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Updated: June 13, 2025
He saw the village; he was seen coming bending forward upon his horse, belabouring it with great blows, the girths dripping with blood. When he had recovered consciousness, he fell, weeping, into Bovary's arms: "My girl! Emma! my child! tell me " The other replied, sobbing, "I don't know! I don't know! It's a curse!" The druggist separated them. "These horrible details are useless.
The child's gaiety broke Bovary's heart, and he had to bear besides the intolerable consolations of the chemist. Money troubles soon began again, Monsieur Lheureux urging on anew his friend Vincart, and Charles pledged himself for exorbitant sums; for he would never consent to let the smallest of the things that had belonged to HER be sold.
Monsieur Lheureux, in fact, went in for pawnbroking, and it was there that he had put Madame Bovary's gold chain, together with the earrings of poor old Tellier, who, at last forced to sell out, had bought a meagre store of grocery at Quincampoix, where he was dying of catarrh amongst his candles, that were less yellow than his face.
Felicite now wore Madame Bovary's gowns; not all, for he had kept some of them, and he went to look at them in her dressing-room, locking himself up there; she was about her height, and often Charles, seeing her from behind, was seized with an illusion, and cried out "Oh, stay, stay!"
"Domestic mediocrity drove her to lewd fancies, marriage tendernesses to adulterous desires. She would have liked Charles to beat her, that she might have a better right to hate him, to revenge herself upon him." What was it that seduced Rodolphe and prepared him? The opening of Madame Bovary's dress which had burst in places along the seams of the corsage.
Then there would be a great sob; next he would weep abundantly, and at last, the surprise past, he would forgive her. "Yes," she murmured, grinding her teeth, "he will forgive me, he who would give a million if I would forgive him for having known me! Never! never!" This thought of Bovary's superiority to her exasperated her.
There is no important distinction to be made between the method or the thoroughness with which he collected his facts in the one case or the other; and the story of the war of the mercenaries against the Carthaginians is evolved with the same alternation of picture and dramatic spectacle and the same hard merciless externality that distinguish the evolution of Emma Bovary's history.
He reproached himself with forgetting Emma, as if, all his thoughts belonging to this woman, it was robbing her of something not to be constantly thinking of her. The winter was severe, Madame Bovary's convalescence slow. When it was fine they wheeled her arm-chair to the window that overlooked the square, for she now had an antipathy to the garden, and the blinds on that side were always down.
The other went on lecturing her, predicting they would end in the workhouse. But it was Bovary's fault. Luckily he had promised to destroy that power of attorney. "What?" "Ah! he swore he would," went on the good woman. Emma opened the window, called Charles, and the poor fellow was obliged to confess the promise torn from him by his mother.
"But " Then, yielding to the outburst of too powerful a desire, "Well, yes!" He dragged himself towards her on his knees, regardless of his dressing-gown. "For pity's sake, stay. I love you!" He seized her by her waist. Madame Bovary's face flushed purple. She recoiled with a terrible look, crying "You are taking a shameless advantage of my distress, sir! I am to be pitied not to be sold."
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