Thetheatrewasbeginningtofill；opera-glassesweretakenfromtheircases，andthesubscribers，catchingsightofoneanother，werebowing。Theycametoseekrelaxationinthefineartsaftertheanxietiesofbusiness；but“business“wasnotforgotten；theystilltalkedcottons，spiritsofwine，orindigo。Theheadsofoldmenweretobeseen，inexpressiveandpeaceful，withtheirhairandcomplexionslookinglikesilvermedalstarnishedbysteamoflead。Theyoungbeauxwerestruttingaboutinthepit，showingintheopeningoftheirwaistcoatstheirpinkorapplegreencravats，andMadameBovaryfromaboveadmiredthemleaningontheircaneswithgoldenknobsintheopenpalmoftheiryellowgloves。
Nowthelightsoftheorchestrawerelit，thelustre，letdownfromtheceiling，throwingbytheglimmeringofitsfacetsasuddengaietyoverthetheatre；thenthemusicianscameinoneaftertheother；andfirsttherewastheprotractedhubbubofthebassesgrumbling，violinssqueaking，cornetstrumpeting，flutesandflageoletsfifing。Butthreeknockswereheardonthestage，arollingofdrumsbegan，thebrassinstrumentsplayedsomechords，andthecurtainrising，discoveredacountry-scene。
Itwasthecross-roadsofawood，withafountainshadedbyanoaktotheleft。Peasantsandlordswithplaidsontheirshouldersweresingingahunting-songtogether；thenacaptainsuddenlycameon，whoevokedthespiritofevilbyliftingbothhisarmstoheaven。Anotherappeared；theywentaway，andthehuntersstartedafresh。Shefeltherselftransportedtothereadingofheryouth，intothemidstofWalterScott。SheseemedtohearthroughthemistthesoundoftheScotchbagpipesre-echoingovertheheather。Thenherremembranceofthenovelhelpinghertounderstandthelibretto，shefollowedthestoryphrasebyphrase，whilevaguethoughtsthatcamebacktoherdispersedatonceagainwiththeburstsofmusic。Shegaveherselfuptothelullabyofthemelodies，andfeltallherbeingvibrateasiftheviolinbowsweredrawnoverhernerves。Shehadnoteyesenoughtolookatthecostumes，thescenery，theactors，thepaintedtreesthatshookwhenanyonewalked，andthevelvetcaps，cloaks，swords——allthoseimaginarythingsthatfloatedamidtheharmonyasintheatmosphereofanotherworld。Butayoungwomansteppedforward，throwingapursetoasquireingreen。Shewasleftalone，andtheflutewasheardlikethemurmurofafountainorthewarblingofbirds。LucieattackedhercavatinainGmajorbravely。Sheplainedoflove；shelongedforwings。Emma，too，fleeingfromlife，wouldhavelikedtoflyawayinanembrace。SuddenlyEdgar-Lagardyappeared。
HehadthatsplendidpallorthatgivessomethingofthemajestyofmarbletotheardentracesoftheSouth。Hisvigorousformwastightlycladinabrown-coloureddoublet；asmallchiselledponiardhungagainsthisleftthigh，andhecastroundlaughinglooksshowinghiswhiteteeth。TheysaidthataPolishprincesshavingheardhimsingonenightonthebeachatBiarritz，wherehemendedboats，hadfalleninlovewithhim。Shehadruinedherselfforhim。Hehaddesertedherforotherwomen，andthissentimentalcelebritydidnotfailtoenhancehisartisticreputation。Thediplomaticmummertookcarealwaystoslipintohisadvertisementssomepoeticphraseonthefascinationofhispersonandthesusceptibilityofhissoul。Afineorgan，imperturbablecoolness，moretemperamentthanintelligence，morepowerofemphasisthanofrealsinging，madeupthecharmofthisadmirablecharlatannature，inwhichtherewassomethingofthehairdresserandthetoreador。
>Fromthefirstsceneheevokedenthusiasm。HepressedLucyinhisarms，helefther，hecameback，heseemeddesperate；hehadoutburstsofrage，thenelegiacgurglingsofinfinitesweetness，andthenotesescapedfromhisbareneckfullofsobsandkisses。
Emmaleantforwardtoseehim，clutchingthevelvetoftheboxwithhernails。Shewasfillingherheartwiththesemelodiouslamentationsthatweredrawnouttotheaccompanimentofthedouble-basses，likethecriesofthedrowninginthetumultofatempest。Sherecognisedalltheintoxicationandtheanguishthathadalmostkilledher。Thevoiceofaprimadonnaseemedtohertobebutechoesofherconscience，andthisillusionthatcharmedherassomeverythingofherownlife。Butnooneonearthhadlovedherwithsuchlove。HehadnotweptlikeEdgarthatlastmoonlitnightwhentheysaid，“To-morrow!to-morrow!“
Thetheatrerangwithcheers；theyrecommencedtheentiremovement；theloversspokeoftheflowersontheirtomb，ofvows，exile，fate，hopes；andwhentheyutteredthefinaladieu，Emmagaveasharpcrythatmingledwiththevibrationsofthelastchords。
“Butwhy，“askedBovary，“doesthatgentlemanpersecuteher？“
“No，no!“sheanswered；“heisherlover!“
“Yethevowsvengeanceonherfamily，whiletheotheronewhocameonbeforesaid，’IloveLucieandshelovesme!’Besides，hewentoffwithherfatherarminarm。Forhecertainlyisherfather，isn’the——theuglylittlemanwithacock’sfeatherinhishat？“
DespiteEmma’sexplanations，assoonastherecitativeduetbeganinwhichGilbertlaysbarehisabominablemachinationstohismasterAshton，Charles，seeingthefalsetroth-ringthatistodeceiveLucie，thoughtitwasalove-giftsentbyEdgar。Heconfessed，moreover，thathedidnotunderstandthestorybecauseofthemusic，whichinterferedverymuchwiththewords。
“Whatdoesitmatter？“saidEmma。“Dobequiet!“
“Yes，butyouknow，“hewenton，leaningagainsthershoulder，“I
liketounderstandthings。“
“Bequiet!bequiet!“shecriedimpatiently。
Lucieadvanced，halfsupportedbyherwomen，awreathoforangeblossomsinherhair，andpalerthanthewhitesatinofhergown。
Emmadreamedofhermarriageday；shesawherselfathomeagainamidthecorninthelittlepathastheywalkedtothechurch。
Oh，whyhadnotshe，likethiswoman，resisted，implored？She，onthecontrary，hadbeenjoyous，withoutseeingtheabyssintowhichshewasthrowingherself。Ah!ifinthefreshnessofherbeauty，beforethesoilingofmarriageandthedisillusionsofadultery，shecouldhaveanchoredherlifeuponsomegreat，strongheart，thenvirtue，tenderness，voluptuousness，anddutyblending，shewouldneverhavefallenfromsohighahappiness。
Butthathappiness，nodoubt，wasalieinventedforthedespairofalldesire。Shenowknewthesmallnessofthepassionsthatartexaggerated。So，strivingtodivertherthoughts，Emmadeterminednowtoseeinthisreproductionofhersorrowsonlyaplasticfantasy，wellenoughtopleasetheeye，andsheevensmiledinternallywithdisdainfulpitywhenatthebackofthestageunderthevelvethangingsamanappearedinablackcloak。
HislargeSpanishhatfellatagesturehemade，andimmediatelytheinstrumentsandthesingersbeganthesextet。Edgar，flashingwithfury，dominatedalltheotherswithhisclearervoice；
Ashtonhurledhomicidalprovocationsathimindeepnotes；Lucieutteredhershrillplaint，Arthuratoneside，hismodulatedtonesinthemiddleregister，andthebassoftheministerpealedforthlikeanorgan，whilethevoicesofthewomenrepeatinghiswordstookthemupinchorusdelightfully。Theywereallinarowgesticulating，andanger，vengeance，jealousy，terror，andstupefactionbreathedforthatoncefromtheirhalf-openedmouths。Theoutragedloverbrandishedhisnakedsword；hisguipurerufflerosewithjerkstothemovementsofhischest，andhewalkedfromrighttoleftwithlongstrides，clankingagainsttheboardsthesilver-giltspursofhissoftboots，wideningoutattheankles。He，shethoughtmusthaveaninexhaustiblelovetolavishituponthecrowdwithsucheffusion。Allhersmallfault-findingsfadedbeforethepoetryofthepartthatabsorbedher；and，drawntowardsthismanbytheillusionofthecharacter，shetriedtoimaginetoherselfhislife——thatliferesonant，extraordinary，splendid，andthatmighthavebeenhersiffatehadwilledit。Theywouldhaveknownoneanother，lovedoneanother。Withhim，throughallthekingdomsofEuropeshewouldhavetravelledfromcapitaltocapital，sharinghisfatiguesandhispride，pickinguptheflowersthrowntohim，herselfembroideringhiscostumes。Theneachevening，atthebackofabox，behindthegoldentrellis-workshewouldhavedrunkineagerlytheexpansionsofthissoulthatwouldhavesungforheralone；fromthestage，evenasheacted，hewouldhavelookedather。Butthemadideaseizedherthathewaslookingather；itwascertain。Shelongedtoruntohisarms，totakerefugeinhisstrength，asintheincarnationofloveitself，andtosaytohim，tocryout，“Takemeaway!carrymewithyou!letusgo!
Thine，thine!allmyardourandallmydreams!“
Thecurtainfell。
Thesmellofthegasmingledwiththatofthebreaths，thewavingofthefans，madetheairmoresuffocating。Emmawantedtogoout；thecrowdfilledthecorridors，andshefellbackinherarm-chairwithpalpitationsthatchokedher。Charles，fearingthatshewouldfaint，rantotherefreshment-roomtogetaglassofbarley-water。
Hehadgreatdifficultyingettingbacktohisseat，forhiselbowswerejerkedateverystepbecauseoftheglassheheldinhishands，andheevenspiltthree-fourthsontheshouldersofaRouenladyinshortsleeves，whofeelingthecoldliquidrunningdowntoherloins，utteredcrieslikeapeacock，asifshewerebeingassassinated。Herhusband，whowasamillowner，railedattheclumsyfellow，andwhileshewaswithherhandkerchiefwipingupthestainsfromherhandsomecherry-colouredtaffetagown，heangrilymutteredaboutindemnity，costs，reimbursement。AtlastCharlesreachedhiswife，sayingtoher，quiteoutofbreath——
“Mafoi!IthoughtIshouldhavehadtostaythere。Thereissuchacrowd——SUCHacrowd!“
Headded——
“JustguesswhomImetupthere!MonsieurLeon!“
“Leon？“
“Himself!He’scomingalongtopayhisrespects。“Andashefinishedthesewordstheex-clerkofYonvilleenteredthebox。
Heheldouthishandwiththeeaseofagentleman；andMadameBovaryextendedhers，withoutdoubtobeyingtheattractionofastrongerwill。Shehadnotfeltitsincethatspringeveningwhentherainfelluponthegreenleaves，andtheyhadsaidgood-byestandingatthewindow。Butsoonrecallingherselftothenecessitiesofthesituation，withaneffortsheshookoffthetorporofhermemories，andbeganstammeringafewhurriedwords。
“Ah，good-day!What!youhere？“
“Silence!“criedavoicefromthepit，forthethirdactwasbeginning。
“SoyouareatRouen？“
“Yes。“