When she had a child， it had to be sent outto nurse. When he came home， the lad was spoilt as if he were a prince. Hismother stuffed him with jam； his father let him run about barefoot， and，playing the philosopher， even said he might as well go about quite naked likethe young of animals. As opposed to the maternal ideas， he had a certain virileidea of childhood on which he-sought to mould his son， wishing him to bebrought up hardily， like a Spartan， to give him a strong constitution. He senthim to bed without any fire， taught him to drink off large draughts of rum andto jeer at religious processions. But， peaceable by nature， the lad answeredonly poorly to his notions. His mother always kept him near her； she cut outcardboard for him， told him tales， and entertained him with endless monologuesfull of melancholy gaiety and charming nonsense. In her life's isolation she centered on the child's headall her shattered， broken little vanities. She dreamed of high station； shealready saw him， tall， handsome， clever， settled as an engineer or in the law.She taught him to read， and even， on an old piano， she had taught him two orthree little songs. But to all this Monsieur Bovary， caring little for letters，said， “It was not worth while. Would they ever have themeans to send him to a public school， to buy him a practice， or start him inbusiness？ Besides， with cheek a man always gets on in the world.” Madame Bovary bit her lips， and the child knocked about thevillage.
He went after the labourers， drove away withclods of earth the ravens that were flying about. He ate blackberries along thehedges， minded the geese with a long switch， went haymaking during harvest， ranabout in the woods， played hop-scotch under the church porch on rainy days， andat great fêtes begged the beadle to let him toll thebells， that he might hang all his weight on the long rope and feel himselfborne upward by it in its swing. Meanwhile he grew like an oak； he was strongon hand， fresh of colour.
When he was twelve years old his mother hadher own way； he began lessons. The curé took him inhand； but the lessons were so short and irregular that they could not be ofmuch use. They were given at spare moments in the sacristy， standing up，hurriedly， between a baptism and a burial； or else the curé， if he had not to go out， sent for his pupil after the Angelus.They went up to his room and settled down； the flies and moths fluttered roundthe candle. It was close， the child fell asleep， and the good man， beginning todoze with his hands on his stomach， was soon snoring with his mouth wide open.On other occasions， when Monsieur le Curé， on his wayback after administering the viaticum to some sick person in the neighbourhood，caught sight of Charles playing about the fields， he called him， lectured himfor a quarter of an hour and took advantage of the occasion to make himconjugate his verb at the foot of a tree. The rain interrupted them or anacquaintance passed. All the same he was always pleased with him， and even saidthe “young man” had a very goodmemory.
Charles could not go on like this. MadameBovary took strong steps. Ashamed， or rather tired out， Monsieur Bovary gave inwithout a struggle， and they waited one year longer， so that the lad shouldtake his first communion.
Six months more passed， and the year afterCharles was finally sent to school at Rouen， where his father took him towardsthe end of October， at the time of the St. Romain fair.
It would now be impossible for any of us toremember anything about him. He was a youth of even temperament， who played inplaytime， worked in school-hours， was attentive in class， slept well in thedormitory， and ate well in the refectory. He had in loco parentis a wholesaleironmonger in the Rue Ganterie， who took him out once a month on Sundays afterhis shop was shut， sent him for a walk on the quay to look at the boats， andthen brought him back to college at seven o'clockbefore supper. Every Thursday evening he wrote a long letter to his mother withred ink and three wafers； then he went over his history note-books， or read anold volume of Anarchasis that was knocking about the study. When he went forwalks he talked to the servant， who， like himself， came from the country.
By dint of hard work he kept always about themiddle of the class； once even he got a certificate in natural history. But atthe end of his third year his parents withdrew him from the school to make himstudy medicine， convinced that he could even take his degree by himself.
His mother chose a room for him on the fourthfloor of a dyer's she knew， overlooking theEau-de-Robec. She made arrangements for his board， got him furniture， table andtwo chairs， sent home for an old cherry-tree bedstead， and bought besides asmall cast-iron stove with the supply of wood that was to warm the poor child.Then at the end of a week she departed， after a thousand injunctions to be goodnow that he was going to be left to himself.
The syllabus that he read on the notice-boardstunned him； lectures on anatomy， lectures on pathology， lectures onphysiology， lectures on pharmacy， lectures on botany and clinical medicine， andtherapeutics， without counting hygiene and materia medica-all names of whoseetymologies he was ignorant， and that were to him as so many doors tosanctuaries filled with magnificent darkness.
He understood nothing of it all； it was allvery well to listen-he did not follow. Still he worked； he had boundnote-books， he attended all the courses， never missed a single lecture. He didhis little daily task like a mill-horse， who goes round and round with his eyesbandaged， not knowing what work he is doing.
To spare him expense his mother sent himevery week by the carrier a piece of veal baked in the oven， with which helunched when he came back from the hospital， while he sat kicking his feetagainst the wall. After this he had to run off to lectures， to theoperation-room， to the hospital， and return to his home at the other end of thetown. In the evening， after a poor dinner of his landlord， he went back to hisroom and set to work again in his wet clothes， which smoked as he sat in frontof the hot stove.
On the fine summer evenings， at the time whenthe close streets are empty， when the servants are playing shuttle-cock at thedoors， he opened his window and leaned out. The river， that makes of thisquarter of Rouen a wretched little Venice， flowed beneath him， between thebridges and the railings， yellow， violet， or blue. Working men， kneeling on thebanks， washed their bare arms in the water. On poles projecting from theattics， skeins of cotton were drying in the air. Opposite， beyond the rootsspread the pure heaven with the red sun setting. How pleasant it must be athome！ How fresh under the beech-tree！ And he expanded his nostrils to breathein the sweet odours of the country which did not reach him.
He grew thin， his figure became taller， hisface took a saddened look that made it nearly interesting. Naturally， throughindifference， he abandoned all the resolutions he had made. Once he missed alecture； the next day all the lectures； and， enjoying his idleness， little bylittle， he gave up work altogether. He got into the habit of going to thepublic-house， and had a passion for dominoes. To shut himself up every eveningin the dirty public room， to push about on marble tables the small sheep boneswith black dots， seemed to him a fine proof of his freedom， which raised him inhis own esteem. It was beginning to see life， the sweetness of stolenpleasures； and when he entered， he put his hand on the door-handle with a joyalmost sensual. Then many things hidden within him came out； he learnt coupletsby heart and sang them to his boon companions， became enthusiastic about Bé ranger， learnt how to make punch， and， finally， how to make love.
Thanks to these preparatory labours， hefailed completely in his examination for an ordinary degree. He was expectedhome the same night to celebrate his success. He started on foot， stopped atthe beginning of the village， sent for his mother， and told her all. Sheexcused him， threw the blame of his failure on the injustice of the examiners，encouraged him a little， and took upon herself to set matters straight. It wasonly five years later that Monsieur Bovary knew the truth； it was old then， andhe accepted it. Moreover， he could not believe that a man born of him could bea fool.