As soon as he felt the ground， Emma's horse set off`at a gallop.Rodolphe galloped by her side. Now andthen they exchanged a word. Her figure slightly bent， her hand well up， and herright arm stretched out， she gave herself up to the cadence of the movementthat rocked her in her saddle. At the bottom of the hill Rodolphe gave hishorse its head； they started together at a bound， then at the top suddenly thehorses stopped， and her large blue veil fell about her.
It was early in October. There was fog overthe land. Hazy clouds hovered on the horizon between the outlines of the hills；others， rent asunder， floated up and disappeared. Sometimes through a rift inthe clouds， beneath a ray of sunshine， gleamed from afar the roots of Yonville，with the gardens at the water's edge， the yards， thewalls and the church steeple. Emma half closed her eyes to pick out her house，and never had this poor village where she lived appeared so small. From theheight on which they were the whole valley seemed an immense pale lake sendingoff its vapour into the air. Clumps of trees here and there stood out likeblack rocks， and the tall lines of the poplars that rose above the mist werelike a beach stirred by the wind.
By the side， on the turf between the pines， abrown light shimmered in the warm atmosphere. The earth， ruddy like the powderof tobacco， deadened the noise of their steps， and with the edge of their shoesthe horses as they walked kicked the fallen fir cones in front of them.
Rodolphe and Emma thus went along the skirtof the wood. She turned away from time to time to avoid his look， and then shesaw only the pine trunks in lines， whose monotonous succession made her alittle giddy. The horses were panting； the leather of the saddles creaked.
Just as they were entering the forest the sunshone out.
“God protects us ！”said Rodolphe.
“Do you think so？”she said.
“Forward！ forward！”he continued.
He “tchk'd” with his tongue. The two beasts set offat a trot. Long ferns by the roadside caught in Emma'sstirrup. Rodolphe leant forward and removed them as they rode along. At othertimes， to turn aside the branches， he passed close to her， and Emma felt hisknee brushing against her leg. The sky was now blue， the leaves no longerstirred. There were spaces full of heather in flower， and plots of violetsalternated with the confused patches of the trees that were grey， fawn， orgolden coloured， according to the nature of their leaves. Often in the thicketwas heard the fluttering of wings， or else the hoarse， soft cry of the ravensflying off amidst the oaks.
They dismounted. Rodolphe fastened up thehorses. She walked on in front on the moss between the paths. But her longhabit got in her way， although she held it up by the skirt； and Rodolphe，walking behind her， saw between the black cloth and the black shoe the finenessof her white stocking， that seemed to him as if it were a part of hernakedness.
She stopped. “I amtired，” she said.
“Come， try again，” hewent on. “Courage！”
Then some hundred paces farther on she againstopped， and through her veil， that fell sideways from her man's hat over her hips， her face appeared in a bluish transparency asif she were floating under azure waves.
“But where are we going？”
He did not answer. She was breathingirregularly. Rodolphe looked round him biting his moustache. They came to alarger space where the coppice had been cut. They sat down on the trunk of afallen tree， and Rodolphe began speaking to her of his love. He did not beginby frightening her with compliments. He was calm， serious， melancholy.
Emma listened to him with bowed head， andstirred the bits of wood on the ground with the tip of her foot. But at thewords， “Are not our destinies now one？”
“Oh， no！” shereplied. “You know that well. It is impossible！”
She rose to go. He seized her by the wrist.She stopped. Then， having gazed at him for a few moments with an amorous andhumid look， she said hurriedly：
“Ah！ do not speak of it again！ Where are thehorses？ Let us go back.”
He made a gesture of anger and annoyance. Sherepeated：
“Where are the horses？ Where are the horses？”
Then smiling a strange smile， his pupilfixed， his teeth set， he advanced with outstretched arms. She recoiledtrembling. She stammered：
“Oh， you frighten me！ You hurt me！ Let me go！”
“If it must be，” hewent on， his face changing； and he again became respectful， caressing， timid.She gave him her arm. They went back. He said：
“What was the matter with you？ Why？ I do notunderstand. You were mistaken， no doubt. In my soul you are as a Madonna on apedestal， in a place lofty， secure， immaculate. But I need you to live！ I musthave your eyes， your voice， your thought！ Be my friend， my sister， my angel！”
And he put out his arm round her waist. Shefeebly tried to disengage herself. He supported her thus as they walked along.
But they heard the two horses browsing on theleaves.
“Oh！ one moment！” saidRodolphe. “Do not let us go！ Stay！”
He drew her farther on to a small pool whereduckweeds made a greenness on the water. Faded water lilies lay motionlessbetween the reeds. At the noise of their steps in the grass， frogs jumped awayto hide themselves.
“I am wrong！ I am wrong！” she said. “I am mad to listen to you！”
“Why？ Emma！ Emma！”
“Oh， Rodolphe！” saidthe young woman slowly， leaning on his shoulder.
The cloth of her habit caught against thevelvet of his coat. She threw back her white neck， swelling with a sigh， andfaltering， in tears， with a long shudder and hiding her face， she gave herselfup to him.
The shades of night were falling； thehorizontal sun passing between the branches dazzled the eyes. Here and therearound her， in the leaves or on the ground， trembled luminous patches， as ithummingbirds flying about had scattered their feathers. Silence was everywhere；something sweet seemed to come forth from the trees； she felt her heart， whosebeating had begun again， and the blood coursing through her flesh like a streamof milk. Then far away， beyond the wood， on the other hills， she heard a vagueprolonged cry， a voice which lingered， and in silence she heard it minglinglike music with the last pulsations of her throbbing nerves. Rodolphe， a cigarbetween his lips， was mending with his penknife one of the two broken bridles.
They returned to Yonville by the same road.On the mud they saw again the traces of their horses side by side， the samethickets， the same stones to the grass； nothing around them seemed changed； andyet for her something had happened more stupendous than if the mountains hadmoved in their places. Rodolphe now and again bent forward and took her hand tokiss it.
She was charming on horseback-upright， withher slender waist， her knee bent on the mane of her horse， her face somewhatflushed by the fresh air in the red of the evening.
On entering Yonville she made her horseprance in the road. People looked at her from the windows.
At dinner her husband thought she looked well，but she pretended not to hear him when he inquired about her ride， and sheremained sitting there with her elbow at the side of her plate between the twolighted candles.
“Emma！” he said.
“What？”
“Well， I spent the afternoon at MonsieurAlexandre's. He has an old cob， still very fine， only alittle broken-kneed， and that could be bought； I am sure， for a hundred crowns.” He added， “And thinking it might pleaseyou， I have bespoken it-bought it. Have I done right？ Do tell me？”
She nodded her head in assent； then a quarterof an hour later-
“Are you going out to-night？” she asked.
“Yes. Why？”
“Oh， nothing， nothing， my dear！”
And as soon as she had got rid of Charles shewent and shut herself up in her room.
At first she felt stunned； she saw the trees，the paths， the ditches， Rodolphe， and she again felt the pressure of his arm，while the leaves rustled and the reeds whistled.
But when she saw herself in the glass shewondered at her face. Never had her eyes been so large， so black， of soprofound a depth. Something subtle about her being transfigured her. Sherepeated， “I have a lover！ a lover！” delighting at the idea as if a second puberty had come to her. Soat last she was to know those joys of love， that fever of happiness of whichshe had despaired！ She was entering upon marvels where all would be passion，ecstasy， delirium. An azure infinity encompassed her， the heights of sentimentsparkled under her thought， and ordinary existence appeared only afar off， downbelow in the shade， through the interspaces of these heights.
Then she recalled the heroines of the booksthat she had read， and the lyric legion of these adulterous women began to singin her memory with the voice of sisters that charmed her. She became herself，as it were， an actual part of these imaginings， and realised the love-dream ofher youth as she saw herself in this type of amorous women whom she had soenvied. Besides， Emma felt a satisfaction of revenge. Had she not sufferedenough？ But now she triumphed， and the love so long pent up burst forth in fulljoyous bubblings. She tasted it without remorse， without anxiety， withouttrouble.
The following day passed with a newsweetness. They made vows to one another She told him of her sorrows. Rodolpheinterrupted her with kisses； and she looking at him through half-closed eyes，asked him to call her again by her name-to say that he loved her They were inthe forest， as yesterday， in the shed of some woodenshoe maker. The walls wereof straw， and the roof so low they had to stoop. They were seated side by sideon a bed of dry leaves.
From that day forth they wrote to one anotherregularly every evening. Emma placed her letter at the end of the garden， bythe river， in a fissure of the wall. Rodolphe came to fetch it， and put anotherthere， that she always found fault with as too short.
One morning， when Charles had gone out beforeday break， she was seized with the fancy to see Rodolphe at once. She would goquickly to La Huchette， stay there an hour， and be back again at Yonville whileeveryone was still asleep. This idea made her pant with desire， and she soonfound herself in the middle of the field， walking with rapid steps， withoutlooking behind her.
Day was just breaking. Emma from afarrecognised her lover's house. Its two dove-tailed weathercocksstood out black against the pale dawn.
Beyond the farmyard there was a detachedbuilding that she thought must be the chateau She entered-it was if the doorsat her approach had opened wide of their own accord. A large straight staircaseled up to the corridor. Emma raised the latch of a door， and suddenly at theend of the room she saw a man sleeping. It was Rodolphe. She uttered a cry.
“You here？ You here？”he repeated. “How did you manage to come？ Ah！ yourdress is damp.”
“I love you，” she answered，throwing her arms about his neck.
This first piece of daring successful， nowevery time Charles went out early Emma dressed quickly and slipped on tiptoedown the steps that led to the waterside.
But when the plank for the cows was taken up，she had to go by the walls alongside of the river； the bank was slippery； inorder not to fall she caught hold of the tufts of faded wallflowers. Then shewent across ploughed fields， in which she sank， stumbling； and clogging herthin shoes. Her scarf， knotted round her head， fluttered to the wind in themeadows. She was afraid of the oxen； she began to run； she arrived out ofbreath， with rosy cheeks， and breathing out from her whole person a freshperfume of sap， of verdure， of the open air. At this hour Rodolphe still slept.It was like a spring morning coming into his room.
The yellow curtains along the windows let aheavy， whitish light enter softly. Emma felt about， opening and closing hereyes， while the drops of dew hanging from her hair formed， as it were， a topazaureole around her face. Rodolphe， laughing， drew her to him， and pressed herto his breast.
Then she examined the apartment， opened thedrawers of the tables， combed her hair with his comb， and looked at herself inhis shaving-glass. Often she even put between her teeth the big pipe that layon the table by the bed， amongst lemons and pieces of sugar near a bottle ofwater.
It took them a good quarter of an hour to saygoodbye. Then Emma cried. She would have wished never to leave Rodolphe. Somethingstronger than herself forced her to him； so much so， that one day， seeing hercome unexpectedly， he frowned as one put out.
“What is the matter with you？” she said. “Are you ill？ Tell me！”
At last he declared with a serious air thather visits were becoming imprudent-that she was compromising herself.
Chapter 10
Gradually Rodolphe'sfears took possession of her. At first， love had intoxicated her； and she hadthought of nothing beyond. But now that he was indispensable to her life， shefeared to lose anything of this， or even that it should be disturbed. When shecame back from his house she looked all about her， anxiously watching everyform that passed in the horizon， and every village window from which she couldbe seen. She listened for steps， cries， the noise of the ploughs， and shestopped short， white， and trembling more than the aspen leaves swayingoverhead.
One morning as she was thus returning， shesuddenly thought she saw the long barrel of a carbine that seemed to be aimedat her. It stuck out sideways from the end of a small tub half-buried in thegrass on the edge of a ditch. Emma， half-fainting with terror， neverthelesswalked on， and a man stepped out of the tub like a Jack-in-the-box. He hadgaiters buckled up to the knees， his cap pulled down over his eyes， tremblinglips， and a red nose. It was Captain Binet lying in ambush for wild ducks.
“You ought to have called out long ago！” he exclaimed； “When one sees a gun， one shouldalways give warning.”
The tax-collector was thus trying to hide thefright he had had， for a prefectorial order having prohibited duck-huntingexcept in boats， Monsieur Binet， despite his respect for the laws， wasinfringing them， and so he every moment expected to see the rural guard turnup. But this anxiety whetted his pleasure， and， all alone in his tub， hecongratulated himself on his luck and on his cuteness.
At sight of Emma he seemed relieved from agreat weight， and at once entered upon a conversation.
“It isn't warm； it's nipping.”
Emma answered nothing. He went on-
“And you're out soearly？”
“Yes，” she saidstammering； “I am just coming from the nurse where mychild is.”
“Ah！ very good！ very good！ For myself， I amhere， just as you see me， since break of day； but the weather is so muggy， thatunless one had the bird at the mouth of the gun-”
“Good evening， Monsieur Binet，” she interrupted him， turning on her heel.
“Your servant， madame，” he replied dryly； and he went back into his tub.
Emma regretted having left the tax-collectorso abruptly. No doubt he would form unfavourable conjectures. The story aboutthe nurse was the worst possible excuse， everyone at Yonville knowing that thelittle Bovary had been at home with her parents for a year. Besides， no one wasliving in this direction； this path led only to La Huchette. Binet， then， wouldguess whence she came， and he would not keep silence； he would talk， that wascertain. She remained until evening racking her brain with every conceivable lyingproject， and had constantly before her eyes that imbecile with the game-bag.
Charles after dinner， seeing her gloomy，proposed， by way of distraction， to take her to the chemist's， and the first person she caught sight of in the shop was thetax-collector again. He was standing in front of the counter， lit up by thegleams of the red bottle， and was saying-
“Please give me half an ounce of vitriol.”
“Justin，” cried thedruggist， “bring us the sulphuric acid.” Then to Emma， who was going up to Madame Homais' room， “No， stay here； it isn't worth while going up； she is just coming down. Warm yourself atthe stove in the meantime. Excuse me. Good-day， doctor，” (for the chemist much enjoyed pronouncing the word “doctor，” as if addressing another by itreflected on himself some of the grandeur that he found in it). “Now， take care not to upset the mortars！ You'd better fetch some chairs from the little room； you know very wellthat the arm-chairs are not to be taken out of the drawing-room.”
And to put his arm-chair back in its place hewas darting away from the counter， when Binet asked him for half an ounce ofsugar acid.
“Sugar acid！” saidthe chemist contemptuously， “don't know it； I'm ignorant of it！ But perhapsyou want oxalic acid. It is oxalic acid， isn't it？”
Binet explained that he wanted a corrosive tomake himself some copper-water with which to remove rust from his huntingthings.
Emma shuddered. The chemist began saying-
“Indeed the weather is not propitious onaccount of the damp.”
“Nevertheless，”replied the tax-collector， with a sly look， “there arepeople who like it.”
She was stifling.
“And give me-”
“Will he never go？”thought she.
“Half an ounce of resin and turpentine， fourounces of yellow wax， and three half ounces of animal charcoal， if you please，to clean the varnished leather of my togs.”
The druggist was beginning to cut the waxwhen Madame Homais appeared， Irma in her arms， Napoldon by her side， andAthalie following. She sat down on the velvet seat by the window， and the ladsquatted down on a footstool， while his eldest sister hovered round the jujubebox near her papa. The latter was filling funnels and corking phials， stickingon labels， making up parcels. Around him all were silent； only from time totime， were heard the weights jingling in the balance， and a few low words fromthe chemist giving directions to his pupil.
“And how's the littlewoman？” suddenly asked Madame Homais.
“Silence！” exclaimedher husband， who was writing down some figures in his waste-book.
“Why didn't you bringher？” she went on in a low voice.
“Hush！ hush！” saidEmma， pointing with her finger to the druggist.
But Binet， quite absorbed in looking over hisbill， had probably heard nothing. At last he went out. Then Emma， relieved，uttered a deep sigh.
“How hard you are breathing！” said Madame Homais.
“Well， you see， it'srather warm，” she replied.
So the next day they talked over how toarrange their rendezvous. Emma wanted to bribe her servant with a present， butit would be better to find some safe house at Yonville. Rodolphe promised tolook for one.
All through the winter， three or four times aweek， in the dead of night he came to the garden. Emma had on purpose takenaway the key of the gate， which Charles thought lost.
To call her， Rodolphe threw a sprinkle ofsand at the shutters. She jumped up with a start； but sometimes he had to wait，for Charles had a mania for chatting by the fireside， and he would not stop.She was wild with impatience； if her eyes could have done it， she would havehurled him out at the window. At last she would begin to undress， then take upa book， and go on reading very quietly as if the book amused her. But Charles，who was in bed， called to her to come too.
“Come， now， Emma，” hesaid， “it is time.”
“Yes， I am coming，”she answered.
Then， as the candles dazzled him； he turnedto the wall and fell asleep. She escaped， smiling， palpitating， undressed.
Rodolphe had a large cloak； he wrapped her init， and putting his arm round her waist， he drew her without a word to the endof the garden.
It was in the arbour， on the same seat of oldsticks where formerly Léon had looked at her soamorously on the summer evenings. She never thought of him now.
The stars shone through the leafless jasminebranches. Behind them they heard the river flowing， and now and again on thebank the rustling of the dry reeds. Masses of shadow here and there loomed outin the darkness， and sometimes， vibrating with one movement， they rose up andswayed like immense black waves pressing forward to engulf them. The cold ofthe nights made them clasp closer； the sighs of their lips seemed to themdeeper； their eyes that they could hardly see， larger； and in the midst of thesilence low words were spoken that fell on their souls sonorous， crystalline，and that reverberated in multiplied vibrations.
When the night was rainy， they took refuge inthe consulting-room between the cart-shed and the stable. She lighted one ofthe kitchen candles that she had hidden behind the books. Rodolphe settled downthere as if at home. The sight of the library， of the bureau， of the wholeapartment， in fine， excited his merriment， and he could not refrain from makingjokes about Charles， which rather embarrassed Emma. She would have liked to seehim more serious， and even on occasions more dramatic； as， for example， whenshe thought she heard a noise of approaching steps in the alley.
“Someone is coming！”she said.
He blew out the light.
“Have you your pistols？”
“Why？”
“Why， to defend yourself，” replied Emma.
“From your husband？ Oh， poor devil！” And Rodolphe finished his sentence with a gesture that said， “I could crush him with a flip of my finger.”
She was wonder-stricken at his bravery，although she felt in it a sort of indecency and a naive coarseness thatscandalised her.
Rodolphe reflected a good deal on the affairof the pistols. If she had spoken seriously， it was very ridiculous， hethought， even odious； for he had no reason to hate the good Charles， not beingwhat is called devoured by jealousy； and on this subject Emma had taken a greatvow that he did not think in the best of taste.
Besides， she was growing very sentimental.She had insisted on exchanging miniatures； they had cut off handfuls of hair，and now she was asking for a ring- a real wedding-ring， in sign of an eternalunion. She often spoke to him of the evening chimes， of the voices of nature.Then she talked to him of her mother- hers！ and of his mother- his！ Rodolphehad lost his twenty years ago. Emma none the less consoled him with caressingwords as one would have done a lost child， and she sometimes even said to him，gazing at the moon-
“I am sure that above there together theyapprove of our love.”
But she was so pretty. He had possessed sofew women of such ingenuousness. This love without debauchery was a newexperience for him， and， drawing him out of his lazy habits， caressed at oncehis pride and his sensuality. Emma's enthusiasm， whichhis bourgeois good sense disdained， seemed to him in his heart of heartscharming， since it was lavished on him. Then， sure of being loved， he no longerkept up appearances， and insensibly his ways changed.
He had no longer， as formerly， words sogentle that they made her cry， nor passionate caresses that made her mad， sothat their great love， which engrossed her life， seemed to lessen beneath herlike the water of a stream absorbed into its channel， and she could see the bedof it. She would not believe it； she redoubled in tenderness， and Rodolpheconcealed his indifference less and less.
She did not know if she regretted havingyielded to him， or whether she did not wish， on the contrary， to enjoy him themore. The humiliation of feeling herself weak was turning to rancour， temperedby their voluptuous pleasures. It was not affection； it was like a continualseduction. He subjugated her； she almost feared him.