“Well, you see, you were putting your hand to your forehead.  I thought you felt faint.”  Then, bethinking himself, “But you were asking me something?  What was it?  I really don’t remember.”

“I?  Nothing! nothing!” repeated Emma.

And the glance she cast round her slowly fell upon the old man in the cassock.  They looked at one another face to face without speaking.

“Then, Madame Bovary,” he said at last, “excuse me, but duty first, you know; I must look after my good-for-nothings.  The first communion will soon be upon us, and I fear we shall be behind after all.  So after Ascension Day I keep them recta* an extra hour every Wednesday.  Poor children!  One cannot lead them too soon into the path of the Lord, as, moreover, he has himself recommended us to do by the mouth of his Divine Son.  Good health to you, madame; my respects to your husband.”

     On the straight and narrow path.

And he went into the church making a genuflexion as soon as he reached the door.

Emma saw him disappear between the double row of forms, walking with a heavy tread, his head a little bent over his shoulder, and with his two hands half-open behind him.

Then she turned on her heel all of one piece, like a statue on a pivot, and went homewards.  But the loud voice of the priest, the clear voices of the boys still reached her ears, and went on behind her.

“Are you a Christian?”

“Yes, I am a Christian.”

“What is a Christian?”

“He who, being baptized-baptized-baptized—­”

She went up the steps of the staircase holding on to the banisters, and when she was in her room threw herself into an arm-chair.

The whitish light of the window-panes fell with soft undulations.

The furniture in its place seemed to have become more immobile, and to lose itself in the shadow as in an ocean of darkness.  The fire was out, the clock went on ticking, and Emma vaguely marvelled at this calm of all things while within herself was such tumult.  But little Berthe was there, between the window and the work-table, tottering on her knitted shoes, and trying to come to her mother to catch hold of the ends of her apron-strings.

“Leave me alone,” said the latter, putting her from her with her hand.

The little girl soon came up closer against her knees, and leaning on them with her arms, she looked up with her large blue eyes, while a small thread of pure saliva dribbled from her lips on to the silk apron.

“Leave me alone,” repeated the young woman quite irritably.

Her face frightened the child, who began to scream.

“Will you leave me alone?” she said, pushing her with her elbow.

Berthe fell at the foot of the drawers against the brass handle, cutting her cheek, which began to bleed, against it.  Madame Bovary sprang to lift her up, broke the bell-rope, called for the servant with all her might, and she was just going to curse herself when Charles appeared.  It was the dinner-hour; he had come home.