At last he began to think it was all a joke; someone’s spite, the jest of some wag; and besides, if she were dead, one would have known it. But no! There was nothing extraordinary about the country; the sky was blue, the trees swayed; a flock of sheep passed. He saw the village; he was seen coming bending forward upon his horse, belabouring it with great blows, the girths dripping with blood.

When he had recovered consciousness, he fell, weeping, into Bovary’s arms: “My girl! Emma! my child! tell me⁠—”

The other replied, sobbing, “I don’t know! I don’t know! It’s a curse!”

The druggist separated them. “These horrible details are useless. I will tell this gentleman all about it. Here are the people coming. Dignity! Come now! Philosophy!”

The poor fellow tried to show himself brave, and repeated several times. “Yes! courage!”