Chapter 3

           OnemorningoldRouaultbroughtCharlesthemoneyforsettinghisleg—seventy-fivefrancsinforty-soupieces,andaturkey.Hehadheardofhisloss,andconsoledhimaswellashecould.

           "Iknowwhatitis,"saidhe,clappinghimontheshoulder;"I’vebeenthroughit.WhenIlostmydeardeparted,Iwentintothefieldstobequitealone.Ifellatthefootofatree;Icried;IcalledonGod;ItalkednonsensetoHim.IwantedtobelikethemolesthatIsawonthebranches,theirinsidesswarmingwithworms,dead,andanendofit.AndwhenIthoughtthattherewereothersatthatverymomentwiththeirnicelittlewivesholdingthemintheirembrace,Istruckgreatblowsontheearthwithmystick.Iwasprettywellmadwithnoteating;theveryideaofgoingtoacafedisgustedme—youwouldn’tbelieveit.Well,quitesoftly,onedayfollowinganother,aspringonawinter,andanautumnafterasummer,thisworeaway,piecebypiece,crumbbycrumb;itpassedaway,itisgone,Ishouldsayithassunk;forsomethingalwaysremainsatthebottomasonewouldsay—aweighthere,atone’sheart.Butsinceitisthelotofallofus,onemustnotgivewayaltogether,and,becauseothershavedied,wanttodietoo.Youmustpullyourselftogether,MonsieurBovary.Itwillpassaway.Cometoseeus;mydaughterthinksofyounowandagain,d’yeknow,andshesaysyouareforgettingher.Springwillsoonbehere.We’llhavesomerabbit-shootinginthewarrenstoamuseyouabit."

           Charlesfollowedhisadvice.HewentbacktotheBertaux.