“That isn’t the question. All the texts—”
“Oh! oh! As to texts, look at history; it, is known that all the texts have been falsified by the Jesuits.”
Charles came in, and advancing towards the bed, slowly drew the curtains.
Emma’s head was turned towards her right shoulder, the corner of her mouth, which was open, seemed like a black hole at the lower part of her face; her two thumbs were bent into the palms of her hands; a kind of white dust besprinkled her lashes, and her eyes were beginning to disappear in that viscous pallor that looks like a thin web, as if spiders had spun it over. The sheet sunk in from her breast to her knees, and then rose at the tips of her toes, and it seemed to Charles that infinite masses, an enormous load, were weighing upon her.
The church clock struck two. They could hear the loud murmur of the river flowing in the darkness at the foot of the terrace. Monsieur Bournisien from time to time blew his nose noisily, and Homais’ pen was scratching over the paper.
“Come, my good friend,” he said, “withdraw; this spectacle is tearing you to pieces.”
Charles once gone, the chemist and the curé recommenced their discussions.
“Read Voltaire,” said the one, “read D’Holbach, read the Encyclopaedia !”
“Read the Letters of Some Portuguese Jews ,” said the other; “read The Meaning of Christianity , by Nicolas, formerly a magistrate.”
They grew warm, they grew red, they both talked at once without listening to each other. Bournisien was scandalized at such audacity;