longer, they once more removed the machine, and were much surprised at the result they saw. The livid tumefaction spread over the leg, with blisters here and there, whence there oozed a black liquid. Matters were taking a serious turn. Hippolyte began to worry himself, and Mère Lefrançois had him installed in the little room near the kitchen, so that he might at least have some distraction.
But the tax-collector, who dined there every day, complained bitterly of such companionship. Then Hippolyte was removed to the billiard-room. He lay there moaning under his heavy coverings, pale with long beard, sunken eyes, and from time to time turning his perspiring head on the dirty pillow, where the flies alighted. Madame Bovary went to see him. She brought him linen for his poultices; she comforted, and encouraged him. Besides, he did not want for company, especially on market-days, when the peasants were knocking about the billiard-balls round him, fenced with the cues, smoked, drank, sang, and brawled.
“How are you?” they said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Ah! you’re not up to much, it seems, but it’s your own fault. You should do this! do that!” And then they told him stories of people who had all been cured by other remedies than his. Then by way of consolation they added—
“You give way too much! Get up! You coddle yourself like a king! All the same, old chap, you don’t smell nice!”
Gangrene, in fact, was spreading more and more. Bovary himself turned sick at it. He came every hour, every moment. Hippolyte looked at him with eyes full of terror, sobbing—
“When shall I get well? Oh, save me! How unfortunate I am! How unfortunate I am!”
And the doctor left, always recommending him to diet himself.