms of its disciplinary conditions of possibility.
Homais’s struggle with the Aveugle
The principal purpose of the remainder of this chapter will not, therefore,
be further elaboration of symptoms or further investigation of the sym-
bolic role of the Aveugle, who, as we have seen, cannot be pinned down
diagnostically any more than he can be controlled by Homais: other
than through removal. The focus, rather, will thus be the Blind Beggar’s
fate at Homais’s hands, brought about by the ‘batterie cachée’ [‘hidden

arsenal’] that the chemist deploys against his adversary. More specifi-
cally, we will consider the plausible institutional conditions for the Blind
Beggar’s successive bouts of incarceration, and ultimate condemnation to
‘une réclusion perpétuelle dans un hospice’ (OC I: 690) [‘life imprison-
ment in an asylum’ (Flaubert 2004: 306)] achieved through the discursive
efforts of the pharmacist, which can be seen, it will be suggested, to be
part of a rhetoric of the continuation by other means of what Michel
Foucault (1972: 76–109; 2006a: 44–77) famously refers to as the ‘grand
renfermement’ [‘great confinement’] of the ‘âge classique’.
Accordingly, key texts for the rest of this chapter will be those in
which Homais publicly rails against him, in Chapters 7 and 11 of Part III
of the novel: respectively, a diatribe from the Hirondelle cloaked in
the rhetoric of social concern, and the accounts of the pharmacist’s
journalistic entrefilets, short paragraphs published in the Fanal de Rouen,
which are followed by a concise account of the outcome of his struggle
with his adversary.11
Penal and medical confinement
We will return to the chemist’s prescriptive build-up presently, but we

will first look at its result. This comes in two stages, the first of which
(OC I: 690; Flaubert 2004: 306) is thus:
Il fit si bien qu’on l’incarcéra. Mais on le relâcha.
[His campaign was so effective that the offender was incarcerated.

But he was let out again.]
His initial incarceration and release are plausibly consistent with the
‘lois contre le vagabondage’ [‘the laws forbidding vagrancy’], the appar-
ent non-enforcement of which is lamented by the pharmacist in the
second of the three entrefilets quoted. In an earlier draft (6, fo 323v)
of the account of the outcome of Homais’s campaign, ‘l’autorité s’en
émut – on l’incarcera comme vagabond’ [‘the authorities were moved by
this – he was incarcerated as a vagrant’].
The laws in operation during the July Monarchy were those of the
Code pénal of 1810, of which article 271 (Anon. 1810: 67), on vagabond-
age, provided for a prison sentence of three to six months, and articles
274 and 275 (Anon. 1810: 68), on mendicité, provided for one to six
months’ imprisonment on condition of there being support available
locally to the destitute. We may presume that the Aveugle is imprisoned

as a vagabond or a mendiant, and released soon afterwards, possibly
more than once, given the use of the passé simple in the context of what
immediately follows (OC I: 690; Flaubert 2004: 306):
Il recommença, et Homais aussi recommença. C’était une lutte.
[He resumed, and so too did Homais. It was a struggle.]
What comes next (ibid.) is less straightforward, and indeed may suggest
that Homais’s renewed campaign – now recognised as being part of
a ‘lutte’, justifying different methods – is no longer concerned with
enforcement of the law, at least through the courts:
Il eut la victoire; car son ennemi fut condamné à une réclusion

perpétuelle dans un hospice.
[The pharmacist emerged victorious, for his enemy was condemned

to life imprisonment in an asylum.]
Significantly, Homais’s initial broadsides, which he terms boutades –

‘c’était son mot’ (OC I: 690) [‘that was the way he put it’ (Flaubert
2004: 307)] – call for something to be done judicially on account of
his enemy’s actions, such as his persecution of travellers (including,
and perhaps especially, Homais), his vagabondage, his occasioning of
accidents. However, the Aveugle’s eventual sentence to a ‘hospice’
[‘asylum’] implies a medical dimension, and also that he is put away
permanently – and, seemingly, penally, as ‘réclusion perpétuelle’ [‘life
imprisonment’] implies – not so much for what he does as for what he
is, or rather, for what he represents or is perceived to be. And indeed,
Homais’s boutades do of course mention – at least at first – the symp-
toms of this ‘misérable atteint d’une horrible plaie faciale’ [‘wretched
creature afflicted with a hideous lesion of the face’], who ‘vous impor-
tune, vous persécute et prélève un véritable impôt sur les voyageurs’
[‘pesters and persecutes travellers, and quite literally exacts a toll from
them’]. As we shall see on further examination, these entrefilets in fact
conflate vagabondage with illness in a very interesting, suggestive, and
problematic way. But first let us consider the Aveugle’s medical incar-
ceration, and its plausible sites.
As his haunt in the Bois-Guillaume is just outside the city, but is
within both the arrondissement and canton of Rouen, it is reasonable
to presume that the Blind Beggar is placed in a hospice there. But what
hospices are there in Rouen? It should be pointed out first of all that
there is no institution for the blind in the whole département in which
Rouen is situated. As late as 1851 a survey of charitable works in the
Seine-Inférieure laments (Lérue 1851: 109) that:
[N]ous manquons d’asile pour les aveugles, qui sont en si grand

nombre et de tous les âges, dans le département. Beaucoup d’entr’eux
sont à la charge des bureaux de bienfaisance; d’autres sont abandonnés
à l’aumône.
[We lack an asylum for the blind, who are in such great number
and of all ages, in the département. Many of them are in the care of
charitable offices; others are abandoned to begging.]
The author (ibid.: 110) urges ‘un zèle persévérant’ [‘persistent zeal’] in
setting up such an institution, adding that ‘[c]’est presque un devoir
pour la société qui recherche si activement les moyens d’ôter tout
prétexte à la mendicité’ [‘it is almost a duty for society, which is so
actively seeking the means to remove all pretext for begging’].
Rouen, however, does have hospices, each with its own remit. Extensive
information on these is provided in Théodore Licquet’s Rouen, son histoire,
ses monuments, ses environs, etc., Guide nécessaire pour connaître cette capitale
de la Normandie, etc. Numerous, occasionally updated, editions of this
guide book were published from the 1820s to the 1870s – in fact, long
after the death in 1832 of its author – a successor to Guillaume Dubuc
(in addition to the statistician Ballin, mentioned in Chapter 1 above) as
bibliothécaire-archiviste of the Académie de Rouen, and amateur statistician
of the Seine-Inférieure. A distinctive document already in that it mentions
(Licquet 1831: 14, 210) a real place called Yonville (the location of a source
for Rouen’s 36 public fountains), it also deserves to be counted among ‘les
ouvrages qui traitaient de la cathédrale’ (OC I: 656) [‘works that dealt with the
cathedral’ (Flaubert 2004: 216)] on account of the wealth of information
it contains about Rouen cathedral’s bell – weighing 36,000 pounds, and
made by a founder ‘qui en mourut de joie’ (Licquet 1836: 51) [‘who died
of joy’] – and its spire, ‘cette magnifique pyramide’ [‘that magnificent
pyramid’], which, at 436 feet (Licquet 1836: 58–9), ‘ne le cédéra que
de treize pieds à la plus haute des pyramides d’Égypte’ [‘yields only by
thirteen feet to the highest of the pyramids of Egypt’].12
Editions of this éternel guide – to borrow the narrative’s designation
of the Suisse (OC I: 656; Flaubert 2004: 216) – contemporary with the
July Monarchy, offering reliable documentation of the world depicted
in Madame Bovary (as well as of its prevailing rhetorical style), list three
institutions under the heading ‘Hospices’. The first of these – the Hôtel-
Dieu, the city’s main clinical and surgical hospital, dating from the
middle ages – can be ruled out as a destination for the Aveugle:
Il est consacré au traitement des maladies aiguës et chroniques

curables […] et le séjour ne peut s’y prolonger au-delà de six mois.
Ce terme expiré, les malades sont déclarés incurables, et transférés à
l’Hospice Général. (Licquet 1836: 152)
[It is devoted to the treatment of curable acute and chronic illnesses,

and the stay cannot extend beyond six months. Once this term
has expired, patients are declared incurable, and transferred to the
Hospice Général.]
This second institution, the Hospice Général, founded by royal edict in

1681, and for much of its existence an institution typifying the grand
renfermement, could be a plausible place of confinement for the Aveugle:
‘Outre les pauvres valides, la maison reçoit des individus infirmes ou
atteints de diverses maladies chroniques’ (Licquet 1836: 157) [‘Beyond
the healthy poor, the establishment receives individuals who are infirm
or suffering from various chronic illnesses’]. A letter from Flaubert
(1980: 593) to Bouilhet of 16 September 1855 does specify that ‘le
pauvre bougre est incurable’ [‘the poor bugger is incurable’]; and, as we
have seen, the Aveugle’s scrofulous condition is indeed a chronic one.
Moreover, article 1 of the 1823 ‘règlement’ [rules] of the Hospice Général
states (Hue 1903: 251) that: ‘Les maladies qui donnent seules droit à être
admis à l’Hospice Général sont les maladies de peau, la maladie véné-
rienne, la folie, l’épilepsie, la scrofule, le scorbut, les dartres, la paralysie
et autres indispositions chroniques graves’ [‘The only illnesses for which
admission is granted to the Hospice Général are skin diseases, venereal
disease, madness, epilepsy, scrofula, scurvy, scurf, paralysis and other
serious chronic indispositions’]. Hospitalisation here would appear
therefore consistent not only with Homais’s diagnosis of ‘une affection
scrofuleuse’, and indeed with the symptoms discussed above, but also
with the symptoms and condition identified by Donaldson-Evans.
In any event, the Aveugle could plausibly have been placed in the
Hospice Général: case closed. Or so it would seem. The only problem
with this therapeutic outcome is that the Blind Beggar is (OC I: 690;
Flaubert 2004: 306; emphasis added) ‘condamné à une réclusion per-
pétuelle dans un hospice’ [‘condemned to spend the remainder of his
days in an asylum’]. But the only hospice to which anyone could be

condemned in the late July Monarchy – and Emma’s death, in the
months following which the struggle with the Aveugle occurs, can
plausibly be situated in 1846 (Addison 1996: 292) – was one of the
insane asylums mandatory in each département (Carbonel 2005: 101)
after the loi sur les aliénés of 30 June 1838. Forcible internment in
institutions such as the Hospice Général, either on grounds of poverty
or ill-health, had died out with the déshospitalisation accompanying
the Revolution. And prior to the 1838 law, it was relatively difficult to
have someone declared insane and put away. What the 1838 law did,
in addition to launching the setting up of the network of asylums, was
to transfer power in this domain from the courts – which previously had
to issue an ‘interdiction’, usually sought by families, which then had to
be acted on – to the centralised authority of the state, embodied locally
by the prefect, in consultation with representatives of the increasingly
powerful psychiatric profession. Moreover, since in these more enlight-
ened times the poor could not – ostensibly – be interned simply for
being poor, the only way the undesirable poor could be disposed of
was either temporarily through the penal system for vagabondage and
mendicité, or permanently and extra-judicially through the provisions of
the 1838 law. As Gaëtane Lamarche-Vadel and Georges Préli (1976: 87)
put it: ‘La loi de 1838 fixait une fois pour toutes la catégorie des
aliénés et la définissait comme la seule justiciable de la doctrine de
l’enfermement inaugurée par l’âge classique, la dernière survivante
de cette période’ [‘The 1838 law fixed once and for all the category of
the mentally alienated and defined it as the only one judicially subject
to the doctrine of internment inaugurated by the classical age – the last
remnant of that period’].
In the particular case of the Seine-Inférieure, the departmental asylum
was the Hospice des Aliénés de St-Yon, founded long before the 1838
law in 1825, and developed by eminent aliénistes from the circle of
Étienne Esquirol – along with Philippe Pinel, founder of aliénisme –
keen to spread their influence in the provinces, notably Bénédict-Augustin
Morel, a key mid-century proponent of degeneration theory (discussed in
Chapter 5 below), and Achille Foville, whose two protégés in Rouen, Lucien
Deboutteville and Jean-Baptiste Maximien Parchappe de Vinay, became
respectively director and médecin-en-chef of the new asylum. Together,
Debouteville and Parchappe put St-Yon on the map by publishing a series
of reports establishing statistics as an essential element of psychiatric prac-
tice; Debouteville promoted the use of statistics more widely, specifically
in a project for a Statistique générale du département de la Seine-Inférieure.
St-Yon was located in the rue St Julien in the Faubourg St Séver, and had
been a monastery and, most recently, a dépôt de mendicité [poorhouse]. Also
known as Sotteville, it is referred to as such in early drafts of the cathedral
scene in Madame Bovary by the Swiss guard, who, appalled at Léon’s lack
of interest, declares, in terms reminiscent of Homais’s outburst (OC I: 658;
Flaubert 2004: 219) – ‘autant s’établir épicier’ [‘I might as well set myself
up as a grocer’] – in admonition of his pharmaceutical apprentice Justin,
who has not satisfactorily assimilated the knowledge his master has tried
to communicate to him: ‘Soyez donc savant! citez les dates! éreintez-vous!
instruisez-les! autant vaudrait apprendre le latin à toutes les bourriques
de Sotteville’ (5, fo 67) [‘So be erudite! Cite the dates! Wear yourself
out! Instruct them! You might as well teach Latin to all the silly asses in
Sotteville’]. Sotteville remains only as a point on the itinerary of the carriage
in which the baisade occurs (OC I: 657; Flaubert 2004: 217), from an earlier
version of which (5, fo 81) ‘St-Yon’ is deleted. So Sotteville, or St-Yon – as
well as what it signifies institutionally – is certainly on the novel’s genetic
radar, even if it is not specified as a destination for the Blind Beggar.
The decision to set up the asile had been taken as far back as 1819. As
Théodore Licquet reports in the Annuaire statistique de la Seine-Inférieure
(1823: 309) in words almost exactly the same as those in his account in
his Guide (1831):
C’est en 1819 que le conseil général, dans sa sollicitude, prit en

considération le triste sort auquel étaient réduits, dans le département
de la Seine-Inférieure, les individus atteints d’aliénation mentale, et
résolut de l’adoucir.
[It was in 1819 that the general Departmental council, in its solicitude,
took into consideration the sad lot to which individuals suffering
from mental alienation in the Seine-Inférieure were reduced, and
resolved to ease it.]
Licquet’s work presents (1831: 165–6) a litany of pre-Esquirolian tortures

and indignities, over which humanity no longer has to ‘gémir’ [‘groan’],
before rejoicing that patients can now – in the asylum – recover, ‘comme
par enchantement’ [‘as if by magic’], the reason they lacked, and concluding
(1831: 168) with a supremely humanitarian flourish worthy of the speeches
at the Comices or of Homais’s post-operative letter to the Fanal:
Puisse l’exemple donné par notre département trouver bientôt des

imitateurs! Puissent les infortunés aliénés devenir partout l’objet
d’une bienveillante sollicitude, et recouvrer ainsi la raison, pour le

triomphe de la science, l’honneur des administrations et la gloire de
l’humanité!
[May the example given by our département soon find imitators! May
the unfortunate victims of mental alienation become everywhere the
object of a benevolent sollicitude, and thus recover their reason, for
the triumph of science, the honour of administrations and the glory
of humanity!]
Pinelian and Esquirolian rhetoric of adoucissement (see Foucault 1972:

71; 2006a: 49) clearly finds an echo in Licquet’s homage to the
progress of mental health care, which implicitly accepts the necessity
of renfermement. Such rhetoric, existing alongside factual information
about the cathedral officiously expressed in the manner of the Suisse,
is clearly worthy of Homais, who in a suppressed draft (6, fo 321) of
the aftermath of his triumph over the Aveugle, put away permanently
in a ‘hôpital’ – a hospital, as opposed to a hospice – swiftly shoots off
‘un article qui commençait par “enfin!” et finissait par “bonheur de
l’humanité”’ [‘an article beginning with “at last!” and ending with
“happiness of humanity”’].
But now we move to the work of more serious and influential
statisticians, the aliénistes Parchappe and Deboutteville, who in 1835
and 1845 issued two Notices statistiques on the Asile de St-Yon, which
for the historian of statistics Frédéric Carbonel (2005: 97) constituted
‘un laboratoire de statistiques morales de la Restauration à 1848’ [‘a
laboratory of mental statistics from the Restoration to 1848’]. Their
project, according to Carbonel (2005: 101), ‘s’inscrivait dans le projet
général d’une vaste statistique de la France’ [‘was inscribed within the
general project of a vast statistical record of France’], and made statistics
a key instrument in mental health provision, as well as strengthening
the power of the medical profession generally; ‘le rôle social des
médecins allait être renforcé grâce à leur pouvoir statistique au cours
des années 1830’ [‘the social role of doctors was to be reinforced as a
result of their statistical power over the course of the 1830s’]. Moreover,
it was on this statistical basis that ‘dans la première moitié du XIXe
siècle, par l’observation minutieuse et chiffrée des faits de folie, la
psychiatrie rouennaise s’est constituée comme un corps professionnel,
de savoir et de pouvoir’ [‘in the first half of the nineteenth century,
through detailed numerical analysis of instances of madness, psychiatry
in Rouen constituted itself as a professional body, of knowledge and
power’] (Carbonel 2005: 99). The 1845 Notice statistique sur les aliénés
de la Seine-Inférieure [‘Statistical Notice on the Mentally Alienated in
the Seine-Inférieure’], covering the period 1825–43, breaks down those
admitted to St-Yon by profession (including 24% without profession),
gender, and the causes of their alienation, broken down in turn into
‘causes morales’ [‘moral causes’], ‘excès intellectuels et sensuels’ [‘intel-
lectual and sexual excess’], ‘causes organiques’ [‘organic causes’], and
‘causes externes’ [‘external causes’] (Deboutteville and Parchappe 1845:
35). Parchappe, heavily influenced by the phrenological theories of
Gall, also measured and weighed the skulls of deceased patients, cited
as evidence of an inversely proportional relationship between brain size
and degree of alienation. The doctors make a clear distinction (ibid.:
33–4) between curable and incurable conditions, the latter – accounting
for about 8% of aliénés – including ‘idiotie’ [‘idiocy’] and ‘imbécillité’
[‘imbecility’]. These patients, according to Parchappe, had conditions
attributable to ‘causes essentielles’ [‘essential causes’] (ibid.: 36).
It is certainly plausible that the Aveugle could be interned in an
institution like St-Yon on the premise of an incurable and essential
form of aliénation. On his first encounter with Emma, he laughs with
a ‘rire idiot’ [‘idiotic laugh’]. In earlier drafts of this scene (5, fo 226) –
in the final version of which perception of him shifts to Emma – he
is described as being ‘imbécile’, ‘sauvage et débile’ [‘savage and feeble-
minded’], or with ‘longues mains débiles’ [‘long, feeble hands’]; these
characterisations of the beggar’s perceived idiocy are suppressed and
transferred to the scene of his diagnostic encounter with Homais, in
which ‘il paraissait, d’ailleurs, presque idiot’ [‘he seemed, moreover,
almost idiotic’] – that is, he appears thus to Homais, or is reported as
being so by Homais, as the style indirect libre articulating this percep-
tion suggests; only his ‘rire’ [‘laugh’], later echoed by the dying Emma’s
once she becomes aware of his presence, remains ‘idiot’ in the first
episode. In one draft of the second episode (6, fo 125) he is referred to
in style indirect libre, that is, perceived by Homais, as ‘l’idiot’ [‘the idiot’].
Idiotisme, imbécillité, and so on are furthermore linked in the pages of
the Dictionnaire des Sciences médicales with the very comprehensive
condition of ‘scrofules’. Likewise, Duval remarks (1852: 435) that the
painful symptoms of ‘ophthalmies scrofuleuses’ are so intolerable that
they can go ‘jusqu’au délire’ [‘as far as madness’].
All that said, it is equally plausible that he is interned as part of a
rise in the number of people being interned in response to economic
considerations. Parchappe and Deboutteville (1845: 61) posited a
quasi-Malthusian ‘loi d’accroissement de la population asilaire’ [‘law
of growth of the asylum population’]. Since the foundation of St-Yon,

its population had increased annually, a pattern repeated nationally.
But there is a sharp rise from the mid-1830s onwards. It is attributed
moreover (ibid.) to the 1838 law:
L’accroissement graduel du nombre des aliénés n’est pas un fait

accidentel et propre à l’Asile de la Seine-Inférieure. Il se reproduit,
avec les mêmes caractères, dans les asiles d’aliénés en général, et il
est l’expression d’une loi dont l’exécution de la nouvelle législation
sur une large échelle, paraît destinée à faire ressortir et à généraliser
les effets.
[The gradual growth in the number of the insane is not accidental

or unique to the Asylum of the Seine-Inférieure. It is replicated,
with the same characteristics, in mental asylums in general, and is
the expression of a law [i.e. that of population growth] of which
the implementation of the new legislation on a large scale seems
destined to highlight and generalise the effects.]
However, according to Carbonel (2005: 109), there were also specific

conditions in the Seine-Inférieure which had already caused the asylum
population to begin to increase exponentially from 1836 onwards: ‘les
années 1836–1837 furent marquées à Rouen par des difficultés économ-
iques et sociales: hausse du prix du pain, augmentation du nombre
d’indigents, crise cyclique courte caractérisée par la disette, le chômage,
la mendicité et l’accroissement des faits de folie’ [‘the years 1836–1837
were marked in Rouen by economic and social difficulties: a rise in the
price of bread, an increase in the number of indigent people, a short
cyclical crisis characterised by scarcity, unemployment, begging and
growth in recorded instances of madness’]. So even prior to the 1838
act, admissions rose sharply because of the economic situation and
corresponding increase in mendicité. There were simply more marginaux
at large. So there was already a tendency to intern more people prior
to the legislation, which then made it administratively even easier to
put people away. The 1838 law was, after all, in practice, as Carbonel
(2005: 102) puts it, ‘une réponse à la question sociale qui accablait le
régime de Juillet’ [‘a response to the social question afflicting the régime
of the July Monarchy’]. The doctors’ 1845 Notice statistique, identifying
the ‘moral causes’ of alienation through diverse categories such as
‘contrariétés’, ‘disettes’, ‘revers de fortune’, constitutes, for Carbonel
(2005: 128) ‘un excellent témoignage de la misère physique et morale’
[‘an excellent account of physical poverty and moral misery’] during

the period.
In that light, it seems even more plausible that it is not on the basis
of any real medical condition that the Aveugle has been ‘condamné à
une réclusion perpétuelle’. But more significant in this respect than a
specific ailment or indeed a specific institution – and, indeed, neither
are specified – are the wider contexts of Homais’s pronouncements and
their articulation of the ways in which power functions discursively
in relation to those who are marginal to society, and, concretely, the
articulation of the conditions of different kinds of internment. So I
would now like to revisit Homais’s boutades from Chapter 11 of Part III,
which are prompted, it should be noted, by a disciplinary struggle
over the potentially financially detrimental calling into question of his
professional efficacy, rather than by any humanitarian motives.
Homais’s boutades: the rhetoric of le grand renfermement

and le relais de la lèpre
The pharmacist’s first journalistic outburst, as we have seen, recalls the

visually horrible affliction of the beggar first manifested to Emma in
Part III, Chapter 5, and denounces his supposedly aggressive begging. It
is followed by a curious enquiry (OC I: 690; Flaubert 2004: 306):
Sommes-nous encore au temps monstrueux du Moyen Age, où il était

permis aux vagabonds d’étaler par nos places publiques la lèpre et les
scrofules qu’ils avaient rapportées de la croisade?
[Are we still in the monstrous era of the Middle Ages, when vagabonds
were permitted to display all over our public spaces the leprous and
scrofulous sores they had carried back from the Crusades?]
What this presumably rhetorical question does is first of all to link

‘vagabonds’, as well as the beggar’s presumed scrofulous condition,
with monstrosity and leprosy; the use of ‘étaler’ [‘display’] may suggest
also that the Aveugle is a rival salesman putting his wares out for public
view. ‘Lèpre’ is a term used along with ‘dartre’ in numerous early drafts
of the beggar’s first appearance; all that remain in later versions are the
physical manifestations, ‘gales’ [‘sores’], of an unspecified condition
not even identified as scrofula. In one particular brouillon (5, fo 226),
his skin condition is described as being confusing to the point ‘à ne
savoir si c’étaient des dartres sur la<une lèpre de la/sur> de sa peau ou
des moisissures sur l’habit’ [‘of not knowing whether it was dry patches
a leprous blight of his skin or mould on his clothes’]. Immediately
afterwards he is described as being ‘Scrofuleux’ [‘Scrofulous’]. The linking
of the two conditions thus exists already in relation to an episode other
than the one in which Homais deftly makes the suggestive connection
between them.
The novel, in its choice of location for Emma’s and Homais’s encounters
with the Aveugle, also contains a potential topographical allusion to
leprosy and its institutional management, further alluding to the renferme-
ment of the marginal more generally. In another guide to Rouen similar
to Licquet’s (and similarly countable among ‘les ouvrages qui traitaient
de la cathédrale’), Alexandre Lesguilliez (1826: 124) relates that the site of
a church ‘située au Bois-Guillaume, sur la grande route’ [‘situated in the
Bois-Guillaume, on the main road’] – the Blind Beggar’s haunt – was that
of ‘une ancienne Léproserie’ [‘a former Leper Colony’]. Lesguilliez (1826:
125) points out that Maladreries such as this were deliberately located ‘sur
les grandes routes, sans doute pour solliciter la charité des passants’ [‘on
the main roads, doubtless to solicit the charity of wayfarers’]. Moreover
(ibid.), ‘Léproseries’ could, ‘dans ces siècles d’ignorance’ [‘in these centuries
of ignorance’] be seen as ‘de véritables maisons de détention, car les
infortunés qui y entraient n’en sortaient plus’ [‘veritable houses of deten-
tion, for the unfortunate souls who entered never came out’].13 In an earlier
draft (6, fo 323v) of his first entrefilet, Homais actually alludes to the institu-
tion and practice of confinement in his question: ‘sommes-nous encore au
<temps> Léproséries’ [‘are we still in the era of Leper Colonies?’]. Apparently
damning such institutions of permanent confinement as relics of a
benighted age, Homais seems unaware of the irony of his own advocacy
(and eventual achievement) of confinement of the socially undesirable,
and indeed of the fact that the answer to his rhetorical question in that
respect is in the affirmative, and indeed is provided by his own rhetoric.
The final version subtly accentuates Homais’s hypocrisy by displacing his
enlightened outrage about the monstrosity of the middle ages from the
institution and practice of confinement to the visible presence in society
of those whose confinement he now advocates.
In the modern world, leprosy – in reality if not in allusion – has
disappeared from Western societies. But the structures of confinement
persist. According to Michel Foucault (1972: 19; 2006a: 6), discussing
the demise of the léproséries culminating in the sixteenth century:
La lèpre disparue, le lépreux effacé, ou presque, des mémoires, ces

structures resteront. Dans les mêmes lieux souvent, les jeux de
l’exclusion se retrouveront, étrangement semblables deux ou trois

siècles plus tard. Pauvres, vagabonds, correctionnaires et ‘têtes alié-
nées’ reprendront le rôle abandonné par le ladre […].
[Once leprosy had gone, and the figure of the leper was no more
than a distant memory, these structures still remained. The game
of exclusion would be played again, often in these same places, in
an oddly similar fashion two or three centuries later. The role of the
leper was to be played by the poor and by the vagrant, by prisoners
and by the ‘alienated’.]
In the absence of leprosy, the ‘relais de la lèpre’ [‘the role that leprosy
had played’] initially was taken up by ‘les maladies vénériennes’ [‘vene-
real disease’], before being followed by the various marginal groups
listed above. Moreover, as Foucault (1975: 232; 1991: 199) explains in
his account of the importance of leprosy and its social correlates in the
rise of disciplinary power:
[C’]est le propre du XIXe siècle d’avoir appliqué à l’espace de

l’exclusion dont le lépreux était l’habitant symbolique (et les
mendiants, les vagabonds, les fous, les violents formaient la
population réelle) la technique de pouvoir propre au quadrillage
disciplinaire.
[[I]t is the peculiarity of the nineteenth century that it applied to

the space for exclusion of which the leper was the symbolic inhabit-
ant (beggars, vagabonds, madmen and the disorderly formed the
real population) the technique of power proper to disciplinary
partitioning.]
Foucault here is referring to a shift in forms of marginalisation

attributable to disciplinary power: the leper, simply excluded in the
middle ages, becomes a ‘pestiféré’, a plague victim: in the nineteenth
century the techniques of social partitioning developed in plague
settings in the classical age are applied to the leper’s social descendants.
Homais’s discussion of leprosy and its implied contagion is
contextualised in the middle ages. In an entrefilet following the ‘medieval’
one deleted between the manuscrit du copiste and the published version,
the matter of contagion is raised explicitly (C, fo 481):
L’aveugle qui exploite la côte du Bois-Guillaume semble en avoir

pris possession. Cependant si la maladie de ce pauvre homme est
comme on l’affirme contagieuse, n’est-il pas à craindre qu’il ne la

communique à des enfants ou à de faibles femmes, à des vieillards?
[The blind man exploiting the Bois-Guillaume hill appears to have

taken possession of it. However if the illness of this poor man is – as
has been stated – contagious, is it not to be feared that he might
communicate it to children or weak women, or to old people?]
The Aveugle, then, as well as implicitly warranting exclusion because

of his display of the medieval grotesqueness of the leper, also needs
to be kept separate because of the risk of contamination of vulnerable
and specific sections of society. The threat is no longer the hideous-
ness of display, but the pervasive contamination of discrete elements
of the social body. Connotations of the plague become the basis for the
imposition of disciplinary order on what is perceived and presented as
disorderly.
At the end of the seventeenth century, when institutions like the
Hospice Général de Rouen were set up, the threat was not leprosy, or
the plague, but the unprecedented number of destitute people, who
were now interned as lepers had been before. Implicit in the rhetorical
question in Homais’s first entrefilet is some kind of equivalence between
‘vagabonds’ – shorthand for the marginal destitute – and lepers, coupled
with an appeal to contemporary notions of contagion through penetra-
tion from a foreign source – ‘rapportées de la Croisade’ [‘carried back
from the Crusades’] – an appeal disguising the nineteenth century as
the middle ages, and echoing what William Paulson (1987: 207) refers
to as the beggar’s ‘recalling [of] the medieval tradition of representing
the blind as grotesque social outcasts’. We might add here also that this
articulation of contagionist notions is at odds with Homais’s earlier
expressed belief in ‘miasmes’ (OC I: 619; Flaubert 2004: 119); the conflict
between miasmatists and contagionists is well documented (Otis 1999:
10–11), but it is not out of keeping with Homais’s discursive being to
embody contradictorily such disciplinary struggle. Moreover, contagion
is, as we have seen, the basis for the imposition of disciplinary power
through techniques developed, according to the Foucauldian account,
in times of plague, and now manifesting themselves analogously in
the division of knowledge into discrete disciplinary components and
specialisms, and expressed through an orthopaedic metaphor denoting
the correct organisation or training of the body; the operation of disci-
plinary power goes hand in hand with the incarceration and exclusion
of lepers and their latter-day avatars (Foucault 1975: 231; 1991: 198): ‘Le
grand renfermement d’une part; le bon dressement de l’autre. La lèpre

et son partage; la peste et ses découpages’ [‘The great confinement on
the one hand, the correct training on the other. Leprosy and its separa-
tion; the plague and its segmentations’].
If Homais invokes the marginalising rhetoric of the middle ages,
then, he also invokes that of the Grand Renfermement of the âge clas-
sique, which, it could be argued, given the sharp rise in admissions to
St-Yon, and the large proportion of those admitted for reasons related
to the economy, was to all intents and purposes being reimplemented
in the Seine-Inférieure. If we look at an extract from the royal edict of
1681 (Anon. 1740; Hue 1903: 38–9) setting up the Hôpital Général de
Rouen, we can see certain common elements shared with Homais’s first
two boutades:
[O]n voit dans notre […] Ville plusieurs Mendians et Vagabons y

affluer de toutes parts, et mendier publiquement tant pendant le
jour que la nuit […], ce qui cause du désordre dans ladite Ville […].
Nous ordonnons que toutes les personnes valides […], lesquelles
seront pris mendians dans la Ville et Fauxbourgs de Rouen, seront
enfermées dans les lieux préparés séparées pour les personnes de l’un
et l’autre sexe pendant quinze jours, ou autre temps plus long que les
Directeurs jugeront à propos, […] et y seront employez aux travaux
les plus rudes qu’il sera possible […].
[Many Beggars and Vagabonds can be seen in our City flocking from
all parts, and begging in public day and night, which causes disorder
in the said City. We order that all able-bodied persons who have been
caught begging in the City and liberties of Rouen, will be confined in
places prepared separately for persons of either sex for fifteen days,
or a longer period that the Directors judge appropriate, and will be
employed there in the most difficult labours possible.]
The forced-labour aspect of this edict also has its modern-day counterpart
in Homais’s earlier pronouncement from the Hirondelle on how ‘on
devrait enfermer ces malheureux, que l’on forcerait à quelque travail’
[‘these unfortunate people should be locked away, and obliged to perform
some kind of labour’].14 In fact, this was the reality in the Seine-Inférieure
during the July Monarchy: since the 1838 law required départements rather
than central government to finance the new asylums, St-Yon was only
kept rentable by the compulsory agricultural labour and cotton production
of the patients (Carbonel 2005: 109); at draft stage (6, fo 122v), Homais is
clearly aware of the rentabilité of the work he proposes for those interned,
‘par où l’on rentrerait dans les dépenses de leur entretien’ [‘whereby it
would be possible to contribute to the expense of their upkeep’]. What
the edict of 1681 – instituting at provincial level what has been instituted
in Paris in 1656 (Foucault 1972: 71–4; 2006a: 48–50) and 1657 (Foucault
1972: 668–71; 2006a: 651–4) – appears to be saying is that despite appro-
priate provision and legislation, vagabonds and beggars are still causing
a public nuisance, and thus should be put away somewhere where they
can be put to work productively. If on their release from this temporary
confinement they persist in their begging, they will be subject to a kind of
‘four-strikes-and-you’re-out’ contract, as per the Rouen edict’s provision:
Que ceux qui après y avoir été renfermés pendant ce temps, seront
pris mendians une seconde fois, seront renfermés pendant trois mois
dans les mêmes lieux. Et en cas qu’ils soient pris ensuite mendians une
troisième fois, qu’ils y seront renfermés durant un an: Et s’ils sont pris
une quatrième fois, qu’ils y seront renfermés pendant le reste de leur
vie […].
[That those who after having been confined for such time, are caught
begging a second time, will be confined for three months in the same
place. And in the case that they are then caught begging a third time,
that they will be confined for a year. And if they are caught a fourth
time, that they will be confined for the rest of their lives.]
This is in effect what happens to the Aveugle, albeit through different

administrative means.
If Homais’s first entrefilet enlists the key ‘peur séculaire’ [‘fear among the
masses’] of the middle ages – leprosy – to build his case against his adver-
sary, the second (to appear in the final version of the novel) combines grand
renfermement rhetoric of the âge classique with urgently modern concerns.
As with the first boutade, there is a nod to contemporary fears of contagion
in the use of the imagery of an externally sourced infestation of the bodily
membrane of the city. But it is the second part of this entrefilet which hints
at the nineteenth-century manifestation of the ‘nouvelle hantise, qui suc-
cède à la lèpre dans les peurs séculaires’ (Foucault 1972: 21) [‘new obsession
taking the place of the fear of leprosy among the masses’ (Foucault 2006a:
8)] that is madness (OC I: 690; Flaubert 2004: 306):
‘Malgré les lois contre le vagabondage, les abords de nos grandes

villes continuent à être infestés par des bandes de pauvres. On en
voit qui circulent isolément, et qui, peut-être, ne sont pas les moins
dangereux. A quoi songent nos édiles?’
[‘In spite of the laws forbidding vagrancy, the outskirts of our large
cities continue to be infested by bands of paupers. Some of them – and
these may well not be the least dangerous – operate single-handed.
Whatever can our Aediles be thinking?’]
Having first denounced the massed poor in terms of the judicial

framework of the code pénal, and invoking the language of the grand renfer-
mement, Homais proceeds skilfully to blend the threat of the unhygienic
gathering of ‘bandes de pauvres’ [‘bands of paupers’] infesting the urban
margins, the civic membrane, with the danger of the individual, iso-
lated, madman, plus marginal que tous les marginaux, more marginal than
all marginal individuals. What can be seen to be enacted in the two
boutades (and in the deleted one bridging the gap between them at draft
stage) is a shift in the rationale for renfermement from leprous monstros-
ity via contagious infestation and undeserving poverty to dangerous
marginality – the ‘passage du monstre à l’anormal’ [‘the shift from the
monstrous to the abnormal’], to reuse Foucault’s term. There is no longer
any need to mention any hideous affliction, although, as Davis (1995:
35) points out, referring to mid-nineteenth-century eugenicist attitudes
to disability and ‘allegedly “undesirable” traits’, ‘criminals, the poor, and
people with disabilities might be mentioned in the same breath’.
Homais’s rhetoric of marginalisation promotes these attitudes, and also
accurately reflects contemporary policy. Danger is the key determining
factor in the loi sur les aliénés of 1838. Article 18, in the section dealing
with ‘des placements ordonnés par l’autorité publique’ [‘placements
ordered by the public authorities’], places responsibility on prefects to
order ‘le placement, dans un établissement d’aliénés, de toute personne
interdite, ou non interdite, dont l’état d’aliénation compromettrait
l’ordre public ou la sûreté des personnes’ [‘the placing, in an establish-
ment for the insane, of any person who has, or has not, been declared
insane by a court, whose state of mental alienation could compromise
public order or the safety of persons’]. The 1838 law is well known for
its transfer of power of internment from the courts to an alliance of
top-down political authority and increasingly powerful aliénistes, but
significantly, it is not only doctors who are consulted. Article 19 states
that the ‘danger imminent’ [‘imminent danger’] presented by an indi-
vidual can be ‘attesté par le certificat d’un médecin ou par la notoriété
publique’ [‘attested by a doctor’s certificate or by public notoriety’].
The exclusionary triumph of disciplinary power
It is impossible for us to know exactly how and through what precise

mechanisms – batterie cachée indeed – Homais succeeds in having
the Blind Beggar put away for good, but it is certain that the danger
presented by him has enjoyed notoriété publique, thanks to Homais’s
journalistic efforts. More generally, we cannot know for sure the
exact nature of the Blind Beggar’s fate, any more than we can know
the exact nature of his illness, but what we can say is that the insti-
tutional context of internment in the late July Monarchy lends itself
strongly to Homais’s lurid rhetoric and its effects. These are in some
sense an articulation of the continuation by other means of practices
of exclusion dating back centuries, now grounded in a nineteenth-
century extra-judicial collusion of civil authority with medical pouvoir-
savoir, of which Homais – although a small-town pharmacist – is at
cantonal level the only credible representative, and at departmental
level, through his constant topographical and discursive va-et-vient,
a highly effective one. His success in his struggle with his adversary
entrenches him further in the networks of disciplinary power in which
he is implicated, and facilitates his diversification, via statistics, into
other philosophical domains, investing him with authority in ‘prob-
lème social, moralisation des classes pauvres, pisciculture, caoutchouc,
chemins de fer, etc’ (OC I: 690) [‘social reforms, raising the moral
standards of the poor, pisciculture, rubber, the railways, etc.’ (Flaubert
2004: 307)]. Homais no longer has any need to feel threatened by
the sovereign power which the disciplinary power of which he is
a medium has superseded; thus (OC I: 691; Flaubert 2004: 309) he
‘inclinait vers le Pouvoir’ [‘made overtures to Power’] and is happy to
perform secret services for the prefect, no doubt using weapons drawn
from a ‘batterie cachée’.
As for the Aveugle, he remains impossible to pin down, diagnostically,
symbolically, or otherwise, except as marginal otherness. This is in a sense
what the 1838 law is for. Irrespective of the specificity of his ailment,
concerning which diagnostic attempts are doomed to failure, he –
or rather, his treatment – is an embodiment of institutional exclusion.
The regime of institutional exclusion is on the one hand a legacy of the
exclusion of lepers, alluded to in Homais’s rhetoric, and on the other a
product of a regime of disciplinary power intimately linked with practices
arising from the pestiferous and pervasive contagion that replaced
leprosy in the repertoire of social fears, and asserting itself not only over
the unruly physiological body, but also over the social body and the
collective body of disciplinary knowledge that emerged in the nineteenth

century. Homais is at the heart of this regime’s assertive self-imposition
on all fronts, and the Aveugle is his adversary, both real and symbolic.
If we were to attempt to integrate within the contemporary discursive
context the standard reading of the Aveugle’s symbolic significance or
purpose for the novel, we might see his status as all-too-real harbinger
of death in terms of madness (or perceived madness) having taken the
baton, as it were, from leprosy, as ultimate otherness to be excluded
from social life, as phenomenon on the margins of life itself (Foucault
1972: 31; 2006a: 14): ‘la folie, c’est le déjà-là de la mort’ [‘madness was
the being-already-there of death’]. Moreover (Foucault 1972: 31, n. 1;
2006a: 596, n. 53), ‘[e]n ce sens, l’expérience de la folie est en rigoureuse
continuité avec celle de la lèpre’ [‘in this sense, the experience of
madness has a rigorous continuity with that of leprosy’], as ‘[l]e rituel
d’exclusion du lépreux montrait qu’il était, vivant, la présence même
de la mort’ [‘the ritual of exclusion of the leper showed that he was, in
life, the very presence of death’]. Foucault is referring here to the social
experience and perception of madness in the middle ages, when (1972:
30; 2006a: 14) ‘le thème de la mort règne seul’ [‘the death theme reigns
supreme’]. Homais, despite his denunciation of what he presents as
relics of the middle ages, is actually calling for the reinstatement of the
middle ages, at least as far as the confinement of the socially marginal
and undesirable is concerned.
The Aveugle, whatever his actual condition, is symbolically and
institutionally both leper and madman, and doubtless many things in
between. He doesn’t exactly have the novel’s last laugh, which is figura-
tively the triumphant Homais’s, and literally Emma’s: on her deathbed
(OC I: 684; Flaubert 2004: 290), ‘Emma se mit à rire, d’un rire atroce,
frénétique, désespéré, croyant voir la face hideuse du misérable’ [‘Emma
began to laugh, a ghastly, frenzied, despairing laugh, believing she
could see the wretch’s hideous face’]. But, to give Foucault (1972: 31;
2006a: 15) the last word, ‘ce qu’il y a dans le rire du fou, c’est qu’il rit par
avance du rire de la mort’ [‘the laugh of the madman is the anticipation
of the rictus grin of death’].
Part III
Zola: Professional, Pathological,
and Therapeutic Incorporations
5
La Bête humaine and the
Incorporation of Psychiatry:
du monstre lombrosien à l’anormal
zolien, de la mécanique à la
thermodynamique
In this chapter we will be examining a number of shifts that

occur as psychiatry becomes incorporated as discipline, in particular
the one flagged in the previous chapter whereby monstrosity is
pathologised as abnormality, examined here in greater detail in
relation to mid-nineteenth-century aliéniste literature, significant
elements of which are incorporated almost invisibly within Émile
Zola’s 1890 novel La Bête humaine. Those shifts include the following:
the physiologisation, the incorporation, the situation within the
body – as opposed to the nebulous location of the mind – of mental
illness; the shift from delusion to instinct in the consideration of
madness; the shift from classical mechanics to thermodynamics in
the understanding of the impossibility of the perpetual motion sought
historically by necromancers and eccentrics, and, in the nineteenth
century, by monomaniacs; and the shift from the eccentric idée fixe to
monomania, a key notion in early psychiatry, which was central to that
discipline’s increasing involvement in the criminal justice system, and
is our starting point.
Plût à Dieu que nos juges fussent des médecins!
Michelet remarks somewhere that ‘il faudrait que le juge fût médecin’
[‘the judge should be a doctor’]. At least, Zola (N.a.f. 10303, fo 63)
cites him as having done so, in the list of putative novels that he
sends to the publisher Lacroix in 1868, in relation to the slot in the
future Rougon-Macquart series reserved for a ‘roman judiciaire’ [‘judicial
novel’] concerned with ‘un de ces cas étranges de criminels par hérédité
qui, sans être fou, tue un jour dans une crise morbide, poussé par un
instinct de bête’ [‘one of those strange cases of hereditary criminality
155
156 Zola: Professional, Pathological, and Therapeutic Incorporations
who, without being mad, one day kills in a morbid seizure, driven by
bestial instinct’].1 It is tempting to identify in this genetic artefact a
prefiguration of a novel in which a dominant factor will be ‘l’engrenage
psychiatrico-judiciaire’ [‘the meshing together of the pscyhiatric and
the judicial’] which, according to Michel Foucault (1999: 259; 2003b:
274), begins to constitute itself early in the middle of the nineteenth
century. This inter-institutional development is contemporary with a
shift from a ‘psychiatrie du délire’ [‘psychiatry of delusion’] to a ‘psychi-
atrie de l’instinct’ [‘psychiatry of instinct’], emerging not from within
psychiatry, but rather (Foucault 1999: 124; 2003b: 134):
D’un certain jeu, d’une certaine distribution et d’un certain engrenage

entre des mécanismes du pouvoir, les uns caractéristiques de
l’institution judiciaire, les autres caractéristiques de l’institution, ou
plutôt du pouvoir et du savoir médicaux.
[From a certain interplay, a certain distribution and meshing

of mechanisms of power, some of which were characteristic of
the judicial institution and others characteristic of the medical
institution, or rather of medical power and knowledge.]
The difficulty of establishing identity of magistrate and doctor in Zola,

despite the apparent enthusiasm for it demonstrated in his letter to
Lacroix, is that in his dedicated ‘roman judiciaire’, La Bête humaine,
the medical status of the magistrate is slight, to say the least. Denizet,
leading the investigation into the murder in a train compartment of
Grandmorin, a well-connected former lawyer now on the board of the
Chemins de fer de l’Ouest, ‘s’était fait de sa fonction un type d’anatomiste
moral’ (RM IV: 1084) [‘had made his role that of some kind of moral
anatomist’ (Zola 2009a: 99)]: this is the only reference to any claim on
Denizet’s part to medical expertise.2 In the late nineteenth century, an
‘anatomiste moral’ is as likely a certain type of novelist as a doctor. It
might be pointed out here that Zola is the very type of the romancier-
anatomiste, given the ideas put forward in Le Roman expérimental identi-
fying precisely the practice of the novelist with that of the experimental
physician, which is not even to mention the content of Zola’s novels.
However, whereas Denizet sees himself as an ‘anatomiste moral’, for the
naturalist novelist morality doesn’t come into it: the naturalist novelist,
writes Zola in Les Romanciers naturalistes (1881) ‘n’est pas un moraliste
mais un anatomiste’ (OCZ 11: 99) [‘is not a moralist but an anatomist’].
He is thus a different type of anatomist from the one Denizet styles
La Bête humaine and the Incorporation of Psychiatry 157
himself as; rather than the moral anatomy of psychological novelists,

Zola’s interest is in an anatomy that is experimental, determinist,
physiological. The moral anatomy studied by Denizet, who is ‘doué
de seconde vue, extrêmement spirituel’ (RM IV: 1084) [‘endowed with
second sight, and extremely sharp-witted’ (Zola 2009a: 99)], borders on
the metaphysical. Apart from Denizet’s pretension to the status of moral
anatomist, then, what of actual doctors in La Bête humaine? There is
only one direct appearance in the novel of a doctor, who describes in his
procès-verbal – one ‘pièce judiciaire’ among several others – the wound
to the throat of the victim of the railway murder (RM IV: 1083; Zola
2009a: 98). Two other doctors are mentioned in their absence. In both
these cases, the doctors have no idea as to the complaints which they
are called upon to examine. The first case concerns Jacques’s condition,
qualified by Phasie as ‘les choses dont tu souffrais, et auxquelles le
docteur ne comprenait rien’ (RM IV: 1034) [‘that business you suffered
from, that the doctors could make no sense of’ (Zola 2009a: 43)]; the
second case is that of Phasie’s poisoning, in Jacques’s words ‘une mala-
die à laquelle les médecins ne comprennent rien’ [‘an illness that the
doctors don’t understand’], which prompts a proliferation of diagnoses
from the doctors: ‘il en est venu deux qui n’ont rien compris, et qui ne
sont pas seulement tombés d’accord’ [‘there’ve been two of them here,
didn’t understand at all, didn’t even agree’], says Phasie (RM IV: 1181;
Zola 2009a: 203). Doctors are shown to have no consensus, whether on
Phasie’s literal poisoning, or on the hereditary poisoning of Jacques’s
blood.
On the absence of doctors and the presence of reason(s)
It would seem, then, as against Michelet’s aspiration, noted by Zola,

that the judge is not in fact a doctor, and neither moreover is the doctor
a judge: there does not appear to be any presence either of the famous
‘engrenage médico-judiciaire’ [‘medico-judicial mechanism’] identified
by Foucault at the Collège de France in 1975 as engulfing French soci-
ety in the second half of the nineteenth century, or of the Micheletian
magistrate–doctor identity alluded to by Zola in the 1868 series outline.
The ‘mécanisme judiciaire’ [‘judicial mechanism’] mentioned by Zola
(N.a.f. 10274, fo 402) in the ébauche for his novel, which is to con-
stitute the ‘côté magistrat’ [‘judicial angle’] complementing the ‘côté
chemin de fer’ [‘railway angle’] and the ‘côté meurtre’ [‘murder angle’]
of the plot, contains no medical rouages [cogs]. This seems all the more
strange for the fact that this novelist supremely concerned with the
cogs and wheels of complex systems is one who famously, in Le Roman

expérimental (1880), makes claims to a medical dimension at the heart of
his work, and whose initial planning of his ‘roman judiciaire’ presumes
a connection between medicine and the justice system. Foucault (1975:
24; 1991: 18–19), indicating preoccupations similar to Zola’s, even
speaks of a ‘mécanique judiciaire’ [‘judicial mechanism’] raising new
questions, from the mid-nineteenth century onwards, on the subject
of violent crimes: ‘Non plus simplement: “Qui en est l’auteur?” Mais:
“Comment assigner le processus causal qui l’a produit? Où en est, dans
l’auteur lui-même, l’origine?” Instinct, inconscient, milieu, hérédité’
[‘It is no longer simply: “Who committed it?” But: “How can we assign
the causal process that produced it? Where did it originate in the author
himself? Instinct, unconscious, environment, heredity?”’]. Why, then, a
generation after the emergence, in Foucault’s account, of psychiatry as a
medico-judicial mechanism in the mid-nineteenth century, are there no
aliénistes within the diegesis of this novel on homicidal madness, of this
episode in a cycle which claims to depict the totality of modern society
and of the functioning of its inner workings, above all when Zola seems
to have acknowledged this particular engrenage of the medical and
the judicial in his plan of 1868? Moreover, the term ‘folie homicide’
[‘homicidal madness’] appears several times in the dossier préparatoire,
and is even included in Zola’s list of potential titles for the novel (N.a.f.
10274, fo 304). The term can also be found in an update to the arbre
généalogique: ‘Hérédité de l’ivrognerie se tournant en folie homicide.
État de crime’ (N.a.f. 10274, fo 581) [‘Hereditary drunkenness turning
into homicidal madness’]. Why, then, is the medical angle absent from
the diegesis?
There are – at least – two answers to this question. First of all, it will
have been observed that the question contains the term ‘diegesis’,
used here in terms of its understanding by Gérard Genette, for whom
(1972: 72) ‘diégèse’ is synonym for ‘histoire’: the story to which the
text, the récit, gives expression. I use this term first to distinguish the
period represented by the novel – ostensibly the late Second Empire –
from the period during which it was written at the end of the 1880s
(by which time psychiatry and criminal psychology have established
themselves), although the novel’s genesis – at least as far as Zola is
concerned – goes back to 1868 (as we shall see, its discursive geneal-
ogy goes back much further).3 This terminological specificity is also
necessary for the purpose of distinguishing the récit from its narrative
content: I will argue here that despite the absence from the diegesis of
psychiatrists, there is nevertheless a psychiatric presence in the text, the
traces of which can be followed genetically, that is on the basis of Zola’s

documentary notes, confronted with the published text, and also, and
in a double sense, genealogically: both in terms of the genealogy of the
disciplinary discourse of psychiatry, and also of a discursive project –
Les Rougon-Macquart – predicated precisely on a family genealogy.
Psychiatrists, or rather their aliéniste precursors, are thus absent from the
narrative diegesis but this does not mean that proto-psychiatry, aliénisme
as discourse, is absent from the novel – far from it. There are, moreover,
elements of a significant cultural marker of mental illness, which we will
discuss later in the chapter.
A second possible (and related) explanation for the absence of
psychiatrists from the novel is that if, in the absence of reason, there
is presence of madness – the basis, according to Foucault (1999:
113–15; 2003b: 121–3), on which psychiatric interventions in the
criminal justice system occurred prior to the ‘discovery’ of the positive
phenomenon of instinct – it can be said also that at the diegetic level of
La Bête humaine, there is, in the presence of reason, apparent absence of
madness. And within the diegetic framework of Zola’s novel, above all
within the judicial context, there is too much reason, or rather, there
are perhaps rather too many reasons, too many explanations or motives,
of varying degrees of plausibility. To explain the crimes committed
within the novel’s narrative, there is a typically Zolian proliferation
of explanatory discourses: in the press, ‘les histoires les plus étranges
circulaient’ (RM IV: 1076) [‘the most extraordinary stories were
circulating’ (Zola 2009a: 91)], and as far as the judicial investigation,
which has generated ‘la matière d’un dossier énorme’ (RM IV: 1082)
[‘an enormous file of documentation’ (Zola 2009a: 96)] is concerned,
‘le dossier se compliquait encore des pièces judiciaires’ (RM IV: 1083)
[‘the file was becoming complicated further by the legal documents’
(Zola 2009a: 97)].4 This complication is further compounded, moreover,
by different witness statements. More precisely, the specific term
used by the judicial mechanism for each possible explanation for the
novel’s two principal murders, each possible narrative configuration, is
‘système’ (RM IV: 1087, 1094, 1100, 1104, 1116, 1314, 1316, 1318, 1320)
[variously, depending on context, ‘system’, ‘theory’, ‘strategy’, ‘story’,
‘case’ (Zola 2009a: 102, 110, 116, 120, 134, 348, 351, 353, 356)].5 There
is no simple, no single, linear narrative; rather, in each case there is a
network of narrative threads, each having its own internal coherence,
imbricated moreover at the level of the text in the network of discourses
constituted by the novel, and by extension (of this infinitely extensible
network …) at the level of the Rougon-Macquart cycle.
But none of these ‘systèmes’ – with the ironic exception of Roubaud’s

‘roman’ [‘novel’], dismissed by Denizet – is the right one. This is not
only because those who have presented them are lying: and they are all
lying, including the magistrate, who suppresses a fragment of the truth –
or at least a version of the truth which doesn’t suit him – to keep the
machine of justice ticking over, to avoid scandal (that of Grandmorin’s
predilection for young girls…), and to expedite his promotion
within the judicial mechanism. In all of these ‘systèmes’ there is a
presupposition of economic or sexual interest, that is, of a reason, and
consequently of Reason, to the necessary exclusion of madness, still
associated – within a pre-psychiatric paradigm where instinct as positive
quantity has not yet been identified – with delusion, with an erroneous
perception of reality: in Foucault’s terms (1999: 120; 2003b: 130), ‘la
folie était essentiellement ordonnée – et elle l’était encore au début du
XIXe siècle – à l’erreur, à l’illusion, au délire, à la fausse croyance, à la
non-obéissance à la vérité’ [‘madness was conceived in terms of error,
illusion, delirium, false belief, and nonobedience to the truth – and it
still was at the beginning of the nineteenth century’].
There are numerous murders in La Bête humaine, and still more
deaths, all of which occur in contexts that are to a greater or lesser
extent railway-related. But only two of these are investigated. The first
is that of Grandmorin, killed by Roubaud for having deflowered his
wife, Séverine, at a young age. Roubaud and Séverine lead him into a
trap, and Roubaud kills him in a train compartment, witnessed doing
so by Jacques Lantier, engine driver, and, as we will see presently,
psychopath. Jacques, the sole witness, keeps his silence. The Roubaud
couple may have the opportunity to profit from the will of their victim,
who, moreover, has been robbed during the murder: this means that
the murder has a reason, indeed that it is motivated by Reason (for the
judicial system if not for the narrative), even if it is not the real reason.
Madness is thus not even considered.
Du monstre à l’anormal
The finger is pointed initially at Cabuche, a local misfit with physical

features corresponding to the influential archetype of the criminel-né,
the ‘born criminal’ promulgated in the works of the Italian criminal
anthropologist Cesare Lombroso, but even in Cabuche’s case there is
reason, or indeed a reason: a plausible potential motive in vengeance
informed, as it is in the case of Roubaud, by Grandmorin’s interest in
young girls.6 Although Cabuche’s alleged involvement is reported – by
Grandmorin’s sister – as being a matter of a jealous rage on the part of a

monster, a ‘loup-garou’, ‘énorme et bestial’ (RM IV: 1091) [‘a werewolf’,
‘enormous and bestial’ (Zola 2009a: 106)], there is still nevertheless a
reason. Moreover, Cabuche is not the degenerate ‘anormal’ who, for
Foucault, haunts modern society on account of the very invisibility of his
deviant degeneracy, but a much too obvious monster, described here –
in style indirect libre articulating Denizet’s knowing perception – as he
stands in the dock for a crime he has not committed, but for which
he will be convicted: ‘le type même de l’assassin, des poings énormes,
des mâchoires de carnassier, enfin un de ces gaillards qu’il ne fait pas
bon rencontrer au coin d’un bois’ (RM IV: 1320) [‘the very type of the
murderer, with enormous fists, carnivorous jaws, in short one of those
fellows that you wouldn’t want to meet in some corner of a wood’ (Zola
2009a: 355)]. Colette Becker (2006: 44) reminds us that Zola ‘donne des
caractères du criminel-né à Misard, à Pecqueux et surtout à Cabuche’
[‘gives characteristics of the born criminal to Misard, Pecqueux and
above all to Cabuche’], and suggests that this is in order to play ironi-
cally with the Lombrosian criminological paradigm. Denizet condemns
Cabuche, ‘attitude que Zola conteste avec une ironie amère, mettant
ainsi en cause les certitudes de certains criminalistes fondées plus sur
des fantasmes d’époque – le type de l’ouvrier, de l’homme du peuple –
que sur une analyse scientifique’ [‘an attitude that Zola contests
with bitter irony, thus calling into question the certainties of certain
criminologists, based more on contemporary fantasies – the typical
worker or man of the people – than on any scientific analysis’]. Zola is
moreover (Becker 2006: 48) ‘du côté de ceux qui mettent en question
ce que d’aucuns présentent comme un savoir précis, fiable, sur la
possibilité de repérer les criminels à partir de caractères physiques, de
lier malformations du crâne, des oreilles, dissymétrie du visage, etc.,
à la propension au mal’ [‘on the side of those who question what some
present as a precise, reliable field of knowledge, on the possibility of
spotting criminals on the basis of physical characteristics, and linking
malformations of the skull and the ears, facial asymmetries, and so on,
to a propension to evil’].
Cabuche, then, may be marginal and perceived as being danger-
ous, but he is not considered mad in terms of the understanding of
contemporary aliénisme: there is no psychiatric intervention here.
Cabuche is the monster on the outer fringes of society, the savage
in the woods, and is thus beyond any such intervention; he is not
Foucault’s ‘anormal’ incorporated within the social body, necessarily
integrated into its infrastructure (in this case the railway emblematic
of modernity), whose abnormality is obscured by apparent normality.

This might be understood in terms of what Foucault refers to in 1975
at the Collège de France (1999: 102; 2003b: 110) as the ‘passage du
monstre à l’anormal’ [‘transition from the monster to the abnormal’].
Before the advent of the famous ‘engrenage psychiatrico-judiciaire’ in
the mid-nineteenth century, acts of ‘folie homicide’ are viewed (1999:
102; 2003b: 111) in terms of the ‘monstre non pas encore comme
catégorie psychiatrique, mais comme catégorie juridique et comme
fantasme politique’ [‘the monster considered still as a legal category
and a political fantasy rather than a psychiatric category’]. In this sense,
Cabuche is the archetype of the monstrous murderer. The ‘fantasme
politique’ [‘political fantasy’] is that of the anthropophagous regicide.
What haunts the bourgeoisie, according to Foucault (1999: 97; 2003b:
104), is ‘le souverain despotique et le peuple révolté’, ‘le roi incestueux
et le peuple cannibale’ [‘the despotic sovereign and the people in revolt’,
‘the incestuous king and the cannibalistic people’]. If Grandmorin,
representative of power and seducer of young women, is in some
sense the ‘roi incestueux’, Cabuche, with his ‘mâchoires de carnassier’
[‘carnivore’s jaws’], who has – according to Grandmorin’s sister –
threatened to ‘saigner [Grandmorin] comme un cochon’ [‘bleed him to
death like a pig’] (RM IV: 1092; Zola 2009a: 108), is the cannibal, outside
the law as well as society. But his outlaw status is juridical, fantasmatic
and not medical. It is in the judicial and not the psychiatric context
that his presumed guilt – rather than an unmentioned madness – is
pronounced upon; the closest anyone gets to ‘scientific’ consideration
of his criminality is Denizet’s identification of his degenerate features
through the filter of the popular understanding of Lombroso’s criminal
anthropology. And in this instalment of a series informed by heredity,
there is no information on Cabuche’s genetic inheritance. All that his
father has left to him, we learn (RM IV: 1091; Zola 2009a: 106), is land.
His heredity – like his presumed status as monstrous murderer – is
juridical rather than genetic.
It is Cabuche’s status as marginal monster, then, which condemns
him in the eyes of justice and of the public, which, within the novel’s
diegesis, appear to inhabit the pre-psychiatric paradigm, not yet hav-
ing taken psychiatry on board, yet at the same time inhabiting a world
where the greatest threat is now presented by the hidden degenerate –
a threat which is moreover properly hereditary in a genetic sense.
By way of example, a fairly representative text on what had become
known as dégénérescence (see Pick 1989: 7–8) is Ulysse Trélat’s La Folie
lucide [‘Lucid Madness’] (1861), which was consulted by Zola. This work
considers the threat – one that is as much genetic as criminal – presented

by dangerous individuals who, according to Trélat (1861: xii), are ‘fous,
mais ne paraissent pas fous parce qu’ils s’expriment avec lucidité’, ‘fous
dans leurs actes plutôt que dans leurs paroles’ [‘mad, but who do not
appear mad as they express themselves with lucidity’, ‘mad in their
deeds rather than in their words’].7 The mentally ill individuals who are
‘les plus dangereux’ [‘the most dangerous ones’] are ‘les plus difficiles à
reconnaître, ceux qui s’introduisent le plus aisément dans nos familles et
ne peuvent y apporter que le malheur’ [‘the most difficult to recognise,
those who introduce themselves with greatest ease into our families
and can only bring them unhappiness’]. They are dangerous, the
doctor (Trélat 1861: 15) adds in a footnote, ‘parce qu’ils sont les moins
redoutés, et que, ne les connaissant pas, on ne se défie point d’eux’
[‘because they are the least feared, and because, not recognising them,
no one is wary of them’]. This indeed marks the ‘passage du monstre à
l’anormal’, a shift from socially marginalised monstrosity to psychiatric
abnormality within the social body, which, at the localised level of La
Bête humaine, can be seen as the shift from Cabuche to Jacques.
The second crime in the novel brought to trial is the murder of
Séverine Roubaud, wife and accomplice of the first murderer, lover and
victim of Jacques Lantier, engine driver and hereditary psychopath. In
this case also a reason is found for the crime, leading to the punishment
of two individuals who are only guilty in terms of the plausibility
of the ‘système’ constructed by the investigating magistrate, accord-
ing to which Roubaud, ‘n’osant tuer lui-même, s’était servi du bras de
Cabuche, cette bête violente’ [‘not daring himself to kill, used the hand
of Cabuche, that violent beast’], who ‘reparaissait avec ses appétits
de brute’ [‘reappeared with his brutal cravings’]. According to this ‘système’,
the reason for the crime is as follows (RM IV: 1311; Zola 2009a: 345):
Le ménage des Roubaud s’était gâté, le mari avait mangé les cinq
mille francs [stolen from his victim Grandmorin], la femme en était
arrivée à prendre un amant […]. Sans doute elle refusait de vendre la
Croix-de-Maufras [the property left to her in the victim’s will, located
at the scene of the murder]; peut-être […] menaçait-elle de le livrer
à la justice.
[The Roubauds’ marriage had broken down; the husband had eaten
away the five thousand francs, and the wife had gone and taken a
lover over it all … Doubtless she refused to sell the Croix-de-Maufras;
perhaps … she was threatening to hand him over to the law.]
Where there is reason, that is, a reason, there is, apparently, absence
of madness. In this context it is hard to be surprised by Denizet’s
conclusion, articulated (RM IV: 1311; Zola 2009a: 345) in style indirect
libre by the narrative: ‘telle était la vérité, l’aveuglante vérité, tout y
aboutissait’ [‘this was the truth, the blinding truth, to which everything
pointed’]. Within the parameters of this eminently plausible yet
‘blinding’ logic, the possibility of insanity is not even entertained. But
the truth is that the murderer is Jacques. And Jacques is someone who
is not altogether normal, and is aware of the fact, as is indicated by the
novel’s celebrated passage on his inheritance of the fêlure héréditaire,
the family’s hereditary flaw, passed down through a genetic faultline
(RM IV: 1043; Zola 2009a: 52–3):
La famille n’était guère d’aplomb, beaucoup avait une fêlure. Lui, à

certaines heures, la sentait bien, cette fêlure héréditaire; non pas qu’il
fût d’une santé mauvaise, car l’appréhension et la honte de ses crises
l’avaient seules maigri autrefois; mais c’étaient, dans son être de
subites pertes d’équilibre, comme des cassures, des trous par lesquels
son moi lui échappait, au milieu d’une sorte de grande fumée qui
déformait tout. Il ne s’appartenait plus, il obéissait à ses muscles, à la
bête enragée. Pourtant, il ne buvait pas, […] ayant remarqué que la
moindre goutte d’alcool le rendait fou. Et il en venait à penser qu’il
payait pour les autres, les pères, les grands-pères, qui avaient bu, les
générations d’ivrognes dont il était le sang gâté, un lent empoisonne-
ment, une sauvagerie qui le ramenait avec les loups mangeurs de
femmes, au fond des bois.
[The family was hardly a stable one; many of its members were
half cracked. At certain moments, he had a strong sense of it, this
hereditary faultline; not that he suffered from bad health, for it was
only the apprehension and shame brought on by his seizures that
had used to make him thin; but rather it was those sudden losses of
control, deep within his being, like fractures, holes through which
his self would escape from him, in the midst of a kind of great haze
of smoke that deformed everything. He was no longer his own mas-
ter; he obeyed his muscles, and the rabid beast within. However,
he didn’t drink … having noticed that the slightest drop of alcohol
made him mad. And he had come round to the idea that he was
paying for the others, the fathers, the grandfathers, who had been
drinkers, the generations of drunkards of whose blood he was the
spoilt issue, that he was paying the price of a gradual poisoning, of a
relapse into primitive savagery that was dragging him back into the
forest, among the wolves, among the wolves that ate women.]
This can be read as a stylised development of the revised note, intended

for the arbre généalogique, that can be found (N.a.f. 10274, fo 582) in
the dossier préparatoire for La Bête humaine: ‘hérédité de l’ivrognerie
se tournant en folie homicide. État de crime’ [‘heredity of drunkenness
turning into homicidal madness. State of crime’]. But this ‘folie
homicide’ [‘homicidal madness’] appears to co-exist with what would
seem to be a capacity for reasoning. Jacques, despite some ‘signes du
criminel-né’ [‘signs of the born criminal’] that a note in the dossier
insists (N.a.f. 10274, fo 540) should not be forgotten about, is almost
normal in appearance. In the novel, ‘Il venait d’avoir vingt-six ans, […],
très brun, beau garçon au visage rond et régulier, mais que gâtaient des
mâchoires trop fortes’ [‘He had just turned twenty-six, a good-looking
boy with a round face and regular features, that were spoilt, however,
by overpronounced jawbones’]. So Jacques, it could be said, even if he
is not completely normal, is almost normal. Almost bourgeois, even: ‘[o]n
aurait dit un monsieur’ [‘[h]e might have been taken for a gentleman’],
were his status as a worker not revealed by his hands (RM IV: 1026;
Zola 2009a: 35). Moreover, he is for the most part in good health, and
above all, he is capable of engaging in reasoning about his hereditary
condition.
La raison sans le crime, le crime malgré la raison
He is also, crucially, capable of reasoning about murder, and about mur-

derous instinct. At a critical moment in the novel, a moment at which
Jacques recoils from the opportunity to kill Roubaud (RM IV: 1241; Zola
2009a: 268–9):
Tout croula en lui, d’un coup. Non, non! il ne tuerait point, il ne

pouvait tuer ainsi cet homme sans défense. Le raisonnement ne ferait
jamais le meurtre, il fallait l’instinct de mordre, le saut qui jette sur la
proie, la faim ou la passion qui la déchire. Qu’importait si la conscience
n’était faite que par des idées transmises par une lente hérédité de jus-
tice! Il ne se sentait pas le droit de tuer, et il avait beau faire, il n’arrivait
pas à se persuader qu’il pouvait le prendre.
[Everything crumbled within him, all at once. No, no! He would not
kill; he could not kill a defenceless man just like that. Murder would
never be done by reasoning; it needed the instinct that makes the

jaw snap, the leap that launches the beast onto its prey, the hunger
or fury that tears it to pieces. What did it matter whether conscience
was made of no more than ideas handed down from one genera-
tion to the next, through a slow heredity of justice! He couldn’t feel
within himself the right to kill, and try as he might have, he was
unable to persuade himself that he could give himself this right.]
Here can be seen a reformulation of the question of the right to kill

problematised in Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment (1866), first
published in French translation in 1884. Both Dostoyevsky’s novel and
this specific question are alluded to (N.a.f. 10274, fo 291, fo 383) in the
preparatory dossier for La Bête humaine.8 But what is most interesting
here is the acknowledgement by Jacques when he is being raisonnable,
that reason and justice are only discursive, epistemological systems,
which have their own genealogy, even if – and this is of great impor-
tance also – this makes no difference concerning the motivation to kill.
The idea that ‘la conscience n’était faite que par des idées transmises
par une lente hérédité de justice’ [‘conscience was only the product
of ideas transmitted via a slow heredity of justice’] is consistent with
Nietzsche’s argument (1998: 46) in the second part of On the Genealogy
of Morals that:
It is in [the sphere of] legal obligations […] that the moral concep-
tual world of ‘guilt’, ‘conscience’, ‘duty’, ‘sacred duty’ originates – its
beginning, like the beginning of everything great on earth, has long
been steeped in blood.
Jacques is plausibly acknowledging the contingent, historical, discur-

sive nature of notions of justice, but this changes nothing; even this
apparent moral licence fails to tempt him, as it might have tempted
Raskolnikov. No, Jacques is conscious, all too conscious, of the impor-
tance of genealogies: there is a genealogy much more powerful than
the ‘lente hérédité de la justice’ [‘slow heredity of justice’], and it is the
slow poisoning of his own bloodline, of which he is ‘le sang gâté’ [‘the
corrupt issue’], which will – and he is well aware of it – lead him, in
combination with (sexual) instinct, to kill a woman.
And just as ‘le raisonnement ne ferait jamais le meurtre’ [‘murder
would never be done by reasoning’], nor will reason prevent murder
either, given the existence of instinct – a positive phenomenon of
which reasonable Jacques is fully aware. At the level of the novel’s
text, much more knowing than its narrative, there will be (homicidal)
madness even where there is reason. Reason and madness, despite what
the judicial machine, still in a pre-psychiatric paradigm, might think,
can easily co-exist, and it is in their co-existence ‘au fond sombre de la
bête humaine’ (RM IV: 1155) [‘in the dark recesses of the human beast’
(Zola 2009a: 176)], that the greatest danger lies. The essential subject
of Zola’s novel is perhaps what psychiatry as pouvoir-savoir in its rise to
disciplinary incorporation claims sole ability to detect, as outlined by
Foucault at the Collège de France in 1975. Using the analogy of fairy
tales involving tests of royalty, such as glass slippers, rings, and peas
under mattresses, Foucault (1999: 113; 2003b: 121–2) states that:
La psychiatrie s’est donné elle-même cette espèce d’épreuve de

reconnaissance de sa royauté, épreuve de reconnaissance de sa sou-
veraineté, de son pouvoir et de son savoir: Moi, je suis capable de
repérer comme maladie, de retrouver des signes à ce qui pourtant ne
se signale jamais. Imaginez un crime imprévisible, mais qui pourrait
être reconnu comme signe particulier d’une folie diagnosticable ou
prévisible par un médecin, imaginez cela, donnez-moi cela – dit la
psychiatrie – moi je suis capable de la reconnaître; un crime sans
raison, un crime qui est donc le danger absolu, le danger touffu
dans le corps de la société, moi je me fais fort de la reconnaître. Par
conséquent, si je peux analyser un crime sans raison, je serai reine.
[Psychiatry set itself the following kind of test of recognition of its

royalty, a test of recognition of its sovereignty, of its knowledge and
power: I am capable of spotting as illness, of finding signs of what
never, however, announces its presence. Imagine a crime that is
unforeseeable, but which could be recognised as the particular sign
of madness that a doctor could diagnose or foresee; imagine that,
grant me that – says psychiatry – I am capable of recognising it.
A crime without reason, a crime which is thus the absolute danger,
the danger embedded deep within the body of society; I am sure to
recognise it. Consequently, if I can analyse a crime without reason,
I will be Queen.]
Psychiatry’s role as outlined here is in some sense performed by Zola’s

text, which, underpinned by alienist discourse invisible in its narrative,
sniffs out the absolute, embedded danger in an individual of appar-
ently normal appearance, but whose hereditary instinct – rather than
delusion, error, false belief, non-adherence to the truth – causes him
to kill. That Zola’s text – rather than the judicial mechanism which it
depicts – detects this danger is hardly surprising given its genealogi-
cal relations with contemporary and anterior psychiatric discourse,
which are clearly on display in the genetic dossier of La Bête humaine
and in that of the series of which the novel is a part. Discourse on
the hereditary aspect of crime and on dégénérescence is clearly ‘touffu’
[‘embedded’], so to speak, within the ‘corps’ [‘body’] of this text.
Histoire(s) lombrosienne(s), texte(s) aliéniste(s)
The text’s primary sources are well known, and well documented.9
As far as the development of the novel itself is concerned, there are
numerous contemporary texts consulted by Zola which can be situated
at the crossroads of psychiatry and the criminal justice system. The
obvious case in point is Lombroso’s work L’Uomo delinquente [‘Criminal
Man’, 1876], published in French translation as L’Homme criminel in 1887
and consulted by Zola in preparation for his ‘roman judiciaire’ [‘judi-
cial novel’], in which ideas on ‘la principale lésion’ [‘the prime lesion’]
in criminals, and ‘l’identité de la folie morale et du crime’ [‘the equiva-
lence of moral madness and crime’] are expressed (Lombroso 1887:
422, 544).10 Zola also draws on Gabriel Tarde’s work on comparative
criminality (1886), which asserts humanity’s adaptation of its beastly
tendencies to civilisation, and on Charles Féré’s study Dégénérescence et
criminalité, which asserts (Féré 1888: 85–6) ‘la parenté de la criminalité
et de la folie et de la dégénérescence en général, parenté qui se trahit
par la coïncidence fréquente du crime et de la dégénérescence, soit
chez le même individu, soit dans la même famille’ [‘the relatedness of
criminality and madness, and the degenerative tendency in general,
a relatedness which betrays itself in the frequent coincidentality of
crime and degeneration, whether in the same individual, or in the
same family’]. All three of these works were published by Alcan in 1886
and 1887. But despite their contemporaneity with the preparation of
Zola’s novel, and consistency with some of its themes, they have a rela-
tively superficial presence in its text, as in its dossier préparatoire, other
than in the use of certain terms already in the public domain such as
‘le type du criminel’ and the ‘criminel-né’ (and it is to be recalled that
it is the innocent Cabuche who is ‘le type du criminel-né’). This begs
the question of whether indeed the novel, through a Lombrosian fausse
piste [false trail or red herring], indicates that contemporary criminal
psychology is incapable of identifying the real criminal, seeing nei-
ther insanity in the crime, nor the criminal insanity potentially lying
beneath the surface of the apparently normal individual. Moreover,
it seems that Lombrosian discourse in particular, articulated within

the narrative from the point of view of a collective social and judicial
conscience, is somewhat equivalent to the pre-psychiatric phantasm
of monstrosity. Colette Becker states (2006: 48) that ‘Zola prend part
au grand débat scientifique et intellectuel des dernières décennies du
siècle sur le criminel, sa responsabilité, les risques élévés de récidive,
donc sur les dangers qu’il fait courir à la société’ [‘Zola was taking part
in the great scientific and intellectual debate of the last decades of the
century on the criminal, his responsibility, the heightened risks of
reoffending, and thus on the dangers he posed to society’].
It would seem, however, that Zola’s participation in this debate
consists in large part of reducing contemporary criminological
discourse, especially the ideas of Lombroso, to a false trail followed,
at the level of the narrative, by Denizet and other gullible (or
self-interested) individuals, who see, or affect for raison d’état to see,
obvious criminality in external appearances, and who are unable,
unlike Zola’s text, to see a hereditary and instinctive criminality which
manifests itself – despite the capacity to reason – in an apparently
normal individual. It is, rather, in works published in the middle of
the century that the essential psychiatric content embedded within
the text of La Bête humaine can be situated, that is in works contem-
porary not with the preparation of Zola’s novel but with the diegetic
timespan of the Rougon-Macquart cycle – works moreover which are
almost contemporary with the planning of the series. Instead of figur-
ing the Lombrosian moment, the novel articulates, rather, an earlier,
pivotal moment in the history of psychiatry, a shift from delirious
delusion to instinct, from the monster outside the law to the anormal
whose critically near-normal abnormality resides under the surface of
society, under the veneer of civilisation. The key texts in this respect –
at least in straightforward genetic terms – are the three alienist works
mentioned in the preparatory dossier of La Faute de l’abbé Mouret,
which contains an indication that the roman judiciaire will be predi-
cated on the psychiatrico-judicial nexus.11 The first of these, Bénédict-
Augustin Morel’s Traité des Dégénérescences [‘Treatise on Degenerative
Conditions’], published in 1857, explicitly advances the thesis that
drunkenness in the first generation in a sequence leads to homicidal
tendencies in the third. To illustrate this argument, Morel cites the case
of a particular family, noting (1857: 127):
A la 1ère génération: Immoralité, dépravation, excès alcooliques,

abrutissement moral; A la 2e génération: Ivrognerie héréditaire, accès
maniaques, paralysie générale; A la 3e génération: Sobriété, tendances
hypocondriaques, lypémanie, idees systématiques de persécutions,

tendances homicides.
[In the 1st generation: Immorality, depravity, alcoholic excesses,

moral brutishness; In the 2nd generation: hereditary drunkenness,
maniacal seizures, general paralysis; In the 3rd generation: Sobriety,
hypochondriac tendencies, lypomania, systematic thoughts of
persecution, homicidal tendencies.]
Zola’s notes on Morel have not survived, but it is not necessary to

perform a detailed genetic analysis to be able to identify a genealogical
relationship between medical treatise and novel, which can be situated
in the same epistemological field.
The second text in question is Trélat’s La Folie lucide (1861), which
discusses the notion of the madman who is all the more dangerous for
presenting all the features of the sane and rational individual. Again, it
is not necessarily in Zola’s notes that the conceptual relevance to the
future novel treating homicidal mania is to be found: there is a clear –
and in more than one sense – genealogical connection. More useful
than finding a precise trace leading from one text to another through
all its stages is situating Zola’s text within the genealogical context
in which their provenance – in the sense outlined in Chapter 6 of the
present study – lies. It is in the third of the alienist texts consulted by
Zola, the work by Dr Moreau de Tours, La Psychologie morbide, published
in 1859, that the greatest resonances with La Bête humaine can be found,
whether in genetic traces or in the larger genealogical field.
As Henri Mitterand points out (Zola 2002, II: 257), Zola (N.a.f. 10274,
fo 345) mistakenly transcribes the title of this text as ‘Physiologie
morbide’. Indeed, the context is one of ‘la psychologie cédant à la
physiologie’ [‘psychology giving way to physiology’], which is the
formulation used (and underlined) by Zola in his ébauche [rough draft]
to explain the futility of the act of reasoning in his hereditary killer.
This yielding of the mind to the body, this somatisation or incorporation
of madness, comes at the same moment as the shift from monstrosity
to abnormality. Zola’s formulation echoes the statement by the Swiss
naturalist Charles Bonnet (1775: xix), cited by Moreau (1859: 6;
Moreau’s emphasis):
L’homme est un être mixte … C’est sur son corps, et par son corps
que l’âme agit. Il faut donc toujours en revenir au physique comme à
la première origine de tout ce que l’âme éprouve.
[Man is a mixed being … It is on the body, and through the body,

that the soul acts. It is therefore always to the physical that we must
return, as to the primary origin of everything that the soul experiences.]
For Moreau (1859: 33), there is no doubt as to the location of the

primary physical origin of psychological illnesses:
Troubles psychiques, névroses, ont leur raison d’être dans la même

lésion primordiale; de là vient qu’on les observe tantôt isolément,
tantôt diversement groupés chez les divers membres d’une même
famille, ascendants, descendants, collatéraux, appartenant à une
seule ou à plusieurs générations.
[Troubles of the psyche, neuroses, have their raison d’être in the same
primordial lesion: whence the fact that they can be observed either
in isolation or diversely grouped among the various members of one
family, ancestors, descendants, collateral relatives, belonging to one
single generation or to several.]
The situation is rather similar in the case of his ‘savant confrère’, his learned
colleague Morel, whose conclusions on ‘les dégénérescences’ [‘degenerative
tendencies’] Moreau summarises approvingly (1859: 311 n.): ‘la lésion
primitive du tronc infecte toutes les branches de l’arbre généalogique’ [‘the
primitive lesion of the trunk infects all the branches of the family tree’].
Another curious commentary on this lesion (Moreau 1859: 38–9; emphasis
Moreau’s) informs the reader that:
Lorsque, de latente qu’elle était, la lésion primitive vient à se traduire

au dehors, les caractères sous lesquels elle apparaît, indiquent
manifestement un état d’éréthisme, d’orgasme général du système
nerveux.
[Whenever, however latent it might be, the primitive lesion comes to

present itself externally, the characteristics of its appearance manifestly
indicate a state of erethism, of general orgasm in the nervous system.]
If the nervous meltdown experienced by Jacques Lantier when the fêlure

héréditaire, the ‘lésion primitive’ [‘primitive lesion’], so to speak, of the
Rougon-Macquart family, manifests itself in murderous fashion within
him, is not an orgasm in a latter-day understanding of the term, it
remains curiously the case that it occurs precisely at the moment of sex-
ual possession. Instead of a sexual orgasm, there is a nervous ‘orgasme’
in Moreau’s understanding of the term, a sexually precipitated ‘furieux

vertige’ [‘a wild dizziness’] in which Jacques’s ‘volonté’ [‘will’] is
‘arrachée, anéantie’ [‘ripped away, destroyed’] (RM IV: 1296; Zola 2009a:
329), so that instead of possessing Séverine sexually, he kills her.
The ‘anéantissement’ of Jacques’s will – along with his corrupted,
contaminated bloodline – corresponds strongly with what Moreau
(1859: 310) characterises as ‘ces dégénérescences qui, en atteignant le
sens moral, anéantissaient l’équilibre intellectuel, paralysaient toute
réaction de la raison contre l’entraînement des passions, et semblaient
conduire presque fatalement au crime les individus dont la souche
était viciée’ [‘those instances of degeneration which, in attacking the
subject’s moral sense, destroyed any intellectual stability, paralysed any
reaction from the subject’s reasoning capacity against the carrying away
of the passions, and seemed to lead individuals with viciated bloodlines
fatally to crime’].
The important thing is that for Moreau, and in Jacques’s case, the
‘lésion primitive’ remains mostly hidden, but occasionally manifests
itself dramatically. And for Moreau, there is one context in which
illnesses of this nature manifest themselves more dramatically than in
others (1859: 289): ‘dans aucun cas, la folie héréditaire ne paraît jouer
un plus grand rôle que dans les crimes contre les personnes’ [‘in no case
does hereditary insanity appear to play a greater role than in crimes
against the person’]. Moreau supports this observation by referring
to works from the 1840s in which ‘des preuves abondent’ [‘evidence
abounds’]: his own work, La Folie raisonnante (1840), and Dr Prosper
Lucas’s Traité de l’hérédité (1847), on which Zola drew considerably for
the hereditary background to the Rougon-Macquart family. On the same
page, Moreau asserts the necessity of an institutional connection of
proto-psychiatry and the legal system, reproducing (with one omission)
‘ces belles paroles de M. Michelet’ [‘these fine words of M. Michelet’]:
‘Il faut que la justice devienne une médecine, s’éclairant des sciences
physiologiques, appréciant la part de fatalité qui se mêle aux actes
libres [enfin ne voulant pas punir seulement, mais guérir]. Il faut que
la médecine devienne une justice et une morale, c’est-à-dire que le
médecin, juge intelligent de la vie intime, entre dans l’examen des
causes morales qui amènent le mal physique, et ose aller à la source,
la réforme des habitudes d’où proviennent les maladies.’
[‘Justice should become a form of medicine, enlightening herself

through the physiological sciences, appreciating the extent to which
fatality is involved in acts of free will, in short, no longer wishing

to punish, but to cure. Medicine should become a form of justice
and a form of moral code, that is, the doctor, intelligent judge
of intimate life, should enter into the examination of the moral
causes which bring about physical ill, and dare to go right to the
source, the reform of the behavioural habits from which illnesses
emerge.’]
This direct quotation from Michelet’s ‘Note sur la femme réhabilitée

et innocentée par la science’ [‘Note on Woman Rehabilitated and
Proven Innocent by Science’; omission bracketed], an annex to L’Amour
(Michelet 1859: 443) is presumably also the source for the note – ‘Il
faut que la justice devienne une médecine (Michelet)’ – which Zola
reformulates for the plan sent to Lacroix. This note (N.a.f. 10294, fo
133) is followed by observations on ‘les lésions nerveuses’ [‘nervous
lesions’]. Moreau (1859: 289–91), in the pages following his approving
quotation from Michelet, quotes numerous other sources, including
Prichard, Morel, Lucas, and Esquirol, to bolster his thesis on the
impulsive capacity within apparently normal individuals for appalling
acts, and the incapacity of their faculty for reasoning to combat such
impulses. Two terms in particular are recurrent: ‘la manie raisonnante’
[‘reasoning mania’], and ‘monomanie’ [‘monomania’]; the latter is
divided into the categories ‘affective’, ‘sans délire’ [‘non-delirious’], and
‘instinctive’. Clearly what these authors are identifying in their use of
these terms is a state in which (hereditary) insanity and reason co-exist,
as in Jacques’s case, an ‘état mixte’ [‘mixed state’] which is discussed
at abundant length in the manuscript folios (N.a.f. 10294, fos 133–5)
that follow Zola’s citation of Michelet. For Moreau (1859: 325), ‘l’état
affectif mixte’ (the ‘état mixte affectif’ noted by Zola, presumably) is a
state which allows for ‘cet incroyable mélange de dispositions morales
qui semblent s’exclure réciproquement’ [‘that incredible mixture of
moral dispositions which seem reciprocally to rule each other out’]. The
amalgam of two seemingly mutually exclusive ‘dispositions morales’ –
reason and folie homicide, shown to co-exist in Jacques – is a key marker
of psychiatric discourse in La Bête humaine, and one that is consistent
with the underlying theme of the body progressively gaining the upper
hand over the mind.
It would seem, then, that the alienist discourse of the 1850s and early
1860s is much more significant in La Bête humaine than the criminological
discourse contemporary with the novel: moreover, whereas the latter is
visibly present within the narrative, that is at the level of histoire, the
former is subtly present within the récit, the novel’s text, and moreover
underpins the planning of the series. What is to be noted in the most
important work in this regard – Moreau’s – is that it draws on numerous
sources that are even earlier, and which are on or beyond the fringes of
aliénisme. Indeed, there is a whole network of texts, notably including
Lucas’s, which moreover have an almost explicitly systematic presence
within the Rougon-Macquart cycle, and for which (Lucas 1847: 502) ‘la
généalogie ne laisse point de doute sur l’hérédité des prédispositions à
tous les genres de crimes contre les personnes’ [‘genealogy leaves little
doubt regarding the inherited nature of predispositions towards all
the varieties of crimes against the person’], and from which Zola took
extensive notes while drafting his initial plan, to the extent of flagging
(N.a.f. 10345, fo 75) ‘un roman à faire’ [‘a novel to be written’] from the
litany of hereditary faits divers [frequently lurid criminal case histories]
listed by Lucas.
Perhaps the most pervasive of the conditions referred to in the texts
on which Zola’s novel and series draw is the disease entity monomania,
which comes to denote obsessive and repetitive fixation on a single
object. It is especially significant because it is not merely a staple of
proto-psychiatric literature from the 1820s until the end of the nine-
teenth century, but also recurs widely in cultural expression. This will
be the focus of the rest of the present chapter.
Zola’s ‘Monomaniac’
Edward Vizetelly refers in 1901 to ‘Jacques Lantier, the chief character

in this Bête humaine, this Human Animal which I have ventured to call
the Monomaniac’. Thus indeed is entitled his translation of Émile Zola’s
1890 novel about an engine-driving hereditary psychopath fixated on
killing women. Vizetelly (1901: V) explains:
It is [Jacques] who is the monomaniac. His monomania consists in

an irresistible prurience for murder, and his victims must be women,
just like that baleful criminal who was performing his hideous
exploits in the streets of the city of London in utter defiance of
the police, about the time M. Zola sat down to pen this remarkable
novel, and from whom, maybe, he partly took the idea.
Whereas Vizetelly implicitly admits that whether Zola based Jacques

on – one presumes – Jack is a matter of speculation, his monoma-
nia diagnosis appears confidently certain. As we have seen, the term
‘monomania’ does indeed recur in alienist texts situated within the

genetic and genealogical corpora of La Bête humaine: and indeed, as
we have seen, the novel draws on such texts much more than on late
nineteenth-century criminological discourse. This notwithstanding,
the novel’s incorporation of discourse on monomania is not straight-
forward. What the novel does, rather, is to complicate monomania as
a condition associated merely with a localised fixation, as opposed to a
symptom of something systemic, degenerative, and hereditary; it does
so partly through its expression of a curious shift in a long-standing
cultural association between insanity and the desire to create perpetual
motion, an association which becomes pathologised in the nineteenth
century. The remainder of the present chapter traces some of the history
of that pervasive association through its expression and production in
medical, scientific, and literary discourse, all of which combine power-
fully in our key point of cultural reference, La Bête humaine.
Monomanie homicide
La Bête humaine’s ‘monomaniacal’ aspect appears to be derived indirectly

from the culturally pervasive notion of monomanie homicide [‘homi-
cidal monomania’] formulated early in the nineteenth century by
Étienne Esquirol – along with Philippe Pinel, a co-founder of French
psychiatry – and directly from works by mid-century aliénistes, notably
Joseph Moreau de Tours, Ulysse Trélat, and Bénédict-Augustin Morel.12
These latter works are also, as we have seen, key texts in degeneration
theory: Trélat’s La Folie lucide (1861) is essentially a manual warning
families of the dangers of genetically inappropriate alliances; Morel’s
Traité des Dégénérescences (1857: 125) explicitly links ‘excès alcooliques’
[‘alcoholic excesses’] in one generation with ‘ivrognerie héréditaire’
[‘hereditary drunkenness’] in the next and, in a third, ‘tendances homi-
cides’ [‘homicidal tendencies’] (1857: 125); in Zola’s narrative (RM IV:
1043; 2009a: 53), Jacques Lantier is ‘le sang gâté’ [‘the spoilt blood’] of
‘les générations d’ivrognes’ [‘generations of drunkards’]. On the specific
question of monomanie homicide, Morel (1853: 22–4; 1860: 407) dissents
from the consensus established by Esquirol, whereby the monomaniac
(in Esquirol’s words, quoted by Morel) ‘est entraîné par un instinct
aveugle, par une idée; par quelque chose d’indéfinissable qui le pousse à
tuer’ (Esquirol, 1827: 6) [‘is led by blind instinct, by an idea, by some-
thing indefinable which pushes him to kill’].13 For Morel, what Esquirol
understood as monomania is merely the symptom of something fatally
systemic. Similarly, for Moreau (1859: 290–1), it is not simply a case
of otherwise sane people having a localised idée fixe [‘fixed idea’], or

delirious disobedience to the truth. Rather:
[L]e malade hors des voies ordinaires est entraîné à des actes que
la raison ou le sentiment ne déterminent pas, que la conscience
réprouve, que la volonté n’a plus la force de réprimer; les actions sont
involontaires, instinctives, irrésistibles, c’est la monomanie sans délire,
ou la monomanie instinctive.
[The patient at a remove from ordinary ways is led to acts

which neither reason or sentiment determine, which conscience
reproaches, which the will has no longer the strength to repress;
actions are involuntary, instinctive, irresistible: this is monomania
without delirium, or instinctive monomania.]
The apparent consistency of this characterisation with Jacques’s case

notwithstanding, La Bête humaine, in drawing on many strands of
aliéniste thought, is not simply a novel about a monomaniac, at least
not purely in the understanding of Esquirol and his successors. As Lisa
Downing (2005: 28) posits, the novel ‘functions as a historical and
imaginative bridge between two models of destructive beastliness’, on
the one hand drawing for inspiration on alienist discourse, sexology,
and Lombrosian criminology, and on the other anticipating Freud.
Nevertheless, monomania – a malleable and hypertrophically com-
prehensive concept, like many of the conditions discussed in previous
chapters – does constitute the key strand of medical knowledge around
which the novel’s representation of homicidal pathology is constructed,
and warrants further discussion in terms of the connotations associated
with it in the wider culture.
Jacques Lantier, Zola’s embodiment of homicidal pathology, is, as we
have seen, only minimally a Lombrosian criminel-né [‘born criminal’];
he is more plausibly what Foucault (1999: 113; 2003b: 122) character-
ises as an ‘anormal’, the emblem of ‘le danger touffu dans le corps de
la société’ [‘the danger embedded deep within the body of society’],
the kind of homicidal mania which precisely cannot be recognised,
except by the increasingly powerful discipline of psychiatry. A focus
of Foucault’s problematics of abnormality is precisely monomania, the
key figure in the formulation of which was Esquirol. The idea reiterated
in Esquirol’s work on monomanie homicide is that the madness of the
most extreme homicidal maniacs is indicated solely by their crimes,
and is unpredictable; thus, for Foucault (1999: 113–14), is psychiatry
as pouvoir-savoir bolstered; psychiatrists become the determinants of

who is a criminal and who is insane, and can intervene in the judicial
system. Morel takes this further, arguing that monomania is not, as
for Esquirol, a localised ‘délire partiel’ [‘partial mania’] in an otherwise
normal person focused on one particular object, but merely one symp-
tom of a systematic – and ultimately hereditary – insanity potentially
present in anyone, and potentially predictable by doctors. Although
Morel dissents from Esquirol, his work, in disciplinary terms, furthers
the encroachment of aliénisme into the judicial sphere; both authors
promote the view that someone, indeed anyone, normal in appearance
might well have hidden homicidal tendencies; the emphasis shifts from
the inexplicable act to the pathologised individual explicable – and
identifiable – in hereditary terms.
Although Zola’s direct sources were mid-century aliénistes, Jacques
nevertheless largely fits the medically and culturally pervasive profile
of the homicidal monomaniac established earlier by Esquirol. Zola’s
preparatory dossier contains the note: ‘Et la monomanie du crime
chez Lantier’ (N.a.f. 10274, fo 359) [‘And criminal monomania in
Lantier’]. The point is that Jacques appears normal, reasonable, and
can even reason about murder. But nor does reason prevent murder,
either in Jacques’s case, or in Esquirol’s characterisation (1827: 6) of
the monomaniaque homicide as an individual governed by ‘un instinct
aveugle’ [‘a blind instinct’]:
Même alors que sa conscience l’avertit de l’horreur de l’acte qu’il

va commettre, la volonté lésée est vaincue par la violence de
l’entraînement; l’homme est privé de la liberté morale, il est en proie
à un délire partiel, il est monomaniaque, il est fou.
[Even when his conscience warns him of the horror of the act he is
going to commit, his damaged will is overcome by the violence of his
driving impulse; the man is deprived of his moral liberty, he is prey
to a partial mania, he is monomaniacal, he is mad.]
In both Esquirol’s work (1827: 13) and Zola’s (RM IV: 1296; 2009a:
329), the ‘volonté’ [‘will’] of the homicidal monomaniac is ‘anéantie’
[‘annihilated’]; for Moreau (1859: 290) it is ‘lésée’ [‘damaged’]. The
point is that, as Morel (1860: 426) puts it, ‘l’aliéné pense et raisonne’
[‘the alienated patient thinks and reasons’]. This is the ‘folie raisonnante’
[‘reasoning madness’] of which Esquirol (1827: 4) and his maître Pinel
(1800: 23) write, or Trélat’s folie lucide.
Sovereign delusion, scientific obsession
As well as being a novel of homicidal mania, La Bête humaine is also a

novel of the railway. And Jacques Lantier’s homicidal urges are meta-
phorically linked to the blind, inexorable movement of locomotives.
In this connection, La Bête humaine has a precursor, in Jules Claretie’s
Le Train 17, in which the descent into madness of Martial Hébert is
parallelled by the unstoppable movement of his locomotive. Following
marital betrayal, he loses his reason and embarks on a final, suicidal
journey, ‘sur sa machine, […] l’instinct guidant ses mouvements, que
ne dirigeait plus cette intelligence grave et forte qui était sa puissance’
(Claretie 1890: 446) [‘on his machine, instinct guiding his movements,
no longer directed by the serious and powerful intelligence that was his
strength’].
Martial fits the profile of the monomaniac in more ways than one,
over and above his being ruled, with fatal consequences, by blind
instinct: another key – and culturally commonplace – indicator of his
monomania is the fact that he is an irrepressible amateur inventor.
Amateur scientific enthusiasm appears to be a modern manifestation of
the delusions of grandeur typically associated with madness. Esquirol,
under the broad heading of ‘monomanie d’enthousiasme’ [‘monomania
of enthusiasm’], observes (1838: 335) that:
Quelques monomaniaques se croient rois, princes, grands seigneurs,

veulent commander à l’univers, et donnent avec dignité et protection
des ordres à ceux qui les entourent; quelques-uns se croient des savants
distingués par leurs découvertes et leurs inventions, des poëtes, des
orateurs dont il faut écouter les vers, les discours, sous peine d’exciter
leur colère […].
[Some monomaniacs believe themselves to be kings, princes, grand

lords, wish to command the universe, and give orders with dignity
and protection to those around them; some imagine themselves
learned men distinguished by their discoveries and their inventions,
poets and orators whose verses and speeches must be listened to,
under pain of exciting their anger.]
Scientific obsession, then, is as much a signifier of insanity as the

traditional sovereign delusion. Similarly, the ubiquitous Orfila affirms
(1836a, I: 432–33) that ‘[p]armi les monomanes, on trouve des rois
et des reines, des dieux et des déesses, des hommes qui possèdent
des milliards, des mines de diamant, des royaumes ou toute la terre’

[‘among monomaniacs can be found kings and queens, gods and
goddesses, men who possess billions, diamond mines, kingdoms or
the whole earth’]. At the same time, continues Orfila, whose work –
precisely an articulation of the ‘engrenage médico-légal’ – is important
because it situates the symptoms of monomania within a specifically
judicial context, and is also reflective of its author’s professional
role as arbiter of disciplinary acceptability, ‘quelques monomanes
s’imaginent avoir un talent supérieur, et travaillent avec ardeur pour
produire quelque chose d’extraordinaire’ [‘some monomaniacs imagine
themselves to have a superior talent, and work arduously towards the
production of something extraordinary’]. Pinel neveu writes (1856: 40)
of the comparability of ‘l’imperturbable fixité d’attention de certains
monomaniaques à celle que l’on pourrait supposer à Newton appliqué à
la solution d’un grand problème’ [‘the imperturbable fixity of attention
of certain monomaniacs with that imaginable in Newton as he might
apply it to the solution of a great problem’]. Morel (1860: 226) classifies
under ‘excès de travail intellectuel’ [‘excesses of intellectual labour’]:
une variété de malades dont les uns, par suite de mauvaise direction
dans les études qu’ils ont entreprises tardivement, sont tombés
en démence, et dont les autres, par suite d’une concentration
trop absolue de leur esprit sur un même sujet, en sont arrivés à
systématiser des erreurs sur des points scientifiques.
[a variety of patients of whom some, as a result of poor direction

in studies which they have taken up late in life, have fallen into
dementia, and of whom others, as a result of excessively absolute
concentration of their mind on the same subject, have come to
systematise their errors on certain scientific points.]
Any intellectual enthusiasm thus becomes the potential site of insanity.

Martial Hébert’s particular fancy is ‘cette incessante préoccupation des
ingénieurs’ [‘that unceasing preoccupation of engineers’], the elusive
optimisation of steam power. He builds a miniature steam engine at
home to pursue his obsession (Claretie 1890: 221):
Il étudiait patiemment et recherchait avec soin les perfectionnements

qu’il voulait apporter à son art. Il recherchait surtout avec
l’acharnement viril de ceux qui finissent enfin par trouver, il
recherchait le meilleur système d’utilisation de la vapeur. Il croyait
fermement, il était certain qu’on peut perfectionner la coulisse

Stephenson, et qu’on peut aussi arriver à équilibrer les tiroirs.
[He studied patiently and carefully researched the perfections that he

wished to bring to his art. Above all, he pursued his research with the
virile doggedness of those who end up finding what they are after,
in seeking the best system for the utilisation of steam. He firmly
believed, he was certain, that the Stephenson link could be perfected,
and that it was possible also ultimately to balance the slide valves.]
The key word here is ‘équilibrer’ [‘balance’], associated by the narrative

with perfectibility. Martial’s delusion is that steam engines – in fact
thermodynamic motors – function like machines in the classical sense,
where a perfect system results from the balancing of equal and opposite
forces. ‘Équilibrer les tiroirs’ in this sense would seem to be about a
balancing act creating a system rewarding effort with an equal return
in work without energy loss: a perpetual motion machine. In his quest
for perpetual motion, Martial fits one of the criteria for monomania
outlined by Trélat (1861: 64–5):
Le monomane mérite ce nom quand il se croit en butte aux persécu-

tions de son voisin; il mérite ce nom quand il se croit inventeur du
mouvement perpétuel; quand il s’imagine qu’il peut ressusciter les
morts; quand, ne possédant rien, il se croit propriétaire d’une grande
fortune, quand il se croit prince, quand il se croit roi, quand il se croit
Dieu, ou alors même qu’il a passé d’une de ces conceptions délirantes
à une autre.
[The monomaniac is worthy of the name when he believes himself to

be up against the persecutions of his neighbour; he is worthy of the
name when he imagines himself the inventor of perpetual motion;
when he imagines that he can bring the dead back to life; when,
possessing nothing, he imagines himself possessor of a great fortune;
when he thinks he is a prince, when he thinks he is a king, when
he thinks he is God, or even when he has passed from one of these
delirious conceptions to another.]
This says much the same thing as Esquirol’s earlier observation. The
difference is that for Trélat, as with Martial, it is not simply a question
of delusions of grandeur, but of enthusiasm for a specific impossibility:
perpetual motion. In the Claretie text (1890: 222), it is clear that
perpetual motion is not just perpetual motion, but a metonymy for

scientific perfectibility or impossibility:
Un homme, Giffard, est à jamais célèbre pour avoir inventé le

perfectionnement qui porte son nom […], l’injecteur Giffard [1860],
qui a permis de supprimer les anciennes pompes d’alimentation
d’eau, or ce que je cherche c’est bien autre chose que le giffard. Au
fait, c’est peut-être la quadrature du cercle, la tulipe noire, le dahlia
bleu, le merle blanc, l’impossible!
[One man, Giffard, is eternally famous for having invented the

perfection mechanism which bears his name, the Giffard injector,
which allowed the old water supply pumps to be dispensed with;
now, what I’m after is something entirely different from the Giffard.
In fact it’s perhaps the squaring of the circle, the black tulip, the blue
dahlia, the white blackbird, the impossible!]
Dissuasion and encouragement
The final elements of this last extract correspond with key features
of a particular discourse expressing concern over the proliferation of
amateur scientific knowledge, in which perpetual motion – along with
the squaring of the circle – is a recurrent term, seemingly synonymous
with wrong-headed amateur scientific enthusiasm. This discourse of
dissuasion predates the nineteenth century, and is expressed initially
by scientists rather than doctors; fruitless scientific obsession becomes
pathologised – and supersedes sovereign fantasies – only later, but
is already associated with delusion in the eighteenth century. Maupertuis
(1752: 122–3), for example, under the heading Recherches à interdire
[‘Research Projects to be Forbidden’], writes in 1752:
Un grand nombre de gens, destitués des connoissances nécessaires pour

juger des moyens et du but de ce qu’ils entreprennent, mais flattés par
des récompenses imaginaires, passent leur vie sur trois problèmes qui
sont les chimères des sciences: je parle de la Pierre Philosophale, de la
Quadrature du Cercle, et du Mouvement perpétuel. Les Académies savent
le tems qu’elles perdent à examiner les découvertes de ces pauvres
gens; mais ce n’est rien au prix de celui qu’ils perdent eux-mêmes, de
la dépense qu’ils font, et des peines qu’ils se donnent.
[A great number of people, bereft of the knowledge necessary for

evaluating the means and the ends of what they are undertaking,
but flattered by imaginary recompense, spend their lives on three

problems which are the chimeræ of the sciences: I am speaking of
the Philosopher’s Stone, the Squaring of the Circle, and Perpetual
Motion. Our Academies are aware of the time they waste on consid-
eration of the discoveries of these poor people; but this is as noth-
ing compared to the cost of the time they waste themselves, of the
expense they go to, and of the trouble they give themselves.]
Similarly, the mathematician Jean-Étienne Montucla (1754: xvi–xxi)

writes in 1754:
Une espèce de fatalité semble avoir ordonné que tous ceux qui se
persuadent une fois d’être en possession de la Quadrature du cercle,
vivront et mourront dans cette persuasion intime. C’est une manie
qui […] ne les quitte pas même dans leurs derniers momens. […] Pour
écarter enfin cette foule de Quadrateurs qui obsèdent les Académies,
ne pourroit-on pas les obliger à s’instruire ici, comme par un prélimi-
naire, des vérités reçues de l’aveu unanime des Géomètres?
[A kind of fatality seems to have ordained that those who have once
persuaded themselves that they are in possession of the Squaring of
the Circle, will live and die in that intimate persuasion. It is a mania
which does not leave them, even in their final moments. In order
finally to waylay this horde of Squarers who besiege our Academies,
could not one oblige them to instruct themselves here, by way
of a preliminary step, in the truths received from the unanimous
testimony of Geometers?]
In both cases, there is, as well as an intimation that perpetual-motionists

and circle-squarers are either ill-informed or actually mad, a concern
about the abuse by such persons of institutions set up for the encourage-
ment of scientific enquiry and dissemination of scientific knowledge.
In 1775 the Académie des Sciences de Paris stops accepting publications
on perpetual motion (Daumas, 1957: 901); and in 1783 Lazare Carnot’s
Essai sur les machines en général [‘Essay on Machines’] presents a
systematic, abstract proof of its impossibility, expressly to dissuade ‘des
personnes qui […] ne peuvent se résoudre à renoncer à mille projets
absurdes’ (Carnot, 1803: xviii) [‘persons who cannot resolve to give
up on a thousand absurd projects’]. During this period of recasting of
disciplinary boundaries, questions arise of who can belong within which
professional bodies. Within the medical and pharmaceutical professions
in particular, the phenomenon of charlatanism – in disciplinary terms,

the worst manifestation of practice by non-professionals – is profusely
discussed. In the Dictionnaire des Sciences Médicales, Homais’s ‘sommité
pharmaceutique’, the pharmaceutical luminary Cadet de Gassicourt
(OC I: 683; Flaubert 2004: 287) rails against charlatans (Cadet 1813:
544–5), using the same terms as Maupertuis and Montucla:
Tels sont les prétendus possesseurs de la pierre philosophale et de

la panacée universelle, les chercheurs du mouvement perpétuel et
de la quadrature du cercle, les partisans du magnétisme animal, du
perkinisme, du somnambulisme et de la rabdomancie.
[Such are the supposed possessors of the philosopher’s stone and

the universal panacea, the seekers of perpetual motion and the
squaring of the circle, the partisans of animal magnetism, Perkinism,
somnambulism and rhabdomancy.]
Such censure did little to dissuade enthusiasts. Perpetual motion pro-

jects continued to proliferate well into the nineteenth century; hun-
dreds of patents were filed in Britain and France. Henry Dircks, author
of a compendium of perpetual motion schemes, observes (1968, II: xiii)
in 1861:
[I]t is to the present century we must look for abundant and various
schemes. The ready means afforded for making such plans public,
through the medium of cheap popular scientific journals and maga-
zines, and likewise the facilities afforded for patenting inventions,
have brought to light much curious matter.
Dircks (1968, I: xix), echoing the gatekeeping rhetoric of his predeces-

sors, rehearses the repertoire of pursuits equivalent to the quest for
perpetual motion:
The more abstruse the inquiry, the more some minds are grati-
fied […]. Hence Judicial Astrology, the Philosopher’s Stone, the
Quadrature of the Circle, the Multiplication of the Cube, the Elixir
Vitae – a panacea for all diseases – have each been sources of intense
study.
And if, as Dircks highlights, schemes are easily patented, as they are
in particular in France in the 1840s and 1850s, they are also, even if
banned by the Académie de Paris, allowed to proliferate thanks to the

platform provided by provincial Académies, which are caught between
encouraging science and playing gatekeeper.14
One such Académie, in which there is apparent tension between seri-
ous scientists and those considered over-enthusiastic amateurs, is that
of Rouen. In his ‘Discours d’ouverture de la séance publique’ of 1837,
the president, Laurent Gors, calls for the adoption of a more exclusion-
ary approach by learned societies, to curb the excesses of ‘ces fanatiques’
[‘these fanatics’] with ‘leur enthousiasme frénétique pour les lumières
du siècle’ [‘their frenetic enthusiasm for the enlightenment of this cen-
tury’]. Scientific enthusiasm might well be contributing to progress, and
progress might well be a good thing, but (Gors 1838: 7):
[Qu]e d’opinions erronées, que de systèmes absurdes, que de fausses

doctrines surgissent encore, publiées par leurs auteurs, ou établies
et développées dans tant de mémoires divers communiqués aux
Académies! Il est certain que nous n’avons jamais eu, par exemple,
un aussi grand nombre de prétendues solutions des problèmes de la
quadrature du cercle, du mouvement perpétuel, et de tant d’autres
questions de cette nature.
[How many erroneous opinions, how many absurd systems, how

many false doctrines continue to surge forth, published by their
authors, or established and developed in so many diverse papers
communicated to the Academies! It is certain that we have never,
for example, had such a great number of supposed solutions to the
problems of the squaring of the circle, perpetual motion, and so
many other questions of that nature.]
Again, ‘mouvement perpétuel’ [‘perpetual motion’] appears to be a

somewhat hackneyed shorthand for amateur scientific enthusiasm,
if not charlatanism, as well as – like circle-squaring – the absurdly
impossible. ‘Mouvement perpétuel’ is emblematic of such enthusiasm,
perceived negatively in terms of the profusion of schemes and papers
it produces. Progress is all very well – ‘il faut marcher avec son siècle!’
(Flaubert OC I: 599) [‘we have to keep in step with the times!’ (2004:
67)], as Homais says in Madame Bovary – but in this century of move-
ment, there is a danger that too much enthusiasm may cause progress,
however desirable, to run away with itself (Gors 1838: 5):
Aussi n’est-il si mince savant, si petit industriel, si obscur écrivain, si

étroit feuilletonniste, si maigre nourrisson des muses romantiques,
qui aujourd’hui ne s’écrie à tout venant: ‘Voyez, admirez comme le

siècle marche! C’est le siècle du mouvement: marchez donc avec lui,
c’est à dire avec nous, si vous ne voulez pas être froissé, heurté par la
foule qui se précipite dans la voie du progrès’.
[So there is no man of such slender learning, no inventor so little,
no writer so obscure, no serial-scribbler of such narrow outlook, no
nursling of the romantic muses so meagrely nourished, who fails to
scream out today: ‘Come, observe how the century marches forward!
It’s the century of movement: so march with it, that is with us, if you
don’t want to be trampled on or knocked over by the horde hurling
itself down the way of progress’.]
Concern about inappropriate intellectual excess is expressed in terms of

unstoppable movement, echoing the concern about perpetual motion.
Belief in perpetual motion is not necessarily a pathological signifier of
insanity, but there is a clear connection between scientific enthusiasm
and delirious delusion. And there is a loose association between even
mainstream provincial scientific enthusiasm and monomania, as the
following example illustrates.
An indefatigable contributor to the Académie’s publications is Guillaume
Dubuc, pharmacist, or rather, chemist, of Rouen, discussed in Chapter 1
above. Dubuc – by no means a charlatan – is supremely representative of
the prolific scientific enthusiast, especially within the Académie de Rouen,
‘dont il était presque le doyen’ [‘of which he was almost the doyen’], as
notes the orator at his funeral (Ballin 1837: VIII). This is not some total
amateur – he is after all Pharmacien-en-chef of the Hôtel-Dieu, and it is not
as if he is necessarily the type of individual being singled out by Gors –
but what distinguishes his œuvre of more than 100 opuscules is, as we saw
in Chapter 1, its persistent elevation to the status of chimie of practical
(and frequently impractical) solutions to mostly agricultural matters. His
obituary in the Précis de l’Académie, full of praise, ends with the curious
observation that he was possessed of ‘la monomanie du bien public’
(Avenel 1839: 199) [‘the monomania of the public good’]. So monoma-
nia somehow has become associated with enthusiasm for invention, for
science, even in the case of seemingly practical, philanthropic, and well-
intentioned projects rather than chimeric impossibilities.
Cultural and clinical narratives of monomania
The association of monomania with chimeric pursuits is, however, well

represented culturally. Balzac’s 1834 novel La Recherche de l’Absolu [The
Search for the Absolute], for example, affirms a link between the pursuit
of chimeric scientific projects and monomania. Balthazar Claës of
Douai is a latter-day alchemist (Balzac 1966: 655):
A [quarante-neuf ans], l’idée qui le dominait contracta l’âpre fixité

par laquelle commencent les monomanies. […]. La peur de voir trou-
ver par un autre la réduction des métaux et le principe constituant de
l’électricité, deux découvertes qui menaient à la solution de l’Absolu
chimique, augmenta ce que les habitants de Douai appelaient une
folie, et porta ses désirs à un paroxysme que concevront les person-
nes passionnées pour les sciences […].
[At the age of forty-nine, the idea dominating him contracted the
keen fixity whereby monomaniacal conditions begin. The fear of
seeing another discover the reduction of metals and the constituent
principle of electricity, two discoveries which led to the solution of
the chemical Absolute, exacerbated what the inhabitants of Douai
called a folly, and brought his desires to a paroxysm which those
persons with a passion for the sciences will be able to conceive.]
In La Peau de Chagrin [The Wild Ass’s Skin] (1831), Raphaël’s reclusion

results in claims that ‘il est monomane’ [‘he is a monomaniac’], from which
his former teacher concludes that he is working on ‘un grand ouvrage’
[‘a great work’], referring to Newton in support of his assertion that ‘au
milieu de ses travaux intellectuels, un homme de génie oublie tout’ (1966:
491) [‘amidst his intellectual labours, a man of genius forgets everything’].
Later, Dr Brisset – Balzac’s caricature of the aliéniste Broussais (Postel 1990:
7) – having established that Raphaël has engaged in ‘de grands travaux
d’intelligence’ [‘great works of intelligence’], concludes: ‘Il y a monom-
anie. Le malade est sous les poids d’une idée fixe’ (1966: 507–8) [‘There is
monomania. The patient is under the weight of a fixed idea’].
There are also numerous plays about monomaniacs, a typical exam-
ple being Charles Duveyrier’s 1835 melodrama Le Monomane [‘The
Monomaniac’], in which there are in fact three monomaniacs: a con-
demned man who confesses repeatedly to crimes he hasn’t committed,
a juge d’instruction who commits murder in his sleep, and a doctor who
risks becoming a monomaniac on account of his unhealthy interest
in magnetism – an archetypally charlatanesque pursuit – as cure for
somnambulism.
So there is a widespread cultural association between monomania
and scientific or simply intellectual obsession. But the monomaniacs
are not always real monomaniacs, and, whether actual monomaniacs or

not, are not necessarily perpetual-motionists. When the term ‘perpetual
motion’ is used, it is often just a metonymy for the impossible goal of
enthusiasts, and actual perpetual-motionists are mostly just seen as
deluded rather than insane. As Dircks (1968, II: xxvii) writes in 1870:
While the pursuit of Perpetual Motion is not of itself evidence of

insanity, it is unquestionably a proof of ignorance, or of mental
inability to master elementary knowledge.
There is an apparent consensus that perpetual-motionists are ill-

informed, stubborn, deluded, and not to be indulged. François Arago,
for example, in his 1854 biography of Lazare Carnot, despairs (Arago
1854: 541) of their ignorance and intransigence, while hinting, through
his seasonal allusion, at their potential insanity:
Les arguments de notre confrère [Carnot] sont excellents; aucun

géomètre n’en contestera la rigueur: faut-il espérer, toutefois, qu’ils
dessècheront dans leur genre les nombreux projets que chaque
année, je me trompe, que chaque printemps voit éclore? Voilà ce dont
on ne saurait se flatter. Les faiseurs de mouvements perpétuels ne
comprendraient pas plus l’ouvrage de Carnot, que les inventeurs de
la quadrature du cercle, de la trisection de l’angle, n’entendent la
géométrie d’Euclide.
[The arguments of our colleague Carnot are excellent; no geometer

will contest their rigour: might we hope, however, that they will stop
the flood of the numerous projects that each year, or rather – I am
mistaken – each spring sees hatching? This is something that we dare
not flatter ourselves about. The makers of perpetual motions are, it
seems, no more likely to comprehend Carnot’s work than are the
inventors of the squaring of the circle or the trisection of the angle
to understand Euclid’s geometry.]
In numerous instances, though, clear connections are made between

actual insanity and actual perpetual-motionism. In Pinel’s Traité médico-
philosophique sur L’Aliénation mentale, ou La Manie (1800), the founder of
aliénisme recounts three times an anecdote (1800: xv; 25; 66–70) about
a watchmaker who, as well as becoming infatuated with ‘la chimère du
mouvement perpétuel’ (1800: 66) [‘the chimera of perpetual motion’],
also believes that he has been guillotined and his head replaced with
another. He is cured through a combination of being allowed to use

his watchmaking tools to indulge his pursuit of perpetual motion, and
of staged ridicule by a fellow-inmate over his belief in the miracle of
St Denis holding his head in his hands and, paradoxically, kissing it
simultaneously (1800: 69).
Trélat (1861: 114–18) relates a similar story of a patient whose
monomania is manifested in his attempts to create perpetual motion.
Trélat enlists the help of serial perpetual-motion-debunker Arago, bring-
ing his patient from Bicêtre to the Observatoire to have the astronomer
convince him that his scheme is impossible. But he is impervious to
Arago’s eminently reasonable entreaties. Trélat thus concludes that ‘les
inventeurs sont incurables’ (1861: 118) [‘inventors are incurable’]. Trélat’s
work recounts several other case histories of inventors of ‘inventions
sublimes’ [‘sublime inventions’]; Zola’s notes on Trélat in fact mention
‘la monomanie des inventions’ (N.a.f. 10345, fo 129) [‘the monomania
of inventions’]. As we know, it is Trélat who makes the specific link
between monomania and perpetual motion. For Trélat, importantly, this
particular monomania is just one of many. With Pinel and Esquirol, and
as distinct from Morel, Trélat regards monomania as being focused on one
particular object (perpetual motion, persecution, suicide, homicide …);
the crucial nuance is that whereas for Pinel and Esquirol the patient is
otherwise sane, for Trélat the patient is only apparently sane.
Perpetual-motionism, thermodynamics, degeneration
A perpetual-motionist is not necessarily a monomane suicide or homicide.

But monomania and perpetual-motionism are easily conflated in the
wider cultural landscape. It would appear that Claretie’s Martial Hébert
is both a perpetual-motionist and a monomane suicide, if not a mono-
mane homicide manqué (instead of killing his wife’s lover, he kills him-
self). Jacques Lantier – since apparently almost sane – would appear in
Esquirol’s scheme of things to be a monomane homicide, a fou raisonnant,
on whose insanity his sexual instinct has a particular bearing; whether
his suicide is monomaniacal is moot. But is he a perpetual-motionist?
He is in the sense that like Martial, trapped in a pre-thermodynamic
perceptual paradigm, he does not fully grasp how thermodynamic
systems function, seeking to maintain equilibrium in a motor misread
as a machine, just as he vainly seeks to maintain his own psychologi-
cal equilibrium through assuaging the sexual desires fatally linked to
his homicidal instinct. Jacques is a good mécanicien; he knows how to
optimise the pressure in his locomotive, La Lison, and highly values her
‘marche régulière et continue’ [‘regular and unflagging action’], attrib-

utable to the ‘réglage parfait des tiroirs’ (RM IV: 1128) [‘perfect adjust-
ment of her slide valves’ (Zola 2009a: 147)]. But what gets in the way of
this is Jacques’s tendency to indulge her over-fondness for having her
pistons greased: ‘Sans doute qu’elle dépensait trop de graisse. Et puis,
après? On la graissait, voilà tout!’ (RM IV: 1164) [‘No doubt she did use
up too much grease. And what of it? You just got on with it and greased
her, and that was that!’ (Zola 2009a: 185–6)]. Jacques misreads her
‘passion gloutonne’ [‘gluttonous passion’] as being like ‘un vice, chez
les personnes qui sont, d’autre part, pétries de qualités’ [‘a vice, in peo-
ple who are otherwise full of positive qualities’], that is, as something
localised rather than as symptom of something systemic (RM IV: 1129;
Zola 2009a: 147). However, it is actually symptomatic of and essential
to her degenerative functioning as a thermodynamic engine. Jacques is
a perpetual-motionist in that he is, as I have argued elsewhere (Duffy
2005: 221–2), in ignorance or denial of entropy, and thus of the Second
Law of Thermodynamics, whereby at constant energy supply, a system
will inevitably degenerate. Jacques does not recognise degeneration
as systemic either within La Lison, or within himself, misreading his
condition in terms of ‘de subites pertes d’équilibre’ [‘sudden losses of
balance’], rather than in terms of a full appreciation of the overriding
fêlure héréditaire, the hereditary ‘crack’ or faultline of his extended
family (RM IV: 1043; Zola 2009a: 52). In Gilles Deleuze’s formula-
tion around the notions of ‘petit instinct’ [‘small instinct’] and ‘grand
instinct’ [‘grand instinct’], the fêlure is ‘l’instinct de la mort, qui n’est pas
un instinct parmi les autres, mais la fêlure en personne, autour de laquelle
tous les instincts fourmillent’ (Deleuze 1977: 14) [‘the Death instinct,
not merely one instinct among others, but the fêlure in person, around
which all of the instincts congregate’ (Deleuze 1990: 326)]. Although
Jacques does bear symptoms of Esquirolian monomania, there is a
strong degenerative element, reflecting Morel’s and Trélat’s ideas as well
as anticipating Freud’s on the Death Instinct. It is perfectly in keeping
with naturalist epistemology that these different strands should exist
within the naturalist text.
Reconfigurations of self-perpetuating power
Zola’s text can be situated in turn within a discursive context in which a

number of reconfigurations are taking place. In the psychiatric field, we
have the shift from the ‘monstre’ to the ‘anormal’, the shift – in the loca-
tion of mental illness – from the mind to the body, the shift (Foucault,
1999: 122; 2003b: 132) from the acte sans raison [the reasonless act] to
the instinctive act of the pathologised subject who is no less dangerously
unpredictable for being reasonable, and the shift from monomania as
‘délire partiel’ [‘partial delirium’] to symptom of something systemic,
instinctive, and degenerative. La Bête humaine articulates the culturally
pervasive Esquirol line on monomania up to a point, but incorporates ideas
from degeneration theory which hint that the normal-seeming anormal
might be systemically rather than symptomatically death-seeking.
Anticipating the Freudian Death Instinct, the novel links homicidal or
suicidal psychopathy to the death-seeking thermodynamic functioning
of machines, or rather engines.15 And in this field also there has been
a shift. The impossibility of perpetual motion is expressed in terms of
the laws of thermodynamics to which locomotive engines are subject,
whereas until the early nineteenth century, it had been expressed in
terms of weights, equilibrium, and so on. There are plenty of deluded
inventors, but until the mid-nineteenth century most perpetual-
motionists use wheels, pulleys, weights, and buckets of water. After that,
they tend, like Claretie’s Martial, to have miniature steam engines, widely
available for domestic use by hobbyists. Prior to degeneration theory and
entropy, perpetual motion is merely an example of the kind of chimeric
pursuit (along with circle-squaring and the Philosopher’s Stone) that
leads from delusion to madness. But in the degenerative, thermodynamic
age, refusal to recognise entropy becomes powerfully associated with the
pathologised subject’s incapacity to recognise his inherent degeneracy,
and with the inability of society – unless aided by psychiatry –
to recognise the danger lurking under its veneer of civilisation.
There is another significant shift related to the issue of amateur
scientific enthusiasm. We see in many of the above accounts a
curious association between delusions of sovereign grandeur, and the
perpetual-motion delusion. Many of the doctors mention political
crises as aggravating factors in the cases they describe. It is as if crises
of sovereignty provoke concern for the continuity of the supposedly
naturally self-perpetuating (rather than historically contingent)
institution of the monarchy. So we have patients who believe they are
kings, or who believe in post-guillotine head-replacement, and patients
(often the same ones) who are inventors of perpetual motion. This
is suggestive if not indeed circumstantially reflective of a shift from
sovereign to disciplinary power, manifested in numerous institutional
mechanisms for producing the proliferation of scientific discourses
which characterises the period, but importantly also for reining them
in as part of an incorporation, a consolidation of professional bodies.
This panoptical disciplinary power which was to replace spectacular

absolutist sovereignty can be seen – as, in its early stages of develop-
ment, by Foucault (1975: 208; 1991: 177) – as a machine:
La discipline fait ‘marcher’ un pouvoir relationnel qui se soutient

lui-même par ses propres mécanismes, et qui, à l’éclat des manifesta-
tions, substitue le jeu ininterrompu de regards calculés.
[Discipline brings into operation a relational power that sustains

itself through its own mechanisms, and which, for the spectacle of
public events, substitutes the uninterrupted interplay of calculated
gazes.]
At the moment when power functions discursively as perpetual-motion

machine, perpetual motion becomes emblematic, as well as of the
century of movement and progress, of the worryingly uncontrollable
profusion of enthusiasm for science by amateurs who would normally
be disqualified from the disciplines they embrace by those disci-
plines’ professional gatekeepers. Potentially uncontrollable movement
becomes associated with a potentially uncontrollable proliferation of
un-disciplinary knowledge produced by un-professional individuals,
that is, who are beyond, or problematically straddling, the pale of disci-
plinary acceptability. At the same time, the pursuit of perpetual motion
becomes associated with an intensifyingly threatening madness, an
essential human truth, lurking under the surface of rapidly developing
civilisation, which only a newly empowered psychiatry can identify.
This ‘fond sombre de la bête humaine’ (RM IV: 1155) [‘dark recesses
of the human beast’ (Zola 2009a: 176)] is the key theme of Zola’s novel,
in which, while displaying the symptoms of Esquirolian monomania,
Jacques Lantier is more plausibly a degenerative anormal analagous with
his degenerative thermodynamic engine, and passing unnoticed by a
judicial apparatus curiously bereft of aliénistes in a novel underpinned,
as we have seen, by aliéniste discourse. The novel subtly emphasises
the systemic rather than the localised, and in so doing, while play-
ing on the association between monomania and perpetual motion,
mirroring a fearful association between the ‘exercice involontaire des
facultés’ (Baillarger 1846: 22) [‘involuntary exercising of the faculties’]
and autonomous unstoppable movement, simultaneously affirms the
non-existence of perpetual motion as well as that of monomania as
localised aberration in an otherwise sane person – the understanding still
entertained by Zola’s translator Vizetelly in 1901.
What we have seen in this chapter, then, is that incorporated discourse

is no more immediately apparent on the narrative surface of the textual
body than homicidal tendencies are in the superficial features of indi-
viduals. Moreover, this embedded discourse is not merely present within
the individual textual body, but pervades the networks in which it is
implicated. Alienist texts from the mid-Second Empire are, like Prosper
Lucas’s (from the end of the July Monarchy), and another key text under-
pinning the overall series, Charles Letourneau’s Physiologie des Passions
(1868), not only closer to the diegesis of the Rougon-Macquart cycle than
the criminological texts contemporary with the preparation of Zola’s
roman judiciaire; also, and perhaps more importantly, they have a close
genetic relationship to the preparation of the series as a whole. What is
important is the dynamic relationality that exists within a whole net-
work, a whole nervure – to borrow a characteristically bodily Foucauldian
term for a network of discourse (Foucault 2003a: 4; 2006b: 2) –
of texts underpinning Les Rougon-Macquart, which are implicated in
the preoccupations with heredity, the body, and the nervous system
that characterise the series, rather than the immediate traces of works
contemporary with one novel. The genealogical provenance (Foucault
1994: 140) of alienist discourse implicit within Zola’s text is of greater
importance than any single and obvious origin of criminological
discourse present in his novel’s narrative. Like insanity, like
the pathological truths which, for Foucault (2003a: 249; 2006b: 249)
require the presence of psychiatry at the heart of the ‘problème du
rapport entre la folie et le crime’ [‘the problem of the relationship
between madness and crime’], the Zolian alienist enjoys the simultaneous
ubiquity and invisibility of the toxicologist. The juge-médecin implicated
in the interconnected mechanism of psychiatry and the law in La
Bête humaine is, in this light, naturalism as organic mechanism of
interconnected discourses.
As for monomania and perpetual motion: we have seen how the
mid-nineteenth-century psychiatric discourse embedded within La
Bête humaine is part of a project that pathologises monstrosity and
eccentricity as abnormality, and that this pathologisation, coming
at a moment when systems are identified as inherently degenerative
and entropic, is linked to mechanisms of inclusion and exclusion
from professional bodies. Monomania, central to this pathologisation,
becomes vulgarised, pervading the social and cultural body; Zola’s
novel, however, sophisticatedly exploits the problematic potential
of its cultural associations. We will see in the following chapter
that Zola’s true monomane in the culturally validated, non-clinical
sense is undoubtedly Doctor Pascal, beset by ‘cette passion de savoir’

(RM V: 1035) [‘this passion for knowledge’], and whose monomania, like
that of the Rougon-Macquart cycle which he eponymously completes, is
clearly focused on the dissemination and accumulation of knowledge
(RM V: 993): ‘Tout dire, ah! oui, pour tout connaître et tout guérir!’
[‘To say everything, ah yes! – in order to know everything and to cure
everything!’]. Pascal is also, at least theoretically, a perpetual-motionist
in his belief in a life idealised (RM V: 1158) as ‘un fonctionnement de
machine bien réglée, rendant en force ce qu’elle brûle en combustible,
s’entretenant elle-même en vigueur et en beauté par le jeu simultané
et logique de tous ses organes!’ [‘the functioning of a well-regulated
machine, rendering in force what it burned in fuel, maintaining itself in
vigour and in beauty through the simultaneous and logical interplay of
all its organs’]. Pascal, as we will see in the next chapter, does not live to
bring this machine to realisation. Like the system of disciplinary power
in relation to which Les Rougon-Macquart as panoptical, monomaniacal
compendium of knowledge is most productively read, such a machine –
a chimeric ideal of body and text – exists purely in the discursive realm.
6
Textual Healing: Le Docteur
Pascal’s Incorporation
of Hypodermic Therapy
For the naturalist text, according to Philippe Hamon (1983: 31), ‘tout
a droit de cité en littérature’ [‘for literature, anything and everything
enjoys rights of access’]; that is, there is nothing which is beyond the lit-
erary text’s representational scope.1 For this archetypally documentary
literary text, there is an ‘absence de sélection’ [‘absence of selection’]
regarding the kinds of characters, milieux, subjects, and ideas which it
represents and articulates. For Zola himself (1971: 141), this apparent
indifference concerning the subject matter to be treated by literature is
linked to the dominant position of the novel genre in the modern era,
and implicitly also to the purported scientific status of the novel:
L’œuvre devient un procès-verbal, rien de plus. […] Le roman n’a donc

plus de cadre, il a envahi et dépossédé les autres genres. Comme la sci-
ence, il est maître du monde. Il aborde tous les sujets, écrit l’histoire,
traite de physiologie et de psychologie, monte jusqu’à la poésie la plus
haute, étudie les questions les plus diverses, la politique, l’économie
sociale, la religion, les mœurs. La nature entière est son domaine.
[The work becomes a formal report, nothing more. The novel is thus
no longer enframed; it has invaded and dispossessed the other genres.
Like science, it is the master of the world. It covers all subjects, writes
history, treats physiology and psychology, rises to the level of the
most lofty poetry, studies the most diverse questions: politics, social
economy, religion, morality. The entirety of Nature is its domain.]
Apart from the explicitly scientific analogy, however, the distinction

between naturalism in Zola’s account and the conventional realism
from which it is derived is not enormous. After all, the realist novel is
194
Le Docteur Pascal’s Incorporation of Hypodermic Therapy 195
in many respects the composite of many genres and many discourses.

Returning to Adert’s neo-Bakhtinian formulation (1996: 59) raised in
Chapter 1, the realist novel can be seen as ‘le pur et simple déroule-
ment de l’archive du discours collectif’ [‘the pure and simple rolling out
of the archive of collective discourse’]. Yet there are still a few points
of nuance to be stressed regarding the generic germaneness of realism
and naturalism – a germaneness which Zola is fond of mentioning.
Firstly, naturalism does not claim to represent a literary genre as much
as a method, analogous to the observational method and experimental
determinism of the doctor or the scientist, as outlined by Zola (1971:
114–21) in Le Roman expérimental [‘The Experimental Novel’]. Secondly,
the discourses reproduced by the naturalist text are consequently very
often extracted from scientific and medical treatises and inserted into
the literary text without commentary or modification. Thirdly, and
paradoxically, naturalism, despite its extreme concern for the real,
grounded in its generic ties to realism and rhetorically necessitated by
its purported scientificity, is frequently informed by elements imported
from a universe of the non-real, from a realm of the metaphorically fan-
tastic drawing on the troubled subconscious of the nineteenth-century
social imaginary. But even in relation to the scientific domain of which
Zolian naturalism purports to practise the observational method and
experimental determinism, the concern for truth is far from uncon-
ditional. Paradoxically, there appears to be an ‘absence de sélection’
extending even to the scientific details with which the naturalist novel-
ist documents his texts. The concern for absolute scientific accuracy is
not unconditional, as this passage (N.a.f. 10345, fo 10) from Zola’s 1868
‘Notes générales sur la nature de l’œuvre’ suggests:2
Avoir surtout la logique de la déduction. Il est indifférent que le fait

générateur soit reconnu comme absolument vrai; ce fait sera surtout
une hypothèse scientifique, empruntée aux traités médicaux. Mais
lorsque ce fait sera posé, lorsque je l’aurai accepté comme un axiome,
en déduire mathématiquement tout le volume, et être alors d’une
absolue vérité.
[Above all, use the logic of deduction. It is immaterial whether the

generative detail is recognised as being absolutely true; this detail
will be a scientific hypothesis, borrowed from medical treatises. But
once this detail has been put in place, once I have accepted it as an
axiom, it is then a matter of deducing from it mathematically its full
volume, and then be saying something which has an absolute truth.]
There is a tension between the scientific method which Zola intends

to adopt, and the reliability of the elements from which ‘une absolue
vérité’ [‘an absolute truth’] will be produced. Is this ‘vérité’ [‘truth’]
not just vraisemblance [plausibility or verisimilitude], a characteristic
element of any mimetic or realist literary form, which produces a sem-
blance of the truth from elements which are of varying reliability? Is
this not just the Balzacian ‘All is true’ (Balzac 1965: 217; 1991: 2) under
the guise of pseudo-scientificity?
In this chapter we will examine the way in which a scientific
hypothesis, taken by the documentary author from a medical treatise,
finds its way into the logic of the naturalist textual body which incorpo-
rates it. The hypothesis in question is Dr Jules Chéron’s ‘thérapeutique
dynamique’ [‘dynamic therapeutics’], whereby hypodermic injections
cure the human organism through their mechanical effect rather than
on account of their specific content. This treatment is developed by
Dr Pascal Rougon, eponymous hero of the last novel in the Rougon-
Macquart series, which is contemporary with Chéron’s treatise (1893).
The hypothesis explored in this chapter is that the hypodermic ‘fait
générateur’ [‘generative detail’], irrespective of whether it is true or
false, functions as a metaphor for the way in which the documentary
text incorporates extra-literary material, and plays a role in producing
mimetic plausibility and coherence. Since we are dealing with a text
where the ‘fait générateur’ is a procedure involving interaction between
the body and foreign substances, we will refer in our discussion of the
text to the metaphor of the body, a metaphor for the text which is also
exploited by Le Docteur Pascal. Indeed, we will consider precisely its
incorporation of extra-literary elements, through examination of con-
temporary medical discourses and Zola’s preparatory materials. Is the
nature of these extra-literary elements immaterial as far as the aesthetic
or narrative integrity of the textual body is concerned? Is it more useful
to establish precise ‘sources’ of incorporated elements, or to situate
these elements, and the texts which incorporate them, within their
wider discursive milieux?
Le Docteur Pascal, as a novel about knowledge, constitutes in its
representation of the genealogical documentation of Pascal’s family
an epistemological commentary on the series it completes, and thus
offers the ideal context in which to broach these questions. As well
as articulating a discourse on the irrelevance or immateriality of the
precise nature of substances injected into the body, this novel, dealing
with family genealogy and the origin of hereditary traits, problematises
the notion of a unique genetic origin; the precise origin of a hereditary
characteristic has ultimately less importance for its manifestation in an

individual than the relationships enjoyed by that characteristic with
other elements of a wider genealogical context. This problematisation
will be addressed through the interpretative prism of another, strikingly
analagous, problematisation developed by Michel Foucault in relation
to distinct types of epistemological origins. The questions raised by
these two genealogical perspectives provide grounds for engagement
with theoretical approaches to the documentary text and to the infor-
mation which it documents.
Metaphors for the naturalist text: the extendable

chain, the incorporating body
As we have seen above, Hamon writes of the naturalist text’s inclusivity.

In another attempt at theorisation of the naturalist text, Yves Chevrel
(1982: 109, 27), using the metaphor of the chain, stresses the thematic
breadth of a type of documentary text which is by its very nature
extendable: ‘Un texte naturaliste […] se manifeste comme une vaste
chaîne à laquelle l’auteur ajoute, à son gré, des maillons’ [‘A naturalist
text […] manifests itself as a vast chain to which the author adds links
as he sees fit’]; naturalism, moreover, refuses to ‘se situer au seul plan
littéraire’ [‘to situate itself solely on the literary plane’]; the ‘maillons’
[‘links’] can quite easily be elements taken from extra-literary texts,
inserted into the chain.
Another metaphor for the text is that of the body. The potentially
infinite extensibility which, for Chevrel, characterises the Zolian text
in particular, whether it is a novel, a passage of a few lines, the entire
Rougon-Macquart series, or indeed a much larger corpus, may, if the
chain model is modified somewhat, be considered in terms of its bod-
ily ingestion, its incorporation of elements of knowledge deriving from
various discursive fields. The chain extends by acquiring new links;
the body feeds itself, expanding as it incorporates new elements. The
Zolian textual body, like many other metaphorical bodies represented
in the Rougon-Macquart cycle – which makes the body–text metaphor
all the richer – has in this sense an expansionist, engulfing, implacable
character, since nothing is beyond its documentary scope.
The discursive expansionism of the naturalist textual body, analogous
with the expansionism of various organisms represented in the Rougon-
Macquart series – the department store, the railway, financial or family
networks – and related metaphorically to the implacable ingestion
of Zolian ‘machines-monstres’ (Duncan 1962) such as the mine, the
locomotive, and again the department store, is expressed also in the

epistemological accumulation practised by Pascal Rougon. Constantly
besieged by ‘ce besoin de savoir’ [‘this need to know’], the Doctor
finds himself confronted at the beginning of the novel (RM V: 1035,
917) by ‘un amas extraordinaire de papiers, de dossiers, de manuscrits,
s’entassant, débordant’ [‘an extraordinary accumulation of papers, files,
manuscripts, piling up, overflowing’].
Le Docteur Pascal – the focus of this chapter – is a locus classicus of
bodily and textual ingestion, in that while completing, accomplishing
the incorporation of, the series of which it is a part, it incorporates
contemporary extra-literary discourses and at the same time represents
within its diegesis two related processes of incorporation: a literally
bodily ingestion, and a process of textual incorporation. Pascal develops
a form of treatment based on hypodermic injections, which can be
situated directly in medical discourses and practice contemporary with
the preparation of the novel. At the same time he accumulates, through
continual incorporation of textual material documenting genealogical
information, a collection of dossiers on his extended family; the family
itself has just been completed through its incorporation of its newest
component, the child fathered by Pascal through another form of incor-
poration, etymologically rooted in the metaphor of ingestion (Kilgour
1990: 5–7): consummation of his relationship with his niece Clotilde.
The novel, moreover, incorporates a recapitulative summary of the
main narrative strands of the series in its fifth chapter, in which Pascal,
in his exposition of the famous Arbre généalogique des Rougon-Macquart
[Rougon-Macquart Family Tree], ‘restitue par ses commentaires une
lisibilité globale à la série des vingt volumes’ [‘restores, through his com-
mentaries, a global readability to the twenty-volume series’] (Hamon
1983: 38).
L’Arbre généalogique, corps épistémologique malade
To be noted in this novel is a process of textual incorporation closely

linked to a genealogy. This genealogy is represented by the ‘Arbre-
texte’, the textual tree, created by Pascal through the incorporation of
genealogical information from his dossiers. His genealogy is textual,
material; his text, which deals precisely with family relations, is genea-
logical, documentary, a mise en abyme of the naturalist text. But how
is a documentary text to be read in relation to what it documents?
The microprocesses whereby a textual body of knowledge constitutes
itself can be addressed genetically, that is from the point of view of
‘genetic’ criticism, which analyses the successive manuscript stages of a

literary work (Falconer 1993: 3). But this text should also be approach-
able from the point of view of its genealogy, in the neo-Nietzschean
sense understood by Michel Foucault (1994), where the provenance or
‘descent’, the relationality between the various components of a set of
discursive strands – a discursive genealogy – is more important than the
unique origin of a discourse. By analogy, the family genealogy, with its
proliferation of members and pathologies, is richer in signification than
the unique origin of a hereditary trait.
Whilst consideration of a genetic dossier – of an aggregate of
avant-textes, to use Bellemin-Noël’s term (1972: 15) denoting ‘pre-textual’
material – allows us to observe and assess the processes involved, at the
crucial material level, in the incorporation of texts into other texts,
there are other epistemological considerations at stake here; it might
be useful to have a wider conceptual framework – itself incorporating
genetic criticism – in which to understand the manifestation of dis-
courses in fiction, and their textual or epistemological ramifications.
The beginnings of such a framework – an implicit premise of which is
that the text is conceivable in terms of the body – might be provided
by a reading of Le Docteur Pascal’s representation of text as body, not
least in that body’s genetic, and indeed, crucially, genealogical, context.
In the narrative framework of Le Docteur Pascal, the principal tex-
tual organism is the Arbre généalogique des Rougon-Macquart, on which
the particular case histories of family members, and the relationships
between them, are inscribed. The tree is constituted by genealogical
information taken from Pascal’s dossiers. When confronted with the
possibility of their destruction, Pascal reflects on his dossiers in such
a way as to affirm the metaphorical correspondence between text and
flesh (RM V: 996): ‘les découvertes qu’il a faites, les manuscrits qu’il
compte laisser, c’est son orgueil, ce sont des êtres, du sang à lui, des
enfants, et en les détruisant, en les brûlant, on brûlerait de sa chair’
[‘the discoveries that he has made, the manuscripts he intends to
leave: those are his pride, they are beings, his own blood, children, and
anyone destroying them, burning them, would be burning his flesh’].
As for the Arbre itself, its graphic representation of the family is
emphatically material, and the network of genealogical relationships it
signifies is of prime importance, as is indicated by the manner in which
it is described, when Pascal exposes it to Clotilde (RM V: 1006):
Depuis plus de vingt années, il le tenait au courant, inscrivant les

naissances et les morts, les mariages, les faits de famille importants,
distribuant en notes brèves les cas, d’après sa théorie de l’hérédité.

C’était une grande feuille de papier jaunie, aux plis coupés par
l’usure, sur laquelle s’élevait, dessiné d’un trait fort, un arbre symbo-
lique, dont les branches étalées, subdivisées, alignaient cinq rangées
de larges feuilles; et chaque feuille portait un nom, contenait, d’une
écriture fine, une biographie, un cas héréditaire.
[For more than twenty years, he had been keeping it up to date,

inscribing births and deaths, marriages, important family details,
organising the case histories into brief notes, according to his theory
of heredity. It was a great sheet of yellowed paper, with folds torn
by wear, on which rose up, drawn in heavy lines, a symbolic tree,
on which the branches, spread out and subdivided, set out five rows
of large leaves, and each leaf bore a name, and contained, in a fine
hand, a biography, a hereditary case history.]
This text is an organic, genealogical entity, constantly incorporating

inscriptions in order to renew itself. Its status as a material and
modifiable object is stressed by repeated reference (RM V: 1006, 1034)
to a ‘vieille feuille de papier jaunie’ [‘an old sheet of yellowed paper’].
Its decrepit yellowed state suggests some kind of identity with family
matriarch Tante Dide, herself qualified (RM V: 973) as ‘ce tronc, lésé déjà
par la névrose’ [‘this trunk, already cracked by neurosis’], and ‘squelette
jauni, desséché là, telle qu’un arbre séculaire dont il ne reste que l’écorce’
[‘yellowed skeleton, lying there dried out like a hundred-year-old tree
of which only the bark remains’]. Like the sheet of paper on which the
family is represented genealogically, she has yellowed, aged, and has
dried out to the point of no longer consisting of anything but bark, the
material artefact of the tree she once was.3 Like the Arbre généalogique,
Dide (RM V: 974) is an archival database, a repository of ‘souvenirs’
‘emmagasinés au fond’ [‘memories’ ‘stored deep down’]; like the tree,
she can be understood as one of many ‘lieux cybernétiques’ [‘cyber-
netic loci’] identified by Philippe Hamon (1975: 494), which, whether
they be objects, characters, or textual structures, are ‘les endroits où se
stocke, se transmet, s’échange, se met en forme l’information’ [‘those
places where information is stocked, transmitted, exchanged, formed’].4
The textual quality of her body, an inscribed and inscribable surface,
is indicated by the metaphorisation of its members (RM V: 1101): ‘ses
bras, ses jambes n’étaient plus que des os recouverts du parchemin de la
peau’ [‘her arms, her legs were no longer but bones covered over by the
parchment of skin’]; conversely, this surface is implicitly underpinned
by a structure of interconnected members. The body resembles the text;
the text resembles the body, which is not an inert, isolated entity, but
an organic network.
This network is an organism to be considered from a medical point of
view, as is indicated by Pascal’s animated exposition of the tree (RM V:
1006–7): ‘son doigt se mit à indiquer les cas, sur la vieille feuille de
papier jaunie, comme sur une planche anatomique’ [‘his finger began
to point out the case histories, on the old sheet of yellowed paper, as
on an anatomical slab’]. If the nineteenth-century creator of texts is an
anatomist, the text – the Arbre généalogique inscribed on the page – is
an anatomical specimen, a body, an entity as pathological as the case
histories which it represents. It is also a patient in need of a cure, doubt-
less some variant of the discursive remedy proposed by Pascal (RM V:
993) for the ills of humanity: ‘Tout dire, ah! oui, pour tout connaître
et tout guérir!’ [‘If only we could say everything – oh! yes – in order to
understand everything and cure everything!’]. What needs to be cured,
it seems, is a lack of knowledge, a lack of discourse, an incompleteness
in the epistemological body, just as the human organism is cured, or
so Pascal initially believes (RM V: 949), by the incorporation of what
it lacks, having read a fifteenth-century treatise on the ‘médecine des
signatures’ [‘medicine of signatures’], whereby a sick organ can be cured
by the ingestion of a substance confected from animal brains, in the
hope of stimulating the human brain to invigorate the body in turn:
‘Puisqu’il voulait régénérer les héréditaires affaiblis, à qui la substance
nerveuse manquait, il n’avait qu’à leur fournir de la substance nerveuse,
normale et saine’ [‘Since he wanted to regenerate enfeebled hereditary
cases, who were lacking in nervous substance, all he had to do was
provide them with nervous matter that was normal and healthy’].
Specificity of substance and origin
The cure, then, is the completion of the incomplete body through the
incorporation of a specific substance, targeted according to the illness or
its location. But despite the stated fifteenth-century origins of this idea,
it is in fact a treatment contemporary with Zola’s novel, to be found
in the practices and writings of Dr Charles-Édouard Brown-Séquard,
pioneer of subcutaneous injections (Dossier Bodmer, fos 193–4).5
In an article published in 1891, cited here for its status as relevant
contemporary discourse rather than as precise direct ‘source’, Brown-
Séquard (1891: 3, 5) first of all recounts his experiments with ‘sucs’
from the testicles and thyroid of animals, which can ‘produire […]
des effets considérables, en donnant au sang ce qui lui manquait’
[‘produce considerable effects, by giving to the blood what it lacked’].
He passes on to the liver, illnesses of which are privileged because of the

‘sécrétion interne très importante’ [‘considerable internal secretion’]
that the organ produces, and can be cured by the injection ‘sous la peau
du malade du liquide retiré du foie sain d’un animal et préparé comme
le liquide testiculaire’ [‘the injection under the skin of the patient of
liquid taken from the healthy liver of an animal and prepared like
testicular liquid’]. Whence he draws (1891: 16) the ‘conclusion pour la
thérapeutique’ [‘therapeutic conclusion’] that ‘les manifestations mor-
bides qui dépendent, chez l’homme, de la sécrétion interne d’un des
organes doivent être combattues par des injections d’extraits liquides
retirés de cet organe pris chez un animal en bonne santé’ [‘morbid
symptoms which depend, in man, on internal secretion from one of
the organs must be fought with injections of liquid extracts taken from
that organ in a healthy animal’]. Which is more or less Pascal’s thesis,
with the difference that the hypodermic means of introduction into
the body comes after his development of the principle of ‘la répara-
tion par le semblable’ [‘repair with like’]. Pascal’s book privileges ‘les
maladies de foie surtout’ [‘diseases of the liver first and foremost’], as
do Zola’s notes on the history of injections of nervous matter in the
preparatory dossier for the novel. These notes (N.a.f. 10290, fo 241),
although they refer to ‘des livres de médecine du XVe siècle (peut-être
dans ceux d’Ambroise Paré)’ [‘medical books of the fifteenth century
(perhaps those of Ambroise Paré)’] in which ‘il est parlé d’une médica-
tion dite “signature”’ [‘a medication known as “signature” is spoken
of’], appear to rehearse the essential elements of Brown-Séquard’s the-
sis, extending it to hereditary nervous illnesses:6
Ainsi, pour une maladie de foie, on préparait un bouillon de foie,

etc. Le raisonnement était de réparer par le semblable. A tous les
héréditaires, à ceux que leur mère et leur père ont affaiblis, il s’agit
de la force: régénéré ceux qui sont dégénérés. De là de la substance
nerveuse, à ceux dont cette substance fait défaut.
[So, for a liver complaint, stock was made from liver, etc. The reason-
ing was to repair using what was similar. For all those with hereditary
illnesses, for those whom their mothers and fathers have weakened,
what is necessary is strength: regenerate those who are degenerate.
Whence nervous matter, for those who are lacking in such matter.]
There are several other sources from which the substance composed of
different savoirs has been as it were filtered before incorporation into
the literary text. The key consideration at this stage is the theoretical
basis of the treatment envisaged, namely that it is the specificity of the
substance which counts.7 For Pascal, it is the same story for genealogical
information incorporated by the Arbre généalogique. This epistemological
body is presumed completed, and Pascal’s will to knowledge satisfied,
by the incorporation of a precise, specific item of information, namely
the detail of the precise origin of his hereditary condition. He does not
know whether the hereditary fate reserved for him will be attributable
to the family’s ‘lésion nerveuse originelle’ [‘original nervous lesion’], or
to some extra-familial factor. He entreats his ancestors in front of the
Arbre généalogique on which they are inscribed to reveal to him which
one he takes after, so that, aware of his own genetic destiny, he can
incorporate himself into the text by inscribing his own case history on
the ‘feuille’ [‘leaf’] reserved for him (RM V: 1034):
Pourquoi, mon Dieu! l’Arbre ne voulait-il pas lui répondre, lui dire de
quel ancêtre il tenait, pour qu’il inscrivît son cas, sur sa feuille à lui,
à côté des autres? S’il devait devenir fou, pourquoi l’Arbre ne le lui
disait-il pas nettement, ce qui l’aurait calmé, car il croyait ne souffrir
que de l’incertitude?
[Why, good God!, did the Tree not want to answer him, to tell him
what ancestor he took after, so that he could inscribe his own case
history, on his own leaf, alongside the others? If he was to go mad,
why couldn’t the Tree tell him as much straight, which would have
calmed him down, since he believed that all he was suffering from
was uncertainty?]
The uncertainty from which Pascal believes himself to be suffering is linked

to a lack of knowledge (RM V: 1035): ‘il s’anéantissait dans ce besoin de
savoir’ [‘he was destroying himself in this need for knowledge’]. But here it
is a case of a need for a specific item of knowledge – that of the hereditary
origin of his individual pathological case. This knowledge will, he believes,
permit him to establish his own destiny and thereby to complete the fam-
ily tree. Driven by his will to knowledge, he retrieves the dossiers from the
armoire; Clotilde is witness (RM V: 1035) to the ‘défilé de tous ces fantômes,
évoqués, surgissant de l’amas des paperasses [‘parade of all these ghosts
which had been summoned, rising up out of the pile of papers’]:
Au passage, il jetait à chacun d’eux une question, une prière ardente,

exigeant l’origine de son mal, espérant un mot, un murmure qui lui
donnerait une certitude. D’abord, il n’avait eu qu’un balbutiement

indistinct; puis, des paroles s’étaient formulées, des lambeaux de
phrases.
[As they passed by, he threw at each one of them a question, an
ardent prayer, demanding to know the origin of his illness, hop-
ing for a word, a murmur which would give him some certainty. At
first, all he had got was an indistinct stuttering; then, words formed:
scraps of sentences.]
Each question uttered contains a possible explanation of the origin of

his particular complaint. But it is collective suffering which informs
the ghostly incarnation of the dossiers: ‘Les dossiers s’animaient,
s’incarnaient, se bousculaient, en un piétinement d’humanité
souffrante’ (RM V: 1035) [‘The files came alive, became flesh, jostled
with one another, in a stampede of suffering humanity’]. There is no
definitive answer; there does not appear to be an origin of his illness
associated with any particular individual. It might in fact be asked
whether Pascal’s inquiries are correctly targeted, in that they focus
on the specific origin of his individual condition, rather than on the
proliferation of symptoms manifested. Whether Pascal realises it or
not, genealogical relations, both external to and within the family, are
more important than any specific origin. He seems already to sense this
intuitively in formulating his ‘Crédo scientifique’ [‘Scientific Creed’]
around the time he becomes interested in the ‘médecine des signatures’
(RM V: 947):
[T]out arbre généalogique a des racines qui plongent dans l’huma-

nité jusqu’au premier homme, on ne saurait partir d’un ancêtre
unique, on peut toujours ressembler à un ancêtre plus ancien,
inconnu. Pourtant, il doutait de l’atavisme, son opinion était,
malgré un exemple singulier pris dans sa propre famille, que la
ressemblance, au bout de deux ou trois générations, doit sombrer,
en raison des accidents, des interventions, des mille combinaisons
possibles.8
[Any family tree has roots which plunge deep into human history, right
back to the first man; it would be impossible for anyone to descend
from one unique ancestor, as it might always be possible to resemble
an older, unknown ancestor. However, he had doubts about atavism;
his opinion, despite a singular example from his own family, was that
resemblance, after two or three generations, had to give way, on account

of accidents, interventions, the thousand possible combinations.]
Pascal seems to realise intuitively that ‘les origines’ [‘the origins’]

of the Rougon-Macquart dynasty have a genealogical status that
is more complex than that of a unique origin, whether it is a mat-
ter of ‘la lésion nerveuse originelle’ [‘the original nervous lesion’]
or of a specific ancestor whom he might resemble; such specific-
ity is impossible to find, and the archive of dossiers replies to him
(RM V: 1034) in terms of ‘toutes les combinaisons possibles’ [‘all
possible combinations’].
Foucault, Nietzsche, Zola, genealogy: natural

and social history
The Rougon-Macquart family, then, has no unique origin. It is rather

perhaps a matter of the kind of origin identified by Nietzsche (1967,
VI: 259), in his preface to Zur Genealogie der Moral, as Herkunft, or
‘provenance’, as understood exegetically by Michel Foucault (1994,
II: 140; 1984b: 80) in his 1971 article ‘Nietzsche, la généalogie,
l’histoire’ [‘Nietzsche, Genealogy, History’]. ‘La provenance’ [‘prov-
enance’, ‘descent’] is the most useful form of origin for the genealogist,
in that it implicitly contains a rejection of the notion of origin as the
site of unitary, unalterable a priori truth and being – that is, as Ursprung
(Nietzsche 1967, VI: 261). Rather, provenance is expressly connected
(Foucault 1994, II: 140–1; 1984b: 80–1) to the notion of belonging to
an organic network:
[C]’est la vieille appartenance à un groupe – celui du sang, celui de

la tradition, celui qui se noue entre ceux de même hauteur ou de
même bassesse. […] Cependant, il ne s’agit pas tellement de retrouver
chez un individu, un sentiment ou une idée les caractères génériques
qui permettent de l’assimiler à d’autres […]; mais de repérer toutes
les marques subtiles, singulières, sous-individuelles qui peuvent
s’entrecroiser en lui et former un réseau difficile à démêler.
[It is the ancient affiliation to a group – one of blood, one of

tradition, one that bonds itself among those of similarly high stature
or similarly low stature. […] However, it is not so much a matter of
finding within an individual, a feeling or an idea the generic charac-
ter traits which allow them to be likened to others […]; rather, it is a
question of identifying all the subtle, singular, sub-individual marks

which can intersect within them to form a network that is difficult
to disentangle.]
In the context of the complex network of organisms embodied in Le

Docteur Pascal and by extension Les Rougon-Macquart, there is no single
site of dysfunctionality which can be repaired, either by excising it from
the body – ‘tuer le mal’ [‘kill the illness’, or indeed ‘kill the evil’], as
Clotilde’s threat to burn the documents (RM V: 996) might have it – or
by seeking out what is ‘semblable’ [‘similar’] and injecting it, inscrib-
ing it with the syringe according to the ‘médecine des signatures’;
rather, the dysfunctionality must be acknowledged as being that of the
network for any cure to be possible. Likewise, the search for origins
in the conventional sense is in vain. What actually happens in Les
Rougon-Macquart is that Pascal’s quest results not in a single authorita-
tive account of the family’s history, but rather, if the family tree can be
regarded as part of the fictional genesis of the cycle, in a proliferation
of stories and discourses set in a material context of diverse historical
events. ‘L’analyse de la provenance’ [‘the analysis of descent’] carried
out by Pascal, to borrow Foucault’s terms, ‘permet de dissocier le Moi et
de faire pulluler mille événements’ (1994, II: 141; 1984b: 81) [‘permits
the dissociation of the self and the proliferation of a thousand events’].
Most significant of all in Foucault’s account of provenance for our
purposes is his assertion (1994, II: 142; 1984b: 82) that ‘[l]a provenance
tient au corps. Elle s’inscrit dans le système nerveux, dans l’humeur,
dans l’appareil digestif’ [‘descent attaches itself to the body. It inscribes
itself in the nervous system, in temperament, in the digestive appara-
tus’]. Genealogical relationships are inscribed in the site of sensation, as
well as in the site of ingestion, incorporation; that is, they are inscribed
within the sites of interaction between what is external to the body and
what is internal. For Foucault (1994, II: 142; 1984b: 83):
[L]e corps est la surface d’inscription des événements: la généalogie,

comme analyse de la provenance, est donc à l’articulation du corps
et de l’histoire. Elle doit montrer le corps tout imprimé d’histoire, et
l’histoire ruinant le corps.
[The body is the surface on which events are inscribed: genealogy,
as analysis of descent, is thus situated within the articulation of the
body and of history. It necessarily reveals the body to be imprinted
with history, and history ruining the body.]
It is precisely because Pascal’s text is an epistemological body ruined

by the inscription of history that it manages to regenerate itself and to
transcend the narrative confines of the proliferation of histories consti-
tuting Les Rougon-Macquart. Fiction, if it is based on a set of genealogical
relationships which are rooted in the materiality of the body and the
text, and which can incorporate discourses of any nature, without selec-
tion, is more ‘effective’ as ‘histoire’ than conventional history; that is,
it is, in Nietzschean terms, wirkliche Historie (Nietzsche 1967, VI: 266),
‘l’histoire effective’ [‘actual’, ‘real’, or ‘effective’ history] in Foucault’s
exegetical account (1994, II: 146–50; 1984b: 86–90).
This is a potentially productive light in which to read the episode
towards the end of Le Docteur Pascal in which Pascal’s mother Félicité,
having fed the flames consuming the documents, appears (RM V: 1198)
to have managed to ‘tuer la contagion du mal’ [‘kill the contagion
of evil’] and to ‘écarter les vilaines histoires’ [‘cast aside the wicked
stories’], so that all that remains is (RM V: 1202) ‘une légende glorieuse’
[‘a glorious legend’], a sanitised history of the family, and, by analogical
extension, of the Second Empire. Her attempt to ‘guérir’ [‘cure’] the
family of its ‘mal’ [‘evil’/‘ill’] is an attempt to amputate the perceived
source of the illness. But the body, as Foucault (1994, II: 147; 1984b:
87) would have it, ‘se bâtit des résistances’ [‘constructs resistances’].
When Clotilde rescues the ‘fragments noircis’ [‘blackened fragments’]
that remain after Félicité’s frenzied attempt at ritual execution, having
defended them ‘de son corps’ [‘with her body’], and anthropomorphi-
cally denounced ‘un meurtre abominable’ [‘an abominable murder’],
she discovers that although the only document left intact is the Arbre
généalogique, she is (RM V: 1214) nevertheless capable of piecing
together a story on the basis of ‘des bouts de papier à demi brûlés et
noircis, sans lien, sans suite’ [‘half-burned and blackened bits of paper,
without anything linking them or ensuing from them’].
[A] mesure qu’elle les examinait, un intérêt se levait de ces phrases

incomplètes, de ces mots à moitié mangés par le feu, où tout
autre n’aurait rien compris. [L]es phrases se complétaient, un
commencement de mot évoquait les personnages, les histoires.
[As she examined them, something of interest arose from these

incomplete sentences, from these words half-eaten by fire, where
anyone else would have failed to understand anything. The sentences
completed themselves, the beginning of a word conjured up
characters, stories.]
She may well perceive these fragments as being ‘sans lien’, but the link
is in their consumable corporeality, as Pascal’s children, his flesh and
blood. And Clotilde, as bearer of Pascal’s actual posthumous flesh and
blood, as part of his immediate genealogical environment, is as it were
‘à l’articulation du corps et de l’histoire’ [‘at the connecting point
between the body and history’] and very well positioned to put the
pieces together so that they can generate something greater than the
sum of their parts, namely – as the Rougon-Macquart series is subtitled –
the ‘histoire naturelle et sociale d’une famille sous le Second Empire’
[‘natural and social history of a family under the Second Empire’], which
is not so much a monument left by Pascal, but a body of texts anchored
in a larger material network of textual potential which increases as the
limitations of a straightforward narrative are transcended, in a move
away from a central trunk towards the ramifications of a network.
Le jeu de tous les organes [‘the interplay of all organs’]
The transition towards recognition of the holistic network as being

more important than the localised entity, of genealogical relational-
ity as being more important than a single origin, is reflected in the
development of Dr Pascal’s therapeutics. Pascal finally realises that the
body, rather than consisting of isolated elements susceptible to illnesses
contracted and treated locally, is in fact an interactive network, or
‘jeu’. His vision of the body (RM V: 1159) is one of ‘la bonne influence
dynamique du travail’ [‘the positive dynamic influence of work’], one
in which work is rewarded by equal return in movement, without any
loss in energy:
Il continuait à ébaucher sa nouvelle théorie de l’équilibre des forces,

qui consistait à établir que tout ce que l’homme reçoit en sensa-
tion, il doit le rendre en mouvement. Quelle vie normale, pleine et
heureuse, si l’on avait pu la vivre entière, dans un fonctionnement
de machine bien réglée, rendant en force ce qu’elle brûle en com-
bustible, s’entretenant elle-même en vigueur et en beauté par le jeu
simultané et logique de tous ses organes!
[He continued to sketch out his new theory of the equilibrium of
forces, which consisted in establishing that everything that man
received by way of sensation, he necessarily paid back in movement.
What a normal, full and happy life, if it could be lived to its entirety,
as a well-regulated machine might function, rendering in force what
it burned in fuel, maintaining itself in vigour and in beauty through

the simultaneous and logical interplay of all its organs!]
This holistic conception of the human organism privileges on one hand

the network, and on the other hand articulates the ‘anti-entropic’ vision
which high naturalism, particularly in Zola’s work up until at least 1890,
problematises.9 This idealistic vision is consistent with a view of society as
of the human organism as a self-perpetuating machine providing return
commensurate with effort; it rests, however, on a denial of physical,
natural, realities, in particular of entropy. However, although this
conception of what is ultimately a ‘rêve lointain’ [‘a distant dream’] is
clearly unworkable, it is based partly on serious contemporary scientific
thinking. On the one hand, the holistic, organic aspect is Bernardian,
in that the model of the human body is of an organism incorporating
interrelated elements (Bernard 1865: 134; Zola 1971: 77–8). The self-
regulating aspect is even more up to the minute, and critically, is directly
related to the notion of incorporation as a process of ingestion flagged
earlier in the novel during the discussion of Pascal’s development of his
‘thérapeutique hypodermique’. At first believing in the efficacy of the
injection of specific substances, Pascal comes round to the view that his
practice (RM V: 948) of ‘réparer par le semblable’ [‘repair with like’] is
not what produces the desired effect. Rather, it is the mechanical fact of
the injection itself, which stimulates the ‘jeu’ of the organism (RM V:
1159, 1178). That is, the injection optimises the relationships between
the different parts of the body, as the Doctor explains to his acolyte
Ramond (RM V: 1177):
‘J’ai été frappé dernièrement par ce singulier résultat que les piqûres
faites avec de l’eau pure étaient presque aussi efficaces […]. Le
liquide injecté n’importe donc pas, il n’y a donc là qu’une action
simplement mécanique […] Tout ce mois dernier, j’ai écrit beaucoup
là-dessus. Vous trouverez des notes, des observations curieuses […]
En somme, j’en serais arrivé à croire uniquement au travail, à mettre
la santé dans le fonctionnement équilibré de tous les organes, une
sorte de thérapeutique dynamique, si j’ose risquer ce mot […].’
[‘I have been struck lately by this peculiar result that the injections
carried out with pure water were almost as effective … The liquid
injected is thus of no import, so there is nothing there except a
simply mechanical action … Throughout this last month I have
written a lot about this. You’ll find some curious notes, some curious
observations … In sum, I would appear to have come round to

believing uniquely in work, to situating health in the balanced func-
tioning of all the organs, to a sort of dynamic therapy, if I dare risk
such a term.’]
What counts is not the specificity of what is incorporated, but the very
fact of incorporation in the context of organic relationality. This is
precisely the thesis of a work published a week after Le Docteur Pascal,
by Jules Chéron, professor of medicine at St-Lazare, the title-page
inscription of which reads (Chéron 1893: title page):
Toutes les injections hypodermiques produisent des effets identiques,

quel que soit le liquide introduit sous la peau, à la condition que ce
liquide ne soit pas toxique. La différence ne porte que sur l’intensité
plus ou moins grande du phénomène produit.
[All hypodermic injections produce identical effects, whichever

liquid is introduced under the skin, with the condition that this
liquid should not be toxic. Variation depends only on the greater or
lesser intensity of the phenomenon produced.]
Chéron’s Introduction aux lois générales de l’hypodermie [‘Introduction to

the General Laws of Hypodermics’] appeared shortly after Le Docteur
Pascal, but it is from this work that the key elements of Pascal’s ‘thé-
rapeutique dynamique’ are derived. It is well documented that the
information came from Chéron via his former student, Dr Maurice de
Fleury.10 Fleury, chroniqueur médical – author of opinion columns with a
medical slant – for Le Figaro, was the author of a later work, Introduction
à la médecine de l’esprit [‘Introduction to Medicine of the Mind’], in
which two chapters are devoted to ideas acknowledged as those of
Chéron, whose work’s central thesis is quoted approvingly.11 Fleury
(1896: 224–9) hints in his chronique in Le Figaro of 17 July 1893 that
he is the former pupil who has communicated the essential elements
of his master’s research to Zola while both works were in preparation.
According to Lapp (1954: 70), ‘la description [par Fleury] de l’effet des
piqûres à l’eau pure, dans l’Introduction à la Médecine de l’Esprit, s’accorde
assez exactement à celle que l’on trouve dans les notes manuscrites de
Zola’ [‘Fleury’s description of the effect of pure water injections corres-
ponds fairly exactly to that found in Zola’s handwritten notes’]. Lapp
however overlooks the fact that Chéron, rather than his pupil, was the
original author of this description.
It seems more likely that the ideas communicated to Zola by Fleury

were Chéron’s, rather than his own. These appear several times in
the novel’s genetic dossier, and indeed in the novel itself. To take
one example: the table of therapeutic treatments written in Fleury’s
hand that can be found in the preparatory dossier (N.a.f. 10290, fo
264) is practically identical to the one found in Chéron’s book, which
illustrates what Chéron refers to precisely as ‘thérapeutique dynamique’
(Chéron 1893: 496–9). Chéron would appear, then, to be the originator
of these ideas, and Fleury the intermediary, as is moreover confirmed
by Fleury without any ambiguity in his Figaro column (Fleury 1896:
229). The two chapters of Fleury’s later work addressing ‘thérapeutique
dynamique’ and injections simply rehearse the ideas in the final chapter
of his mentor’s book.
These chapters also contain reflections on suffering and its suppos-
edly civilisational bases; these are plausibly Fleury’s ideas, noted by
Zola in the preparatory dossier (N.a.f. 10290, fos 270–2). For all these
ideas, including Chéron’s (which are not acknowledged explicitly as
Chéron’s), Zola thanks Fleury in a letter of 24 June 1897, contemporary
with the publication of the Introduction à la Médecine de l’Esprit. It is
nevertheless evident that during the preparation of the novel, the ideas
articulated in their final form in this work were only notes, based on
work carried out by Chéron, or by Fleury in collaboration with Chéron
(Zola 1991, VIII: 410). In any event, these two doctors were part of the
same research team who had been conducting research on these matters
for some years (Chéron 1893: 21–2). As important here as any specific
genetic origin of medical knowledge incorporated into Zola’s text is the
disciplinary relationality between Chéron and Fleury, and the discursive
relationality between all the texts concerned. What counts as condition
of possibility for the incorporation of knowledge by the literary text
is not so much the precise source of an item of information, but the
development of discourse surrounding hypodermic therapy, whether
expressed by Chéron, Fleury, or Brown-Séquard, all long-standing dis-
ciplinary confrères.
It remains no less the case that Chéron’s book is the most significant
contemporary documentary expression of this form of treatment. If
this work is considered alongside Zola’s novel, similarities can be seen
in terms of themes and content, even if it is not always a case of ideas
noted directly by Zola; it is in fact useful to go beyond purely genetic
considerations, to bring together – as Clotilde does – fragments that are
not necessarily connected genetically, but on the basis of which it is
possible to identify a genealogy.
Absence de sélection
L’Introduction aux lois générales de l’hypodermie consists of a historical

overview of the practice of subcutaneous injections, followed by a
methodology and a series of experimental observations which confirm
the thesis, reiterated several times ‘en résumé’ [‘in summary’] as ‘loi
générale de l’hypodermie’ [‘general law of hypodermics’], that ‘toutes
les injections hypodermiques produisent des effets identiques’ [‘all
hypodermic injections produce identical effects’], whence the conclu-
sion that it is a mechanical effect that revives the organism, rather
than a targeted medication. The work is in some sense a respectful
refutation (Chéron 1893: 65) of the work of Brown-Séquard and other
practitioners of injections:
Ce qu’il importe de retenir, c’est que tous les auteurs qui ont intro-
duit dans les derniers temps, sous la peau, dans un but thérapeutique,
une solution, un liquide quelconque ont tous avoué l’absence totale
d’action spécifique. Tous ont mentionné les mêmes effets physiolo-
giques, les mêmes effets thérapeutiques. Et cependant quelle diversité
dans les liquides employés!
[What it is important to bear in mind is that all authors who, in

recent times, with a therapeutic aim in mind, have introduced any
solution or liquid under the skin have all admitted a total absence
of any specific action. All have mentioned the same physiological
effects, the same therapeutic effects. And yet what diversity there has
been in the liquids used!]
There would appear, therefore, to be an ‘absence de sélection’, as Hamon

might put it. Whatever the substance, the organism restores itself.
Another point to note is the distinction made by Chéron (1893: 514)
between injections and what he refers to as hypodermic transfusions:
Faire une injection hypodermique, au sens habituel du mot, c’est

choisir la voie sous-cutanée pour administrer un médicament; faire
une transfusion hypodermique, c’est provoquer un ensemble de
phénomènes physiologiques toujours les mêmes, à la production
desquels la nature du liquide reste étrangère.
[To carry out a hypodermic injection, in the usual sense of the word,
is to choose a subcutaneous channel for the administration of a
medicine; to carry out a hypodermic transfusion is to provoke a host
of physiological phenomena which are always the same, and to the

production of which the nature of the liquid remains irrelevant.]
These are transfusions in that they resemble (intravenous) blood

transfusions, practised since the seventeenth century. It is not a matter
of administering a drug, but precisely to revitalise the blood, by means
of a substance, the composition of which is immaterial, that functions
as a substitute for restorative blood; it is not ‘une eau de Jouvence’ [‘the
water of youth’], says Chéron (1893: 278), but a serum which yet rejuve-
nates old men.12 Hypodermic transfusions amount (Chéron 1893: 44) to
‘une méthode de rénovation de l’organisme’ [‘a method for renovating
the organism’], in that they produce ‘tout un ensemble de réactions
portant sur les principaux systèmes de l’économie’ [‘a whole range of
reactions bearing on the chief systems of the bodily economy’]. All
that distinguishes Chéron’s transfusions from blood transfusions is the
administration by hypodermic means of a serum composed of distilled
water and a mixture of salts resembling the salts found in blood plasma.
Whence the conclusion (Chéron 1893: 481) that ‘l’action chimique d’une
transfusion est quantité négligeable. Puisque tous les liquides injectés
donnent, à des dégrés plus ou moins énergiques, les mêmes effets phy-
siologiques, c’est, bien évidemment, qu’il ne saurait être question d’autre
chose que d’une action d’ordre physique, ou, pour mieux dire, d’ordre
dynamique’ [‘the chemical action of a transfusion is a negligible quantity.
Since all liquids injected produce, to greater or lesser degrees of energy,
the same physiological effects, it is quite clearly because this cannot be
a case of anything other than a process of physical, or rather, to put it
better, dynamic order’]. The book’s conclusion thus proposes transfusions,
air cures, electricity, and so on as elements of ‘thérapeutique dynamique’,
all of which are to be found in the development of the same therapeutics
by Pascal. Critical here (Chéron 1893: 538) is the relationship between the
interior and exterior of the body:
L’air que nous respirons; la lumière et la chaleur qui nous baignent,

le frôlement des vêtements sur notre tégument externe; la présence,
en tant que simples corps étrangers, des aliments sur la muqueuse
digestive, du sang et de la lymphe sur les parois vasculaires, de l’air
sur les parois des alvéoles pulmonaires; les excitations perçues par
nos sens; en un mot, tout ce qui impressionne, que nous en ayons
ou non conscience, les extrémités périphériques de nos nerfs sensi-
tifs, représente la cause initiale de la tonicité générale, c’est à dire de
la vitalité.
[The air that we breathe, the light and the heat that bathe us, the
rubbing of our clothes against our external tegument; the presence,
in the form of simple foreign bodies, of foodstuffs on the mem-
branes of the digestive tract, of blood and lymph matter on vascular
walls, of air on the walls of pulmonary alveolae; the excitations
apprehended by our senses; in a word, all that impresses itself upon,
whether we are aware of it or not, the peripheral extremities of our
sensitive nerves, represents the initial cause of our general tonicity,
that is of our vitality.]
Whence the necessity to stimulate the body through external stimuli, as

is also the case with Pascal, preoccupied himself with ‘tonicité’ [‘tonic-
ity’], that is, the will of the muscles to move, according to their level of
contraction, or, for Pascal (RM V: 1177–8), ‘l’état de santé parfaite’ [‘the
state of perfect health’]:
L’homme baignait dans un milieu, la nature, qui irritait

perpétuellement par des contacts les terminaisons sensitives des
nerfs. De là, la mise en œuvre, non seulement des sens, mais de
toutes les surfaces du corps, extérieures et intérieures. Or c’étaient
ces sensations qui, en se répercutant dans le cerveau, dans la
moelle, dans les centres nerveux, s’y transformaient en tonicité, en
mouvements et en idées. Et il avait la conviction que se bien porter
consistait dans le train normal de ce travail: recevoir les sensations,
les rendre en idées et en mouvements, nourrir la machine humaine
par le jeu régulier des organes.13
[Man bathed in a milieu, nature, which, through contact, caused

perpetual irritation to his sensitive nerve endings. Whence the
activation not only of the senses, but of all the surfaces of the
body, external and internal. Now it was these sensations which,
creating repercussions in the brain, in the bone marrow, in the
nervous centres, became transformed into tonicity, into movements
and ideas. And he had the conviction that being well consisted in
the normal course of this work: the reception of sensations, their
conversion into ideas and movements, the nourishment of the
human machine through the regular interplay of the organs.]
It is not what is incorporated that nourishes the organism, but the

sense of integrity and well-being produced as a consequence of the
interaction between bodily networks and their milieux, and above
all between interior and exterior. Pascal formulates his therapeutic

principles while at death’s door, suffering from a weak heart. He man-
ages to keep himself going for a while through injections, but ultimately
their success is temporary; after three seizures, he dies. There appears to
be an implicit acknowledgement on the novel’s part that the system as
a discrete unity cannot maintain itself indefinitely, even if Pascal has
beautifully formulated how it might do so.
But things are of a different order at the level of the family, which
manages to propagate itself after the final acts of incorporative
consummation (the fire; the conception of the enfant inconnu [‘the
unknown child’]); at the level of the Arbre généalogique, which
flowers epistemologically despite – or because of – its fragmentation;
and finally, at the level of the textual organism which, we might
say, benefits from its own ‘thérapeutique dynamique’, based on its
discursive interactions with the ambient milieu of knowledge in which
it bathes. An interesting divergence between Pascal’s therapeutics and
Chéron’s is that, for Chéron, the nature of the substance injected is
not immaterial without exception: the substance cannot be toxic, so
it is not absolutely ‘indifférente’ [‘immaterial’]. For Pascal, however,
as for Zola’s preparatory dossier, in which the remark ‘la substance
employée indifférente’ [‘substance used immaterial’] is recorded (N.a.f.
10290, fo 266), there are no exceptions, not even, apparently, for
reasons of toxicity. Within the narrative interior of the story recounted
by the text, and at the interface of the textual body and its ambient
discursive milieu, all specificity has been removed, just as all specificity
of origin is sidelined in the properly ‘genealogical’ reading of the Arbre
généalogique. The specific matter incorporated is immaterial; what
counts is the fact of incorporation of new savoirs, as it were corpuscles
of knowledge, in a transfusion which stimulates the self-regeneration of
both the literary text and of the totality of discourses (RM V: 1018), ‘la
reconstitution journalière de la race par le sang nouveau qui lui vient
du dehors’ [‘the daily reconstitution of the race through the new blood
which comes to it from outside’]. And indeed, toxicity counts for little;
writing, the textual matter incorporated, can at once be remedy and
poison (see Derrida 1972: 115), a pharmakon which on the one hand
stimulates internal narrative coherence, and on the other destabilises
the membrane between the hypodermic layer of the text and the
wider discursive milieu, site of the material, genetic, and genealogical
processes that stimulate the dynamics of the textual body.
Transfusions, moreover, according to Chéron (1893: 255, 253), perform
a mnemonic function in stimulating ‘le rappel des souvenirs accumulés
et emmagasinés’ [‘the recall of accumulated, stored memories’]; ‘les faits

sont là, plus probants que tous les arguments du monde: les transfusions
hypodermiques activent, précisent et épurent, pour ainsi dire, la
mémoire’ [‘the facts are there, more convincing than all the arguments
in the world: hypodermic transfusions activate, accentuate and, so to
speak purify memory’].14 Memory is, as Derrida famously points out,
threatened by ‘ce dangereux supplément’ [‘that dangerous supplement’]
that is writing.15 But for the naturalist organism, expanding as it
incorporates all supplements, dangerous and otherwise, what the
transfusion of writing, or ‘plasma graphique’ [‘graphic plasma’] as
Foucault (2003a: 50; 2006b: 49) puts it, guarantees is precisely its status –
in Hamon’s characterisation (1975: 50) – as ‘magasin de savoirs’ [‘store
of knowledge’], as composite of diverse discourses nourished by the
artificial serum of indifferent content. The objection might be raised that
what is injected into Le Docteur Pascal is in fact specific, not immaterial
in the least. It is not an isolated savoir, however, but the composite
of several elements, their provenance lying in several discursive and
disciplinary contexts, in epistemological combination with innumerable
other elements of knowledge incorporated by a corpus characterised by
its ‘absence de sélection’ in terms of its content. Moreover, it is a savoir,
or set of savoirs, that only takes on its full meaning within the coherent
text developed around it and other information. These savoirs might
ultimately be considered not as mere inscriptions on the page, but as
substances injected or transfused into the textual body considered as
organic totality. Jacques Derrida (1991: 13) ‘rêve d’une plume qui soit
une seringue, une pointe aspirante plutôt que cette arme très dure avec
laquelle il faut inscrire, inciser, choisir’ [‘dream[s] of a pen which is
at the same time a syringe, a point sucking in, rather than that very
severe weapon with which one has to inscribe, make incisions and
choices’]. Applying this notion to Le Docteur Pascal, we might say that
the ‘médecine des signatures’, rooted in specificity, is administered by a
syringe which can only ever be a pen, making a precise inscription. By
contrast, the non-specific discourse incorporated into Pascal’s body of
knowledge, and by analogy into the Zolian corpus, is not only inscribed
with a pen but is injected, so to speak, via a discursive syringe which
has sucked up discourses without selection, not in order to make specific
inscriptions but to create a plasma that will revitalise the entire textual
body through transfusions of knowledge. And if Chéron’s therapeutic
ideas inject themselves under the archival skin of the novel, transfusing
themselves into its discourse, the novel itself is injected and transfused
into the wider body of knowledge in the contemporary world with
which naturalism engages.
Conclusion: génétique généalogique, généalogique génétique
By way of a conclusion, two series of general observations might be

made here: one concerning the Arbre généalogique, the other on the mat-
ter of Pascal’s ‘thérapeutique dynamique’. In its exposition of the Arbre,
Le Docteur Pascal proposes a workable metaphor – in the accumulation
of the dossiers – for the amassing of elements of knowledge by the
literary text. At the same time it establishes a metaphorical equivalence
between the text and the body, ‘ruiné par l’histoire’ [‘ruined by his-
tory’] as Foucault might put it. The reading of the Arbre allows Pascal
Rougon, moreover, to establish – as Foucault establishes in his reading
of Nietzsche – that the genealogical milieu is more significant than the
specific origin of hereditary traits.
The other main operation performed by the novel – its articulation of
‘la thérapeutique dynamique’ – represents an affirmation that the holistic
cure of the organism in its ambient milieu is more significant than the
specificity of a precise and targeted medication. At the same time, there
are numerous interactions between the textual body of the novel and its
ambient discursive milieu; it is this genealogical context that wins out
over the detail of the specific origin of a scientific fact; genealogy trumps
genetics, or at least critically affirms the value of a genealogical genetics.
If Le Docteur Pascal – ‘le résumé et la conclusion’ [‘summary and conclu-
sion’] of its author’s entire work, according to the novel’s epigraph –
can be treated as a summary articulation of Zolian naturalism, albeit
a valedictory one signalling a shift towards the secular utopianism of
Zola’s future output, it can readily be accepted that naturalism is clearly
a documentary literature informed by science. But it is evident also that
this novel represents a commentary on the very principles according to
which the naturalist text incorporates knowledge. An item of knowledge
in itself, or the essence of such an item of knowledge if there is one, is less
important than that savoir’s status as an element of a genealogy that will
stimulate the text, which is emphatically an organism bathing, as it were,
in a genealogical discursive milieu. To return to Zola’s notion expressed in
1868, it is not difficult to accept an analogous relationship between the
substance hypodermically incorporated into the body, and the ‘fait scien-
tifique’ incorporated into the naturalist text, a fact of which the falsehood
or truth counts for little – what count the most are the contribution made
by the foreign body to the functional integrity of the host organism,
and the organism’s exploitation of this foreign body for the crafting of
fictional coherence and plausibility which, paradoxically, affirm the close
affinity between naturalism and realism at a moment where naturalist
discourse is claiming to be scientific rather than merely mimetic.
Conclusion: Taxidermy, Taxonomy,
and l’esthétique naturaliste
Critics have often looked to the extensive correspondence and planning

notes of Flaubert and Zola for these authors’ commentaries on their
writing methods, and on the vagaries of their style. One of the
points that this book has tried to make is that there is just as much
commentary, albeit implicit rather than explicit commentary, contained
within the body of their fictional works. Both are acutely concerned
with the documentary culture of their age, and their works articulate its
problematics. Because so much of their work is concerned with the body,
and because the body offers such powerful metaphors, it is unsurprising
that it can be seen to offer metaphorical possibilities for the text in its
documentary interactions with its discursive environments. A further
illustration of this can be found in a supplementary example drawn
from outside our main corpus, which may offer a finishing touch,
a way of imposing coherence on the different strands of the foregoing
chapters.
In a discussion of arsenic and taxidermy as they relate to Un cœur
simple, Mary Orr (2011: 65) footnotes Pierre Boitard’s Nouveau Manuel
du Naturaliste Préparateur (1839) as a source of information on the art
of stuffing beasts and fowls plausibly consulted by Flaubert. What
immediately suggests that Flaubert may have used this work is the
fact that it appears in the series of ‘Manuels Roret’ on various subjects
produced for the edification of general readers.1 In furtherance of
a project of vulgarising dissemination of scientific and technical
knowledge, the publisher Nicolas-Edme Roret had a stable of regular
authors (indeed, ‘une réunion de savans et de praticiens’), including
Colonel Francisco Amoros, whose Nouveau Manuel Complet d’Education
Physique, Gymnastique et Morale (among other Manuels Roret), as
discussed in our introduction, is famously consulted by Bouvard and
218
Conclusion 219
Pécuchet (OC II: 262; Flaubert 2005: 170) as part of their vain attempt
to train their bodies. And when the two bonshommes become interested
in horticulture (OC II: 215; Flaubert 2005: 39), ‘[h]eureusement
qu’ils trouvèrent dans leur bibliothèque l’ouvrage de Boitard, intitulé
L’Architecte des Jardins’ [‘fortunately, they found in their library Boitard’s
work entitled The Garden Architect’].
Pierre Boitard (1789–1859) was a botanist by training, but published
(principally in the Manuels Roret series) on subjects as diverse
as printing, etiquette, geology, zoology, entomology, anthropology,
chemistry, agronomy, birds of prey, and, as we know, taxidermy. His
Manuel du Naturaliste-Préparateur appeared in numerous editions from
the 1820s at least until the 1890s, well after his death in 1859 (this was
fairly common practice for the Manuels Roret). Major revisions occur
as early as the second edition, published in 1828. The revisions in this
case are largely down to Boitard’s introduction of a co-author, discussed
(1828) in an ‘Avertissement’ in the following terms:
L’acceuil favorable que le public a fait à cet ouvrage m’a engagé à

tenter de nouveaux efforts, afin de rendre cette seconde édition plus
complète et par conséquent plus digne de ses suffrages.
Pour parvenir à ce but, je me suis adjoint, dans mes travaux, un
des plus habiles Naturalistes-Préparateurs, M. Emmanuel CANIVET.
[The favourable welcome which the public has granted to this work
has engaged me in trying my hand at renewed efforts, in order to
make this edition more complete and consequently more worthy of
the votes of confidence it has received.
To achieve this end, I have adjoined to myself, in my labours, one
of the most skilled among Naturalist-Taxidermists, Mr Emmanuel
CANIVET.]
This surname will be familiar as that of the surgeon summoned from

Neufchâtel, after Charles Bovary unsuccessfully operates on Hippolyte’s
pied-bot, to amputate the unfortunate stréphopode’s leg.2 Or rather, to
perform an ‘amputation de cuisse’ [‘amputation of a thigh’], while
maintaining a philosophical detachment from his human patients
(OC I: 636; Flaubert 2004: 163): ‘il m’est aussi parfaitement égal de
découper un chrétien que la première volaille venue’ [‘it makes no
difference to me whether I carve up a Christian or some chicken I’ve
just been served’].3 There is perhaps more to this avian comparison
than meets the eye; it might usefully be seen in the light of Flaubert’s
220 Conclusion
tendency – discussed in Chapter 1 of the present volume – to give

fictional characters the names of real individuals distinguished in
particular professional fields: for instance, Dubuc and Lestiboudois
in Madame Bovary, and Pellerin – a name shared by the high-minded
artist in L’Éducation sentimentale who ends up as a photographer, and
the real-life inventor of reproducible, repeatable, images d’Épinal. The
‘real’ Canivet’s expertise lay in the taxonomy and taxidermy of birds.
A schoolteacher in the Norman town of Valognes and contributor to
the local Journal, Emmanuel Canivet was the author of a Catalogue des
Oiseaux du département de la Manche (1843), and an expert on taxidermy
recruited by Boitard to rewrite some sections of the Manuel.
The Manuel, after a curious preamble on ancient Egyptian
mummification practices, provides exhaustive detail on how to catch,
treat, stuff, and mount mammals, insects, reptiles, fish, crustaceans, and
birds, as well as on how to procure ‘objets d’histoire naturelle’ [‘objects
of natural history’]. There is also extensive information on the classifica-
tion of animals, vegetables, and minerals, to which the last of the book’s
four sections is devoted. The second section is devoted to Taxidermie,
or (Boitard and Canivet 1828: 92) ‘l’art de bourrer les peaux des ani-
maux, et, par extension, celui de les monter, préserver, et de leur rendre
l’apparence de la vie’ [‘the art of stuffing the skins of animals, and, by
extension, that of mounting them, preserving them, and giving them
the appearance of life’]. But this is only one activity of the naturaliste-
préparateur. Taxidermy – etymologically, the ordering or arrangement
of skin – is, after all, intimately related to taxonomy – the ordering or
arrangement of names: as Boitard’s introduction (1828: 3–7) outlines,
the purpose of taxidermy is to enable naturalists to collect and compare,
and to have a comprehensible and clearly ordered synchronic record of
life, particularly at a time when proliferating new systems of nomen-
clature risk throwing the study of natural history into a state of chaos.
The section on taxidermy proper explains that a key consideration
for collectors is space, and that the amount of space available will deter-
mine the manner in which a bird is mounted (birds, being the most
popular items in collections, are dealt with firstly and most extensively
in each section of the Manuel). Typically, the collector of stuffed birds
will have a hermetically sealed ‘armoire’ [‘cabinet’] with glass doors
in which specimens, mounted in lifelike poses, are kept. However, if
space is limited, another method of stuffing and mounting is proposed:
‘Préparation des oiseaux en St-Esprit’ [‘Preparation of Birds: “Holy Ghost”
Method’]. The major practical difference between this and ‘la méthode
normale’ [‘the normal method’] is that bones are removed from the
Conclusion 221
bird to provide greater flexibility. This flexibility is necessary so that the

bird, along with others, can be displayed, rather than in an ‘armoire’,
in an easily transportable book: ‘[l]orsque l’on possède un bon nombre
d’oiseaux préparés de cette manière, on peut les réunir en espèces de
cahiers fort intéressans’ [‘when one possesses a good number of birds
prepared in this way, they can be placed together in rather interesting
notebooks’]. In order to make this possible, the bird, after its skin is
soaked in an appropriate chemical preservative (such as arsenic), is
mounted in the following way (Boitard and Canivet 1828: 125):
Lorsqu’elle [la peau] est trois quarts sèche, on la place sur une feuille
de papier gris sans colle, et on l’arrange absolument dans la même
attitude que les peintres donnent à la colombe par laquelle ils
représentent le St-Esprit, c’est-à-dire que l’on étend les ailes à droite
et de gauche, ainsi que les pieds, que l’on rejette un peu sur les côtés.
[When the skin is three quarters dry, it is placed on a non-adhesive

sheet of grey paper, and is arranged in absolutely the same attitude
that painters give to the dove whereby they represent the Holy
Ghost; that is, the wings are spread to right and left, along with the
feet, which are stretched out a little towards the sides.]
This curious juxtaposition of taxidermy and the dove representing the

Holy Ghost is echoed in Un cœur simple, where a resemblance between
Loulou (now deceased and stuffed) and the ‘colombe’ [‘dove’] is estab-
lished by Félicité (OC II: 176; Flaubert 1961: 50):
A l’église, elle contemplait toujours le Saint-Esprit, et observa qu’il

avait quelque chose du perroquet. Sa ressemblance lui parut encore
plus manifeste sur une image d’Épinal, représentant le baptême de
Notre-Seigneur. Avec ses ailes de pourpre et son corps d’émeraude,
c’était vraiment le portrait de Loulou.
[In church she was forever gazing at the Holy Ghost, and observed
that he had something of the parrot about him. The resemblance
seemed to her all the more evident on a colour print representing the
baptism of Our Lord. With his crimson wings and his emerald body,
he was the very picture of Loulou.]
Loulou is, of course, stuffed in conventional manner, and mounted on a

perch, rather than ‘en St-Esprit’ [‘Holy-Ghost-style’] in a cahier. But this
is perhaps precisely the point. Félicité is a collector, and (OC II: 175;
222 Conclusion
Flaubert 1961: 49) her ‘chambre’ [‘bedroom’], ‘où elle admettait peu de
monde’ [‘where she admitted few people’], akin to Homais the taxono-
mising collector’s Capharnaüm, where (OC I: 658; Flaubert 2004: 219)
‘personne au monde n[e] mettait les pieds’ [‘no one on earth set foot’],
is a sanctuary where numerous and varied objects are accumulated
and hoarded, albeit in a sanctifyingly transgressive chaotic manner, as
distinct from the order of the naturalist’s collection. In acquiring the
image d’Épinal of a dove resembling an alternatively stuffed parrot, and
placing it next to Loulou, she has at her disposal two variant specimens
through which meaning can be established, so that the Holy Ghost can
become ‘intelligible’. Through taxidermy, any bird can become the Holy
Ghost. For Félicité, conversely, the Holy Ghost can take on the form of
a stuffed bird, becoming not quite ‘vivant’ in an absolute sense but – in
relative terms – ‘plus vivant’ and thus also displaying ‘l’apparence de
la vie’ [‘the appearance of life’] rendered by the naturaliste-préparateur’s
art unto the conventionally stuffed Loulou. Loulou’s sanctifying (OC II:
176; Flaubert 1961: 50) ‘rapport avec le Saint Esprit’ [‘connection with
the Holy Ghost’] is perhaps more than a matter of mere resemblance,
being predicated, rather, on his being a stuffed bird.
Yet the resemblance is a strong one. The image d’Épinal acquired by
Félicité is quite plausibly the widely circulated ‘Baptême de Notre-Seigneur’
produced by the engraver François Georgin, and published by the printer
Pellerin in 1822. The dove representing the Holy Ghost in this work does
indeed look uncannily like a parrot – a parrot clearly mounted ‘en St-Esprit’,
and (OC II: 177; Flaubert 1961: 56) ‘planant au-dessus de [la] tête’ [‘hov-
ering over the head’] of Christ. Moreover, in the original (Georgin 1822)
kept in the Musée de l’image in Épinal, the two colours used are green and
a reddish hue which is possibly the variant of purple known as ‘pourpre
sang de boeuf’, or indeed crimson. The respective colours of the parrot-like
dove’s wings and chest – ‘pourpre’ and ‘émeraude’ in Un cœur simple –
are thus apparently reversed from those in the original image.
As is typical of the dozens of pious images produced by Georgin and
Pellerin – including one (1823) of the martyr Sainte Félicité, accompa-
nied by an ‘oraison’ to the ‘Esprit Saint’ – the illustration is accompa-
nied by two texts: an ‘oraison’, in this case to John the Baptist, and an
‘Extrait de la Vie de S. Jean-Baptiste’.4 Curiously, although the image
depicts the baptism of Christ, the ‘Extrait’ is principally an account
(Giry 1719: 849–52), copied almost word-for-word from Les Vies des
Saints by the professional hagiographer François Giry (1635–88),
of the martyrdom of St John the Baptist at the hands of Hérodias.5
Conclusion 223
Clearly the intersection of taxidermy, iconography, and narrative

identified above raises numerous questions of greater complexity
than can be addressed here, but as Mary Orr has suggested, there is
perhaps a lot more to be said about the parallels between the writer
and the taxidermist. Flaubert, as naturaliste-préparateur, takes the dead –
frequently preserved in arsenic – and stuffs them with discourse, giving
them the appearance of the living and thereby providing a synchronic
taxonomy of life at a given moment, all the while maintaining expert
invisibility in the use of narrative threads in his ‘couture’, which must
be practised (Boitard and Canivet 1828: 108) ‘à ne laisser aucune trace’
[‘so as to leave no trace’]. Another way of looking at this invisible mend-
ing is in terms of the creation of sublime art from the unsavoury real,
which is one of the underlying aesthetic principles of Madame Bovary,
for example. In this particular case, the discursive taxidermist mounts
a parrot ‘en St-Esprit’, thereby articulating – at the simplest intellectual
level – the confusion occasioned by the complex nineteenth-century
encounter between natural history and religion. At the same time,
deeply embedded iconographical allusions lend further coherence to
the hagiographical thematics underpinning a superficially disparate
narrative triptych.
As stated at the beginning of this conclusion, I would like to suggest
that this example also offers us a way of lending coherence to the different
chapters in this book. It does so primarily through its linking of the order-
ing of the body with the ordering of knowledge. Un cœur simple clearly
engages with the technical disciplinary discourse of taxidermy, which,
it is to be remembered, is not just about the technique of creating the
impression of life through the embedding of stuff, fabric, tissu, under the
skin of deceased and disembowelled creatures, and the treatment of
the ensemble with some toxic preservative: it is also, as contemporary
specialist discourse on the matter indicates, concerned with the taxo-
nomic organisation and exposition of knowledge. This epistemological
aspect of taxidermy is not of course mentioned in the tale, other than
in Félicité’s saintly transgression of it through her allowing nature to
take its course and Loulou to be consumed by vermin in a context of
cluttered disorder. The fact that it is not mentioned, and moreover
that the discourse incorporated within the text – concerning methods
of preservation, mounting, and display, linked in turn with another
thematic strand within the tale and within the collection within which
it appears – remains invisible to the naked readerly eye at the level of
lisibilité, is precisely the point. The preparer of the textual body has
224 Conclusion
left no traces of the incorporative processes underpinning its creation.

A work of art has been created from the mundane and the provincial,
but at the same time also from middlebrow technical discourse in the
form of a manual which is in turn part of a Bouvardian compendium
of all knowledge, and from visual and textual works of popular
hagiography. The incorporation of knowledge within the text can be
seen as part of a process of invisible mending, commented on implicitly
by the ‘naturalist’ work which performs it. The literary taxidermist
creates a body of discourse by embedding other discourse within it
before seamlessly stitching the whole.
Chapter 1 of this book concluded with identification of a similar
form of finishing touch or invisible mending in the case of Madame
Bovary: the seamless blending of the literary and the extra-literary, in
the achievement of which the incorporative operations of pharmacy
provided a productive metaphor for the writer’s method, or indeed
discipline and profession. The pharmaceutical text not only collapses
the discursive membrane between the literary and the extra-literary
in incorporating disciplinary discourse within the fictional text, but
also creates convincing characters rooted discursively in their time and
place, lifelike bodies themselves incorporations of discourse: positivist,
professional, literary, religious. The text prepared by the pharmaceutical
‘naturalist’ resembles reality, characters within it resemble real people,
but they are discursive, both in the sense that they are creations of the
‘naturalist’ author’s discourse, and in the sense that they are already
incorporations of discourse. But the bodies whose incorporation is
being unspokenly and implicitly, almost imperceptibly, articulated by
Madame Bovary are not just human characters in whom discourse is
embedded; these include disciplinary and professional bodies coming
into being in the early nineteenth century, in particular the pharma-
ceutical profession as it reconstitutes itself institutionally. None of this
is mentioned explicitly, bar the occasional name dropped by Homais,
the stuffed embodiment of pharmacy and other disciplines, indeed,
of disciplinary discourse itself, and of a new, taxonomic culture, or
cult, of knowledge. In its invisible acts and actualisations of incorpo-
ration, the pharmaceutical novel offers pharmacy as a model of the
discipline, and at the same time calls its discursive limits, and those of
literature, into question.
Invisibility was also a major theme in Chapter 2, characterising, like
the author omnipresent in the text, the unspoken ubiquity within
the disciplinary body of the senior professional figure responsible for
regulating it, as well as – in terms of his specialism – for detecting, within
Conclusion 225
the physiological body, poisons imperceptible to non-experts. As with

the institutional transformation of pharmacy, there is very little explicit
mention of the regime of disciplinary control in the narrative of Madame
Bovary, apart from an oblique allusion to a work by Orfila, and the
occasional expression of dread from Homais, who has quite a lot to fear
from it, but who at the same time stands to gain professionally from the
imbrication of forensic toxicology – which overlaps with police médicale –
and the criminal justice system. Despite the imperceptibility of the
discourse of disciplinary regulation at the level of Flaubert’s narrative,
this chapter establishes strong rhetorical correspondences between
literary and non-literary texts. These correspondences – concerning
persecution by invisible but powerful elements within the discursive
body – exist, moreover, even in the absence of direct incorporation
of one text into another. Flaubert’s novel in this case can be incorpo-
rated into a widespread discursive articulation of a struggle between
an institutional concern for bodily integrity – in both physiological
and disciplinary terms, represented in terms of fears of penetration and
contamination – and an urge to transcend the limits of an arbitrarily
bounded disciplinary body. As in Chapter 1, the boundaries between the
literary and the extra-literary are destabilised, but this time on the part of
medical discourse. Halmagrand’s Considérations – the main textual object
of inquiry in Chapter 2 – is arguably an emblematic repository of ‘savoirs
assujettis’ and ‘ensevelis’ [‘subjugated’ and ‘buried knowledges’] identi-
fied by Michel Foucault (1997: 8; 2003c: 7) as being integral elements of
a genealogical archive, easily situatable among what Foucault refers to
(1997: 6; 2003c: 4) as ‘des textes qui ne sont jamais lus, des livres qui, à
peine imprimés, sont refermés et dorment ensuite sur des rayons’ [‘texts
that have never been read, books which, no sooner printed, were closed
and then slept on the shelves’]. A minor medical text subsumed within
a mass of discourse on obstetrics, abortion and forensic medicine turns
out, on closer examination, to be a deeply personal polemic concern-
ing a bitter disciplinary struggle precisely concerning the integrity and
purity of professional and physiological bodies, both police médicale
and médecine légale. Strikingly, it is a rhetorically constructed, carefully
composed narrative, bearing many literary features, like the other polem-
ical texts by healers in this chapter. In many respects Halmagrand’s work
could be said to be an essentially literary narrative inhabiting a medical
treatise. Another significant conclusion to be drawn from this chapter
is that Flaubert’s novel is sensitive to a very real disciplinary expansion:
that of toxicology, via médecine légale, forensic medicine, into numerous
other domains, notably the criminal justice system. There is a potential
226 Conclusion
parallel here with psychiatry which may warrant further exploration, not
least because the language of toxicological and forensic discourse is so
rich in pregnant metaphors of contamination, penetration and bodily
boundedness.
Chapter 3 was firmly focused on attempts to diagnose and correct the
deformed body, and also on the recurrent pathological situation within
the bodily constitution of what might quite reasonably be regarded
as localised conditions. The nineteenth-century orthopaedist may be
likened to the taxidermist in the respect that both wish to create perfect
bodies through incorporation of techniques, through manipulation of
the body and its components. But on the epistemological plane there is
also a striking similarity. Taxidermy – at least according to nineteenth-
century taxidermic discourse – is an essentially taxonomic activity,
creating perfect animal bodies so that they can fit into perfect bodies of
taxonomical knowledge. One of the striking characteristics of the main
exponent of orthopaedic surgery discussed in this book – who also
happens to be that medical subdiscipline’s representative in Madame
Bovary – is that he seemingly paradoxically combines an interest in
incorporatively spreading his subdiscipline’s authority into numerous
fields, including dermatology, balneology, and ophthalmology, with a
commitment to ever more tightly focused specialism, that is, to ever-
increasing ‘découpage’ of knowledge and techniques concerning the
body. There is a correlation between the way the human body is modi-
fied, corrected, perfected, made whole, disciplined, trained, through its
incorporation of disciplinary knowledge (whether in orthopaedics or
gymnastics), and the way in which an ever-expanding body of knowl-
edge is modified through continual division into specialised units.
Flaubert, we have seen in Chapter 3, is highly critical of corrective
projects of ‘embellissement’, the ‘geste correcteur’ or ‘redresseur’ [act
of correction or straightening] in Vigarello’s terms (1978: 31, 164). At
the same time, his work – as can be seen (OC I: 658; Flaubert 2004:
219) in the figure of Homais alone: ‘il faut établir des distinctions’ [‘it’s
essential to establish distinctions’] – is critical of the refashioning of
knowledge in disciplinary terms, in terms of ‘découpage’, accompany-
ing the ‘découpage’ of self-applied training to parts of the body. There
is a critical awareness that such ‘découpage’ is intimately connected, as
we have seen, to the operations of power and to undesirable outcomes.
Flaubert is concerned, ultimately, with the contradiction between the
hybridity and fluidity that come with the expansion of disciplines, and
the ‘découpage’ into categories that comes with their proliferation. As
far as the novelist’s incorporative practice is concerned, ‘découpage’ as
Conclusion 227
an act of cutting and pasting from contemporary discourse is in fact a

travesty of what Flaubert’s novels actually do: nothing is clear-cut.
Chapter 4 situated Homais’s repeated attempts to refashion the social
body to his liking – and to the satisfaction of his personal interests – within
contemporary discourses of disability, bodily deformity, monstrosity,
and statistics, and, finally and most significantly, in the discursive
context of the rise of psychiatry and its institutions. As in other chapters,
the interconnectedness of disciplines is shown to be a key concern
for the fiction of incorporation. The condition of the Blind Beggar
shifts – aided by Homais’s rhetoric – from being one of mere monstrosity
and physical repulsiveness to one of pathological deviation from norms.
In the representation of Homais’s journalistic campaign against the
Aveugle, various discourses from various fields and various eras are incor-
porated, blended together to link judicial and extra-judicial exclusion
from the social body to the economic problems of the July Monarchy, the
rhetoric of the Grand Renfermement, the imagery of the plague, and the
historical representation and institutional treatment of leprosy. An initial,
commercially motivated, concern for the Aveugle’s individual bodily well-
being, linked to a similarly self-aggrandising exhortation of a professional
colleague and business rival to bring perfection to a perfectly functioning
if ‘deformed’ body, develops rapidly into a crusade to purify the social
body of a contaminating quantity. It does so partly on account of a
pathological redefinition of the phenomenon of the nightmare, meaning
that Homais is haunted by the physical presence of the deformed, simian,
and equine Aveugle, the embodiment of a nightmare which by definition
bears down oppressively on the sufferer’s body. Homais’s nightmare is all
the more intense for the suppression of the word ‘cauchemar’ from the
final incarnation of Flaubert’s novel, which nevertheless retains signifiers
denoting all the key symptoms of what has become an incorporated,
bodily phenomenon rather than a psychological one.
With the birth of the clinic came, indeed, the incorporation, the
relocation of disease within the body, so that its essence (Otis 1994: 30)
became ‘invisible but potentially visible and knowable’. In Chapter 5
we discussed how this was especially true of psychiatric illness, invisible
to all but experts in a new and increasingly powerful discipline. This
‘invisible visibility’ is what characterises not only the manifestation in
the narrative of La Bête humaine of Jacques Lantier’s psychopathologi-
cal condition, but, crucially, also, the presence of psychiatric discourse
within the text of Zola’s novel. Like the Flaubertian taxidermist, Zola
the naturaliste-préparateur has removed all traces of the incorpora-
tion of the disciplinary knowledge embedded within the text, while
228 Conclusion
leaving a patina of Lombrosian rhetoric on the narrative surface. This

embeddedness of discourse is analogous, moreover, to the invisible
danger embedded within a superficially civilised social body, ‘le danger
touffu dans le corps de la société’ [‘the danger embedded deep within
the body of society’] (Foucault 1999: 113; 2003b: 121–2). Further
embedding has taken place at disciplinary and discursive levels. If the
‘juge’ in the nineteenth century, as according to Michelet’s exhortation
noted by Zola in his preparation of La Bête humaine, becomes, through
disciplinary overlap, a ‘médecin’, if psychiatric discourse becomes
embedded within the legal system, so too, at the level of the text, does
scientific discourse become embedded within literary discourse. But
it is not a simple matter of unidirectional transfer from science to
literature, the borders between which are disturbed by the kind of
writing practised by Zola. La Bête humaine, in incorporating psychiatric
discourse, also itself becomes part of the body of psychiatric discourse.
This notion that the documentary novel, precisely through its incor-
porative acts, becomes incorporated within a wider discursive body is
the speculative conclusion drawn from Chapter 6’s discussion of Le
Docteur Pascal, which, through representation of the hypodermic incor-
poration of matter within the physiological body alongside a process of
documentation, metaphorically represents the documentary author’s
methods and the theory underpinning them, namely that it is the
incorporative process itself rather than the specific substance incorpo-
rated that brings renewed vitality to a body, whether physiological or
textual, that is in a process of constant renewal. Incorporation is not
so much about the specifics of what literary texts take in, as about the
coherence and metaphorical power that they derive from reciprocal
interaction with their discursive milieux, and about what they contribute
in turn to knowledge and understanding of particular historical con-
ditions by implanting themselves within wider discourses. The key
determinant is that the body is necessarily ‘bathing’, as Pascal Rougon’s
(and Dr Jules Chéron’s) writings put it, in a milieu.
This has been the central idea underpinning this book’s own
approach. Rather than relying on directly contingent genetic material
alone, this study has cast its net wide, far beyond the literary texts stud-
ied and texts directly linked with them. It has considered a host of other
environmental factors, notably institutional ones, which are part of a
genealogical archive in which literary and scientific discourses, and
other non-textual forms of disciplinary knowledge and practice, are
stored alongside one another. Like the literary authors whose works it
has placed alongside various disciplinary discourses incorporated in the
Conclusion 229
nineteenth century, it has sought to disturb the boundaries between

the literary and the extra-literary, not least through consideration of
the representation of the body as an entity as problematically bounded
as the text, corpus, or archive to which it is implicitly and incessantly
likened.
This has not been a comparative study, but we may make the following
broad observations. As was highlighted in the introduction, the obvious
comparison between Flaubert and Zola is that one is pessimistic and one
is optimistic about the contemporary world, and about the capacity for
enlightenment through knowledge. But there are points of convergence
in their representation of knowledge. Flaubert, conscious of ignorance
as an essential component of the human condition, and sceptical of
encyclopaedic projects to accumulate and catalogue knowledge, makes
clear in his fictions, not least in Madame Bovary, that knowledge is
pointless unless it is joined up coherently. In relation to the body, it is
clear that attempts, rooted in the proliferating découpage of specialist
subdisciplinary discourses, to disturb – for reasons of embellissement – a
coherently functioning organism are vain and potentially disastrous.
Such interventions as the club-foot operation have no justification in
terms of any benefit to the coherence of the body, internally or in rela-
tion to its environment.
Zola’s precise concern is such coherence. As the body can be cured
by incorporative interventions focused on the dynamic relationality
between its component parts, or the individual enlightened through
awareness of the genealogical as opposed to purely genetic relations
within the extended family, so can the discursive body be cured by
knowledge, enhanced and renewed through reciprocally incorpora-
tive interactions between literary and scientific writing. In the case of
both authors, there is a breaking down of barriers between discourses
wrongly perceived as being fundamentally distinct, at a moment when
disciplinary knowledge is expanding and at the same time is being sub-
divided into categories. Such discursive boundaries are problematised
by the representation of the body itself in its interaction with its envi-
ronment. Such problematisation is premised on the fact that the body,
like literary and other texts, has a wider context than its membranous
bounds. The body and the text are connected.
Notes
Introduction: Knowledge, Incorporated

1. For an excellent synopsis of the main issues and historical developments in la
critique génétique since its inception in France in the 1960s, see ‘An Anatomy
of Genetic Criticism’, Schmid 1998: 1–47.
1 Madame Bovary and the Incorporation of Pharmacy

1. ‘Homais vient de Homo = l’Homme’ [‘Homais comes from Homo = Man’].
2. Crouzet develops this theme (1989: 980–1), emphasising Homais’s strange
separateness from Yonville, ‘le milieu dont il semble le porte-parole ou
le représentant intellectuel’ [‘the milieu of which he seems the intellectual
spokesman or representative’] (1989: 981), and reading the novel’s reference
to ‘la profondeur de son intelligence’ (OC I: 690) [‘the depth of his
intelligence’ (Flaubert 2004: 306)] as affirmation of a Machiavellian genius
nevertheless constrained by bêtise.
3. Although the letter is undated, it is most likely from early 1809, when the
first issue of the Bulletin appeared. As Cadet de Gassicourt was a signatory, it
was most likely written and signed before Cadet’s departure in April 1809 to
Austria with Napoleon. Moreover, it is unlikely that such pointed criticism
of the Société’s leadership as that which appears in this letter would appear
during the tenure of the venerated chemist Vauquelin, which ended in 1808.
4. Emptaz (2003) points out that the term ‘anodine’ [‘anodyne’], strictly speak-
ing, refers to remedies which are purely palliative and ultimately useless in
terms of curing illness.
5. The six initial medical schools were in Paris, Strasbourg, Montpellier, Mainz,
Turin, and Genoa; the latter three were no longer in France after Napoleon’s
defeat.
6. Homais, having trained as a pharmacist, is not quite a charlatan, but shares
many characteristics with popular healers of the early nineteenth century,
frequently tolerated even after the Napoleonic legislation (Ramsey 1988:
102–4).
7. The growing of crops in cemeteries is endorsed by François-Vincent Raspail
(discussed in Chapter 2) in his Nouveau système de chimie organique (1838, II:
420–4) – under the heading ‘Préjugé sur l’emploi des sépultures. Culture des
cimetières’ [‘Prejudice against the use of tombs. Cultivation of Cemeteries’].
Parmentier himself proposed growing potatoes in the cemetery at the Hôtel
des Invalides, until he was denounced by the nuns in the adjoining convent,
who asked rhetorically (Lesbros 2007: 323): ‘Nos morts serviraient-ils
d’engrais?’ [‘Are our dead to serve as manure?’]
8. A major element of such a role would have been assistance with amputa-
tions. Amputation was developed as a practice in the Napoleonic theatres,
230
Notes 231
notably by Dominique Larrey (see Larrey 1812–17 and Cadet 1818). It is

possible therefore that Bovary père’s professional role foreshadows a major
incident in Charles’s career, namely the amputation of Hippolyte’s leg.
9. Emma’s procurement of the ‘poudre blanche’ using the key provided at
her insistence by Justin is foreshadowed symbolically by Félicité’s nightly
consumption of sugar, obtained using the key from the buffet (OC I: 594;
Flaubert 2004: 54).
10. Ballin (Barbin and Marec 1987: 46) was also the author of an Essai sur la
statistique du Canton du Grand Couronne (1837), the first study of its kind,
which became a model for studies of larger administrative units, and is pre-
sumably also a model for Homais’s Statistique du Canton d’Yonville.
11. It is on record that Flaubert consulted the specific volume in which Cadet’s
article entitled ‘Apothicaire’ appears, though it is not clear whether he had
done so before writing Madame Bovary; a note from the article in the same
volume on ‘Aphrodisiaque’, also by Cadet (1812b), appears in the manu-
script for the ‘second volume’ of Bouvard et Pécuchet (Flaubert 1966: 130).
12. A possible reason why Homais’s intervention is suppressed is that the trace
of medical discourse can be found in the mother-in-law’s supposedly wholly
religious moralising.
13. For an ingenious discussion of this matter, see Anon. 2011.
14. In an anatomical sense, a ‘poche’ [‘pocket’] can be a pustule or a ‘phlyctène’.
‘Phlyctènes’ are characterised in the Dictionnaire des Sciences médicales
(Devilliers 1820: 480) as ‘ces poches membraneuses’ [‘these membranous
pockets’]. Note also the significance of nails discussed in Chapter 4.
15. Bernard Masson’s footnote to this episode (OC I: 659) claims an ‘allusion’
to Nicolas Venette’s Tableau de l’amour conjugal (1687), but it is equally
if not more likely that the specific work referred to is J. Bousquet’s (n.d.)
Nouveau tableau de l’amour conjugal, which indeed contains gravures, as its
title as read out by Homais promises. Although Bousquet’s work is undated,
it is most likely from the 1810s: it approvingly (IV: 87–8) quotes a warning
by Cadet de Gassicourt against ‘ces élixirs débités par les charlatans’
[‘those elixirs sold by charlatans’] and arsenic as cures for venereal disease.
The work predates 1821, as it is mentioned (Devilliers 1821: 283) in an article
on ‘Sperme’ in vol. 52 of the Dictionnaire des Sciences médicales, published
that year. Devilliers refers to Bousquet as ‘un auteur moderne’ [‘a modern
author’].
2 Medical and Literary Discourses of Disciplinary

Struggle and Regulation
1. Flaubert also came into contact with Orfila, whom he consulted indirectly
concerning his sister’s health, while the Dean was on a visit to Rouen in 1843.
See Flaubert 1973: 195–6.
2. See Downing (2005) for a model ‘cultural studies’ approach to a selection of
medical and literary articulations of a given discursive configuration.
3. I allude here to ‘ce dangereux supplément …’, Derrida’s reading of Rousseau
(Derrida 1967: 203–34).
4. On the pharmakos, see Derrida 1972: 149; 2004: 133–4.
232 Notes
5. A brouillon (4, fo 214v) specifies ‘confrères jaloux’ [‘jealous colleagues’],

implying that their motivation is not altruistic concern for the integrity of
the profession.
6. Dupré was not the only doctor inspired by Orfila to verse. At a much earlier
stage in Orfila’s career, François Fabre published an epic denunciation of the
‘baléare czar’ entitled l’Orfilaïde (1836), recounting his seizure of power over
the École de médecine.
7. Homais, as we shall see in Chapter 3 laments (OC I: 634; Flaubert 2004:
157) ‘les préjugés qui recouvrent une partie de la face de l’Europe comme un
réseau’ [‘the web of prejudices still veiling part of the face of Europe’].
8. ‘Témoin de la lutte, excité par le bruit de la fusillade, il sent frémir en
lui des instincts guerriers. Au même instant, un des combattants tombe
à ses côtés frappé à mort. Ce jeune homme se précipite sur le fusil du
malheureux, et, dans un éclair d’égarement, se met à faire feu lui-même
sur la garde nationale’ [‘Witnessing the struggle, excited by the sound
of guns firing, he felt warlike instincts stirring within him. At the same
instant, one of the combatants fell dead beside him. This young man
grabbed the poor fellow’s rifle, and in a wayward flash, started firing on
the national guard himself’]. This invites comparison with a situation in
which Frédéric Moreau finds himself in February 1848 in L’Éducation sen-
timentale (OC II: 113, 114; Flaubert 2008: 313, 318), and which a brouillon
(N.a.f. 17607, fo 10) records thus: ‘Frédéric fut ébranlé par le choc d’un
homme, qui une balle dans les reins, tomba sur son épaule, en râlant. […]
et dans l’emportement de la vengeance personnelle, il se baissait pour
ramasser un fusil’ [‘Frédéric was jolted by a man with a bullet in his back
who fell on his shoulder with a death-rattle, and, carried away by a sense
of personal vengeance, he crouched down to pick up a rifle’]. Du Camp
(1876: 86) records an incident of this type involving himself and Flaubert,
but without the detail of the rifle.
9. The Cornier case is a key point of reference (Foucault 1999: 116) in one of
Michel Foucault’s 1974–1975 lectures at the Collège de France.
10. Dupin’s expression is disapprovingly quoted by several major medical
commentators, including Marc, Morel, and also Orfila in the Traité de
Médecine Légale (1836a, I: 434): ‘On a de la peine à croire à la réalité de
pareilles assertions dans un pays qui revendique à juste titre l’honneur
d’avoir fixé le premier l’attention des savans sur la monomanie’ [‘It is hard
to believe in the reality of such assertions in a country which rightly
claims the honour of having fixed the attention of learned men on
monomania’].
11. Corpus delicti, literally ‘body of crime’, is the principle that a crime must be
proven to have been committed before anyone can be accused of it. The
body in question is a figurative body of evidence rather than a physiological
body.
12. Mailhat’s patent application was in fact turned down under the legislation of
21 Germinal An XI. See Adelon and Guibourt 1840: their rapport is curiously
sandwiched between an article by Orfila on arsenic poisoning, and an article
by Bouvier on the treatment of pied-bot by ténotomie.
13. On the conflict between miasmatism and contagionism, broadly paral-
leling a struggle between social liberals and conservatives, see Otis 1999:
10–11.
Notes 233
3 Diagnosing the Aveugle, Correcting the Body:

Ophthalmia and Orthopaedics
1. Petit Robert: ‘Éraillé […]: Des yeux éraillés, dont la paupière est renversée. […]
Injecté de sang. […]’. ‘Érailler’ is derived from Old French ‘esraailler “rouler
les yeux”’.
2. Duval cites an article in his own journal, the Revue des spécialités et des
innovations médicales et chirurgicales, by the pseudonymous ‘M’ (1840).
Francesco Rognetta – as well as being an expert on arsenic poisoning, and
defender of Raspail – was the author of the influential Cours d’opthalmologie,
ou Traité complet des maladies de l’œil (1839).
3. Duval argues forcefully that poverty is a major determining factor in
deformities of the body. It is to be noted in this regard that the mother
of Bouvard and Pécuchet’s bossu is ‘une mendiante’ (OC II: 223) [‘a
beggarwoman’ (Flaubert 2005: 61)].
4. An ‘attelle’, in medical terms, is a splint, but is clearly based on an equine anal-
ogy; in equine terms, an ‘attelle’ is a ‘hame’ or harness. As such, the deviant
member is implicitly treated as a horse to be harnessed or brought under
control. Some of the implications of this are discussed in Chapter 4.
5. Consider the ‘action lénifiante des bains’ [‘calming action of baths’] (C, fo
199) talked up by Homais as possible remedy for Emma’s ‘maladie nerveuse’:
is the chemist implying that she should bathe her genitals?
6. In a letter to Louise Colet of 7 April 1854, signed ‘ton MONSTRE’, Flaubert
(1980: 544) discusses his study of ‘la théorie des pieds bots’ [‘the theory
of club feet’], leading him to ‘une chirurgie furieuse’ [‘a surgical fury’].
He quotes a line (Duval 1839: 60) – ‘le sein de la mère est un sanctuaire
impénétrable et mystérieux où, etc.’ [‘the mother’s womb is an impenetrable
and mysterious sanctuary whence, etc.’] – from the section of Duval’s Traité
pratique du pied-bot dealing specifically with ‘la véritable origine du pied-bot
de naissance’ [‘the true origin of native club foot’], that is, ‘stréphopodie
native’, to be distinguished from ‘stréphopodie consécutive’. The most likely
causes of native club foot are (1839: 61) the positioning of the feet in the
uterus during pregnancy, or cerebro-spinal lesions.
7. It may not be coincidence that the surname Guérin is shared with the
celebrated orthopaedic surgeon Jules Guérin, a professional associate of
Duval and ‘chargé du service des difformités’ [‘head of the department of
deformities’].
8. These latter terms are mentioned by Duval (1839: 130) on the same page,
and appear in a brouillon consiting of what Éric Le Calvez (2009: 36) suggests
are notes in Bouilhet’s hand (4, fo 53).
9. Apoplexy is, curiously, also associated with leakage, understood by Duval
(1820: 8) – also an expert on this condition, the subject of his doctoral
thesis – as ‘l’effet immédiat d’une compression subite du cerveau par un
épanchement de sang’ [‘the immediate effect of a sudden compression of the
brain by a leaking of blood’]. A brouillon (4, 144v) for Canivet’s preparation
for the amputation of Hippolyte’s leg has the doctor accuse Homais of being
‘plutôt apoplectique que lymphatique’ [‘apoplectic rather than lymphatic’].
10. A spider also appears while Emma takes refuge in Mère Rollet’s house, as the
wet-nurse is in the process of spinning flax. Observing the spider, Emma ‘ras-
sembla ses idées’ (OC I: 678) [‘collected her thoughts’ (Flaubert 2004: 273)].
234 Notes
11. Luc 7: 21–2: ‘En ce même moment il guérit un grand nombre de personnes
de maladies, d’infirmités et d’esprits mauvais, et il accorda de voir à beaucoup
d’aveugles. Puis il leur répondit: “Allez rapporter à Jean ce que vous avez vu et
entendu: les aveugles voient, les boiteux marchent, les lépreux sont guéris, les
sourds entendent, les morts ressuscitent, les pauvres sont évangélisés.”’
12. Blindness is earlier associated with superstition, at the Comices by Lieuvain,
who refers (OC I: 623; Flaubert 2004: 128) to ‘[c]elui-là […] qui serait assez
aveugle, […], assez plongé dans les préjugés d’un autre âge’ [‘one so blind, so
sunk in the prejudices of another age’].
13. Bonneterie (XVe, de bonnet). Fabrication, industrie, commerce d’articles
d’habillement en tissu à mailles. Les articles fabriqués par cette industrie
(bas, chaussettes, lingerie). (Petit Robert).
14. On bonnets and veils in Madame Bovary, see also Romanski (2004: 99–104),
for whom (2004: 104) ‘Emma meurt, fichue’ [‘Emma dies, veiled/stuffed’].
González (1999: 214) also makes the ‘bonnetier’ connection between
Charles and the ‘marmot chétif’.
4 Correcting the Aveugle: Monstrosity, Aliénisme,

and the Haunting of the Social Body
1. This is one of a series of case histories concerning younger patients presenting
club feet ‘consécutifs à des lésions de l’appareil cérébro-spinal, que nous avons
guéris, comme par enchantement, par la section sous-cutanée du muscle ou
des muscles qui entretenaient la difformité’ (Duval 1843: 133) [‘following from
lesions of the cerebro-spinal apparatus, which we cured, as if by magic, by the sub-
cutaneous section of the muscle or muscles governing the deformity’]. Compare
Homais’s assertion that the operation on Hippolyte was carried out ‘comme par
enchantement’ (OC I: 634) [‘as if by magic’ (Flaubert 2004: 158)]. This particular
expression can be found in the 1843 edition of Duval’s work, but not in the 1839
edition, which the brouillon (4, fo 53) indicates Flaubert, or rather Bouilhet (Le
Calvez 2009: 36), used. Flaubert (1980: 544) used a different copy.
2. Quetelet (1835, II: 277) approvingly quotes the ‘10e leçon’ of Cousin’s Cours
de philosophie: ‘tous les individus dont se compose un peuple, représentent
tous l’esprit de ce peuple. […]. Il est impossible que dans une foule donnée,
telle qu’un peuple, qui a, comme il a été démontré, un type commun, il n’y
ait pas des individus qui représentent plus ou moins ce type’ [‘all the indi-
viduals of whom a people is composed, all represent the spirit of that people.
[…]. It is impossible that in a given mass, such as a people, which has, as has
been demonstrated, a common type, there should not be individuals who
represent this type to a greater or lesser degree’].
3. Note also the following details from Charles’s first appearance, respectively
in the final version (OC I: 575; Flaubert 2004: 5) and early drafts (1, fo 5; 1, fo
46v): ‘Il était chaussé de souliers forts […] garnis de clous’ [‘He was shod in
stout shoes […] tipped with nails’]; ‘la semelle garnie de clous luisans’ [‘their
soles tipped with shining nails’]; ‘des bottes toujours cirées, luisantes, mais où
la proéminence interne des orteils faisait deux renflements égaux<parallèles>’
[‘boots that were always waxed, shining, but in which the internal protrusion
of the toes created two parallel bulges’].
Notes 235
4. Fourbure: congestion inflammatoire des tissus du pied du cheval. (Petit

Robert.)
5. Père Rouault’s ride to Yonville on hearing the news of Emma’s poisoning
also has nightmarish connotations at draft stage (6, fo 281v): ‘<ce fut pour lui
un cauchemar, un rêve> si ému qu’il s’accrochait aux crins de son cheval’ [‘it
was a nightmare, a dream for him. so upset that he clutched onto his horse’s
mane’]. Explicit mention of the nightmare is suppressed, but the traumatic
equine contact connoting it is retained.
6. According to Dubosquet (1815: 9), the creature on the sufferer’s chest can
also be a ‘singe’ [‘monkey’]. In several drafts of his grappling encounter with
the Hirondelle (e.g. 5, fo 234v), the Aveugle ‘se cramponnait […] tout accroupi
comme un singe sur le marchepied’ [‘clung on, squatting like a monkey on
the running board’].
7. Charles’s nightmare could be said to begin when he and his first wife ‘furent
réveillés par le bruit d’un cheval qui s’arrêta jusqu’à la porte’ (OC I: 578)
[‘were woken by the sound of a horse stopping just outside their door’
(Flaubert 2004: 13)].
8. In Part I, Rouault recounts his mourning of his ‘pauvre défunte’ [‘late-
lamented’] to Charles, saying that ‘il vous reste toujours quelque chose au
fond, comme qui dirait […] un poids, là, sur la poitrine!’ (OC I: 580) [‘there’s
always something left deep down inside, like […] a kind of weight, here, on
your chest!’ (Flaubert 2004: 20)].
9. ‘poursuivait’ replaces ‘persécutait’ in a previous brouillon (6, fo 297v).
10. It is also the expression used by the Proviseur (OC I: 575; Flaubert 2004: 6) in
relation to Charles’s hat: ‘Débarrassez-vous de votre casque’ [‘Disencumber
yourself of your helmet’]. In this sense, the hat can be seen as a handicap or
disfigurement.
11. Interestingly, ‘entrefilet’, dated to 1843 by the Petit Robert, is a word of
recent vintage relative to the diegesis of Madame Bovary, and is predicated
on the printing term ‘filet’, literally a net of spaces between blocks of text.
Homais’s inserts are thus entangled within networks of discourse.
12. In Madame Bovary, these statistics are slightly modified according to a pecu-
liar algorithm: wherever 36 appears, it becomes 40, so that the weight of ‘la
belle cloche d’Amboise’ – the founder of which ‘en est mort de joie’ [‘died
of joy’] – becomes ‘quarante mille livres’ [‘forty thousand pounds’], and
the height of the spire becomes ‘quatre cent quarante pieds, neuf [rather
than thirteen] de moins que la grande pyramide d’Egypte’ [‘four hundred
and forty feet, nine less than the great pyramid of Egypt’]. Licquet – whose
guide in fact contains all the vital statistics (information about tombs, dates
of birth and death of their occupants, etc.) that are supplied by the Suisse –
quotes a verse inscribed on the bell by the founder: ‘Je suis nommée Georges
d’Amboise / Qui bien trente six mille poise / Et cil qui bien me poisera /
Quarante mille trouvera’ (1831: 58). The extra mass can be attributed to the
cast-iron beater, or to the 4000 livres the bell cost.
13. St-Yon, location of the new Hospice des Aliénés, is also (Lesguilliez 1826: 189)
the site of the former ‘léprosérie de Saint-Julien’ [‘leper colony of Saint Julien’].
14. At draft stage (6, fo 120), this outburst over the toleration of ‘de si coupables
industries’ – transferred to the Fanal in the final version – mentions their
location, ‘à la porte de nos villes’.
236 Notes
5 La Bête humaine and the Incorporation of Psychiatry

1. On the matter of Michelet’s statement quoted by Zola, see pp. 172–3.
2. The Chemins de fer de l’Ouest constituted the main railway linking Paris –
from its St-Lazare terminus – to Normandy.
3. According to Jan Goldstein (1987: 6), the term ‘psychiatry’, despite being
available since its importation to France from Germany in the 1840s, did not
come to be used regularly in relation to the study and treatment of mental
illness until the last decade of the nineteenth century. That said, the term is
invoked several times – as neologism, it would seem – in a key mid-century
alienist text, La Psychologie morbide by Moreau de Tours (1859), discussed
later in the present chapter.
4. Compare, for example, the multiple explanations for Nana’s disappearance
at the end of the eponymous novel: ‘Lorsque son nom revenait, parmi ces
messieurs et ces dames, les plus étranges histoires circulaient, chacun don-
nait des renseignements opposés et prodigieux’ (RM II: 1471). [‘Whenever
her name came up again, among her former set, wild rumours circulated,
with everybody producing conflicting and fantastic reports’ (Zola 2009b:
410)]. This is also the case in the article by the journalist Fauchery (RM II:
1269–70; Zola 2009b: 190), in which several scientifically contradictory but
rhetorically complementary discourses come together to explain the phe-
nomenon of the mouche d’or, or Golden Fly (see Duffy 2005: 169–78).
5. See in particular the advice given to Roubaud by Denizet (RM IV: 1314), who
rejects jealousy as a theory: ‘je ne vous conseille pas de répéter ce roman à
messieurs les jurés […]; changez de système, la vérité seule vous sauverait’ [‘I
do not advise you to repeat this fiction to the gentlemen of the jury; change
your system, for the truth alone will save you’ (Zola 2009a: 348)]. In this case,
the ‘roman’, the novelistic ‘système’ is in fact the one that reflects reality.
6. See especially the section of Lombroso’s work (1887: 204–41) on the
‘Anthropométrie et physionomie de 3939 criminels’.
7. See also fos 128–41 of Zola’s dossier préparatoire (N.a.f. 10294) for his 1875
novel La Faute de l’abbé Mouret (RM I). According to Mitterand (Zola 2002,
II: 257), the notes on Trélat and on other works on mental illness (Moreau,
Morel) most likely date from 1868; ‘il ne fait pas de doute qu’elles ont été
prises pendant la préparation générale des Rougon-Macquart’ [‘there is no
doubt that these were taken during the overall planning of the Rougon-
Macquart series’].
8. See also fos 356–7: ‘Dès qu’il raisonne, il recule’. […]. Enfin, il tue la femme,
qu’il aime, qu’il n’a aucune raison de tuer’ [‘The moment he reasons, he
recoils. Finally, he kills the wife, whom he loves, whom he has no reason to
kill’].
9. See for example Mitterand’s ‘Étude’ (RM IV: 1704–57).
10. The ‘principale lésion’ is doubtless equivalent to the ‘fêlure héréditaire’;
however, there is already mention of a ‘première lésion organique’ [‘primary
organic lesion’] in the 1871 preface to La Fortune des Rougon (RM I: 3), as well
as in other works discussed later in the present chapter.
11. N.a.f. 10294, fo 141: ‘Un homme qui a le besoin de tuer (mon roman
judiciaire)’ [‘A man who feels the need to kill (my judicial novel)’]. See n. 7
above.
Notes 237
12. On the medical, cultural, and political pervasiveness of monomania, see

Postel (1990: 7) and Goldstein (1987: 152–96).
13. Esquirol’s words are also quoted exactly – and approvingly – by another mid-
century aliéniste, Monneret (1861, III: 53–4).
14. French patents for perpetual-motion schemes are listed by Dircks in 1870
(1968, II: 352).
15. On the Death Instinct, see (e.g.) ‘Beyond the Pleasure Principle’ (1920), in
Freud (1995: 594–626) (esp. p. 612); on the machine–motor distinction, see
Woollen (1983: 118).
6 Textual Healing: Le Docteur Pascal’s Incorporation

of Hypodermic Therapy
1. French ‘tout’ can mean either ‘everything’ or ‘anything’.
2. These notes were made during the planning of naturalism’s emblematic text –
the one comprising the twenty Rougon-Macquart novels.
3. This is a designation, moreover, which highlights the interchangeability of
human and arboreal bodies.
4. Here Hamon develops an idea proposed by Jean-Pierre Richard (1974: 155–
80, 170) regarding the ‘objet’ ‘herméneutique’ and ‘mémoratif’ in Proust.
It is also reminiscent of Foucault’s notion (1969: 179; 2002: 146; emphasis
in original) of the Archive, as ‘système général de la formation et de la trans-
formation des énoncés’ [‘general system of the formation and transformation of
statements’].
5. The plan for Chapter 12 of the novel mentions Brown-Séquard as ‘pionnier’
[‘the pioneer’]. See also Mitterand’s commentary (RM V: 1561–2, 1660).
6. It would seem, given the speculative quality of this – narrative rather than
documentary – remark, that Zola did not in fact consult a specific fifteenth-
century text. What seems more likely is that there is a double analogy
in operation: with the doctrine of hereditary ‘signatures’, and with the
fifteenth-century Bible (illustrated with engravings …) found in the novel.
7. The preparatory dossier mentions, for example, Lucas, Weismann, and
Déjerine, among others.
8. This idea is expressed in the preparatory dossier (N.a.f. 10290, fo 178): ‘Tante
Dide est la souche, mais au dessus d’elle toute l’humanité ancienne. Rien ne
commence, en matière d’hérédité, car il faudrait remonter jusqu’à Adam’
[‘Aunt Dide is the founding stock, but above her the whole of preceding
humanity’].
9. The allusion here is to the title of Baguley’s work (1990). The ‘entropic
vision’ targets precisely a pervasive ‘anti-entropic’ social discourse of self-
confidence and self-sufficient sustainability. See also Duffy (2005: 33).
10. Henri Mitterand in his étude (RM V: 1602–3, 1654) provides details of all the
relevant sources.
11. For his chroniques in Le Figaro, Fleury used the pseudonym Bianchon, after
Balzac’s medical student.
12. Pascal believes (RM V: 949) he has found ‘une véritable et scientifique
fontaine de Jouvence’ [‘a veritable and scientific water of youth’].
13. See also N.a.f. 10290, fo 268.
238 Notes
14. Chéron owes this notion in turn to Théodule Ribot (1881).

15. I allude here to ‘ce dangereux supplément’ (Derrida 1967: 203–34). Writing
is a ‘supplément dangereux’ [‘dangerous supplement’] in that while
promising, on account of its mnemonic quality, enhanced wisdom, it
instead undermines memory.
Conclusion: Taxidermy, Taxonomy, and l’esthétique

naturaliste
1. On Flaubert and the Manuels Roret, see Dord-Crouslé (2003).
2. By coincidence, Vincent Duval’s Traité pratique du pied-bot heartily recom-
mends (1839: 148) Amoros’s gymnastics manual.
3. This remark perhaps also provides a further perspective for Homais’s outburst
provoked by Justin’s failure to observe distinctions between the domestic
and the pharmaceutical (OC I: 658; Flaubert 2004: 219): ‘C’est comme si on
découpait une poularde avec un scalpel’ [‘It’s as if you were to carve up a
chicken with a scalpel’].
4. Félicité’s martyrdom followed that of her seven sons – perhaps echoed by the
seven deaths in Un Cœur simple preceding her namesake’s.
5. This work, first published (posthumously) in 1703, was republished regularly
in new editions at least up until 1880.
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Index
abnormality, 21, 25–30, 66–7, 104–8, Association des Médecins de Paris, 70,
118, 120–2, 124, 126–8, 133, 149, 74, 76–8, 86–8
155, 161–3, 169–70, 176, 189, asylum, 85, 134–43, 147–8
190–2, 227, 233 n. 4 atavism, 204–5
abortion, 24–5, 65, 66, 68, 80–8, author function, 15, 16, 64
225 avant-texte, 199
Académie de Rouen, 48, 50, 52, 53,
136, 184, 185 Baguley, David, 209, 237 n. 9
Précis des travaux de l’Académie de Baillarger, Jules, 191
Rouen, 48, 49,185 Bakhtin, Mikhaïl, 61, 195
Académie Royale de Médecine de Ballin, Amand-Gabriel, 50, 136, 185,
Paris, 52, 80, 88, 89 231 n. 10
Académie des Sciences de Paris, Balzac, Honoré de
182, 184 La Comédie humaine, 237 n. 11
academies, 23, 69, 181–2, 184 La Peau de Chagrin, 186
Achilles tendon, 108, 122 Le Père Goriot, 196, 237 n. 11
Adert, Laurent, 61, 195 La Recherche de l’Absolu, 185–6
advertising, 15, 47, 73, 87 Barthes, Roland, 6, 223
agriculture, 15, 23, 46–51, 59, 60, 61, Baudelaire, Charles, Les Fleurs
64, 112, 115, 147, 185, 219 du mal, 68
alchemy, 15, 30, 185–6 Becker, Colette, 161, 169
alcoholism,158, 164–5, 169–70, 175 begging, 134–6, 138–9, 142, 143, 145,
aliénisme, 27–9, 30, 72, 118, 133, 147–8, 233 n. 3
138–45, 149, 155, 158, 159, Beizer, Janet, 3
161, 167, 168–70, 173–7, Bellemin-Noël, Jean, 199
186–8, 191, 192, 236 n. 5, Bender, Niklas, 17–18
237 n. 13 Bernard, Claude, 209
see also psychiatry Bernheimer, Charles, 3
Amoros, Francisco, 9, 10–11, 218, Bichat, Xavier, 38, 43
238 n. 2 blindness, 27, 95, 96, 101, 113, 115,
amputation, 84, 108, 219, 230 n. 8, 123, 133, 136, 146, 164, 175, 177,
233 n. 9 178, 234 n. 12
Annales d’hygiène publique, 15, 65, 106 body, 1–32
anthropomorphism, 188–9, 207 as archive, 23, 29, 31, 67, 69
apoplexy, 112–13, 233 n. 9 as entity subject to discipline, 7–9,
Arago, François, 187, 188 17, 146, 206, 208, 226
Arbre généalogique des Rougon- as inscribed entity, 7, 10, 17, 31,
Macquart, see Zola 206, 208
archive, 3, 4, 16, 28, 29, 31, 50, 53, as metaphor, 2, 4, 5, 11, 27,
54, 58, 61, 62, 67, 68, 69, 136, 29, 125, 200–1, 217, 218,
195, 200, 205, 216, 225, 228, 223, 229
229, 237 n. 4 as normative entity, 67, 107, 124,
arsenic, 14, 24, 49, 50, 58, 59, 60, 66 126, 227, 223 n. 3
252
Index 253
as site of knowledge, 11, 23, 28, 31, bourgeoisie, 35, 36, 52, 90, 162
155 Bousquet, Jean-Baptiste, 231 n. 15
as site of medical intervention, 2, Broca, Paul, 31
3–4, 35, 61, 110–11, 123, 196, Brooks, Peter, 3
212–13 Broussais, François-Joseph-Victor, 186
correction of, 8, 10, 21, 26, 31, 106, Brown-Séquard, Charles-Édouard,
119, 126, 201, 206, 226, 229 201–2, 211, 212, 237 n. 5
dead, 43, 47, 57, 131 Bulletin de Pharmacie, 38–9, 40, 47, 48,
disabled, see disability 52, 59, 68, 230 n. 3.
disciplinary/professional, 2, 4, 7,
10 14, 21, 22, 23, 25, 28, 35, 38, Cadet de Gassicourt, Charles Louis,
41, 53, 69, 70, 76, 77, 80, 140, 37, 39, 40–2, 46, 47–9, 52, 53, 54,
146, 224 61, 63–4, 68–9, 92, 183, 230 n. 3,
discursive, 2–4, 6–8, 13, 22, 26, 230–1 n. 8, 231 n. 11, 231 n. 15
29, 96, 107, 151, 192, 208, 218, Canivet, Emmanuel, 219–21, 223
224–5, 228–9 Capelle, Marie, see Lafarge
foreign/contaminatory, 68, 87, 196, capitalism, 19
213–14, 217 Carbonel, Frédéric, 138, 140–3, 147
integrity of, 25, 213–14 Caribbean, 48–9
knowledge as, 2, 3, 8, 10, 22, 71, Carnot, Lazare, 182, 187
107, 119–20, 140, 151, 201, 203, Charenton (Asylum), 85
207, 216, 223, 226 charlatanism, 24, 37, 41, 65, 69, 77,
metaphors for, 19, 20, 197 87–9, 183–6, 230 n. 6, 231 n. 15
of evidence, see Corpus delicti chemistry, 15, 22, 30, 36, 38–42,
particle, 46, 103–4 46–8, 50, 52, 59–60, 61, 63, 65,
physiological 2–10, 16, 19, 20, 23, 70–2, 89, 185, 186, 213, 219, 221,
25, 26, 28, 32, 35, 37, 43, 53, 55, 230 n. 3, 230 n. 7
61, 64, 66, 67, 69, 72, 99, 107, Chéron, Jules, 32, 196, 210–13,
108, 116, 120, 122, 123, 125, 126, 215–16, 228, 238 n. 14
146, 150, 192, 196, 197, 200–2, Chevrel, Yves, 197
206–9, 213–14, 217, 218, 221, cholera, 50, 81–5, 90
225, 226, 227–9, 232 n. 11 Christ, 221, 222
situation of illness (esp. mental) circle, squaring of, 30, 181–4, 187, 190
within, 21, 29, 31, 55, 57, 170–1, city, 12, 45, 86, 148, 149
173, 189, 227 see also Paris
social/politic, 6–7, 18, 20, 21–6, Claretie, Jules, Le Train 17, 178–81,
28–9, 31, 67, 70,115–16, 125, 188, 190
133, 150, 161, 163, 167, 176, 192, classical mechanics, 30, 155, 180
226–8 cliché, 91, 101, 121
textual, 2–7, 11–13, 18, 22, 25, 28, club foot, 26, 54, 75, 96, 104–10, 112,
29, 3268, 69, 168, 192, 196–201, 115, 119–23, 127, 133, 219
207–8, 215–18, 223, 229 Code pénal (1810), 134, 149
Bois-Guillaume, 121, 127–8, 135, 144, Collège de France, 6, 15, 157, 162,
145–6 167, 232 n. 9
Boitard, Pierre, 218–21, 223 colonialism, 19, 49
Bonnet, Charles, 170–1 confinement, 12, 134–8, 140–3, 146,
bonneterie, 116–18, 234 nn. 13–14 147–8, 150–1
Bouilhet, Louis, 100–4, 110, 119, 121, ‘Grand renfermement’, 28, 134,
137, 233 n. 8, 234 n. 1 137, 143–7, 149, 227
254 Index
contagion, 28, 91, 145–6, 148–9, 150, as quarantining device, 145–6

207, 232 n. 13 disciplinary culture, 1–2, 22, 24, 58
contamination, 5, 20, 22, 23–5, 41, disciplinary exercise, 9, 226
60, 66–9, 87, 92, 146, 172, 225–7 disciplinary expansion, 47, 48,
contraception, 68–9 58–9, 61, 63–4, 66, 69, 90–2, 110,
Cornier, Henriette, 85, 232 n. 9 177, 225, 226, 228
Corpus delicti, 86, 232 n. 11 disciplinary gatekeeping, 179,
Cousin, Victor, 125, 234 n. 2 182–5, 191
criminality, 155–6, 162, 168, 169 disciplinary knowledge/discourse, 2,
Crouzet, Michel, 36, 47, 52, 90, 3, 6, 7, 11, 15, 16, 17, 18, 21, 22,
230 n. 2 47, 60, 146, 151, 159, 191, 216,
223, 224, 226–9
Davis, Lennard, 124, 126, 149 disciplinary power, 4, 6, 7–8, 18, 23,
death instinct, 189, 190, 237 n. 15 26, 28, 53, 61, 65–6, 71, 81, 90,
Deboutteville, Lucien, 138, 140–2 91, 92, 133, 145, 146, 150–1, 167,
découpage, 1, 4, 8–10, 26, 119, 146, 176, 190–1, 193, 225, 227
147, 226–7, 229 disciplinary/professional body, 2, 4,
deformity, 10, 26–7, 106–12, 118–19, 24, 25, 27–8, 35, 37–8, 40–2, 58,
121–2, 124–33, 226–7, 233 n. 3, 68, 69, 121, 155, 167, 176, 211,
233 n. 7, 234 n. 1 224, 225, 227, 228
degeneration, dégénérescence, 15, 21, disciplinary struggle, 10, 25, 39,
30, 138, 162, 168–9, 171–2, 175, 63–92, 143, 146, 225
189–90, 191, 202 disciplinary subdivision, 15, 38, 58,
of thermodynamic systems, 30, 97, 106, 226, 229
189, 191, 192 see also interdisciplinarity;
Déjérine, Jules, 237 n. 7 regulation
Delamare, Delphine, 52 Donaldson-Evans, Mary, 95–6, 97,
Deleuze, Gilles, 189 113, 123, 137
delusions of grandeur, 178–81, 190 Dord-Crouslé, Stéphanie, 9, 17,
denunciation, professional, 10, 44, 238 n. 1
70, 74–5, 77–8, 90, 92, 133 Dostoyevsky, Fyodor, 166
department store, 19 Douglas, Mary, 5
dermatology, 15, 26, 27, 97, 99, 107, Downing, Lisa, 55, 56, 176, 231 n. 2
110–12, 117, 119, 127, 133 Dubosquet, Louis, 56, 57, 128, 130,
Derrida, Jacques, 5, 37, 68, 215, 216, 131, 235 n. 6
231 n. 3, 231 n. 4, 238 n. 15 Dubuc, Guillaume, 48–53, 60, 61, 62,
see also pharmakon 92, 136, 185, 220
descent, see provenance Du Camp, Maxime, 232 n.8
determinism, 157, 195 Dumesnil, René, 51–2
Devergie, Alphonse, 65, 82, 86, 88 Dupin, André, 85, 232 n. 10
digestion, 103–4, 116, 197–8, 206, Dupré, Noël, 24, 65, 78–9, 232 n. 6
213–14 Duval, Vincent, 10, 26, 98–112, 114,
Dircks, Henry, 183–4, 187, 237 n. 14 119–20, 121–2, 123–4, 127, 170,
disability, 109, 124, 118, 120, 126, 141, 233 n. 2, n. 3, n. 6, n. 7, n.
149, 227 8, n. 9, 234 n. 1, 238 n. 2
disability studies, 124 Duveyrier, Charles, 186
discipline, 2, 6–8, 14, 17, 23, 24, 28,
40, 46–7, 48, 52, 60, 96, 97, 106, École pratique, 78, 79, 81, 84, 86
110, 125, 127, 133, 146, 191, economics, economy, 26, 141, 142,
211, 224 147, 160, 194, 227
Index 255
economy as bodily metaphor, 59, 213 comparison with Zola, 1–4, 11, 12,
Empire, French 16, 218, 229
Colonial, 19, 49 Bouvard et Pécuchet, 9–10, 11, 17–18,
First, 11, 21, 23, 38, 43, 44, 47, 64, 64, 70–1, 107, 119, 218–19, 231
66, 67 n. 11, 233 n. 3, 224
Second, 158, 192, 207, 208 Dictionnaire des idées reçues, 56,
Emptaz, Florence, 37, 46, 104, 105, 108–9, 130
110, 111, 230 n. 4 L’Éducation sentimentale, 17, 220,
energy, 180, 189, 208, 213, 232 n. 8
Enlightenment, 23, 27, 38, 39–40, 42, Madame Bovary, 13, 14, 16, 18,
47, 67, 75–6, 99, 115, 118, 119, 21–8, 35–7, 40–64, 68, 73–6, 78,
138, 144, 172–3, 184, 229 82–4, 90–9, 101–6, 109–23,
énoncé, 13, 15, 90, 237 n. 4 126–39, 141, 143–51, 183, 184,
enseignement libre, 25, 65, 78–80, 89 219, 220, 222–7, 229, 230 n. 2,
entropy, 189, 190, 192, 209, 237 n. 9 230 n. 6, 231 n. 1, 231 n. 9,
Épinal, image d’Épinal, 220–2 231 n. 11, 231 n. 12, 232 n. 7,
épistêmê, 56 233 n. 5, 233 n. 9, 233 n. 10,
epistemology, 4, 10, 17, 27, 31, 32, 234 n. 1, 234 n. 3, 234 n. 12,
37, 46, 47, 61, 62, 64, 104, 116, 234 n. 14, 235 n. 5, 235 n. 7,
119, 133, 166, 170, 189, 196–9, 235 n. 8, 235 n. 10, 235 n. 11,
201, 203, 207, 215, 216, 223, 226 235 n. 12, 238 n. 3
equilibrium, 164, 172, 180, 188–9, Salammbô, 17
190, 208 La Tentation de Saint-Antoine, 17
Esquirol, Étienne, 138, 139, 140, 173, Trois contes, 218, 221–3, 238 n. 4
175–7, 178, 180, 188, 189, 190, Fleury, Maurice de, 210–11, 237 n. 11
191, 237 n. 13 Fodéré, François-Emmanuel, 67, 68
Euclid, 187 forensics, see medicine
eugenics, 126, 149 Foucault, Michel, 6–8, 13, 32, 124,
evolutionary theory, see heredity 134, 145, 149, 151, 157, 158, 161,
expository discourse,18, 47, 58, 67, 167, 176, 197, 199, 205, 217, 225
198–201, 217, 223 Les Anormaux, 21, 27–9, 124, 149,
eyes, 26, 27, 98–104, 108–114, 116, 156–62, 167, 176–7, 189–90, 228,
118, 128–9, 132 232 n. 9
L’Archéologie du savoir, 7, 30,
Fabre, François, vi, 232 n. 6 237 n. 4
Faculté de Médecine de Paris, 24, 64, ‘La Bibliothèque fantastique’, 17–18
65, 70, 73, 79, 81 Histoire de la folie à l’âge classique,
Falconer, Graham, 1, 199 12, 28, 134, 140, 144, 148, 151
fêlure, 164, 168, 171–2, 189, 203, 205, “Il faut défendre la société”, 15, 53,
236 n. 10 91, 225
Féré, Charles, 168 Moi, Pierre Rivière…, 65
Flaubert, Achille-Cléophas, 51, 62, 109 Naissance de la clinique, 4, 227
Flaubert, Caroline, 231 n. 1 ‘Nietzsche, la généalogie, l’histoire’,
Flaubert, Gustave, 1–4, 10, 11, 14–18, 13, 32, 192, 197, 199, 205–7, 217
21, 23–6, 36, 47, 52, 61, 62, 64, Le Pouvoir psychiatrique, 6, 7, 67,
65, 71, 74, 83, 92, 95, 100, 101, 192, 216
103, 104, 105, 110, 119, 121, 137, Qu’est-ce qu’un auteur, 15, 61, 64
218–20, 223, 225, 226, 227, 229, Fourcroy, Antoine-François, 65
231 n. 11, 231 n. 1, 232 n. 8, 233 Foville, Achille, 138
n. 6, 234 n. 1, 238 n. 1 Frankenstein, 131
256 Index
French Revolution (1789–94), 2, 11, Holy Ghost, Holy Spirit, 220–3

21, 22, 23, 35, 38, 44, 62, 138 homeopathy, 15, 36
French Revolution (1848), 65, 140, homicidal mania, 29, 85, 158, 162,
232 n. 8 165, 167, 169–70, 173, 175–8,
Freud, Sigmund, 176, 189, 190, 188, 190, 192
237 n. 15 Homme moyen, 125–6
Furst, Lilian, 36, 43 homoeroticism, homosexuality,
66, 67
Gall, Franz Josef, 141 horses, 27, 126–32, 227, 233 n. 4, 235
Gazette des Tribunaux, 15, 85, 87 n. 5, 235 n. 7
genealogy, 12–15, 21, 31–2, 64, 104, horticulture, 15, 219
158–9, 166, 168, 170, 175, hosiery, see bonneterie
197–200, 205–7, 211, 215, hospital, 43–5, 90, 106, 137–8, 140
217, 228, 229 Asile de Saint-Yon (Rouen), 138–42,
Arbre généalogique des Rougon- 147, 235 n. 13
Macquart, see Zola Bicêtre, 188
Foucauldian, 13, 15, 18, 192, 199, Hôpital Général (Rouen), 147
205–6, 225 Hospice, 134–8, 140
hereditary, 171, 174, 196, 204, 205, Hospice Général (Rouen) 137–8
207 Hôtel-Dieu (Orléans), 88, 89
On the Genealogy of Morals, 166, 205 Hôtel-Dieu (Rouen), 43–5, 47, 51,
genetic criticism, 1, 12–14, 16, 27, 29, 137, 185
32, 36, 62, 64, 104, 112, 127, 139, mental hospital, 85, 138–42
146, 156, 159, 168–70, 175, 192, Saint-Lazare (Paris), 210
198–9, 211, 215, 217, 228, 229 hygiène publique, 15, 41, 65, 66, 67,
Genette, Gérard, 21, 158, 173–4 90, 103
genitals, 109, 233 n. 5 hypodermics, 15, 31–2, 196, 198, 202,
Georgin, François, 222 209–17, 228
Giffard, Henri, 181 hysteria, 17, 98
Giry, François, 222
Goldstein, Jan, 236 n. 3, 237 n. 12 ideal, bodily, 124–5, 193, 209
Gors, Laurent, 184–5 idée fixe, 155, 176, 186
Gothot-Mersch, Claudine, 52 incorporation
Guérin, Jules, 233 n. 7 as concept, 1–32, 35, 62, 197, 215,
gymnastics, 9, 10, 15, 218–19, 226 227–8
as documentary practice, 1–4, 12,
Halmagrand, Charles-Nicolas, 24, 65, 17, 21, 32, 226–8
80–90, 92, 225 as metaphor, 2, 3, 5, 7, 19–20, 22,
Hamard, Caroline, née Flaubert, see 68, 197, 216
Flaubert, Caroline becoming bodily, 2, 3, 4, 11, 226
Hamon, Philippe, 4, 18, 194, 197, blending of discourses, 3, 4, 11, 18,
198, 200, 212, 216, 237 n. 4 21, 32, 57, 61, 62, 224, 227, 229
Harrow, Susan, 3, 19, 20 blending of substances, 23, 35,
heredity, 28, 31, 155–8, 162–75, 177, 53, 224
192–204, 217, 236 n. 10, 237 n. embodiment/personification, 23,
6, 237 n. 8 25, 36, 37, 52, 60, 61, 76, 138,
Herkunft, 32, 205 146, 150, 224
see also provenance grounding within body, 19, 21, 31,
Herodias, 222 155, 170, 227
Index 257
of professional/disciplinary bodies, Lamarche-Vadel, Gaëtane, 138

2, 3, 4, 11, 13, 14, 16, 17, 21–6, Laqueur, Thomas, 3
28, 29, 31, 35, 40, 62, 69, 76, 155, Larrey, Dominique, 230–1 n. 8
167, 190, 224 Lavoisier, Antoine, 22, 38, 42, 63
textual, discursive, 3–9, 11–14, law, 15, 28, 42–5, 59, 74–6, 78, 80,
16–18, 20–3, 25, 28–9, 31–2, 35, 81, 134, 135, 138, 142, 147,
37, 61–2, 64, 68, 71, 96, 98, 107, 148–9, 150, 155, 156, 162, 163,
119–20, 155, 175, 190, 192, 196, 172, 192, 228
198–9, 200, 202–3, 207, 211, criminal justice system, 15, 24, 60,
215–17, 223–5, 227–9 65, 67, 68, 71, 72, 75–6, 78, 80–7,
within physiological body, 2, 3, 89, 135, 138, 149, 155–60, 163,
4, 6, 7, 9, 10, 11, 14, 16, 18, 167–9, 172–3, 177, 179, 191,
20–3, 31, 35, 68, 120, 197–8, 225, 227
201, 206, 209–10, 214–15, Le Calvez, Éric, 233 n. 8, 234 n. 1
217, 226, 228, 229 Leclerc, Yvan, 17
within social body, 18, 28, 29, 161, Le Naour, Jean-Yves, 80
198, 228 leprosy, 28, 143, 144, 151, 227, 234 n.
insanity, see madness 11, 235 n. 13
instinct, 28, 155–6, 159, 159, 160, Lesguilliez, Alexandre, 144
165–7, 169, 173, 175–8, 188, 189, Lestiboudois, Jean-Baptiste, 47–8, 220
190, 237 n. 15 Letourneau, Charles, 19–20, 192
interdisciplinarity, 29, 35, 47, 225, leucorrhoea, 87
227, 228 Licquet, Théodore, 136–7, 139–40,
interior, in opposition to exterior, 28, 144, 235 n. 12
32, 206, 213–15 literature, literary discourse, 1, 2–7,
internment, see confinement 9, 12–22, 30–2, 35, 37, 53–4,
intertextuality, 5–6, 11 57, 60–2, 64–5, 73, 80, 90, 175,
Ippolito, Christophe, 116–17 194–9, 202–3, 211, 215, 217, 224,
228–9
John the Baptist, 222 literary criticism, 1, 16
journalism, see press relationship with medical discourse,
July Monarchy, 11, 23, 24, 35, 62, 64, 11, 14, 16, 105, 175, 225
92, 120, 134, 136, 138, 142, 147, relationship with other discourses,
150, 192, 227 1–4, 11–14, 16–19, 22–3, 31, 35,
juste milieu, 125 60–2, 64, 90, 175, 196–8, 202–3,
224, 225, 229, 231 n. 2
Kilgour, Maggie, 198 relationship with pharmacy, 53, 60
knowledge, 2–4, 7–12, 15–19, 22, 26, supposed effects of on body, 57
30–2, 36, 37, 39, 40, 47, 48, 52, locomotive, 30, 178, 188–90, 198
56–7, 61, 67, 69–71, 76, 97, 99, Lombroso, Cesare, 29, 160–2, 168–9,
100, 103, 104, 106, 107, 116, 176, 228, 236 n. 6
119–20, 133, 139, 140–1, 146, Lucas, Prosper, 172, 173, 174,
150–1, 156–7, 161, 167, 176, 237 n. 7
181–2, 187, 191, 193, 196–9, Lukacher, Maryline, 37
201–3, 211, 215–18, 223–9
Kristeva, Julia, 5 machine, 178, 182
as metaphor, 10, 160, 191, 193,
Lacroix, Albert, 155, 156, 173 208–9, 214
Lafarge, Marie, 71–2 as monster, 197
258 Index
machine – continued 155–7, 167, 172–3, 177, 195, see

misreading of thermodynamic also officier de santé
motor as,180, 188, 190, 237 n. 15 medical training, 15, 24, 25, 43–45,
orthopaedic device, 111 64, 65, 78–80, 89, 230 n. 5, 237
perpetual motion device, 180, n. 11
191, 209 medical treatment, 2, 10, 21, 26–8,
madness, 12, 29, 30, 68, 124, 137, 31, 54, 71, 80, 84, 87, 96, 101–11,
140–2, 145, 148–9, 151, 155, 115, 119, 122, 123, 127, 137, 150,
158, 159, 160, 162, 164–5, 167, 196, 198, 201–3, 208–13, 215,
168, 170, 172, 173, 175–9, 185–8, 219, 229, 232 n. 12, 236 n. 3
190–2 médecine légale/forensic medicine,
see also mental illness 4, 14, 15, 24, 25, 59, 64–70, 75–6,
Mahon, Michael, 13 80, 84–6, 88–9, 91–2, 179, 225,
Mahon, Paul, 70 232 n. 10
Mailhat, Hubert-Marie-Silvestre, 87, professional reorganization of, 22,
232 n. 12 38, 44–5, 60–1, 106
Malthusianism, 141–2 relationship with pharmacy, 22, 23,
Marc, Charles-Chrétien-Henri, 86, 37–8, 40–5, 47, 50, 64, 65
232 n. 10 medicines, see pharmaceutical
marriage, 66, 109–10, 175 products
Marsh, James, ‘Marsh Apparatus’, 72 memory, 15, 19, 29, 31, 144–5, 200,
Masson, Bernard, 231 n. 15 215–16, 237 n. 4, 238 n. 15
masturbation, 55 menstruation, 109
Maupertuis, Pierre Louis Moreau de, mental health legislation, 28, 133
181–3 Loi sur les Aliénés (1838), 138, 142,
medicine, 2, 10, 11, 15–17, 22–9, 147, 149, 150
38, 40–7, 52, 55–7, 59–61, 64–5, mental illness, 21, 28, 31, 138–41,
70–2, 76–81, 90, 92, 96, 100, 106, 149, 155, 159, 163, 187, 189
109–10, 115, 120, 133, 135, 140, see also madness
143, 150, 156, 158, 182–3, 201, miasma, 46, 50–1, 91, 146, 232 n. 13
204, 206, 210, 216, 226 Michelet, Jules, 29, 155, 157, 172–3,
amateur/illegal practice of, 10–11, 192, 228, 236 n. 1
44, 70, 71, 74, 131, 182–3 Michot-Dietrich, Héla, 36
interaction of medicine with Middle Ages, 28, 137, 143–8, 151
criminal justice system, 29, 65, military service, avoidance of, 66, 69
67, 85, 155–8, 172–3, 179, 192 mimesis, 23, 35, 61, 119, 196, 217
medical discourse, 2–4, 8, 11, mise en abyme, 198
13–18, 20–2, 24, 26–9, 31–2, 36, Mitterand, Henri, 170, 236 n. 7, 236
54–9, 61, 68, 69, 80, 84, 86, 89, n. 9, 237 n. 5, 237 n. 10
92, 96, 97, 99, 100, 104–5, 107, modernity, 18, 29, 60, 144, 147, 148,
111–12, 115, 119, 124, 127, 141, 158, 161–2, 178
150, 170, 175–7, 183, 187, 195–6, Monneret, Édouard, 237 n. 13
198, 202, 210, 211, 225, 231 n. 2, monomania, 30, 66, 85, 98, 155,
231 n. 12, 231 n. 14, 231 n. 15, 173–80, 185–93
232 n. 10, 233 n. 2, 233 n. 4, monstrosity, 27–9, 51, 97, 113, 118,
237 n. 12 120, 121–5, 127, 128, 131, 133,
medical doctor, 10, 16, 20–1, 41, 143, 144, 149, 155, 162, 163,
42, 44–6, 51, 59, 63, 66, 67, 71–8, 169–70, 189, 192, 197, 227,
87–8, 92, 101, 138, 140, 149, 233 n. 6
Index 259
Montucla, Jean-Étienne, 182–3 Orfila, Mathieu, 14, 24–5, 64–82,

Moreau de Tours, Jacques-Joseph, 86–9, 92, 178–9, 224–5, 231 n. 1,
170–7, 236 n. 3, 236 n. 7 232 n. 6, 232 n. 10
Morel, Bénédict-Augustin, 138, Orléanisme, 65, 91
169–71, 173, 175, 177, 179, Orléans, 88–90
188, 189, 232 n. 10, 236 n. 7 Orr, Mary, 218, 223
motor, see machine orthopaedics, 10, 15, 26–7, 96–7, 104,
106–11, 115, 119–23, 127, 128,
Napoleon I, 22, 40, 44, 48, 74, 230 n. 133, 146, 226, 233 n. 7
3, 230 n. 5 Otis, Laura, 14, 19, 31, 32, 146, 227,
Code Napoléon, see Code pénal 232 n. 13
Napoleon III, 72
narrative, distinction/distance panopticon, 24, 191, 193
between text and,158, 159, paradigm, 28, 29, 160, 161, 162,
166–7, 169, 173–4, 192, 208, 167, 188
215, 227–8 Parchappe de Vinay, Jean-Baptiste
naturalism, 156, 189, 192, 194–8, 209, Maximien, 138, 140–2
216, 217, 237 n. 2 Paré, Ambroise, 123, 202
necromancy, 30, 155 Paris, 19, 76–7, 81, 90, 92, 106, 114,
network, 6, 7, 13, 19, 20, 24, 27, 129, 148, 230 n. 5
30, 32, 91, 99, 108, 111, 115–20, Parmentier, Antoine-Augustin, 39, 40,
138, 150, 159, 174, 192, 197, 199, 47, 230 n. 7
201, 205–6, 208–9, 214, 232 n. 7, patent remedies, 70–1, 73–4, 87,
235 n. 11 232 n. 12
Newton, Isaac, 179, 186 patents, 87, 183, 232 n. 12, 237 n.14
Nietzsche, Friedrich, 13, 32, 166, 199, Paulson, William, 95, 146
205–7, 217 Pellerin, Jean-Charles, 220, 222
nightmare, 27, 55–7, 128–33, 227, perfectibility, 179–81, 227
235 n. 5, 235 n. 7 perpetual motion, 30, 155, 175,
norm, normality, normativity, 25, 28, 180–93, 209, 237 n. 14
29, 66, 67, 118, 120–7, 162, 164, pharmaceutical discourse, 4, 11, 17,
165, 167–9, 173, 177 22–3, 35, 40, 46, 47, 48, 52, 59,
novel 60–2, 64, 224
as representative form, 1, 14, 15, pharmaceutical products/substances,
16, 18, 19, 61, 156–7, 160, 174, 37, 45, 53, 59, 87–8, 131, 217
192, 194–5, 197, 224, 226, 228, pharmacist, pharmacists, 16, 23, 24,
236 n. 5 25, 27, 35, 36–40, 42, 45–9, 51–4,
negative effects of reading on 63, 65, 66, 68, 72–5, 78, 87, 92,
women,54–5, 57–8 95–6, 98, 100–2, 131, 132, 135,
150, 183, 185
obstetrics, 15, 80–2, 225 pharmacy, 2, 11, 15, 17, 18, 22, 23,
Officier de santé, 45, 76, 84, 87, 25, 35–8, 40–2, 44, 45, 47–8, 52,
103, 123 58–62, 64–6, 69, 70, 73, 75–8,
Ollivier d’Angers, Charles-Prosper, 65, 90–2, 182–3, 224, 238 n. 3
86, 88 military pharmacy, 47–8
ophthalmia, 26–7, 98–104, 108, professional reorganisation of, 4,
110–14, 118–19, 141 13, 22, 35, 37–41, 43–4, 52–3,
opthalmology, 15, 107, 113, 58, 60–1, 63–4, 66, 69, 76, 90–1,
133, 226 224, 225
260 Index
pharmacy – continued Quetelet, Adolphe, 125–6, 234 n. 2

professional standing of, 42, 43
59, 69 railway, 19, 86, 150, 156, 157, 160–2,
relationship with chemistry, 37, 38, 178, 197, 236 n. 2
40–2, 46–8, 52, 60, 63, 92 Raspail, François-Vincent, 24, 65,
relationship with discourse, 36, 70–9, 86–7, 89, 90, 92, 107, 230
53–4, 57 n. 7, 233 n. 2
relationship with literature, 37, 53, realism, 61, 194–6, 217
60–2, 224 redressement, dressement, 9–10, 26, 27,
relationship with medicine, 37, 41, 106–9, 119, 127, 146–7, 226
42, 44–7, 59, 60–1, 64, 66, 69, 92 regulation of health professions, 10,
scientific status of, 38, 39, 46–8, 14, 16, 21, 22–5, 43–5, 65–79,
59, 61 90–2, 133, 225, 230 n. 6, 232 n. 12
training, 43–5, 64–6, 135, 230 n. 6 see also police médicale
pharmakon, 37, 68, 69, 215 Republic, French
pharmakos, 37, 69, 231 n. 4 First, 22, 23, 44
Philosopher’s Stone, 181–3, 190 Second, 70
photophobia, 99, 113, 114, 116, 118 Third, 158
phrenology, 30, 141 republicanism, 65, 70, 90, 91
pied-bot, see club foot Restoration, 140
Pinel [neveu], Casimir, 179 revolution
Pinel, Philippe, 138, 140, 175, 177, chemical, 22, 38, 63
187, 188 scientific, 35, 59–60
plague, 8, 28, 145, 146–7, 150, 227 Ribot, Théodule, 238 n. 14
Plato, 37 Richard, Jean-Pierre, 237 n. 4
poison, poisoning, 2, 14, 15, 22, 24, Rivière, Pierre, 65
25, 37, 40, 41, 53, 58, 60, 61, Rognetta, Francesco, 101
63–9, 71–2, 92, 157, 164, 166, Romanticism, 95
210, 215, 223, 225, 226, 232 n. Roret, Nicolas-Edme, 218–19, 238 n. 1
12, 233 n. 2, 235 n. 5 Rouen, 43, 44, 45, 48–50, 52, 53,
police médicale, 24, 25, 66, 69–70, 58, 104, 108, 109, 117, 135–42,
72–5, 90–2 144–8
poverty, 77, 138, 141–3, 146, 149,
233 n. 3 Sachs, Murray, 95
Préli, Georges, 138 Saint-Réal, César Vichard de, 61
press, 15, 81, 85, 87, 89, 134, 143, Schmid, Marion, 230 n. 1.
150, 159, 174, 210, 227, 236 n. 4 scrofula, 26–7, 95–104, 107–12, 114,
Prichard, James Cowles, 173 116–19, 122–4, 127, 129, 130,
progress, 1, 92, 106–7, 133, 184–5 137, 141, 143–4
Proust, Marcel, 237 n. 4 secularization, 2–3, 11, 20, 28, 31,
provenance, 13, 32, 170, 192, 199, 55, 57
205–6, 216 Seine-Inférieure, 28, 48, 53, 116, 136,
provinces, 18, 23, 47, 52, 61, 64, 72, 138, 139, 141–2, 147
92, 116, 138, 148, 184–5, 224 Siler, Douglas, 36, 41, 64
psychiatry, 15, 21, 26–9, 31, 61, 65, Simon, Jonathan, 38, 44, 74
67, 124, 133, 138, 140–1, 155–6, skin, 27, 95, 101, 108–13, 116–19,
158–63, 167–9, 172–7, 189–92, 122, 126, 135, 137, 143–4, 200,
226–8, 236 n. 3 202, 210, 212, 216, 220–1, 223
puceron laniger, 49–50 see also dermatology; scrofula
Index 261
somatisation, 2–3, 9, 11, 20, 21, 28, Visible Human Project, 4

31, 55, 57, 170 Vizetelly, Edward, 174, 191
Sotteville, 139 vraisemblance, 1, 196, 217
specialism, 10, 26, 97, 106–7, 119–20,
146, 223, 226, 229, 233 n. 2 Waldby, Catherine, 4
Statistical Society of London, 125 war, 8, 47–8, 66, 69
statistics, 15, 121, 124–6, 133, 136–42, Weismann, August, 237 n. 7
150, 227, 231 n. 10 Wetherill, Peter Michael, 1, 95, 131
steam engine, 179–81, 190 Whorton, James, 49, 72
Stendhal (pseud. Henri Beyle), 61 womb, 233 n. 6
Stephenson, George, 180 Woollen, Geoff, 237 n. 15
style indirect libre, 58, 83, 96, 132, 141, woolly aphis, see puceron laniger
161, 164
Zola, Émile,1–4, 11, 12, 16, 19–21,
Tanner, Tony, 18 29–30, 32, 155–62, 168–70,
Tarde, Gabriel, 168 172–4, 177, 188, 191–2, 194–6,
Tardieu, Ambroise, 67–8 202, 205, 209–11, 215, 217–18,
taxidermy, 15, 218–24, 226 227–9, 236 n. 1, 237 n. 6
taxonomy, 53, 218, 220, 222, 223, comparison with Flaubert, 1–4, 11,
224, 226 12, 16, 218, 229
teleology, avoidance of in approach to plans for Rougon-Macquart series,
genetic corpus, 12, 13 157, 158, 159, 174, 195, 217
thermodynamics, 30, 155, 180, Arbre généalogique des Rougon-
188–91 Macquart, Rougon-Macquart
Thibaudet, Albert, 36, 95 family tree, 28, 158, 165,
toxicology, 14, 15, 24, 25, 50, 61, 63, 198–200, 201, 203–5, 215, 217
65–7, 72, 86, 89, 192 L’Argent, 19
Tissot, Auguste, 55 La Bête humaine, 19, 20–1, 28–30,
training 124, 155–77, 188, 191–2, 227–8,
of body, 8, 146–7, 219, 226 236 n. 5
professional, 15, 43–5, 58, 64, 66 Au Bonheur des Dames, 19
Trélat, Ulysse, 162–63 Le Docteur Pascal, 13, 20, 21, 28, 29,
turf war, 39 31–2, 188, 191–217, 228, 237–8
La Faute de l’abbé Mouret, 169, 236
University of Paris, 89 n. 7
see also Faculté de Médecine de La Fortune des Rougon, 236 n. 10
Paris Germinal, 19
Ursprung, 32, 205 Nana, 19, 21, 236 n. 4
Le Roman expérimental, 156, 158,
vagabondage, vagrancy, 97, 134–5, 194–5, 209
138, 143, 145–9 Les Romanciers naturalistes, 156
Valenti, Catherine, 80 Rougon-Macquart series, 19, 20, 28,
vapours, 54, 55 29, 31, 32, 155, 158, 159, 169,
Vauquelin, Louis-Nicolas, 65, 230 n. 3 174, 192, 193, 196, 197, 206, 207,
Venette, Nicolas, 231 n. 15 208
Vigarello, Georges, 8–9, 226 Le Ventre de Paris, 19

Flaubert, Zola, and The Incorporation of Disciplinary Knowledge

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Flaubert, Zola, and

Published in association with the Centre for Modern European Literature,

Palgrave Studies in Modern European Literature

1. French literature—19th century—History and criticism. 2. Knowledge,

Typeset by MPS Limited, Chennai, India.

Messieurs, le Roi! Mais non, c’est le Doyen.

[J]amais il n’avait eu si grande joie de se voir imprimé depuis le jour de sa

Series Editors’ Preface viii

Introduction: Knowledge, Incorporated 1

Many of the most significant European writers and literary movements

Italy as prototypes for both modern European politics and modern

an appreciation of the ways in which modern European literature

other arts, that analyses the impact of other discourses (philosophical,

Part of Chapter 1 has appeared as ‘Madame Bovary and the Institutional

Certain primary texts are referred to frequently throughout this book.

OC Gustave Flaubert (1964) Œuvres complètes, ed. Bernard Masson,

Quotations in French in this book are accompanied by English transla-

The manuscript dossier for Madame Bovary is held at the Bibliothèque

Brouillons (drafts): cote Ms g 223, vols 1–6.

For brouillons, references are to the relevant volume number, so that Ms

editing and organisation that, in spite of everything separating Zola

How does this rich, compelling, often disturbing corporeality emerge

One of the questions raised by this book is similarly analogical: how

to, operations upon, ingestion by the human, but also disciplinary

Body, text, discipline

Our notion of incorporation by the textual or discursive body is clearly

What is crucial about the text–body analogy in the present study is

La méthode transformationnelle nous amène […] à situer la struc-

[The transformational method leads us to situate the literary structure

Kristeva’s formulation foregrounds the impact of the intertextual inter-

according to the dual meaning of ‘host’ – is also incorporated within

[L]a théorie actuelle du texte se détourne du texte-voile et cherche

and ‘prend corps’ [‘is embodied’], as he puts it elsewhere (1997: 25;

[Bodies, behaviour and discourse are gradually besieged by a tissue

Writing is not only textual, consisting of interwoven strands of tissu,

The body, discipline and incorporation

reshaping of the body of knowledge, so that (1975: 252–3; 1991: 217)

Le pouvoir disciplinaire en effet est un pouvoir qui […] a pour fonc-

[Disciplinary power is indeed a power of which the major function is

Foucault, referring to a seventeenth-century military manual, charac-

practice. Educational encyclopaedias, according to Vigarello (1978: 152),

consequences: ‘sueur’ [‘sweat’] and ‘étourdissements’ [‘fainting fits’]

The case of Amoros, then, and the incorporation of his particular

Methodology: pour une généalogie génétique,

How, then, from a methodological point of view, to approach the

not immediately recognisable as discursive. The ‘mise du texte dans les

Significantly, our situation of texts – both literary and disciplinary – in

The premise that influence flows from science to literature implicitly

Corpus: disciplinary discourse, Flaubert, Zola

At the Collège de France in January 1976, Michel Foucault (1997: 9–10;

closer inspection to be implicated in struggles that go beyond their

Flaubert’s works reveal a clear interest in knowledge, the problem

incorporation of knowledge, and are based on massive documentation.

Sous chaque mot, sous chaque phrase de Salammbô, se trouve un

[Under each word, under each sentence in Salammbô, can be found a

Likewise, La Tentation de Saint-Antoine, famously discussed in terms of

Zola is, as we have seen (Harrow 2010: 14), a pathological chronicler of

par un tissu spécial, le tissu nerveux’ [‘the nervous system, constituted

[L]’homme, envisagé sainement, et non à travers les verres colorés

A further governmental role is provided by blood, the function of

Structure and content

through incorporation as a good in itself, which also signally provide

permeates this body politic at this critical and problematic moment in