Her musical but weak voice died away alongthe waves， and the winds carried off the trills that Léonheard pass like the flapping of wings about him.
She was opposite him， leaning against thepartition of the shallop， through one of whose raised blinds the moon streamedin. Her black dress， whose drapery spread out like a fan， made her seem moreslender， taller. Her head was raised， her hands clasped， her eyes turnedtowards heaven. At times the shadow of the willows hid her completely； then shereappeared suddenly， like a vision in the moonlight.
Léon， on the floor byher side， found under his hand a ribbon of scarlet silk. The boatman looked atit， and at last said-
“Perhaps it belongs to the party I took outthe other day. A lot of jolly folk， gentlemen and ladies， with cakes，champagne， comets-everything in style！ There was one especially， a tallhandsome man with small moustaches， who was that funny！ And they all keptsaying， 'Now tell us something， Adolphe-Dolpe，' I think.”
She shivered.
“You are in pain？”asked Léon， coming closer to her.
“Oh， it's nothing！ Nodoubt， it is only the night air.”
“And who doesn't wantfor women， either，” softly added the sailor， thinkinghe was paying the stranger a compliment.
Then， spitting on his hands， he took the oarsagain.
Yet they had to part. The adieux were sad. Hewas to send his letters to Mfre Rollet， and she gave him such preciseinstructions about a double envelope that he admired greatly her amorousastuteness.
“So you can assure me it is all right？” she said with her last kiss.
“Yes， certainly.”
“But why，” he thoughtafterwards as he came back through the streets alone， “isshe so very anxious to get this power of attorney？”
Chapter 4
Léon soon put on anair of superiority before his comrades， avoided their company， and completelyneglected his work.
He waited for her letters； he re-read them；he wrote to her. He called her to mind with all the strength of his desires andof his memories. Instead of lessening with absence， this longing to see heragain grew， so that at last on Saturday morning he escaped from his office.
When， from the summit of the hill， he saw inthe valley below the church-spire with its tin flag swinging in the wind， hefelt that delight mingled with triumphant vanity and egoistic tenderness thatmillionaires must experience when they come back to their native village.
He went rambling round her house. A light wasburning in the kitchen. He watched for her shadow behind the curtains， butnothing appeared.
Mére Lefrancois， whenshe saw him， uttered many exclamations. She thought he “had grown and was thinner，” while Artfmise，on the contrary， thought him stouter and darker.
He dined in the little room as of yore， butalone， without the tax-gatherer； for Binet， tired of waiting for the “Hirondelle，” had definitely put forward hismeal one hour， and now he dined punctually at five， and yet he declared usuallythe rickety old concern “was late.”
Léon， however， madeup his mind， and knocked at the doctor's door. Madamewas in her room， and did not come down for a quarter of an hour. The doctorseemed delighted to see him， but he never stirred out that evening， nor all thenext day.
He saw her alone in the evening， very late，behind the garden in the lane； in the lane， as she had the other one！ It was astormy night， and they talked under an umbrella by lightning flashes.
Their separation was becoming intolerable. “I would rather die！” said Emma. She waswrithing in his arms， weeping. “Adieu！ adieu！ Whenshall I see you again？”
They came back again to embrace once more，and it was then that she promised him to find soon， by no matter what means， aregular opportunity for seeing one another in freedom at least once a week.Emma never doubted she should be able to do this. Besides， she was full ofhope. Some money was coming to her.
On the strength of it she bought a pair ofyellow curtains with large stripes for her room， whose cheapness MonsieurLheureux had commended； she dreamed of getting a carpet， and Lheureux，declaring that it wasn't “drinkingthe sea，” politely undertook to supply her with one.She could no longer do without his services. Twenty times a day she sent forhim， and he at once put by his business without a murmur. People could notunderstand either why Mére Rollet breakfasted with herevery day， and even paid her private visits.
It was about this time， that is to say， thebeginning of winter， that she seemed seized with great musical fervour.
One evening when Charles was listening toher， she began the same piece four times over， each time with much vexation，while he， not noticing any difference， cried-
“Bravo！ Very good！ You are wrong to stop. Goon！”
“Oh， no； it is execrable！ My fingers arequite rusty.”
The next day he begged her to play him somethingagain.
“Very well； to please you！”
And Charles confessed she had gone off alittle. She played wrong notes and blundered； then， stopping short-
“Ah！ it is no use. I ought to take somelessons； but-” She bit her lips and added， “Twenty francs a lesson， that's too dear！”
“Yes， so it is-rather，” said Charles， giggling stupidly. “But itseems to me that one might be able to do it for less； for there are artists ofno reputation， and who are often better than the celebrities.”
“Find them！” saidEmma.
The next day when he came home he looked ather shyly， and at last could no longer keep back the words.
“How obstinate you are sometimes！ I went toBarfuchrres today. Well， Madame Lirgard assured me that her three young ladieswho are at La Misrricorde have lessons at fifty sous apiece， and that from anexcellent mistress！”
She shrugged her shoulders and did not openher piano again. But when she passed by it (if Bovary were there)， she sighed-
“Ah！ my poor piano！”
And when anyone came to see her， she did not failto inform them she had given up music， and could not begin again now forimportant reasons. Then people commiserated her-
“What a pity！ she had so much talent！”
They even spoke to Bovary about it. They puthim to shame， and especially the chemist.
“You are wrong. One should never let any ofthe faculties of nature lie fallow. Besides， just think， my good friend， thatby inducing madame to study； you are economising on the subsequent musicaleducation of your child. For my own part， I think that mothers ought themselvesto instruct their children. That is an idea of Rousseau's， still rather new perhaps， but that will end by triumphing， I amcertain of it， like mothers nursing their own children and vaccination.”
So Charles returned once more to this questionof the piano. Emma replied bitterly that it would be better to sell it. Thispoor piano， that had given her vanity so much satisfaction-to see it go was toBovary like the indefinable suicide of a part of herself.
“If you liked，” hesaid， “a lesson from time to time， that wouldn't after all be very ruinous.”
“But lessons，” shereplied， “are only of use when followed up.”
And thus it was she set about obtaining herhusband's permission to go to town once a week to seeher lover. At the end of a month she was even considered to have madeconsiderable progress.
Chapter 5
She went on Thursdays. She got up and dressedsilently， in order not to awaken Charles， who would have made remarks about hergetting ready too early. Next she walked up and down， went to the windows， andlooked out at the Place. The early dawn was broadening between the pillars ofthe market， and the chemist's shop， with the shuttersstill up， showed in the pale light of the dawn the large letters of hissignboard.
When the clock pointed to a quarter pastseven， she went off to the “Lion d'Or，” whose door Artemise opened yawning. Thegirl then made up the coals covered by the cinders， and Emma remained alone inthe kitchen. Now and again she went out. Hivert was leisurely harnessing hishorses， listening， moreover， to Mére Lefrancois， who，passing her head and nightcap through a grating， was charging him withcommissions and giving him explanations that would have confused anyone else.Emma kept beating the soles of her boots against the pavement of the yard.
At last， when he had eaten his soup， put onhis cloak， lighted his pipe， and grasped his whip， he calmly installed himselfon his seat. The “Hirondelle”started at a slow trot， and for about a mile stopped here and there to pick uppassengers who waited for it， standing at the border of the road， in front oftheir yard gates.
Those who had secured seats the eveningbefore kept it waiting； some even were still in bed in their houses. Hivertcalled， shouted， swore； then he got down from his seat and went and knockedloudly at the doors. The wind blew through the cracked windows.
The four seats， however， filled up. Thecarriage rolled off； rows of apple-trees followed one upon another， and theroad between its two long ditches， full of yellow water， rose， constantlynarrowing towards the horizon.
Emma knew it from end to end； she knew thatafter a meadow there was a sign-post， next an elm， a barn， or the hut of alime-kiln tender. Sometimes even， in the hope of getting some surprise， sheshut her eyes， but she never lost the clear perception of the distance to betraversed.
At last the brick houses began to follow oneanother more closely， the earth resounded beneath the wheels， the “Hirondelle” glided between the gardens，where through an opening one saw statues， a periwinkle plant， clipped yews， anda swing. Then on a sudden the town appeared. Sloping down like an amphitheatre，and drowned in the fog， it widened out beyond the bridges confusedly. Then theopen country spread away with a monotonous movement till it touched in thedistance the vague line of the pale sky. Seen thus from above， the wholelandscape looked immovable as a picture； the anchored ships were massed in onecomer， the river curved round the foot of the green hills， and the isles，oblique in shape， lay on the water， like large， motionless， black fishes. Thefactory chimneys belched forth immense brown fumes that were blown away at thetop. One heard the rumbling of the foundries， together with the clear chimes ofthe churches that stood out in the mist. The leafless trees on the boulevardsmade violet thickets in the midst of the houses， and the roofs， all shiningwith the rain， threw back unequal reflections， according to the height of thequarters in which they were. Sometimes a gust of wind drove the clouds towardsthe Saint Catherine hills， like aerial waves that broke silently against acliff.
A giddiness seemed to her to detach itselffrom this mass of existence， and her heart swelled as if the hundred and twentythousand souls that palpitated there had all at once sent into it the vapour ofthe passions she fancied theirs. Her love grew in the presence of thisvastness， and expanded with tumult to the vague murmurings that rose towardsher. She poured it out upon the square， on the walks， on the streets， and theold Norman city outspread before her eyes as an enormous capital， as a Babyloninto which she was entering. She leant with both hands against the window，drinking in the breeze； the three horses galloped， the stones grated in themud， the diligence rocked， and Hivert， from afar， hailed the carts on the road，while the bourgeois who had spent the night at the Guillaume woods came quietlydown the hill in their little family carriages.
They stopped at the barrier； Emma undid herovershoes， put on other gloves， rearranged her shawl， and some twenty pacesfarther she got down from the “Hirondelle.”
The town was then awakening. Shop-boys incaps were cleaning up the shop-fronts， and women with baskets against theirhips， at intervals uttered sonorous cries at the comers of streets. She walkedwith downcast eyes， close to the walls， and smiling with pleasure under herlowered black veil.
For fear of being seen， she did not usuallytake the most direct road. She plunged into dark alleys， and， all perspiring，reached the bottom of the Rue Nationale， near the fountain that stands there.It， is the quarter for theatres， public-houses， and whores. Often a cart wouldpass near her， bearing some shaking scenery. Waiters in aprons were sprinklingsand on the flagstones between green shrubs. It all smelt of absinthe， cigars，and oysters.
She turned down a street； she recognised himby his curling hair that escaped from beneath his hat.
Iéon walked along thepavement. She followed him to the hotel. He went up， opened the door，entered-What an embrace！
Then， after the kisses， the words gushedforth. They told each other the sorrows of the week， the presentiments， theanxiety for the letters； but now everything was forgotten； they gazed into eachother's faces with voluptuous laughs， and tender names.
The bed was large， of mahogany， in the shapeof a boat. The curtains were in red levantine， that hung from the ceiling andbulged out too much towards the bell-shaped bedside； and nothing in the worldwas so lovely as her brown head and white skin standing out against this purplecolour， when， with a movement of shame， she crossed her bare arms， hiding herface in her hands.
The warm room， with its discreet carpet， itsgay ornaments， and its calm light， seemed made for the intimacies of passion.The curtain-rods， ending in arrows， their brass pegs， and the great balls ofthe fire-dogs shone suddenly when the sun came in. On the chimney between thecandelabra there were two of those pink shells in which one hears the murmur ofthe sea if one holds them to the ear.
How they loved that dear room， so full ofgaiety， despite its rather faded splendour！ They always found the furniture inthe same place， and sometimes hairpins， that she had forgotten the Thursdaybefore， under the pedestal of the clock. They lunched by the fireside on alittle round table， inlaid with rosewood. Emma carved， put bits on his platewith all sorts of coquettish ways， and she laughed with a sonorous andlibertine laugh when the froth of the champagne ran over from the glass to therings on her fingers. They were so completely lost in the possession of eachother that they thought themselves in their own house， and that they would livethere till death， like two spouses eternally young. They said “our room，” “our carpet，” she even said “my slippers，” a gift of Léon's， awhim she had had. They were pink satin， bordered with swansdown. When she saton his knees， her leg， then too short， hung in the air， and the dainty shoe，that had no back to it， was held only by the toes to her bare foot.
He for the first time enjoyed the inexpressibledelicacy of feminine refinements. He had never met this grace of language， thisreserve of clothing， these poses of the weary dove. He admired the exaltationof her soul and the lace on her petticoat. Besides， was she not “a lady” and a married woman-a real mistress，in fine？
By the diversity of her humour， in turnmystical or mirthful， talkative， taciturn， passionate， careless， she awakenedin him a thousand desires， called up instincts or memories. She was themistress of all the novels， the heroine of all the dramas， the vague “she” of all the volumes of verse. He foundagain on her shoulder the amber colouring of the “OdalisqueBathing”； she had the long waist of feudal chatelaines，and she resembled the “Pale Woman of Barcelona.” But above all she was the Angel！
Often looking at her， it seemed to him thathis soul， escaping towards her， spread like a wave about the outline of herhead， and descended drawn down into the whiteness of her breast. He knelt onthe ground before her， and with both elbows on her knees looked at her with asmile， his face uptumed.
She bent over him， and murmured， as ifchoking with intoxication：
“Oh！ Do not move！ do not speak！ look at me！Something so sweet comes from your eyes that helps me so much！”
She called him “child.”“Child， do you love me？”
And she did not listen for his answer in thehaste of her lips that fastened to his mouth.
On the clock there was a bronze cupid， whosmirked as he bent his arm beneath a golden garland. They had laughed at itmany a time， but when they had to part everything seemed serious to them.
Motionless in front of each other， they keptrepeating， “Till Thursday， till Thursday.”
Suddenly she seized his head between herhands， kissed him hurriedly on the forehead， crying， “Adieu！” and rushed down the stairs.
She went to a hairdresser's in the Rue de la Comedie to have her hair arranged. Night fell；the gas was lighted in the shop. She heard the bell at the theatre calling themummers to the performance， and she saw， passing opposite， men with white facesand women in faded gowns going in at the stage-door.
It was hot in the room， small， and too lowwhere the stove was hissing in the midst of wigs and pomades. The smell of thetongs， together with the greasy hands that handled her head， soon stunned her，and she dozed a little in her wrapper. Often， as he did her hair， the manoffered her tickets for a masked ball.
Then she went away. She went up the streets；reached the Croix-Rouge， put on her overshoes， that she had hidden in themorning under the seat， and sank into her place among the impatient passengers.Some got out at the foot of the hill. She remained alone in the carriage. Atevery turning all the lights of the town were seen more and more completely，making a great luminous vapour about the dim houses. Emma knelt on the cushionsand her eyes wandered over the dazzling light. She sobbed； called on Léon， sent him tender words and kisses lost in the wind.
On the hillside a poor devil wandered aboutwith his stick in the midst of the diligences. A mass of rage covered hisshoulders， and an old staved-in beaver， turned out like a basin， hid his face；but when he took it off he discovered in the place of eyelids empty and bloodyorbits. The flesh hung in red shreds， and there flowed from it liquids thatcongealed into green scale down to the nose， whose black nostrils sniffedconvulsively. To speak to you he threw back his head with an idiotic laugh；then his bluish eyeballs， rolling constantly， at the temples beat against theedge of the open wound. He sang a little song as he followed the carriages：
“Maids an the warmth of a summer day Dream oflove， and of love always”
And all the rest was about birds and sunshineand green leaves.
Sometimes he appeared suddenly behind Emma，bareheaded， and she drew back with a cry. Hivert made tim of him. He wouldadvise him to get a booth at the Saint Romain fair， or else ask him， laughing，how his young woman was.
Often they had started when， with a suddenmovement， his hat entered the diligence through the small window， while heclung with his other arm to the footboard， between the wheels splashing mud.His voice， feeble at first and quavering， grew sharp； it resounded in the nightlike the indistinct moan of a vague distress； and through the ringing of the bells，the murmur of the trees， and the rambling of the empty vehicle， it had afar-off sound that disturbed Emma. It went to the bottom of her soul， like awhirlwind in an abyss， and carried her away into the distances of a boundlessmelancholy. But Hivert， noticing a weight behind， gave the blind man sharp cutswith his whip. The thong lashed his wounds， and he fell back into the mud witha yell. Then the passengers in the “Hirondelle” ended by falling asleep， some with open mouths， others with loweredchins， leaning against their neighbour's shoulder， orwith their arm passed through the strap， oscillating regularly with the joltingof the carriage； and the reflection of the lantern swinging without， on thecrupper of the wheeler； penetrating into the interior through the chocolatecalico curtains， threw sanguineous shadows over all these motionless people.Emma， drunk with grief， shivered in her clothes， feeling her feet grow colderand colder， and death in her soul.
Charles at home was waiting for her； the “Hirondelle” was always late on Thursdays.Madame arrived at last， and scarcely kissed the child. The dinner was notready. No matter！ She excused the servant. This girl now seemed allowed to dojust as she liked.
Often her husband， noting her pallor， askedif she were unwell.
“No，” said Emma.
“But，” he replied， “you seem so strange this evening.”
“Oh， it's nothing！nothing！”
There were even days when she had no soonercome in than she went up to her room； and Justin， happening to be there， movedabout noiselessly， quicker at helping her than the best of maids. He put thematches ready， the candlestick， a book， arranged her nightgown， turned back thebedclothes.
“Come！” said she， “that will do. Now you can go.”
For he stood there， his hands hanging down andhis eyes wide open， as if enmeshed in the innumerable threads of a suddenreverie.
The following day was frightful， and thosethat came after still more unbearable， because of her impatience to once againseize her happiness； an ardent lust， inflamed by the images of past experience，and that burst forth freely on the seventh day beneath Lrén's caresses. His ardours were hiddenbeneath outbursts of wonder and gratitude. Emma tasted this love in a discreet，absorbed fashion， maintained it by all the artifices of her tenderness， andtrembled a little lest it should be lost later on.
She often said to him， with her sweet，melancholy voice-
“Ah！ you too， you will leave me！ You willmarry！ You Will be like all the others.”
He asked， “Whatothers？”
“Why， like all men，”she replied. Then added， repulsing him with a languid movement-
“You are all evil！”
One day， as they were talking philosophicallyof earthly disillusions， to experiment on his jealousy， or yielding， perhaps，to an over-strong need to pour out her heart， she told him that formerly，before him， she had loved someone. “Not like you，” she went on quickly， protesting by the head of her child that “nothing had passed between them.”
The young man believed her， but none the lessquestioned her to find out what he was.
“He was a ship'scaptain， my dear.”
Was this not preventing any inquiry， and， atthe same time， assuming a higher ground through this pretended fascinationexercised over a man who must have been of warlike nature and accustomed toreceive homage？
The clerk then felt the lowliness of hisposition； he longed for epaulettes， crosses， titles. All that would pleaseher-he gathered that from her spendthrift habits.
Emma nevertheless concealed many of theseextravagant fancies， such as her wish to have a blue tilbury to drive intoRouen， drawn by an English horse and driven by a groom in top-boots. It wasJustin who had inspired her with this whim， by begging her to take him into herservice as valet-de-chambre， and if the privation of it did not lessen thepleasure of her arrival at each rendezvous， it certainly augmented thebitterness of the return.
Often， when they talked together of Paris，she ended by murmuring， “Ah！ how happy we should bethere！”
“Are we not happy！”gently answered the young man passing his hands over her hair.
“Yes， that is true，”she said. “I am mad. Kiss me！”
To her husband she was more charming thanever. She made him pistachio-creams， and played him waltzes after dinner. So hethought himself the most fortunate of men and Emma was without uneasiness，when， one evening suddenly he said-
“It is Mademoiselle Lempereur， isn't it， who gives you lessons？”
“Yes.”
“Well， I saw her just now，” Charles went on， “at Madame Liégeard's. I spoke to her about you， and shedoesn't know you.”
This was like a thunderclap. However， shereplied quite naturally-
“Ah！ no doubt she forgot my name.”
“But perhaps，” saidthe doctor， “there are several Demoiselles LempereOr atRouen who are music-mistresses.”
“Possibly！” Thenquickly-“But I have my receipts here. See！”
And she went to the writing-table， ransackedall the drawers， rummaged the papers， and at last lost her head so completelythat Charles earnestly begged her not to take so much trouble about thosewretched receipts.
“Oh， I will find them，” she said.
