"You give way too much! Get up! You coddle yourself like a king! All the same, old chap, you don't smell nice!"
Gangrene, in fact, was spreading more and more. Bovary himself turned sick at it. He came every hour, every moment. Hippolyte looked at him with eyes full of terror, sobbing--
"When shall I get well? Oh, save me! How unfortunate I am! How unfortunate I am!"
And the doctor left, always recommending him to diet himself.
"Don't listen to him, my lad," said Mere Lefrancois, "Haven't they tortured you enough already? You'll grow still weaker. Here! swallow this."
And she gave him some good beef-tea, a slice of mutton, a piece of bacon, and sometimes small glasses of brandy, that he had not the strength to put to his lips.
Abbe Bournisien, hearing that he was growing worse, asked
