Madame Bovary - Penn State University

Flaubertalong which, on drawing hear, one saw the many-footed example, overlooking the harbour, near the theatre—he walkedwoodlice crawling. Under the spruce by the hedgerow, the up and down all day from the mairie to the church, sombrecurie in the three-cornered hat reading his breviary had lost and waiting for customers. When Madame Bovary lookedhis right foot, and the very plaster, scaling off with the frost, up, she always saw him there, like a sentinel on duty, with hishad left white scabs on his face.skullcap over his ears and his vest of lasting.Then she went up again, shut her door, put on coals, and Sometimes in the afternoon outside the window of herfainting with the heat of the hearth, felt her boredom weigh room, the head of a man appeared, a swarthy head with blackmore heavily than ever. She would have like to go down and whiskers, smiling slowly, with a broad, gentle smile thattalk to the servant, but a sense of shame restrained her. showed his white teeth. A waltz immediately began and onEvery day at the same time the schoolmaster in a black skullcapopened the shutters of his house, and the rural policeger,women in pink turbans, Tyrolians in jackets, monkeys inthe organ, in a little drawing room, dancers the size of a finman,wearing his sabre over his blouse, passed by. Night and frock coats, gentlemen in knee-breeches, turned and turnedmorning the post-horses, three by three, crossed the street to between the sofas, the consoles, multiplied in the bits of lookingglass held together at their corners by a piece of gold pa-water at the pond. From time to time the bell of a publichouse door rang, and when it was windy one could hear the per. The man turned his handle, looking to the right and left,little brass basins that served as signs for the hairdresser’s shop and up at the windows. Now and again, while he shot out acreaking on their two rods. This shop had as decoration an long squirt of brown saliva against the milestone, with hisold engraving of a fashion-plate stuck against a windowpane knee raised his instrument, whose hard straps tired his shoulder;and now, doleful and drawling, or gay and hurried, theand the wax bust of a woman with yellow hair. He, too, thehairdresser, lamented his wasted calling, his hopeless future, music escaped from the box, droning through a curtain ofand dreaming of some shop in a big town—at Rouen, for pink taffeta under a brass claw in arabesque. They were airs57