Rodolphe, who, to distract himself, had been rambling
about the wood all day, was sleeping quietly in his
chateau, and Leon, down yonder, always slept.
There was another who at that hour was not asleep.
On the grave between the pine-trees a child was on
his knees weeping, and his heart, rent by sobs, was
beating in the shadow beneath the load of an immense
regret, sweeter than the moon and fathomless as the
night. The gate suddenly grated. It was
Lestiboudois; he came to fetch his spade, that he
had forgotten. He recognised Justin climbing over
the wall, and at last knew who was the culprit who
stole his potatoes.
The next day Charles had the child brought back.
She asked for her mamma. They told her she was
away; that she would bring her back some playthings.
Berthe spoke of her again several times, then at last
thought no more of her. The child’s gaiety
broke Bovary’s heart, and he had to bear besides
the intolerable consolations of the chemist.
Money troubles soon began again, Monsieur Lheureux
urging on anew his friend Vincart, and Charles pledged
himself for exorbitant sums; for he would never consent
to let the smallest of the things that had belonged
to HER be sold. His mother was exasperated with
him; he grew even more angry than she did. He
had altogether changed. She left the house.
Then everyone began “taking advantage”
of him. Mademoiselle Lempereur presented a bill
for six months’ teaching, although Emma had never
taken a lesson (despite the receipted bill she had
shown Bovary); it was an arrangement between the two
women. The man at the circulating library demanded
three years’ subscriptions; Mere Rollet claimed
the postage due for some twenty letters, and when
Charles asked for an explanation, she had the delicacy
to reply—
“Oh, I don’t know. It was for her
business affairs.”
With every debt he paid Charles thought he had come
to the end of them. But others followed ceaselessly.
He sent in accounts for professional attendance.
He was shown the letters his wife had written.
Then he had to apologise.
Felicite now wore Madame Bovary’s gowns; not
all, for he had kept some of them, and he went to
look at them in her dressing-room, locking himself
up there; she was about her height, and often Charles,
seeing her from behind, was seized with an illusion,
and cried out—
“Oh, stay, stay!”
But at Whitsuntide she ran away from Yonville, carried
off by Theodore, stealing all that was left of the
wardrobe.
It was about this time that the widow Dupuis had the
honour to inform him of the “marriage of Monsieur
Leon Dupuis her son, notary at Yvetot, to Mademoiselle
Leocadie Leboeuf of Bondeville.” Charles,
among the other congratulations he sent him, wrote
this sentence—
“How glad my poor wife would have been!”
