Viscount

The young man who appeared in the preceding chapter was Baron Takeo Kawashima.

He had been married recently to Nami Kataoka, eldest daughter of Viscount Lieutenant General Ki Kataoka, well known as a soldier.

Availing himself of a leave of absence, he had come to Ikao with his bride and the old nurse, Iku.

Nami's mother died when she was eight years old.

But he was now impatient, and he boldly prepared a love letter, sealed it in a double envelope, and, addressing it in a feminine hand, sent it to Nami by post.

On that day he was suddenly ordered to take an official trip.

When he returned, after a lapse of three months, he was astounded to find that, in his absence, through the matchmaking of Viscount Kato, a member of Upper House, Nami was wedded to no less than his own cousin, Takeo Kawashima.

Chijiwa, enraged at this unexpected failure, tore into rags a piece of beautiful crepe which he had bought at Kyoto as gift to Nami in the hope that its bright colors might be an augury of his success.

I have not seen you since Berlin.

Not since Berlin, Viscount.

Five years ago.

And

Take these flowers into the anteroom or dressing room.

said the Viscount.

They make the countess ill.

The footman obeyed his orders.

She looked at it, opened it, and even smelt the odour 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-mantled chimneys between flower-vases and pompadour clocks? She was at Tostes.

He was at Paris now, far away.

Only the guests staying at the castle were still there, about a dozen persons.

One of the waltzers, however, who was familiarly called Viscount, and whose low-cut waistcoat seemed moulded to his chest, came a second time to ask Madame Bovary to dance, assuring her that he would guide her, and that she would get through it very well.

They began slowly, then went more rapidly.

They turned.

She stopped.

They started again, and with a more rapid movement.

The Viscount, dragging her along, disappeared with her to the end of the gallery, where, panting, she almost fell, and for a moment rested her head upon his breast.

And then, still turning but more slowly, he guided her back to her seat.