The evening was charming, full of prattle, of dreams together.  They talked about their future fortune, of the improvements to be made in their house; he saw people’s estimation of him growing, his comforts increasing, his wife always loving him; and she was happy to refresh herself with a new sentiment, healthier, better, to feel at last some tenderness for this poor fellow who adored her.  The thought of Rodolphe for one moment passed through her mind, but her eyes turned again to Charles; she even noticed with surprise that he had not bad teeth.

They were in bed when Monsieur Homais, in spite of the servant, suddenly entered the room, holding in his hand a sheet of paper just written.  It was the paragraph he intended for the “Fanal de Rouen.”  He brought it for them to read.

“Read it yourself,” said Bovary.

He read—­

“’Despite the prejudices that still invest a part of the face of Europe like a net, the light nevertheless begins to penetrate our country places.  Thus on Tuesday our little town of Yonville found itself the scene of a surgical operation which is at the same time an act of loftiest philanthropy.  Monsieur Bovary, one of our most distinguished practitioners—­’”

“Oh, that is too much! too much!” said Charles, choking with emotion.

“No, no! not at all!  What next!”

“‘—­Performed an operation on a club-footed man.’  I have not used the scientific term, because you know in a newspaper everyone would not perhaps understand.  The masses must—­’”

“No doubt,” said Bovary; “go on!”

“I proceed,” said the chemist. “’Monsieur Bovary, one of our most distinguished practitioners, performed an operation on a club-footed man called Hippolyte Tautain, stableman for the last twenty-five years at the hotel of the “Lion d’Or,” kept by Widow Lefrancois, at the Place d’Armes.  The novelty of the attempt, and the interest incident to the subject, had attracted such a concourse of persons that there was a veritable obstruction on the threshold of the establishment.  The operation, moreover, was performed as if by magic, and barely a few drops of blood appeared on the skin, as though to say that the rebellious tendon had at last given way beneath the efforts of art.  The patient, strangely enough—­we affirm it as an eye-witness—­complained of no pain.  His condition up to the present time leaves nothing to be desired.  Everything tends to show that his convelescence will be brief; and who knows even if at our next village festivity we shall not see our good Hippolyte figuring in the bacchic dance in the midst of a chorus of joyous boon-companions, and thus proving to all eyes by his verve and his capers his complete cure?  Honour, then, to the generous savants!  Honour to those indefatigable spirits who consecrate their vigils to the amelioration or to the alleviation of their kind!  Honour, thrice honour!  Is it not time to cry that the blind shall see, the deaf hear, the lame walk?  But that which fanaticism formerly promised to its elect, science now accomplishes for all men.  We shall keep our readers informed as to the successive phases of this remarkable cure.’”