“Don't see them； don't go out； think only of ourselves； love me！”
She would have liked to be able to watch overhis life； and the idea occurred to her of having him followed in the streets.Near the hotel there was always a kind of loafer who accosted travellers， andwho would not refuse. But her pride revolted at this.
“Bah！ so much the worse. Let him deceive me！What does it matter to me？ As if I cared for him！”
One day， when they had parted early and shewas returning alone along the boulevard， she saw the ，walls of her convent；then she sat down on a form in the shade of the elm-trees. How calm that timehad been！ How she longed for the ineffable sentiments of love that she hadtried to figure to herself out of books！ The first month of her marriage， herrides in the wood， the viscount that waltzed， and Lagardy singing， all repassedbefore her eyes. And Léon suddenly appeared to her asfar off as the others.
“Yet I love him，” shesaid to herself.
No matter！ She was not happy-she never had been.Whence came this insufficiency in life-this instantaneous turning to decay ofeverything on which she leant？ But if there were somewhere a being Strong andbeautiful， a valiant nature， full at once of exaltation and refinement， a poet's heart in an angel's form， a lyre withsounding chords ringing out elegiac epithalamia to heaven， why， perchance，should she not find him？ Ah！ how impossible！ Besides， nothing was worth thetrouble of seeking it； everything was a lie. Every smile hid a yawn of boredom，every joy a curse， all pleasure satiety， and the sweetest kisses left upon yourlips only the unattainable desire for a greater delight.
A metallic clang droned through the air， andfour strokes were heard from the convent-clock. Four o'clock！And it seemed to her that she had been there on that form an eternity. But aninfinity of passions may be contained in a minute， like a crowd in a smallspace.
Emma lived all absorbed in hers， and troubledno more about money matters than an archduchess.
Once， however， a wretched-looking man，rubicund and bald， came to her house， saying he had been sent by MonsieurVincart of Rouen. He took out the pins that held together the side-pockets ofhis long green overcoat， stuck them into his sleeve， and politely handed her apaper.
It was a bill for seven hundred francs，signed by her， and which Lheureux， in spite of all his professions， had paidaway to Vincart. She sent her servant for him. He could not come. Then thestranger， who had remained standing， casting right and left curious glances，that his thick， fair eyebrows hid， asked with a naive air-
“What answer am I to take Monsieur Vincart？”
“Oh，” said Emma， “tell him that I haven't it. I will send nextweek； he must wait； yes， till next week.”
And the fellow went without another word.
But the next day at twelve o'clock she received a summons， and the sight of the stamped paper， onwhich appeared several times in large letters， “MaitreHarcng， bailiff at Buchy，” so frightened her that sherushed in hot haste to the lincndrapcr's. She found himin his shop， doing up a parcel.
“Your obedient！” hcsaid； “I am at your service.”
But Lhcurcux， all the same， went on with hiswork， helped by a young girl of about thirteen， somewhat hunch-backed， who wasat once his clerk and his servant.
Then， his clogs clattering on theshop-boards， he went up in front of Madame Bovary to the first door， andintroduced her into a narrow closet， where， in a large bureau in sapon-wood，lay some ledgers， protected by a horizontal padlocked iron bar. Against thewall， under some remnants of calico， one glimpsed a safe， but of suchdimensions that it must contain something besides bills and money. MonsieurLhcureux， in fact， went in for pawnbroking， and it was there that he had putMadame Bovary's gold chain， together with the earringsof poor old Tellier， who， at last forced to sell out， had bought a meagre storeof grocery at Quincampoix， where hc was dying of catarrh amongst his candles，that wcrc less yellow than his face.
Lhcureux sat down in a large cane arm-chair，saying： “What news？”
“See！”
And she showed him the paper.
“Well how can I help it？”
Then she grew angry， reminding him of thepromise he had given not to pay away her bills. He acknowledged it.
“But I was pressed myself； the knife was at myown throat.”
“And what will happen now？” she went on.
“Oh， it's verysimple； a judgment and then a distraint-that's aboutit！”
Emma kept down a desire to strike him， andasked gently if there was no way of quieting Monsieur Vincart.
“I dare say！ Quiet Vincart！ You don't know him； he's more ferocious than anArab！”
Still Monsieur Lheureux must interfere.
“Well， listen. It seems to me so far I've been very good to you.” And opening oneof his ledgers， “See，” he said.Then running up the page with his f'mger， “Let's see！ let'ssee！ August 3d， two hundred francs； June 17th， a hundred and fitty； March 23d，forty-six. In April-”
He stopped， as if afraid of making somemistake.
“Not to speak of the bills signed by MonsieurBovary， one for seven hundred francs， and another for three hundred. As to yourlittle installments， with the interest， why， there's noend to 'em； one gets quite muddled over 'em. I'll have nothing more to do with it.”
She wept； she even called him “her good Monsieur Lheureux.” But he always fellback upon “that rascal Vincart.” Besides， he hadn't a brass farthing； no onewas paying him now-a-days； they were eating his coat off his back； a poorshopkeeper like him couldn't advance money.
Emma was silent， and Monsieur Lheureux， whowas biting the feathers of a quill， no doubt became uneasy at her silence， forhe went on：
“Unless one of these days I have somethingcoming in， I might-”
“Besides，” said she， “as soon as the balance of Barneville-”
“What！”
And on hearing that Langlois had not yet paidhe seemed much surprised. Then in a honied voice-
“And we agree， you say？”
“Oh！ to anything you like.”
On this he closed his eyes to reflect， wrotedown a few figures， and declaring it would be very difficult for him， that theaffair was shady， and that he was being bled， he wrote out four bills for twohundred and fifty francs each， to fall due month by month.
“Provided that Vincart will listen to me！However， it's settled. I don'tplay the fool； I'm straight enough.”
Next he carelessly showed her several newgoods， not one of which， however， was in his opinion worthy of madame.
“When I think that there's a dress at threepence-halfpenny a yard， and warranted fastcolours！ And yet they actually swallow it！ Of course you understand one doesn't tell them what it really is！” He hoped bythis confession of dishonesty to others to quite convince her of his probity toher.
Then he called her back to show her threeyards of guipure that he had lately picked up “at asale.”
“Isn't it lovely？” said Lheureux. “It is very much used nowfor the backs of arm-chairs. It's quite the rage.”
And， more ready than a juggler， he wrapped upthe guipure in some blue paper and put it in Emma'shands.
“But at least let me know-”
“Yes， another time，”he replied， turning on his heel.
That same evening she urged Bovary to writeto his mother， to ask her to send as quickly as possible the whole of thebalance due from the father's estate. The mother-in-lawreplied that she had nothing more， the winding up was over， and there was dueto them besides Bameville an income of six hundred francs， that she would paythem punctually.
Then Madame Bovary sent in accounts to two orthree patients， and she made large use of this method， which was verysuccessful. She was always careful to add a post： “Do not mention this to my husband； you know how proud he is. Excuseme. Yours obediently.” There were some complaints； sheintercepted them.
To get money she began selling her oldgloves， her old hats， the old odds and ends， and she bargained rapaciously， herpeasant blood standing her in good stead. Then on her journey to town shepicked up nick-nacks secondhand， that， in default of anyone else， MonsieurLheureux would certainly take off her hands. She bought ostrich feathers，Chinese porcelain， and trunks； she borrowed from Fé1icité， from Madame Lefrancois， from the landlady at the Croix-Rouge， fromeverybody， no matter where. With the money she at last received from Barnevilleshe paid two bills； the other fifteen hundred francs fell due. She renewed thebills， and thus it was continually.
Sometimes， it is true， she tried to make acalculation， but she discovered things so exorbitant that she could not believethem possible. Then she recommenced， soon got confused， gave it all up， andthought no more about it.
The house was very dreary now. Tradesmen wereseen leaving it with angry faces. Handkerchiefs were lying about on the stoves，and little Berthe， to the great scandal of Madame Homais， wore stockings withholes in them. If Charles timidly ventured a remark， she answered roughly thatit wasn't her fault.
What was the meaning of all these fits oftemper？ He explained everything through her old nervous illness， andreproaching himself with having taken her infirmities for faults， accusedhimself of egotism， and longed to go and take her in his arms.
“Ah， no！” he said tohimself； “I should worry her.”
And he did not stir.
After dinner he walked about alone in thegarden； he took little Berthe on his knees， and unfolding his medical journal，tried to teach her to read. But the child， who never had any lessons， soonlooked up with large， sad eyes and began to cry. Then he comforted her； went tofetch water in her can to make rivers on the sand path， or broke off branchesfrom the privet hedges to plant trees in the beds. This did not spoil thegarden much， all choked now with long weeds. They owed Lestiboudois for so manydays. Then the child grew cold and asked for her mother.
“Call the servant，”said Charles. “You know， dearie， that mamma does notlike to be disturbed.”
Autumn was setting in， and the leaves werealready falling， as they did two years ago when she was ill. Where would it allend？ And he walked up and down， his hands behind his back.
Madame was in her room， which no one entered.She stayed there all ‘day long， torpid， half dressed，and from time to time burning Turkish pastilles which she had bought at Rouenin an Algerian's shop. In order not to have at nightthis sleeping man stretched at her side， by dint of manoeuvring， she at lastsucceeded in banishing him to the second floor， while she read till morningextravagant books， full of pictures of orgies and thrilling situations. Often，seized with fear， she cried out， and Charles hurried to her.
“Oh， go away！” shewould say.
Or at other times， consumed more ardentlythan ever by that inner flame to which adultery added fuel， panting， tremulous，all desire， she threw open her window， breathed in the cold air， shook loose inthe wind her masses of hair， too heavy， and， gazing upon the stars， longed forsome princely love. She thought of him， of Léon. Shewould then have given anything for a single one of those meetings thatsurfeited her.
These were her gala days. She wanted them tobe sumptuous， and when he alone could not pay the expenses， she made up thedeficit liberally， which happened pretty well every time. He tried to make herunderstand that they would be quite as comfortable somewhere else， in a smallerhotel， but she always found some objection.
One day she drew six small silver-gilt spoonsfrom her bag (they were old Roualt's wedding present)，begging him to pawn them at once for her， and Léonobeyed， though the proceeding annoyed him. He was afraid of compromisinghimself.
Then， on， reflection， he began to think hismistress's ways were growing odd， and that they wereperhaps not wrong in wishing to separate him from her.
In fact someone had sent his mother a longanonymous letter to warn her that he was “ruininghimself with a married woman，” and the good lady atonce conjuring up the eternal bugbear of families， the vague perniciouscreature， the siren， the monster， who dwells fantastically in depths of love，wrote to Lawyer Dubocage， his employer， who behaved perfectly in the affair. Hekept him for three quarters of an hour trying to open his eyes， to warn him ofthe abyss into which he was falling. Such an intrigue would damage him lateron， when he set up for himself. He implored him to break with her， and， if hewould not make this sacrifice in his own interest， to do it at least for his，Dubocage's sake.
At last Léon swore hewould not see Emma again， and he reproached himself with not having kept hisword， considering all the worry and lectures this woman might still draw downupon him， without reckoning the jokes made by his companions as they sat roundthe stove in the morning. Besides， he was soon to be head clerk； it was time tosettle down. So he gave up his flute， exalted sentiments， and poetry； for everybourgeois in the flush of his youth， were it but for a day， a moment， hasbelieved himself capable of immense passions， of lofty enterprises. The mostmediocre libertine has dreamed of sultanas； every notary bears within him thedebris of a poet.
He was bored now when Emma suddenly began tosob on his breast， and his heart， like the people who can only stand a certainamount of music， dozed to the sound of a love whose delicacies he no longernoted.
They knew one another too well for any ofthose surprises of possession that increase its joys a hundred-fold. She was assick of him as he was weary of her. Emma found again in adultery all theplatitudes of marriage.
But how to get rid of him？ Then， though shemight feel humiliated at the baseness of such enjoyment， she clung to it fromhabit or from corruption， and each day she hungered after them the more，exhausting all felicity in wishing for too much of it. She accused Léon of her baffled hopes， as if he had betrayed her； and she evenlonged for some catastrophe that would bring about their separation， since shehad not the courage to make up her mind to it herself.
She none the less went on writing him loveletters， in virtue of the notion that a woman must write to her lover.
But whilst she wrote it was another man shesaw， a phantom fashioned out of her most ardent memories， of her finestreading， her strongest lusts， and at last he became so real， so tangible， thatshe palpitated wondering， without， however， the power to imagine him clearly，so lost was he， like a god， beneath the abundance of his attributes. He dwelt inthat azure land where silk ladders hang from balconies under the breath offlowers， in the light of the moon. She felt him near her； he was coming， andwould carry her right away in a kiss.
Then she fell back exhausted， for thesetransports of vague love wearied her more than great debauchery.
She now felt constant ache all over her.Often she even received summonses， stamped paper that she barely looked at. Shewould have liked not to be alive， or to be always asleep.
At Mid-Lent she did not return to Yonville，but in the evening went to a masked ball. She wore velvet breeches， redstockings， a club wig， and three-cornered hat cocked on one side. She dancedall night to the wild tones of the trombones； people gathered round her， and inthe morning she found herself on the steps of the theatre together with five orsix masks， debardeuses and sailors， Lrén's comrades， who were talking about having supper.
The neighbouring cafes were full. They caughtsight of one on the harbour， a very indifferent restaurant， whose proprietorshowed them to a little room on the fourth floor.
The men were whispering in a corner， no doubtconsorting about expenses. There were a clerk， two medical students， and ashopman-what company for her！ As to the women， Emma soon perceived from thetone of their voices that they must almost belong to the lowest class. Then shewas frightened， pushed back her chair， and cast down her eyes.
The others began to eat； she ate nothing. Herhead was on fire， her eyes smarted， and her skin was ice-cold. In her head sheseemed to feel the floor of the ball-room rebounding again beneath therhythmical pulsation of the thousands of dancing feet. And now the smell of thepunch， the smoke of the cigars， made her giddy. She fainted， and they carriedher to the window.
Day was breaking， and a great stain of purplecolour broadened out in the pale horizon over the St. Catherine hills. Thelivid river was shivering in the wind； there was no one on the bridges； thestreet lamps were going out.
She revived， and began thinking of Bertheasleep yonder in the servant's room. Then a cart filledwith long strips of iron passed by， and made a deafening metallic vibrationagainst the walls of the houses.
She slipped away suddenly， threw off hercostume， told Lrén she must get back， and at last wasalone at the Hotel de Boulogne. Everything， even herself， was now unbearable toher. She wished that， taking wing like a bird， she could fly somewhere， faraway to regions of purity， and there grow young again.
She went out， crossed the Boulevard， thePlace Cauchoise， and the Faubourg， as far as an open street that overlookedsome gardens. She walked rapidly； the fresh air calming her； and， little bylittle， the faces of the crowd， the masks， the quadrilles， the lights， the supper，those women， all disappeared like mists fading away. Then， reaching the “Croix-Rouge，” she threw herself on the bedin her little room on the second floor， where there were pictures of the “Tour de Nesle.” At four o'clock Hivert awoke her.
When she got home， Fé1icité showed her behind the clock a grey paper. She read-
“In virtue of the seizure in execution of ajudgment.”
What judgment？ As a matter of fact， theevening before another paper had been brought that she had not yet seen， andshe was stunned by these words-
“By order of the king， law， and justice， toMadame Bovary.” Then， skipping several lines， she read，“Within twenty-four hours， without fail-” But what？ “To pay the sum of eight thousandfrancs.” And there was even at the bottom， “She will be constrained thereto by every form of law， and notably bya writ of distraint on her furniture and effects.”
What was to be done？ In twenty-fourhours-tomorrow. Lheureux， she thought， wanted to frighten her again； for shesaw through all his devices， the object of his kindnesses. What reassured herwas the very magnitude of the sum.
However， by dint of buying and not paying， ofborrowing， signing bills， and renewing these bills that grew at each newfalling-in， she had ended by preparing a capital for Monsieur Lheureux which hewas impatiently awaiting for his speculations.
She presented herself at his place with anoffhand air.
“You know what has happened to me？ No doubtit's a joke！”
“No！”
“How so？”
He turned away slowly， and， folding his arms，said to her-
“My good lady， did you think I should go onto all eternity being your purveyor and banker， for the love of God？ Now bejust. I must get back what I've laid out. Now be just.”
She cried out against the debt.
“Ah！ so much the worse. The court has admittedit. There's a judgment. It'sbeen notified to you. Besides， it isn't my fault. It's Vincart's.”
“Could you not-？”
“Oh， nothing whatever.”
“But still， now talk it over.”
And she began beating about the bush； she hadknown nothing about it； it was a surprise.
“Whose fault is that？” said Lheureux， bowing ironically. “While I'm slaving like a nigger， you go gallivanting about.”
“Ah！ no lecturing.”
“It never does any harm，” he replied.
She turned coward； she implored him； she evenpressed her pretty white and slender hand against the shopkeeper's knee.
“There， that'll do！Anyone'd think you wanted to seduce me！”
“You are a wretch！”she cried.
“Oh， oh！ go it！ go it！”
“I will show you up. I shall tell my husband.”
“All right！ I too. I'llshow your husband something.”
And Lheureux drew from his strong box thereceipt for eighteen hundred francs that she had given him when Vincart haddiscounted the bills.
“Do you think，” headded， “that he'll notunderstand your little theft， the poor dear man？”
She collapsed， more overcome than if felledby the blow of a pole-axe. He was walking up and down from the window to thebureau， repeating all the while-
“Ah！ I'll show him！ I'll show him！” Then he approached her， and ina soft voice said-
“It isn't pleasant， Iknow； but， after all， no bones are broken， and， since that is the only way thatis left for you paying back my money-”
“But where am I to get any？” said Emma， wringing her hands.
“Bah！ when one has friends like you！”
And he looked at her in so keen， so terriblea fashion， that she shuddered to her very heart.
“I promise you，” shesaid， “to sign-”
“I've enough of yoursignatures.”
“I will sell something.”
“Get along！” he said，shrugging his shoulders； “you'venot got anything.”
And he called through the peep-hole that lookeddown into the shop-
“Annette， don'tforget the three coupons of No. 14.”
The servant appeared. Emma understood， andasked how much money would be wanted to put a stop to the proceedings.
“It is too late.”
“But if I brought you several thousandfrancs-a quarter of the sum-a third-perhaps the whole？”
“No； it's no use！”
And he pushed her gently towards thestaircase.
“I implore you， Monsieur Lheureux， just a fewdays more！”
She was sobbing.
“There！ tears now！”
“You are driving me to despair！”
“What do I care？”said he， shutting the door.
Chapter 7
She was stoical the next day when MaitreHareng， the bailiff， with two assistants， presented himself at her house todraw up the inventory for the distraint.
They began with Bovary's consulting-room， and did not write down the phrenological head，which was considered an “instrument of his profession”； but in the kitchen they counted the plates； the saucepans， thechairs， the candlesticks， and in the bedroom all the nick-nacks on the whatnot.They examined her dresses， the linen， the dressing-room； and her wholeexistence to its most intimate details， was， like a corpse on whom apost-mortem is made， outspread before the eyes of these three men.
Maitre Hareng， buttoned up in his thin blackcoat， wearing a white choker and very tight foot-straps， repeated from time totime-“Allow me， madame. You allow me？” Often he uttered exclamations. “Charming！very pretty.” Then he began writing again， dipping hispen into the horn inkstand in his left hand.
When they had done with the rooms they wentup to the attic. She kept a desk there in which Rodolphe's letters were locked. It had to be opened.
“Ah！ a correspondence，” said Maitre Hareng， with a discreet smile. “But allow me， for I must make sure the box contains nothing else.” And he tipped up the papers lightly， as if to shake out napoleons.Then she grew angered to see this coarse hand， with fingers red and pulpy likeslugs， touching these pages against which her heart had beaten.
