“Look, dear!” said Emma, in a calm voice, “the little one fell down while she was playing, and has hurt herself.”

Charles reassured her; the case was not a serious one, and he went for some sticking plaster.

Madame Bovary did not go downstairs to the dining-room; she wished to remain alone to look after the child.  Then watching her sleep, the little anxiety she felt gradually wore off, and she seemed very stupid to herself, and very good to have been so worried just now at so little.  Berthe, in fact, no longer sobbed.

Her breathing now imperceptibly raised the cotton covering.  Big tears lay in the corner of the half-closed eyelids, through whose lashes one could see two pale sunken pupils; the plaster stuck on her cheek drew the skin obliquely.

“It is very strange,” thought Emma, “how ugly this child is!”

When at eleven o’clock Charles came back from the chemist’s shop, whither he had gone after dinner to return the remainder of the sticking-plaster, he found his wife standing by the cradle.

“I assure you it’s nothing.” he said, kissing her on the forehead.  “Don’t worry, my poor darling; you will make yourself ill.”

He had stayed a long time at the chemist’s.  Although he had not seemed much moved, Homais, nevertheless, had exerted himself to buoy him up, to “keep up his spirits.”  Then they had talked of the various dangers that threaten childhood, of the carelessness of servants.  Madame Homais knew something of it, having still upon her chest the marks left by a basin full of soup that a cook had formerly dropped on her pinafore, and her good parents took no end of trouble for her.  The knives were not sharpened, nor the floors waxed; there were iron gratings to the windows and strong bars across the fireplace; the little Homais, in spite of their spirit, could not stir without someone watching them; at the slightest cold their father stuffed them with pectorals; and until they were turned four they all, without pity, had to wear wadded head-protectors.  This, it is true, was a fancy of Madame Homais’; her husband was inwardly afflicted at it.  Fearing the possible consequences of such compression to the intellectual organs.  He even went so far as to say to her, “Do you want to make Caribs or Botocudos of them?”

Charles, however, had several times tried to interrupt the conversation.  “I should like to speak to you,” he had whispered in the clerk’s ear, who went upstairs in front of him.

“Can he suspect anything?” Leon asked himself.  His heart beat, and he racked his brain with surmises.

At last, Charles, having shut the door, asked him to see himself what would be the price at Rouen of a fine daguerreotypes.  It was a sentimental surprise he intended for his wife, a delicate attention—­his portrait in a frock-coat.  But he wanted first to know “how much it would be.”  The inquiries would not put Monsieur Leon out, since he went to town almost every week.