The Greatest Novels & Novellas of Gustave Flaubert. Gustave Flaubert

she making him advances?” said Madame Tuvache. Binet was scarlet to his very ears. She took hold of his hands.

      “Oh, it’s too much!”

      And no doubt she was suggesting something abominable to him; for the taxcollector — yet he was brave, had fought at Bautzen and at Lutzen, had been through the French campaign, and had even been recommended for the cross — suddenly, as at the sight of a serpent, recoiled as far as he could from her, crying —

      “Madame! what do you mean?”

      “Women like that ought to be whipped,” said Madame Tuvache.

      “But where is she?” continued Madame Caron, for she had disappeared whilst they spoke; then catching sight of her going up the Grande Rue, and turning to the right as if making for the cemetery, they were lost in conjectures.

      “Nurse Rollet,” she said on reaching the nurse’s, “I am choking; unlace me!” She fell on the bed sobbing. Nurse Rollet covered her with a petticoat and remained standing by her side. Then, as she did not answer, the good woman withdrew, took her wheel and began spinning flax.

      “Oh, leave off!” she murmured, fancying she heard Binet’s lathe.

      “What’s bothering her?” said the nurse to herself. “Why has she come here?”

      She had rushed thither; impelled by a kind of horror that drove her from her home.

      Lying on her back, motionless, and with staring eyes, she saw things but vaguely, although she tried to with idiotic persistence. She looked at the scales on the walls, two brands smoking end to end, and a long spider crawling over her head in a rent in the beam. At last she began to collect her thoughts. She remembered — one day — Leon — Oh! how long ago that was — the sun was shining on the river, and the clematis were perfuming the air. Then, carried away as by a rushing torrent, she soon began to recall the day before.

      “What time is it?” she asked.

      Mere Rollet went out, raised the fingers of her right hand to that side of the sky that was brightest, and came back slowly, saying —

      “Nearly three.”

      “Ahl thanks, thanks!”

      For he would come; he would have found some money. But he would, perhaps, go down yonder, not guessing she was here, and she told the nurse to run to her house to fetch him.

      “Be quick!”

      “But, my dear lady, I’m going, I’m going!”

      She wondered now that she had not thought of him from the first. Yesterday he had given his word; he would not break it. And she already saw herself at Lheureux’s spreading out her three banknotes on his bureau. Then she would have to invent some story to explain matters to Bovary. What should it be?

      The nurse, however, was a long while gone. But, as there was no clock in the cot, Emma feared she was perhaps exaggerating the length of time. She began walking round the garden, step by step; she went into the path by the hedge, and returned quickly, hoping that the woman would have come back by another road. At last, weary of waiting, assailed by fears that she thrust from her, no longer conscious whether she had been here a century or a moment, she sat down in a corner, closed her eyes, and stopped her ears. The gate grated; she sprang up. Before she had spoken Mere Rollet said to her —

      “There is no one at your house!”

      “What?”

      “Oh, no one! And the doctor is crying. He is calling for you; they’re looking for you.”

      Emma answered nothing. She gasped as she turned her eyes about her, while the peasant woman, frightened at her face, drew back instinctively, thinking her mad. Suddenly she struck her brow and uttered a cry; for the thought of Rodolphe, like a flash of lightning in a dark night, had passed into her soul. He was so good, so delicate, so generous! And besides, should he hesitate to do her this service, she would know well enough how to constrain him to it by re-waking, in a single moment, their lost love. So she set out towards La Huchette, not seeing that she was hastening to offer herself to that which but a while ago had so angered her, not in the least conscious of her prostitution.

      Chapter Eight

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      She asked herself as she walked along, “What am I going to say? How shall I begin?” And as she went on she recognised the thickets, the trees, the sea-rushes on the hill, the chateau yonder. All the sensations of her first tenderness came back to her, and her poor aching heart opened out amorously. A warm wind blew in her face; the melting snow fell drop by drop from the buds to the grass.

      She entered, as she used to, through the small park-gate. She reached the avenue bordered by a double row of dense lime-trees. They were swaying their long whispering branches to and fro. The dogs in their kennels all barked, and the noise of their voices resounded, but brought out no one.

      She went up the large straight staircase with wooden balusters that led to the corridor paved with dusty flags, into which several doors in a row opened, as in a monastery or an inn. His was at the top, right at the end, on the left. When she placed her fingers on the lock her strength suddenly deserted her. She was afraid, almost wished he would not be there, though this was her only hope, her last chance of salvation. She collected her thoughts for one moment, and, strengthening herself by the feeling of present necessity, went in.

      He was in front of the fire, both his feet on the mantelpiece, smoking a pipe.

      “What! it is you!” he said, getting up hurriedly.

      “Yes, it is I, Rodolphe. I should like to ask your advice.”

      And, despite all her efforts, it was impossible for her to open her lips.

      “You have not changed; you are charming as ever!”

      “Oh,” she replied bitterly, “they are poor charms since you disdained them.”

      Then he began a long explanation of his conduct, excusing himself in vague terms, in default of being able to invent better.

      She yielded to his words, still more to his voice and the sight of him, so that, she pretended to believe, or perhaps believed; in the pretext he gave for their rupture; this was a secret on which depended the honour, the very life of a third person.

      “No matter!” she said, looking at him sadly. “I have suffered much.”

      He replied philosophically —

      “Such is life!”

      “Has life,” Emma went on, “been good to you at least, since our separation?”

      “Oh, neither good nor bad.”

      “Perhaps it would have been better never to have parted.”

      “Yes, perhaps.”

      “You think so?” she said, drawing nearer, and she sighed. “Oh, Rodolphe! if you but knew! I loved you so!”

      It was then that she took his hand, and they remained some time, their fingers intertwined, like that first day at the Show. With a gesture of pride he struggled against this emotion. But sinking upon his breast she said to him —

      “How did you think I could live without you? One cannot lose the habit of happiness. I was desolate. I thought I should die. I will tell you about all that and you will see. And you — you fled from me!”

      For, all the three years, he had carefully avoided her in consequence of that natural cowardice that characterises the stronger sex. Emma went on, with dainty little nods, more coaxing than an amorous kitten —

      “You love others, confess it! Oh, I understand them, dear! I excuse them. You probably seduced them as you seduced me. You are indeed a man;