Then she recalled the heroines of the books that she had read, and the lyric legion of these adulterous women began to sing in her memory with the voice of sisters that charmed her.  She became herself, as it were, an actual part of these imaginings, and realised the love-dream of her youth as she saw herself in this type of amorous women whom she had so envied.  Besides, Emma felt a satisfaction of revenge.  Had she not suffered enough?  But now she triumphed, and the love so long pent up burst forth in full joyous bubblings.  She tasted it without remorse, without anxiety, without trouble.

The day following passed with a new sweetness.  They made vows to one another She told him of her sorrows.  Rodolphe interrupted her with kisses; and she looking at him through half-closed eyes, asked him to call her again by her name—­to say that he loved her They were in the forest, as yesterday, in the shed of some woodenshoe maker.  The walls were of straw, and the roof so low they had to stoop.  They were seated side by side on a bed of dry leaves.

From that day forth they wrote to one another regularly every evening.  Emma placed her letter at the end of the garden, by the river, in a fissure of the wall.  Rodolphe came to fetch it, and put another there, that she always found fault with as too short.

One morning, when Charles had gone out before day break, she was seized with the fancy to see Rodolphe at once.  She would go quickly to La Huchette, stay there an hour, and be back again at Yonville while everyone was still asleep.  This idea made her pant with desire, and she soon found herself in the middle of the field, walking with rapid steps, without looking behind her.

Day was just breaking.  Emma from afar recognised her lover’s house.  Its two dove-tailed weathercocks stood out black against the pale dawn.

Beyond the farmyard there was a detached building that she thought must be the chateau She entered—­it was if the doors at her approach had opened wide of their own accord.  A large straight staircase led up to the corridor.  Emma raised the latch of a door, and suddenly at the end of the room she saw a man sleeping.  It was Rodolphe.  She uttered a cry.

“You here?  You here?” he repeated.  “How did you manage to come?  Ah! your dress is damp.”

“I love you,” she answered, throwing her arms about his neck.

This first piece of daring successful, now every time Charles went out early Emma dressed quickly and slipped on tiptoe down the steps that led to the waterside.

But when the plank for the cows was taken up, she had to go by the walls alongside of the river; the bank was slippery; in order not to fall she caught hold of the tufts of faded wallflowers.  Then she went across ploughed fields, in which she sank, stumbling; and clogging her thin shoes.  Her scarf, knotted round her head, fluttered to the wind in the meadows.  She was afraid of the oxen; she began to run; she arrived out of breath, with rosy cheeks, and breathing out from her whole person a fresh perfume of sap, of verdure, of the open air.  At this hour Rodolphe still slept.  It was like a spring morning coming into his room.