“When one is a simple spectator,” he said, “the imagination, you know, is impressed.  And then I have such a nervous system!”

“Pshaw!” interrupted Canivet; “on the contrary, you seem to me inclined to apoplexy.  Besides, that doesn’t astonish me, for you chemist fellows are always poking about your kitchens, which must end by spoiling your constitutions.  Now just look at me.  I get up every day at four o’clock; I shave with cold water (and am never cold).  I don’t wear flannels, and I never catch cold; my carcass is good enough!  I live now in one way, now in another, like a philosopher, taking pot-luck; that is why I am not squeamish like you, and it is as indifferent to me to carve a Christian as the first fowl that turns up.  Then, perhaps, you will say, habit! habit!”

Then, without any consideration for Hippolyte, who was sweating with agony between his sheets, these gentlemen entered into a conversation, in which the druggist compared the coolness of a surgeon to that of a general; and this comparison was pleasing to Canivet, who launched out on the exigencies of his art.  He looked upon, it as a sacred office, although the ordinary practitioners dishonoured it.  At last, coming back to the patient, he examined the bandages brought by Homais, the same that had appeared for the club-foot, and asked for someone to hold the limb for him.  Lestiboudois was sent for, and Monsieur Canivet having turned up his sleeves, passed into the billiard-room, while the druggist stayed with Artemise and the landlady, both whiter than their aprons, and with ears strained towards the door.

Bovary during this time did not dare to stir from his house.

He kept downstairs in the sitting-room by the side of the fireless chimney, his chin on his breast, his hands clasped, his eyes staring.  “What a mishap!” he thought, “what a mishap!” Perhaps, after all, he had made some slip.  He thought it over, but could hit upon nothing.  But the most famous surgeons also made mistakes; and that is what no one would ever believe!  People, on the contrary, would laugh, jeer!  It would spread as far as Forges, as Neufchatel, as Rouen, everywhere!  Who could say if his colleagues would not write against him.  Polemics would ensue; he would have to answer in the papers.  Hippolyte might even prosecute him.  He saw himself dishonoured, ruined, lost; and his imagination, assailed by a world of hypotheses, tossed amongst them like an empty cask borne by the sea and floating upon the waves.

Emma, opposite, watched him; she did not share his humiliation; she felt another—­that of having supposed such a man was worth anything.  As if twenty times already she had not sufficiently perceived his mediocrity.

Charles was walking up and down the room; his boots creaked on the floor.

“Sit down,” she said; “you fidget me.”

He sat down again.