In the evening， before prayers， there wassome religious reading in the study. On week-nights it was some abstract ofsacred history or the Lectures of the Abbé Frayssinous，and on Sundays passages from the Genie du Christianisme， as a recreation. Howshe listened at first to the sonorous lamentations of its romantic melancholiesreechoing through the world and eternity！ If her childhood had been spent inthe shop-parlour of some business quarter， she might perhaps have opened herheart to those lyrical invasions of Nature， which usually come to us onlythrough translation in books. But she knew the country too well； she knew thelowing 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 forthe sake of its storms， and the green fields only when broken up by ruins. Shewanted to get some personal profit out of things， and she rejected as uselessall that did not contribute to the immediate desires of her heart， being of atemperament more sentimental than artistic， looking for emotions， notlandscapes.
At the convent there was an old maid who camefor a week each month to mend the linen. Patronized by the clergy， because shebelonged to an ancient family of noblemen ruined by the Revolution， she dinedin the refectory at the table of the good sisters， and after the meal had a bitof chat with them before going back to her work. The girls often slipped outfrom the study to go and see her. She knew by heart the love songs of the lastcentury， 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 girlssome novel， that she always carried in the pockets of her apron， and of whichthe good lady herself swallowed long chapters in the intervals of her work.They were all love， lovers， sweethearts， persecuted ladies fainting in lonelypavilions， postilions killed at every stage， horses ridden to death on everypage， sombre forests， heartaches， vows， sobs， tears and kisses， little skiffsby 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， atfifteen years of age， made her hands dirty with books from old lendinglibraries. Through Walter Scott， later on， she fell in love with historicalevents， dreamed of old chests， guard-rooms and minstrels. She would have likedto live in some old manor-house， like those long-waisted chatelaines who， inthe shade of pointed arches， spent their days leaning on the stone， chin inhand， watching a cavalier with white plume galloping on his black horse fromthe distant fields. At this time she had a cult for Mary Stuart andenthusiastic veneration for illustrious or unhappy women. Joan of Arc， Heloise，Agnes Sorel， the beautiful Ferroniere， and Clemence Isaure stood out to herlike comets in the dark immensity of heaven， where also were seen， lost inshadow， and all unconnected， St. Louis with his oak， the dying Bayard， somecruelties of Louis XI， a little of St. Bartholomew'sDay， the plume of the Béarnais， and always theremembrance 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 theobscurity of style and the weakness of the music of the attractivephantasmagoria 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 anundertaking； they were read in the dormitory. Delicately handling the beautifulsatin bindings， Emma looked with dazzled eyes at the names of the unknownauthors， who had signed their verses for the most part as counts or viscounts.
She trembled as she blew back the tissuepaper over the engraving and saw it folded in two and fall gently against thepage. Here behind the balustrade of a balcony was a young man in a short cloak，holding in his arms a young girl in a white dress wearing an alms-bag at herbelt； or there were nameless portraits of English ladies with fair curls， wholooked at you from under their round straw hats with their large clear eyes.Some there were lounging in their carriages， gliding through parks， a greyhoundbounding along in front of the equipage driven at a trot by two midgetpostilions in white breeches. Others， dreaming on sofas with an open letter，gazed at the moon through a slightly open window half draped by a blackcurtain. The na？ve ones， a tear on their cheeks， were kissing doves through thebars of a Gothic cage， or， smiling， their heads on one side， were plucking theleaves of a marguerite with their taper fingers， that curved at the tips likepeaked shoes. And you， too， were there， Sultans with long pipes recliningbeneath arbours in the arms of Bayadbres； Djiaours， Turkish sabres， Greek caps；and you especially， pale landscapes of dithyrambic lands， that often show us atonce palm trees and firs， tigers on the right， a lion to the left， Tartarminarets on the horizon； the whole framed by a very neat virgin forest， andwith a great perpendicular sunbeam trembling in the water， where， standing outin relief like white excoriations on a steel-grey ground， swans are swimmingabout.
And the shade of the argand lamp fastened tothe wall above Emma's head lighted up all thesepictures of the world， that passed before her one by one in the silence of thedormitory， and to the distant noise of some belated carriage rolling over theBoulevards.
When her mother died she cried much the firstfew days. She had a funeral picture made with the hair of the deceased， and， ina letter sent to the Bertaux full of sad reflections on life， she asked to beburied later on in the same grave. The goodman thought she must be ill， andcame to see her. Emma was secretly pleased that she had reached at a firstattempt the rare ideal of pale lives， never attained by mediocre hearts. Shelet herself glide along with Lamartine meanderings， listened to harps on lakes，to all the songs of dying swans， to the falling of the leaves， the pure virginsascending to heaven， and the voice of the Eternal discoursing down the valleys.She wearied of it， would not confess it， continued from habit， and at last wassurprised to feel herself soothed， and with no more sadness at heart thanwrinkles on her brow.
The good nuns， who had been so sure of hervocation， perceived with great astonishment that Mademoiselle Rouault seemed tobe slipping from them. They had indeed been so lavish to her of prayers，retreats， novenas， and sermons， they had so often preached the respect due tosaints and martyrs， and given so much good advice as to the modesty of the bodyand the salvation of her soul， that she did as tightly reined horses； shepulled up short and the bit slipped from her teeth. This nature， positive inthe midst of its enthusiasms， that had loved the church for the sake of theflowers， and music for the words of the songs， and literature for its passionalstimulus， rebelled against the mysteries of faith as it grew irritated bydiscipline， a thing antipathetic to her constitution. When her father took herfrom school， no one was sorry to see her go. The Lady Superior even thoughtthat she had latterly been somewhat irreverent to the community.
Emma， at home once more， first took pleasurein looking after the servants， then grew disgusted with the country and missedher convent. When Charles came to the Bertaux for the first time， she thoughtherself quite disillusioned， with nothing more to learn， and nothing more tofeel.
But the uneasiness of her new position， orperhaps the disturbance caused by the presence of this man， had sufficed tomake her believe that she at last felt that wondrous passion which， till then，like a great bird with rose-coloured wings， hung in the splendour of the skiesof poesy； and now she could not think that the calm in which she lived was thehappiness she had dreamed.