She succeeded at first in putting off Lheureux.  At last he lost patience; he was being sued; his capital was out, and unless he got some in he should be forced to take back all the goods she had received.

“Oh, very well, take them!” said Emma.

“I was only joking,” he replied; “the only thing I regret is the whip.  My word!  I’ll ask monsieur to return it to me.”

“No, no!” she said.

“Ah!  I’ve got you!” thought Lheureux.

And, certain of his discovery, he went out repeating to himself in an undertone, and with his usual low whistle—­

“Good! we shall see! we shall see!”

She was thinking how to get out of this when the servant coming in put on the mantelpiece a small roll of blue paper “from Monsieur Derozeray’s.”  Emma pounced upon and opened it.  It contained fifteen napoleons; it was the account.  She heard Charles on the stairs; threw the gold to the back of her drawer, and took out the key.

Three days after Lheureux reappeared.

“I have an arrangement to suggest to you,” he said.  “If, instead of the sum agreed on, you would take—­”

“Here it is,” she said placing fourteen napoleons in his hand.

The tradesman was dumfounded.  Then, to conceal his disappointment, he was profuse in apologies and proffers of service, all of which Emma declined; then she remained a few moments fingering in the pocket of her apron the two five-franc pieces that he had given her in change.  She promised herself she would economise in order to pay back later on.  “Pshaw!” she thought, “he won’t think about it again.”

Besides the riding-whip with its silver-gilt handle, Rodolphe had received a seal with the motto Amor nel cor* furthermore, a scarf for a muffler, and, finally, a cigar-case exactly like the Viscount’s, that Charles had formerly picked up in the road, and that Emma had kept.  These presents, however, humiliated him; he refused several; she insisted, and he ended by obeying, thinking her tyrannical and overexacting.

     A loving heart.

Then she had strange ideas.

“When midnight strikes,” she said, “you must think of me.”

And if he confessed that he had not thought of her, there were floods of reproaches that always ended with the eternal question—­

“Do you love me?”

“Why, of course I love you,” he answered.

“A great deal?”

“Certainly!”

“You haven’t loved any others?”

“Did you think you’d got a virgin?” he exclaimed laughing.

Emma cried, and he tried to console her, adorning his protestations with puns.

“Oh,” she went on, “I love you!  I love you so that I could not live without you, do you see?  There are times when I long to see you again, when I am torn by all the anger of love.  I ask myself, Where is he?  Perhaps he is talking to other women.  They smile upon him; he approaches.  Oh no; no one else pleases you.  There are some more beautiful, but I love you best.  I know how to love best.  I am your servant, your concubine!  You are my king, my idol!  You are good, you are beautiful, you are clever, you are strong!”