Госпожа Бовари

           Helookedfortheletterinhispocket,feltitthere,butdidnotdaretoopenit.

           Atlasthebegantothinkitwasallajoke;someone’sspite,thejestofsomewag;andbesides,ifsheweredead,onewouldhaveknownit.Butno!Therewasnothingextraordinaryaboutthecountry;theskywasblue,thetreesswayed;aflockofsheeppassed.Hesawthevillage;hewasseencomingbendingforwarduponhishorse,belabouringitwithgreatblows,thegirthsdrippingwithblood.

           Whenhehadrecoveredconsciousness,hefell,weeping,intoBovary’sarms:"Mygirl!Emma!mychild!tellme—"

           Theotherreplied,sobbing,"Idon’tknow!Idon’tknow!It’sacurse!"

           Thedruggistseparatedthem."Thesehorribledetailsareuseless.Iwilltellthisgentlemanallaboutit.Herearethepeoplecoming.Dignity!Comenow!Philosophy!"

           Thepoorfellowtriedtoshowhimselfbrave,andrepeatedseveraltimes."Yes!courage!"

           "Oh,"criedtheoldman,"soIwillhave,byGod!I’llgoalongo’hertotheend!"

           Thebellbegantolling.Allwasready;theyhadtostart.Andseatedinastallofthechoir,sidebyside,theysawpassandrepassinfrontofthemcontinuallythethreechantingchoristers.

           Theserpent-playerwasblowingwithallhismight.MonsieurBournisien,infullvestments,wassinginginashrillvoice.Hebowedbeforethetabernacle,raisinghishands,stretchedouthisarms.Lestiboudoiswentaboutthechurchwithhiswhalebonestick.Thebierstoodnearthelectern,betweenfourrowsofcandles.