Until now what good had he had of his life? His time at school, when

he remained shut up within the high walls, alone, in the midst of

companions richer than he or cleverer at their work, who laughed at his

accent, who jeered at his clothes, and whose mothers came to the school

with cakes in their muffs? Later on, when he studied medicine, and never

had his purse full enough to treat some little work-girl who would have

become his mistress? Afterwards, he had lived fourteen months with the

widow, whose feet in bed were cold as icicles. But now he had for life

this beautiful woman whom he adored. For him the universe did not extend

beyond the circumference of her petticoat, and he reproached himself

with not loving her. He wanted to see her again; he turned back quickly,

ran up the stairs with a beating heart. Emma, in her room, was dressing;

he came up on tiptoe, kissed her back; she gave a cry.

He could not keep from constantly touching her comb, her ring, her

fichu; sometimes he gave her great sounding kisses with all his mouth on

her cheeks, or else little kisses in a row all along her bare arm

from the tip of her fingers up to her shoulder, and she put him away

half-smiling, half-vexed, as you do a child who hangs about you.

Before marriage she thought herself in love; but the happiness that

should have followed this love not having come, she must, she thought,

have been mistaken. And Emma tried to find out what one meant exactly in

life by the words felicity, passion, rapture, that had seemed to her so

beautiful in books.




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