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Madame Bovary

Chapter Eight
She asked herself as she walked along, "What am I going to say? How shall I
begin?" And as she went on she recognised the thickets, the trees, the sea-
rushes on the hill, the chateau yonder. All the sensations of her first tenderness
came back to her, and her poor aching heart opened out amorously. A warm
wind blew in her face; the melting snow fell drop by drop from the buds to the
grass.
She entered, as she used to, through the small park-gate. She reached the
avenue bordered by a double row of dense lime-trees. They were swaying their
long whispering branches to and fro. The dogs in their kennels all barked, and
the noise of their voices resounded, but brought out no one.
She went up the large straight staircase with wooden balusters that led to the
corridor paved with dusty flags, into which several doors in a row opened, as in a
monastery or an inn. His was at the top, right at the end, on the left. When she
placed her fingers on the lock her strength suddenly deserted her. She was
afraid, almost wished he would not be there, though this was her only hope, her
last chance of salvation. She collected her thoughts for one moment, and,
strengthening herself by the feeling of present necessity, went in.
He was in front of the fire, both his feet on the mantelpiece, smoking a pipe.
"What! it is you!" he said, getting up hurriedly.
"Yes, it is I, Rodolphe. I should like to ask your advice."
And, despite all her efforts, it was impossible for her to open her lips.
"You have not changed; you are charming as ever!"
"Oh," she replied bitterly, "they are poor charms since you disdained them."
Then he began a long explanation of his conduct, excusing himself in vague
terms, in default of being able to invent better.
She yielded to his words, still more to his voice and the sight of him, so that, she
pretended to believe, or perhaps believed; in the pretext he gave for their rupture;
this was a secret on which depended the honour, the very life of a third person.
"No matter!" she said, looking at him sadly. "I have suffered much."
He replied philosophically—
"Such is life!"
"Has life," Emma went on, "been good to you at least, since our separation?"
"Oh, neither good nor bad."
"Perhaps it would have been better never to have parted."
"Yes, perhaps."
"You think so?" she said, drawing nearer, and she sighed. "Oh, Rodolphe! if you
but knew! I loved you so!"
It was then that she took his hand, and they remained some time, their fingers
intertwined, like that first day at the Show. With a gesture of pride he struggled
against this emotion. But sinking upon his breast she said to him—
 
 
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