Gangrene, in fact, was spreading more and more. Bovary himself turned

sick at it. He came every hour, every moment. Hippolyte looked at him

with eyes full of terror, sobbing-"When shall I get well? Oh, save me! How unfortunate I am! How

unfortunate I am!"

And the doctor left, always recommending him to diet himself.

"Don't listen to him, my lad," said Mere Lefrancois, "Haven't they

tortured you enough already? You'll grow still weaker. Here! swallow

this."

And she gave him some good beef-tea, a slice of mutton, a piece of

bacon, and sometimes small glasses of brandy, that he had not the

strength to put to his lips.

Abbe Bournisien, hearing that he was growing worse, asked to see him.

He began by pitying his sufferings, declaring at the same time that he

ought to rejoice at them since it was the will of the Lord, and take

advantage of the occasion to reconcile himself to Heaven.

"For," said the ecclesiastic in a paternal tone, "you rather neglected

your duties; you were rarely seen at divine worship. How many years is

it since you approached the holy table? I understand that your work,

that the whirl of the world may have kept you from care for your

salvation. But now is the time to reflect. Yet don't despair. I have

known great sinners, who, about to appear before God (you are not yet

at this point I know), had implored His mercy, and who certainly died in

the best frame of mind. Let us hope that, like them, you will set us a

good example. Thus, as a precaution, what is to prevent you from saying

morning and evening a 'Hail Mary, full of grace,' and 'Our Father which

art in heaven'? Yes, do that, for my sake, to oblige me. That won't cost

you anything. Will you promise me?"

The poor devil promised. The cure came back day after day. He chatted

with the landlady; and even told anecdotes interspersed with jokes and

puns that Hippolyte did not understand. Then, as soon as he could, he

fell back upon matters of religion, putting on an appropriate expression

of face.

His zeal seemed successful, for the club-foot soon manifested a desire

to go on a pilgrimage to Bon-Secours if he were cured; to which Monsieur

Bournisien replied that he saw no objection; two precautions were better

than one; it was no risk anyhow.

The druggist was indignant at what he called the manoeuvres of the

priest; they were prejudicial, he said, to Hippolyte's convalescence,

and he kept repeating to Madame Lefrancois, "Leave him alone! leave him

alone! You perturb his morals with your mysticism." But the good woman

would no longer listen to him; he was the cause of it all. From a spirit

of contradiction she hung up near the bedside of the patient a basin

filled with holy-water and a branch of box.




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