Homais presented himself.
“I count on you,” said the doctor. “Are we ready? Come along!”
But the druggist, turning red, confessed that he was too sensitive to assist at such an operation.
“When one is a simple spectator,” he said, “the imagination, you know, is impressed. And then I have such a nervous system!”
“Pshaw!” interrupted Canivet; “on the contrary, you seem to me inclined to apoplexy. Besides, that doesn’t astonish me, for you chemist fellows are always poking about your kitchens, which must end by spoiling your constitutions. Now just look at me. I get up every day at four o’clock; I shave with cold water (and am never cold). I don’t wear flannels, and I never catch cold; my carcass is good enough! I live now in one way, now in another, like a philosopher, taking potluck; that is why I am not squeamish like you, and it is as indifferent to me to carve a Christian as the first fowl that turns up. Then, perhaps, you will say, habit! habit!”
Then, without any consideration for Hippolyte, who was sweating with agony between his sheets, these gentlemen entered into a conversation, in which the druggist compared the coolness of a surgeon to that of a general; and this comparison was pleasing to Canivet, who launched out on the exigencies of his art. He looked upon it as a sacred office, although the ordinary practitioners dishonoured it. At last, coming back to the patient, he examined the bandages brought by Homais, the same that had appeared for the clubfoot, and asked for someone to hold the limb for him. Lestiboudois was sent for, and Monsieur Canivet having turned up his sleeves, passed into the billiard-room, while the druggist stayed with Artémise and the landlady, both whiter than their aprons, and with ears strained towards the door.
Bovary during this time did not dare to stir from his house.