And there was a last “adieu” divided into two words!  “A Dieu!” which he thought in very excellent taste.

“Now how am I to sign?” he said to himself. “‘Yours devotedly?’ No!  ‘Your friend?’ Yes, that’s it.”

“Your friend.”

He re-read his letter.  He considered it very good.

“Poor little woman!” he thought with emotion.  “She’ll think me harder than a rock.  There ought to have been some tears on this; but I can’t cry; it isn’t my fault.”  Then, having emptied some water into a glass, Rodolphe dipped his finger into it, and let a big drop fall on the paper, that made a pale stain on the ink.  Then looking for a seal, he came upon the one “Amor nel cor.”

“That doesn’t at all fit in with the circumstances.  Pshaw! never mind!”

After which he smoked three pipes and went to bed.

The next day when he was up (at about two o’clock—­he had slept late), Rodolphe had a basket of apricots picked.  He put his letter at the bottom under some vine leaves, and at once ordered Girard, his ploughman, to take it with care to Madame Bovary.  He made use of this means for corresponding with her, sending according to the season fruits or game.

“If she asks after me,” he said, “you will tell her that I have gone on a journey.  You must give the basket to her herself, into her own hands.  Get along and take care!”

Girard put on his new blouse, knotted his handkerchief round the apricots, and walking with great heavy steps in his thick iron-bound galoshes, made his way to Yonville.

Madame Bovary, when he got to her house, was arranging a bundle of linen on the kitchen-table with Felicite.

“Here,” said the ploughboy, “is something for you—­from the master.”

She was seized with apprehension, and as she sought in her pocket for some coppers, she looked at the peasant with haggard eyes, while he himself looked at her with amazement, not understanding how such a present could so move anyone.  At last he went out.  Felicite remained.  She could bear it no longer; she ran into the sitting room as if to take the apricots there, overturned the basket, tore away the leaves, found the letter, opened it, and, as if some fearful fire were behind her, Emma flew to her room terrified.

Charles was there; she saw him; he spoke to her; she heard nothing, and she went on quickly up the stairs, breathless, distraught, dumb, and ever holding this horrible piece of paper, that crackled between her fingers like a plate of sheet-iron.  On the second floor she stopped before the attic door, which was closed.

Then she tried to calm herself; she recalled the letter; she must finish it; she did not dare to.  And where?  How?  She would be seen!  “Ah, no! here,” she thought, “I shall be all right.”

Emma pushed open the door and went in.

The slates threw straight down a heavy heat that gripped her temples, stifled her; she dragged herself to the closed garret-window.  She drew back the bolt, and the dazzling light burst in with a leap.