She was unpicking the lining of a dress, and the strips were scattered around her.  Madame Bovary senior was plying her scissor without looking up, and Charles, in his list slippers and his old brown surtout that he used as a dressing-gown, sat with both hands in his pockets, and did not speak either; near them Berthe, in a little white pinafore, was raking sand in the walks with her spade.  Suddenly she saw Monsieur Lheureux, the linendraper, come in through the gate.

He came to offer his services “under the sad circumstances.”  Emma answered that she thought she could do without.  The shopkeeper was not to be beaten.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, “but I should like to have a private talk with you.”  Then in a low voice, “It’s about that affair—­you know.”

Charles crimsoned to his ears.  “Oh, yes! certainly.”  And in his confusion, turning to his wife, “Couldn’t you, my darling?”

She seemed to understand him, for she rose; and Charles said to his mother, “It is nothing particular.  No doubt, some household trifle.”  He did not want her to know the story of the bill, fearing her reproaches.

As soon as they were alone, Monsieur Lheureux in sufficiently clear terms began to congratulate Emma on the inheritance, then to talk of indifferent matters, of the espaliers, of the harvest, and of his own health, which was always so-so, always having ups and downs.  In fact, he had to work devilish hard, although he didn’t make enough, in spite of all people said, to find butter for his bread.

Emma let him talk on.  She had bored herself so prodigiously the last two days.

“And so you’re quite well again?” he went on.  “Ma foi!  I saw your husband in a sad state.  He’s a good fellow, though we did have a little misunderstanding.”

She asked what misunderstanding, for Charles had said nothing of the dispute about the goods supplied to her.

“Why, you know well enough,” cried Lheureux.  “It was about your little fancies—­the travelling trunks.”

He had drawn his hat over his eyes, and, with his hands behind his back, smiling and whistling, he looked straight at her in an unbearable manner.  Did he suspect anything?

She was lost in all kinds of apprehensions.  At last, however, he went on—­

“We made it up, all the same, and I’ve come again to propose another arrangement.”

This was to renew the bill Bovary had signed.  The doctor, of course, would do as he pleased; he was not to trouble himself, especially just now, when he would have a lot of worry.  “And he would do better to give it over to someone else—­to you, for example.  With a power of attorney it could be easily managed, and then we (you and I) would have our little business transactions together.”

She did not understand.  He was silent.  Then, passing to his trade, Lheureux declared that madame must require something.  He would send her a black barege, twelve yards, just enough to make a gown.