Then with a feeling of sudden tenderness and discouragement Charles turned to his wife saying to her—
“Oh, kiss me, my own!”
“Leave me!” she said, red with anger.
“What is the matter?” he asked, stupefied. “Be calm; compose yourself. You know well enough that I love you. Come!”
“Enough!” she cried with a terrible look.
And escaping from the room, Emma closed the door so violently that the barometer fell from the wall and smashed on the floor.
Charles sank back into his armchair overwhelmed, trying to discover what could be wrong with her, fancying some nervous illness, weeping, and vaguely feeling something fatal and incomprehensible whirling round him.
When Rodolphe came to the garden that evening, he found his mistress waiting for him at the foot of the steps on the lowest stair. They threw their arms round one another, and all their rancour melted like snow beneath the warmth of that kiss.