They were on the heights of Thibourville when suddenly some horsemen

with cigars between their lips passed laughing. Emma thought she

recognized the Viscount, turned back, and caught on the horizon only the

movement of the heads rising or falling with the unequal cadence of the

trot or gallop.

A mile farther on they had to stop to mend with some string the traces

that had broken.

But Charles, giving a last look to the harness, saw something on the

ground between his horse's legs, and he picked up a cigar-case with

a green silk border and beblazoned in the centre like the door of a

carriage.

"There are even two cigars in it," said he; "they'll do for this evening

after dinner."

"Why, do you smoke?" she asked.

"Sometimes, when I get a chance."

He put his find in his pocket and whipped up the nag.

When they reached home the dinner was not ready. Madame lost her temper.

Nastasie answered rudely.

"Leave the room!" said Emma. "You are forgetting yourself. I give you

warning."

For dinner there was onion soup and a piece of veal with sorrel.

Charles, seated opposite Emma, rubbed his hands gleefully.

"How good it is to be at home again!"

Nastasie could be heard crying. He was rather fond of the poor girl.

She had formerly, during the wearisome time of his widowhood, kept him

company many an evening. She had been his first patient, his oldest

acquaintance in the place.

"Have you given her warning for good?" he asked at last.

"Yes. Who is to prevent me?" she replied.

Then they warmed themselves in the kitchen while their room was being

made ready. Charles began to smoke. He smoked with lips protruding,

spitting every moment, recoiling at every puff.

"You'll make yourself ill," she said scornfully.

He put down his cigar and ran to swallow a glass of cold water at the

pump. Emma seizing hold of the cigar case threw it quickly to the back

of the cupboard.

The next day was a long one. She walked about her little garden, up

and down the same walks, stopping before the beds, before the espalier,

before the plaster curate, looking with amazement at all these things

of once-on-a-time that she knew so well. How far off the ball seemed

already! What was it that thus set so far asunder the morning of the day

before yesterday and the evening of to-day? Her journey to Vaubyessard

had made a hole in her life, like one of those great crevices that

a storm will sometimes make in one night in mountains. Still she was

resigned. She devoutly put away in her drawers her beautiful dress, down

to the satin shoes whose soles were yellowed with the slippery wax of

the dancing floor. Her heart was like these. In its friction against

wealth something had come over it that could not be effaced.




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