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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。
Chapter Six
She had read 〃Paul and Virginia；〃 and she had dreamed of the
little bamboo…house； the nigger Domingo； the dog Fiddle； but
above all of the sweet friendship of some dear little brother；
who seeks red fruit for you on trees taller than steeples； or who
runs barefoot over the sand； bringing you a bird's nest。
When she was thirteen； her father himself took her to town to
place her in the convent。 They stopped at an inn in the St。
Gervais quarter； where； at their supper； they used painted plates
that set forth the story of Mademoiselle de la Valliere。 The
explanatory legends； chipped here and there by the scratching of
knives； all glorified religion； the tendernesses of the heart；
and the pomps of court。
Far from being bored at first at the convent； she took pleasure
in the society of the good sisters； who； to amuse her； took her
to the chapel； which one entered from the refectory by a long
corridor。 She played very little during recreation hours； knew
her catechism well； and it was she who always answered Monsieur
le Vicaire's difficult questions。 Living thus； without every
leaving the warm atmosphere of the classrooms； and amid these
pale…faced women wearing rosaries with brass crosses； she was
softly lulled by the mystic languor exhaled in the perfumes of
the altar； the freshness of the holy water； and the lights of the
tapers。 Instead of attending to mass； she looked at the pious
vignettes with their azure borders in her book； and she loved the
sick lamb； the sacred heart pierced with sharp arrows； or the
poor Jesus sinking beneath the cross he carries。 She tried； by
way of mortification； to eat nothing a whole day。 She puzzled her
head to find some vow to fulfil。
When she went to confession； she invented little sins in order
that she might stay there longer； kneeling in the shadow； her
hands joined； her face against the grating beneath the whispering
of the priest。 The comparisons of betrothed； husband； celestial
lover； and eternal marriage； that recur in sermons； stirred
within her soul depths of unexpected sweetness。
In the evening； before prayers； there was some religious reading
in the study。 On week…nights it was some abstract of sacred
history or the Lectures of the Abbe Frayssinous； and on Sundays
passages from the 〃Genie du Christianisme；〃 as a recreation。 How
she listened at first to the sonorous lamentations of its
romantic melancholies reechoing through the world and eternity！
If her childhood had been spent in the shop…parlour of some
business quarter； she might perhaps have opened her heart to
those lyrical invasions of Nature； which usually come to us only
through translation in books。 But she knew the country too well；
she knew the lowing of cattle； the milking； the ploughs。
Accustomed to calm aspects of life； she turned； on the contrary；
to those of excitement。 She loved the sea only for the sake of
its storms； and the green fields only when broken up by ruins。
She wanted to get some personal profit out of things； and she
rejected as useless all that did not contribute to the immediate
desires of her heart； being of a temperament more sentimental
than artistic； looking for emotions； not landscapes。
At the convent there was an old maid who came for a week each
month to mend the linen。 Patronized by the clergy； because she
belonged to an ancient family of noblemen ruined by the
Revolution； she dined in the refectory at the table of the good
sisters； and after the meal had a bit of chat with them before
going back to her work。 The girls often slipped out from the
study to go and see her。 She knew by heart the love songs of the
last century； and sang them in a low voice as she stitched away。
She told stories； gave them news； went errands in the town； and
on the sly lent the big girls some novel； that she always carried
in the pockets of her apron； and of which the good lady herself
swallowed long chapters in the intervals of her work。 They were
all love； lovers； sweethearts； persecuted ladies fainting in
lonely pavilions； postilions killed at every stage； horses ridden
to death on every page； sombre forests； heartaches； vows； sobs；
tears and kisses； little skiffs by moonlight； nightingales in
shady groves； 〃gentlemen〃 brave as lions； gentle as lambs；
virtuous as no one ever was； always well dressed； and weeping
like fountains。 For six months； then； Emma； at fifteen years of
age； made her hands dirty with books from old lending libraries。
Through Walter Scott； later on； she fell in love with historical
events； dreamed of old chests； guard…rooms and minstrels。 She
would have liked to live in some old manor…house； like those
long…waisted chatelaines who； in the shade of pointed arches；
spent their days leaning on the stone； chin in hand； watching a
cavalier with white plume galloping on his black horse from the
distant fields。 At this time she had a cult for Mary Stuart and
enthusiastic veneration for illustrious or unhappy women。 Joan of
Arc； Heloise； Agnes Sorel； the beautiful Ferroniere； and Clemence
Isaure stood out to her like comets in the dark immensity of
heaven； where also were seen； lost in shadow； and all
unconnected； St。 Louis with his oak； the dying Bayard； some
cruelties of Louis XI； a little of St。 Bartholomew's Day； the
plume of the Bearnais； and always the remembrance of the plates
painted in honour of Louis XIV。
In the music class； in the ballads she sang； there was nothing
but little angels with golden wings； madonnas； lagunes；
gondoliers；…mild compositions that allowed her to catch a glimpse
athwart the obscurity of style and the weakness of the music of
the attractive phantasmagoria of sentimental realities。 Some of
her companions brought 〃keepsakes〃 given them as new year's gifts
to the convent。 These had to be hidden； it was quite an
undertaking； they were read in the dormitory。 Delicately handling
the beautiful satin bindings； Emma looked with dazzled eyes at
the names of the unknown authors； who had signed their verses