re falling asleep in the armchairs,
and dragging down with their backs calico chair-covers that were too
large.

Not many people came to these soirees at the chemist's, his
scandal-mongering and political opinions having successively alienated
various respectable persons from him. The clerk never failed to be
there. As soon as he heard the bell he ran to meet Madame Bovary, took
her shawl, and put away under the shop-counter the thick list shoes that
she wore over her boots when there was snow.

First they played some hands at trente-et-un; next Monsieur Homais
played ecarte with Emma; Leon behind her gave her advice. Standing up
with his hands on the back of her chair, he saw the teeth of her comb
that bit into her chignon. With every movement that she made to throw
her cards the right side of her bodice was drawn up. From her turned-up
hair a dark color fell over her back, and growing gradually paler, lost
itself little by little in the shade. Then her skirt fell on both sides
of her chair, puffing out, full of folds, and reaching the floor. When
Leon occasionally felt the sole of his boot resting on it, he drew back
as if he had trodden upon some one.

When the game of cards was over, the druggist and the Doctor played
dominoes, and Emma, changing her place, leant her elbow on the table,
turning over the leaves of "L'Illustration." She had brought her ladies'
journal with her. Leon sat down near her; they looked at the engravings
together, and waited for each other at the bottom of the pages. She
often begged him to read her the verses; Leon declaimed them in a
languid voice, to which he carefully gave a dying fall in the love
passages. But the noise of the dominoes annoyed him. Monsieur Homais was
strong at the game; he could beat Charles and give him a double-six.
Then, the three hundred finished, they both stretched themselves out in
front of the fire, and were soon asleep. The fire was dying out in the
cinders; the teapot was empty, Leon was still reading. Emma listened to
him, mechanically turning round the lamp-shade, on the gauze of which
were painted clowns in carriages, and tight-rope dancers with their
balancing-poles. Leon stopped, pointing with a gesture to his sleeping
audience; then they talked in low tones, and their conversation seemed
the more sweet to them because it was unheard.

Thus a kind of bond was established between them, a constant commerce of
books and of romances. Monsieur Bovary, lit