"How good I was!" she said to herself, thinking of the scarves.

She heard some steps on the stairs. It was Leon. She got up and took

from the chest of drawers the first pile of dusters to be hemmed. When

he came in she seemed very busy.

The conversation languished; Madame Bovary gave it up every few minutes,

whilst he himself seemed quite embarrassed. Seated on a low chair near

the fire, he turned round in his fingers the ivory thimble-case. She

stitched on, or from time to time turned down the hem of the cloth with

her nail. She did not speak; he was silent, captivated by her silence,

as he would have been by her speech.

"Poor fellow!" she thought.

"How have I displeased her?" he asked himself.

At last, however, Leon said that he should have, one of these days, to

go to Rouen on some office business.

"Your music subscription is out; am I to renew it?"

"No," she replied.

"Why?"

"Because--"

And pursing her lips she slowly drew a long stitch of grey thread.

This work irritated Leon. It seemed to roughen the ends of her fingers.

A gallant phrase came into his head, but he did not risk it.

"Then you are giving it up?" he went on.

"What?" she asked hurriedly. "Music? Ah! yes! Have I not my house to

look after, my husband to attend to, a thousand things, in fact, many

duties that must be considered first?"

She looked at the clock. Charles was late. Then, she affected anxiety.

Two or three times she even repeated, "He is so good!"

The clerk was fond of Monsieur Bovary. But this tenderness on his behalf

astonished him unpleasantly; nevertheless he took up on his praises,

which he said everyone was singing, especially the chemist.

"Ah! he is a good fellow," continued Emma.

"Certainly," replied the clerk.

And he began talking of Madame Homais, whose very untidy appearance

generally made them laugh.

"What does it matter?" interrupted Emma. "A good housewife does not

trouble about her appearance."

Then she relapsed into silence.

It was the same on the following days; her talks, her manners,

everything changed. She took interest in the housework, went to church

regularly, and looked after her servant with more severity.

She took Berthe from nurse. When visitors called, Felicite brought her

in, and Madame Bovary undressed her to show off her limbs. She declared

she adored children; this was her consolation, her joy, her passion,

and she accompanied her caresses with lyrical outburst which would have

reminded anyone but the Yonville people of Sachette in "Notre Dame de

Paris."




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