However, in the immensity of this future that she conjured up, nothing special stood forth; the days, all magnificent, resembled each other like waves; and it swayed in the horizon, infinite, harmonised, azure, and bathed in sunshine. But the child began to cough in her cot or Bovary snored more loudly, and Emma did not fall asleep till morning, when the dawn whitened the windows, and when little Justin was already in the square taking down the shutters of the chemist’s shop.

She had sent for Monsieur Lheureux, and had said to him⁠—

“I want a cloak⁠—a large lined cloak with a deep collar.”

“You are going on a journey?” he asked.

“No; but⁠—never mind. I may count on you, may I not, and quickly?”

He bowed.