“Yes,” she murmured, grinding her teeth, “he will forgive me, he who would give a million if I would forgive him for having known me!  Never! never!”

This thought of Bovary’s superiority to her exasperated her.  Then, whether she confessed or did not confess, presently, immediately, to-morrow, he would know the catastrophe all the same; so she must wait for this horrible scene, and bear the weight of his magnanimity.  The desire to return to Lheureux’s seized her—­what would be the use?  To write to her father—­it was too late; and perhaps, she began to repent now that she had not yielded to that other, when she heard the trot of a horse in the alley.  It was he; he was opening the gate; he was whiter than the plaster wall.  Rushing to the stairs, she ran out quickly to the square; and the wife of the mayor, who was talking to Lestiboudois in front of the church, saw her go in to the tax-collector’s.

She hurried off to tell Madame Caron, and the two ladies went up to the attic, and, hidden by some linen spread across props, stationed themselves comfortably for overlooking the whole of Binet’s room.

He was alone in his garret, busy imitating in wood one of those indescribable bits of ivory, composed of crescents, of spheres hollowed out one within the other, the whole as straight as an obelisk, and of no use whatever; and he was beginning on the last piece—­he was nearing his goal.  In the twilight of the workshop the white dust was flying from his tools like a shower of sparks under the hoofs of a galloping horse; the two wheels were turning, droning; Binet smiled, his chin lowered, his nostrils distended, and, in a word, seemed lost in one of those complete happinesses that, no doubt, belong only to commonplace occupations, which amuse the mind with facile difficulties, and satisfy by a realisation of that beyond which such minds have not a dream.

“Ah! there she is!” exclaimed Madame Tuvache.

But it was impossible because of the lathe to hear what she was saying.

At last these ladies thought they made out the word “francs,” and Madame Tuvache whispered in a low voice—­

“She is begging him to give her time for paying her taxes.”

“Apparently!” replied the other.

They saw her walking up and down, examining the napkin-rings, the candlesticks, the banister rails against the walls, while Binet stroked his beard with satisfaction.

“Do you think she wants to order something of him?” said Madame Tuvache.

“Why, he doesn’t sell anything,” objected her neighbour.

The tax-collector seemed to be listening with wide-open eyes, as if he did not understand.  She went on in a tender, suppliant manner.  She came nearer to him, her breast heaving; they no longer spoke.

“Is 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!”