“Ah!” said Emma, “it is no earthly remedy I need.”

But the curé from time to time looked into the church, where the kneeling boys were shouldering one another, and tumbling over like packs of cards.

“I should like to know⁠—” she went on.

“You look out, Riboudet,” cried the priest in an angry voice; “I’ll warm your ears, you imp!” Then turning to Emma, “He’s Boudet the carpenter’s son; his parents are well off, and let him do just as he pleases. Yet he could learn quickly if he would, for he is very sharp. And so sometimes for a joke I call him Ri boudet (like the road one takes to go to Maromme) and I even say ‘ Mon Riboudet.’ Ha! Ha! ‘ Mont Riboudet.’ The other day I repeated that just to Monsignor, and he laughed at it; he condescended to laugh at it. And how is Monsieur Bovary?”