Chapter 7

           ShewasstoicalthenextdaywhenMaitreHareng,thebailiff,withtwoassistants,presentedhimselfatherhousetodrawuptheinventoryforthedistraint.

           TheybeganwithBovary’sconsulting-room,anddidnotwritedownthephrenologicalhead,whichwasconsideredan"instrumentofhisprofession";butinthekitchentheycountedtheplates;thesaucepans,thechairs,thecandlesticks,andinthebedroomallthenick-nacksonthewhatnot.Theyexaminedherdresses,thelinen,thedressing-room;andherwholeexistencetoitsmostintimatedetails,was,likeacorpseonwhomapost-mortemismade,outspreadbeforetheeyesofthesethreemen.

           MaitreHareng,buttonedupinhisthinblackcoat,wearingawhitechokerandverytightfoot-straps,repeatedfromtimetotime—"Allowme,madame.Youallowme?"Oftenheutteredexclamations."Charming!verypretty."Thenhebeganwritingagain,dippinghispenintothehorninkstandinhislefthand.

           Whentheyhaddonewiththeroomstheywentuptotheattic.ShekeptadeskthereinwhichRodolphe’sletterswerelocked.Ithadtobeopened.

           "Ah!acorrespondence,"saidMaitreHareng,withadiscreetsmile."Butallowme,forImustmakesuretheboxcontainsnothingelse."Andhetippedupthepaperslightly,asiftoshakeoutnapoleons.Thenshegrewangeredtoseethiscoarsehand,withfingersredandpulpylikeslugs,touchingthesepagesagainstwhichherhearthadbeaten.

           Theywentatlast.Felicitecameback.