“I wanted to tell you,” he went on good-naturedly, after his joke, “that it isn’t the money I should trouble about.  Why, I could give you some, if need be.”

She made a gesture of surprise.

“Ah!” said he quickly and in a low voice, “I shouldn’t have to go far to find you some, rely on that.”

And he began asking after Pere Tellier, the proprietor of the “Cafe Francais,” whom Monsieur Bovary was then attending.

“What’s the matter with Pere Tellier?  He coughs so that he shakes his whole house, and I’m afraid he’ll soon want a deal covering rather than a flannel vest.  He was such a rake as a young man!  Those sort of people, madame, have not the least regularity; he’s burnt up with brandy.  Still it’s sad, all the same, to see an acquaintance go off.”

And while he fastened up his box he discoursed about the doctor’s patients.

“It’s the weather, no doubt,” he said, looking frowningly at the floor, “that causes these illnesses.  I, too, don’t feel the thing.  One of these days I shall even have to consult the doctor for a pain I have in my back.  Well, good-bye, Madame Bovary.  At your service; your very humble servant.”  And he closed the door gently.

Emma had her dinner served in her bedroom on a tray by the fireside; she was a long time over it; everything was well with her.

“How good I was!” she said to herself, thinking of the scarves.

She heard some steps on the stairs.  It was Leon.  She got up and took from the chest of drawers the first pile of dusters to be hemmed.  When he came in she seemed very busy.

The conversation languished; Madame Bovary gave it up every few minutes, whilst he himself seemed quite embarrassed.  Seated on a low chair near the fire, he turned round in his fingers the ivory thimble-case.  She stitched on, or from time to time turned down the hem of the cloth with her nail.  She did not speak; he was silent, captivated by her silence, as he would have been by her speech.

“Poor fellow!” she thought.

“How have I displeased her?” he asked himself.

At last, however, Leon said that he should have, one of these days, to go to Rouen on some office business.

“Your music subscription is out; am I to renew it?”

“No,” she replied.

“Why?”

“Because—­”

And pursing her lips she slowly drew a long stitch of grey thread.

This work irritated Leon.  It seemed to roughen the ends of her fingers.  A gallant phrase came into his head, but he did not risk it.

“Then you are giving it up?” he went on.

“What?” she asked hurriedly.  “Music?  Ah! yes!  Have I not my house to look after, my husband to attend to, a thousand things, in fact, many duties that must be considered first?”

She looked at the clock.  Charles was late.  Then, she affected anxiety. 
Two or three times she even repeated, “He is so good!”