“Very well; to please you!”
And Charles confessed she had gone off a little. She played wrong notes and blundered; then, stopping short—
“Ah! it is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but—” She bit her lips and added, “Twenty francs a lesson, that’s too dear!”
“Yes, so it is—rather,” said Charles, giggling stupidly. “But it seems to me that one might be able to do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation, and who are often better than the celebrities.”
“Find them!” said Emma.
The next day when he came home he looked at her shyly, and at last could no longer keep back the words.
“How obstinate you are sometimes! I went to Barfucheres today. Well, Madame Liégard assured me that her three young ladies who are at La Miséricorde have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and that from an excellent mistress!”
She shrugged her shoulders and did not open her piano again. But when she passed by it (if Bovary were there), she sighed—
“Ah! my poor piano!”
And when anyone came to see her, she did not fail to inform them she had given up music, and could not begin again now for important reasons. Then people commiserated her—
“What a pity! she had so much talent!”
They even spoke to Bovary about it. They put him to shame, and especially the chemist.