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house。
But 〃the blow had struck home。〃 A week after； as she was hanging
up some washing in her yard； she was seized with a spitting of
blood； and the next day； while Charles had his back turned to her
drawing the window…curtain； she said； 〃O God！〃 gave a sigh and
fainted。 She was dead！ What a surprise！ When all was over at the
cemetery Charles went home。 He found no one downstairs； he went
up to the first floor to their room； say her dress still hanging
at the foot of the alcove； then； leaning against the
writing…table； he stayed until the evening； buried in a sorrowful
reverie。 She had loved him after all！
Chapter Three
One morning old Rouault brought Charles the money for setting his
legseventy…five francs in forty…sou pieces； and a turkey。 He
had heard of his loss； and consoled him as well as he could。
〃I know what it is；〃 said he； clapping him on the shoulder； 〃I've
been through it。 When I lost my dear departed； I went into the
fields to be quite alone。 I fell at the foot of a tree； I cried；
I called on God； I talked nonsense to Him。 I wanted to be like
the moles that I saw on the branches； their insides swarming with
worms； dead； and an end of it。 And when I thought that there were
others at that very moment with their nice little wives holding
them in their embrace； I struck great blows on the earth with my
stick。 I was pretty well mad with not eating； the very idea of
going to a cafe disgusted meyou wouldn't believe it。 Well；
quite softly； one day following another； a spring on a winter；
and an autumn after a summer； this wore away； piece by piece；
crumb by crumb； it passed away； it is gone； I should say it has
sunk； for something always remains at the bottom as one would
saya weight here； at one's heart。 But since it is the lot of
all of us； one must not give way altogether； and； because others
have died； want to die too。 You must pull yourself together；
Monsieur Bovary。 It will pass away。 Come to see us； my daughter
thinks of you now and again； d'ye know； and she says you are
forgetting her。 Spring will soon be here。 We'll have some
rabbit…shooting in the warrens to amuse you a bit。〃
Charles followed his advice。 He went back to the Bertaux。 He
found all as he had left it； that is to say； as it was five
months ago。 The pear trees were already in blossom； and Farmer
Rouault； on his legs again； came and went； making the farm more
full of life。
Thinking it his duty to heap the greatest attention upon the
doctor because of his sad position； he begged him not to take his
hat off； spoke to him in an undertone as if he had been ill； and
even pretended to be angry because nothing rather lighter had
been prepared for him than for the others； such as a little
clotted cream or stewed pears。 He told stories。 Charles found
himself laughing； but the remembrance of his wife suddenly coming
back to him depressed him。 Coffee was brought in； he thought no
more about her。
He thought less of her as he grew accustomed to living alone。 The
new delight of independence soon made his loneliness bearable。 He
could now change his meal…times； go in or out without
explanation； and when he was very tired stretch himself at full
length on his bed。 So he nursed and coddled himself and accepted
the consolations that were offered him。 On the other hand； the
death of his wife had not served him ill in his business； since
for a month people had been saying； 〃The poor young man！ what a
loss！〃 His name had been talked about； his practice had
increased； and moreover； he could go to the Bertaux just as he
liked。 He had an aimless hope； and was vaguely happy； he thought
himself better looking as he brushed his whiskers before the
looking…glass。
One day he got there about three o'clock。 Everybody was in the
fields。 He went into the kitchen； but did not at once catch sight
of Emma； the outside shutters were closed。 Through the chinks of
the wood the sun sent across the flooring long fine rays that
were broken at the corners of the furniture and trembled along
the ceiling。 Some flies on the table were crawling up the glasses
that had been used； and buzzing as they drowned themselves in the
dregs of the cider。 The daylight that came in by the chimney made
velvet of the soot at the back of the fireplace； and touched with
blue the cold cinders。 Between the window and the hearth Emma was
sewing； she wore no fichu； he could see small drops of
perspiration on her bare shoulders。
After the fashion of country folks she asked him to have
something to drink。 He said no； she insisted； and at last
laughingly offered to have a glass of liqueur with him。 So she
went to fetch a bottle of curacao from the cupboard； reached down
two small glasses； filled one to the brim； poured scarcely
anything into the other； and； after having clinked glasses；
carried hers to her mouth。 As it was almost empty she bent back
to drink； her head thrown back； her lips pouting； her neck on the
strain。 She laughed at getting none of it； while with the tip of
her tongue passing between her small teeth she licked drop by
drop the bottom of her glass。
She sat down again and took up her work； a white cotton stocking
she was darning。 She worked with her head bent down； she did not
speak； nor did Charles。 The air coming in under the door blew a
little dust over the flags； he watched it drift along； and heard
nothing but the throbbing in his head and the faint clucking of a
hen that had laid an egg in the yard。 Emma from time to time
cooled her cheeks with the palms of her hands； and cooled these
again on the knobs of the huge fire…dogs。
She complained of suffering since the beginning of the season
from giddiness； she asked if sea…baths would do her any good； she
began talking of her convent； Charles of his school； words came
to them。 They went up into her bedroom。 She showed him her old
music…books； the little prizes she had won； and the oak…leaf
crowns； left at the bottom of a cupboard。 She spoke to him； too；
of her mother； of the country； and even showed him the bed in the
garden where； on the first Friday of every month； she gathered
flowers to put on her mother's tomb。 But the gardener they had
never knew anything about it； servants are so stupid！ She would
have dearly liked； if only for the winter； to live in town；
although the length of the fine days made the country perhaps
even more wearisome in the summer。 And； according to what she was
saying； her voice was clear； sharp； or； on a sudden all languor；
drawn out in modulations that ended almost in murmurs as she
spoke to herself； now joyous； opening big naive eyes； then with
her eyelids half closed； her look full of boredom； her thoughts
wandering。
Going home at night； Charles went over her words one by one；
trying to recall them； to fill out their sense； that he might
piece out the life she had lived before he knew her。 But he never
saw her in his thoughts other than he had seen her the first
time； or as he had just left her。 Then he asked himself what
would become of herif she would be married； and to whom！ Alas！
Old Rouault was rich； and she！so beautiful！ But Emma's face
always rose before his eyes； and a monotone； like the humming