“For pity’s sake, stay. I love you!”

He seized her by her waist. Madame Bovary’s face flushed purple. She recoiled with a terrible look, crying⁠—

“You are taking a shameless advantage of my distress, sir! I am to be pitied⁠—not to be sold.”

And she went out.

The notary remained quite stupefied, his eyes fixed on his fine embroidered slippers. They were a love gift, and the sight of them at last consoled him. Besides, he reflected that such an adventure might have carried him too far.