made her shiver?  This man was passing in the street; and at the moment when Divine pity pardoned, or promised pardon, to the unfortunate woman who was expiating the faults of her life by a frightful death, human raillery appeared to her in the form of the song under her window.  Great Heavens! you find an outrage in this!  But M. Flaubert has only done what Shakespeare and Goethe have done, who, at the supreme moment of death, have not failed to make heard some chant, or perhaps plaint, or it might be raillery, which recalls to him who is passing to eternity some pleasure which he will never more enjoy, or some fault to be atoned.  Let us read: 

“In fact, she looked around her slowly, as one awakening from a dream; then in a distinct voice she asked for her looking-glass, and remained some time bending over it, until the big tears fell from her eyes.  Then she turned away her head with a sigh and fell back upon the pillows.”

I could not read it, I am like Lamartine:  “The punishment seems to me to go beyond truth....”  I should not consider that I was doing a bad deed, Mr. Attorney, in reading these pages to my married daughters, honest girls who have had a good example and good teaching, and who would never, never go away from the straight path for indiscretion, or away from things that could and ought to be understood....  It is impossible for me to continue this reading and I shall hold myself rigorously to the condemned passages: 

“As the death-rattle became stronger [Charles was by her side, the man whom you did not see but who is admirable] the priest prayed faster; his prayers mingled with Bovary’s stifled sobs, and sometimes all seemed lost in the muffled murmur of the Latin syllables that tolled like a passing bell.

“Suddenly on the pavement was heard a loud noise of clogs, and the clattering of a stick; and a voice, a raucous voice, sang: 

“’Maids in the warmth of a summer day,
Dream of love and of love alway;
The wind is strong this summer day,
Her petticoat is blown away.’”

Emma raised herself like a galvanized corpse, her hair undone, her eyes fixed, staring.

“Where the sickle blades have been,
  Nannette, gathering ears of corn,
Passes bending down, my queen,
  To the earth where they were born.”

“’The blind man!” she cries.

“And Emma began to laugh, an atrocious, frantic, despairing laugh, thinking she saw the hideous face of the poor wretch that stood out against the eternal night like a menace.

“She fell back upon the mattress in a convulsion.  They all drew near.  She was dead.”