ourself 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 above 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 crevasses that a
storm will sometimes make in one night in mountains. Still she was
resigned. She devoutly put away in her closets her beautiful dress, down
to the satin shoes whose sole 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.

The memory of this ball, then, became an occupation for Emma. Whenever
the Wednesday came round she said to herself as she awoke, "Ah! I was
there a week--a fortnight--three weeks ago." And little by little the
faces grew confused in her remembrance. She forgot the tune of the
quadrilles; she no longer saw the liveries and appointments so
distinctly; some details escaped her, but the regret remained with her.

IX.

IDLE DREAMS.

Often when Charles was out she took from the cupboard, between the folds
of the linen where she had left it, the green silk cigar-case. She
looked at it, opened it, and even smelt the odor of the lining--a
mixture of verbena and tobacco. Whose was it? The Viscount's? Perhaps it
was a present from his mistress. It had been embroidered on some
rosewood frame, a pretty little thing, hidden from all eyes, that had
occupied many hours, and over which had fallen the soft curls of the
pensive worker. A breath of love had passed over the stitches on the
canvas; each prick of the needle had fixed there a hope or a memory, and
all those interwoven threads of silk were but the continuity of the same
silent passion. And then one morning the Viscount had taken it away with
him. Of what had they spoken when it lay upon the wide-manteled chimneys
between flower-vases and Pompadour clocks? She was at Tostes; he was at
Paris now, far away! What was this Paris like? What a vague name! She
r