“Assuredly. Town-labourers, for example.”
“It is not they—”
“Pardon! I’ve there known poor mothers of families, virtuous women, I assure you, real saints, who wanted even bread.”
“But those,” replied Emma, and the corners of her mouth twitched as she spoke, “those, Monsieur le Curé, who have bread and have no—”
“Fire in the winter,” said the priest.
“Oh, what does that matter?”
“What! What does it matter? It seems to me that when one has firing and food—for, after all—”
“My God! my God!” she sighed.
“It is indigestion, no doubt? You must get home, Madame Bovary; drink a little tea, that will strengthen you, or else a glass of fresh water with a little moist sugar.”
“Why?” And she looked like one awaking from a dream.
“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