“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.
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.
