“Hush! someone will come.”
He was in despair, was calling out.
“Say nothing, or all the blame will fall on your master.”
Then she went home, suddenly calmed, and with something of the serenity of one that had performed a duty.
When Charles, distracted by the news of the distraint, returned home, Emma had just gone out. He cried aloud, wept, fainted, but she did not return. Where could she be? He sent Félicité to Homais, to Monsieur Tuvache, to Lheureux, to the Lion d’Or, everywhere, and in the intervals of his agony he saw his reputation destroyed, their fortune lost, Berthe’s future ruined. By what?—Not a word! He waited till six in the evening. At last, unable to bear it any longer, and fancying she had gone to Rouen, he set out along the high road, walked a mile, met no one, again waited, and returned home. She had come back.
“What was the matter? Why? Explain to me.”
She sat down at her writing-table and wrote a letter, which she sealed slowly, adding the date and the hour. Then she said in a solemn tone:
“You are to read it tomorrow; till then, I pray you, do not ask me a single question. No, not one!”
“But—”
“Oh, leave me!”
She lay down full length on her bed. A bitter taste that she felt in her mouth awakened her. She saw Charles, and again closed her eyes.
She was studying herself curiously, to see if she were not suffering. But no! nothing as yet. She heard the ticking of the clock, the crackling