This did not prevent Mere Lefrancois, from coming five days after, scared, and crying out—­

“Help! he is dying!  I am going crazy!”

Charles rushed to the “Lion d’Or,” and the chemist, who caught sight of him passing along the Place hatless, abandoned his shop.  He appeared himself breathless, red, anxious, and asking everyone who was going up the stairs—­

“Why, what’s the matter with our interesting strephopode?”

The strephopode was writhing in hideous convulsions, so that the machine in which his leg was enclosed was knocked against the wall enough to break it.

With many precautions, in order not to disturb the position of the limb, the box was removed, and an awful sight presented itself.  The outlines of the foot disappeared in such a swelling that the entire skin seemed about to burst, and it was covered with ecchymosis, caused by the famous machine.  Hippolyte had already complained of suffering from it.  No attention had been paid to him; they had to acknowledge that he had not been altogether wrong, and he was freed for a few hours.  But, hardly had the oedema gone down to some extent, than the two savants thought fit to put back the limb in the apparatus, strapping it tighter to hasten matters.  At last, three days after, Hippolyte being unable to endure it any longer, they once more removed the machine, and were much surprised at the result they saw.  The livid tumefaction spread over the leg, with blisters here and there, whence there oozed a black liquid.  Matters were taking a serious turn.  Hippolyte began to worry himself, and Mere Lefrancois, had him installed in the little room near the kitchen, so that he might at least have some distraction.

But the tax-collector, who dined there every day, complained bitterly of such companionship.  Then Hippolyte was removed to the billiard-room.  He lay there moaning under his heavy coverings, pale with long beard, sunken eyes, and from time to time turning his perspiring head on the dirty pillow, where the flies alighted.  Madame Bovary went to see him.  She brought him linen for his poultices; she comforted, and encouraged him.  Besides, he did not want for company, especially on market-days, when the peasants were knocking about the billiard-balls round him, fenced with the cues, smoked, drank, sang, and brawled.

“How are you?” they said, clapping him on the shoulder.  “Ah! you’re not up to much, it seems, but it’s your own fault.  You should do this! do that!” And then they told him stories of people who had all been cured by other remedies than his.  Then by way of consolation they added—­

“You give way too much!  Get up!  You coddle yourself like a king!  All the same, old chap, you don’t smell nice!”

Gangrene, in fact, was spreading more and more.  Bovary himself turned sick at it.  He came every hour, every moment.  Hippolyte looked at him with eyes full of terror, sobbing—­