Often, when they talked together of Paris, she ended by murmuring, “Ah! how happy we should be there!”
“Are we not happy?” gently answered the young man passing his hands over her hair.
“Yes, that is true,” she said. “I am mad. Kiss me!”
To her husband she was more charming than ever. She made him pistachio-creams, and played him waltzes after dinner. So he thought himself the most fortunate of men and Emma was without uneasiness, when, one evening suddenly he said—
“It is Mademoiselle Lempereur, isn’t it, who gives you lessons?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I saw her just now,” Charles went on, “at Madame Liégeard’s. I spoke to her about you, and she doesn’t know you.”
This was like a thunderclap. However, she replied quite naturally—
“Ah! no doubt she forgot my name.”
“But perhaps,” said the doctor, “there are several Demoiselles Lempereur at Rouen who are music-mistresses.”
“Possibly!” Then quickly—“But I have my receipts here. See!”
And she went to the writing-table, ransacked all the drawers, rummaged the papers, and at last lost her head so completely that Charles earnestly begged her not to take so much trouble about those wretched receipts.
“Oh, I will find them,” she said.