There is always after the death of anyone a kind of stupefaction;

so difficult is it to grasp this advent of nothingness and to resign

ourselves to believe in it. But still, when he saw that she did not

move, Charles threw himself upon her, crying-"Farewell! farewell!"

Homais and Canivet dragged him from the room.

"Restrain yourself!"

"Yes." said he, struggling, "I'll be quiet. I'll not do anything. But

leave me alone. I want to see her. She is my wife!"

And he wept.

"Cry," said the chemist; "let nature take her course; that will solace

you."

Weaker than a child, Charles let himself be led downstairs into the

sitting-room, and Monsieur Homais soon went home. On the Place he

was accosted by the blind man, who, having dragged himself as far as

Yonville, in the hope of getting the antiphlogistic pomade, was asking

every passer-by where the druggist lived.

"There now! as if I hadn't got other fish to fry. Well, so much the

worse; you must come later on."

And he entered the shop hurriedly.

He had to write two letters, to prepare a soothing potion for Bovary, to

invent some lie that would conceal the poisoning, and work it up into an

article for the "Fanal," without counting the people who were waiting to

get the news from him; and when the Yonvillers had all heard his story

of the arsenic that she had mistaken for sugar in making a vanilla

cream. Homais once more returned to Bovary's.

He found him alone (Monsieur Canivet had left), sitting in an arm-chair

near the window, staring with an idiotic look at the flags of the floor.

"Now," said the chemist, "you ought yourself to fix the hour for the

ceremony."

"Why? What ceremony?" Then, in a stammering, frightened voice, "Oh, no!

not that. No! I want to see her here."

Homais, to keep himself in countenance, took up a water-bottle on the

whatnot to water the geraniums.

"Ah! thanks," said Charles; "you are good."

But he did not finish, choking beneath the crowd of memories that this

action of the druggist recalled to him.

Then to distract him, Homais thought fit to talk a little horticulture:

plants wanted humidity. Charles bowed his head in sign of approbation.

"Besides, the fine days will soon be here again."

"Ah!" said Bovary.

The druggist, at his wit's end, began softly to draw aside the small

window-curtain.

"Hallo! there's Monsieur Tuvache passing."




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