Madame Bovary

"Yes," said Charles, who was not listening to him.

"This shows us," went on the other, smiling with benign

self-sufficiency, "the innumerable irregularities of the nervous system.

With regard to madame, she has always seemed to me, I confess, very

susceptible. And so I should by no means recommend to you, my dear

friend, any of those so-called remedies that, under the pretence

of attacking the symptoms, attack the constitution. No; no useless

physicking! Diet, that is all; sedatives, emollients, dulcification.

Then, don't you think that perhaps her imagination should be worked

upon?"

"In what way? How?" said Bovary.

"Ah! that is it. Such is indeed the question. 'That is the question,' as

I lately read in a newspaper."

But Emma, awaking, cried out-"The letter! the letter!"

They thought she was delirious; and she was by midnight. Brain-fever had

set in.

For forty-three days Charles did not leave her. He gave up all his

patients; he no longer went to bed; he was constantly feeling her pulse,

putting on sinapisms and cold-water compresses. He sent Justin as far as

Neufchatel for ice; the ice melted on the way; he sent him back again.

He called Monsieur Canivet into consultation; he sent for Dr. Lariviere,

his old master, from Rouen; he was in despair. What alarmed him most was

Emma's prostration, for she did not speak, did not listen, did not even

seem to suffer, as if her body and soul were both resting together after

all their troubles.

About the middle of October she could sit up in bed supported by

pillows. Charles wept when he saw her eat her first bread-and-jelly. Her

strength returned to her; she got up for a few hours of an afternoon,

and one day, when she felt better, he tried to take her, leaning on his

arm, for a walk round the garden. The sand of the paths was disappearing

beneath the dead leaves; she walked slowly, dragging along her slippers,

and leaning against Charles's shoulder. She smiled all the time.

They went thus to the bottom of the garden near the terrace. She drew

herself up slowly, shading her eyes with her hand to look. She looked

far off, as far as she could, but on the horizon were only great

bonfires of grass smoking on the hills.

"You will tire yourself, my darling!" said Bovary. And, pushing her

gently to make her go into the arbour, "Sit down on this seat; you'll be

comfortable."

"Oh! no; not there!" she said in a faltering voice.