“What an imbecile I am!” he said with a fearful oath. “No matter! She was a pretty mistress!”
And immediately Emma’s beauty, with all the pleasures of their love, came back to him. For a moment he softened; then he rebelled against her.
“For, after all,” he exclaimed, gesticulating, “I can’t exile myself—have a child on my hands.”
He was saying these things to give himself firmness.
“And besides, the worry, the expense! Ah! no, no, no, no! a thousand times no! That would be too stupid.”
No sooner was Rodolphe at home than he sat down quickly at his bureau under the stag’s head that hung as a trophy on the wall. But when he had the pen between his fingers, he could think of nothing, so that, resting on his elbows, he began to reflect. Emma seemed to him to have receded into a far-off past, as if the resolution he had taken had suddenly placed a distance between them.