Page 330 - madame-bovary

ing her so taciturn, Charles imagined her much affected,
and forced himself to say nothing, not to reawaken this
sorrow which moved him. And, shaking off his own—
‘Did you enjoy yourself yesterday?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
When the cloth was removed, Bovary did not rise, nor
did Emma; and as she looked at him, the monotony of the
spectacle drove little by little all pity from her heart. He
seemed to her paltry, weak, a cipher—in a word, a poor
thing in every way. How to get rid of him? What an inter-
minable evening! Something stupefying like the fumes of
opium seized her.
They heard in the passage the sharp noise of a wooden
leg on the boards. It was Hippolyte bringing back Emma’s
luggage. In order to put it down he described painfully a
quarter of a circle with his stump.
‘He doesn’t even remember any more about it,’ she
thought, looking at the poor devil, whose coarse red hair
was wet with perspiration.
Bovary was searching at the bottom of his purse for a
centime, and without appearing to understand all there was
of humiliation for him in the mere presence of this man,
who stood there like a personified reproach to his incurable
incapacity.
‘Hallo! you’ve a pretty bouquet,’ he said, noticing Leon’s
violets on the chimney.
‘Yes,’ she replied indifferently; ‘it’s a bouquet I bought
just now from a beggar.’
Charles picked up the flowers, and freshening his eyes,