He held out his hand, took hers, covered it with a greedy kiss, then held it on his knee; and he played delicately with her fingers whilst he murmured a thousand blandishments.  His insipid voice murmured like a running brook; a light shone in his eyes through the glimmering of his spectacles, and his hand was advancing up Emma’s sleeve to press her arm.  She felt against her cheek his panting breath.  This man oppressed her horribly.

She sprang up and said to him—­

“Sir, I am waiting.”

“For what?” said the notary, who suddenly became very pale.

“This money.”

“But—­” Then, yielding to the outburst of too powerful a desire, “Well, yes!”

He dragged himself towards her on his knees, regardless of his dressing-gown.

“For pity’s sake, stay.  I love you!”

He seized her by her waist.  Madame Bovary’s face flushed purple.  She recoiled with a terrible look, crying—­

“You are taking a shameless advantage of my distress, sir!  I am to be pitied—­not to be sold.”

And she went out.

The notary remained quite stupefied, his eyes fixed on his fine embroidered slippers.  They were a love gift, and the sight of them at last consoled him.  Besides, he reflected that such an adventure might have carried him too far.

“What a wretch! what a scoundrel! what an infamy!” she said to herself, as she fled with nervous steps beneath the aspens of the path.  The disappointment of her failure increased the indignation of her outraged modesty; it seemed to her that Providence pursued her implacably, and, strengthening herself in her pride, she had never felt so much esteem for herself nor so much contempt for others.  A spirit of warfare transformed her.  She would have liked to strike all men, to spit in their faces, to crush them, and she walked rapidly straight on, pale, quivering, maddened, searching the empty horizon with tear-dimmed eyes, and as it were rejoicing in the hate that was choking her.

When she saw her house a numbness came over her.  She could not go on; and yet she must.  Besides, whither could she flee?

Felicite was waiting for her at the door.  “Well?”

“No!” said Emma.

And for a quarter of an hour the two of them went over the various persons in Yonville who might perhaps be inclined to help her.  But each time that Felicite named someone Emma replied—­

“Impossible! they will not!”

“And the master’ll soon be in.”

“I know that well enough.  Leave me alone.”

She had tried everything; there was nothing more to be done now; and when Charles came in she would have to say to him—­

“Go away!  This carpet on which you are walking is no longer ours.  In your own house you do not possess a chair, a pin, a straw, and it is I, poor man, who have ruined you.”

Then there would be a great sob; next he would weep abundantly, and at last, the surprise past, he would forgive her.