ith the air of a duchess.

The theatre was beginning to fill; opera-glasses were taken from their
cases, and the subscribers, catching sight of one another, were bowing.
They came to seek relaxation in the fine arts after the anxieties of
business; but "business" was not forgotten; they still talked cotton,
spirits of wine, or indigo. The heads of old men were to be seen,
inexpressive and peaceful, with their hair and complexions looking like
silver medals tarnished by steam of lead. The young beaux were strutting
about in the pit, showing in the opening of their waistcoats their pink
or apple-green cravats, and Madame Bovary from above admired them
leaning on their canes with golden knobs in the open palm of their
yellow gloves.

Now the lights of the orchestra were lit, the lustre, let down from the
ceiling, throwing by the glimmering of its facets a sudden gaiety over
the theatre; then the musicians came in one after the other; and first
there was the protracted hubbub of the basses grumbling, violins
squeaking, cornets trumpeting, flutes and flageolets fifing. But three
knocks were heard on the stage, a rolling of drums began, the brass
instruments played some chords, and the curtain rising, discovered a
country-scene.

It was the cross-roads of a wood, with a fountain shaded by an oak to
the left. Peasants and lords with plaids on their shoulders were singing
a hunting-song together; then a captain suddenly came on, who evoked
the spirit of evil by lifting both his arms to heaven. Another appeared;
they went away, and the hunters started afresh.

She felt herself transported to the reading of her youth, into the midst
of Walter Scott. She seemed to hear through the mist the sound of the
Scotch bagpipes re-echoing over the heather. Then her remembrance of the
novel helping her to understand the libretto, she followed the story
phrase by phrase, while vague thoughts that came back to her dispersed
at once again with the bursts of music. She gave herself up to the
lullaby of the melodies, and felt all her being vibrate as if the violin
bows were drawn over her nerves. She had not eyes enough to look at the
costumes, the scenery, the actors, the painted trees that shook when any
one walked, and the velvet caps, cloaks, swords--all those imaginary
things that floated amid the harmony as in the atmosphere of another
world. But a young woman stepped forward, throwing a purse to a squire
in green. She was left alone, a