《Madame Bovary》Chapter Three
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One morning old Rouault brought Charles the money for setting his leg—seventy-five francs in forty-sou pieces, and a turkey. He had heard of his loss, and consoled him as well as he could.
"I know what it is," said he, clapping him on the shoulder; "I've been through it. When I lost my dear departed, I went into the fields to be quite alone. I fell at the foot of a tree; I cried; I called on God; I talked nonsense to Him. I wanted to be like the moles that I saw on the branches, their insides swarming with worms, dead, and an end of it. And when I thought that there were others at that very moment with their nice little wives holding them in their embrace, I struck great blows on the earth with my stick. I was almost crazy from not eating; the very idea of going to a cafe disgusted me—you wouldn't believe it.
Well, quite softly, one day following another, a spring on a winter, and an autumn after a summer, this wore away, piece by piece, crumb by crumb; it passed away, it is gone, I should say it has sunk; for something always remains at the bottom as one would say—a weight here, at one's heart. But since it is the lot of all of us, one must not give way altogether, and, because others have died, want to die too. You must pull yourself together, Monsieur Bovary. It will pass away. Come to see us; my daughter thinks of you now and again, d'ye know, and she says you are forgetting her. Spring will soon be here. We'll have some rabbit-shooting in the warrens to amuse you a bit."
Charles followed his advice. He went back to the Bertaux. He found all as he had left it, that is to say, as it was five months ago. The pear trees were already in blossom, and Farmer Rouault, on his legs again, came and went, making the farm more full of life.
Thinking it his duty to heap the greatest attention upon the doctor because of his sad position, he begged him not to take his hat off, spoke to him in an undertone as if he had been ill, and even pretended to be angry because nothing rather lighter had been prepared for him than for the others, such as a little clotted cream or stewed pears. He told stories. Charles found himself laughing, but the remembrance of his wife suddenly coming back to him depressed him. Coffee was brought in; he thought no more about her.
He thought less of her as he grew accustomed to living alone. The new delight of independence soon made his loneliness bearable. He could now change his meal-times, go in or out without explanation, and when he was very tired stretch himself at full length on his bed. So he nursed and coddled himself and accepted the consolations that were offered him. On the other hand, the death of his wife had not served him ill in his business, since for a month people had been saying, "The poor young man! what a loss!" His name had been talked about, his practice had increased; and moreover, he could go to the Bertaux just as he liked. He had an aimless hope, and was vaguely happy; he thought himself better looking as he brushed his whiskers before the looking-glass.
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One day he got there about three o'clock. Everybody was in the fields. He went into the kitchen, but did not at once catch sight of Emma; the outside shutters were closed. Through the chinks of the wood the sun sent across the flooring long fine rays that were broken at the corners of the furniture and trembled along the ceiling. Some flies on the table were crawling up the glasses that had been used, and buzzing as they drowned themselves in the dregs of the cider. The daylight that came in by the chimney made velvet of the soot at the back of the fireplace, and touched with blue the cold cinders. Between the window and the hearth Emma was sewing; she wore no fichu; he could see small drops of perspiration on her bare shoulders.
After the fashion of country folks she asked him to have something to drink. He said no; she insisted, and at last laughingly offered to have a glass of liqueur with him. So she went to fetch a bottle of curacao from the cupboard, reached down two small glasses, filled one to the brim, poured scarcely anything into the other, and, after having clinked glasses, carried hers to her mouth. As it was almost empty she bent back to drink, her head thrown back, her lips pouting, her neck on the strain. She laughed at getting none of it, while with the tip of her tongue passing between her small teeth she licked drop by drop the bottom of her glass.
She sat down again and took up her work, a white cotton stocking she was darning. She worked with her head bent down; she did not speak, nor did Charles. The air coming in under the door blew a little dust over the flags; he watched it drift along, and heard nothing but the throbbing in his head and the faint clucking of a hen that had laid an egg in the yard. Emma from time to time cooled her cheeks with the palms of her hands, and cooled these again on the knobs of the huge fire-dogs.
She complained of suffering since the beginning of the season from giddiness; she asked if sea-baths would do her any good; she began talking of her convent, Charles of his school; words came to them. They went up into her bedroom. She showed him her old music-books, the little prizes she had won, and the oak-leaf crowns, left at the bottom of a cupboard. She spoke to him, too, of her mother, of the country, and even showed him the bed in the garden where, on the first Friday of every month, she gathered flowers to put on her mother's tomb. But the gardener they had never knew anything about it; servants are so stupid! She would have dearly liked, if only for the winter, to live in town, although the length of the fine days made the country perhaps even more wearisome in the summer. And, according to what she was saying, her voice was clear, sharp, or, on a sudden all languor, drawn out in modulations that ended almost in murmurs as she spoke to herself, now joyous, opening big naive eyes, then with her eyelids half closed, her look full of boredom, her thoughts wandering.
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Going home at night, Charles went over her words one by one, trying to recall them, to fill out their sense, that he might piece out the life she had lived before he knew her. But he never saw her in his thoughts other than he had seen her the first time, or as he had just left her. Then he asked himself what would become of her—if she would be married, and to whom! Alas! Old Rouault was rich, and she!—so beautiful! But Emma's face always rose before his eyes, and a monotone, like the humming of a top, sounded in his ears, "If you should marry after all! If you should marry!" At night he could not sleep; his throat was parched; he was athirst. He got up to drink from the water-bottle and opened the window. The night was covered with stars, a warm wind blowing in the distance; the dogs were barking. He turned his head towards the Bertaux.
Thinking that, after all, he should lose nothing, Charles promised himself to ask her in marriage as soon as occasion offered, but each time such occasion did offer the fear of not finding the right words sealed his lips.
Old Rouault would not have been sorry to be rid of his daughter, who was of no use to him in the house. In his heart he excused her, thinking her too clever for farming, a calling under the ban of Heaven, since one never saw a millionaire in it. Far from having made a fortune by it, the good man was losing every year; for if he was good in bargaining, in which he enjoyed the dodges of the trade, on the other hand, agriculture properly so called, and the internal management of the farm, suited him less than most people. He did not willingly take his hands out of his pockets, and did not spare expense in all that concerned himself, liking to eat well, to have good fires, and to sleep well. He liked old cider, underdone legs of mutton, glorias* well beaten up. He took his meals in the kitchen alone, opposite the fire, on a little table brought to him all ready laid as on the stage.
When, therefore, he perceived that Charles's cheeks grew red if near his daughter, which meant that he would propose for her one of these days, he chewed the cud of the matter beforehand. He certainly thought him a little meagre, and not quite the son-in-law he would have liked, but he was said to be well brought-up, economical, very learned, and no doubt would not make too many difficulties about the dowry. Now, as old Rouault would soon be forced to sell twenty-two acres of "his property," as he owed a good deal to the mason, to the harness-maker, and as the shaft of the cider-press wanted renewing, "If he asks for her," he said to himself, "I'll give her to him."
At Michaelmas Charles went to spend three days at the Bertaux.
The last had passed like the others in procrastinating from hour to hour. Old Rouault was seeing him off; they were walking along the road full of ruts; they were about to part. This was the time. Charles gave himself as far as to the corner of the hedge, and at last, when past it—
"Monsieur Rouault," he murmured, "I should like to say something to you."
They stopped. Charles was silent.
"Well, tell me your story. Don't I know all about it?" said old Rouault, laughing softly.
"Monsieur Rouault—Monsieur Rouault," stammered Charles.
"I ask nothing better", the farmer went on. "Although, no doubt, the little one is of my mind, still we must ask her opinion. So you get off—I'll go back home. If it is 'yes', you needn't return because of all the people about, and besides it would upset her too much. But so that you mayn't be eating your heart, I'll open wide the outer shutter of the window against the wall; you can see it from the back by leaning over the hedge."
And he went off.
Charles fastened his horse to a tree; he ran into the road and waited. Half an hour passed, then he counted nineteen minutes by his watch. Suddenly a noise was heard against the wall; the shutter had been thrown back; the hook was still swinging.
The next day by nine o'clock he was at the farm. Emma blushed as he entered, and she gave a little forced laugh to keep herself in countenance. Old Rouault embraced his future son-in-law. The discussion of money matters was put off; moreover, there was plenty of time before them, as the marriage could not decently take place till Charles was out of mourning, that is to say, about the spring of the next year.
The winter passed waiting for this. Mademoiselle Rouault was busy with her trousseau. Part of it was ordered at Rouen, and she made herself chemises and nightcaps after fashion-plates that she borrowed. When Charles visited the farmer, the preparations for the wedding were talked over; they wondered in what room they should have dinner; they dreamed of the number of dishes that would be wanted, and what should be entrees.
Emma would, on the contrary, have preferred to have a midnight wedding with torches, but old Rouault could not understand such an idea. So there was a wedding at which forty-three persons were present, at which they remained sixteen hours at table, began again the next day, and to some extent on the days following.*A mixture of coffee and spirits.
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William Drake, a modern day Illinois blacksmith, is no stranger to unusual orders, but the latest one is odder than most. He has been commissioned to create a sword of bizarre specifications, and the sword isn't the only thing that's strange. His customer, Markham, is definitely not a local, and balks at the bill. The sword is stolen by Markham, and William storms after him, finally retrieving the blade at the top of a rented Scottish tower. During the confrontation, William is transported, artifact in hand, to an alternate world called Wayland.Sly bartering demons, the Aos Si, wish to claim Wayland, as does a rival duke and his mage, Veddick. Meanwhile, a banished dieity, Credine, is seeking return to Wayland by using William as his unwilling avatar. Caught in a web between the three competing powers, William must unravel the mystery of the sword he has forged, stave off the encroaching god Credine and save the residents of Wayland from the god, the usurpation of the rival duke, and the Ao Si.
8 85The Oddity: The One Who Does Not Belong
A purple ball descended from the sky, a gift from the primordial dragons, granting many races of the world access to magic. Unfortunately, humans were not one of those. During the great war, the magicless humans were nothing more than fodder, meat shields. Until one day, their powers awakened. After the war, with the ability to now wield, fire, water, earth, wind, or lightning, powerful magicians gathered to build a safe haven for humans, the Kaldora Empire. Before the humans had magic, other races prospered with it. But, within their midst, there were... oddities. People with an affinity for two elements. Each one leaving some sort of disaster in their wake. Each one, not quite fit for this world. A young boy's family, killed in an accident, only he and his sister survived the night. After that, they were split up, each taken in by a different relative. It has been eight years since the flames engulfed his home and most of his family. With his magic powers finally showing itself, he goes off to a magic academy to better learn about his newfound powers. But as he grows, something else does as well. The voice inside his head, the thing that influences his thoughts, the monster that he wish was gone, the devil inside his heart. This is a tale about connections. NOTE: The story will be slow for many of the chapters and the time will also match it, ex: goes by day by day. The time mostly will be used for introducing and adding to characters. It won't pick up until somewhere in the twenties but there will be action and events earlier on such as the missions. Just a fair warning. Order of Phantasmal Architects
8 184Queen of Dragons
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8 226Saga of Fallen Kings, Book I: The Revenant Prince
The Philosopher King once conquered the known world, his power seemingly unlimited and his armies inexhaustible. Since that time his might has slowly unravelled, and his once steadfast empire has begun to crack, splinter and devour itself. In the isolated Southern Realms, where even magic has abandoned them, none of that matters. For years it has been filled with warring kingdoms, where as many kings die to the blade as to old age, and constant battles tear apart the land. When one such kingdom invades its old enemy, the King and his heir, Prince Caden, are killed. Unable to accept the loss of his family Prince Arian is broken, and when the Philosopher King stretches out his hand in aid, Arian takes it without a second thought. When Caden wakes from death, he's different. His eyes and soul have changed, and he finds a world filled with friends who no longer trust he's even human. Suddenly thrust onto the throne and indebted to the Philosopher King, Caden has no choice but to keep going - he must finish what his father started, and try to survive the machinations of the figure who now owns his fealty. Meanwhile something beyond death stirs for him, desiring nothing more than to drag him back into its embrace. Author's Note: This story used to be known as "A King of his Own", but after some consideration I have decided to rebrand it. The first reason is that I was growing increasingly dissatisfied with the title. The second is that I have come increasingly to view this story as a 'saga' containing multiple 'books' rather than one long, continuous publication, and as I did so I realized that as I was quickly getting to a point in the story where I wanted the first 'book' to end. This doesn't mean I'm going back on the things I said below - they're just going to continue in the next book of the Saga of Fallen Kings. :) Also, be aware that I do plan to edit this at some point. Though I take care to squash out any obvious errors when I proof-read, and do simple edits in that process, at some point I'm almost certainly going to do large edits that might significantly change parts of the story. Old author's notes: This started as a completely random writing session. There was no purpose or direction, but as I kept typing an entire world began to form in my mind that I knew I had to write about. My plan is to turn this story into a veritable medieval fantasy epic that spans an entire world, follows multiple character and storylines, and takes place over many years. The story has quite a grounded, almost 'realistic' start, but many more fantastical elements will be introduced, expanded upon and become central to the narrative. I have ideas for this story that make me genuinely excited and I hope you enjoy my work as much as I enjoy writing it, and join me on what will hopefully become a truly massive fantasy epic. If you do enjoy this story please consider following, rating and leaving a review. I'm also happy to answer any questions or comments you have. (Cover image is an edited version of free stock art found: here.)
8 205The devils journey
An old goblin sat at his death bed as he recalled the past with regret, his blurry old life on earth and the struggles and chance luck to survive, but this is the end and even though he knows it is he still wished to go back and be different. This is the tale of the old goblins 2nd or rather 3rd life and his journey from the weakest to the strongest to protect those he wishes and kill those who stand in his way. I do not own the cover message me if you want it removed, all credit to original cover owner
8 164The Novel's Extra's Extra
As a reader, Cristopher always looked for things that entertained him, didn't matter what the "critics" said, all that matters was his own opinion on the novel, so he started reading "The Novel's Extra", a webnovel that despicts an author who is transmigrated to his own novel. It was fun and all with its own good and bad points, really, one of his favorites novels at the end of the journey, and that's taking into account the little fact that he didn't have too many things he was able to enjoy, not in that empty shell that was called life for him... Why could someone be born like that? With a void inside, an endless void that slowly consumes oneself... But... for better or worse... everything changed one day, the same day he woke up to discover he had the same faith of the author whose novel he just finished reading, becoming an extra in a novel, becoming The novel's extra's extra... /Ok, now that's the description I thought of... first of all, for those of you who are reading this, if any, a few points I have to make clear: 1. I'm not an english native speaker, so if you find anything wrong in the text, please let me know, that would help me learn, and I would be thankful for that.2. I'm writting this out of pure "enjoyment", so while I'll try to be constant, I'll not make any promises.3. True reason why I'm writing this is because I'm going through a moderate to crippling depression right now (and no, is not because anything trully bad and horrendous happened to me, it seems to have something to do with my brain's malfuctioning, among other things), and doctors told me to try writing as I enjoy reading. So yeah, this is more like a self-help excercise, to keep myself distracted while trying to be safe from my self.4. I choose to make a fanfiction of "The Novel's Extra" as I don't trully know how to write, and because I really loved that webnovel, though there are some points I didn't particulary liked.5. If you see some (let's be clear, really much) self insertion on this series, well, that may be me trying to escape reality, to which I make an early warning and disclaimer, and also ask for forgiveness, as I said before, this is more of an excercise, so don't take it too serious.6. I'll be a slow writer, as I have to still check a few things from the novel, even when I've read it like 3 or 4 times already, and because I know shit about writing a novel or a series.7. If you get to enjoy this, then that's good, I would be glad about it, maybe even more motivated, but I don't really expect this to be any good. Thanks to you all who may, or may not, be reading this novel./
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