They went at last. Félicité came back. Emma had sent her out to watch for Bovary in order tokeep him off， and they hurriedly installed the man in possession under theroof， where he swore he would remain.
During the evening Charles seemed to hercareworn. Emma watched him with a look of anguish， fancying she saw anaccusation in every line of his face. Then， when her eyes wandered over thechimney-piece omamented with Chinese screens， over the large curtains， thearmchairs， all those things， in a word， that had， softened the bitterness ofher life， remorse seized her or rather an immense regret， that， far fromcrushing， irritated her passion. Charles placidly poked the fire， both his feeton the fire-dogs.
Once the man， no doubt bored in hishiding-place， made a slight noise.
“Is anyone walking upstairs？” said Charles.
“No，” she replied； “it is a window that has been left open， and is rattling in the wind.”
The next day， Sunday， she went to Rouen tocall on all the brokers whose names she knew. They were at their country-placesor on journeys. She was not discouraged； and those whom she did manage to seeshe asked for money， declaring she must have some， and that she would pay itback. Some laughed in her face； all refused.
At two o'clock shehurried to Lrén， and knocked at the door. No oneanswered. At length he appeared.
“What brings you here？”
“Do I disturb you？”
“No； but-” And headmitted that his landlord didn't like his having “women” there.
“I must speak to you，” she went on.
Then he took down the key， but she stoppedhim.
“No， no！ Down there， in our home！”
And they went to their room at the Hrtel deBoulogne.
On arriving she drank off a large glass ofwater. She was very pale. She said to him-
“Lrén， you will do mea service？”
And， shaking him by both hands that shegrasped tightly， she added：
“Listen， I want eight thousand francs.”
“But you are mad！”
“Not yet.”
And thereupon， telling him the story of thedistraint， she explained her distress to him； for Charles knew nothing of it；her mother-in-law detested her； old Rouault could do nothing； but he， Lrén， he would set about finding this indispensable sum.
“How on earth can I？”
“What a coward you are！” she cried.
Then he said stupidly， “You are exaggerating the difficulty. Perhaps， with a thousand crownsor so the fellow could be stopped.”
All the greater reason to try and dosomething； it was impossible that they could not find three thousand francs.Besides， Lrén， could be security instead of her.
“Go， try， try！ I will love you so！”
He went out， and came back at the end of anhour， saying， with solemn face-
“I have been to three people with no success.”
Then they remained sitting face to face atthe two chimney comers， motionless， in silence. Emma shrugged her shoulders asshe stampedher feet. He heard her murmuring-
“If I were in your place I should soon getsome.”
“But where？”
“At your office.” Andshe looked at him.
An infernal boldness looked out from herburning eyes， and their lids drew close together with a lascivious andencouraging look， so that the young man felt himself growing weak beneath the mutewill of this woman who was urging him to a crime. Then he was afraid， and toavoid any explanation he smote his forehead， crying-
“Morel is to come back to-night； he will notrefuse me， I hope” (this was one of his friends， theson of a very rich merchant)； “and I will bring it youto-morrow，” he added.
Emma did not seem to welcome this hope withall the joy he had expected. Did she suspect the lie？ He went on， blushing –
“However， if you don'tsee me by three o'clock do not wait for me， my darling.I must be off now； forgive me！ Goodbye！”
He pressed her hand， but it felt quitelifeless. Emma had no strength left for any sentiment.
Four o'clock struck，and she rose to return to Yonville， mechanically obeying the force of oldhabits.
The weather was fine. It was one of thoseMarch days， clear and sharp， when the sun shines in a perfectly white sky. TheRouen folk， in Sunday-clothes， were walking about with happy looks. She reachedthe Place du Parvis. People were coming out after vespers； the crowd flowed outthrough the three doors like a stream through the three arches of a bridge， andin the middle one， more motionless than a rock， stood the beadle.
Then she remembered the day when， all anxiousand full of hope， she had entered beneath this large nave， that had opened outbefore her， less profound than her love； and she walked on weeping beneath herveil， giddy， staggering， almost fainting.
“Take care！” cried avoice issuing from the gate of a courtyard that was thrown open.
She stopped to let pass a black horse， pawingthe ground between the shafts of a tilbury， driven by a gentleman in sablefurs. Who was it？ She knew him. The carriage darted by and disappeared.
Why， it was he - the Viscount. She turnedaway； the street was empty. She was.so overwhelmed， so sad， that she had tolean against a wall to keep herself from failing.
Then she thought she had been mistaken.Anyhow， she did not know. All within her and around her was abandoning her. Shefelt lost， sinking at random into indefinable abysses， and it was almost withjoy that， on reaching the “Croix-Rouge，” she saw the good Homais， who was watching a large box full ofpharmaceutical stores being hoisted on to the “Hirondelle.” In his hand he held tied in a silk handkerchief six cheminots forhis wife.
Madame Homais was very fond of these small，heavy turban-shaped loaves， that are eaten in Lent with salt butter； a lastvestige of Gothic food that goes back， perhaps， to the time of the Crusades，and with which the robust Normans gorged themselves of yore， fancying they sawon the table， in the light of the yellow torches， between tankards of hippocrasand huge boars' heads， the heads of Saracens to bedevoured. The druggist's wife crunched them up as theyhad done - heroically， despite her wretched teeth. And so whenever Homaisjourneyed to town， he never failed to bring her home some that he bought at thegreat baker's in the Rue Massacre.
“Charmed to see you，”he said， offering Emma a hand to help her into the “Hirondelle.” Then he hung up his cheminots to the cords of the netting， andremained bare-headed in an attitude pensive and Napoléonic.
But when the blind man appeared as usual atthe foot of the hill he exclaimed-
“I can't understand why the authoritiestolerate such culpable industries. Such unfortunates should be locked up andforced to work. Progress， my word！ creeps at a snail's pace. We are flounderingabout in mere barbarism.”
The blind man held out his hat， that flappedabout at the door， as if it were a bag in the lining that had come unnailed.
“This，” said thechemist， “is a scrofulous affection.”
And though he knew the poor devil， hepretended to see him for the first time， murmured something about “cornea，” “opaque cornea，” “sclerotic，” “facies，” then asked him in a paternal tone-
“My friend， have you long had this terribleinfirmity？ Instead of getting drunk at the public， you'ddo better to die yourself.”
He advised him to take good wine， good beer，and good joints. The blind man went on with his song； he seemed， moreover，almost idiotic. At last Monsieur Homais opened his purse-
“Now there's a sou；give me back two lairds， and don't forget my advice：you'll be the better for it.”
Hivert openly cast some doubt on the efficacyof it. But the druggist said that he would cure himself with an antiphlogisticpomade of his own composition， and he gave his address-“Monsieur Homais， near the market， pretty well known.”
“Now，” said Hivert， “for all this trouble you'll give us yourperformance.”
The blind man sank down on his haunches， withhis head thrown back， whilst he rolled his greenish eyes， lolled out histongue， and rubbed his stomach with both hands as he uttered a kind of hollowyell like a famished dog. Emma， filled with disgust， threw him over hershoulder a five-franc piece. It was all her fortune. It seemed to her very finethus to throw it away.
The coach had gone on again when suddenlyMonsieur Homais leant out through the window， crying -
“No farinaceous or milk food， wear wool nextthe skin， and expose the diseased parts to the smoke of juniper berries.”
The sight of the well-known objects thatdefiled before her eyes gradually diverted Emma from her present trouble. Anintolerable fatigue overwhelmed her， and she reached her home stupefied，discouraged， almost asleep.
“Come what may come！”she said to herself. “And then， who knows？ Why， at anymoment could not some extraordinary event occur？ Lheureux even might die！”
At nine o'clock inthe morning she was awakened by the sound of voices in the Place. There was acrowd round the market reading a large bill fixed to one of the posts， and shesaw Justin， who was climbing on to a stone and tearing down the bill. But atthis moment the rural guard seized him by the collar. Monsieur Homais came outof his shop， and Mrre Lefrangois， in the midst of the crowd， seemed to beperorating.
“Madame！ madame！”cried Félicité， running in， “it's abominable！”
And the poor girl， deeply moved， handed her ayellow paper that she had just tom off the door. Emma read with a glance thatall her furniture was for sale.
Then they looked at one another silently. Theservant and mistress had no secret one from the other. At last Félicité sighed-
“If I were you， madame， I should go toMonsieur Guillaumin.”
“Do you think ？”
And this question meant to say：
“You who know the house through the servant，has the master spoken sometimes of me？”
“Yes， you'd do wellto go there.”
She dressed， put on her black gown， and herhood with jet beads， and that she might not be seen (there was still a crowd onthe Place)， she took the path by the river， outside the village.
She reached the notary's gate quitebreathless. The sky was sombre， and a little snow was falling. At the sound ofthe bell， Theodore in a red waistcoat appeared on the steps； he came to openthe door almost familiarly， as to an acquaintance， and showed her into thedining-room.
A large porcelain stove crackled beneath acactus that filled up the niche in the wall， and in black wood frames againstthe oak-stained paper hung Steuben's “Esmeralda” and Schopin's “Potiphar.” Theready-laid table， the two silver chafing-dishes， the crystal door-knobs， theparquet and the furniture， all shone with a scrupulous， English cleanliness；the windows were ornamented at each comer with stained glass.
“Now this，” thoughtEmma， “is the dining-room I ought to have.”
The notary came in pressing his palm-leafdressing-gown to his breast with his left ann， while with the other hand heraised and quickly put on again his brown velvet cap， pretentiously cocked onthe right side， whence looked out the ends of three fair curls drawn from theback of the head， following the line of his bald skull.
After he had offered her a seat he sat downto breakfast， apologising profusely for his rudeness.
“I have come，” shesaid， “to beg you， sir-”
“What， madame？ I am listening.”
And she began explaining her position to him.Monsieur Guillaumin knew it， being secretly associated with the linendraper，from whom he always got capital for the loans on mortgages that he was asked tomake.
So he knew (and better than she herself) thelong story of the bills， small at first， bearing different names as endorsers，made out at long dates， and constantly renewed up to the day， when， gatheringtogether all the protested bills， the shopkeeper had bidden his friend Vincarttake in his own name all the necessary proceedings， not wishing to pass for atiger with his fellow-citizens.
She mingled her story with recriminationsagainst Lheureux， to which the notary replied from time to time with someinsignificant word. Eating his cutlet and drinking his tea， he buffed his chinin his sky-blue cravat， into which were thrust two diamond pins， held togetherby a small gold chain； and he smiled a singular smile， in a sugary， ambiguousfashion. But noticing that her feet were damp， he said-
“Do get closer to the stove； put your feet upagainst the porcelain.”
She was afraid of dirtying it. The notaryreplied in a gallant tone -
“Beautiful things spoil nothing.”
Then she tried to move him， and， growingmoved herself， she began telling him about the poorness of her home， herworries， her wants. He could understand that； an elegant woman！ and， withoutleaving off eating， he had turned completely round towards her， so that hisknee brushed against her boot， whose sole curled round as it smoked against thestove.
But when she asked for a thousand sous， heclosed his lips， and declared he was very sorry he had not had the managementof her fortune before， for there were hundreds of ways very convenient， evenfor a lady， of turning her money to account. They might， either in theturf-peats of Grumesnil or building-ground at Havre， almost without risk， haveventured on some excellent speculations； and he let her consume herself withrage at the thought of the fabulous sums that she would certainly have made.
“How was it，” he wenton， “that you didn't come tome？”
“I hardly know，” shesaid.
“Why， hey？ Did I frighten you so much？ It isI， on the contrary， who ought to complain. We hardly know one another； yet I amvery devoted to you. You do not doubt that， I hope？”
He held out his hand， took hers， covered itwith a greedy kiss， then held it on his knee； and he played delicately with herfingers whilst he murmured a thousand blandishments. His insipid voice murmuredlike a running brook； a light shone in his eyes through the glimmering of hisspectacles， and his hand was advancing up Emma's sleeveto press her arm. She felt against her cheek his panting breath. This manoppressed her horribly.
She sprang up and said to him-
“Sir， I am waiting.”
“For what？” said thenotary， who suddenly became very pale.
“This money.”
“But-” Then， yieldingto the outburst of too powerful a desire，
“Well， yes！”
He dragged himself tow~ds 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 mydistress， sir！ I am to be pitied- not to be sold.”
And she went out.
The notary remained quite stupefied， his eyesfixed on his fine embroidered slippers. They were a love gift， and the sight ofthem at last consoled him. Besides， he reflected that such an adventure mighthave carried him too far.
“What a wretch！ what a scoundrel！ what aninfamy！” she said to herself， as she fled with nervoussteps beneath the aspens of the path. The disappointment of her failureincreased the indignation of her outraged modesty； it seemed to her thatProvidence pursued her implacably， and， strengthening herself in her pride， shehad never felt so much esteem for herself nor so much contempt for others. Aspirit of warfare transformed her. She would have liked to strike all men， tospit in their faces， to crush them， and she walked rapidly straight on， pale，quivering， maddened， searching the empty horizon with tear-dimmed eyes， and asit were rejoicing in the hate that was choking her.
When she saw her house a numbness came overher. She could not go on； and yet she must. Besides， whither could she flee？
Félicité was waiting for her at the door. “Well？”
“No！” said Emma.
And for a quarter of an hour the two of themwent over the various persons in Yonville who might perhaps be inclined to helpher. But each time that Félicité named someone Emma replied-
“Impossible！ they will not！”
“And the master'llsoon be in.”
“I know that well enough. Leave me alone.”
She had tried everything； there was nothingmore to be done now； and when Charles came in she would have to say to him -
“Go away！ This carpet on which you arewalking is no longer ours. In your own house you do hot 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 hewould weep abundantly， and at last， the surprise past， he would forgive her.
“Yes，” she murmured，grinding her teeth， “he. will forgive me， he who wouldgive a million if I would forgive him for having known me！ Never！ never！”
This thought of Bovary's superiority to her exasperated her. Then， whether she confessed ordid not confess， presently， immediately， to-morrow， he would know thecatastrophe all the same； so she must wait for this horrible scene， and bearthe weight of his magnanimity. The desire to return to Lheureux's seized her-what would be the use？ To write to her father- it wastoo late； and perhaps， she began to repent now that she had not yielded to thatother， when she heard the trot of a horse in the alley. It was he； he wasopening the gate； he was whiter than the plaster wall. Rushing to the stairs，she ran out quickly to the square； and the wife of the mayor， who was talkingto Lestiboudois in front of the church， saw her go in to the tax-collector's.
She hurried off to tell Madame Caron， and thetwo ladies went up to the attic， and， hidden by some linen spread across props，stationed themselves comfortably for overlooking the whole of Binet's room.
He was alone in his garret， busy imitating inwood one of those indescribable bits of ivory， composed of crescents， ofspheres hollowed out one within the other， the whole as straight as an obelisk，and of no use whatever； and he was beginning on the last piece- he was nearinghis goal. In the twilight of the workshop the white dust was flying from histools like a shower of sparks under the hoofs of a galloping horse； the twowheels were turning， droning； Binet smiled， his chin lowered， his nostrilsdistended， and， in a word， seemed lost in one of those complete happinessesthat， no doubt， belong only to commonplace occupations， which amuse the mindwith facile difficulties， and satisfy by a realisation of that beyond whichsuch minds have not a dream.
“Ah！ there she is！”exclaimed Madame Tuvache.
But it was impossible because of the lathe tohear what she was saying.
At last these ladies thought they made outthe word “francs，” and MadameTuvache whispered in a low voice-
“She is begging him to give her time forpaying her taxes.”
“Apparently！” repliedthe other.
They saw her walking up and down， examiningthe napkin-rings， the candlesticks， the banister rails against the walls， whileBinet stroked his beard with satisfaction.
“Do you think she wants to order something ofhim？” said Madame Tuvache.
“Why， he doesn't sellanything，” objected her neighbour.
The tax-collector seemed to be listening withwide-open eyes， as if he did not understand. She went on in a tender， suppliantmanner. She came nearer to him， her breast heaving； they no longer spoke.
“Is she making him advances？” said Madame Tuvache.
Binet was scarlet to his very ears. She tookhold of his hands.
“Oh， it's too much！”
And no doubt she was suggesting somethingabominable to him； for the tax-collector- yet he was brave， had fought atBautzen and at Lutzen， had been through the French campaign， and had even beenrecommended for the cross- suddenly， as at the sight of a serpent， recoiled asfar as he could from her， crying-
“Madame！ what do you mean？”
“Women like that ought to be whipped，” said Madame Tuvache.
“But where is she？”continued Madame Caron， for she had disappeared whilst they spoke； thencatching sight of her going up the Grande Rue， and turning to the right as ifmaking for the cemetery， they were lost in conjectures.
“Nurse Rollet，” shesaid on reaching the nurse's， “Iam choking； unlace me！” She fell on the bed sobbing.Nurse Rollet covered her with a petticoat and remained standing by her side.Then， as she did not answer， the good woman withdrew， took her wheel and beganspinning flax.
“Oh， leave on” shemurmured， fancying she heard Binet's lathe.
“What's botheringher？” said the nurse to herself. “Why has she come here？”
She had rushed thither； impelled by a kind ofhorror that drove her from her home.
Lying on her back， motionless， and withstating eyes， she saw things but vaguely， although she tried to with idioticpersistence. She looked at the scales on the walls， two brands smoking end toend， and a long spider crawling over her head in a rent in the beam. At lastshe began to collect her thoughts. She remembered- one day- Léon- Oh！ How long ago that was- the sun was shining on the river， andthe clematis were perfuming the air. Then， carried away as by a rushingtorrent， she soon began to recall the day before.
“What time is it？”she asked.
Mére Rollet went out，raised the fingers of her right hand to that side of the sky that wasbrightest， and came back slowly， saying -
“Nearly three.”
“Ah！ thanks， thanks！”
For he would come； he would have found somemoney. But he would， perhaps， go down yonder， not guessing she was here， andshe told the nurse to run to her house to fetch him.
“Be quick！”
“But， my dear lady， I'm going， I'm going！”
She wondered now that she had not thought ofhim from the first. Yesterday he had given his word； he would not break it. Andshe already saw herself at Lheureux's spreading out herthree bank-notes on his bureau. Then she would have to invent some story toexplain matters to Bovary. What should it be？
The nurse， however， was a long while gone.But， as there was no clock in the cot， Emma feared she was perhaps exaggeratingthe length of time. She began walking round the garden， step by step； she wentinto the path by the hedge， and returned quickly， hoping that the woman wouldhave come back by another road. At last， weary of waiting， assailed by fearsthat she thrust from her， no longer conscious whether she had been here acentury or a moment， she sat down in a comer， closed her eyes， and stopped herears. The gate grated； she sprang up. Before she had spoken Mére Rollet said to her：
“There is no one at your house！”
“What？”
“Oh， no one！ And the doctor is crying. He iscalling for you； they're looking for you.”
Emma answered nothing. She gasped as sheturned her eyes about her， while the peasant woman， frightened at her face，drew back instinctively， thinking her mad. Suddenly she struck her brow anduttered a cry； for the thought of Rodolphe， like a flash of lightning in a darknight， had passed into her soul. He was so good， so delicate， so generous！ Andbesides， should he hesitate to do her this service， she would know well enoughhow to constrain him to it by re-waking， in a single moment， their lost love.So she set out towards La Huchette， not seeing that she was hastening to offerherself to that which but a while ago had so angered her， not in the leastconscious of her prostitution.
