“ ‘Despite the prejudices that still invest a part of the face of Europe like a net, the light nevertheless begins to penetrate our country places. Thus on Tuesday our little town of Yonville found itself the scene of a surgical operation which is at the same time an act of loftiest philanthropy. Monsieur Bovary, one of our most distinguished practitioners—’ ”
“Oh, that is too much! too much!” said Charles, choking with emotion.
“No, no! not at all! What next!”
“ ‘—Performed an operation on a clubfooted man.’ I have not used the scientific term, because you know in a newspaper everyone would not perhaps understand. The masses must—’ ”
“No doubt,” said Bovary; “go on!”
“I proceed,” said the chemist. “ ‘Monsieur Bovary, one of our most distinguished practitioners, performed an operation on a clubfooted man called Hippolyte Tautain, stableman for the last twenty-five years at the hotel of the Lion d’Or, kept by Widow Lefrançois, at the Place d’Armes. The novelty of the attempt, and the interest incident to the subject, had attracted such a concourse of persons that there was a veritable obstruction on the threshold of the establishment. The operation, moreover, was performed as if by magic, and barely a few drops of blood appeared on the skin, as though to say that the rebellious tendon had at last given way beneath the efforts of art. The patient, strangely enough—we affirm it as an eyewitness—complained of no pain. His condition up to the present time leaves nothing to be desired. Everything tends to show that his convelescence will be brief; and who knows even if at our next village festivity we shall not see our good Hippolyte figuring in the bacchic dance in the midst of a chorus of joyous boon-companions, and thus proving to all eyes by his verve and