The Greatest Novels & Novellas of Gustave Flaubert. Gustave Flaubert

      Emma listened to him with bowed head, and stirred the bits of wood on the ground with the tip of her foot. But at the words, “Are not our destinies now one?”

      “Oh, no!” she replied. “You know that well. It is impossible!” She rose to go. He seized her by the wrist. She stopped. Then, having gazed at him for a few moments with an amorous and humid look, she said hurriedly —

      “Ah! do not speak of it again! Where are the horses? Let us go back.”

      He made a gesture of anger and annoyance. She repeated:

      “Where are the horses? Where are the horses?”

      Then smiling a strange smile, his pupil fixed, his teeth set, he advanced with outstretched arms. She recoiled trembling. She stammered:

      “Oh, you frighten me! You hurt me! Let me go!”

      “If it must be,” he went on, his face changing; and he again became respectful, caressing, timid. She gave him her arm. They went back. He said —

      “What was the matter with you? Why? I do not understand. You were mistaken, no doubt. In my soul you are as a Madonna on a pedestal, in a place lofty, secure, immaculate. But I need you to live! I must have your eyes, your voice, your thought! Be my friend, my sister, my angel!”

      And he put out his arm round her waist. She feebly tried to disengage herself. He supported her thus as they walked along.

      But they heard the two horses browsing on the leaves.

      “Oh! one moment!” said Rodolphe. “Do not let us go! Stay!”

      He drew her farther on to a small pool where duckweeds made a greenness on the water. Faded water lilies lay motionless between the reeds. At the noise of their steps in the grass, frogs jumped away to hide themselves.

      “I am wrong! I am wrong!” she said. “I am mad to listen to you!”

      “Why? Emma! Emma!”

      “Oh, Rodolphe!” said the young woman slowly, leaning on his shoulder.

      The cloth of her habit caught against the velvet of his coat. She threw back her white neck, swelling with a sigh, and faltering, in tears, with a long shudder and hiding her face, she gave herself up to him —

      The shades of night were falling; the horizontal sun passing between the branches dazzled the eyes. Here and there around her, in the leaves or on the ground, trembled luminous patches, as it hummingbirds flying about had scattered their feathers. Silence was everywhere; something sweet seemed to come forth from the trees; she felt her heart, whose beating had begun again, and the blood coursing through her flesh like a stream of milk. Then far away, beyond the wood, on the other hills, she heard a vague prolonged cry, a voice which lingered, and in silence she heard it mingling like music with the last pulsations of her throbbing nerves. Rodolphe, a cigar between his lips, was mending with his penknife one of the two broken bridles.

      They returned to Yonville by the same road. On the mud they saw again the traces of their horses side by side, the same thickets, the same stones to the grass; nothing around them seemed changed; and yet for her something had happened more stupendous than if the mountains had moved in their places. Rodolphe now and again bent forward and took her hand to kiss it.

      She was charming on horseback — upright, with her slender waist, her knee bent on the mane of her horse, her face somewhat flushed by the fresh air in the red of the evening.

      On entering Yonville she made her horse prance in the road. People looked at her from the windows.

      At dinner her husband thought she looked well, but she pretended not to hear him when he inquired about her ride, and she remained sitting there with her elbow at the side of her plate between the two lighted candles.

      “Emma!” he said.

      “What?”

      “Well, I spent the afternoon at Monsieur Alexandre’s. He has an old cob, still very fine, only a little broken-kneed, and that could be bought; I am sure, for a hundred crowns.” He added, “And thinking it might please you, I have bespoken it — bought it. Have I done right? Do tell me?”

      She nodded her head in assent; then a quarter of an hour later —

      “Are you going out tonight?” she asked.

      “Yes. Why?”

      “Oh, nothing, nothing, my dear!”

      And as soon as she had got rid of Charles she went and shut herself up in her room.

      At first she felt stunned; she saw the trees, the paths, the ditches, Rodolphe, and she again felt the pressure of his arm, while the leaves rustled and the reeds whistled.

      But when she saw herself in the glass she wondered at her face. Never had her eyes been so large, so black, of so profound a depth. Something subtle about her being transfigured her. She repeated, “I have a lover! a lover!” delighting at the idea as if a second puberty had come to her. So at last she was to know those joys of love, that fever of happiness of which she had despaired! She was entering upon marvels where all would be passion, ecstasy, delirium. An azure infinity encompassed her, the heights of sentiment sparkled under her thought, and ordinary existence appeared only afar off, down below in the shade, through the interspaces of these heights.

      Then she recalled the heroines of the books that she had read, and the lyric legion of these adulterous women began to sing in her memory with the voice of sisters that charmed her. She became herself, as it were, an actual part of these imaginings, and realised the love-dream of her youth as she saw herself in this type of amorous women whom she had so envied. Besides, Emma felt a satisfaction of revenge. Had she not suffered enough? But now she triumphed, and the love so long pent up burst forth in full joyous bubblings. She tasted it without remorse, without anxiety, without trouble.

      The day following passed with a new sweetness. They made vows to one another She told him of her sorrows. Rodolphe interrupted her with kisses; and she looking at him through half-closed eyes, asked him to call her again by her name — to say that he loved her They were in the forest, as yesterday, in the shed of some woodenshoe maker. The walls were of straw, and the roof so low they had to stoop. They were seated side by side on a bed of dry leaves.

      From that day forth they wrote to one another regularly every evening. Emma placed her letter at the end of the garden, by the river, in a fissure of the wall. Rodolphe came to fetch it, and put another there, that she always found fault with as too short.

      One morning, when Charles had gone out before day break, she was seized with the fancy to see Rodolphe at once. She would go quickly to La Huchette, stay there an hour, and be back again at Yonville while everyone was still asleep. This idea made her pant with desire, and she soon found herself in the middle of the field, walking with rapid steps, without looking behind her.

      Day was just breaking. Emma from afar recognised her lover’s house. Its two dove-tailed weathercocks stood out black against the pale dawn.

      Beyond the farmyard there was a detached building that she thought must be the chateau She entered — it was if the doors at her approach had opened wide of their own accord. A large straight staircase led up to the corridor. Emma raised the latch of a door, and suddenly at the end of the room she saw a man sleeping. It was Rodolphe. She uttered a cry.

      “You here? You here?” he repeated. “How did you manage to come? Ah! your dress is damp.”

      “I love you,” she answered, throwing her arms about his neck.

      This first piece of daring successful, now every time Charles went out early Emma dressed quickly and slipped on tiptoe down the steps that led to the waterside.

      But when the plank for the cows was taken up, she had to go by the walls alongside of the river; the bank was slippery; in order not to fall she caught hold of the tufts of faded wallflowers. Then she went across ploughed fields, in which she sank, stumbling; and clogging her thin shoes. Her scarf, knotted round her head,