Shecharmedhimbynumerousattentions；nowitwassomenewwayofarrangingpapersconcesforthecandles，aflouncethatshealteredonhergown，oranextraordinarynameforsomeverysimpledishthattheservanthadspoilt，butthatCharlesswallowedwithpleasuretothelastmouthful。AtRouenshesawsomeladieswhoworeabunchofcharmsonthewatch-chains；sheboughtsomecharms。Shewantedforhermantelpiecetwolargeblueglassvases，andsometimeafteranivorynecessairewithasilver-giltthimble。ThelessCharlesunderstoodtheserefinementsthemoretheyseducedhim。Theyaddedsomethingtothepleasureofthesensesandtothecomfortofhisfireside。Itwaslikeagoldendustsandingallalongthenarrowpathofhislife。
　　Hewaswell，lookedwell；hisreputationwasfirmlyestablished。
　　Thecountry-folklovedhimbecausehewasnotproud。Hepettedthechildren，neverwenttothepublichouse，and，moreover，hismoralsinspiredconfidence。Hewasspeciallysuccessfulwithcatarrhsandchestcomplaints。Beingmuchafraidofkillinghispatients，Charles，infactonlyprescribedsedatives，fromtimetotimeandemetic，afootbath，orleeches。Itwasnotthathewasafraidofsurgery；hebledpeoplecopiouslylikehorses，andforthetakingoutofteethhehadthe“devil’sownwrist。“
　　Finally，tokeepupwiththetimes，hetookin“LaRucheMedicale，“anewjournalwhoseprospectushadbeensenthim。Hereaditalittleafterdinner，butinaboutfiveminutesthewarmthoftheroomaddedtotheeffectofhisdinnersenthimtosleep；andhesatthere，hischinonhistwohandsandhishairspreadinglikeamanetothefootofthelamp。Emmalookedathimandshruggedhershoulders。Why，atleast，wasnotherhusbandoneofthosemenoftaciturnpassionswhoworkattheirbooksallnight，andatlast，whenaboutsixty，theageofrheumatismsetsin，wearastringofordersontheirill-fittingblackcoat？ShecouldhavewishedthisnameofBovary，whichwashers，hadbeenillustrious，toseeitdisplayedatthebooksellers’，repeatedinthenewspapers，knowntoallFrance。ButCharleshadnoambition。
　　AnYvetotdoctorwhomhehadlatelymetinconsultationhadsomewhathumiliatedhimattheverybedsideofthepatient，beforetheassembledrelatives。When，intheevening，Charlestoldherthisanecdote，Emmainveighedloudlyagainsthiscolleague。Charleswasmuchtouched。Hekissedherforeheadwithatearinhiseyes。Butshewasangeredwithshame；shefeltawilddesiretostrikehim；shewenttoopenthewindowinthepassageandbreathedinthefreshairtocalmherself。
　　“Whataman!Whataman!“shesaidinalowvoice，bitingherlips。
　　Besides，shewasbecomingmoreirritatedwithhim。Ashegrewolderhismannergrewheavier；atdesserthecutthecorksoftheemptybottles；aftereatinghecleanedhisteethwithhistongue；
　　intakingsouphemadeagurglingnoisewitheveryspoonful；and，ashewasgettingfatter，thepuffed-outcheeksseemedtopushtheeyes，alwayssmall，uptothetemples。
　　SometimesEmmatuckedtheredbordersofhisunder-vestuntohiswaistcoat，rearrangedhiscravat，andthrewawaythedirtygloveshewasgoingtoputon；andthiswasnot，ashefancied，forhimself；itwasforherself，byadiffusionofegotism，ofnervousirritation。Sometimes，too，shetoldhimofwhatshehadread，suchasapassageinanovel，ofanewplay，orananecdoteofthe“upperten“thatshehadseeninafeuilleton；for，afterall，Charleswassomething，anever-openear，andever-readyapprobation。Sheconfidedmanyathingtohergreyhound。Shewouldhavedonesotothelogsinthefireplaceortothependulumoftheclock。
　　Atthebottomofherheart，however，shewaswaitingforsomethingtohappen。Likeshipwreckedsailors，sheturneddespairingeyesuponthesolitudeofherlife，seekingafaroffsomewhitesailinthemistsofthehorizon。Shedidnotknowwhatthischancewouldbe，whatwindwouldbringither，towardswhatshoreitwoulddriveher，ifitwouldbeashalloporathree-decker，ladenwithanguishorfullofblisstotheportholes。Buteachmorning，assheawoke，shehopeditwouldcomethatday；shelistenedtoeverysound，sprangupwithastart，wonderedthatitdidnotcome；thenatsunset，alwaysmoresaddened，shelongedforthemorrow。
　　Springcameround。Withthefirstwarmweather，whenthepeartreesbegantoblossom，shesufferedfromdyspnoea。
　　>FromthebeginningofJulyshecountedhowmanyweeksthereweretoOctober，thinkingthatperhapstheMarquisd’AndervillierswouldgiveanotherballatVaubyessard。ButallSeptemberpassedwithoutlettersorvisits。
　　Aftertheennuiofthisdisappointmentherheartoncemoreremainedempty，andthenthesameseriesofdaysrecommenced。Sonowtheywouldthusfollowoneanother，alwaysthesame，immovable，andbringingnothing。Otherlives，howeverflat，hadatleastthechanceofsomeevent。Oneadventuresometimesbroughtwithitinfiniteconsequencesandthescenechanged。Butnothinghappenedtoher；Godhadwilleditso!Thefuturewasadarkcorridor，withitsdoorattheendshutfast。
　　Shegaveupmusic。Whatwasthegoodofplaying？Whowouldhearher？Sinceshecouldnever，inavelvetgownwithshortsleeves，strikingwithherlightfingerstheivorykeysofanErardataconcert，feelthemurmurofecstasyenvelopherlikeabreeze，itwasnotworthwhileboringherselfwithpracticing。Herdrawingcardboardandherembroiderysheleftinthecupboard。Whatwasthegood？Whatwasthegood？Sewingirritatedher。“Ihavereadeverything，“shesaidtoherself。Andshesattheremakingthetongsred-hot，orlookedattherainfalling。
　　HowsadshewasonSundayswhenvesperssounded!Shelistenedwithdullattentiontoeachstrokeofthecrackedbell。Acatslowlywalkingoversomeroofputuphisbackinthepaleraysofthesum。Thewindonthehighroadblewupcloudsofdust。Afaroffadogsometimeshowled；andthebell，keepingtime，continueditsmonotonousringingthatdiedawayoverthefields。
　　Butthepeoplecameoutfromchurch。Thewomeninwaxedclogs，thepeasantsinnewblouses，thelittlebare-headedchildrenskippingalonginfrontofthem，allweregoinghome。Andtillnightfall，fiveorsixmen，alwaysthesame，stayedplayingatcorksinfrontofthelargedooroftheinn。
　　Thewinterwassevere。Thewindowseverymorningwerecoveredwithrime，andthelightshiningthroughthem，dimasthroughground-glass，sometimesdidnotchangethewholedaylong。Atfouro’clockthelamphadtobelighted。
　　Onfinedaysshewentdownintothegarden。Thedewhadleftonthecabbagesasilverlacewithlongtransparentthreadsspreadingfromonetotheother。Nobirdsweretobeheard；
　　everythingseemedasleep，theespaliercoveredwithstraw，andthevine，likeagreatsickserpentunderthecopingofthewall，alongwhich，ondrawinghear，onesawthemany-footedwoodlicecrawling。Underthesprucebythehedgerow，thecurieinthethree-corneredhatreadinghisbreviaryhadlosthisrightfoot，andtheveryplaster，scalingoffwiththefrost，hadleftwhitescabsonhisface。
　　Thenshewentupagain，shutherdoor，putoncoals，andfaintingwiththeheatofthehearth，feltherboredomweighmoreheavilythanever。Shewouldhaveliketogodownandtalktotheservant，butasenseofshamerestrainedher。
　　Everydayatthesametimetheschoolmasterinablackskullcapopenedtheshuttersofhishouse，andtheruralpoliceman，wearinghissabreoverhisblouse，passedby。Nightandmorningthepost-horses，threebythree，crossedthestreettowateratthepond。Fromtimetotimethebellofapublichousedoorrang，andwhenitwaswindyonecouldhearthelittlebrassbasinsthatservedassignsforthehairdresser’sshopcreakingontheirtworods。Thisshophadasdecorationanoldengravingofafashion-platestuckagainstawindowpaneandthewaxbustofawomanwithyellowhair。He，too，thehairdresser，lamentedhiswastedcalling，hishopelessfuture，anddreamingofsomeshopinabigtown——atRouen，forexample，overlookingtheharbour，nearthetheatre——hewalkedupanddownalldayfromthemairietothechurch，sombreandwaitingforcustomers。WhenMadameBovarylookedup，shealwayssawhimthere，likeasentinelonduty，withhisskullcapoverhisearsandhisvestoflasting。
　　Sometimesintheafternoonoutsidethewindowofherroom，theheadofamanappeared，aswarthyheadwithblackwhiskers，smilingslowly，withabroad，gentlesmilethatshowedhiswhiteteeth。Awaltzimmediatelybeganandontheorgan，inalittledrawingroom，dancersthesizeofafinger，womeninpinkturbans，Tyroliansinjackets，monkeysinfrockcoats，gentlemeninknee-breeches，turnedandturnedbetweenthesofas，theconsoles，multipliedinthebitsoflookingglassheldtogetherattheircornersbyapieceofgoldpaper。Themanturnedhishandle，lookingtotherightandleft，andupatthewindows。Nowandagain，whileheshotoutalongsquirtofbrownsalivaagainstthemilestone，withhiskneeraisedhisinstrument，whosehardstrapstiredhisshoulder；andnow，dolefulanddrawling，orgayandhurried，themusicescapedfromthebox，droningthroughacurtainofpinktaffetaunderabrassclawinarabesque。Theywereairsplayedinotherplacesatthetheatres，sungindrawingrooms，dancedtoatnightunderlightedlustres，echoesoftheworldthatreachedeventoEmma。Endlesssarabandsranthroughherhead，and，likeanIndiandancinggirlontheflowersofacarpet，herthoughtsleaptwiththenotes，swungfromdreamtodream，fromsadnesstosadness。Whenthemanhadcaughtsomecoppersinhiscap，hedrewdownanoldcoverofbluecloth，hitchedhisorganontohisback，andwentoffwithaheavytread。Shewatchedhimgoing。
　　Butitwasaboveallthemeal-timesthatwereunbearabletoher，inthissmallroomonthegroundfloor，withitssmokingstove，itscreakingdoor，thewallsthatsweated，thedampflags；allthebitternessinlifeseemedserveduponherplate，andwithsmokeoftheboiledbeefthererosefromhersecretsoulwhiffsofsickliness。Charleswasasloweater；sheplayedwithafewnuts，or，leaningonherelbow，amusedherselfwithdrawinglinesalongtheoilclothtablecoverwiththepointofherknife。
　　Shenowleteverythinginherhouseholdtakecareofitself，andMadameBovarysenior，whenshecametospendpartofLentatTostes，wasmuchsurprisedatthechange。Shewhowasformerlysocareful，sodainty，nowpassedwholedayswithoutdressing，woregreycottonstockings，andburnttallowcandles。Shekeptsayingtheymustbeeconomicalsincetheywerenotrich，addingthatshewasverycontented，veryhappy，thatTostespleasedherverymuch，withotherspeechesthatclosedthemouthofhermother-in-law。Besides，Emmanolongerseemedinclinedtofollowheradvice；onceeven，MadameBovaryhavingthoughtfittomaintainthatmistressesoughttokeepaneyeonthereligionoftheirservants，shehadansweredwithsoangryalookandsocoldasmilethatthegoodwomandidnotinterfereagain。
　　Emmawasgrowingdifficult，capricious。Sheordereddishesforherself，thenshedidnottouchthem；onedaydrankonlypuremilk，thenextcupsofteabythedozen。Oftenshepersistedinnotgoingout，then，stifling，threwopenthewindowsandputonlightdresses。Aftershehadwellscoldedherservantshegaveherpresentsorsentherouttoseeneighbours，justasshesometimesthrewbeggarsallthesilverinherpurse，althoughshewasbynomeanstender-heartedoreasilyaccessibletothefeelingsofothers，likemostcountry-bredpeople，whoalwaysretainintheirsoulssomethingofthehornyhardnessofthepaternalhands。