So Bovary ordered a bandage and a basin, and asked Justin to hold it. Then addressing the peasant, who was already pale—
“Don’t be afraid, my lad.”
“No, no, sir,” said the other; “get on.”
And with an air of bravado he held out his great arm. At the prick of the lancet the blood spurted out, splashing against the looking-glass.
“Hold the basin nearer,” exclaimed Charles.
“Lor!” said the peasant, “one would swear it was a little fountain flowing. How red my blood is! That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”
“Sometimes,” answered the doctor, “one feels nothing at first, and then syncope sets in, and more especially with people of strong constitution like this man.”
At these words the rustic let go the lancet-case he was twisting between his fingers. A shudder of his shoulders made the chair-back creak. His hat fell off.
“I thought as much,” said Bovary, pressing his finger on the vein.
The basin was beginning to tremble in Justin’s hands; his knees shook, he turned pale.