went to the bottom of her soul, like a whirlwind in an abyss, and carried her away into the distances of a boundless melancholy.  But Hivert, noticing a weight behind, gave the blind man sharp cuts with his whip.  The thong lashed his wounds, and he fell back into the mud with a yell.  Then the passengers in the “Hirondelle” ended by falling asleep, some with open mouths, others with lowered chins, leaning against their neighbour’s shoulder, or with their arm passed through the strap, oscillating regularly with the jolting of the carriage; and the reflection of the lantern swinging without, on the crupper of the wheeler; penetrating into the interior through the chocolate calico curtains, threw sanguineous shadows over all these motionless people.  Emma, drunk with grief, shivered in her clothes, feeling her feet grow colder and colder, and death in her soul.

Charles at home was waiting for her; the “Hirondelle” was always late on Thursdays.  Madame arrived at last, and scarcely kissed the child.  The dinner was not ready.  No matter!  She excused the servant.  This girl now seemed allowed to do just as she liked.

Often her husband, noting her pallor, asked if she were unwell.

“No,” said Emma.

“But,” he replied, “you seem so strange this evening.”

“Oh, it’s nothing! nothing!”

There were even days when she had no sooner come in than she went up to her room; and Justin, happening to be there, moved about noiselessly, quicker at helping her than the best of maids.  He put the matches ready, the candlestick, a book, arranged her nightgown, turned back the bedclothes.

“Come!” said she, “that will do.  Now you can go.”

For he stood there, his hands hanging down and his eyes wide open, as if enmeshed in the innumerable threads of a sudden reverie.

The following day was frightful, and those that came after still more unbearable, because of her impatience to once again seize her happiness; an ardent lust, inflamed by the images of past experience, and that burst forth freely on the seventh day beneath Leon’s caresses.  His ardours were hidden beneath outbursts of wonder and gratitude.  Emma tasted this love in a discreet, absorbed fashion, maintained it by all the artifices of her tenderness, and trembled a little lest it should be lost later on.

She often said to him, with her sweet, melancholy voice—­

“Ah! you too, you will leave me!  You will marry!  You will be like all the others.”

He asked, “What others?”

“Why, like all men,” she replied.  Then added, repulsing him with a languid movement—­

“You are all evil!”

One day, as they were talking philosophically of earthly disillusions, to experiment on his jealousy, or yielding, perhaps, to an over-strong need to pour out her heart, she told him that formerly, before him, she had loved someone.

“Not like you,” she went on quickly, protesting by the head of her child that “nothing had passed between them.”