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"
Did
you
enjoy
yourself
yesterday
?
"
he
asked
.
"
Yes
.
"
When
the
cloth
was
removed
,
Bovary
did
not
rise
,
nor
did
Emma
;
and
as
she
looked
at
him
,
the
monotony
of
the
spectacle
drove
little
by
little
all
pity
from
her
heart
.
He
seemed
to
her
paltry
,
weak
,
a
cipher
--
in
a
word
,
a
poor
thing
in
every
way
.
How
to
get
rid
of
him
?
What
an
interminable
evening
!
Something
stupefying
like
the
fumes
of
opium
seized
her
.
They
heard
in
the
passage
the
sharp
noise
of
a
wooden
leg
on
the
boards
.
It
was
Hippolyte
bringing
back
Emma
's
luggage
.
In
order
to
put
it
down
he
described
painfully
a
quarter
of
a
circle
with
his
stump
.
"
He
does
n't
even
remember
any
more
about
it
,
"
she
thought
,
looking
at
the
poor
devil
,
whose
coarse
red
hair
was
wet
with
perspiration
.
Bovary
was
searching
at
the
bottom
of
his
purse
for
a
centime
,
and
without
appearing
to
understand
all
there
was
of
humiliation
for
him
in
the
mere
presence
of
this
man
,
who
stood
there
like
a
personified
reproach
to
his
incurable
incapacity
.
"
Hallo
!
you
've
a
pretty
bouquet
,
"
he
said
,
noticing
Leon
's
violets
on
the
chimney
.
"
Yes
,
"
she
replied
indifferently
;
"
it
's
a
bouquet
I
bought
just
now
from
a
beggar
.
"
Charles
picked
up
the
flowers
,
and
freshening
his
eyes
,
red
with
tears
,
against
them
,
smelt
them
delicately
.
She
took
them
quickly
from
his
hand
and
put
them
in
a
glass
of
water
.
