worse. Nobody's dead, and, since the only course open to you is to pay me my money . . .'
'But how am I to find it?' said Emma wringing her hands.
'Bah! a woman who's got as many friends as you have . . .'
The look he gave her was so knowing, so terrifying that she was shaken with a convulsive shudder.
'I give you my word . . .' she said: I'll sign. . . .'
'I've had enough of your signatures.'
'I can still sell . . .'
'Talk sense!' said he with a shrug: 'there's nothing left you can sell.'
He looked through the peephole which gave into the shop, and said:
'Annette--don't forget the three remnants of No. 14.'
The servant appeared. Emma understood what he meant, and asked how much money he would need to stop proceedings.
'It's too late now. . . .'
'But suppose I brought you several thousand francs--a quarter of the sum--a third--almost all of it?'
'No, quite useless.'
He pushed her gently towards the stairs.
'I implore you, monsieur Lheureux!--just a few more days!'
She began to sob.
'Oho! so it's to be tears now!'
'You'll drive me to do something desperate!'
'A fat lot I care!' he said, and shut the door.
SHE put up a fine show of stoicism next day when Maître Hareng, accompanied by two witnesses, arrived at the house to give legal notice of seizure.
They began with Bovary's consulting room. They omitted the phrenological head as constituting a 'tool of his trade'. But in the kitchen they noted down the dishes, pots, chairs and candlesticks, and, in the bedroom, all the odds and ends of ornaments. They examined her clothes, her linen and the contents of her dressing- room. Her whole domestic existence, down to its most intimate