Then he called her back to show her three yards of guipure that he had lately picked up “at a sale.”

“Isn’t it lovely?” said Lheureux.  “It is very much used now for the backs of arm-chairs.  It’s quite the rage.”

And, more ready than a juggler, he wrapped up the guipure in some blue paper and put it in Emma’s hands.

“But at least let me know—­”

“Yes, another time,” he replied, turning on his heel.

That same evening she urged Bovary to write to his mother, to ask her to send as quickly as possible the whole of the balance due from the father’s estate.  The mother-in-law replied that she had nothing more, the winding up was over, and there was due to them besides Barneville an income of six hundred francs, that she would pay them punctually.

Then Madame Bovary sent in accounts to two or three patients, and she made large use of this method, which was very successful.  She was always careful to add a postscript:  “Do not mention this to my husband; you know how proud he is.  Excuse me.  Yours obediently.”  There were some complaints; she intercepted them.

To get money she began selling her old gloves, her old hats, the old odds and ends, and she bargained rapaciously, her peasant blood standing her in good stead.  Then on her journey to town she picked up nick-nacks secondhand, that, in default of anyone else, Monsieur Lheureux would certainly take off her hands.  She bought ostrich feathers, Chinese porcelain, and trunks; she borrowed from Felicite, from Madame Lefrancois, from the landlady at the Croix-Rouge, from everybody, no matter where.

With the money she at last received from Barneville she paid two bills; the other fifteen hundred francs fell due.  She renewed the bills, and thus it was continually.

Sometimes, it is true, she tried to make a calculation, but she discovered things so exorbitant that she could not believe them possible.  Then she recommenced, soon got confused, gave it all up, and thought no more about it.

The house was very dreary now.  Tradesmen were seen leaving it with angry faces.  Handkerchiefs were lying about on the stoves, and little Berthe, to the great scandal of Madame Homais, wore stockings with holes in them.  If Charles timidly ventured a remark, she answered roughly that it wasn’t her fault.

What was the meaning of all these fits of temper?  He explained everything through her old nervous illness, and reproaching himself with having taken her infirmities for faults, accused himself of egotism, and longed to go and take her in his arms.

“Ah, no!” he said to himself; “I should worry her.”

And he did not stir.

After dinner he walked about alone in the garden; he took little Berthe on his knees, and unfolding his medical journal, tried to teach her to read.  But the child, who never had any lessons, soon looked up with large, sad eyes and began to cry.  Then he comforted her; went to fetch water in her can to make rivers on the sand path, or broke off branches from the privet hedges to plant trees in the beds.  This did not spoil the garden much, all choked now with long weeds.  They owed Lestiboudois for so many days.  Then the child grew cold and asked for her mother.