Appearances, nevertheless, were calmer than ever, Rodolphe having succeeded in carrying out the adultery after his own fancy; and at the end of six months, when the spring-time came, they were to one another like a married couple, tranquilly keeping up a domestic flame.

It was the time of year when old Rouault sent his turkey in remembrance of the setting of his leg.  The present always arrived with a letter.  Emma cut the string that tied it to the basket, and read the following lines:—­

“My Dear Children—­I hope this will find you well, and that this one will be as good as the others.  For it seems to me a little more tender, if I may venture to say so, and heavier.  But next time, for a change, I’ll give you a turkeycock, unless you have a preference for some dabs; and send me back the hamper, if you please, with the two old ones.  I have had an accident with my cart-sheds, whose covering flew off one windy night among the trees.  The harvest has not been overgood either.  Finally, I don’t know when I shall come to see you.  It is so difficult now to leave the house since I am alone, my poor Emma.”

Here there was a break in the lines, as if the old fellow had dropped his pen to dream a little while.

“For myself, I am very well, except for a cold I caught the other day at the fair at Yvetot, where I had gone to hire a shepherd, having turned away mine because he was too dainty.  How we are to be pitied with such a lot of thieves!  Besides, he was also rude.  I heard from a pedlar, who, travelling through your part of the country this winter, had a tooth drawn, that Bovary was as usual working hard.  That doesn’t surprise me; and he showed me his tooth; we had some coffee together.  I asked him if he had seen you, and he said not, but that he had seen two horses in the stables, from which I conclude that business is looking up.  So much the better, my dear children, and may God send you every imaginable happiness!  It grieves me not yet to have seen my dear little grand-daughter, Berthe Bovary.  I have planted an Orleans plum-tree for her in the garden under your room, and I won’t have it touched unless it is to have jam made for her by and bye, that I will keep in the cupboard for her when she comes.

“Good-bye, my dear children.  I kiss you, my girl, you too, my son-in-law, and the little one on both cheeks.  I am, with best compliments, your loving father.

“Theodore Rouault.”

She held the coarse paper in her fingers for some minutes.  The spelling mistakes were interwoven one with the other, and Emma followed the kindly thought that cackled right through it like a hen half hidden in the hedge of thorns.  The writing had been dried with ashes from the hearth, for a little grey powder slipped from the letter on to her dress, and she almost thought she saw her father bending over the hearth to take up the tongs.  How long since she had been with him, sitting on the footstool in the chimney-corner,