When he reached the head of the stairs, he stopped, he was so out of breath. As he came in, Madame Bovary arose hurriedly.
“It is I again!” said Léon.
“I was sure of it!”
She bit her lips, and a rush of blood flowing under her skin made her red from the roots of her hair to the top of her collar. She remained standing, leaning with her shoulder against the wainscot.
“The doctor is not here?” he went on.
“He is out.” She repeated, “He is out.”
Then there was silence. They looked at one another and their thoughts, confounded in the same agony, clung close together like two throbbing breasts.
“I should like to kiss Berthe,” said Léon.
Emma went down a few steps and called Félicité.
He threw one long look around him that took in the walls, the decorations, the fireplace, as if to penetrate everything, carry away everything. But she returned, and the servant brought Berthe, who was swinging a windmill roof downwards at the end of a string. Léon kissed her several times on the neck.
“Goodbye, poor child! goodbye, dear little one! goodbye!” And he gave her back to her mother.
“Take her away,” she said.
They remained alone—Madame Bovary, her back turned, her face pressed against a windowpane; Léon held his cap in his hand, knocking it softly against his thigh.