She none the less went on writing him love letters, in virtue of the

notion that a woman must write to her lover.

But whilst she wrote it was another man she saw, a phantom fashioned out

of her most ardent memories, of her finest reading, her strongest

lusts, and at last he became so real, so tangible, that she palpitated

wondering, without, however, the power to imagine him clearly, so lost

was he, like a god, beneath the abundance of his attributes. He dwelt in

that azure land where silk ladders hang from balconies under the breath

of flowers, in the light of the moon. She felt him near her; he was

coming, and would carry her right away in a kiss.

Then she fell back exhausted, for these transports of vague love wearied

her more than great debauchery.

She now felt constant ache all over her. Often she even received

summonses, stamped paper that she barely looked at. She would have liked

not to be alive, or to be always asleep.

On Mid-Lent she did not return to Yonville, but in the evening went to

a masked ball. She wore velvet breeches, red stockings, a club wig, and

three-cornered hat cocked on one side. She danced all night to the wild

tones of the trombones; people gathered round her, and in the morning

she found herself on the steps of the theatre together with five or six

masks, debardeuses* and sailors, Leon's comrades, who were talking about

having supper.

* People dressed as longshoremen.

The neighbouring cafes were full. They caught sight of one on the

harbour, a very indifferent restaurant, whose proprietor showed them to

a little room on the fourth floor.

The men were whispering in a corner, no doubt consorting about expenses.

There were a clerk, two medical students, and a shopman--what company

for her! As to the women, Emma soon perceived from the tone of their

voices that they must almost belong to the lowest class. Then she was

frightened, pushed back her chair, and cast down her eyes.

The others began to eat; she ate nothing. Her head was on fire, her eyes

smarted, and her skin was ice-cold. In her head she seemed to feel the

floor of the ball-room rebounding again beneath the rhythmical pulsation

of the thousands of dancing feet. And now the smell of the punch, the

smoke of the cigars, made her giddy. She fainted, and they carried her

to the window.

Day was breaking, and a great stain of purple colour broadened out

in the pale horizon over the St. Catherine hills. The livid river was

shivering in the wind; there was no one on the bridges; the street lamps

were going out.




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