prompt:
Chapter: One of Sherlock Holmes's defects--if, indeed, one may call it a
defect--was that he was exceedingly loath to communicate his full plans
to any other person until the instant of their fulfilment. Partly it
came no doubt from his own masterful nature, which loved to dominate and
surprise those who were around him. Partly also from his professional
caution, which urged him never to take any chances. The result, however,
was very trying for those who were acting as his agents and assistants.
I had often suffered under it, but never more so than during that long
drive in the darkness. The great ordeal was in front of us; at last we
were about to make our final effort, and yet Holmes had said nothing,
and I could only surmise what his course of action would be. My nerves
thrilled with anticipation when at last the cold wind upon our faces and
the dark, void spaces on either side of the narrow road told me that we
were back upon the moor once again. Every stride of the horses and every
turn of the wheels was taking us nearer to our supreme adventure.

Our conversation was hampered by the presence of the driver of the hired
wagonette, so that we were forced to talk of trivial matters when our
nerves were tense with emotion and anticipation. It was a relief to me,
after that unnatural restraint, when we at last passed Frankland's
house and knew that we were drawing near to the Hall and to the scene
of action. We did not drive up to the door but got down near the gate of
the avenue. The wagonette was paid off and ordered to return to Coombe
Tracey forthwith, while we started to walk to Merripit House.

"Are you armed, Lestrade?"

The little detective smiled. "As long as I have my trousers I have a
hip-pocket, and as long as I have my hip-pocket I have something in it."

"Good! My friend and I are also ready for emergencies."

"You're mighty close about this affair, Mr. Holmes. What's the game
now?"

"A waiting game."

"My word, it does not seem a very cheerful place," said the detective
with a shiver, glancing round him at the gloomy slopes of the hill and
at the huge lake of fog which lay over the Grimpen Mire. "I see the
lights of a house ahead of us."

"That is Merripit House and the end of our journey. I must request you
to walk on tiptoe and not to talk above a whisper."

We moved cautiously along the track as if we were bound for the house,
but Holmes halted us when we were about two hundred yards from it.

"This will do," said he. "These rocks upon the right make an admirable
screen."

"We are to wait here?"

"Yes, we shall make our little ambush here. Get into this hollow,
Lestrade. You have been inside the house, have you not, Watson? Can you
tell the position of the rooms? What are those latticed windows at this
end?"

"I think they are the kitchen windows."

"And the one beyond, which shines so brightly?"

"That is certainly the dining-room."

"The blinds are up. You know the lie of the land best. Creep forward
quietly and see what they are doing--but for heaven's sake don't let
them know that they are watched!"

I tiptoed down the path and stooped behind the low wall which surrounded
the stunted orchard. Creeping in its shadow I reached a point whence I
could look straight through the uncurtained window.

There were only two men in the room, Sir Henry and Stapleton. They sat
with their profiles towards me on either side of the round table. Both
of them were smoking cigars, and coffee and wine were in front of them.
Stapleton was talking with animation, but the baronet looked pale and
distrait. Perhaps the thought of that lonely walk across the ill-omened
moor was weighing heavily upon his mind.

As I watched them Stapleton rose and left the room, while Sir Henry
filled his glass again and leaned back in his chair, puffing at his
cigar. I heard the creak of a door and the crisp sound of boots upon
gravel. The steps passed along the path on the other side of the wall
under which I crouched. Looking over, I saw the naturalist pause at the
door of an out-house in the corner of the orchard. A key turned in
a lock, and as he passed in there was a curious scuffling noise from
within. He was only a minute or so inside, and then I heard the key turn
once more and he passed me and reentered the house. I saw him rejoin his
guest, and I crept quietly back to where my companions were waiting to
tell them what I had seen.

"You say, Watson, that the lady is not there?" Holmes asked when I had
finished my report.

"No."

"Where can she be, then, since there is no light in any other room
except the kitchen?"

"I cannot think where she is."

I have said that over the great Grimpen Mire there hung a dense, white
fog. It was drifting slowly in our direction and banked itself up like a
wall on that side of us, low but thick and well defined. The moon shone
on it, and it looked like a great shimmering ice-field, with the heads
of the distant tors as rocks borne upon its surface. Holmes's face
was turned towards it, and he muttered impatiently as he watched its
sluggish drift.

"It's moving towards us, Watson."

"Is that serious?"

"Very serious, indeed--the one thing upon earth which could have
disarranged my plans. He can't be very long, now. It is already ten
o'clock. Our success and even his life may depend upon his coming out
before the fog is over the path."

The night was clear and fine above us. The stars shone cold and bright,
while a half-moon bathed the whole scene in a soft, uncertain light.
Before us lay the dark bulk of the house, its serrated roof and
bristling chimneys hard outlined against the silver-spangled sky. Broad
bars of golden light from the lower windows stretched across the orchard
and the moor. One of them was suddenly shut off. The servants had left
the kitchen. There only remained the lamp in the dining-room where the
two men, the murderous host and the unconscious guest, still chatted
over their cigars.

Every minute that white woolly plain which covered one-half of the moor
was drifting closer and closer to the house. Already the first thin
wisps of it were curling across the golden square of the lighted window.
The farther wall of the orchard was already invisible, and the trees
were standing out of a swirl of white vapour. As we watched it the
fog-wreaths came crawling round both corners of the house and rolled
slowly into one dense bank on which the upper floor and the roof
floated like a strange ship upon a shadowy sea. Holmes struck his hand
passionately upon the rock in front of us and stamped his feet in his
impatience.

"If he isn't out in a quarter of an hour the path will be covered. In
half an hour we won't be able to see our hands in front of us."

"Shall we move farther back upon higher ground?"

"Yes, I think it would be as well."

So as the fog-bank flowed onward we fell back before it until we were
half a mile from the house, and still that dense white sea, with the
moon silvering its upper edge, swept slowly and inexorably on.

"We are going too far," said Holmes. "We dare not take the chance of his
being overtaken before he can reach us. At all costs we must hold our
ground where we are." He dropped on his knees and clapped his ear to the
ground. "Thank God, I think that I hear him coming."

A sound of quick steps broke the silence of the moor. Crouching among
the stones we stared intently at the silver-tipped bank in front of us.
The steps grew louder, and through the fog, as through a curtain, there
stepped the man whom we were awaiting. He looked round him in surprise
as he emerged into the clear, starlit night. Then he came swiftly along
the path, passed close to where we lay, and went on up the long slope
behind us. As he walked he glanced continually over either shoulder,
like a man who is ill at ease.

"Hist!" cried Holmes, and I heard the sharp click of a cocking pistol.
"Look out! It's coming!"

There was a thin, crisp, continuous patter from somewhere in the heart
of that crawling bank. The cloud was within fifty yards of where we lay,
and we glared at it, all three, uncertain what horror was about to break
from the heart of it. I was at Holmes's elbow, and I glanced for an
instant at his face. It was pale and exultant, his eyes shining brightly
in the moonlight. But suddenly they started forward in a rigid, fixed
stare, and his lips parted in amazement. At the same instant Lestrade
gave a yell of terror and threw himself face downward upon the ground.
I sprang to my feet, my inert hand grasping my pistol, my mind paralyzed
by the dreadful shape which had sprung out upon us from the shadows of
the fog. A hound it was, an enormous coal-black hound, but not such a
hound as mortal eyes have ever seen. Fire burst from its open mouth, its
eyes glowed with a smouldering glare, its muzzle and hackles and dewlap
were outlined in flickering flame. Never in the delirious dream of
a disordered brain could anything more savage, more appalling, more
hellish be conceived than that dark form and savage face which broke
upon us out of the wall of fog.

With long bounds the huge black creature was leaping down the track,
following hard upon the footsteps of our friend. So paralyzed were we by
the apparition that we allowed him to pass before we had recovered our
nerve. Then Holmes and I both fired together, and the creature gave a
hideous howl, which showed that one at least had hit him. He did not
pause, however, but bounded onward. Far away on the path we saw Sir
Henry looking back, his face white in the moonlight, his hands raised in
horror, glaring helplessly at the frightful thing which was hunting him
down. But that cry of pain from the hound had blown all our fears to the
winds. If he was vulnerable he was mortal, and if we could wound him we
could kill him. Never have I seen a man run as Holmes ran that night. I
am reckoned fleet of foot, but he outpaced me as much as I outpaced the
little professional. In front of us as we flew up the track we heard
scream after scream from Sir Henry and the deep roar of the hound. I was
in time to see the beast spring upon its victim, hurl him to the ground,
and worry at his throat. But the next instant Holmes had emptied five
barrels of his revolver into the creature's flank. With a last howl of
agony and a vicious snap in the air, it rolled upon its back, four feet
pawing furiously, and then fell limp upon its side. I stooped, panting,
and pressed my pistol to the dreadful, shimmering head, but it was
useless to press the trigger. The giant hound was dead.

Sir Henry lay insensible where he had fallen. We tore away his collar,
and Holmes breathed a prayer of gratitude when we saw that there was
no sign of a wound and that the rescue had been in time. Already our
friend's eyelids shivered and he made a feeble effort to move. Lestrade
thrust his brandy-flask between the baronet's teeth, and two frightened
eyes were looking up at us.

"My God!" he whispered. "What was it? What, in heaven's name, was it?"

"It's dead, whatever it is," said Holmes. "We've laid the family ghost
once and forever."

In mere size and strength it was a terrible creature which was lying
stretched before us. It was not a pure bloodhound and it was not a pure
mastiff; but it appeared to be a combination of the two--gaunt, savage,
and as large as a small lioness. Even now in the stillness of death,
the huge jaws seemed to be dripping with a bluish flame and the small,
deep-set, cruel eyes were ringed with fire. I placed my hand upon the
glowing muzzle, and as I held them up my own fingers smouldered and
gleamed in the darkness.

"Phosphorus," I said.

"A cunning preparation of it," said Holmes, sniffing at the dead animal.
"There is no smell which might have interfered with his power of scent.
We owe you a deep apology, Sir Henry, for having exposed you to this
fright. I was prepared for a hound, but not for such a creature as this.
And the fog gave us little time to receive him."

"You have saved my life."

"Having first endangered it. Are you strong enough to stand?"

"Give me another mouthful of that brandy and I shall be ready for
anything. So! Now, if you will help me up. What do you propose to do?"

"To leave you here. You are not fit for further adventures tonight. If
you will wait, one or other of us will go back with you to the Hall."

He tried to stagger to his feet; but he was still ghastly pale and
trembling in every limb. We helped him to a rock, where he sat shivering
with his face buried in his hands.

"We must leave you now," said Holmes. "The rest of our work must be
done, and every moment is of importance. We have our case, and now we
only want our man.

"It's a thousand to one against our finding him at the house," he
continued as we retraced our steps swiftly down the path. "Those shots
must have told him that the game was up."

"We were some distance off, and this fog may have deadened them."

"He followed the hound to call him off--of that you may be certain. No,
no, he's gone by this time! But we'll search the house and make sure."

The front door was open, so we rushed in and hurried from room to
room to the amazement of a doddering old manservant, who met us in the
passage. There was no light save in the dining-room, but Holmes caught
up the lamp and left no corner of the house unexplored. No sign could we
see of the man whom we were chasing. On the upper floor, however, one of
the bedroom doors was locked.

"There's someone in here," cried Lestrade. "I can hear a movement. Open
this door!"

A faint moaning and rustling came from within. Holmes struck the door
just over the lock with the flat of his foot and it flew open. Pistol in
hand, we all three rushed into the room.

But there was no sign within it of that desperate and defiant villain
whom we expected to see. Instead we were faced by an object so strange
and so unexpected that we stood for a moment staring at it in amazement.

The room had been fashioned into a small museum, and the walls were
lined by a number of glass-topped cases full of that collection of
butterflies and moths the formation of which had been the relaxation of
this complex and dangerous man. In the centre of this room there was an
upright beam, which had been placed at some period as a support for the
old worm-eaten baulk of timber which spanned the roof. To this post a
figure was tied, so swathed and muffled in the sheets which had been
used to secure it that one could not for the moment tell whether it
was that of a man or a woman. One towel passed round the throat and was
secured at the back of the pillar. Another covered the lower part of
the face, and over it two dark eyes--eyes full of grief and shame and a
dreadful questioning--stared back at us. In a minute we had torn off
the gag, unswathed the bonds, and Mrs. Stapleton sank upon the floor in
front of us. As her beautiful head fell upon her chest I saw the clear
red weal of a whiplash across her neck.

"The brute!" cried Holmes. "Here, Lestrade, your brandy-bottle! Put her
in the chair! She has fainted from ill-usage and exhaustion."

She opened her eyes again.

"Is he safe?" she asked. "Has he escaped?"

"He cannot escape us, madam."

"No, no, I did not mean my husband. Sir Henry? Is he safe?"

"Yes."

"And the hound?"

"It is dead."

She gave a long sigh of satisfaction.

"Thank God! Thank God! Oh, this villain! See how he has treated me!"
She shot her arms out from her sleeves, and we saw with horror that they
were all mottled with bruises. "But this is nothing--nothing! It is my
mind and soul that he has tortured and defiled. I could endure it all,
ill-usage, solitude, a life of deception, everything, as long as I could
still cling to the hope that I had his love, but now I know that in
this also I have been his dupe and his tool." She broke into passionate
sobbing as she spoke.

"You bear him no good will, madam," said Holmes. "Tell us then where we
shall find him. If you have ever aided him in evil, help us now and so
atone."

"There is but one place where he can have fled," she answered. "There is
an old tin mine on an island in the heart of the mire. It was there that
he kept his hound and there also he had made preparations so that he
might have a refuge. That is where he would fly."

The fog-bank lay like white wool against the window. Holmes held the
lamp towards it.

"See," said he. "No one could find his way into the Grimpen Mire
tonight."

She laughed and clapped her hands. Her eyes and teeth gleamed with
fierce merriment.

"He may find his way in, but never out," she cried. "How can he see the
guiding wands tonight? We planted them together, he and I, to mark the
pathway through the mire. Oh, if I could only have plucked them out
today. Then indeed you would have had him at your mercy!"

It was evident to us that all pursuit was in vain until the fog had
lifted. Meanwhile we left Lestrade in possession of the house while
Holmes and I went back with the baronet to Baskerville Hall. The story
of the Stapletons could no longer be withheld from him, but he took
the blow bravely when he learned the truth about the woman whom he had
loved. But the shock of the night's adventures had shattered his nerves,
and before morning he lay delirious in a high fever under the care of
Dr. Mortimer. The two of them were destined to travel together round the
world before Sir Henry had become once more the hale, hearty man that he
had been before he became master of that ill-omened estate.

And now I come rapidly to the conclusion of this singular narrative, in
which I have tried to make the reader share those dark fears and vague
surmises which clouded our lives so long and ended in so tragic a
manner. On the morning after the death of the hound the fog had lifted
and we were guided by Mrs. Stapleton to the point where they had found
a pathway through the bog. It helped us to realize the horror of this
woman's life when we saw the eagerness and joy with which she laid us
on her husband's track. We left her standing upon the thin peninsula of
firm, peaty soil which tapered out into the widespread bog. From the
end of it a small wand planted here and there showed where the path
zigzagged from tuft to tuft of rushes among those green-scummed pits
and foul quagmires which barred the way to the stranger. Rank reeds and
lush, slimy water-plants sent an odour of decay and a heavy miasmatic
vapour onto our faces, while a false step plunged us more than once
thigh-deep into the dark, quivering mire, which shook for yards in soft
undulations around our feet. Its tenacious grip plucked at our heels as
we walked, and when we sank into it it was as if some malignant hand was
tugging us down into those obscene depths, so grim and purposeful was
the clutch in which it held us. Once only we saw a trace that someone
had passed that perilous way before us. From amid a tuft of cotton grass
which bore it up out of the slime some dark thing was projecting. Holmes
sank to his waist as he stepped from the path to seize it, and had we
not been there to drag him out he could never have set his foot
upon firm land again. He held an old black boot in the air. "Meyers,
Toronto," was printed on the leather inside.

"It is worth a mud bath," said he. "It is our friend Sir Henry's missing
boot."

"Thrown there by Stapleton in his flight."

"Exactly. He retained it in his hand after using it to set the hound
upon the track. He fled when he knew the game was up, still clutching
it. And he hurled it away at this point of his flight. We know at least
that he came so far in safety."

But more than that we were never destined to know, though there was much
which we might surmise. There was no chance of finding footsteps in the
mire, for the rising mud oozed swiftly in upon them, but as we at last
reached firmer ground beyond the morass we all looked eagerly for them.
But no slightest sign of them ever met our eyes. If the earth told a
true story, then Stapleton never reached that island of refuge towards
which he struggled through the fog upon that last night. Somewhere in
the heart of the great Grimpen Mire, down in the foul slime of the
huge morass which had sucked him in, this cold and cruel-hearted man is
forever buried.

Many traces we found of him in the bog-girt island where he had hid his
savage ally. A huge driving-wheel and a shaft half-filled with rubbish
showed the position of an abandoned mine. Beside it were the crumbling
remains of the cottages of the miners, driven away no doubt by the foul
reek of the surrounding swamp. In one of these a staple and chain with
a quantity of gnawed bones showed where the animal had been confined.
A skeleton with a tangle of brown hair adhering to it lay among the
debris.

"A dog!" said Holmes. "By Jove, a curly-haired spaniel. Poor Mortimer
will never see his pet again. Well, I do not know that this place
contains any secret which we have not already fathomed. He could hide
his hound, but he could not hush its voice, and hence came those cries
which even in daylight were not pleasant to hear. On an emergency he
could keep the hound in the out-house at Merripit, but it was always a
risk, and it was only on the supreme day, which he regarded as the end
of all his efforts, that he dared do it. This paste in the tin is no
doubt the luminous mixture with which the creature was daubed. It was
suggested, of course, by the story of the family hell-hound, and by the
desire to frighten old Sir Charles to death. No wonder the poor devil of
a convict ran and screamed, even as our friend did, and as we ourselves
might have done, when he saw such a creature bounding through the
darkness of the moor upon his track. It was a cunning device, for, apart
from the chance of driving your victim to his death, what peasant would
venture to inquire too closely into such a creature should he get sight
of it, as many have done, upon the moor? I said it in London, Watson,
and I say it again now, that never yet have we helped to hunt down a
more dangerous man than he who is lying yonder"--he swept his long arm
towards the huge mottled expanse of green-splotched bog which stretched
away until it merged into the russet slopes of the moor.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: As Holmes, Watson, and Lestrade drive over to Merripit House, the suspense is killing Watson. Holmes and Lestrade hide about two hundred yards away from the house. Holmes sends Watson to spy through the dining-room window. Sir Henry and Stapleton are sitting together and smoking. Beryl's nowhere to be seen. The Grimpen Mire is covered with fog, which is a bummer for Holmes--fog is the one thing that could really endanger Sir Henry's life. They hear the sounds of Sir Henry leaving the house. And then, Holmes hushes Watson--there's another sound of pattering feet coming. It's a black hound covered in flickering flame, with fire coming out of its mouth. Oh no, it's running toward Sir Henry. Holmes and Watson shoot the dog, which howls but keeps running. Sir Henry is looking behind him at the dog--and he looks terrified. Duh. The dog leaps at Sir Henry and starts biting him. Bad dog! But Holmes catches up and empties his gun into the dog. The dog falls dead. Sir Henry faints, but he's still alive. When Sir Henry comes to, he, Holmes, and Watson inspect the body of the dog. It's an enormous beast with huge jaws, and it's been covered in some kind of weird glow-in-the-dark stuff. Watson touches the stuff on the dog's fur and realizes that it's phosphorus . Holmes apologizes for putting Sir Henry in so much danger--he didn't expect either the fog or the dog. Sir Henry's so freaked out that Holmes and Watson leave him sitting on a rock while they go off after Stapleton. Back at Merripit House, there's a locked bedroom door. Holmes breaks down the door. They find a woman bound and gagged: Beryl Stapleton. She's furious and heartbroken that Stapleton has been abusing her and using her as his tool in his schemes against Sir Henry. Beryl says that Stapleton has a hiding place in the middle of the Grimpen Mire. The fog is so dense that he won't be able to leave his hiding place that night. The next morning, Beryl leads Holmes, Watson, and Lestrade through the dangerous bog. As the three men walk deep into the Grimpen Mire, Holmes spots something: Sir Henry's black boot. Stapleton must have been using the boot to teach the hound to track Sir Henry's smell. But they don't find any other sign of Stapleton. Watson believes that Stapleton probably got lost in the fog that night and fell into the Mire, never to emerge. On the island in the Mire, they find traces of the dog: this must be where Stapleton kept it. Sadly, they also find the skeleton of Dr. Mortimer's little spaniel. There's a pot full of the glowing stuff that Stapleton had been using to create the fire-breathing "Hound of the Baskervilles," which frightened Selden into running over a cliff and scared Sir Charles to death.


prompt:
Chapter: It was the end of November, and Holmes and I sat, upon a raw and foggy
night, on either side of a blazing fire in our sitting-room in Baker
Street. Since the tragic upshot of our visit to Devonshire he had been
engaged in two affairs of the utmost importance, in the first of which
he had exposed the atrocious conduct of Colonel Upwood in connection
with the famous card scandal of the Nonpareil Club, while in the second
he had defended the unfortunate Mme. Montpensier from the charge
of murder which hung over her in connection with the death of her
step-daughter, Mlle. Carere, the young lady who, as it will be
remembered, was found six months later alive and married in New York.
My friend was in excellent spirits over the success which had attended
a succession of difficult and important cases, so that I was able to
induce him to discuss the details of the Baskerville mystery. I had
waited patiently for the opportunity for I was aware that he would never
permit cases to overlap, and that his clear and logical mind would not
be drawn from its present work to dwell upon memories of the past. Sir
Henry and Dr. Mortimer were, however, in London, on their way to that
long voyage which had been recommended for the restoration of his
shattered nerves. They had called upon us that very afternoon, so that
it was natural that the subject should come up for discussion.

"The whole course of events," said Holmes, "from the point of view of
the man who called himself Stapleton was simple and direct, although
to us, who had no means in the beginning of knowing the motives of
his actions and could only learn part of the facts, it all appeared
exceedingly complex. I have had the advantage of two conversations with
Mrs. Stapleton, and the case has now been so entirely cleared up that I
am not aware that there is anything which has remained a secret to us.
You will find a few notes upon the matter under the heading B in my
indexed list of cases."

"Perhaps you would kindly give me a sketch of the course of events from
memory."

"Certainly, though I cannot guarantee that I carry all the facts in my
mind. Intense mental concentration has a curious way of blotting out
what has passed. The barrister who has his case at his fingers' ends and
is able to argue with an expert upon his own subject finds that a week
or two of the courts will drive it all out of his head once more. So
each of my cases displaces the last, and Mlle. Carere has blurred my
recollection of Baskerville Hall. Tomorrow some other little problem may
be submitted to my notice which will in turn dispossess the fair French
lady and the infamous Upwood. So far as the case of the hound goes,
however, I will give you the course of events as nearly as I can, and
you will suggest anything which I may have forgotten.

"My inquiries show beyond all question that the family portrait did not
lie, and that this fellow was indeed a Baskerville. He was a son of that
Rodger Baskerville, the younger brother of Sir Charles, who fled with
a sinister reputation to South America, where he was said to have died
unmarried. He did, as a matter of fact, marry, and had one child, this
fellow, whose real name is the same as his father's. He married Beryl
Garcia, one of the beauties of Costa Rica, and, having purloined a
considerable sum of public money, he changed his name to Vandeleur and
fled to England, where he established a school in the east of Yorkshire.
His reason for attempting this special line of business was that he had
struck up an acquaintance with a consumptive tutor upon the voyage
home, and that he had used this man's ability to make the undertaking a
success. Fraser, the tutor, died however, and the school which had begun
well sank from disrepute into infamy. The Vandeleurs found it convenient
to change their name to Stapleton, and he brought the remains of his
fortune, his schemes for the future, and his taste for entomology to
the south of England. I learned at the British Museum that he was a
recognized authority upon the subject, and that the name of Vandeleur
has been permanently attached to a certain moth which he had, in his
Yorkshire days, been the first to describe.

"We now come to that portion of his life which has proved to be of such
intense interest to us. The fellow had evidently made inquiry and found
that only two lives intervened between him and a valuable estate. When
he went to Devonshire his plans were, I believe, exceedingly hazy, but
that he meant mischief from the first is evident from the way in which
he took his wife with him in the character of his sister. The idea of
using her as a decoy was clearly already in his mind, though he may not
have been certain how the details of his plot were to be arranged. He
meant in the end to have the estate, and he was ready to use any tool
or run any risk for that end. His first act was to establish himself as
near to his ancestral home as he could, and his second was to cultivate
a friendship with Sir Charles Baskerville and with the neighbours.

"The baronet himself told him about the family hound, and so prepared
the way for his own death. Stapleton, as I will continue to call him,
knew that the old man's heart was weak and that a shock would kill him.
So much he had learned from Dr. Mortimer. He had heard also that Sir
Charles was superstitious and had taken this grim legend very seriously.
His ingenious mind instantly suggested a way by which the baronet could
be done to death, and yet it would be hardly possible to bring home the
guilt to the real murderer.

"Having conceived the idea he proceeded to carry it out with
considerable finesse. An ordinary schemer would have been content
to work with a savage hound. The use of artificial means to make the
creature diabolical was a flash of genius upon his part. The dog he
bought in London from Ross and Mangles, the dealers in Fulham Road. It
was the strongest and most savage in their possession. He brought it
down by the North Devon line and walked a great distance over the moor
so as to get it home without exciting any remarks. He had already on his
insect hunts learned to penetrate the Grimpen Mire, and so had found a
safe hiding-place for the creature. Here he kennelled it and waited his
chance.

"But it was some time coming. The old gentleman could not be decoyed
outside of his grounds at night. Several times Stapleton lurked about
with his hound, but without avail. It was during these fruitless quests
that he, or rather his ally, was seen by peasants, and that the legend
of the demon dog received a new confirmation. He had hoped that his wife
might lure Sir Charles to his ruin, but here she proved unexpectedly
independent. She would not endeavour to entangle the old gentleman in
a sentimental attachment which might deliver him over to his enemy.
Threats and even, I am sorry to say, blows refused to move her. She
would have nothing to do with it, and for a time Stapleton was at a
deadlock.

"He found a way out of his difficulties through the chance that Sir
Charles, who had conceived a friendship for him, made him the minister
of his charity in the case of this unfortunate woman, Mrs. Laura Lyons.
By representing himself as a single man he acquired complete influence
over her, and he gave her to understand that in the event of her
obtaining a divorce from her husband he would marry her. His plans were
suddenly brought to a head by his knowledge that Sir Charles was about
to leave the Hall on the advice of Dr. Mortimer, with whose opinion he
himself pretended to coincide. He must act at once, or his victim might
get beyond his power. He therefore put pressure upon Mrs. Lyons to
write this letter, imploring the old man to give her an interview on
the evening before his departure for London. He then, by a specious
argument, prevented her from going, and so had the chance for which he
had waited.

"Driving back in the evening from Coombe Tracey he was in time to get
his hound, to treat it with his infernal paint, and to bring the beast
round to the gate at which he had reason to expect that he would find
the old gentleman waiting. The dog, incited by its master, sprang over
the wicket-gate and pursued the unfortunate baronet, who fled screaming
down the yew alley. In that gloomy tunnel it must indeed have been a
dreadful sight to see that huge black creature, with its flaming jaws
and blazing eyes, bounding after its victim. He fell dead at the end
of the alley from heart disease and terror. The hound had kept upon the
grassy border while the baronet had run down the path, so that no track
but the man's was visible. On seeing him lying still the creature had
probably approached to sniff at him, but finding him dead had turned
away again. It was then that it left the print which was actually
observed by Dr. Mortimer. The hound was called off and hurried away to
its lair in the Grimpen Mire, and a mystery was left which puzzled
the authorities, alarmed the countryside, and finally brought the case
within the scope of our observation.

"So much for the death of Sir Charles Baskerville. You perceive the
devilish cunning of it, for really it would be almost impossible to make
a case against the real murderer. His only accomplice was one who could
never give him away, and the grotesque, inconceivable nature of
the device only served to make it more effective. Both of the women
concerned in the case, Mrs. Stapleton and Mrs. Laura Lyons, were left
with a strong suspicion against Stapleton. Mrs. Stapleton knew that he
had designs upon the old man, and also of the existence of the hound.
Mrs. Lyons knew neither of these things, but had been impressed by the
death occurring at the time of an uncancelled appointment which was only
known to him. However, both of them were under his influence, and he had
nothing to fear from them. The first half of his task was successfully
accomplished but the more difficult still remained.

"It is possible that Stapleton did not know of the existence of an heir
in Canada. In any case he would very soon learn it from his friend Dr.
Mortimer, and he was told by the latter all details about the arrival of
Henry Baskerville. Stapleton's first idea was that this young stranger
from Canada might possibly be done to death in London without coming
down to Devonshire at all. He distrusted his wife ever since she had
refused to help him in laying a trap for the old man, and he dared not
leave her long out of his sight for fear he should lose his influence
over her. It was for this reason that he took her to London with him.
They lodged, I find, at the Mexborough Private Hotel, in Craven Street,
which was actually one of those called upon by my agent in search
of evidence. Here he kept his wife imprisoned in her room while
he, disguised in a beard, followed Dr. Mortimer to Baker Street and
afterwards to the station and to the Northumberland Hotel. His wife had
some inkling of his plans; but she had such a fear of her husband--a
fear founded upon brutal ill-treatment--that she dare not write to warn
the man whom she knew to be in danger. If the letter should fall into
Stapleton's hands her own life would not be safe. Eventually, as we
know, she adopted the expedient of cutting out the words which would
form the message, and addressing the letter in a disguised hand. It
reached the baronet, and gave him the first warning of his danger.

"It was very essential for Stapleton to get some article of Sir Henry's
attire so that, in case he was driven to use the dog, he might always
have the means of setting him upon his track. With characteristic
promptness and audacity he set about this at once, and we cannot doubt
that the boots or chamber-maid of the hotel was well bribed to help him
in his design. By chance, however, the first boot which was procured for
him was a new one and, therefore, useless for his purpose. He then had
it returned and obtained another--a most instructive incident, since it
proved conclusively to my mind that we were dealing with a real hound,
as no other supposition could explain this anxiety to obtain an old
boot and this indifference to a new one. The more outre and grotesque an
incident is the more carefully it deserves to be examined, and the very
point which appears to complicate a case is, when duly considered and
scientifically handled, the one which is most likely to elucidate it.

"Then we had the visit from our friends next morning, shadowed always
by Stapleton in the cab. From his knowledge of our rooms and of my
appearance, as well as from his general conduct, I am inclined to think
that Stapleton's career of crime has been by no means limited to this
single Baskerville affair. It is suggestive that during the last three
years there have been four considerable burglaries in the west country,
for none of which was any criminal ever arrested. The last of these, at
Folkestone Court, in May, was remarkable for the cold-blooded pistolling
of the page, who surprised the masked and solitary burglar. I cannot
doubt that Stapleton recruited his waning resources in this fashion, and
that for years he has been a desperate and dangerous man.

"We had an example of his readiness of resource that morning when he got
away from us so successfully, and also of his audacity in sending back
my own name to me through the cabman. From that moment he understood
that I had taken over the case in London, and that therefore there was
no chance for him there. He returned to Dartmoor and awaited the arrival
of the baronet."

"One moment!" said I. "You have, no doubt, described the sequence
of events correctly, but there is one point which you have left
unexplained. What became of the hound when its master was in London?"

"I have given some attention to this matter and it is undoubtedly of
importance. There can be no question that Stapleton had a confidant,
though it is unlikely that he ever placed himself in his power by
sharing all his plans with him. There was an old manservant at Merripit
House, whose name was Anthony. His connection with the Stapletons can
be traced for several years, as far back as the school-mastering days,
so that he must have been aware that his master and mistress were really
husband and wife. This man has disappeared and has escaped from the
country. It is suggestive that Anthony is not a common name in England,
while Antonio is so in all Spanish or Spanish-American countries. The
man, like Mrs. Stapleton herself, spoke good English, but with a curious
lisping accent. I have myself seen this old man cross the Grimpen
Mire by the path which Stapleton had marked out. It is very probable,
therefore, that in the absence of his master it was he who cared for the
hound, though he may never have known the purpose for which the beast
was used.

"The Stapletons then went down to Devonshire, whither they were soon
followed by Sir Henry and you. One word now as to how I stood myself at
that time. It may possibly recur to your memory that when I examined
the paper upon which the printed words were fastened I made a close
inspection for the water-mark. In doing so I held it within a few inches
of my eyes, and was conscious of a faint smell of the scent known as
white jessamine. There are seventy-five perfumes, which it is very
necessary that a criminal expert should be able to distinguish from each
other, and cases have more than once within my own experience depended
upon their prompt recognition. The scent suggested the presence of a
lady, and already my thoughts began to turn towards the Stapletons. Thus
I had made certain of the hound, and had guessed at the criminal before
ever we went to the west country.

"It was my game to watch Stapleton. It was evident, however, that I
could not do this if I were with you, since he would be keenly on his
guard. I deceived everybody, therefore, yourself included, and I came
down secretly when I was supposed to be in London. My hardships were
not so great as you imagined, though such trifling details must never
interfere with the investigation of a case. I stayed for the most
part at Coombe Tracey, and only used the hut upon the moor when it was
necessary to be near the scene of action. Cartwright had come down with
me, and in his disguise as a country boy he was of great assistance
to me. I was dependent upon him for food and clean linen. When I was
watching Stapleton, Cartwright was frequently watching you, so that I
was able to keep my hand upon all the strings.

"I have already told you that your reports reached me rapidly, being
forwarded instantly from Baker Street to Coombe Tracey. They were of
great service to me, and especially that one incidentally truthful piece
of biography of Stapleton's. I was able to establish the identity of
the man and the woman and knew at last exactly how I stood. The case
had been considerably complicated through the incident of the escaped
convict and the relations between him and the Barrymores. This also you
cleared up in a very effective way, though I had already come to the
same conclusions from my own observations.

"By the time that you discovered me upon the moor I had a complete
knowledge of the whole business, but I had not a case which could go to
a jury. Even Stapleton's attempt upon Sir Henry that night which ended
in the death of the unfortunate convict did not help us much in proving
murder against our man. There seemed to be no alternative but to
catch him red-handed, and to do so we had to use Sir Henry, alone and
apparently unprotected, as a bait. We did so, and at the cost of a
severe shock to our client we succeeded in completing our case and
driving Stapleton to his destruction. That Sir Henry should have been
exposed to this is, I must confess, a reproach to my management of the
case, but we had no means of foreseeing the terrible and paralyzing
spectacle which the beast presented, nor could we predict the fog which
enabled him to burst upon us at such short notice. We succeeded in our
object at a cost which both the specialist and Dr. Mortimer assure me
will be a temporary one. A long journey may enable our friend to recover
not only from his shattered nerves but also from his wounded feelings.
His love for the lady was deep and sincere, and to him the saddest part
of all this black business was that he should have been deceived by her.

"It only remains to indicate the part which she had played throughout.
There can be no doubt that Stapleton exercised an influence over her
which may have been love or may have been fear, or very possibly both,
since they are by no means incompatible emotions. It was, at least,
absolutely effective. At his command she consented to pass as his
sister, though he found the limits of his power over her when he
endeavoured to make her the direct accessory to murder. She was ready to
warn Sir Henry so far as she could without implicating her husband, and
again and again she tried to do so. Stapleton himself seems to have been
capable of jealousy, and when he saw the baronet paying court to the
lady, even though it was part of his own plan, still he could not help
interrupting with a passionate outburst which revealed the fiery soul
which his self-contained manner so cleverly concealed. By encouraging
the intimacy he made it certain that Sir Henry would frequently come
to Merripit House and that he would sooner or later get the opportunity
which he desired. On the day of the crisis, however, his wife turned
suddenly against him. She had learned something of the death of the
convict, and she knew that the hound was being kept in the outhouse on
the evening that Sir Henry was coming to dinner. She taxed her husband
with his intended crime, and a furious scene followed in which he showed
her for the first time that she had a rival in his love. Her fidelity
turned in an instant to bitter hatred, and he saw that she would betray
him. He tied her up, therefore, that she might have no chance of warning
Sir Henry, and he hoped, no doubt, that when the whole countryside put
down the baronet's death to the curse of his family, as they certainly
would do, he could win his wife back to accept an accomplished fact and
to keep silent upon what she knew. In this I fancy that in any case
he made a miscalculation, and that, if we had not been there, his doom
would none the less have been sealed. A woman of Spanish blood does
not condone such an injury so lightly. And now, my dear Watson, without
referring to my notes, I cannot give you a more detailed account of
this curious case. I do not know that anything essential has been left
unexplained."

"He could not hope to frighten Sir Henry to death as he had done the old
uncle with his bogie hound."

"The beast was savage and half-starved. If its appearance did not
frighten its victim to death, at least it would paralyze the resistance
which might be offered."

"No doubt. There only remains one difficulty. If Stapleton came into the
succession, how could he explain the fact that he, the heir, had been
living unannounced under another name so close to the property? How
could he claim it without causing suspicion and inquiry?"

"It is a formidable difficulty, and I fear that you ask too much when
you expect me to solve it. The past and the present are within the field
of my inquiry, but what a man may do in the future is a hard question
to answer. Mrs. Stapleton has heard her husband discuss the problem on
several occasions. There were three possible courses. He might claim the
property from South America, establish his identity before the British
authorities there and so obtain the fortune without ever coming to
England at all, or he might adopt an elaborate disguise during the
short time that he need be in London; or, again, he might furnish an
accomplice with the proofs and papers, putting him in as heir, and
retaining a claim upon some proportion of his income. We cannot doubt
from what we know of him that he would have found some way out of the
difficulty. And now, my dear Watson, we have had some weeks of severe
work, and for one evening, I think, we may turn our thoughts into more
pleasant channels. I have a box for 'Les Huguenots.' Have you heard the
De Reszkes? Might I trouble you then to be ready in half an hour, and we
can stop at Marcini's for a little dinner on the way?"

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: About a month later, Holmes and Watson are sitting by the fire in their apartment in London. They've had a visit from Sir Henry and Dr. Mortimer, who are about to go on a relaxing trip around the world to help improve Sir Henry's "shattered nerves" . No kidding. Since the case of the Baskervilles is on Watson's mind, he presses Holmes to tell him more about the background of the case. Apparently, Mrs. Stapleton has confirmed Holmes' guess that Stapleton was a Baskerville. He was the son of Rodger Baskerville, Sir Charles' younger brother, who moved to South America to escape some nasty rumors about him. Stapleton's real name was Rodger Baskerville , and he married a South American woman named Beryl Garcia. He and Beryl came to England under the fake name of Vandelay--wait, we meant Vandeleur--after running away with some embezzled money. They opened a school, which eventually failed. So the Vandeleurs changed their names to Stapleton and moved to the south of England. Stapleton discovered that he was pretty close to being the heir to the Baskerville fortune. And--luckily for him, because he was a creep--the current holder of that fortune was easily frightened and had a heart problem. So Stapleton bought a giant dog, mixed up some phosphorus, plunked the dog down in the middle of the Grimpen Mire, and waited for his chance. Stapleton had planned at first to live with Beryl as his sister rather than his wife just in case he could use her to attract Sir Charles. But she absolutely refused to help Stapleton in this way. Stapleton lucked out when he met Laura Lyons, whom he manipulated into writing to Sir Charles for help in getting a divorce. On the night of Sir Charles' death, Stapleton brought the dog to the driveway where Sir Charles was waiting for Laura. Stapleton released the dog on Sir Charles, who ran away screaming until he collapsed from his weak heart. That's why there was a paw print near Sir Charles' body. Both Beryl and Laura Lyons suspected Stapleton of planning Sir Charles' death, but neither would turn on him while they were still in love with him. And then, along came Sir Henry. Stapleton traveled to London to see if he could figure out some way of stopping Sir Henry from coming down to Baskerville Hall at all. At this point, Stapleton had stopped trusting Beryl, so he dragged her along on the trip and kept her prisoner in the hotel while he spied on Sir Henry. She still managed to send Sir Henry her secret message cut out of the Times, though. The disappearing boots were also a clue: the first one was too new to smell like Sir Henry, which is why Stapleton returned it. The older black boot was better for training his giant dog to chase the scent. When Stapleton spotted Holmes in the company of Sir Henry, he realized that there was no point in continuing to hunt Sir Henry in London. Stapleton went back to Merripit House with his wife to try his luck in Dartmoor. Even before Holmes went down to the moors, he already suspected Stapleton. The problem was catching him, with enough proof to make a legal case against him. That's why Holmes set up poor Sir Henry as bait to catch Stapleton red-handed. As for Beryl, she started out helping Stapleton because she really loved him . But as time went on, Beryl's loyalties shifted to Sir Henry and she began to hate Stapleton. Finally, on the night of the attack, Beryl tried to stop Stapleton from setting up Sir Henry for death-by-dog, and he tied her up to keep her out of the way. So that's that. Elementary. There's nothing more that Holmes can say with any certainty. So he and Watson go off to the opera for the evening--a happy ending .


prompt:
Chapter: We were in class when the head-master came in, followed by a "new
fellow," not wearing the school uniform, and a school servant carrying a
large desk. Those who had been asleep woke up, and every one rose as if
just surprised at his work.

The head-master made a sign to us to sit down. Then, turning to the
class-master, he said to him in a low voice--

"Monsieur Roger, here is a pupil whom I recommend to your care; he'll be
in the second. If his work and conduct are satisfactory, he will go into
one of the upper classes, as becomes his age."

The "new fellow," standing in the corner behind the door so that he
could hardly be seen, was a country lad of about fifteen, and taller
than any of us. His hair was cut square on his forehead like a village
chorister's; he looked reliable, but very ill at ease. Although he was
not broad-shouldered, his short school jacket of green cloth with black
buttons must have been tight about the arm-holes, and showed at the
opening of the cuffs red wrists accustomed to being bare. His legs, in
blue stockings, looked out from beneath yellow trousers, drawn tight by
braces, He wore stout, ill-cleaned, hob-nailed boots.

We began repeating the lesson. He listened with all his ears, as
attentive as if at a sermon, not daring even to cross his legs or lean
on his elbow; and when at two o'clock the bell rang, the master was
obliged to tell him to fall into line with the rest of us.

When we came back to work, we were in the habit of throwing our caps on
the ground so as to have our hands more free; we used from the door to
toss them under the form, so that they hit against the wall and made a
lot of dust: it was "the thing."

But, whether he had not noticed the trick, or did not dare to attempt
it, the "new fellow," was still holding his cap on his knees even after
prayers were over. It was one of those head-gears of composite order, in
which we can find traces of the bearskin, shako, billycock hat, sealskin
cap, and cotton night-cap; one of those poor things, in fine, whose
dumb ugliness has depths of expression, like an imbecile's face. Oval,
stiffened with whalebone, it began with three round knobs; then came in
succession lozenges of velvet and rabbit-skin separated by a red band;
after that a sort of bag that ended in a cardboard polygon covered with
complicated braiding, from which hung, at the end of a long thin cord,
small twisted gold threads in the manner of a tassel. The cap was new;
its peak shone.

"Rise," said the master.

He stood up; his cap fell. The whole class began to laugh. He stooped to
pick it up. A neighbor knocked it down again with his elbow; he picked
it up once more.

"Get rid of your helmet," said the master, who was a bit of a wag.

There was a burst of laughter from the boys, which so thoroughly put the
poor lad out of countenance that he did not know whether to keep his cap
in his hand, leave it on the ground, or put it on his head. He sat down
again and placed it on his knee.

"Rise," repeated the master, "and tell me your name."

The new boy articulated in a stammering voice an unintelligible name.

"Again!"

The same sputtering of syllables was heard, drowned by the tittering of
the class.

"Louder!" cried the master; "louder!"

The "new fellow" then took a supreme resolution, opened an inordinately
large mouth, and shouted at the top of his voice as if calling someone
in the word "Charbovari."

A hubbub broke out, rose in crescendo with bursts of shrill voices (they
yelled, barked, stamped, repeated "Charbovari! Charbovari"), then died
away into single notes, growing quieter only with great difficulty, and
now and again suddenly recommencing along the line of a form whence rose
here and there, like a damp cracker going off, a stifled laugh.

However, amid a rain of impositions, order was gradually re-established
in the class; and the master having succeeded in catching the name of
"Charles Bovary," having had it dictated to him, spelt out, and re-read,
at once ordered the poor devil to go and sit down on the punishment form
at the foot of the master's desk. He got up, but before going hesitated.

"What are you looking for?" asked the master.

"My c-a-p," timidly said the "new fellow," casting troubled looks round
him.

"Five hundred lines for all the class!" shouted in a furious voice
stopped, like the Quos ego*, a fresh outburst. "Silence!" continued the
master indignantly, wiping his brow with his handkerchief, which he
had just taken from his cap. "As to you, 'new boy,' you will conjugate
'ridiculus sum'** twenty times."

Then, in a gentler tone, "Come, you'll find your cap again; it hasn't
been stolen."

     *A quotation from the Aeneid signifying a threat.

     **I am ridiculous.

Quiet was restored. Heads bent over desks, and the "new fellow" remained
for two hours in an exemplary attitude, although from time to time some
paper pellet flipped from the tip of a pen came bang in his face. But he
wiped his face with one hand and continued motionless, his eyes lowered.

In the evening, at preparation, he pulled out his pens from his desk,
arranged his small belongings, and carefully ruled his paper. We saw him
working conscientiously, looking up every word in the dictionary, and
taking the greatest pains. Thanks, no doubt, to the willingness he
showed, he had not to go down to the class below. But though he knew his
rules passably, he had little finish in composition. It was the cure
of his village who had taught him his first Latin; his parents, from
motives of economy, having sent him to school as late as possible.

His father, Monsieur Charles Denis Bartolome Bovary, retired
assistant-surgeon-major, compromised about 1812 in certain conscription
scandals, and forced at this time to leave the service, had taken
advantage of his fine figure to get hold of a dowry of sixty thousand
francs that offered in the person of a hosier's daughter who had fallen
in love with his good looks. A fine man, a great talker, making his
spurs ring as he walked, wearing whiskers that ran into his moustache,
his fingers always garnished with rings and dressed in loud colours,
he had the dash of a military man with the easy go of a commercial
traveller.

Once married, he lived for three or four years on his wife's fortune,
dining well, rising late, smoking long porcelain pipes, not coming in
at night till after the theatre, and haunting cafes. The father-in-law
died, leaving little; he was indignant at this, "went in for the
business," lost some money in it, then retired to the country, where he
thought he would make money.

But, as he knew no more about farming than calico, as he rode his horses
instead of sending them to plough, drank his cider in bottle instead of
selling it in cask, ate the finest poultry in his farmyard, and greased
his hunting-boots with the fat of his pigs, he was not long in finding
out that he would do better to give up all speculation.

For two hundred francs a year he managed to live on the border of
the provinces of Caux and Picardy, in a kind of place half farm, half
private house; and here, soured, eaten up with regrets, cursing his
luck, jealous of everyone, he shut himself up at the age of forty-five,
sick of men, he said, and determined to live at peace.

His wife had adored him once on a time; she had bored him with a
thousand servilities that had only estranged him the more. Lively once,
expansive and affectionate, in growing older she had become (after the
fashion of wine that, exposed to air, turns to vinegar) ill-tempered,
grumbling, irritable. She had suffered so much without complaint at
first, until she had seem him going after all the village drabs, and
until a score of bad houses sent him back to her at night, weary,
stinking drunk. Then her pride revolted. After that she was silent,
burying her anger in a dumb stoicism that she maintained till her death.
She was constantly going about looking after business matters. She
called on the lawyers, the president, remembered when bills fell due,
got them renewed, and at home ironed, sewed, washed, looked after the
workmen, paid the accounts, while he, troubling himself about nothing,
eternally besotted in sleepy sulkiness, whence he only roused himself
to say disagreeable things to her, sat smoking by the fire and spitting
into the cinders.

When she had a child, it had to be sent out to nurse. When he came home,
the lad was spoilt as if he were a prince. His mother stuffed him
with jam; his father let him run about barefoot, and, playing the
philosopher, even said he might as well go about quite naked like the
young of animals. As opposed to the maternal ideas, he had a certain
virile idea of childhood on which he sought to mould his son, wishing
him to be brought up hardily, like a Spartan, to give him a strong
constitution. He sent him to bed without any fire, taught him to drink
off large draughts of rum and to jeer at religious processions. But,
peaceable by nature, the lad answered only poorly to his notions. His
mother always kept him near her; she cut out cardboard for him, told him
tales, entertained him with endless monologues full of melancholy gaiety
and charming nonsense. In her life's isolation she centered on the
child's head all her shattered, broken little vanities. She dreamed of
high station; she already saw him, tall, handsome, clever, settled as
an engineer or in the law. She taught him to read, and even, on an old
piano, she had taught him two or three little songs. But to all this
Monsieur Bovary, caring little for letters, said, "It was not worth
while. Would they ever have the means to send him to a public school, to
buy him a practice, or start him in business? Besides, with cheek a man
always gets on in the world." Madame Bovary bit her lips, and the child
knocked about the village.

He went after the labourers, drove away with clods of earth the ravens
that were flying about. He ate blackberries along the hedges, minded the
geese with a long switch, went haymaking during harvest, ran about in
the woods, played hop-scotch under the church porch on rainy days, and
at great fetes begged the beadle to let him toll the bells, that he
might hang all his weight on the long rope and feel himself borne upward
by it in its swing. Meanwhile he grew like an oak; he was strong on
hand, fresh of colour.

When he was twelve years old his mother had her own way; he began
lessons. The cure took him in hand; but the lessons were so short and
irregular that they could not be of much use. They were given at spare
moments in the sacristy, standing up, hurriedly, between a baptism and
a burial; or else the cure, if he had not to go out, sent for his pupil
after the Angelus*. They went up to his room and settled down; the
flies and moths fluttered round the candle. It was close, the child
fell asleep, and the good man, beginning to doze with his hands on his
stomach, was soon snoring with his mouth wide open. On other occasions,
when Monsieur le Cure, on his way back after administering the viaticum
to some sick person in the neighbourhood, caught sight of Charles
playing about the fields, he called him, lectured him for a quarter of
an hour and took advantage of the occasion to make him conjugate his
verb at the foot of a tree. The rain interrupted them or an acquaintance
passed. All the same he was always pleased with him, and even said the
"young man" had a very good memory.

     *A devotion said at morning, noon, and evening, at the sound
     of a bell. Here, the evening prayer.

Charles could not go on like this. Madame Bovary took strong steps.
Ashamed, or rather tired out, Monsieur Bovary gave in without a
struggle, and they waited one year longer, so that the lad should take
his first communion.

Six months more passed, and the year after Charles was finally sent to
school at Rouen, where his father took him towards the end of October,
at the time of the St. Romain fair.

It would now be impossible for any of us to remember anything about him.
He was a youth of even temperament, who played in playtime, worked in
school-hours, was attentive in class, slept well in the dormitory,
and ate well in the refectory. He had in loco parentis* a wholesale
ironmonger in the Rue Ganterie, who took him out once a month on Sundays
after his shop was shut, sent him for a walk on the quay to look at
the boats, and then brought him back to college at seven o'clock before
supper. Every Thursday evening he wrote a long letter to his mother with
red ink and three wafers; then he went over his history note-books, or
read an old volume of "Anarchasis" that was knocking about the study.
When he went for walks he talked to the servant, who, like himself, came
from the country.

     *In place of a parent.

By dint of hard work he kept always about the middle of the class; once
even he got a certificate in natural history. But at the end of his
third year his parents withdrew him from the school to make him study
medicine, convinced that he could even take his degree by himself.

His mother chose a room for him on the fourth floor of a dyer's she
knew, overlooking the Eau-de-Robec. She made arrangements for his
board, got him furniture, table and two chairs, sent home for an old
cherry-tree bedstead, and bought besides a small cast-iron stove with
the supply of wood that was to warm the poor child.

Then at the end of a week she departed, after a thousand injunctions to
be good now that he was going to be left to himself.

The syllabus that he read on the notice-board stunned him; lectures
on anatomy, lectures on pathology, lectures on physiology, lectures on
pharmacy, lectures on botany and clinical medicine, and therapeutics,
without counting hygiene and materia medica--all names of whose
etymologies he was ignorant, and that were to him as so many doors to
sanctuaries filled with magnificent darkness.

He understood nothing of it all; it was all very well to listen--he did
not follow. Still he worked; he had bound note-books, he attended all
the courses, never missed a single lecture. He did his little daily task
like a mill-horse, who goes round and round with his eyes bandaged, not
knowing what work he is doing.

To spare him expense his mother sent him every week by the carrier a
piece of veal baked in the oven, with which he lunched when he came back
from the hospital, while he sat kicking his feet against the wall.
After this he had to run off to lectures, to the operation-room, to the
hospital, and return to his home at the other end of the town. In the
evening, after the poor dinner of his landlord, he went back to his
room and set to work again in his wet clothes, which smoked as he sat in
front of the hot stove.

On the fine summer evenings, at the time when the close streets are
empty, when the servants are playing shuttle-cock at the doors, he
opened his window and leaned out. The river, that makes of this quarter
of Rouen a wretched little Venice, flowed beneath him, between the
bridges and the railings, yellow, violet, or blue. Working men, kneeling
on the banks, washed their bare arms in the water. On poles projecting
from the attics, skeins of cotton were drying in the air. Opposite,
beyond the roots spread the pure heaven with the red sun setting. How
pleasant it must be at home! How fresh under the beech-tree! And he
expanded his nostrils to breathe in the sweet odours of the country
which did not reach him.

He grew thin, his figure became taller, his face took a saddened look
that made it nearly interesting. Naturally, through indifference, he
abandoned all the resolutions he had made. Once he missed a lecture; the
next day all the lectures; and, enjoying his idleness, little by little,
he gave up work altogether. He got into the habit of going to the
public-house, and had a passion for dominoes. To shut himself up every
evening in the dirty public room, to push about on marble tables the
small sheep bones with black dots, seemed to him a fine proof of his
freedom, which raised him in his own esteem. It was beginning to see
life, the sweetness of stolen pleasures; and when he entered, he put
his hand on the door-handle with a joy almost sensual. Then many things
hidden within him came out; he learnt couplets by heart and sang them to
his boon companions, became enthusiastic about Beranger, learnt how to
make punch, and, finally, how to make love.

Thanks to these preparatory labours, he failed completely in his
examination for an ordinary degree. He was expected home the same night
to celebrate his success. He started on foot, stopped at the beginning
of the village, sent for his mother, and told her all. She excused
him, threw the blame of his failure on the injustice of the examiners,
encouraged him a little, and took upon herself to set matters straight.
It was only five years later that Monsieur Bovary knew the truth; it was
old then, and he accepted it. Moreover, he could not believe that a man
born of him could be a fool.

So Charles set to work again and crammed for his examination,
ceaselessly learning all the old questions by heart. He passed pretty
well. What a happy day for his mother! They gave a grand dinner.

Where should he go to practice? To Tostes, where there was only one old
doctor. For a long time Madame Bovary had been on the look-out for his
death, and the old fellow had barely been packed off when Charles was
installed, opposite his place, as his successor.

But it was not everything to have brought up a son, to have had him
taught medicine, and discovered Tostes, where he could practice it;
he must have a wife. She found him one--the widow of a bailiff at
Dieppe--who was forty-five and had an income of twelve hundred francs.
Though she was ugly, as dry as a bone, her face with as many pimples as
the spring has buds, Madame Dubuc had no lack of suitors. To attain her
ends Madame Bovary had to oust them all, and she even succeeded in
very cleverly baffling the intrigues of a port-butcher backed up by the
priests.

Charles had seen in marriage the advent of an easier life, thinking he
would be more free to do as he liked with himself and his money. But his
wife was master; he had to say this and not say that in company, to fast
every Friday, dress as she liked, harass at her bidding those patients
who did not pay. She opened his letter, watched his comings and goings,
and listened at the partition-wall when women came to consult him in his
surgery.

She must have her chocolate every morning, attentions without end. She
constantly complained of her nerves, her chest, her liver. The noise of
footsteps made her ill; when people left her, solitude became odious to
her; if they came back, it was doubtless to see her die. When Charles
returned in the evening, she stretched forth two long thin arms from
beneath the sheets, put them round his neck, and having made him sit
down on the edge of the bed, began to talk to him of her troubles: he
was neglecting her, he loved another. She had been warned she would be
unhappy; and she ended by asking him for a dose of medicine and a little
more love.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: A nameless first-person narrator recounts the day young Charles Bovary appeared at school. Charles is an embarrassed, rusticated, slow, and bewildered rural fellow. Also, he's a total fashion victim. Charles has some difficulty managing his tragically ugly hat; the teacher and the other boys all mock him. The class gets even rowdier, and the teacher assigns some lines to punish them. Things quiet down, though Charles is attacked with surreptitious spitballs. The other boys observe the newcomer carefully. He's not terribly bright, but he's a hard worker. Next, we get some background on the Bovary family: Charles's dad is a boastful but unsuccessful businessman who pretty much fails to support his family. His poor mom, whose money sustained her husband through his attempts at finding a career, is embittered, peevish, and obsessed with her son. Charles received a half-hearted education, but spent most of his childhood left to his own devices, running barefoot around the village and chasing turkeys . Despite his lackluster upbringing, Charles's parents hope that he'll make a name for himself. After a pretty average, unmemorable time at school, they enroll him in medical school, where he begins to appreciate the finer things in life: the stereotypical temptations of wine, women, and song. After failing his exams once, then cramming like crazy and passing a second time, Charles manages to get certified as an officier de sante . This is kind of like a junior doctor; it's a guy who's not a real doctor, but is allowed to practice medicine. Mama Bovary is happy. She sets Charles up in a nearby town, Tostes, then marries him off to a wealthy, needy widow. You've got to feel bad for the guy.


prompt:
Chapter: One night towards eleven o'clock they were awakened by the noise of
a horse pulling up outside their door. The servant opened the
garret-window and parleyed for some time with a man in the street below.
He came for the doctor, had a letter for him. Natasie came downstairs
shivering and undid the bars and bolts one after the other. The man left
his horse, and, following the servant, suddenly came in behind her. He
pulled out from his wool cap with grey top-knots a letter wrapped up in
a rag and presented it gingerly to Charles, who rested on his elbow on
the pillow to read it. Natasie, standing near the bed, held the light.
Madame in modesty had turned to the wall and showed only her back.

This letter, sealed with a small seal in blue wax, begged Monsieur
Bovary to come immediately to the farm of the Bertaux to set a broken
leg. Now from Tostes to the Bertaux was a good eighteen miles across
country by way of Longueville and Saint-Victor. It was a dark night;
Madame Bovary junior was afraid of accidents for her husband. So it was
decided the stable-boy should go on first; Charles would start three
hours later when the moon rose. A boy was to be sent to meet him, and
show him the way to the farm, and open the gates for him.

Towards four o'clock in the morning, Charles, well wrapped up in his
cloak, set out for the Bertaux. Still sleepy from the warmth of his bed,
he let himself be lulled by the quiet trot of his horse. When it stopped
of its own accord in front of those holes surrounded with thorns that
are dug on the margin of furrows, Charles awoke with a start, suddenly
remembered the broken leg, and tried to call to mind all the fractures
he knew. The rain had stopped, day was breaking, and on the branches
of the leafless trees birds roosted motionless, their little feathers
bristling in the cold morning wind. The flat country stretched as far as
eye could see, and the tufts of trees round the farms at long intervals
seemed like dark violet stains on the cast grey surface, that on the
horizon faded into the gloom of the sky.

Charles from time to time opened his eyes, his mind grew weary, and,
sleep coming upon him, he soon fell into a doze wherein, his recent
sensations blending with memories, he became conscious of a double
self, at once student and married man, lying in his bed as but now, and
crossing the operation theatre as of old. The warm smell of poultices
mingled in his brain with the fresh odour of dew; he heard the iron
rings rattling along the curtain-rods of the bed and saw his wife
sleeping. As he passed Vassonville he came upon a boy sitting on the
grass at the edge of a ditch.

"Are you the doctor?" asked the child.

And on Charles's answer he took his wooden shoes in his hands and ran on
in front of him.

The general practitioner, riding along, gathered from his guide's talk
that Monsieur Rouault must be one of the well-to-do farmers.

He had broken his leg the evening before on his way home from a
Twelfth-night feast at a neighbour's. His wife had been dead for two
years. There was with him only his daughter, who helped him to keep
house.

The ruts were becoming deeper; they were approaching the Bertaux.

The little lad, slipping through a hole in the hedge, disappeared;
then he came back to the end of a courtyard to open the gate. The
horse slipped on the wet grass; Charles had to stoop to pass under
the branches. The watchdogs in their kennels barked, dragging at their
chains. As he entered the Bertaux, the horse took fright and stumbled.

It was a substantial-looking farm. In the stables, over the top of the
open doors, one could see great cart-horses quietly feeding from new
racks. Right along the outbuildings extended a large dunghill, from
which manure liquid oozed, while amidst fowls and turkeys, five or six
peacocks, a luxury in Chauchois farmyards, were foraging on the top of
it. The sheepfold was long, the barn high, with walls smooth as your
hand. Under the cart-shed were two large carts and four ploughs, with
their whips, shafts and harnesses complete, whose fleeces of blue wool
were getting soiled by the fine dust that fell from the granaries. The
courtyard sloped upwards, planted with trees set out symmetrically, and
the chattering noise of a flock of geese was heard near the pond.

A young woman in a blue merino dress with three flounces came to the
threshold of the door to receive Monsieur Bovary, whom she led to the
kitchen, where a large fire was blazing. The servant's breakfast was
boiling beside it in small pots of all sizes. Some damp clothes were
drying inside the chimney-corner. The shovel, tongs, and the nozzle
of the bellows, all of colossal size, shone like polished steel, while
along the walls hung many pots and pans in which the clear flame of the
hearth, mingling with the first rays of the sun coming in through the
window, was mirrored fitfully.

Charles went up the first floor to see the patient. He found him in his
bed, sweating under his bed-clothes, having thrown his cotton nightcap
right away from him. He was a fat little man of fifty, with white skin
and blue eyes, the forepart of his head bald, and he wore earrings. By
his side on a chair stood a large decanter of brandy, whence he poured
himself a little from time to time to keep up his spirits; but as soon
as he caught sight of the doctor his elation subsided, and instead of
swearing, as he had been doing for the last twelve hours, began to groan
freely.

The fracture was a simple one, without any kind of complication.

Charles could not have hoped for an easier case. Then calling to mind
the devices of his masters at the bedsides of patients, he comforted the
sufferer with all sorts of kindly remarks, those caresses of the surgeon
that are like the oil they put on bistouries. In order to make some
splints a bundle of laths was brought up from the cart-house. Charles
selected one, cut it into two pieces and planed it with a fragment
of windowpane, while the servant tore up sheets to make bandages, and
Mademoiselle Emma tried to sew some pads. As she was a long time before
she found her work-case, her father grew impatient; she did not answer,
but as she sewed she pricked her fingers, which she then put to her
mouth to suck them. Charles was surprised at the whiteness of her nails.
They were shiny, delicate at the tips, more polished than the ivory of
Dieppe, and almond-shaped. Yet her hand was not beautiful, perhaps not
white enough, and a little hard at the knuckles; besides, it was too
long, with no soft inflections in the outlines. Her real beauty was in
her eyes. Although brown, they seemed black because of the lashes, and
her look came at you frankly, with a candid boldness.

The bandaging over, the doctor was invited by Monsieur Rouault himself
to "pick a bit" before he left.

Charles went down into the room on the ground floor. Knives and forks
and silver goblets were laid for two on a little table at the foot of a
huge bed that had a canopy of printed cotton with figures representing
Turks. There was an odour of iris-root and damp sheets that escaped
from a large oak chest opposite the window. On the floor in corners were
sacks of flour stuck upright in rows. These were the overflow from
the neighbouring granary, to which three stone steps led. By way of
decoration for the apartment, hanging to a nail in the middle of the
wall, whose green paint scaled off from the effects of the saltpetre,
was a crayon head of Minerva in gold frame, underneath which was written
in Gothic letters "To dear Papa."

First they spoke of the patient, then of the weather, of the great cold,
of the wolves that infested the fields at night.

Mademoiselle Rouault did not at all like the country, especially now
that she had to look after the farm almost alone. As the room was
chilly, she shivered as she ate. This showed something of her full lips,
that she had a habit of biting when silent.

Her neck stood out from a white turned-down collar. Her hair, whose
two black folds seemed each of a single piece, so smooth were they, was
parted in the middle by a delicate line that curved slightly with the
curve of the head; and, just showing the tip of the ear, it was joined
behind in a thick chignon, with a wavy movement at the temples that the
country doctor saw now for the first time in his life. The upper part of
her cheek was rose-coloured. She had, like a man, thrust in between two
buttons of her bodice a tortoise-shell eyeglass.

When Charles, after bidding farewell to old Rouault, returned to the
room before leaving, he found her standing, her forehead against the
window, looking into the garden, where the bean props had been knocked
down by the wind. She turned round. "Are you looking for anything?" she
asked.

"My whip, if you please," he answered.

He began rummaging on the bed, behind the doors, under the chairs. It
had fallen to the floor, between the sacks and the wall. Mademoiselle
Emma saw it, and bent over the flour sacks.

Charles out of politeness made a dash also, and as he stretched out his
arm, at the same moment felt his breast brush against the back of the
young girl bending beneath him. She drew herself up, scarlet, and looked
at him over her shoulder as she handed him his whip.

Instead of returning to the Bertaux in three days as he had promised,
he went back the very next day, then regularly twice a week, without
counting the visits he paid now and then as if by accident.

Everything, moreover, went well; the patient progressed favourably; and
when, at the end of forty-six days, old Rouault was seen trying to walk
alone in his "den," Monsieur Bovary began to be looked upon as a man
of great capacity. Old Rouault said that he could not have been cured
better by the first doctor of Yvetot, or even of Rouen.

As to Charles, he did not stop to ask himself why it was a pleasure
to him to go to the Bertaux. Had he done so, he would, no doubt, have
attributed his zeal to the importance of the case, or perhaps to the
money he hoped to make by it. Was it for this, however, that his visits
to the farm formed a delightful exception to the meagre occupations of
his life? On these days he rose early, set off at a gallop, urging on
his horse, then got down to wipe his boots in the grass and put on black
gloves before entering. He liked going into the courtyard, and noticing
the gate turn against his shoulder, the cock crow on the wall, the lads
run to meet him. He liked the granary and the stables; he liked old
Rouault, who pressed his hand and called him his saviour; he liked the
small wooden shoes of Mademoiselle Emma on the scoured flags of the
kitchen--her high heels made her a little taller; and when she walked in
front of him, the wooden soles springing up quickly struck with a sharp
sound against the leather of her boots.

She always accompanied him to the first step of the stairs. When his
horse had not yet been brought round she stayed there. They had said
"Good-bye"; there was no more talking. The open air wrapped her round,
playing with the soft down on the back of her neck, or blew to and fro
on her hips the apron-strings, that fluttered like streamers. Once,
during a thaw the bark of the trees in the yard was oozing, the snow on
the roofs of the outbuildings was melting; she stood on the threshold,
and went to fetch her sunshade and opened it. The sunshade of silk of
the colour of pigeons' breasts, through which the sun shone, lighted
up with shifting hues the white skin of her face. She smiled under the
tender warmth, and drops of water could be heard falling one by one on
the stretched silk.

During the first period of Charles's visits to the Bertaux, Madame
Bovary junior never failed to inquire after the invalid, and she had
even chosen in the book that she kept on a system of double entry a
clean blank page for Monsieur Rouault. But when she heard he had a
daughter, she began to make inquiries, and she learnt the Mademoiselle
Rouault, brought up at the Ursuline Convent, had received what is called
"a good education"; and so knew dancing, geography, drawing, how to
embroider and play the piano. That was the last straw.

"So it is for this," she said to herself, "that his face beams when he
goes to see her, and that he puts on his new waistcoat at the risk of
spoiling it with the rain. Ah! that woman! That woman!"

And she detested her instinctively. At first she solaced herself by
allusions that Charles did not understand, then by casual observations
that he let pass for fear of a storm, finally by open apostrophes to
which he knew not what to answer. "Why did he go back to the Bertaux now
that Monsieur Rouault was cured and that these folks hadn't paid yet?
Ah! it was because a young lady was there, some one who know how to
talk, to embroider, to be witty. That was what he cared about; he wanted
town misses." And she went on--

"The daughter of old Rouault a town miss! Get out! Their grandfather was
a shepherd, and they have a cousin who was almost had up at the assizes
for a nasty blow in a quarrel. It is not worth while making such a fuss,
or showing herself at church on Sundays in a silk gown like a countess.
Besides, the poor old chap, if it hadn't been for the colza last year,
would have had much ado to pay up his arrears."

For very weariness Charles left off going to the Bertaux. Heloise made
him swear, his hand on the prayer-book, that he would go there no more
after much sobbing and many kisses, in a great outburst of love. He
obeyed then, but the strength of his desire protested against the
servility of his conduct; and he thought, with a kind of naive
hypocrisy, that his interdict to see her gave him a sort of right to
love her. And then the widow was thin; she had long teeth; wore in all
weathers a little black shawl, the edge of which hung down between her
shoulder-blades; her bony figure was sheathed in her clothes as if they
were a scabbard; they were too short, and displayed her ankles with the
laces of her large boots crossed over grey stockings.

Charles's mother came to see them from time to time, but after a few
days the daughter-in-law seemed to put her own edge on her, and
then, like two knives, they scarified him with their reflections and
observations. It was wrong of him to eat so much.

Why did he always offer a glass of something to everyone who came?
What obstinacy not to wear flannels! In the spring it came about that a
notary at Ingouville, the holder of the widow Dubuc's property, one fine
day went off, taking with him all the money in his office. Heloise,
it is true, still possessed, besides a share in a boat valued at six
thousand francs, her house in the Rue St. Francois; and yet, with all
this fortune that had been so trumpeted abroad, nothing, excepting
perhaps a little furniture and a few clothes, had appeared in the
household. The matter had to be gone into. The house at Dieppe was found
to be eaten up with mortgages to its foundations; what she had placed
with the notary God only knew, and her share in the boat did not exceed
one thousand crowns. She had lied, the good lady! In his exasperation,
Monsieur Bovary the elder, smashing a chair on the flags, accused his
wife of having caused misfortune to the son by harnessing him to such
a harridan, whose harness wasn't worth her hide. They came to Tostes.
Explanations followed. There were scenes. Heloise in tears, throwing her
arms about her husband, implored him to defend her from his parents.

Charles tried to speak up for her. They grew angry and left the house.

But "the blow had struck home." A week after, as she was hanging up some
washing in her yard, she was seized with a spitting of blood, and
the next day, while Charles had his back turned to her drawing the
window-curtain, she said, "O God!" gave a sigh and fainted. She was
dead! What a surprise! When all was over at the cemetery Charles went
home. He found no one downstairs; he went up to the first floor to
their room; saw her dress still hanging at the foot of the alcove; then,
leaning against the writing-table, he stayed until the evening, buried
in a sorrowful reverie. She had loved him after all!

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The young "doctor" is awakened in the night by a call from a patient; someone at a farm called Les Bertaux outside the town has a broken leg that needs to be set. It's agreed that Charles will head out to take care of the patient at moonrise. Until then, Charles lies awake, dreading the medical debacle about to unfold. We've already figured out that he's not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer, and he doesn't feel too confident about his healing powers. We have to admit, we're nervous for him and his patient, too...seriously, would you want this guy operating on your broken leg? Les Bertaux turns out to be a nice piece of real estate. Monsieur Rouault, the farmer/patient, is obviously pretty well off. A widower, he takes care of the family farm with the help of his young daughter. Said daughter lets Charles in and takes him up to the patient. Monsieur Rouault is a good-natured man, and his fracture also proves to be somewhat good-natured; it's a totally clean break, and Charles starts to feel confident again. He cheers up his patient, and competently takes care of the injury. In the meanwhile, the daughter, Emma, attempts to make herself useful by sewing some padding, but she turns out to be a bad seamstress. Her ineptitude doesn't matter, though - Charles is quite taken by her dainty appearance . As the three of them go downstairs to have a bite to eat, the young doctor takes a better look at the young daughter. Charles get to know Emma a little better. She hates country living, and doesn't seem quite content with her life. We're not sure if Charles notices this. What he does notice is that she is really beautiful. She's got gorgeous brown eyes, full lips, carefully arranged black hair, and rosy cheeks. Someone's got a crush... Charles keeps visiting Les Bertaux, supposedly to check in with his patient, but really to see Emma. His irritable/irritating wife finds out that Emma is something of a fine young lady, having received a fancy education at a convent, and is upset by the idea that Charles is in love with the girl. She makes Charles promise not to visit Les Bertaux anymore. Charles's first wife is not long in this world. Some bad financial news emerges , and the distraught woman actually collapses and dies. Charles is now free, although he does feel a little sad, since she loved him.