Page 78 - madame-bovary

CHAPTER NINE

ften when Charles was out she took from the cup-
Oboard, 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 odour of the lining—a mixture of ver-
bena 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-mantelled 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 repeated it in a low voice, for the mere pleasure
of it; it rang in her ears like a great cathedral bell; it shone
before her eyes, even on the labels of her pomade-pots.
At night, when the carriers passed under her windows in
their carts singing the ‘Marjolaine,’ she awoke, and listened
to the noise of the iron-bound wheels, which, as they gained
the country road, was soon deadened by the soil. ‘They will