Semanticate

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 			<p>Up to 1835 there was no practicable road for getting to Yonville, but about this time a crossroad was made which joins that of Abbeville to that of Amiens, and is occasionally used by the Rouen wagoners on their way to Flanders. Yonville-l’Abbaye has remained stationary in spite of its “new outlet.” Instead of improving the soil, they persist in keeping up the pasture lands, however depreciated they may be in value, and the lazy borough, growing away from the plain, has naturally spread riverwards. It is seem from afar sprawling along the banks like a cowherd taking a siesta by the waterside.</p>
 			<p>At the foot of the hill beyond the bridge begins a roadway, planted with young aspens, that leads in a straight line to the first houses in the place. These, fenced in by hedges, are in the middle of courtyards full of straggling buildings, winepresses, cart-sheds and distilleries scattered under thick trees, with ladders, poles, or scythes hung on to the branches. The thatched roofs, like fur caps drawn over eyes, reach down over about a third of the low windows, whose coarse convex glasses have knots in the middle like the bottoms of bottles. Against the plaster wall diagonally crossed by black joists, a meagre pear-tree sometimes leans and the ground-floors have at their door a small swing-gate to keep out the chicks that come pilfering crumbs of bread steeped in cider on the threshold. But the courtyards grow narrower, the houses closer together, and the fences disappear; a bundle of ferns swings under a window from the end of a broomstick; there is a blacksmith’s forge and then a wheelwright’s, with two or three new carts outside that partly block the way. Then across an open space appears a white house beyond a grass mound ornamented by a Cupid, his finger on his lips; two brass vases are at each end of a flight of steps; scutcheons<a href="endnotes.xhtml#note-8" id="noteref-8" epub:type="noteref">8</a> blaze upon the door. It is the notary’s house, and the finest in the place.</p>
 			<p>The Church is on the other side of the street, twenty paces farther down, at the entrance of the square. The little cemetery that surrounds it, closed in by a wall breast high, is so full of graves that the old stones, level with the ground, form a continuous pavement, on which the grass of itself has marked out regular green squares. The church was rebuilt during the last years of the reign of Charles <span epub:type="z3998:roman">X</span>. The wooden roof is beginning to rot from the top, and here and there has black hollows in its blue colour. Over the door, where the organ should be, is a loft for the men, with a spiral staircase that reverberates under their wooden shoes.</p>
-			<p>The daylight coming through the plain glass windows falls obliquely upon the pews ranged along the walls, which are adorned here and there with a straw mat bearing beneath it the words in large letters, “<abbr>Mr.</abbr> So-and-so’s pew.” Farther on, at a spot where the building narrows, the confessional forms a pendant to a statuette of the Virgin, clothed in a satin robe, coifed with a tulle veil sprinkled with silver stars, and with red cheeks, like an idol of the Sandwich Islands; and, finally, a copy of the <i epub:type="se:name.visual-art.painting">Holy Family, Presented by the Minister of the Interior</i>, overlooking the high altar, between four candlesticks, closes in the perspective. The choir stalls, of deal wood, have been left unpainted.</p>
+			<p>The daylight coming through the plain glass windows falls obliquely upon the pews ranged along the walls, which are adorned here and there with a straw mat bearing beneath it the words in large letters, “<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> So-and-so’s pew.” Farther on, at a spot where the building narrows, the confessional forms a pendant to a statuette of the Virgin, clothed in a satin robe, coifed with a tulle veil sprinkled with silver stars, and with red cheeks, like an idol of the Sandwich Islands; and, finally, a copy of the <i epub:type="se:name.visual-art.painting">Holy Family, Presented by the Minister of the Interior</i>, overlooking the high altar, between four candlesticks, closes in the perspective. The choir stalls, of deal wood, have been left unpainted.</p>
 			<p>The market, that is to say, a tiled roof supported by some twenty posts, occupies of itself about half the public square of Yonville. The town hall, constructed “from the designs of a Paris architect,” is a sort of Greek temple that forms the corner next to the chemist’s shop. On the ground-floor are three Ionic columns and on the first floor a semicircular gallery, while the dome that crowns it is occupied by a Gallic cock, resting one foot upon the <i xml:lang="fr">Charte</i> and holding in the other the scales of Justice.</p>
 			<p>But that which most attracts the eye is opposite the Lion d’Or inn, the chemist’s shop of Monsieur Homais. In the evening especially its argand lamp is lit up and the red and green jars that embellish his shopfront throw far across the street their two streams of colour; then across them as if in Bengal lights is seen the shadow of the chemist leaning over his desk. His house from top to bottom is placarded with inscriptions written in large hand, round hand, printed hand: “Vichy, Seltzer, Barège waters, blood purifiers, Raspail patent medicine, Arabian racahout, Darcet lozenges, Regnault paste, trusses, baths, hygienic chocolate,” <abbr class="eoc">etc.</abbr> And the signboard, which takes up all the breadth of the shop, bears in gold letters, “Homais, Chemist.” Then at the back of the shop, behind the great scales fixed to the counter, the word “Laboratory” appears on a scroll above a glass door, which about halfway up once more repeats “Homais” in gold letters on a black ground.</p>
 			<p>Beyond this there is nothing to see at Yonville. The street (the only one) a gunshot in length and flanked by a few shops on either side stops short at the turn of the high road. If it is left on the right hand and the foot of the Saint-Jean hills followed the cemetery is soon reached.</p>

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 			<p>He had recently read a eulogy on a new method for curing clubfoot, and as he was a partisan of progress, he conceived the patriotic idea that Yonville, in order to keep to the fore, ought to have some operations for strephopody or clubfoot.</p>
 			<p>“For,” said he to Emma, “what risk is there? See⁠—” (and he enumerated on his fingers the advantages of the attempt), “success, almost certain relief and beautifying of the patient, celebrity acquired by the operator. Why, for example, should not your husband relieve poor Hippolyte of the Lion d’Or? Note that he would not fail to tell about his cure to all the travellers, and then” (Homais lowered his voice and looked round him) “who is to prevent me from sending a short paragraph on the subject to the paper? Eh! goodness me! an article gets about; it is talked of; it ends by making a snowball! And who knows? who knows?”</p>
 			<p>In fact, Bovary might succeed. Nothing proved to Emma that he was not clever; and what a satisfaction for her to have urged him to a step by which his reputation and fortune would be increased! She only wished to lean on something more solid than love.</p>
-			<p>Charles, urged by the druggist and by her, allowed himself to be persuaded. He sent to Rouen for <abbr>Dr.</abbr> Duval’s volume, and every evening, holding his head between both hands, plunged into the reading of it.</p>
+			<p>Charles, urged by the druggist and by her, allowed himself to be persuaded. He sent to Rouen for <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Dr.</abbr> Duval’s volume, and every evening, holding his head between both hands, plunged into the reading of it.</p>
 			<p>While he was studying equinus, varus, and valgus, that is to say, <i>katastrephopody</i>, <i>endostrephopody</i>, and <i>exostrephopody</i> (or better, the various turnings of the foot downwards, inwards, and outwards, with the <i>hypostrephopody</i> and <i>anastrephopody</i>), otherwise torsion downwards and upwards, Monsier Homais, with all sorts of arguments, was exhorting the lad at the inn to submit to the operation.</p>
 			<p>“You will scarcely feel, probably, a slight pain; it is a simple prick, like a little bloodletting, less than the extraction of certain corns.”</p>
 			<p>Hippolyte, reflecting, rolled his stupid eyes.</p>
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 			<p>In the midst of the silence that hung over the village a heartrending cry rose on the air. Bovary turned white to fainting. She knit her brows with a nervous gesture, then went on. And it was for him, for this creature, for this man, who understood nothing, who felt nothing! For he was there quite quiet, not even suspecting that the ridicule of his name would henceforth sully hers as well as his. She had made efforts to love him, and she had repented with tears for having yielded to another!</p>
 			<p>“But it was perhaps a valgus!” suddenly exclaimed Bovary, who was meditating.</p>
 			<p>At the unexpected shock of this phrase falling on her thought like a leaden bullet on a silver plate, Emma, shuddering, raised her head in order to find out what he meant to say; and they looked at the other in silence, almost amazed to see each other, so far sundered were they by their inner thoughts. Charles gazed at her with the dull look of a drunken man, while he listened motionless to the last cries of the sufferer, that followed each other in long-drawn modulations, broken by sharp spasms like the far-off howling of some beast being slaughtered. Emma bit her wan lips, and rolling between her fingers a piece of coral that she had broken, fixed on Charles the burning glance of her eyes like two arrows of fire about to dart forth. Everything in him irritated her now; his face, his dress, what he did not say, his whole person, his existence, in fine. She repented of her past virtue as of a crime, and what still remained of it rumbled away beneath the furious blows of her pride. She revelled in all the evil ironies of triumphant adultery. The memory of her lover came back to her with dazzling attractions; she threw her whole soul into it, borne away towards this image with a fresh enthusiasm; and Charles seemed to her as much removed from her life, as absent forever, as impossible and annihilated, as if he had been about to die and were passing under her eyes.</p>
-			<p>There was a sound of steps on the pavement. Charles looked up, and through the lowered blinds he saw at the corner of the market in the broad sunshine <abbr>Dr.</abbr> Canivet, who was wiping his brow with his handkerchief. Homais, behind him, was carrying a large red box in his hand, and both were going towards the chemist’s.</p>
+			<p>There was a sound of steps on the pavement. Charles looked up, and through the lowered blinds he saw at the corner of the market in the broad sunshine <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Dr.</abbr> Canivet, who was wiping his brow with his handkerchief. Homais, behind him, was carrying a large red box in his hand, and both were going towards the chemist’s.</p>
 			<p>Then with a feeling of sudden tenderness and discouragement Charles turned to his wife saying to her⁠—</p>
 			<p>“Oh, kiss me, my own!”</p>
 			<p>“Leave me!” she said, red with anger.</p>

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 			<p>But Emma, awaking, cried out⁠—</p>
 			<p>“The letter! the letter!”</p>
 			<p>They thought she was delirious; and she was by midnight. Brain-fever had set in.</p>
-			<p>For forty-three days Charles did not leave her. He gave up all his patients; he no longer went to bed; he was constantly feeling her pulse, putting on sinapisms and cold-water compresses. He sent Justin as far as Neufchâtel for ice; the ice melted on the way; he sent him back again. He called Monsieur Canivet into consultation; he sent for <abbr>Dr.</abbr> Larivière, his old master, from Rouen; he was in despair. What alarmed him most was Emma’s prostration, for she did not speak, did not listen, did not even seem to suffer, as if her body and soul were both resting together after all their troubles.</p>
+			<p>For forty-three days Charles did not leave her. He gave up all his patients; he no longer went to bed; he was constantly feeling her pulse, putting on sinapisms and cold-water compresses. He sent Justin as far as Neufchâtel for ice; the ice melted on the way; he sent him back again. He called Monsieur Canivet into consultation; he sent for <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Dr.</abbr> Larivière, his old master, from Rouen; he was in despair. What alarmed him most was Emma’s prostration, for she did not speak, did not listen, did not even seem to suffer, as if her body and soul were both resting together after all their troubles.</p>
 			<p>About the middle of October she could sit up in bed supported by pillows. Charles wept when he saw her eat her first bread-and-jelly. Her strength returned to her; she got up for a few hours of an afternoon, and one day, when she felt better, he tried to take her, leaning on his arm, for a walk round the garden. The sand of the paths was disappearing beneath the dead leaves; she walked slowly, dragging along her slippers, and leaning against Charles’s shoulder. She smiled all the time.</p>
 			<p>They went thus to the bottom of the garden near the terrace. She drew herself up slowly, shading her eyes with her hand to look. She looked far off, as far as she could, but on the horizon were only great bonfires of grass smoking on the hills.</p>
 			<p>“You will tire yourself, my darling!” said Bovary. And, pushing her gently to make her go into the arbour, “Sit down on this seat; you’ll be comfortable.”</p>

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 			<p>“But you will forget me; I shall pass away like a shadow.”</p>
 			<p>“To Monsieur Belot of Notre-Dame.”</p>
 			<p>“Oh, no! I shall be something in your thought, in your life, shall I not?”</p>
-			<p>“Porcine race; prizes⁠—equal, to <abbr>Messrs.</abbr> Lehérissé and Cullembourg, sixty francs!”</p>
+			<p>“Porcine race; prizes⁠—equal, to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Messrs.</abbr> Lehérissé and Cullembourg, sixty francs!”</p>
 			<p>Rodolphe was pressing her hand, and he felt it all warm and quivering like a captive dove that wants to fly away; but, whether she was trying to take it away or whether she was answering his pressure; she made a movement with her fingers. He exclaimed⁠—</p>
 			<p>“Oh, I thank you! You do not repulse me! You are good! You understand that I am yours! Let me look at you; let me contemplate you!”</p>
 			<p>A gust of wind that blew in at the window ruffled the cloth on the table, and in the square below all the great caps of the peasant women were uplifted by it like the wings of white butterflies fluttering.</p>