Gradually Rodolphe’s fears took possession of her. At first, love had intoxicated¹ her; and she had thought of nothing beyond. But now that he was indispensable to her life, she feared to lose anything of this, or even that it should be disturbed. When she came back from his house she looked all about her, anxiously watching every form that passed in the horizon, and every village window from which she could be seen. She listened for steps, cries, the noise of the ploughs, and she stopped short, white, and trembling more than the aspen leaves swaying overhead.

One morning as she was thus returning, she suddenly thought she saw the long barrel of a carbine that seemed to be aimed at her. It stuck out sideways from the end of a small tub half-buried in the grass on the edge of a ditch. Emma, half-fainting with terror, nevertheless walked on, and a man stepped out of the tub like a Jack-in-the-box. He had gaiters buckled² up to the knees, his cap pulled down over his eyes, trembling lips, and a red nose. It was Captain Binet lying in ambush³ for wild ducks.

“You ought to have called out long ago!” he exclaimed; “When one sees a gun, one should always give warning.”

The tax-collector was thus trying to hide the fright he had had, for a prefectorial order having prohibited duckhunting except in boats, Monsieur Binet, despite his respect for the laws, was infringing⁴ them, and so he every moment expected to see the rural guard turn up. But this anxiety whetted⁵ his pleasure, and, all alone in his tub, he congratulated himself on his luck and on his cuteness. At sight of Emma he seemed relieved from a great weight, and at once entered upon a conversation.

“It isn’t warm; it’s nipping.”

Emma answered nothing. He went on —

“And you’re out so early?”

“Yes,” she said stammering⁶; “I am just coming from the nurse where my child is.”

“Ah! very good! very good! For myself, I am here, just as you see me, since break of day; but the weather is so

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