The theatre was beginning to fill; opera-glasses were taken from their cases, and the subscribers, catching sight of one another, were bowing.  They came to seek relaxation in the fine arts after the anxieties of business; but “business” was not forgotten; they still talked cottons, spirits of wine, or indigo.  The heads of old men were to be seen, inexpressive and peaceful, with their hair and complexions looking like silver medals tarnished by steam of lead.  The young beaux were strutting about in the pit, showing in the opening of their waistcoats their pink or applegreen cravats, and Madame Bovary from above admired them leaning on their canes with golden knobs in the open palm of their yellow gloves.

Now the lights of the orchestra were lit, the lustre, let down from the ceiling, throwing by the glimmering of its facets a sudden gaiety over the theatre; then the musicians came in one after the other; and first there was the protracted hubbub of the basses grumbling, violins squeaking, cornets trumpeting, flutes and flageolets fifing.  But three knocks were heard on the stage, a rolling of drums began, the brass instruments played some chords, and the curtain rising, discovered a country-scene.

It was the cross-roads of a wood, with a fountain shaded by an oak to the left.  Peasants and lords with plaids on their shoulders were singing a hunting-song together; then a captain suddenly came on, who evoked the spirit of evil by lifting both his arms to heaven.  Another appeared; they went away, and the hunters started afresh.  She felt herself transported to the reading of her youth, into the midst of Walter Scott.  She seemed to hear through the mist the sound of the Scotch bagpipes re-echoing over the heather.  Then her remembrance of the novel helping her to understand the libretto, she followed the story phrase by phrase, while vague thoughts that came back to her dispersed at once again with the bursts of music.  She gave herself up to the lullaby of the melodies, and felt all her being vibrate as if the violin bows were drawn over her nerves.  She had not eyes enough to look at the costumes, the scenery, the actors, the painted trees that shook when anyone walked, and the velvet caps, cloaks, swords—­all those imaginary things that floated amid the harmony as in the atmosphere of another world.  But a young woman stepped forward, throwing a purse to a squire in green.  She was left alone, and the flute was heard like the murmur of a fountain or the warbling of birds.  Lucie attacked her cavatina in G major bravely.  She plained of love; she longed for wings.  Emma, too, fleeing from life, would have liked to fly away in an embrace.  Suddenly Edgar-Lagardy appeared.