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"
Pardon
!
I
've
there
known
poor
mothers
of
families
,
virtuous
women
,
I
assure
you
,
real
saints
,
who
wanted
even
bread
.
"
"
But
those
,
"
replied
Emma
,
and
the
corners
of
her
mouth
twitched
as
she
spoke
,
"
those
,
Monsieur
le
Cure
,
who
have
bread
and
have
no
--
"
"
Fire
in
the
winter
,
"
said
the
priest
.
"
Oh
,
what
does
that
matter
?
"
"
What
!
What
does
it
matter
?
It
seems
to
me
that
when
one
has
firing
and
food
--
for
,
after
all
--
"
"
My
God
!
my
God
!
"
she
sighed
.
"
It
is
indigestion
,
no
doubt
?
You
must
get
home
,
Madame
Bovary
;
drink
a
little
tea
,
that
will
strengthen
you
,
or
else
a
glass
of
fresh
water
with
a
little
moist
sugar
.
"
"
Why
?
"
And
she
looked
like
one
awaking
from
a
dream
.
"
Well
,
you
see
,
you
were
putting
your
hand
to
your
forehead
.
I
thought
you
felt
faint
.
"
Then
,
bethinking
himself
,
"
But
you
were
asking
me
something
?
What
was
it
?
I
really
do
n't
remember
.
"
"
I
?
Nothing
!
nothing
!
"
repeated
Emma
.
