“Justin!” called the druggist impatiently.

“Let us go up.”

And he followed her.  The key turned in the lock, and she went straight to the third shelf, so well did her memory guide her, seized the blue jar, tore out the cork, plunged in her hand, and withdrawing it full of a white powder, she began eating it.

“Stop!” he cried, rushing at her.

“Hush! someone will come.”

He was in despair, was calling out.

“Say nothing, or all the blame will fall on your master.”

Then she went home, suddenly calmed, and with something of the serenity of one that had performed a duty.

When Charles, distracted by the news of the distraint, returned home, Emma had just gone out.  He cried aloud, wept, fainted, but she did not return.  Where could she be?  He sent Felicite to Homais, to Monsieur Tuvache, to Lheureux, to the “Lion d’Or,” everywhere, and in the intervals of his agony he saw his reputation destroyed, their fortune lost, Berthe’s future ruined.  By what?—­Not a word!  He waited till six in the evening.  At last, unable to bear it any longer, and fancying she had gone to Rouen, he set out along the highroad, walked a mile, met no one, again waited, and returned home.  She had come back.

“What was the matter?  Why?  Explain to me.”

She sat down at her writing-table and wrote a letter, which she sealed slowly, adding the date and the hour.  Then she said in a solemn tone: 

“You are to read it to-morrow; till then, I pray you, do not ask me a single question.  No, not one!”

“But—­”

“Oh, leave me!”

She lay down full length on her bed.  A bitter taste that she felt in her mouth awakened her.  She saw Charles, and again closed her eyes.

She was studying herself curiously, to see if she were not suffering.  But no! nothing as yet.  She heard the ticking of the clock, the crackling of the fire, and Charles breathing as he stood upright by her bed.

“Ah! it is but a little thing, death!” she thought.  “I shall fall asleep and all will be over.”

She drank a mouthful of water and turned to the wall.  The frightful taste of ink continued.

“I am thirsty; oh! so thirsty,” she sighed.

“What is it?” said Charles, who was handing her a glass.

“It is nothing!  Open the window; I am choking.”

She was seized with a sickness so sudden that she had hardly time to draw out her handkerchief from under the pillow.

“Take it away,” she said quickly; “throw it away.”

He spoke to her; she did not answer.  She lay motionless, afraid that the slightest movement might make her vomit.  But she felt an icy cold creeping from her feet to her heart.

“Ah! it is beginning,” she murmured.

“What did you say?”

She turned her head from side to side with a gentle movement full of agony, while constantly opening her mouth as if something very heavy were weighing upon her tongue.  At eight o’clock the vomiting began again.