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- Гюстав Флобер
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- Госпожа Бовари
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- Стр. 154/303
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"
And
besides
,
the
worry
,
the
expense
!
Ah
!
no
,
no
,
no
,
no
!
a
thousand
times
no
!
That
would
be
too
stupid
.
"
No
sooner
was
Rodolphe
at
home
than
he
sat
down
quickly
at
his
bureau
under
the
stag
's
head
that
hung
as
a
trophy
on
the
wall
.
But
when
he
had
the
pen
between
his
fingers
,
he
could
think
of
nothing
,
so
that
,
resting
on
his
elbows
,
he
began
to
reflect
.
Emma
seemed
to
him
to
have
receded
into
a
far-off
past
,
as
if
the
resolution
he
had
taken
had
suddenly
placed
a
distance
between
them
.
To
get
back
something
of
her
,
he
fetched
from
the
cupboard
at
the
bedside
an
old
Rheims
biscuit-box
,
in
which
he
usually
kept
his
letters
from
women
,
and
from
it
came
an
odour
of
dry
dust
and
withered
roses
.
First
he
saw
a
handkerchief
with
pale
little
spots
.
It
was
a
handkerchief
of
hers
.
Once
when
they
were
walking
her
nose
had
bled
;
he
had
forgotten
it
.
Near
it
,
chipped
at
all
the
corners
,
was
a
miniature
given
him
by
Emma
:
her
toilette
seemed
to
him
pretentious
,
and
her
languishing
look
in
the
worst
possible
taste
.
Then
,
from
looking
at
this
image
and
recalling
the
memory
of
its
original
,
Emma
's
features
little
by
little
grew
confused
in
his
remembrance
,
as
if
the
living
and
the
painted
face
,
rubbing
one
against
the
other
,
had
effaced
each
other
.
Finally
,
he
read
some
of
her
letters
;
they
were
full
of
explanations
relating
to
their
journey
,
short
,
technical
,
and
urgent
,
like
business
notes
.
He
wanted
to
see
the
long
ones
again
,
those
of
old
times
.
In
order
to
find
them
at
the
bottom
of
the
box
,
Rodolphe
disturbed
all
the
others
,
and
mechanically
began
rummaging
amidst
this
mass
of
papers
and
things
,
finding
pell-mell
bouquets
,
garters
,
a
black
mask
,
pins
,
and
hair
--
hair
!
dark
and
fair
,
some
even
,
catching
in
the
hinges
of
the
box
,
broke
when
it
was
opened
.
Thus
dallying
with
his
souvenirs
,
he
examined
the
writing
and
the
style
of
the
letters
,
as
varied
as
their
orthography
.
They
were
tender
or
jovial
,
facetious
,
melancholy
;
there
were
some
that
asked
for
love
,
others
that
asked
for
money
.
A
word
recalled
faces
to
him
,
certain
gestures
,
the
sound
of
a
voice
;
sometimes
,
however
,
he
remembered
nothing
at
all
.
In
fact
,
these
women
,
rushing
at
once
into
his
thoughts
,
cramped
each
other
and
lessened
,
as
reduced
to
a
uniform
level
of
love
that
equalised
them
all
.
So
taking
handfuls
of
the
mixed-up
letters
,
he
amused
himself
for
some
moments
with
letting
them
fall
in
cascades
from
his
right
into
his
left
hand
.
At
last
,
bored
and
weary
,
Rodolphe
took
back
the
box
to
the
cupboard
,
saying
to
himself
,
"
What
a
lot
of
rubbish
!
"
Which
summed
up
his
opinion
;
for
pleasures
,
like
schoolboys
in
a
school
courtyard
,
had
so
trampled
upon
his
heart
that
no
green
thing
grew
there
,
and
that
which
passed
through
it
,
more
heedless
than
children
,
did
not
even
,
like
them
,
leave
a
name
carved
upon
the
wall
.
"
Come
,
"
said
he
,
"
let
's
begin
.
"
He
wrote
--
"
Courage
,
Emma
!
courage
!
I
would
not
bring
misery
into
your
life
.
"
"
After
all
,
that
's
true
,
"
thought
Rodolphe
.
"
I
am
acting
in
her
interest
;
I
am
honest
.
"
