It was about this time, that is to say, the beginning of winter, that

she seemed seized with great musical fervour.

One evening when Charles was listening to her, she began the same piece

four times over, each time with much vexation, while he, not noticing

any difference, cried-"Bravo! very goodl You are wrong to stop. Go on!"

"Oh, no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty."

The next day he begged her to play him something again.

"Very well; to please you!"

And Charles confessed she had gone off a little. She played wrong notes

and blundered; then, stopping short-"Ah! it is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but--" She bit her lips

and added, "Twenty francs a lesson, that's too dear!"

"Yes, so it is--rather," said Charles, giggling stupidly. "But it seems

to me that one might be able to do it for less; for there are artists of

no reputation, and who are often better than the celebrities."

"Find them!" said Emma.

The next day when he came home he looked at her shyly, and at last could

no longer keep back the words.

"How obstinate you are sometimes! I went to Barfucheres to-day. Well,

Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies who are at

La Misericorde have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and that from an

excellent mistress!"

She shrugged her shoulders and did not open her piano again. But when

she passed by it (if Bovary were there), she sighed-"Ah! my poor piano!"

And when anyone came to see her, she did not fail to inform them she

had given up music, and could not begin again now for important reasons.

Then people commiserated her-"What a pity! she had so much talent!"

They even spoke to Bovary about it. They put him to shame, and

especially the chemist.

"You are wrong. One should never let any of the faculties of nature lie

fallow. Besides, just think, my good friend, that by inducing madame to

study; you are economising on the subsequent musical education of

your child. For my own part, I think that mothers ought themselves to

instruct their children. That is an idea of Rousseau's, still rather

new perhaps, but that will end by triumphing, I am certain of it, like

mothers nursing their own children and vaccination."

So Charles returned once more to this question of the piano. Emma

replied bitterly that it would be better to sell it. This poor piano,

that had given her vanity so much satisfaction--to see it go was to

Bovary like the indefinable suicide of a part of herself.




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