Part III: Chapter Eight

by Gustave Flaubert

　　She asked herself as she walked along, "What am I going to say?How shall I begin?" And as she went on she recognised thethickets, the trees, the sea-rushes on the hill, the chateauyonder. All the sensations of her first tenderness came back toher, and her poor aching heart opened out amorously. A warm windblew in her face; the melting snow fell drop by drop from thebuds to the grass.

　　She entered, as she used to, through the small park-gate. Shereached the avenue bordered by a double row of dense lime-trees.They were swaying their long whispering branches to and fro. Thedogs in their kennels all barked, and the noise of their voicesresounded, but brought out no one.

　　She went up the large straight staircase with wooden balustersthat led to the corridor paved with dusty flags, into whichseveral doors in a row opened, as in a monastery or an inn. Hiswas at the top, right at the end, on the left. When she placedher fingers on the lock her strength suddenly deserted her. Shewas afraid, almost wished he would not be there, though this washer only hope, her last chance of salvation. She collected herthoughts for one moment, and, strengthening herself by thefeeling of present necessity, went in.

　　He was in front of the fire, both his feet on the mantelpiece,smoking a pipe.

　　"What! it is you!" he said, getting up hurriedly.

　　"Yes, it is I, Rodolphe. I should like to ask your advice."

　　And, despite all her efforts, it was impossible for her toopen her lips.

　　"You have not changed; you are charming as ever!"

　　"Oh," she replied bitterly, "they are poor charms since youdisdained them."

　　Then he began a long explanation of his conduct, excusing himselfin vague terms, in default of being able to invent better.

　　She yielded to his words, still more to his voice and the sightof him, so that, she pretended to believe, or perhaps believed;in the pretext he gave for their rupture; this was a secret onwhich depended the honour, the very life of a third person.

　　"No matter!" she said, looking at him sadly. "I have sufferedmuch."

　　He replied philosophically--

　　"Such is life!"

　　"Has life," Emma went on, "been good to you at least, since ourseparation?"

　　"Oh, neither good nor bad."

　　"Perhaps it would have been better never to have parted."

　　"Yes, perhaps."

　　"You think so?" she said, drawing nearer, and she sighed. "Oh,Rodolphe! if you but knew! I loved you so!"

　　It was then that she took his hand, and they remained some time,their fingers intertwined, like that first day at the Show. Witha gesture of pride he struggled against this emotion. But sinkingupon his breast she said to him--

　　"How did you think I could live without you? One cannot lose thehabit of happiness. I was desolate. I thought I should die. Iwill tell you about all that and you will see. And you--you fledfrom me!"

　　For, all the three years, he had carefully avoided her inconsequence of that natural cowardice that characterises thestronger sex. Emma went on, with dainty little nods, more coaxingthan an amorous kitten--

　　"You love others, confess it! Oh, I understand them, dear! Iexcuse them. You probably seduced them as you seduced me. You areindeed a man; you have everything to make one love you. But we'llbegin again, won't we? We will love one another. See! I amlaughing; I am happy! Oh, speak!"

　　And she was charming to see, with her eyes, in which trembled atear, like the rain of a storm in a blue corolla.

　　He had drawn her upon his knees, and with the back of his handwas caressing her smooth hair, where in the twilight was mirroredlike a golden arrow one last ray of the sun. She bent down herbrow; at last he kissed her on the eyelids quite gently with thetips of his lips.

　　"Why, you have been crying! What for?"

　　She burst into tears. Rodolphe thought this was an outburst ofher love. As she did not speak, he took this silence for a lastremnant of resistance, and then he cried out--

　　"Oh, forgive me! You are the only one who pleases me. I wasimbecile and cruel. I love you. I will love you always. What isit. Tell me!" He was kneeling by her.

　　"Well, I am ruined, Rodolphe! You must lend me three thousandfrancs."

　　"But--but--" said he, getting up slowly, while his face assumed agrave expression.

　　"You know," she went on quickly, "that my husband had placed hiswhole fortune at a notary's. He ran away. So we borrowed; thepatients don't pay us. Moreover, the settling of the estate isnot yet done; we shall have the money later on. But to-day, forwant of three thousand francs, we are to be sold up. It is to beat once, this very moment, and, counting upon your friendship, Ihave come to you."

　　"Ah!" thought Rodolphe, turning very pale, "that was what shecame for." At last he said with a calm air--

　　"Dear madame, I have not got them."

　　He did not lie. If he had had them, he would, no doubt, havegiven them, although it is generally disagreeable to do such finethings: a demand for money being, of all the winds that blow uponlove, the coldest and most destructive.

　　First she looked at him for some moments.

　　"You have not got them!" she repeated several times. "You havenot got them! I ought to have spared myself this last shame. Younever loved me. You are no better than the others."

　　She was betraying, ruining herself.

　　Rodolphe interrupted her, declaring he was "hard up" himself.

　　"Ah! I pity you," said Emma. "Yes--very much."

　　And fixing her eyes upon an embossed carabine, that shone againstits panoply, "But when one is so poor one doesn't have silver onthe butt of one's gun. One doesn't buy a clock inlaid withtortoise shell," she went on, pointing to a buhl timepiece, "norsilver-gilt whistles for one's whips," and she touched them, "norcharms for one's watch. Oh, he wants for nothing! even to aliqueur-stand in his room! For you love yourself; you live well.You have a chateau, farms, woods; you go hunting; you travel toParis. Why, if it were but that," she cried, taking up two studsfrom the mantelpiece, "but the least of these trifles, one canget money for them. Oh, I do not want them, keep them!"

　　And she threw the two links away from her, their gold chainbreaking as it struck against the wall.

　　"But I! I would have given you everything. I would have sold all,worked for you with my hands, I would have begged on thehighroads for a smile, for a look, to hear you say 'Thanks!' Andyou sit there quietly in your arm-chair, as if you had not mademe suffer enough already! But for you, and you know it, I mighthave lived happily. What made you do it? Was it a bet? Yet youloved me--you said so. And but a moment since--Ah! it would havebeen better to have driven me away. My hands are hot with yourkisses, and there is the spot on the carpet where at my knees youswore an eternity of love! You made me believe you; for two yearsyou held me in the most magnificent, the sweetest dream! Eh! Ourplans for the journey, do you remember? Oh, your letter! yourletter! it tore my heart! And then when I come back to him--tohim, rich, happy, free--to implore the help the first strangerwould give, a suppliant, and bringing back to him all mytenderness, he repulses me because it would cost him threethousand francs!"

　　"I haven't got them," replied Rodolphe, with that perfect calmwith which resigned rage covers itself as with a shield.

　　She went out. The walls trembled, the ceiling was crushing her,and she passed back through the long alley, stumbling against theheaps of dead leaves scattered by the wind. At last she reachedthe ha-ha hedge in front of the gate; she broke her nails againstthe lock in her haste to open it. Then a hundred steps fartheron, breathless, almost falling, she stopped. And now turninground, she once more saw the impassive chateau, with the park,the gardens, the three courts, and all the windows of the facade.

　　She remained lost in stupor, and having no more consciousness ofherself than through the beating of her arteries, that she seemedto hear bursting forth like a deafening music filling all thefields. The earth beneath her feet was more yielding than thesea, and the furrows seemed to her immense brown waves breakinginto foam. Everything in her head, of memories, ideas, went offat once like a thousand pieces of fireworks. She saw her father,Lheureux's closet, their room at home, another landscape. Madnesswas coming upon her; she grew afraid, and managed to recoverherself, in a confused way, it is true, for she did not in the,least remember the cause of the terrible condition she was in,that is to say, the question of money. She suffered only in herlove, and felt her soul passing from her in this memory; aswounded men, dying, feel their life ebb from their bleedingwounds.

　　Night was falling, crows were flying about.

　　Suddenly it seemed to her that fiery spheres were exploding inthe air like fulminating balls when they strike, and werewhirling, whirling, to melt at last upon the snow between thebranches of the trees. In the midst of each of them appeared theface of Rodolphe. They multiplied and drew near her, penetrating,her. It all disappeared; she recognised the lights of the housesthat shone through the fog.

　　Now her situation, like an abyss, rose up before her. She waspanting as if her heart would burst. Then in an ecstasy ofheroism, that made her almost joyous, she ran down the hill,crossed the cow-plank, the foot-path, the alley, the market, andreached the chemist's shop. She was about to enter, but at thesound of the bell someone might come, and slipping in by thegate, holding her breath, feeling her way along the walls, shewent as far as the door of the kitchen, where a candle stuck onthe stove was burning. Justin in his shirt-sleeves was carryingout a dish.

　　"Ah! they are dining; I will wait."

　　He returned; she tapped at the window. He went out.

　　"The key! the one for upstairs where he keeps the--"

　　"What?"

　　And he looked at her, astonished at the pallor of her face, thatstood out white against the black background of the night. Sheseemed to him extraordinarily beautiful and majestic as aphantom. Without understanding what she wanted, he had thepresentiment of something terrible.

　　But she went on quickly in a love voice; in a sweet, meltingvoice, "I want it; give it to me."

　　As the partition wall was thin, they could hear the clatter ofthe forks on the plates in the dining-room.

　　She pretended that she wanted to kill the rats that kept her fromsleeping.

　　"I must tell master."

　　"No, stay!" Then with an indifferent air, "Oh, it's not worthwhile; I'll tell him presently. Come, light me upstairs."

　　She entered the corridor into which the laboratory door opened.Against the wall was a key labelled Capharnaum.

　　"Justin!" called the druggist impatiently.

　　"Let us go up."

　　And he followed her. The key turned in the lock, and she wentstraight to the third shelf, so well did her memory guide her,seized the blue jar, tore out the cork, plunged in her hand, andwithdrawing it full of a white powder, she began eating it.

　　"Stop!" he cried, rushing at her.

　　"Hush! someone will come."

　　He was in despair, was calling out.

　　"Say nothing, or all the blame will fall on your master."

　　Then she went home, suddenly calmed, and with something of theserenity of one that had performed a duty.

　　When Charles, distracted by the news of the distraint, returnedhome, Emma had just gone out. He cried aloud, wept, fainted, butshe did not return. Where could she be? He sent Felicite toHomais, to Monsieur Tuvache, to Lheureux, to the "Lion d'Or,"everywhere, and in the intervals of his agony he saw hisreputation destroyed, their fortune lost, Berthe's future ruined.By what?--Not a word! He waited till six in the evening. At last,unable to bear it any longer, and fancying she had gone to Rouen,he set out along the highroad, walked a mile, met no one, againwaited, and returned home. She had come back.

　　"What was the matter? Why? Explain to me."

　　She sat down at her writing-table and wrote a letter, which shesealed slowly, adding the date and the hour. Then she said in asolemn tone:

　　"You are to read it to-morrow; till then, I pray you, do not askme a single question. No, not one!"

　　"But--"

　　"Oh, leave me!"

　　She lay down full length on her bed. A bitter taste that she feltin her mouth awakened her. She saw Charles, and again closed hereyes.

　　She was studying herself curiously, to see if she were notsuffering. But no! nothing as yet. She heard the ticking of theclock, the crackling of the fire, and Charles breathing as hestood upright by her bed.

　　"Ahl it is but a little thing, death!" she thought. "I shall fallasleep and all will be over."

　　She drank a mouthful of water and turned to the wall. Thefrightful taste of ink continued.

　　"I am thirsty; oh! so thirsty," she sighed.

　　"What is it?" said Charles, who was handing her a glass.

　　"It is nothing! Open the window; I am choking."

　　She was seized with a sickness so sudden that she had hardly timeto draw out her handkerchief from under the pillow.

　　"Take it away," she said quickly; "throw it away."

　　He spoke to her; she did not answer. She lay motionless, afraidthat the slightest movement might make her vomit. But she felt anicy cold creeping from her feet to her heart.

　　"Ah! it is beginning," she murmured.

　　"What did you say?"

　　She turned her head from side to side with a gentle movement fullof agony, while constantly opening her mouth as if something veryheavy were weighing upon her tongue. At eight o'clock thevomiting began again.

　　Charles noticed that at the bottom of the basin there was a sortof white sediment sticking to the sides of the porcelain.

　　"This is extraordinary--very singular," he repeated.

　　But she said in a firm voice, "No, you are mistaken."

　　Then gently, and almost as caressing her, he passed his hand overher stomach. She uttered a sharp cry. He fell backterror-stricken.

　　Then she began to groan, faintly at first. Her shoulders wereshaken by a strong shuddering, and she was growing paler than thesheets in which her clenched fingers buried themselves. Herunequal pulse was now almost imperceptible.

　　Drops of sweat oozed from her bluish face, that seemed as ifrigid in the exhalations of a metallic vapour. Her teethchattered, her dilated eyes looked vaguely about her, and to allquestions she replied only with a shake of the head; she evensmiled once or twice. Gradually, her moaning grew louder; ahollow shriek burst from her; she pretended she was better andthat she would get up presently. But she was seized withconvulsions and cried out--

　　"Ah! my God! It is horrible!"

　　He threw himself on his knees by her bed.

　　"Tell me! what have you eaten? Answer, for heaven's sake!"

　　And he looked at her with a tenderness in his eyes such as shehad never seen.

　　"Well, there--there!" she said in a faint voice. He flew to thewriting-table, tore open the seal, and read aloud: "Accuse noone." He stopped, passed his hands across his eyes, and read itover again.

　　"What! help--help!"

　　He could only keep repeating the word: "Poisoned! poisoned!"Felicite ran to Homais, who proclaimed it in the market-place;Madame Lefrancois heard it at the "Lion d'Or"; some got up to goand tell their neighbours, and all night the village was on thealert.

　　Distraught, faltering, reeling, Charles wandered about the room.He knocked against the furniture, tore his hair, and the chemisthad never believed that there could be so terrible a sight.

　　He went home to write to Monsieur Canivet and to DoctorLariviere. He lost his head, and made more than fifteen roughcopies. Hippolyte went to Neufchatel, and Justin so spurredBovary's horse that he left it foundered and three parts dead bythe hill at Bois-Guillaume.

　　Charles tried to look up his medical dictionary, but could notread it; the lines were dancing.

　　"Be calm," said the druggist; "we have only to administer apowerful antidote. What is the poison?"

　　Charles showed him the letter. It was arsenic.

　　"Very well," said Homais, "we must make an analysis."

　　For he knew that in cases of poisoning an analysis must be made;and the other, who did not understand, answered--

　　"Oh, do anything! save her!"

　　Then going back to her, he sank upon the carpet, and lay therewith his head leaning against the edge of her bed, sobbing.

　　"Don't cry," she said to him. "Soon I shall not trouble you anymore."

　　"Why was it? Who drove you to it?"

　　She replied. "It had to be, my dear!"

　　"Weren't you happy? Is it my fault? I did all I could!"

　　"Yes, that is true--you are good--you."

　　And she passed her hand slowly over his hair. The sweetness ofthis sensation deepened his sadness; he felt his whole beingdissolving in despair at the thought that he must lose her, justwhen she was confessing more love for him than ever. And he couldthink of nothing; he did not know, he did not dare; the urgentneed for some immediate resolution gave the finishing stroke tothe turmoil of his mind.

　　So she had done, she thought, with all the treachery; andmeanness, and numberless desires that had tortured her. She hatedno one now; a twilight dimness was settling upon her thoughts,and, of all earthly noises, Emma heard none but the intermittentlamentations of this poor heart, sweet and indistinct like theecho of a symphony dying away.

　　"Bring me the child," she said, raising herself on her elbow.

　　"You are not worse, are you?" asked Charles.

　　"No, no!"

　　The child, serious, and still half-asleep, was carried in on theservant's arm in her long white nightgown, from which her barefeet peeped out. She looked wonderingly at the disordered room,and half-closed her eyes, dazzled by the candles burning on thetable. They reminded her, no doubt, of the morning of New Year'sday and Mid-Lent, when thus awakened early by candle-light shecame to her mother's bed to fetch her presents, for she begansaying--

　　"But where is it, mamma?" And as everybody was silent, "But Ican't see my little stocking."

　　Felicite held her over the bed while she still kept lookingtowards the mantelpiece.

　　"Has nurse taken it?" she asked.

　　And at this name, that carried her back to the memory of heradulteries and her calamities, Madame Bovary turned away herhead, as at the loathing of another bitterer poison that rose toher mouth. But Berthe remained perched on the bed.

　　"Oh, how big your eyes are, mamma! How pale you are! how hot youare!"

　　Her mother looked at her. "I am frightened!" cried the child,recoiling.

　　Emma took her hand to kiss it; the child struggled.

　　"That will do. Take her away," cried Charles, who was sobbing inthe alcove.

　　Then the symptoms ceased for a moment; she seemed less agitated;and at every insignificant word, at every respiration a littlemore easy, he regained hope. At last, when Canivet came in, hethrew himself into his arms.

　　"Ah! it is you. Thanks! You are good! But she is better. See!look at her."

　　His colleague was by no means of this opinion, and, as he said ofhimself, "never beating about the bush," he prescribed, an emeticin order to empty the stomach completely.

　　She soon began vomiting blood. Her lips became drawn. Her limbswere convulsed, her whole body covered with brown spots, and herpulse slipped beneath the fingers like a stretched thread, like aharp-string nearly breaking.

　　After this she began to scream horribly. She cursed the poison,railed at it, and implored it to be quick, and thrust away withher stiffened arms everything that Charles, in more agony thanherself, tried to make her drink. He stood up, his handkerchiefto his lips, with a rattling sound in his throat, weeping, andchoked by sobs that shook his whole body. Felicite was runninghither and thither in the room. Homais, motionless, uttered greatsighs; and Monsieur Canivet, always retaining his self-command,nevertheless began to feel uneasy.

　　"The devil! yet she has been purged, and from the moment that thecause ceases--"

　　"The effect must cease," said Homais, "that is evident."

　　"Oh, save her!" cried Bovary.

　　And, without listening to the chemist, who was still venturingthe hypothesis, "It is perhaps a salutary paroxysm," Canivet wasabout to administer some theriac, when they heard the cracking ofa whip; all the windows rattled, and a post-chaise drawn by threehorses abreast, up to their ears in mud, drove at a gallop roundthe corner of the market. It was Doctor Lariviere.

　　The apparition of a god would not have caused more commotion.Bovary raised his hands; Canivet stopped short; and Homais pulledoff his skull-cap long before the doctor had come in.

　　He belonged to that great school of surgery begotten of Bichat,to that generation, now extinct, of philosophical practitioners,who, loving their art with a fanatical love, exercised it withenthusiasm and wisdom. Everyone in his hospital trembled when hewas angry; and his students so revered him that they tried, assoon as they were themselves in practice, to imitate him as muchas possible. So that in all the towns about they were foundwearing his long wadded merino overcoat and black frock-coat,whose buttoned cuffs slightly covered his brawny hands--verybeautiful hands, and that never knew gloves, as though to be moreready to plunge into suffering. Disdainful of honours, of titles,and of academies, like one of the old Knight-Hospitallers,generous, fatherly to the poor, and practising virtue withoutbelieving in it, he would almost have passed for a saint if thekeenness of his intellect had not caused him to be feared as ademon. His glance, more penetrating than his bistouries, lookedstraight into your soul, and dissected every lie athwart allassertions and all reticences. And thus he went along, full ofthat debonair majesty that is given by the consciousness of greattalent, of fortune, and of forty years of a labourious andirreproachable life.

　　He frowned as soon as he had passed the door when he saw thecadaverous face of Emma stretched out on her back with her mouthopen. Then, while apparently listening to Canivet, he rubbed hisfingers up and down beneath his nostrils, and repeated--

　　"Good! good!

　　But he made a slow gesture with his shoulders. Bovary watchedhim; they looked at one another; and this man, accustomed as hewas to the sight of pain, could not keep back a tear that fell onhis shirt-frill.

　　He tried to take Canivet into the next room. Charles followedhim.

　　"She is very ill, isn't she? If we put on sinapisms? Anything!Oh, think of something, you who have saved so many!"

　　Charles caught him in both his arms, and gazed at him wildly,imploringly, half-fainting against his breast.

　　"Come, my poor fellow, courage! There is nothing more to bedone."

　　And Doctor Lariviere turned away.

　　"You are going?"

　　"I will come back."

　　He went out only to give an order to the coachman, with MonsieurCanivet, who did not care either to have Emma die under hishands.

　　The chemist rejoined them on the Place. He could not bytemperament keep away from celebrities, so he begged MonsieurLariviere to do him the signal honour of accepting somebreakfast.

　　He sent quickly to the "Lion d'Or" for some pigeons; to thebutcher's for all the cutlets that were to be had; to Tuvache forcream; and to Lestiboudois for eggs; and the druggist himselfaided in the preparations, while Madame Homais was saying as shepulled together the strings of her jacket--

　　"You must excuse us, sir, for in this poor place, when one hasn'tbeen told the night before--"

　　"Wine glasses!" whispered Homais.

　　"If only we were in town, we could fall back upon stuffedtrotters."

　　"Be quiet! Sit down, doctor!"

　　He thought fit, after the first few mouthfuls, to give somedetails as to the catastrophe.

　　"We first had a feeling of siccity in the pharynx, thenintolerable pains at the epigastrium, super purgation, coma."

　　"But how did she poison herself?"

　　"I don't know, doctor, and I don't even know where she can haveprocured the arsenious acid."

　　Justin, who was just bringing in a pile of plates, began totremble.

　　"What's the matter?" said the chemist.

　　At this question the young man dropped the whole lot on theground with a crash.

　　"Imbecile!" cried Homais. "awkward lout! block-head! confoundedass!"

　　But suddenly controlling himself--

　　"I wished, doctor, to make an analysis, and primo I delicatelyintroduced a tube--"

　　"You would have done better," said the physician, "to introduceyour fingers into her throat."

　　His colleague was silent, having just before privately received asevere lecture about his emetic, so that this good Canivet, soarrogant and so verbose at the time of the clubfoot, was to-dayvery modest. He smiled without ceasing in an approving manner.

　　Homais dilated in Amphytrionic pride, and the affecting thoughtof Bovary vaguely contributed to his pleasure by a kind ofegotistic reflex upon himself. Then the presence of the doctortransported him. He displayed his erudition, cited pell-mellcantharides, upas, the manchineel, vipers.

　　"I have even read that various persons have found themselvesunder toxicological symptoms, and, as it were, thunderstricken byblack-pudding that had been subjected to a too vehementfumigation. At least, this was stated in a very fine report drawnup by one of our pharmaceutical chiefs, one of our masters, theillustrious Cadet de Gassicourt!"

　　Madame Homais reappeared, carrying one of those shaky machinesthat are heated with spirits of wine; for Homais liked to makehis coffee at table, having, moreover, torrefied it, pulverisedit, and mixed it himself.

　　"Saccharum, doctor?" said he, offering the sugar.

　　Then he had all his children brought down, anxious to have thephysician's opinion on their constitutions.

　　At last Monsieur Lariviere was about to leave, when Madame Homaisasked for a consultation about her husband. He was making hisblood too thick by going to sleep every evening after dinner.

　　"Oh, it isn't his blood that's too thick," said the physician.

　　And, smiling a little at his unnoticed joke, the doctor openedthe door. But the chemist's shop was full of people; he had thegreatest difficulty in getting rid of Monsieur Tuvache, whofeared his spouse would get inflammation of the lungs, becauseshe was in the habit of spitting on the ashes; then of MonsieurBinet, who sometimes experienced sudden attacks of great hunger;and of Madame Caron, who suffered from tinglings; of Lheureux,who had vertigo; of Lestiboudois, who had rheumatism; and ofMadame Lefrancois, who had heartburn. At last the three horsesstarted; and it was the general opinion that he had not shownhimself at all obliging.

　　Public attention was distracted by the appearance of MonsieurBournisien, who was going across the market with the holy oil.

　　Homais, as was due to his principles, compared priests to ravensattracted by the odour of death. The sight of an ecclesiastic waspersonally disagreeable to him, for the cassock made him think ofthe shroud, and he detested the one from some fear of the other.

　　Nevertheless, not shrinking from what he called his mission, hereturned to Bovary's in company with Canivet whom MonsieurLariviere, before leaving, had strongly urged to make this visit;and he would, but for his wife's objections, have taken his twosons with him, in order to accustom them to great occasions; thatthis might be a lesson, an example, a solemn picture, that shouldremain in their heads later on.

　　The room when they went in was full of mournful solemnity. On thework-table, covered over with a white cloth, there were five orsix small balls of cotton in a silver dish, near a large crucifixbetween two lighted candles.

　　Emma, her chin sunken upon her breast, had her eyes inordinatelywide open, and her poor hands wandered over the sheets with thathideous and soft movement of the dying, that seems as if theywanted already to cover themselves with the shroud. Pale as astatue and with eyes red as fire, Charles, not weeping, stoodopposite her at the foot of the bed, while the priest, bendingone knee, was muttering words in a low voice.

　　She turned her face slowly, and seemed filled with joy on seeingsuddenly the violet stole, no doubt finding again, in the midstof a temporary lull in her pain, the lost voluptuousness of herfirst mystical transports, with the visions of eternal beatitudethat were beginning.

　　The priest rose to take the crucifix; then she stretched forwardher neck as one who is athirst, and glueing her lips to the bodyof the Man-God, she pressed upon it with all her expiringstrength the fullest kiss of love that she had ever given. Thenhe recited the Misereatur and the Indulgentiam, dipped his rightthumb in the oil, and began to give extreme unction. First uponthe eyes, that had so coveted all worldly pomp; then upon thenostrils, that had been greedy of the warm breeze and amorousodours; then upon the mouth, that had uttered lies, that hadcurled with pride and cried out in lewdness; then upon the handsthat had delighted in sensual touches; and finally upon the solesof the feet, so swift of yore, when she was running to satisfyher desires, and that would now walk no more.

　　The cure wiped his fingers, threw the bit of cotton dipped in oilinto the fire, and came and sat down by the dying woman, to tellher that she must now blend her sufferings with those of JesusChrist and abandon herself to the divine mercy.

　　Finishing his exhortations, he tried to place in her hand ablessed candle, symbol of the celestial glory with which she wassoon to be surrounded. Emma, too weak, could not close herfingers, and the taper, but for Monsieur Bournisien would havefallen to the ground.

　　However, she was not quite so pale, and her face had anexpression of serenity as if the sacrament had cured her.

　　The priest did not fail to point this out; he even explained toBovary that the Lord sometimes prolonged the life of persons whenhe thought it meet for their salvation; and Charles rememberedthe day when, so near death, she had received the communion.Perhaps there was no need to despair, he thought.

　　In fact, she looked around her slowly, as one awakening from adream; then in a distinct voice she asked for her looking-glass,and remained some time bending over it, until the big tears fellfrom her eyes. Then she turned away her head with a sigh and fellback upon the pillows.

　　Her chest soon began panting rapidly; the whole of her tongueprotruded from her mouth; her eyes, as they rolled, grew paler,like the two globes of a lamp that is going out, so that onemight have thought her already dead but for the fearful labouringof her ribs, shaken by violent breathing, as if the soul werestruggling to free itself. Felicite knelt down before thecrucifix, and the druggist himself slightly bent his knees, whileMonsieur Canivet looked out vaguely at the Place. Bournisien hadagain begun to pray, his face bowed against the edge of the bed,his long black cassock trailing behind him in the room. Charleswas on the other side, on his knees, his arms outstretchedtowards Emma. He had taken her hands and pressed them, shudderingat every beat of her heart, as at the shaking of a falling ruin.As the death-rattle became stronger the priest prayed faster; hisprayers mingled with the stifled sobs of Bovary, and sometimesall seemed lost in the muffled murmur of the Latin syllables thattolled like a passing bell.

　　Suddenly on the pavement was heard a loud noise of clogs and theclattering of a stick; and a voice rose--a raucous voice--thatsang--

　　"Maids an the warmth of a summer dayDream of love and of love always"

　　Emma raised herself like a galvanised corpse, her hair undone,her eyes fixed, staring.

　　"Where the sickle blades have been,Nannette, gathering ears of corn,Passes bending down, my queen,To the earth where they were born."

　　"The blind man!" she cried. And Emma began to laugh, anatrocious, frantic, despairing laugh, thinking she saw thehideous face of the poor wretch that stood out against theeternal night like a menace.

　　"The wind is strong this summer day,Her petticoat has flown away."

　　She fell back upon the mattress in a convulsion. They all drewnear. She was dead.