But both had fled in their exasperation.  Emma was stamping her feet as she repeated—­

“Oh! what manners!  What a peasant!”

He ran to his mother; she was beside herself.  She stammered

“She is an insolent, giddy-headed thing, or perhaps worse!”

And she was for leaving at once if the other did not apologise.  So Charles went back again to his wife and implored her to give way; he knelt to her; she ended by saying—­

“Very well!  I’ll go to her.”

And in fact she held out her hand to her mother-in-law with the dignity of a marchioness as she said—­

“Excuse me, madame.”

Then, having gone up again to her room, she threw herself flat on her bed and cried there like a child, her face buried in the pillow.

She and Rodolphe had agreed that in the event of anything extraordinary occurring, she should fasten a small piece of white paper to the blind, so that if by chance he happened to be in Yonville, he could hurry to the lane behind the house.  Emma made the signal; she had been waiting three-quarters of an hour when she suddenly caught sight of Rodolphe at the corner of the market.  She felt tempted to open the window and call him, but he had already disappeared.  She fell back in despair.

Soon, however, it seemed to her that someone was walking on the pavement.  It was he, no doubt.  She went downstairs, crossed the yard.  He was there outside.  She threw herself into his arms.

“Do take care!” he said.

“Ah! if you knew!” she replied.

And she began telling him everything, hurriedly, disjointedly, exaggerating the facts, inventing many, and so prodigal of parentheses that he understood nothing of it.

“Come, my poor angel, courage!  Be comforted! be patient!”

“But I have been patient; I have suffered for four years.  A love like ours ought to show itself in the face of heaven.  They torture me!  I can bear it no longer!  Save me!”

She clung to Rodolphe.  Her eyes, full of tears, flashed like flames beneath a wave; her breast heaved; he had never loved her so much, so that he lost his head and said “What is, it?  What do you wish?”

“Take me away,” she cried, “carry me off!  Oh, I pray you!”

And she threw herself upon his mouth, as if to seize there the unexpected consent if breathed forth in a kiss.

“But—­” Rodolphe resumed.

“What?”

“Your little girl!”

She reflected a few moments, then replied—­

“We will take her!  It can’t be helped!”

“What a woman!” he said to himself, watching her as she went.  For she had run into the garden.  Someone was calling her.

On the following days Madame Bovary senior was much surprised at the change in her daughter-in-law.  Emma, in fact, was showing herself more docile, and even carried her deference so far as to ask for a recipe for pickling gherkins.