Numerous excisions have been made, it would appear, by the Revue de Paris.  Here are the terms in which M. Flaubert complains of it: 

“Some consideration which I do not appreciate has led the Revue de Paris to suppress the number of December 1st.  Its scruples being revived on the occasion of the present number, it has seen fit to cut out still more passages.  In consequence, I wish to deny all responsibility in the lines which follow; the reader is informed that he sees only fragments and not the complete work.”

Let us pass, then, over these fragments and come to the death.  She poisons herself.  She poisons herself, why?  Ah! it is a very little thing, is death, she thinks; I am going to fall asleep and all will be finished.  Then, without remorse, without an avowal, without a tear of repentance over this suicide which is brought about by adulteries in the night watches, she goes to receive the sacrament for the dying.  Why the sacrament, since in her last thought she is going to annihilation?  Why, when there is not a tear, not a sigh of the Magdalene over her crime of infidelity, her suicide, or her adulteries?

After this scene comes that of extreme unction.  These are holy and sacred words for all.  It is with these words that our ancestors have fallen asleep, our fathers and our relatives, and it is with them that one day our children will see us sleep.  When one wishes to make use of them, it should be done with exactness; it is not necessary, at least to accompany them with the voluptuous image of a past life.

You know how the priest makes the holy unctions upon the forehead, the ears, upon the mouth, the feet, pronouncing at the same time the liturgical phrases:  quidquam per pedes, per auras, per pectus, etc., always following with the words misericordia ... sin on one side and pity on the other.  These holy, sacred words should be reproduced exactly; and if they cannot be reproduced exactly, at least nothing voluptuous should be put with them.

“She turned her face slowly and seemed filled with joy on seeing suddenly the violet stole, no doubt finding again, in the midst of a temporary lull in her pain, the lost voluptuousness of her first mystical transports, with the visions of eternal beatitude that were beginning.

“The priest rose to take the crucifix; then she stretched forward her neck as one who is athirst, and gluing her lips to the body of the Man-God, she pressed upon it with all her expiring strength the fullest kiss of love that she had ever given.  Then he recited the Misereatur and the Indulgentiam, dipped his right thumb in the oil and began to give extreme unction.  First, upon the eyes, that had so coveted all worldly pomp; then upon the nostrils, that had been greedy of the warm breeze and amorous odours; then upon the mouth that had uttered lies, that had been curled with pride and cried out in lewdness; then upon the hands, that had delighted in sensual touches; and finally upon the soles of the feet, so swift of yore, when she was running to satisfy her desires, and that would now walk no more.”