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〃No； I don't blame you now。〃
He even added a fine phrase； the only one he ever made
〃It is the fault of fatality！〃
Rodolphe； who had managed the fatality； thought the remark very
offhand from a man in his position； comic even； and a little
mean。
The next day Charles went to sit down on the seat in the arbour。
Rays of light were straying through the trellis； the vine leaves
threw their shadows on the sand； the jasmines perfumed the air；
the heavens were blue； Spanish flies buzzed round the lilies in
bloom； and Charles was suffocating like a youth beneath the vague
love influences that filled his aching heart。
At seven o'clock little Berthe； who had not seen him all the
afternoon； went to fetch him to dinner。
His head was thrown back against the wall； his eyes closed； his
mouth open； and in his hand was a long tress of black hair。
〃Come along； papa；〃 she said。
And thinking he wanted to play； she pushed him gently。 He fell to
the ground。 He was dead。
Thirty…six hours after； at the druggist's request； Monsieur
Canivet came thither。 He made a post…mortem and found nothing。
When everything had been sold； twelve francs seventy…five
centimes remained； that served to pay for Mademoiselle Bovary's
going to her grandmother。 The good woman died the same year； old
Rouault was paralysed； and it was an aunt who took charge of her。
She is poor； and sends her to a cotton…factory to earn a living。
Since Bovary's death three doctors have followed one another at
Yonville without any success； so severely did Homais attack them。
He has an enormous practice； the authorities treat him with
consideration； and public opinion protects him。
He has just received the cross of the Legion of Honour。
End