He had only received the chemist's letter thirty-six hours after the

event; and, from consideration for his feelings, Homais had so worded it

that it was impossible to make out what it was all about.

First, the old fellow had fallen as if struck by apoplexy. Next, he

understood that she was not dead, but she might be. At last, he had put

on his blouse, taken his hat, fastened his spurs to his boots, and set

out at full speed; and the whole of the way old Rouault, panting, was

torn by anguish. Once even he was obliged to dismount. He was dizzy; he

heard voices round about him; he felt himself going mad.

Day broke. He saw three black hens asleep in a tree. He shuddered,

horrified at this omen. Then he promised the Holy Virgin three chasubles

for the church, and that he would go barefooted from the cemetery at

Bertaux to the chapel of Vassonville.

He entered Maromme shouting for the people of the inn, burst open the

door with a thrust of his shoulder, made for a sack of oats, emptied a

bottle of sweet cider into the manger, and again mounted his nag, whose

feet struck fire as it dashed along.

He said to himself that no doubt they would save her; the doctors would

discover some remedy surely. He remembered all the miraculous cures

he had been told about. Then she appeared to him dead. She was there;

before his eyes, lying on her back in the middle of the road. He reined

up, and the hallucination disappeared.

At Quincampoix, to give himself heart, he drank three cups of coffee

one after the other. He fancied they had made a mistake in the name in

writing. He looked for the letter in his pocket, felt it there, but did

not dare to open it.

At last he began to think it was all a joke; someone's spite, the jest

of some wag; and besides, if she were dead, one would have known it. But

no! There was nothing extraordinary about the country; the sky was blue,

the trees swayed; a flock of sheep passed. He saw the village; he was

seen coming bending forward upon his horse, belabouring it with great

blows, the girths dripping with blood.

When he had recovered consciousness, he fell, weeping, into Bovary's

arms: "My girl! Emma! my child! tell me--"

The other replied, sobbing, "I don't know! I don't know! It's a curse!"

The druggist separated them. "These horrible details are useless. I will

tell this gentleman all about it. Here are the people coming. Dignity!

Come now! Philosophy!"




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