r dinner of his landlord, he went back to his room
and set to work again in his wet clothes, that smoked as he sat in front
of the hot stove.

On the fine summer evenings, at the time when the close streets are
empty, when the servants are playing shuttlecock at the doors, he opened
his window and leaned out. The river, that makes of this quarter of
Rouen a wretched little Venice, flowed beneath him, between the bridges
and the railings, yellow, violet, or blue. Working men, kneeling on the
banks, washed their bare arms in the water. On poles projecting from the
attics, skeins of cotton were drying in the air. Opposite, beyond the
roofs, spread the pure heaven with the red sun setting. How pleasant it
must be at home! How fresh under the beech-tree! And he expanded his
nostrils to breathe in the sweet odors of the country which did not
reach him.

He grew thin, his figure became taller, his face took a saddened look
that made it almost interesting. Naturally, through indifference, he
abandoned all the resolutions he had made. Once he missed a lecture; the
next day all the lectures; and, enjoying his idleness, little by little
he gave up work altogether. He got into the habit of going to the
public-house, and had a passion for dominoes. To shut himself up every
evening in the dirty public room, to push about on marble tables the
small sheep-bones with black dots, seemed to him a fine proof of his
freedom, which raised him in his own esteem. It was beginning to see
life, the sweetness of stolen pleasures; and when he entered, he put his
hand on the door-handle with a joy almost sensual. Then many things
hidden within him come out; he learnt couplets by heart and sang them to
his boon companions, became enthusiastic about Beranger, learnt how to
make punch, and, finally, how to make love.

Thanks to these preparatory labors, he failed completely in his
examination for an ordinary degree. He was expected home the same night
to celebrate his success. He started on foot, stopped at the beginning
of the village, sent for his mother, and told her all. She excused him,
threw the blame of his failure on the injustice of the examiners,
encouraged him a little, and took upon herself to set matters straight.
It was only five years later that Monsieur Bovary knew the truth; it was
old then, and he accepted it. Moreover, he could not believe that a man
born of him could be a fool.

So Charles set to work again and crammed for his