"That is extraordinary for a lady," said Monsieur Boulanger; "but some

people are very susceptible. Thus in a duel, I have seen a second lose

consciousness at the mere sound of the loading of pistols."

"For my part," said the chemist, "the sight of other people's blood

doesn't affect me at all, but the mere thought of my own flowing would

make me faint if I reflected upon it too much."

Monsieur Boulanger, however, dismissed his servant, advising him to calm

himself, since his fancy was over.

"It procured me the advantage of making your acquaintance," he added,

and he looked at Emma as he said this. Then he put three francs on the

corner of the table, bowed negligently, and went out.

He was soon on the other side of the river (this was his way back to La

Huchette), and Emma saw him in the meadow, walking under the poplars,

slackening his pace now and then as one who reflects.

"She is very pretty," he said to himself; "she is very pretty, this

doctor's wife. Fine teeth, black eyes, a dainty foot, a figure like a

Parisienne's. Where the devil does she come from? Wherever did that fat

fellow pick her up?"

Monsieur Rodolphe Boulanger was thirty-four; he was of brutal

temperament and intelligent perspicacity, having, moreover, had much to

do with women, and knowing them well. This one had seemed pretty to him;

so he was thinking about her and her husband.

"I think he is very stupid. She is tired of him, no doubt. He has dirty

nails, and hasn't shaved for three days. While he is trotting after his

patients, she sits there botching socks. And she gets bored! She would

like to live in town and dance polkas every evening. Poor little woman!

She is gaping after love like a carp after water on a kitchen-table.

With three words of gallantry she'd adore one, I'm sure of it. She'd be

tender, charming. Yes; but how to get rid of her afterwards?"

Then the difficulties of love-making seen in the distance made him by

contrast think of his mistress. She was an actress at Rouen, whom he

kept; and when he had pondered over this image, with which, even in

remembrance, he was satiated-"Ah! Madame Bovary," he thought, "is much prettier, especially fresher.

Virginie is decidedly beginning to grow fat. She is so finiky about her

pleasures; and, besides, she has a mania for prawns."

The fields were empty, and around him Rodolphe only heard the regular

beating of the grass striking against his boots, with a cry of the

grasshopper hidden at a distance among the oats. He again saw Emma in

her room, dressed as he had seen her, and he undressed her.




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