"Come, be calm," said the druggist; "later on you will show your

gratitude to your benefactor."

And he went down to tell the result to five or six inquirers who were

waiting in the yard, and who fancied that Hippolyte would reappear

walking properly. Then Charles, having buckled his patient into the

machine, went home, where Emma, all anxiety, awaited him at the door.

She threw herself on his neck; they sat down to table; he ate much,

and at dessert he even wanted to take a cup of coffee, a luxury he only

permitted himself on Sundays when there was company.

The evening was charming, full of prattle, of dreams together. They

talked about their future fortune, of the improvements to be made in

their house; he saw people's estimation of him growing, his comforts

increasing, his wife always loving him; and she was happy to refresh

herself with a new sentiment, healthier, better, to feel at last some

tenderness for this poor fellow who adored her. The thought of Rodolphe

for one moment passed through her mind, but her eyes turned again to

Charles; she even noticed with surprise that he had not bad teeth.

They were in bed when Monsieur Homais, in spite of the servant, suddenly

entered the room, holding in his hand a sheet of paper just written. It

was the paragraph he intended for the "Fanal de Rouen." He brought it

for them to read.

"Read it yourself," said Bovary.

He read-"'Despite the prejudices that still invest a part of the face of Europe

like a net, the light nevertheless begins to penetrate our country

places. Thus on Tuesday our little town of Yonville found itself the

scene of a surgical operation which is at the same time an act of

loftiest philanthropy. Monsieur Bovary, one of our most distinguished

practitioners--'"

"Oh, that is too much! too much!" said Charles, choking with emotion.

"No, no! not at all! What next!"

"'--Performed an operation on a club-footed man.' I have not used the

scientific term, because you know in a newspaper everyone would not

perhaps understand. The masses must--'"

"No doubt," said Bovary; "go on!"

"I proceed," said the chemist. "'Monsieur Bovary, one of our most

distinguished practitioners, performed an operation on a club-footed man

called Hippolyte Tautain, stableman for the last twenty-five years at

the hotel of the "Lion d'Or," kept by Widow Lefrancois, at the Place

d'Armes. The novelty of the attempt, and the interest incident to the

subject, had attracted such a concourse of persons that there was

a veritable obstruction on the threshold of the establishment. The

operation, moreover, was performed as if by magic, and barely a

few drops of blood appeared on the skin, as though to say that the

rebellious tendon had at last given way beneath the efforts of art. The

patient, strangely enough--we affirm it as an eye-witness--complained

of no pain. His condition up to the present time leaves nothing to be

desired. Everything tends to show that his convelescence will be brief;

and who knows even if at our next village festivity we shall not see our

good Hippolyte figuring in the bacchic dance in the midst of a chorus

of joyous boon-companions, and thus proving to all eyes by his verve

and his capers his complete cure? Honour, then, to the generous savants!

Honour to those indefatigable spirits who consecrate their vigils to the

amelioration or to the alleviation of their kind! Honour, thrice honour!

Is it not time to cry that the blind shall see, the deaf hear, the lame

walk? But that which fanaticism formerly promised to its elect, science

now accomplishes for all men. We shall keep our readers informed as to

the successive phases of this remarkable cure.'"




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