On the 'Hirondelle'; Leon's room; The blind singer; Received, sixty-five francs; Pressing for money; Lheureux's bills; Another Power of Attorney; Charles seeks for Emma; Leon the bewitched.

THURSDAY was her day. She got up and dressed very quietly, so as not to disturb Charles, who would no doubt have scolded her for getting ready before the proper time. Then she walked up and down, up and down, or took her stand at the window and looked out on to the Square. The morning light came flooding in between the pillars of the market-hall, and on the chemist's house, whose shutters were still fast closed, the gilt letters of his sign glimmered softly in the glow of dawn.

As soon as the clock said a quarter past seven, she went across to the 'Lion d'Or'. Artemise came yawning to let her in. She unearthed a few embers that lay buried under the ashes, and then Emma was left alone in the kitchen. From time to time she would step out into the yard. Hivert was putting to without any symptoms of undue haste, lending an ear all the time to Mere Lefrancois, who, with her nightcap on her head, was leaning out of the window bawling out orders and directions so numerous and complicated that any other man would have been completely dazed by them. Emma stood by, tapping the sole of her boot impatiently on the cobbles.

At last, when he had swallowed his soup, struggled into his heavy coat, lit up his pipe and grasped his whip, he hoisted himself slowly on to the box.

The Hirondelle started off at an easy trot, and for the first three miles or so kept stopping to pick up the travellers who were standing waiting for its appearance by the roadside, just outside their gates. Those who had booked seats over-night kept the diligence waiting- some, indeed, were still indoors and in bed. Hivert, having called and shouted, cursed and sworn, clambered down from his seat to go and hammer vigorously at the door. A chilling draught blew in through the ill-fitting windows of the diligence.

The four rows of seats filled up, the diligence rolled on, orchard followed orchard in endless succession, and the road, between its two long ditches full of yellow water, stretched away before them, seeming to narrow in as it approached the skyline.

Emma knew every inch of the way- knew that after a stretch of grassland there came a mile-post, then an elm-tree, a barn or a road-mender's hut. Sometimes, in order to give herself a surprise, she would keep her eyes shut for a while; but she never lost the clear idea of the exact distance she had to cover.

At last the brick-built houses came in close succession, the road rang hollow beneath the wheels, the 'Hirondelle' glided along between gardens in which, through an open gate, you could catch a fleeting glimpse of a statue or a clipped yew or a swing. Then, of a sudden, outspread before you, lay the city. Sloping down on every side, all bathed in the mist, it stretched out far and wide beyond the bridges, a confused medley of buildings, and yet farther still, the open country beyond rose up, even and monotonous, till, in the far distance, it touched the shadowy underline of the pale grey sky. Looked at thus from a height, the whole scene appeared as motionless as a picture. The ships at anchor thronged together in a corner; the river coiled round about the green hills in a sweeping curve, and the oval-shaped islands looked like great dark fish floating motionless on the surface of the water. The chimney stacks of the factories sent forth long plumes of dun-coloured smoke, that frayed away into the wind at their extremities. The roaring of the foundries mingled with airy chimes from the towers and steeples that rose above the sea of mist. The leafless trees of the boulevards looked like tufts of purple brushwood among the houses, and the roofs, all glistening in the rain, flashed out a medley of sparkling lights that varied with the height of the ground. Occasionally a gust of wind would come and sweep the clouds towards the heights of Sainte Catherine, like airy billows breaking soundlessly against a cliff.

The thought of all these living beings crowded so densely together, gave her a feeling of dizziness, and her bosom swelled when she thought of them, as if the hundred and twenty thousand hearts that throbbed there had assailed her all at once with the afflatus of the passions which she dreamed must animate their hearts. Her love seemed to wax greater as she drank in the spacious scene before her, and her bosom surged with tumult as the vague murmur of the city smote upon her ears. She poured it out again- this love, this tumult- on the squares and the promenades and the streets, and the old Norman city lay outspread beneath her gaze like some mighty metropolis, some vast Babylon, within whose shadowy immensity she was about to pass. She leaned upon her two hands and gazed out of the window, sniffing in the breeze. The three horses were going along at a canter, stones were scrunching in the mud, the diligence rocked from side to side, and Hivert, from afar, shouted at the traffic in front of him, what time the worthy citizens who had been spending the night at Bois Guillaume were quietly descending the hill in their little family conveyances.

They pulled up at the city gates. Emma took off her goloshes, put on another pair of gloves, adjusted her shawl and, twenty yards or so further on, alighted from the 'Hirondelle'.

The city was beginning to bestir itself. Shopmen were busy polishing the fronts of their shops, and women, with paniers at their hips, were crying their wares at every corner. She hastened along with downcast eyes, hugging the wall, concealing a smile of joy beneath the long dark veil that hid her features.

For fear of being seen, she usually avoided the direct route, plunging into the network of dim alley-ways, and when she reached the bottom of the Rue Nationale, close by the fountain there, she was in a bath of perspiration. It was the theatre quarter, the place for drink-shops and the haunt of women of the town. Often a cart would pass along, loaded up with a trembling pile of stage scenery. Waiters in white aprons would be scattering sand on the pavement between the tubs of evergreens, and the whole place would be reeking of absinthe, cigars and oysters. She turned down a side street, and yes, it was he! She knew him by his frizzy hair that came out under his hat.

Leon made no sign, but continued on his way. She kept behind him until they came to the hotel. In and up the stairs he went, opened the door of their room and entered; and then- what an embrace! And, when the kisses were over, what a torrent of words! They spoke of all the worries they had had during the week, their misgivings, their anxiety about the letters. But there! it was all over now; and they gazed at each other with little voluptuous gurglings of delight, and words of tenderness and love.

The bed was a big mahogany one in the form of a cradle. The curtains were of red damask, and there was nothing so beautiful in the world as her dark head and white skin against this crimson background when, with a little bashful gesture, she put her naked arms together and hid her face in her hands.

The cosy room, with its noiseless carpet, its cheerful ornaments, its tranquil light, seemed specially to lend itself to the intimacies of passion. The curtain rods which terminated in arrow-heads, the copper ewers and the big knobs of the andirons gleamed brightly when the sun shone on them. On the chimney-piece, between the candelabra, were two of those big pink shells which sound like the sea when you hold them to your ear.

How they loved this dear old room, so full of gaiety, despite its rather faded splendours! They always found everything in its familiar place, and sometimes they would come across hairpins, which she had left behind the Thursday before, hidden away beneath the clock. They had their lunch by the fire on a little side-table. Emma carved, putting the tit-bits on his plate with little arch, kittenish gestures; and she laughed a loud rollicking laugh when the champagne, frothing over the delicate glass rim, ran down about the rings on her fingers. They were so completely wrapt up in each other, so oblivious of the outer world, that it seemed like being in their own house, and they dreamed they would continue to live there always, eternal bridegroom and eternal bride, world without end. They talked about 'our room', 'our carpet', 'our easy-chairs', she even spoke of 'our slippers'. Leon had given them to her because she had seen them and set her heart on them. They were pink satin slippers, edged with swansdown. When she sat on his knee, her legs were not long enough to touch the ground, and dangled in the air, and the dainty slipper which had no heel to it only hung on by the big toe to her naked foot.

For the first time in his life he savoured the ineffable sweetness of exquisite femininity. Never had he met with such charm of utterance, such taste in dress, or beheld these postures of the sleepy dove. He marvelled at the exaltation of her soul and at the lace on her petticoat. And then, wasn't she a 'lady' and married? A real mistress, in fact.

By the diversity of her ways, wistful or gay, prattling or silent, eager or careless, she never failed to exert her fascination, awakening interests or stirring old memories. She was the heroine of every novel, of every play, the vague ineffable 'she' of every book of poetry. He beheld about her shoulders the amber tresses of the 'Odalisque bathing'; she had the long waist of the medieval chatelaines; she resembled, too, the 'Pale Woman of Barcelona'; but above all she was the Angel!

Often as he gazed at her, it seemed to him as if his soul, taking flight towards her, was diffused like a wave over the contour of her head and descended willy-nilly into the whiteness of her bosom.

He knelt on the ground before her; and with his two elbows on her knees gazed at her with a smile, leaning his face towards her.

And she leaned down to him, and murmured, as though suffocated with delight,

'Oh, don't move! don't speak! Look at me! There is something in your eyes so sweet that does me so much good.'

And she called him 'child'.

'Do you love me, child?'

And she scarcely heard his reply, so wildly did he press his lips to her mouth.

On the clock there was a little bronze Cupid, who was footing it and smiling archly beneath a golden garland. They laughed at it several times. But when it came to saying good-bye, the world and everything grew serious.

Motionless, standing face to face, they would say, over and over again,

'Good-bye till Thursday! Thursday!'

Then suddenly she would seize his head in both her hands, kiss him quickly on the forehead and, crying 'Adieu', dart down the staircase.

She would go to a hairdresser's in the Rue de la Comedie to get her hair put straight. It was getting dark, and they were lighting up the gas in the shop. She heard the theatre bell summoning the actors to their task, and across the street she saw pale-faced men going by, and women in dowdy dresses, all making for the stage door.

It was hot in this little low-ceilinged room, where the stove was hissing amid an array of wigs and pots of pomade. The smell of the curling-tongs and the oily hands that manipulated her hair soon made her feel sleepy, and she dozed off a little in her peignoir. Often the assistant who was doing her hair would suggest she should take a ticket for the dance.

Then she would depart, make her way back along the streets and arrive at the 'Croix Rouge'. She would get out the pattens, which she had hidden in the morning under one of the seats, and huddle up in her place among the impatient travellers. Some of them got out at the foot of the hill to walk. She sat on in the diligence alone.

At every turn she saw more and more of the town with its lights, which spread a wide sheet of luminous vapour above the medley of houses. Emma knelt up on the cushions and let her eyes wander over the dazzling scene. She sobbed, she called 'Leon' and sent him tender speeches and kisses blown into space by the wind.

There used to be a poor wretched beggar fellow, who went plodding about with his stick right in the very thick of the traffic. A mass of rags covered his shoulders and a battered old beaver, rounded like a basin, hid his face from view. But when he withdrew it, he discovered, in the place where his eyelids should have been, two gaping cavities all filled with blood. The flesh hung down in red tatters, and liquids oozing from it coagulated in green scabs as far as the nose, the black nostrils of which snorted convulsively.

To address you he flung back his head with a sort of idiot laugh, and then his bluish pupils, rolling in a continuous movement, settled themselves towards the temples, on the edge of the live wound.

He ran after you, singing a little ditty,

Now skies are bright, the summer's here,

A maiden thinks upon her dear.

And the rest of it was all about birds and sunshine and green leaves.

Sometimes he would start up behind Emma with his head uncovered. She would shrink back with a cry. Hivert would ply him with chaff. He would tell him to hire a booth at Saint Romain's fair, or ask him, with a laugh, how his sweetheart was.

Often, when the diligence had started off again, his hat would suddenly be thrust in at the window. With his free arm he would hold on to the step, getting splashed all over with mud from the wheels. His voice, at first weak and quavery, would grow shrill and plaintive. It trailed out in the darkness of the night like a wind-dispersed lament, voicing a nameless sorrow; and as it rose above the tinkling of the bells, the sound of the wind in the trees and the rumble of the empty old caravan, there was a far-off sound about it that knocked at Emma's heart. It went sheer down into the depths of her soul like a whirlwind in a chasm, and bore her away among the spaces of an illimitable melancholy. But Hivert, who noticed the vehicle was out of trim, hit out at the blind man with his whip. The lash of it whipped his sores, and he fell off howling into the mud.

At last the passengers in the 'Hirondelle' dropped off to sleep, some with their mouths wide open, others with their chins on their breasts, leaning against their neighbours' shoulders or lolling with their arms through the strap, lurching from side to side with the swaying of the vehicle; and the reflection of the lantern, which swung to and fro outside, on the crupper of the shaft horses, penetrating into the interior through the curtains of chocolate-coloured calico, cast blood-red shadows on all these tranquil sleepers. Emma, drunk with sadness, shivered in her wraps and felt her feet growing colder and colder, and the chill of death in her soul.

Charles was at home and waiting for her. The 'Hirondelle' was always late on Thursdays.

But at last Madame arrived. She hardly so much as kissed the child. Dinner wasn't ready, but no matter. She made excuses for the cook. It seemed, now, as if the girl could do no wrong.

Often her husband, remarking how pale she was, asked her if she were feeling ill.

'No,' said Emma.

'But,' he answered, 'you seem so strange tonight.'

'Oh, no! It's nothing. I'm all right.'

On some days she had hardly got inside the house, when she went straight up to her room, and Justin, who was there, would steal silently about, more sedulous in her service than a well-drilled chambermaid. He put the matches and the candlestick handy, and a book for her to read; unfolded her nightdress, turned down the bedclothes.

'There,' she said, 'that will do; now run along!'

For he kept standing there, his hands drooping and his eyes staring, as though enmeshed in the mazy threads of a sudden day-dream.

The next day was a terrible one for her, and the following one still more insufferable, so great was her impatience to taste her bliss again; an eager lust, inflamed with familiar images, which, on the seventh day, burst forth without restraint in Leon's caresses. His own ardours hid themselves under expressions of wonderment and gratitude. Emma enjoyed this love in a discreet and absorbed, fashion, nourished it by all the artifices of her tenderness, trembling a little lest it should some day die away.

Often she would say to him, with little, gentle modulations of sweet melancholy in her voice,

'Ah, you will leave me, you will! You will go and get married; you will be like the other men.'

'What other men?' he asked.

'Why, men in general,' she replied; then she added, pushing him away with a gesture of weariness, 'You are wicked wretches, all of you.'

One day when they were having a philosophical discussion about life and its disillusions, she happened to say (either to see if he would be jealous or because the desire to unburden herself was too strong to resist) that in days gone by, before she knew him, she had loved a man. 'Oh, not like you,' she interjected quickly, swearing by the head of her child that 'nothing had ever happened'.

Leon believed her. All the same, he wanted to know what sort of a man it was.

'He was a captain in the Navy, dear.'

Wasn't that a good way to stave off all inquiries, and at the same time to put herself up on a higher pedestal as being a woman to exert a fascination on one who, from the nature of the case, was bound to be a man of intrepid spirit and the cynosure of women's eyes?

Thereupon the clerk felt very small indeed. He entertained a huge envy of men who could sport epaulettes and decorations, men with a handle to their names. Things of that kind were bound to impress her; that much he deduced from her extravagant habits.

However, a great many of her expensive ideas she kept to herself. For example, she never said anything about her longing to have a smart blue tilbury to take her to Rouen, with an English horse and a groom in top-boots. It was Justin who had put the idea into her head, imploring her to take him into her service as footman. And if doing without the tilbury did not diminish the joys of the arrival, it unquestionably augmented the sorrows of the departure.

Often, when they were talking about Paris, she would end up by saying,

'Ah, how splendid it would be if only we could live there!'

'But aren't we happy where we are?' Leon would answer, softly stroking her head.

'Oh, yes, of course,' she said; 'it's only my fun; kiss me!'

She was more attentive to her husband than ever. She made him little dainties and played him waltz-tunes after dinner. He came to look upon himself as the happiest of mortals, and Emma's mind was completely at rest when, all of a sudden, one evening, he said,

'It's Mademoiselle Lempereur, isn't it, who's giving you lessons?'

'Yes.'

'Well, I met her a little while ago at Madame Liegeard's. I mentioned your name to her, but she doesn't know you.'

This was a regular thunderbolt! However, she answered in quite a natural tone,

'Oh, well, she's no doubt forgotten my name.'

'Besides,' said the doctor, 'there are, quite possibly, several ladies of that name at Rouen who teach music.'

'Yes, quite likely. But wait!' she added, as if she had suddenly thought of something. 'I've got her receipts. Look, here they are.' She got up and went over to the secretaire, rummaged about in the drawers, tumbled the papers over and over, and finally got in such a muddle that Charles implored her not to bother any more about the wretched things.

'Oh, but I 'will' find them!' she said.

And sure enough, the following Friday, when Charles was pulling on one of his boots in the closet where his clothes were stowed, he felt a piece of paper between the leather and his sock. He pulled it out and read,

'Received for three months' tuition, and sundries supplied, the sum of sixty-five francs. 'Felicie Lempereur', teacher of music.'

'How the devil could it have got into my boot?'

'It must have fallen out of the old filing-box on the edge of the shelf.'

From that moment her whole existence was nothing but a maze of lies, in which she enveloped her liaison as in a veil, in order to hide it from the world.

Lying became a necessity with her, a mania, a pastime; so much so that if she said she had walked down a street on the right, it was necessary to understand that she had actually walked down it on the left.

One morning, just after she had started, rather lightly clad as usual, it suddenly came on to snow. Charles, standing at the window looking out at the weather, saw the Abbe Bournisien in Monsieur Tuvache's trap, in which he was getting a lift to Rouen.

Whereupon he ran down with a thick shawl, and gave it to the priest, asking him to hand it to Madame when he got to the 'Croix Rouge'. No sooner had he arrived at the inn than he asked for the doctor's wife at Yonville. The landlady replied that she very seldom came to her establishment. And so, that night, recognizing Madame Bovary in the 'Hirondelle', the 'cure' told her of the fix he had been in, without, however, attaching much importance to it, for he at once began to sing the praises of some preacher who was doing wonders at the Cathedral and whom all the ladies were flocking to hear.

But that wasn't the point. If he didn't ask awkward questions, other people, later on, might be more inquisitive. So she thought it as well to put up regularly at the 'Croix Rouge' in order that any worthies from her village who might see her on the stairs wouldn't think anything more about it.

One day, however, Monsieur Lheureux ran into her as she was coming out of the Hotel de Boulogne on Leon's arm; it gave her a shock, for she thought he was bound to spread it abroad. He wasn't such a fool. But three days later he came into her room, shut the door behind him and said,

'I could do with a bit of money.'

She declared she couldn't let him have any. Lheureux made a great song about it, and reminded her how accommodating he had always been.

As a matter of fact, of the two bills to which Charles had put his signature, Emma had up to now only cleared off one. As for the second, Lheureux, at her urgent request, had replaced it by two others which themselves had been dated a long way ahead. Then he pulled out of his pocket a formidable statement of goods not paid for- namely, the curtains, the carpet, material for covering the chairs, several dresses and sundry toilet requisites, amounting in all to a total of a couple of thousand francs.

She drooped her head.

'But if you haven't got cash, you've got property,' and he mentioned a tumble-down place at Barneville near Aumale which didn't bring in much rent. It had formerly belonged to a little farm sold by Monsieur Bovary, senior, for Lheureux was up in the whole thing, knew the exact acreage and the names of all the adjoining tenants.

'If I were you,' he said, 'I should pay off my debts, and there would still be some money over.'

She said the difficulty would be to find a buyer. He held out hopes of finding one; but suppose he did, how, she asked, was she going to sell?

'What about the Power of Attorney?' he replied.

It was like a breath of fresh air. 'Leave me the bill,' said Emma.

'Oh, no. Never mind about that!' answered Lheureux.

He came back the following week, and patted himself on the back for having managed, after a lot of trouble, to put his hand on a buyer, a man called Langlois, who had long had an eye on the property, though he never mentioned a price.

'Oh, bother the price!' she exclaimed.

Ah, no! They would have to go easy, and sound the fellow a bit. The thing was worth a journey, and as she couldn't manage it herself, he offered to go and talk it over with Langlois. As soon as he got back, he said that the purchaser suggested four thousand francs.

Emma was radiant.

'I don't mind telling you,' he added, 'it's not a bad price.'

She drew half the sum straight away.

'Upon my word of honour,' said Lheureux, as she was proceeding to pay up his bill, 'I'm really sorry to see you parting with such a lot of money.'

She gave another glance at the notes, and thought of all the meetings those two thousand francs would pay for.

'But what do you... w-what...?' she stammered

'Oh,' he broke in with a genial laugh, 'you can stick down anything you like on an invoice. D'you think I don't know how these things are wangled?'

And he looked at her steadily holding two long papers in his hand and drawing them slowly through his fingers. Finally, opening his pocket-case, he put down four promissory notes, each for a thousand francs.

'Sign these,' he said, 'and keep the lot.'

She uttered a little horrified cry.

'But if I give you what's over,' said Lheureux impudently, 'aren't I doing you a good turn?'

And taking up a pen he wrote at the bottom of the account, 'Received of Madame Bovary, four thousand francs'.

'But what are you worrying about? In six months' time you'll get the balance on your old shanty, and I am not making the last bill due till after you will have had the money!'

Emma was getting a little muddled in her calculations, and there was a sound in her ears as if a host of golden coins, bursting their bags, were jingling round her on the floor. Then Lheureux explained that he had a banker friend at Rouen called Vincart, who would discount the bills, and he himself would hand Madame the net amount left over, after everything had been paid up.

But instead of two thousand francs, he only brought her eighteen hundred, for his friend Vincart (as was right and proper) had deducted two hundred for commission and discount charges.

Then, quite casually, he asked for a receipt.

'You know what things are... in business... sometimes.... And now the date, if you please; just add the date.'

A vista of all kinds of tangible delights presented itself to Emma's gaze. She was prudent enough to put aside a thousand crowns to pay off the first three bills when they fell due. But the fourth, as luck would have it, landed in the house on a Thursday. Charles, quite flabbergasted, decided he must wait patiently for his wife to come back and explain matters.

Oh, the reason she hadn't said anything about this bill was that she didn't want to worry him with household affairs. She sat on his knee, put her arms round his neck and cooed, and enumerated, at great length, all the absolutely indispensable things she had been obliged to get on credit.

'Anyhow, you must agree that, considering the quantity of things, it's not such a vast amount of money.'

Charles, who didn't know 'what' to do, soon betook himself to the one and only Lheureux, who guaranteed to keep things quiet if Charles would just sign a couple of bills, one of which was for seven hundred francs payable at three months. To make provision for this he wrote a pathetic letter to his mother. Instead of answering by post she came herself; and when Emma asked if he had got anything out of her, he said, 'Yes, but she insists on seeing the account'.

Next morning, the very first thing, Emma rushed across to Monsieur Lheureux to ask him to make out another account for an amount not exceeding a thousand francs; for if she were to produce the one for four thousand, she would have to say that she had paid the first three, and therefore let out that she had sold the property. That bit of business had been skilfully put through by Lheureux, and did not come out until later.

In spite of the low prices of the various items, Madame Bovary senior considered that the expenditure was a great deal too lavish.

'Couldn't you have done without a carpet? What did you want with new chair-covers? In my day there was just one easy-chair in a house, for the old people- at any rate, that's how it was at my mother's, and she was a woman that was looked up to, let me tell you. Everybody can't be rich. However much you've got, it all goes sooner or later, if there's a leakage. I should be ashamed to pamper myself as you do, and I'm an old woman and need taking care of. And look here, 'altering this, and adjusting that'. All sorts of fallals and falbalas! What! silk for lining at two francs a yard, when you can get stuff that does equally well for eight or ten sous?'

Emma, reclining on the sofa, replied, as calmly as possible, 'There, Madame, that'll do, that'll do!'

But the old lady went on lecturing her, saying they would finish up in the workhouse. But it was really Bovary's fault. It was a good thing he had promised to cancel that Power of Attorney.

'What?'

'Yes, he gave me his word he would,' said the old lady.

Emma opened the window, shouted to Charles to come in, and the poor man had to confess that such a promise had, in fact, been wrung from him by his mother.

Emma disappeared. She soon returned with a document, which she held out to her with great dignity.

'Thank you,' said the old woman, and threw it on the fire.

Emma burst out laughing, a loud, strident laugh that she could not stop. She went off into hysterics.

'Oh, my God!' cried Charles. 'And you're in the wrong just as much as she is- going for her and making a scene like that!' His mother shrugged her shoulders and said it was all play-acting. For the first time in his life Charles rebelled and stuck up for his wife. Madame Bovary, senior, said she wouldn't stay in the house another day, and took her departure the very next morning. When she was on the doorstep and he was trying to keep her back, she answered him, saying,

'No! no! You love her more than you do me. You're right. It's only right and proper you should. However, it'll be a bad job of it, as you'll see one of these days. Wish you well- for you won't find me coming back here in a hurry "making scenes", as you call it.'

None the less Charles felt very guilty and abashed before Emma, who did not conceal her annoyance at his lack of trust in her. He had to do a deal of begging and praying before he could prevail on her to resume her office of attorney. He even went with her himself to Monsieur Guillaumin's in order to have another deed drawn up on precisely similar lines to the old one.

'I can 'quite' understand,' said the notary, 'a man of science cannot be bothered with the practical details of everyday life.'

Charles felt soothed at this comforting reflection. It gave his weakness the flattering appearance of absorption in things intellectual.

What a scene of excitement the Thursday afterwards, when she was alone again with Leon in their room at the hotel! She laughed, she cried, she sang, she danced, she sent down for cocktails, she insisted on smoking cigarettes, and generally behaved like a wild thing. Yet he could not help thinking how splendid, how adorable she was. He did not understand the complete reaction which made her more than ever determined to drink life to the lees. She became irritable, fond of rich food and every sort of sensual gratification. She walked about with him brazenly in the street, head up, without a tremor. Sometimes, however, she felt a qualm at the possibility of meeting Rodolphe; for although they had parted for ever it seemed to her that she still, somehow or other, belonged to him. One night she didn't come home at all. Charles went nearly off his head, and little Berthe, who wouldn't go to bed without her mummy, was sobbing her heart out. Justin had gone out to see if there was any sign of her along the road. The crisis had even brought out Monsieur Homais from his pharmacy.

At last, at eleven o'clock, Charles, unable to bear the suspense any longer, put the horse in the trap, jumped in, and driving as hard as he could, arrived at the 'Croix Rouge' about two in the morning. She wasn't there! He thought perhaps Leon might have seen her; but, then, where did Leon live? Fortunately Charles remembered the address of his employer. He rushed off there.

It was beginning to get light. He could make out a name-plate over a door. He knocked. Someone shouted the information he wanted from inside, not without some strong remarks about the iniquity of disturbing people at that time of night.

The house where the clerk lived had no bell, door-knocker or porter. Charles banged hard with his fist against the shutters, but a policeman heaving in sight, he got nervous and made off.

'I'm mad,' he said to himself. 'No doubt the Lormaux kept her to dinner.' But then the Lormaux family were no longer in Rouen.

'She stopped to look after Madame Dubreuil.' But no, Madame Dubreuil died ten months ago. Where 'could' she be, then?

He had an inspiration. He went to a cafe and asked for a directory. He quickly turned up the name of Mademoiselle Lempereur, and found that she lived at No. 74 Rue de la Renelle des Maroquiniers.

Just as he was turning into this street, Emma herself appeared from the other end of it. He didn't embrace her; he flung himself upon her.

'Where on earth have you been?' he cried.

'I wasn't well.'

'What was the matter?... Where?... How?...'

She drew her hand across her forehead and said,

'At Mademoiselle Lempereur's.'

'I thought as much. I was just on my way there.'

'Oh, well, never mind now,' said Emma. 'She hasn't been gone out many minutes. But in future don't get so nervy. I shall feel so dreadfully tied down if little delays like this are going to worry you so.'

It was a way of getting a free hand to do as she liked on her little escapades. And she made the very most of it. Whenever she took it into her head she wanted to see Leon, she trumped up some pretext, and away she went; and as he wasn't expecting her, she would go to his office to rout him out.

The first time or two it was splendid; but before long he had to tell the truth, which was that his chief didn't at all approve of these interferences with business.

'Oh, rubbish! Come along!' she replied.

And out he slipped.

She wanted him to dress entirely in black and to grow a little pointed beard so as to look like the portraits of Louis XIII. She asked to see his lodgings, and thought them rather mean. He went very red, but she did not notice him, and said he ought to get some curtains like hers. When he spoke of the expense she said,

'Ah, ha! you're the boy for the money, aren't you now?'

She would insist on making Leon tell her everything he had done since their last meeting. She wanted him to write some poetry in her honour, a love piece. Alas! he could never find a rhyme for the second line and ended by copying out a sonnet in an autograph album.

This was done not out of vanity, but merely to please her. He never argued with her about her ideas; he never disagreed with her tastes. He was much more of a mistress to her than she to him. She said wonderful, loving things to him and gave him kisses that nearly drew the soul from his body. Where had she been schooled in such corruption, that seemed almost sanctified by its profundity, and the perfection of her dissimulation?

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