One day when， wandering aimlessly about thehouse， he had gone up to the attic， he felt a pellet of fine paper under hisslipper. He opened it and read： “Courage， Emma，courage. I would not bring misery into your life.” Itwas Rodolphe's letter， fallen to the ground between theboxes， where it had remained， and that the wind from the dormer window had justblown towards the door. And Charles stood， motionless and staring， in the verysame place where， long ago， Emma， in despair， and paler even than he， hadthought of dying. At last he discovered a small R at the bottom of the secondpage. What did this mean？He remembered Rodolphe'sattentions， his sudden， disappearance， his constrained air when they had mettwo or three times since. But the respectful tone of the letter deceived him.
“Perhaps they loved one another platonically，”he said to himself.
Besides， Charles was not of those who go tothe bottom of things； he shrank from the proofs， and his vague jealousy waslost in the immensity of his woe. Everyone， he thought， must have adored her；all men assuredly must have coveted her. She seemed but the more beautiful tohim for this； he was seized with a lasting， furious desire for her， thatinflamed his despair， and that was boundless， because it was now unrealisable.
To please her， as if she were still living，he adopted her predilections， her ideas； he bought patent leather boots andtook to wearing white cravats. He put cosmetics on his moustache， and， likeher， signed notes of hand. She corrupted him from beyond the grave.
He was obliged to sell his silver piece bypiece； next he sold the drawing-room furniture. All the rooms were stripped；but the bedroom， her own room， remained as before. After his dinner Charleswent up there. He pushed the round table in front of the fire， and drew up herarmchair. He sat down opposite it. A candle burnt in one of the giltcandlesticks. Berthe by his side was painting prints.
He suffered， poor man， at seeing her so badlydressed， with laceless boots， and the arm-holes of her pinafore tom down to thehips； for the charwoman took no care of her. But she was so sweet， so pretty，and her little head bent forward so gracefully， letting the dear fair hair fallover her rosy cheeks， that an infinite joy came upon him， a happiness mingledwith bitterness， like those ill-made wines that taste of resin. He mended hertoys， made her puppets from cardboard， or sewed up half-tom dolls. Then， if hiseyes fell upon the workbox， a ribbon lying about， or even a pin left in a crackof the table， he began to dream， and looked so sad that she became as sad ashe.
No one now came to see them， for Justin hadrun away to Rouen， where he was a grocer's assistant，and the druggist's children saw less and less of thechild， Monsieur Homais not caring， seeing the difference of their socialposition， to continue the intimacy.
The blind man， whom he had not been able tocur6 with the pomade， had gone back to the hill of Bois-Guillaume， where hetold the travellers of the vain attempt of the druggist， to such an extent，that Homais when he went to town hid himself behind the curtains of the “Hirondelle” to avoid meeting him. Hedetested him， and wishing， in the interests of his own reputation， to get ridof him at all costs， he directed against him a secret battery， that betrayedthe depth of his intellect and the baseness of his vanity. Thus， for sixconsecutive months， one could read in the Fanal de Rouen editorials such asthese：
“All who bend their steps towards the fertileplains of Picardy have， no doubt， remarked， by the Bois-Guillaume hill， awretch suffering from a horrible facial wound. He importunes， persecutes one，and levies a regular tax on all travellers. Are we still living in themonstrous times of the Middle Ages， when vagabonds were permitted to display inour public places leprosy and scrofulas they had brought back from theCrusades？”
Or-
“In spite of the laws against vagabondage，the approaches to our great towns continue to be infected by bands of beggars.Some are seen going about alone， and these are not， perhaps， the leastdangerous. What are our ediles about？”
Then Homais invented anecdotes：
“Yesterday， by the Bois-Guillaume hill， askittish horse-” And then followed the story of anaccident caused by the presence of the blind man.
He managed so well that the fellow was lockedup. But he was released. He began again， and Homais began again. It was astruggle. Homais won it， for his foe was condemned to life-long confinement inan asylum.
This success emboldened him， and henceforththere was no longer a dog run over， a barn burnt down， a woman beaten in theparish， of which he did not immediately inform the public， guided always by thelove of progress and the hate of priests. He instituted comparisons between theelementary and clerical schools to the detriment of the latter； called to mindthe massacre of St. Bartholomew à propos of a grant ofone hundred francs to the church， and denounced abuses， aired new views. Thatwas his phrase. Homais was digging and delving； he was becoming dangerous.