“Butpardonme!“shesaid。“Itiswrongofme。Iwearyyouwithmyeternalcomplaints。“
“No，never，never!“
“Ifyouknew，“shewenton，raisingtotheceilingherbeautifuleyes，inwhichatearwastrembling，“allthatIhaddreamed!“
“AndI!Oh，Itoohavesuffered!OftenIwentout；Iwentaway。I
draggedmyselfalongthequays，seekingdistractionamidthedinofthecrowdwithoutbeingabletobanishtheheavinessthatweigheduponme。Inanengraver’sshopontheboulevardthereisanItalianprintofoneoftheMuses。Sheisdrapedinatunic，andsheislookingatthemoon，withforget-me-notsinherflowinghair。Somethingdrovemetherecontinually；Istayedtherehourstogether。“Theninatremblingvoice，“Sheresembledyoualittle。“
MadameBovaryturnedawayherheadthathemightnotseetheirrepressiblesmileshefeltrisingtoherlips。
“Often，“hewenton，“IwroteyoulettersthatItoreup。“
Shedidnotanswer。Hecontinued——
“Isometimesfanciedthatsomechancewouldbringyou。IthoughtIrecognisedyouatstreet-corners，andIranafterallthecarriagesthroughwhosewindowsIsawashawlfluttering，aveillikeyours。“
Sheseemedresolvedtolethimgoonspeakingwithoutinterruption。Crossingherarmsandbendingdownherface，shelookedattherosettesonherslippers，andatintervalsmadelittlemovementsinsidethesatinofthemwithhertoes。
Atlastshesighed。
“Butthemostwretchedthing，isitnot——istodragout，asIdo，auselessexistence。Ifourpainswereonlyofsomeusetosomeone，weshouldfindconsolationinthethoughtofthesacrifice。“
Hestartedoffinpraiseofvirtue，duty，andsilentimmolation，havinghimselfanincrediblelongingforself-sacrificethathecouldnotsatisfy。
“Ishouldmuchlike，“shesaid，“tobeanurseatahospital。“
“Alas!menhavenoneoftheseholymissions，andIseenowhereanycalling——unlessperhapsthatofadoctor。“
Withaslightshrugofhershoulders，Emmainterruptedhimtospeakofherillness，whichhadalmostkilledher。Whatapity!
Sheshouldnotbesufferingnow!Leonatonceenviedthecalmofthetomb，andoneeveninghehadevenmadehiswill，askingtobeburiedinthatbeautifulrugwithvelvetstripeshehadreceivedfromher。Forthiswashowtheywouldhavewishedtobe，eachsettingupanidealtowhichtheywerenowadaptingtheirpastlife。Besides，speechisarolling-millthatalwaysthinsoutthesentiment。
Butatthisinventionoftherugsheasked，“Butwhy？“
“Why？“Hehesitated。“BecauseIlovedyouso!“Andcongratulatinghimselfathavingsurmountedthedifficulty，Leonwatchedherfaceoutofthecornerofhiseyes。
Itwasliketheskywhenagustofwinddrivesthecloudsacross。
Themassofsadthoughtsthatdarkenedthemseemedtobeliftedfromherblueeyes；herwholefaceshone。Hewaited。Atlastshereplied——
“Ialwayssuspectedit。“
Thentheywentoverallthetriflingeventsofthatfar-offexistence，whosejoysandsorrowstheyhadjustsummedupinoneword。Theyrecalledthearbourwithclematis，thedressesshehadworn，thefurnitureofherroom，thewholeofherhouse。
“Andourpoorcactuses，wherearethey？“
“Thecoldkilledthemthiswinter。“
“Ah!howIhavethoughtofthem，doyouknow？Ioftensawthemagainasofyore，whenonthesummermorningsthesunbeatdownuponyourblinds，andIsawyourtwobarearmspassingoutamongsttheflowers。“
“Poorfriend!“shesaid，holdingoutherhandtohim。
Leonswiftlypressedhislipstoit。Then，whenhehadtakenadeepbreath——
“AtthattimeyouweretomeIknownotwhatincomprehensibleforcethattookcaptivemylife。Once，forinstance，Iwenttoseeyou；butyou，nodoubt，donotrememberit。“
“Ido，“shesaid；“goon。“
“Youweredownstairsintheante-room，readytogoout，standingonthelaststair；youwerewearingabonnetwithsmallblueflowers；andwithoutanyinvitationfromyou，inspiteofmyself，Iwentwithyou。Everymoment，however，Igrewmoreandmoreconsciousofmyfolly，andIwentonwalkingbyyou，notdaringtofollowyoucompletely，andunwillingtoleaveyou。Whenyouwentintoashop，Iwaitedinthestreet，andIwatchedyouthroughthewindowtakingoffyourglovesandcountingthechangeonthecounter。ThenyourangatMadameTuvache’s；youwereletin，andIstoodlikeanidiotinfrontofthegreatheavydoorthathadclosedafteryou。“
MadameBovary，asshelistenedtohim，wonderedthatshewassoold。Allthesethingsreappearingbeforeherseemedtowidenoutherlife；itwaslikesomesentimentalimmensitytowhichshereturned；andfromtimetotimeshesaidinalowvoice，hereyeshalfclosed——
“Yes，itistrue——true——true!“
TheyheardeightstrikeonthedifferentclocksoftheBeauvoisinequarter，whichisfullofschools，churches，andlargeemptyhotels。Theynolongerspoke，buttheyfeltastheylookeduponeachotherabuzzingintheirheads，asifsomethingsonoroushadescapedfromthefixedeyesofeachofthem。Theywerehandinhandnow，andthepast，thefuture，reminiscencesanddreams，allwereconfoundedinthesweetnessofthisecstasy。
Nightwasdarkeningoverthewalls，onwhichstillshone，halfhiddenintheshade，thecoarsecoloursoffourbillsrepresentingfourscenesfromthe“TourdeNesle，“withamottoinSpanishandFrenchatthebottom。Throughthesash-windowapatchofdarkskywasseenbetweenthepointedroofs。
Sherosetolighttwowax-candlesonthedrawers，thenshesatdownagain。
“Well!“saidLeon。
“Well!“shereplied。
Hewasthinkinghowtoresumetheinterruptedconversation，whenshesaidtohim——
“Howisitthatnooneuntilnowhaseverexpressedsuchsentimentstome？“
Theclerksaidthatidealnaturesweredifficulttounderstand。
Hefromthefirstmomenthadlovedher，andhedespairedwhenhethoughtofthehappinessthatwouldhavebeentheirs，ifthankstofortune，meetingherearlier，theyhadbeenindissolublyboundtooneanother。
“Ihavesometimesthoughtofit，“shewenton。
“Whatadream!“murmuredLeon。Andfingeringgentlythebluebindingofherlongwhitesash，headded，“Andwhopreventsusfrombeginningnow？“
“No，myfriend，“shereplied；“Iamtooold；youaretooyoung。
Forgetme!Otherswillloveyou；youwilllovethem。“
“Notasyou!“hecried。
“Whatachildyouare!Come，letusbesensible。Iwishit。“
Sheshowedhimtheimpossibilityoftheirlove，andthattheymustremain，asformerly，onthesimpletermsofafraternalfriendship。
Wasshespeakingthusseriously？NodoubtEmmadidnotherselfknow，quiteabsorbedasshewasbythecharmoftheseduction，andthenecessityofdefendingherselffromit；andcontemplatingtheyoungmanwithamovedlook，shegentlyrepulsedthetimidcaressesthathistremblinghandsattempted。
“Ah!forgiveme!“hecried，drawingback。
Emmawasseizedwithavaguefearatthisshyness，moredangeroustoherthantheboldnessofRodolphewhenheadvancedtoheropen-armed。Nomanhadeverseemedtohersobeautiful。Anexquisitecandouremanatedfromhisbeing。Heloweredhislongfineeyelashes，thatcurledupwards。Hischeek，withthesoftskinreddened，shethought，withdesireofherperson，andEmmafeltaninvinciblelongingtopressherlipstoit。Then，leaningtowardstheclockasiftoseethetime——
“Ah!howlateitis!“shesaid；“howwedochatter!“
Heunderstoodthehintandtookuphishat。
“Ithasevenmademeforgetthetheatre。AndpoorBovaryhasleftmehereespeciallyforthat。MonsieurLormeaux，oftheRueGrand-Pont，wastotakemeandhiswife。“
Andtheopportunitywaslost，asshewastoleavethenextday。
“Really!“saidLeon。
“Yes。“
“ButImustseeyouagain，“hewenton。“Iwantedtotellyou——“
“What？“
“Something——important——serious。Oh，no!Besides，youwillnotgo；