Inthemusicclass，intheballadsshesang，therewasnothingbutlittleangelswithgoldenwings，madonnas，lagunes，gondoliers；-mildcompositionsthatallowedhertocatchaglimpseathwarttheobscurityofstyleandtheweaknessofthemusicoftheattractivephantasmagoriaofsentimentalrealities。Someofhercompanionsbrought“keepsakes“giventhemasnewyear’sgiftstotheconvent。Thesehadtobehidden；itwasquiteanundertaking；theywerereadinthedormitory。Delicatelyhandlingthebeautifulsatinbindings，Emmalookedwithdazzledeyesatthenamesoftheunknownauthors，whohadsignedtheirversesforthemostpartascountsorviscounts。
　　Shetrembledassheblewbackthetissuepaperovertheengravingandsawitfoldedintwoandfallgentlyagainstthepage。Herebehindthebalustradeofabalconywasayoungmaninashortcloak，holdinginhisarmsayounggirlinawhitedresswearinganalms-bagatherbelt；ortherewerenamelessportraitsofEnglishladieswithfaircurls，wholookedatyoufromundertheirroundstrawhatswiththeirlargecleareyes。Sometherewereloungingintheircarriages，glidingthroughparks，agreyhoundboundingalonginfrontoftheequipagedrivenatatrotbytwomidgetpostilionsinwhitebreeches。Others，dreamingonsofaswithanopenletter，gazedatthemoonthroughaslightlyopenwindowhalfdrapedbyablackcurtain。Thenaiveones，atearontheircheeks，werekissingdovesthroughthebarsofaGothiccage，or，smiling，theirheadsononeside，werepluckingtheleavesofamargueritewiththeirtaperfingers，thatcurvedatthetipslikepeakedshoes。Andyou，too，werethere，SultanswithlongpipesrecliningbeneatharboursinthearmsofBayaderes；Djiaours，Turkishsabres，Greekcaps；andyouespecially，palelandscapesofdithyrambiclands，thatoftenshowusatoncepalmtreesandfirs，tigersontheright，aliontotheleft，Tartarminaretsonthehorizon；thewholeframedbyaveryneatvirginforest，andwithagreatperpendicularsunbeamtremblinginthewater，where，standingoutinrelieflikewhiteexcoriationsonasteel-greyground，swansareswimmingabout。
　　AndtheshadeoftheargandlampfastenedtothewallaboveEmma’sheadlightedupallthesepicturesoftheworld，thatpassedbeforeheronebyoneinthesilenceofthedormitory，andtothedistantnoiseofsomebelatedcarriagerollingovertheBoulevards。
　　Whenhermotherdiedshecriedmuchthefirstfewdays。Shehadafuneralpicturemadewiththehairofthedeceased，and，inalettersenttotheBertauxfullofsadreflectionsonlife，sheaskedtobeburiedlateroninthesamegrave。Thegoodmanthoughtshemustbeill，andcametoseeher。Emmawassecretlypleasedthatshehadreachedatafirstattempttherareidealofpalelives，neverattainedbymediocrehearts。SheletherselfglidealongwithLamartinemeanderings，listenedtoharpsonlakes，toallthesongsofdyingswans，tothefallingoftheleaves，thepurevirginsascendingtoheaven，andthevoiceoftheEternaldiscoursingdownthevalleys。Sheweariedofit，wouldnotconfessit，continuedfromhabit，andatlastwassurprisedtofeelherselfsoothed，andwithnomoresadnessatheartthanwrinklesonherbrow。
　　Thegoodnuns，whohadbeensosureofhervocation，perceivedwithgreatastonishmentthatMademoiselleRouaultseemedtobeslippingfromthem。Theyhadindeedbeensolavishtoherofprayers，retreats，novenas，andsermons，theyhadsooftenpreachedtherespectduetosaintsandmartyrs，andgivensomuchgoodadviceastothemodestyofthebodyandthesalvationofhersoul，thatshedidastightlyreinedhorses；shepulledupshortandthebitslippedfromherteeth。Thisnature，positiveinthemidstofitsenthusiasms，thathadlovedthechurchforthesakeoftheflowers，andmusicforthewordsofthesongs，andliteratureforitspassionalstimulus，rebelledagainstthemysteriesoffaithasitgrewirritatedbydiscipline，athingantipathetictoherconstitution。Whenherfathertookherfromschool，noonewassorrytoseehergo。TheLadySuperioreventhoughtthatshehadlatterlybeensomewhatirreverenttothecommunity。
　　Emma，athomeoncemore，firsttookpleasureinlookingaftertheservants，thengrewdisgustedwiththecountryandmissedherconvent。WhenCharlescametotheBertauxforthefirsttime，shethoughtherselfquitedisillusioned，withnothingmoretolearn，andnothingmoretofeel。
　　Buttheuneasinessofhernewposition，orperhapsthedisturbancecausedbythepresenceofthisman，hadsufficedtomakeherbelievethatsheatlastfeltthatwondrouspassionwhich，tillthen，likeagreatbirdwithrose-colouredwings，hunginthesplendouroftheskiesofpoesy；andnowshecouldnotthinkthatthecalminwhichshelivedwasthehappinessshehaddreamed。
　　ChapterSevenShethought，sometimes，that，afterall，thiswasthehappiesttimeofherlife——thehoneymoon，aspeoplecalledit。Totastethefullsweetnessofit，itwouldhavebeennecessarydoubtlesstoflytothoselandswithsonorousnameswherethedaysaftermarriagearefulloflazinessmostsuave。Inpostchaisesbehindbluesilkencurtainstorideslowlyupsteeproad，listeningtothesongofthepostilionre-echoedbythemountains，alongwiththebellsofgoatsandthemuffledsoundofawaterfall；atsunsetontheshoresofgulfstobreatheintheperfumeoflemontrees；thenintheeveningonthevilla-terracesabove，handinhandtolookatthestars，makingplansforthefuture。Itseemedtoherthatcertainplacesonearthmustbringhappiness，asaplantpeculiartothesoil，andthatcannotthriveelsewhere。WhycouldnotsheleanoverbalconiesinSwisschalets，orenshrinehermelancholyinaScotchcottage，withahusbanddressedinablackvelvetcoatwithlongtails，andthinshoes，apointedhatandfrills？Perhapsshewouldhavelikedtoconfideallthesethingstosomeone。Buthowtellanundefinableuneasiness，variableastheclouds，unstableasthewinds？Wordsfailedher——theopportunity，thecourage。
　　IfCharleshadbutwishedit，ifhehadguessedit，ifhislookhadbutoncemetherthought，itseemedtoherthatasuddenplentywouldhavegoneoutfromherheart，asthefruitfallsfromatreewhenshakenbyahand。Butastheintimacyoftheirlifebecamedeeper，thegreaterbecamethegulfthatseparatedherfromhim。
　　Charles’sconversationwascommonplaceasastreetpavement，andeveryone’sideastroopedthroughitintheireverydaygarb，withoutexcitingemotion，laughter，orthought。Hehadneverhadthecuriosity，hesaid，whilehelivedatRouen，togotothetheatretoseetheactorsfromParis。Hecouldneitherswim，norfence，norshoot，andonedayhecouldnotexplainsometermofhorsemanshiptoherthatshehadcomeacrossinanovel。
　　Aman，onthecontrary，shouldhenotknoweverything，excelinmanifoldactivities，initiateyouintotheenergiesofpassion，therefinementsoflife，allmysteries？Butthisonetaughtnothing，knewnothing，wishednothing。Hethoughtherhappy；andsheresentedthiseasycalm，thissereneheaviness，theveryhappinessshegavehim。
　　Sometimesshewoulddraw；anditwasgreatamusementtoCharlestostandthereboltuprightandwatchherbendoverhercardboard，witheyeshalf-closedthebettertoseeherwork，orrolling，betweenherfingers，littlebread-pellets。Astothepiano，themorequicklyherfingersglidedoveritthemorehewondered。Shestruckthenoteswithaplomb，andranfromtoptobottomofthekeyboardwithoutabreak。Thusshakenup，theoldinstrument，whosestringsbuzzed，couldbeheardattheotherendofthevillagewhenthewindowwasopen，andoftenthebailiff’sclerk，passingalongthehighroadbare-headedandinlistslippers，stoppedtolisten，hissheetofpaperinhishand。
　　Emma，ontheotherhand，knewhowtolookafterherhouse。Shesentthepatients’accountsinwell-phrasedlettersthathadnosuggestionofabill。WhentheyhadaneighbourtodinneronSundays，shemanagedtohavesometastydish——pileduppyramidsofgreengagesonvineleaves，serveduppreservesturnedoutintoplates——andevenspokeofbuyingfinger-glassesfordessert。FromallthismuchconsiderationwasextendedtoBovary。
　　Charlesfinishedbyrisinginhisownesteemforpossessingsuchawife。Heshowedwithprideinthesittingroomtwosmallpencilsketchedbyherthathehadhadframedinverylargeframes，andhungupagainstthewallpaperbylonggreencords。Peoplereturningfrommasssawhimathisdoorinhiswool-workslippers。
　　Hecamehomelate——atteno’clock，atmidnightsometimes。Thenheaskedforsomethingtoeat，andastheservanthadgonetobed，Emmawaitedonhim。Hetookoffhiscoattodinemoreathisease。Hetoldher，oneaftertheother，thepeoplehehadmet，thevillageswherehehadbeen，theprescriptionshahadwritten，and，wellpleasedwithhimself，hefinishedtheremainderoftheboiledbeefandonions，pickedpiecesoffthecheese，munchedanapple，emptiedhiswater-bottle，andthenwenttobed，andlayonhisbackandsnored。
　　Ashehadbeenforatimeaccustomedtowearnightcaps，hishandkerchiefwouldnotkeepdownoverhisears，sothathishairinthemorningwasalltumbledpell-mellabouthisfaceandwhitenedwiththefeathersofthepillow，whosestringscameuntiedduringthenight。Healwaysworethickbootsthathadtwolongcreasesovertheinsteprunningobliquelytowardstheankle，whiletherestoftheuppercontinuedinastraightlineasifstretchedonawoodenfoot。Hesaidthat“wasquitegoodenoughforthecountry。“
　　Hismotherapprovedofhiseconomy，forshecametoseehimasformerlywhentherehadbeensomeviolentrowatherplace；andyetMadameBovaryseniorseemedprejudicedagainstherdaughter-in-law。Shethought“herwaystoofinefortheirposition“；thewood，thesugar，andthecandlesdisappearedas“atagrandestablishment，“andtheamountoffiringinthekitchenwouldhavebeenenoughfortwenty-fivecourses。Sheputherlineninorderforherinthepresses，andtaughthertokeepaneyeonthebutcherwhenhebroughtthemeat。Emmaputupwiththeselessons。MadameBovarywaslavishofthem；andthewords“daughter“and“mother“wereexchangedalldaylong，accompaniedbylittlequiveringsofthelips，eachoneutteringgentlewordsinavoicetremblingwithanger。
　　InMadameDubuc’stimetheoldwomanfeltthatshewasstillthefavorite；butnowtheloveofCharlesforEmmaseemedtoheradesertionfromhertenderness，anencroachmentuponwhatwashers，andshewatchedherson’shappinessinsadsilence，asaruinedmanlooksthroughthewindowsatpeopledininginhisoldhouse。Sherecalledtohimasremembranceshertroublesandhersacrifices，and，comparingthesewithEmma’snegligence，cametotheconclusionthatitwasnotreasonabletoadorehersoexclusively。
　　Charlesknewnotwhattoanswer：herespectedhismother，andhelovedhiswifeinfinitely；heconsideredthejudgmentoftheoneinfallible，andyethethoughttheconductoftheotherirreproachable。WhenMadamBovaryhadgone，hetriedtimidlyandinthesametermstohazardoneortwoofthemoreanodyneobservationshehadheardfromhismamma。Emmaprovedtohimwithawordthathewasmistaken，andsenthimofftohispatients。
　　Andyet，inaccordwiththeoriesshebelievedright，shewantedtomakeherselfinlovewithhim。Bymoonlightinthegardensherecitedallthepassionaterhymessheknewbyheart，and，sighing，sangtohimmanymelancholyadagios；butshefoundherselfascalmafterasbefore，andCharlesseemednomoreamorousandnomoremoved。
　　Whenshehadthusforawhilestrucktheflintonherheartwithoutgettingaspark，incapable，moreover，ofunderstandingwhatshedidnotexperienceasofbelievinganythingthatdidnotpresentitselfinconventionalforms，shepersuadedherselfwithoutdifficultythatCharles’spassionwasnothingveryexorbitant。Hisoutburstsbecameregular；heembracedheratcertainfixedtimes。Itwasonehabitamongotherhabits，and，likeadessert，lookedforwardtoafterthemonotonyofdinner。