her already dead but for the fearful labouring of her ribs, shaken
by violent breathing, as if the soul were struggling to free itself.
Felicite knelt down before the crucifix, and the druggist himself
slightly bent his knees, while Monsieur Canivet looked out vaguely at
the Place. Bournisien had again begun to pray, his face bowed against
the edge of the bed, his long black cassock trailing behind him in the
room. Charles was on the other side, on his knees, his arms outstretched
towards Emma. He had taken her hands and pressed them, shuddering at
every beat of her heart, as at the shaking of a falling ruin. As the
death-rattle became stronger the priest prayed faster; his prayers
mingled with the stifled sobs of Bovary, and sometimes all seemed lost
in the muffled murmur of the Latin syllables that tolled like a passing
bell.

Suddenly on the pavement was heard a loud noise of clogs and the
clattering of a stick; and a voice rose--a raucous voice--that sang--

"Maids in the warmth of a summer day Dream of love and of love always"

Emma raised herself like a galvanised corpse, her hair undone, her eyes
fixed, staring.

"Where the sickle blades have been, Nannette, gathering ears of corn,
Passes bending down, my queen, To the earth where they were born."

"The blind man!" she cried. And Emma began to laugh, an atrocious,
frantic, despairing laugh, thinking she saw the hideous face of the poor
wretch that stood out against the eternal night like a menace.

"The wind is strong this summer day, Her petticoat has flown away."

She fell back upon the mattress in a convulsion. They all drew near. She
was dead.

Chapter Nine

There is always after the death of anyone a kind of stupefaction;
so difficult is it to grasp this advent of nothingness and to resign
ourselves to believe in it. But still, when he saw that she did not
move, Charles threw himself upon her, crying--

"Farewell! farewell!"

Homais and Canivet dragged him from the room.

"Restrain yourself!"

"Yes." said he, struggling, "I'll be quiet. I'll not do anything. But
leave me alone. I want to see her. She is my wife!"

And he wept.

"Cry," said the chemist; "let nature take her course; that will solace
you."

Weaker than a child, Charles let himself be led downstairs into the
sitting-room, and Monsieur Homais soon went home. On the Place he
was accosted by the blind man, who, having dragged himself as far as
Yonville, in the hope of getti