The fracture was a simple one， without anykind of complication. Charles could not have hoped for an easier case. Thencalling to mind the devices of his masters at the bedsides of patients， hecomforted the sufferer with all sorts of kindly remarks， those Caresses of thesurgeon that are like the oil they put on bistouries. In order to make some splintsa bundle of laths was brought up from the cart-house. Charles selected one， cutit into two pieces and planed it with a fragment of windowpane， while theservant tore up sheets to make bandages， and Mademoiselle Emma tried to sewsome pads. As she was a long time before she found her work-case， her fathergrew impatient； she did not answer， but as she sewed she pricked her fingers，which she then put to her mouth to suck them. Charles was surprised at thewhiteness of her nails. They were shiny， delicate at the tips， more polishedthan the ivory of Dieppe， and almond-shaped. Yet her hand was not beautiful，perhaps not white enough， and a little hard at the knuckles； besides， it wastoo long， with no soft inflections in the outlines. Her real beauty was in hereyes. Although brown， they seemed black because of the lashes， and her lookcame at you frankly， with a candid boldness.
The bandaging over， the doctor was invited byMonsieur Rouault himself to “pick a bit” before he left.
Charles went down into the room on the groundfloor. Knives and forks and silver goblets were laid for two on a little tableat the foot of a huge bed that had a canopy of printed cotton with figuresrepresenting Turks. There was an odour of iris-root and damp sheets thatescaped from a large oak chest opposite the window. On the floor in cornerswere sacks of flour stuck upright in rows. These were the overflow from theneighbouring granary， to which three stone steps led. By way of decoration forthe apartment， hanging to a nail in the middle of the wall， whose green paintscaled off from the effects of the saltpetre， was a crayon head of Minerva ingold frame， underneath which was written in Gothic letters “To dear Papa.”
First they spoke of the patient， then of theweather， of the great cold， of the wolves that infested the fields at night.Mademoiselle Rouault did not at all like the country， especially now that shehad to look after the farm almost alone. As the room was chilly， she shiveredas she ate. This showed something of her full lips， that she had a habit ofbiting when silent.
Her neck stood out from a white turned-downcollar. Her hair， whose two black folds seemed each of a single piece， sosmooth were they， was parted in the middle by a delicate line that curvedslightly with the curve of the head； and， just showing the tip of the ear， itwas joined behind in a thick chignon， with a wavy movement at the temples thatthe country doctor saw now for the first time in his life. The upper part ofher cheek was rose-coloured. She had， like a man， thrust in between two buttonsof her bodice a tortoise-shell eyeglass.
When Charles， after bidding farewell to oldRouault， returned to the room before leaving， he found her standing， herforehead against the window， looking into the garden， where the beanprops hadbeen knocked down by the wind. She turned round.
“Are you looking for anything？” she asked.
“My whip， if you please，” he answered.
He began rummaging on the bed， behind thedoors， under the chairs. It had fallen to the floor， between the sacks and thewall. Mademoiselle Emma saw it， and bent over the flour sacks. Charles out ofpoliteness made a dash also， and as he stretched out his arm， at the samemoment felt his breast brush against the back of the young girl bending beneathhim. She drew herself up， scarlet， and looked at him over her shoulder as shehanded him his whip.
Instead of returning to the Bertaux in threedays as he had promised， he went back the very next day， then regularly twice aweek， without counting the visits he paid now and then as if by accident.
Everything， moreover， went well； the patientprogressed favourably； and when， at the end of forty-six days， old Rouault wasseen trying to walk alone in his “den，” Monsieur Bovary began to be looked upon as a man of great capacity.Old Rouault said that he could not have been curédbetter by the first doctor of Yvetot， or even of Rouen.
As to Charles， he did not stop to ask himselfwhy it was a pleasure to him to go to the Bertaux. Had he done so， he would， nodoubt， have attributed his zeal to the importance of the case， or perhaps tothe money he hoped to make by it. Was it for this， however， that his visits tothe farm formed a delightful exception to the meagre occupations of his life？On these days he rose early， set off at a gallop， urging on his horse， then gotdown to wipe his boots in the grass and put on black gloves before entering. Heliked going into the courtyard， and noticing the gate turn against hisshoulder， the cock crow on the wall， the lads run to meet him. He liked thegranary and the stables； he liked old Rouault， who pressed his hand and calledhim his saviour； he like the small wooden shoes of Mademoiselle Emma on thescoured flags of the kitchen-her high heels made her a little taller； and whenshe walked in front of him， the wooden soles springing up quickly struck with asharp sound against the leather of her boots.
She always accompanied him to the first stepof the stairs. When his horse had not yet been brought round she stayed there. Theyhad said “Good-bye”； there wasno more talking. The open air wrapped her round， playing with the soft down onthe back of her neck， or blew to and fro on her hips the apron-strings， thatfluttered like streamers. Once， during a thaw the bark of the trees in the yardwas oozing， the snow on the roofs of the outbuildings was melting； she stood onthe threshold， and went to fetch her sunshade and opened it. The sunshade ofsilk of the colour of pigeons' breasts， through whichthe sun shone， lighted up with shifting hues the white skin of her face. Shesmiled under the tender warmth， and drops of water could be heard falling oneby one on the stretched silk.
During the first period of Charles's visits to the Bertaux， Madame Bovary junior never failed to inquireafter the invalid， and she had even chosen in the book that she kept on asystem of double entry a clean blank page for Monsieur Rouault. But when sheheard he had a daughter， she began to make inquiries， and she learnt theMademoiselle Rouault， brought up at the Ursuline Convent， had received what iscalled “a good education”； andso knew dancing， geography， drawing， how to embroider and play the piano. Thatwas the last straw.
“So it is for this，”she said to herself， “that his face beams when he goesto see her， and that he puts on his new waistcoat at the risk of spoiling itwith the rain. Ah！ that woman！ that woman！”
And she detested her instinctively. At firstshe solaced herself by allusions that Charles did not understand， then bycasual observations that he let pass for fear of a storm， finally by openapostrophes to which he knew not what to answer. “Whydid he go back to the Bertaux now that Monsieur Rouault was curéd and that these folks hadn't paid yet？ Ah！it was because a young lady was there， some one who know how to talk， toembroider， to be witty. That was what he cared about； he wanted town misses.” And she went on-
“The daughter of old Rouault a town miss！ Getout！ Their grandfather was a shepherd， and they have a cousin who was almosthad up at the assizes for a nasty blow in a quarrel. It is not worth whilemaking such a fuss， or showing herself at church on Sundays in a silk gown likea countess. Besides， the poor old chap， if it hadn'tbeen for the colza last year， would have had much ado to pay up his arrears.”
For very weariness Charles left off going to the Bertaux. Hélo？se made him swear， his hand on theprayer-book， that he would go there no more after much sobbing and many kisses，in a great outburst of love. He obeyed then， but the strength of his desireprotested against the servility of his conduct； and he thought， with a kind ofnaive hypocrisy， that his interdict to see her gave him a sort of right to loveher. And then the widow was thin； she had long teeth； wore in all weathers alittle black shawl， the edge of which hung down between her shoulder-blades；her bony figure was sheathed in her clothes as if they were a scabbard； theywere too short， and displayed her ankles with the laces of her large bootscrossed over grey stockings.
Charles's mother cameto see them from time to time， but after a few days the daughter-in-law seemedto put her own edge on her， and then， like two knives， they scarified him withtheir reflections and observations. It was wrong of him to eat so much. Why didhe always offer a glass of something to everyone who came？ What obstinacy notto wear flannels！
In the spring it came about that a notary atIngouville， the holder of the widow Dubuc's property，one fine day went off， taking with him all the money in his office. Hélo？se， it is true， still possessed， besides a share in a boat valuedat six thousand francs， her house in the Rue St. Francois； and yet， with allthis fortune that had been so trumpeted abroad， nothing， excepting perhaps alittle furniture and a few clothes， had appeared in the household. The matterhad to be gone into. The house at Dieppe was found to be eaten up withmortgages to its foundations； what she had placed with the notary God onlyknew， and her share in the boat did not exceed one thousand crowns. She hadlied， the good lady！ In his exasperation， Monsieur Bovary the elder， smashing achair on the flags， accused his wife of having caused misfortune to the son byhamessing him to such a harridan， whose harness wasn'tworth her hide. They came to Tostes. Explanations followed. There were scenes.Hélo？se in tears， throwing her arms about her husband，implored him to defend her from his parents. Charles tried to speak up for her.They grew angry and left the house.
But “the blow hadstruck home.” A week after， as she was hanging up somewashing 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 wasdead！ What a surprise！
When all was over at the cemetery Charleswent home. He found no one downstairs； he went up to the first floor to theirroom； say her dress still hanging at the foot of the alcove； then， leaningagainst the writing-table， he stayed until the evening， buried in a sorrowfulreverie. She had loved him after all！
Chapter 3
One morning old Rouault brought Charles themoney for setting his leg-seventy-five francs in forty-sou pieces， and aturkey. 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 thefields to be quite alone. I fell at the foot of a tree； I cried； I called onGod； I talked nonsense to Him. I wanted to be like the moles that I saw on thebranches， their insides swarming with worms， dead， and an end of it. And when Ithought that there were others at that very moment with their nice little wivesholding 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 café disgusted me-you wouldn't believe it. Well，quite softly， one day following another， a spring on a winter， and an autumnafter 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 thebottom as one would say-a 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， MonsieurBovary. It will pass away. Come to see us； my daughter thinks of you now andagain， d'ye know， and she says you are forgetting her.Spring will soon be here. We'll have somerabbit-shooting in the warrens to amuse you a bit.”
Charles followed his advice. He went back tothe Bertaux. He found all as he had left it， that is to say， as it was fivemonths ago. The pear trees were already in blossom， and Farmer Rouault， on hislegs again， came and went， making the farm more full of life.
Thinking it his duty to heap the greatestattention upon the doctor because of his sad position， he begged him not totake his hat off， spoke to him in an undertone as if he had been ill， and evenpretended to be angry because nothing rather lighter had been prepared for himthan for the others， such as a little clotted cream or stewed pears. He toldstories. Charles found himself laughing， but the remembrance of his wifesuddenly coming back to him depressed him. Coffee was brought in； he thought nomore about her.
He thought less of her as he grew accustomedto living alone. The new delight of independence soon made his lonelinessbearable. 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 henursed 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 hisbusiness， since for a month people had been saying， “Thepoor young man！ what a loss！” His name had been talkedabout， his practice had increased； and moreover， he could go to the Bertauxjust as he liked. He had an aimless hope， and was vaguely happy； he thoughthimself 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， butdid not at once catch sight of Emma； the outside shutters were closed. Throughthe chinks of the wood the sun sent across the flooring long fine rays thatwere broken at the comers of the furniture and trembled along the ceiling. Someflies on the table were crawling up the glasses that had been used， and buzzingas they drowned themselves in the dregs of the cider. The daylight that came inby the chimney made velvet of the soot at the back of the fireplace， andtouched with blue the cold cinders. Between the window and the hearth Emma wassewing； she wore no fichu； he could see small drops of perspiration on her bareshoulders.
After the fashion of country folks she askedhim to have something to drink. He said no； she insisted， and at lastlaughingly offered to have a glass of liqueur with him. So she went to fetch abottle of curacao from the cupboard， reached down two small glasses， filled oneto the brim， poured scarcely anything into the other， and， after having clinkedglasses， carried hers to her mouth. As it was almost empty she bent back todrink， her head thrown back， her lips pouting， her neck on the strain. Shelaughed at getting none of it， while with the tip of her tongue passing betweenher small teeth she licked drop by drop the bottom of her glass.
She sat down again and took up her work， awhite cotton stocking she was darning. She worked with her head bent down； shedid not speak， nor did Charles. The air coming in under the door blew a littledust over the flags； he watched it drift along， and heard nothing but thethrobbing in his head and the faint clucking of a hen that had laid an egg inthe 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 thebeginning of the season from giddiness； she asked if sea-baths would do her anygood； she began talking of her convent， Charles of his school； words came tothem. They went up into her bedroom. She showed him her old music-books， thelittle prizes she had won， and the oak-leaf crowns， left at the bottom of acupboard. She spoke to him， too， of her mother， of the country， and even showedhim the bed in the garden where， on the first Friday of every month， shegathered flowers to put on her mother's tomb. But thegardener they had never knew anything about it； servants are so stupid！ Shewould have dearly liked， if only for the winter， to live in town， although thelength of the fine days made the country perhaps even more wearisome in thesummer. 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 asshe spoke to herself， now joyous， opening big naive eyes， then with her eyelidshalf closed， her look full of boredom， her thoughts wandering.
Going home at night， Charles went over herwords one by one， trying to recall them， to fill out their sense， that he mightpiece out the life she had lived before he knew her. But he never saw her inhis thoughts other than he had seen her the first time， or as he had just lefther. Then he asked himself what would become of her-if 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 hummingof a top， sounded in his ears， “If you should marryafter all！ If you should marry！” At night he could notsleep； his throat was parched； he was athirst. He got up to drink from thewater-bottle and opened the window. The night was covered with stars， a warmwind blowing in the distance； the dogs were barking. He turned his head towardsthe Bertaux.
Thinking that， after all， he should losenothing， Charles promised himself to ask her in marriage as soon as occasionoffered， but each time such occasion did offer the fear of not finding theright words sealed his lips.
Old Rouault would not have been sorry to berid of his daughter， who was of no use to him in the house. In his heart heexcused her， thinking her too clever for farming， a calling under the ban ofHeaven， since one never saw a millionaire in it. Far from having made a fortuneby it， the good man was losing every year； for if he was good in bargaining， inwhich he enjoyed the dodges of the trade， on the other hand， agricultureproperly so called， and the intemal management of the farm， suited him lessthan most people. He did not willingly take his hands out of his pockets， anddid not spare expense in all that concerned himself， liking to eat well， tohave good fires， and to sleep well. He liked old cider， underdone legs ofmutton， glorias well beaten up. He took his meals in the kitchen alone，opposite the fire， on a little table brought to him all ready laid as on thestage.
When， therefore， he perceived that Charles's cheeks grew red if near his daughter， which meant that he wouldpropose for her one of these days， he chewed the cud of the matter beforehand.He certainly thought him a little meagre， and not quite the son-in-law he wouldhave liked， but he was said to be well brought-up， economical， very learned，and no doubt would not make too many difficulties about the dowry. Now， as oldRouault would soon be forced to sell twenty-two acres of “his property，” as he owed a good deal to themason， to the harness-maker， and as the shaft of the cider-press wantedrenewing， “If he asks for her，”he said to himself， “I'll giveher to him.”
At Michaelmas Charles went to spend threedays at the Bertaux. The last had passed like the others in procrastinatingfrom hour to hour. Old Rouault was seeing him off； they were walking along theroad full of ruts； they were about to part. This was the time. Charles gavehimself as far as to the corner of the hedge， and at last， when past it： “Monsieur Rouault，” he murmured， “I should like to say something to you.”
They stopped. Charles was silent.
“Well， tell me your story. Don't I know all about it？” said old Rouault，laughing softly.
“Monsieur Rouault-Monsieur Rouault，” stammered Charles.
“I ask nothing better”， the farmer went on. “Although， no doubt，the little one is of my mind， still we must ask her opinion. So you get off-I'll go back home. If it is 'yes'， you needn't return because of all thepeople about， and besides it would upset her too much. But so that you mayn't be eating your heart， I'll open wide theouter shutter of the window against the wall； you can see it from the back byleaning over the hedge.”
And he went off.
Charles fastened his horse to a tree； he raninto the road and waited. Half an hour passed， then he counted nineteen minutesby his watch. Suddenly a noise was heard against the wall； the shutter had beenthrown back； the hook was still swinging.
The next day by nine o'clock he was at the farm. Emma blushed as he entered， and she gave alittle forced laugh to keep herself in countenance. Old Rouault embraced hisfuture son-in-law. The discussion of money matters was put off； moreover， therewas plenty of time before them， as the marriage could not decently take placetill Charles was out of mourning， that is to say， about the spring of the nextyear.
The winter passed waiting for this.Mademoiselle Rouault was busy with her trousseau. Part of it was ordered at Rouen，and she made herself chemises and nightcaps after fashion-plates that sheborrowed. When Charles visited the farmer， the preparations for the weddingwere talked over； they wondered in what room they should have dinner； theydreamed of the number of dishes that would be wanted， and what should be entrées.
Emma would， on the contrary， have preferredto have a midnight wedding with torches， but old Rouault could not understandsuch an idea. So there was a wedding at which forty-three persons were present，at which they remained sixteen hours at table， began again the next day， and tosome extent on the days following.
Chapter 4
The guests arrived early in carriages， inone-horse chaises，two-wheeled cars， old open gigs， waggonettes with leatherhoods， and the young people from the nearer villages in carts， in which theystood up in rows， holding on to the sides so as not to fall， going at a trotand well shaken up. Some came from a distance of thirty miles， from Goderville，from Normanville， and from Cany. All the relatives of both families had beeninvited， quarrels between friends arranged， acquaintances long since lost sightof written to.
From time to time one heard the crack of awhip behind the hedge； then the gates opened， a chaise entered. Galloping up tothe foot of the steps， it stopped short and emptied its load. They got down fromall sides， rubbing knees and stretching arms. The ladies， wearing bonnets， hadon dresses in the town fashion， gold watch chains， pelerines with the endstucked into belts， or little coloured fichus fastened down behind with a pin，and that left the back of the neck bare. The lads， dressed like their papas，seemed uncomfortable in their new clothes (many that day hand-sewed their firstpair of boots)， and by their sides， speaking never a work， wearing the whitedress of their first communion lengthened for the occasion were some big girlsof fourteen or sixteen， cousins or elder sisters no doubt， rubicund，bewildered， their hair greasy with rose pomade， and very much afraid ofdirtying their gloves. As there were not enough stable-boys to unharness all thecarriages， the gentlemen turned up their sleeves and set about it themselves.According to their different social positions they wore tail-coats， overcoats，shooting jackets， cutaway-coats； fine tail-coats， redolent of familyrespectability， that only came out of the wardrobe on state occasions；overcoats with long tails flapping in the wind and round capes and pockets likesacks； shooting jackets of coarse cloth， generally worn with a cap with abrass-bound peak； very short cutaway-coats with two small buttons in the back，close together like a pair of eyes， and the tails of which seemed cut out ofone piece by a carpenter's hatchet. Some， too (butthese， you may be sure， would sit at the bottom of the table)， wore their bestblouses-that is to say， with collars turned down to the shoulders， the backgathered into small plaits and the waist fastened very low down with a workedbelt.
