Chapter 9

           Thereisalwaysafterthedeathofanyoneakindofstupefaction;sodifficultisittograspthisadventofnothingnessandtoresignourselvestobelieveinit.Butstill,whenhesawthatshedidnotmove,Charlesthrewhimselfuponher,crying—

           "Farewell!farewell!"

           HomaisandCanivetdraggedhimfromtheroom.

           "Restrainyourself!"

           "Yes."saidhe,struggling,"I’llbequiet.I’llnotdoanything.Butleavemealone.Iwanttoseeher.Sheismywife!"

           Andhewept.

           "Cry,"saidthechemist;"letnaturetakehercourse;thatwillsolaceyou."

           Weakerthanachild,Charleslethimselfbeleddownstairsintothesitting-room,andMonsieurHomaissoonwenthome.OnthePlacehewasaccostedbytheblindman,who,havingdraggedhimselfasfarasYonville,inthehopeofgettingtheantiphlogisticpomade,wasaskingeverypasser-bywherethedruggistlived.

           "Therenow!asifIhadn’tgototherfishtofry.Well,somuchtheworse;youmustcomelateron."

           Andheenteredtheshophurriedly.

           Hehadtowritetwoletters,toprepareasoothingpotionforBovary,toinventsomeliethatwouldconcealthepoisoning,andworkitupintoanarticleforthe"Fanal,"withoutcountingthepeoplewhowerewaitingtogetthenewsfromhim;andwhentheYonvillershadallheardhisstoryofthearsenicthatshehadmistakenforsugarinmakingavanillacream.HomaisoncemorereturnedtoBovary’s.

           Hefoundhimalone(MonsieurCanivethadleft),sittinginanarm-chairnearthewindow,staringwithanidioticlookattheflagsofthefloor.