“Ah! you’ll admit that it is not a book to place in the hands of a young girl, and I should be sorry if Athalie—­”

“But it is the Protestants, and not we,” cried the other impatiently, “who recommend the Bible.”

“No matter,” said Homais.  “I am surprised that in our days, in this century of enlightenment, anyone should still persist in proscribing an intellectual relaxation that is inoffensive, moralising, and sometimes even hygienic; is it not, doctor?”

“No doubt,” replied the doctor carelessly, either because, sharing the same ideas, he wished to offend no one, or else because he had not any ideas.

The conversation seemed at an end when the chemist thought fit to shoot a Parthian arrow.

“I’ve known priests who put on ordinary clothes to go and see dancers kicking about.”

“Come, come!” said the cure.

“Ah!  I’ve known some!” And separating the words of his sentence, Homais repeated, “I—­have—­known—­some!”

“Well, they were wrong,” said Bournisien, resigned to anything.

“By Jove! they go in for more than that,” exclaimed the druggist.

“Sir!” replied the ecclesiastic, with such angry eyes that the druggist was intimidated by them.

“I only mean to say,” he replied in less brutal a tone, “that toleration is the surest way to draw people to religion.”

“That is true! that is true!” agreed the good fellow, sitting down again on his chair.  But he stayed only a few moments.

Then, as soon as he had gone, Monsieur Homais said to the doctor—­

“That’s what I call a cock-fight.  I beat him, did you see, in a way!—­Now take my advice.  Take madame to the theatre, if it were only for once in your life, to enrage one of these ravens, hang it!  If anyone could take my place, I would accompany you myself.  Be quick about it.  Lagardy is only going to give one performance; he’s engaged to go to England at a high salary.  From what I hear, he’s a regular dog; he’s rolling in money; he’s taking three mistresses and a cook along with him.  All these great artists burn the candle at both ends; they require a dissolute life, that suits the imagination to some extent.  But they die at the hospital, because they haven’t the sense when young to lay by.  Well, a pleasant dinner!  Goodbye till to-morrow.”

The idea of the theatre quickly germinated in Bovary’s head, for he at once communicated it to his wife, who at first refused, alleging the fatigue, the worry, the expense; but, for a wonder, Charles did not give in, so sure was he that this recreation would be good for her.  He saw nothing to prevent it:  his mother had sent them three hundred francs which he had no longer expected; the current debts were not very large, and the falling in of Lheureux’s bills was still so far off that there was no need to think about them.  Besides, imagining that she was refusing from delicacy, he insisted the more; so that by dint of worrying her she at last made up her mind, and the next day at eight o’clock they set out in the “Hirondelle.”