Madame Bovary

The next day Charles went to sit down on the seat in the arbour. Rays of light were straying through the trellis, the vine leaves threw their shadows on the sand, the jasmines perfumed the air, the heavens were blue, Spanish flies buzzed round the lilies in bloom, and Charles was suffocating like a youth beneath the vague love influences that filled his aching heart. 

At seven o'clock little Berthe, who had not seen him all the afternoon, went to fetch him to dinner. 

His head was thrown back against the wall, his eyes closed, his mouth open, and in his hand was a long tress of black hair. 

"Come along, papa," she said. 

And thinking he wanted to play; she pushed him gently. He fell to the ground. He was dead. 

Thirty-six hours after, at the druggist's request, Monsieur Canivet came thither. He made a post-mortem and found nothing. 

When everything had been sold, twelve francs seventy-five centimes remained, that served to pay for Mademoiselle Bovary's going to her grandmother. The good woman died the same year; old Rouault was paralysed, and it was an aunt who took charge of her. She is poor, and sends her to a cotton-factory to earn a living.