This searching after faith, she thought, was only one merit the more,

and in the pride of her devoutness Emma compared herself to those grand

ladies of long ago whose glory she, had dreamed of over a portrait of La

Valliere, and who, trailing with so much majesty the lace-trimmed trains

of their long gowns, retired into solitudes to shed at the feet of

Christ all the tears of hearts that life had wounded.

Then she gave herself up to excessive charity. She sewed clothes for the

poor, she sent wood to women in childbed; and Charles one day, on coming

home, found three good-for-nothings in the kitchen seated at the table

eating soup. She had her little girl, whom during her illness her

husband had sent back to the nurse, brought home. She wanted to teach

her to read; even when Berthe cried, she was not vexed. She had made

up her mind to resignation, to universal indulgence. Her language about

everything was full of ideal expressions. She said to her child, "Is

your stomach-ache better, my angel?"

Madame Bovary senior found nothing to censure except perhaps this mania

of knitting jackets for orphans instead of mending her own house-linen;

but, harassed with domestic quarrels, the good woman took pleasure in

this quiet house, and she even stayed there till after Easter, to escape

the sarcasms of old Bovary, who never failed on Good Friday to order

chitterlings.

Besides the companionship of her mother-in-law, who strengthened her a

little by the rectitude of her judgment and her grave ways, Emma almost

every day had other visitors. These were Madame Langlois, Madame Caron,

Madame Dubreuil, Madame Tuvache, and regularly from two to five o'clock

the excellent Madame Homais, who, for her part, had never believed any

of the tittle-tattle about her neighbour. The little Homais also came to

see her; Justin accompanied them. He went up with them to her bedroom,

and remained standing near the door, motionless and mute. Often even

Madame Bovary; taking no heed of him, began her toilette. She began by

taking out her comb, shaking her head with a quick movement, and when

he for the first time saw all this mass of hair that fell to her knees

unrolling in black ringlets, it was to him, poor child! like a sudden

entrance into something new and strange, whose splendour terrified him.

Emma, no doubt, did not notice his silent attentions or his timidity.

She had no suspicion that the love vanished from her life was there,

palpitating by her side, beneath that coarse holland shirt, in that

youthful heart open to the emanations of her beauty. Besides, she

now enveloped all things with such indifference, she had words so

affectionate with looks so haughty, such contradictory ways, that one

could no longer distinguish egotism from charity, or corruption from

virtue. One evening, for example, she was angry with the servant, who

had asked to go out, and stammered as she tried to find some pretext.

Then suddenly-"So you love him?" she said.




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