was there, and two large candles were burning at the head of the bed, that had been taken out of the alcove. The druggist, on whom the silence weighed, was not long before he began formulating some regrets about this “unfortunate young woman.” and the priest replied that there was nothing to do now but pray for her.
“Yet,” Homais went on, “one of two things; either she died in a state of grace (as the Church has it), and then she has no need of our prayers; or else she departed impertinent (that is, I believe, the ecclesiastical expression), and then — ”
Bournisien interrupted him, replying testily that it was none the less necessary to pray.
“But,” objected the chemist, “since God knows all our needs, what can be the good of prayer?”
“What!” cried the ecclesiastic, “prayer! Why, aren’t you a Christian?”
“Excuse me,” said Homais; “I admire Christianity. To begin with, it enfranchised the slaves, introduced into the world a morality — ”
“That isn’t the question. All the texts-”
“Oh! oh! As to texts, look at history; it, is known that all the texts have been falsified by the Jesuits.”
Charles came in, and advancing towards the bed, slowly drew the curtains.
Emma’s head was turned towards her right shoulder, the corner of her mouth, which was open, seemed like a black hole at the lower part of her face; her two thumbs were bent into the palms of her hands; a kind of white dust besprinkled her lashes, and her eyes were beginning to disappear in that viscous pallor that looks like a thin web, as if spiders had spun it over. The sheet sunk in from her breast to her knees, and then rose at the tips of her toes, and it seemed to Charles that infinite masses, an enormous load, were weighing upon her.
The church clock struck two. They could hear the loud murmur of the river flowing in the darkness at the foot of the terrace. Monsieur Bournisien from time to time blew his nose noisily, and Homais’ pen was scratching over the paper.
“Come, my good friend,” he said, “withdraw; this spectacle is tearing you to pieces.”
Charles once gone, the chemist and the cure recommenced their discussions.
“Read Voltaire,” said the one, “read D’Holbach, read the ‘Encyclopaedia’!”
“Read the ‘Letters of some Portuguese Jews,’” said the other; “read ‘The Meaning of Christianity,’ by Nicolas, formerly a magistrate.”
They grew warm, they grew red, they both talked at once without listening to each other. Bournisien was scandalized at such audacity; Homais marvelled at such stupidity; and they were on the point of insulting one another when Charles suddenly reappeared. A fascination drew him. He was continually coming upstairs.
He stood opposite her, the better to see her, and he lost himself in a contemplation so deep that it was no longer painful.
He recalled stories of catalepsy, the marvels of magnetism, and he said to himself that by willing it with all his force he might perhaps succeed in reviving her. Once he even bent towards he, and cried in a low voice, “Emma! Emma!” His strong breathing made the flames of the candles tremble against the wall.
At daybreak Madame Bovary senior arrived. Charles as he embraced her burst into another flood of tears. She tried, as the chemist had done, to make some remarks to him on the expenses of the funeral. He became so angry that she was silent, and he even commissioned her to go to town at once and buy what was necessary.
Charles remained alone the whole afternoon; they had taken Berthe to Madame Homais’; Felicite was in the room upstairs with Madame Lefrancois.
In the evening he had some visitors. He rose, pressed their hands, unable to speak. Then they sat down near one another, and formed a large semicircle in front of the fire. With lowered faces, and swinging one leg crossed over the other knee, they uttered deep sighs at intervals; each one was inordinately bored, and yet none would be the first to go.
Homais, when he returned at nine o’clock (for the last two days only Homais seemed to have been on the Place), was laden with a stock of camphor, of benzine, and aromatic herbs. He also carried a large jar full of chlorine water, to keep off all miasmata. Just then the servant, Madame Lefrancois, and Madame Bovary senior were busy about Emma, finishing dressing her, and they were drawing down the long stiff veil that covered her to her satin shoes.
Felicite was sobbing — “Ah! my poor mistress! my poor mistress!”
“Look at her,” said the landlady, sighing; “how pretty she still is! Now, couldn’t you swear she was going to get up in a minute?”
Then they bent over her to put on her wreath. They had to raise the head a little, and a rush of black liquid issued, as if she were vomiting, from her mouth.
“Oh, goodness! The dress; take care!” cried Madame Lefrancois. “Now, just come and help,” she said to the chemist. “Perhaps you’re afraid?”
“I afraid?” replied he, shrugging his shoulders. “I dare say! I’ve seen all sorts of things at the hospital when I was studying pharmacy. We used to make punch in the dissecting room! Nothingness does not terrify a philosopher; and, as I often say, I even intend to leave my body to the hospitals, in order, later on, to serve science.”
The cure on his arrival inquired how Monsieur Bovary was, and, on the reply of the druggist, went on — “The blow, you see, is still too recent.”
Then Homais congratulated him on not being exposed, like other people, to the loss of a beloved companion; whence there followed a discussion on the celibacy of priests.
“For,” said the chemist, “it is unnatural that a man should do without women! There have been crimes — ”
“But, good heaven!” cried the ecclesiastic, “how do you expect an individual who is married to keep the secrets of the confessional, for example?”
Homais fell foul of the confessional. Bournisien defended it; he enlarged on the acts of restitution that it brought about. He cited various anecdotes about thieves who had suddenly become honest. Military men on approaching the tribunal of penitence had felt the scales fall from their eyes. At Fribourg there was a minister —
His companion was asleep. Then he felt somewhat stifled by the over-heavy atmosphere of the room; he opened the window; this awoke the chemist.
“Come, take a pinch of snuff,” he said to him. “Take it; it’ll relieve you.”
A continual barking was heard in the distance. “Do you hear that dog howling?” said the chemist.
“They smell the dead,” replied the priest. “It’s like bees; they leave their hives on the decease of any person.”
Homais made no remark upon these prejudices, for he had again dropped asleep. Monsieur Bournisien, stronger than he, went on moving his lips gently for some time, then insensibly his chin sank down, he let fall his big black boot, and began to snore.
They sat opposite one another, with protruding stomachs, puffed-up faces, and frowning looks, after so much disagreement uniting at last in the same human weakness, and they moved no more than the corpse by their side, that seemed
