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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 342 pages of information about Madame Bovary.
has sunk; for something always remains at the bottom 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, Monsieur Bovary.  It will pass away.  Come to see us; my daughter thinks of you now and again, d’ye know, and she says you are forgetting her.  Spring will soon be here.  We’ll have some rabbit-shooting in the warrens to amuse you a bit.”

Charles followed his advice.  He went back to the Bertaux.  He found all as he had left it, that is to say, as it was five months ago.  The pear trees were already in blossom, and Farmer Rouault, on his legs again, came and went, making the farm more full of life.

Thinking it his duty to heap the greatest attention upon the doctor because of his sad position, he begged him not to take his hat off, spoke to him in an undertone as if he had been ill, and even pretended to be angry because nothing rather lighter had been prepared for him than for the others, such as a little clotted cream or stewed pears.  He told stories.  Charles found himself laughing, but the remembrance of his wife suddenly coming back to him depressed him.  Coffee was brought in; he thought no more about her.

He thought less of her as he grew accustomed to living alone.  The new delight of independence soon made his loneliness bearable.  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 he nursed 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 his business, since for a month people had been saying, “The poor young man! what a loss!” His name had been talked about, his practice had increased; and moreover, he could go to the Bertaux just as he liked.  He had an aimless hope, and was vaguely happy; he thought himself 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, but did not at once catch sight of Emma; the outside shutters were closed.  Through the chinks of the wood the sun sent across the flooring long fine rays that were broken at the corners of the furniture and trembled along the ceiling.  Some flies on the table were crawling up the glasses that had been used, and buzzing as they drowned themselves in the dregs of the cider.  The daylight that came in by the chimney made velvet of the soot at the back of the fireplace, and touched with blue the cold cinders.  Between the window and the hearth Emma was sewing; she wore no fichu; he could see small drops of perspiration on her bare shoulders.

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