Charles repeated like a machine--"Monsieur Tuvache passing!"

Homais did not dare to speak to him again about the funeral

arrangements; it was the priest who succeeded in reconciling him to

them.

He shut himself up in his consulting-room, took a pen, and after sobbing

for some time, wrote-"I wish her to be buried in her wedding-dress, with white shoes, and a

wreath. Her hair is to be spread out over her shoulders. Three coffins,

one of oak, one of mahogany, one of lead. Let no one say anything to me.

I shall have strength. Over all there is to be placed a large piece of

green velvet. This is my wish; see that it is done."

The two men were much surprised at Bovary's romantic ideas. The chemist

at once went to him and said-"This velvet seems to me a superfetation. Besides, the expense--"

"What's that to you?" cried Charles. "Leave me! You did not love her.

Go!"

The priest took him by the arm for a turn in the garden. He discoursed

on the vanity of earthly things. God was very great, was very good: one

must submit to his decrees without a murmur; nay, must even thank him.

Charles burst out into blasphemies: "I hate your God!"

"The spirit of rebellion is still upon you," sighed the ecclesiastic.

Bovary was far away. He was walking with great strides along by the

wall, near the espalier, and he ground his teeth; he raised to heaven

looks of malediction, but not so much as a leaf stirred.

A fine rain was falling: Charles, whose chest was bare, at last began to

shiver; he went in and sat down in the kitchen.

At six o'clock a noise like a clatter of old iron was heard on the

Place; it was the "Hirondelle" coming in, and he remained with his

forehead against the windowpane, watching all the passengers get

out, one after the other. Felicite put down a mattress for him in the

drawing-room. He threw himself upon it and fell asleep.

Although a philosopher, Monsieur Homais respected the dead. So bearing

no grudge to poor Charles, he came back again in the evening to sit up

with the body; bringing with him three volumes and a pocket-book for

taking notes.

Monsieur Bournisien was there, and two large candles were burning at the

head of the bed, that had been taken out of the alcove. The druggist, on

whom the silence weighed, was not long before he began formulating some

regrets about this "unfortunate young woman." and the priest replied

that there was nothing to do now but pray for her.




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