Charles, at his wit’s end, soon had recourse to the eternal Lheureux, who swore he would arrange matters if the doctor would sign him two bills, one of which was for seven hundred francs, payable in three months.  In order to arrange for this he wrote his mother a pathetic letter.  Instead of sending a reply she came herself; and when Emma wanted to know whether he had got anything out of her, “Yes,” he replied; “but she wants to see the account.”  The next morning at daybreak Emma ran to Lheureux to beg him to make out another account for not more than a thousand francs, for to show the one for four thousand it would be necessary to say that she had paid two-thirds, and confess, consequently, the sale of the estate—­a negotiation admirably carried out by the shopkeeper, and which, in fact, was only actually known later on.

Despite the low price of each article, Madame Bovary senior, of course, thought the expenditure extravagant.

“Couldn’t you do without a carpet?  Why have recovered the arm-chairs?  In my time there was a single arm-chair in a house, for elderly persons—­at any rate it was so at my mother’s, who was a good woman, I can tell you.  Everybody can’t be rich!  No fortune can hold out against waste!  I should be ashamed to coddle myself as you do!  And yet I am old.  I need looking after.  And there! there! fitting up gowns! fallals!  What! silk for lining at two francs, when you can get jaconet for ten sous, or even for eight, that would do well enough!”

Emma, lying on a lounge, replied as quietly as possible—­“Ah!  Madame, enough! enough!”

The other went on lecturing her, predicting they would end in the workhouse.  But it was Bovary’s fault.  Luckily he had promised to destroy that power of attorney.

“What?”

“Ah! he swore he would,” went on the good woman.

Emma opened the window, called Charles, and the poor fellow was obliged to confess the promise torn from him by his mother.

Emma disappeared, then came back quickly, and majestically handed her a thick piece of paper.

“Thank you,” said the old woman.  And she threw the power of attorney into the fire.

Emma began to laugh, a strident, piercing, continuous laugh; she had an attack of hysterics.

“Oh, my God!” cried Charles.  “Ah! you really are wrong!  You come here and make scenes with her!”

His mother, shrugging her shoulders, declared it was “all put on.”

But Charles, rebelling for the first time, took his wife’s part, so that Madame Bovary, senior, said she would leave.  She went the very next day, and on the threshold, as he was trying to detain her, she replied—­

“No, no!  You love her better than me, and you are right.  It is natural.  For the rest, so much the worse!  You will see.  Good day—­for I am not likely to come soon again, as you say, to make scenes.”

Charles nevertheless was very crestfallen before Emma, who did not hide the resentment she still felt at his want of confidence, and it needed many prayers before she would consent to have another power of attorney.  He even accompanied her to Monsieur Guillaumin to have a second one, just like the other, drawn up.