Charles's mother cameto see them from time to time， but after a few days the daughter-in-law seemedto put her own edge on her， and then， like two knives， they scarified him withtheir reflections and observations. It was wrong of him to eat so much. Why didhe always offer a glass of something to everyone who came？ What obstinacy notto wear flannels！
In the spring it came about that a notary atIngouville， the holder of the widow Dubuc's property，one fine day went off， taking with him all the money in his office. Hélo？se， it is true， still possessed， besides a share in a boat valuedat six thousand francs， her house in the Rue St. Francois； and yet， with allthis fortune that had been so trumpeted abroad， nothing， excepting perhaps alittle furniture and a few clothes， had appeared in the household. The matterhad to be gone into. The house at Dieppe was found to be eaten up withmortgages to its foundations； what she had placed with the notary God onlyknew， and her share in the boat did not exceed one thousand crowns. She hadlied， the good lady！ In his exasperation， Monsieur Bovary the elder， smashing achair on the flags， accused his wife of having caused misfortune to the son byhamessing him to such a harridan， whose harness wasn'tworth her hide. They came to Tostes. Explanations followed. There were scenes.Hélo？se in tears， throwing her arms about her husband，implored him to defend her from his parents. Charles tried to speak up for her.They grew angry and left the house.
But “the blow hadstruck home.” A week after， as she was hanging up somewashing in her yard， she was seized with a spitting of blood， and the next day，while Charles had his back turned to her drawing the window-curtain， she said， “O God！” gave a sigh and fainted. She wasdead！ What a surprise！
When all was over at the cemetery Charleswent home. He found no one downstairs； he went up to the first floor to theirroom； say her dress still hanging at the foot of the alcove； then， leaningagainst the writing-table， he stayed until the evening， buried in a sorrowfulreverie. She had loved him after all！
Chapter 3
One morning old Rouault brought Charles themoney for setting his leg-seventy-five francs in forty-sou pieces， and aturkey. He had heard of his loss， and consoled him as well as he could.
“I know what it is，”said he， clapping him on the shoulder； “I've been through it. When I lost my dear departed， I went into thefields to be quite alone. I fell at the foot of a tree； I cried； I called onGod； I talked nonsense to Him. I wanted to be like the moles that I saw on thebranches， their insides swarming with worms， dead， and an end of it. And when Ithought that there were others at that very moment with their nice little wivesholding them in their embrace， I struck great blows on the earth with my stick.I was pretty well mad with not eating； the very idea of going to a café disgusted me-you wouldn't believe it. Well，quite softly， one day following another， a spring on a winter， and an autumnafter a summer， this wore away， piece by piece， crumb by crumb； it passed away，it is gone， I should say it has sunk； for something always remains at thebottom as one would say-a weight here， at one's heart.But since it is the lot of all of us， one must not give way altogether， and，because others have died， want to die too. You must pull yourself together， MonsieurBovary. It will pass away. Come to see us； my daughter thinks of you now andagain， d'ye know， and she says you are forgetting her.Spring will soon be here. We'll have somerabbit-shooting in the warrens to amuse you a bit.”
Charles followed his advice. He went back tothe Bertaux. He found all as he had left it， that is to say， as it was fivemonths ago. The pear trees were already in blossom， and Farmer Rouault， on hislegs again， came and went， making the farm more full of life.
Thinking it his duty to heap the greatestattention upon the doctor because of his sad position， he begged him not totake his hat off， spoke to him in an undertone as if he had been ill， and evenpretended to be angry because nothing rather lighter had been prepared for himthan for the others， such as a little clotted cream or stewed pears. He toldstories. Charles found himself laughing， but the remembrance of his wifesuddenly coming back to him depressed him. Coffee was brought in； he thought nomore about her.
He thought less of her as he grew accustomedto living alone. The new delight of independence soon made his lonelinessbearable. He could now change his meal-times， go in or out without explanation，and when he was very tired stretch himself at full length on his bed. So henursed and coddled himself and accepted the consolations that were offered him.On the other hand， the death of his wife had not served him ill in hisbusiness， since for a month people had been saying， “Thepoor young man！ what a loss！” His name had been talkedabout， his practice had increased； and moreover， he could go to the Bertauxjust as he liked. He had an aimless hope， and was vaguely happy； he thoughthimself better looking as he brushed his whiskers before the looking-glass.
One day he got there about three o'clock. Everybody was in the fields. He went into the kitchen， butdid not at once catch sight of Emma； the outside shutters were closed. Throughthe chinks of the wood the sun sent across the flooring long fine rays thatwere broken at the comers of the furniture and trembled along the ceiling. Someflies on the table were crawling up the glasses that had been used， and buzzingas they drowned themselves in the dregs of the cider. The daylight that came inby the chimney made velvet of the soot at the back of the fireplace， andtouched with blue the cold cinders. Between the window and the hearth Emma wassewing； she wore no fichu； he could see small drops of perspiration on her bareshoulders.
After the fashion of country folks she askedhim to have something to drink. He said no； she insisted， and at lastlaughingly offered to have a glass of liqueur with him. So she went to fetch abottle of curacao from the cupboard， reached down two small glasses， filled oneto the brim， poured scarcely anything into the other， and， after having clinkedglasses， carried hers to her mouth. As it was almost empty she bent back todrink， her head thrown back， her lips pouting， her neck on the strain. Shelaughed at getting none of it， while with the tip of her tongue passing betweenher small teeth she licked drop by drop the bottom of her glass.
She sat down again and took up her work， awhite cotton stocking she was darning. She worked with her head bent down； shedid not speak， nor did Charles. The air coming in under the door blew a littledust over the flags； he watched it drift along， and heard nothing but thethrobbing in his head and the faint clucking of a hen that had laid an egg inthe yard. Emma from time to time cooled her cheeks with the palms of her hands，and cooled these again on the knobs of the huge fire-dogs.
She complained of suffering since thebeginning of the season from giddiness； she asked if sea-baths would do her anygood； she began talking of her convent， Charles of his school； words came tothem. They went up into her bedroom. She showed him her old music-books， thelittle prizes she had won， and the oak-leaf crowns， left at the bottom of acupboard. She spoke to him， too， of her mother， of the country， and even showedhim the bed in the garden where， on the first Friday of every month， shegathered flowers to put on her mother's tomb. But thegardener they had never knew anything about it； servants are so stupid！ Shewould have dearly liked， if only for the winter， to live in town， although thelength of the fine days made the country perhaps even more wearisome in thesummer. And， according to what she was saying， her voice was clear， sharp， or，on a sudden all languor， drawn out in modulations that ended almost in murmurs asshe spoke to herself， now joyous， opening big naive eyes， then with her eyelidshalf closed， her look full of boredom， her thoughts wandering.