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- Гюстав Флобер
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- Госпожа Бовари
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- Стр. 31/303
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The
next
day
was
a
long
one
.
She
walked
about
her
little
garden
,
up
and
down
the
same
walks
,
stopping
before
the
beds
,
before
the
espalier
,
before
the
plaster
curate
,
looking
with
amazement
at
all
these
things
of
once-on-a-time
that
she
knew
so
well
.
How
far
off
the
ball
seemed
already
!
What
was
it
that
thus
set
so
far
asunder
the
morning
of
the
day
before
yesterday
and
the
evening
of
to-day
?
Her
journey
to
Vaubyessard
had
made
a
hole
in
her
life
,
like
one
of
those
great
crevices
that
a
storm
will
sometimes
make
in
one
night
in
mountains
.
Still
she
was
resigned
.
She
devoutly
put
away
in
her
drawers
her
beautiful
dress
,
down
to
the
satin
shoes
whose
soles
were
yellowed
with
the
slippery
wax
of
the
dancing
floor
.
Her
heart
was
like
these
.
In
its
friction
against
wealth
something
had
come
over
it
that
could
not
be
effaced
.
The
memory
of
this
ball
,
then
,
became
an
occupation
for
Emma
.
Whenever
the
Wednesday
came
round
she
said
to
herself
as
she
awoke
,
"
Ah
!
I
was
there
a
week
--
a
fortnight
--
three
weeks
ago
.
"
And
little
by
little
the
faces
grew
confused
in
her
remembrance
She
forgot
the
tune
of
the
quadrilles
;
she
no
longer
saw
the
liveries
and
appointments
so
distinctly
;
some
details
escaped
her
,
but
the
regret
remained
with
her
.
Often
when
Charles
was
out
she
took
from
the
cupboard
,
between
the
folds
of
the
linen
where
she
had
left
it
,
the
green
silk
cigar
case
.
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-mantelled
chimneys
between
flower-vases
and
Pompadour
clocks
?
She
was
at
Tostes
;
he
was
at
Paris
now
,
far
away
!
What
was
this
Paris
like
?
What
a
vague
name
!
She
repeated
it
in
a
low
voice
,
for
the
mere
pleasure
of
it
;
it
rang
in
her
ears
like
a
great
cathedral
bell
;
it
shone
before
her
eyes
,
even
on
the
labels
of
her
pomade-pots
.
At
night
,
when
the
carriers
passed
under
her
windows
in
their
carts
singing
the
"
Marjolaine
,
"
she
awoke
,
and
listened
to
the
noise
of
the
iron-bound
wheels
,
which
,
as
they
gained
the
country
road
,
was
soon
deadened
by
the
soil
.
"
They
will
be
there
to-morrow
!
"
she
said
to
herself
.
And
she
followed
them
in
thought
up
and
down
the
hills
,
traversing
villages
,
gliding
along
the
highroads
by
the
light
of
the
stars
.
At
the
end
of
some
indefinite
distance
there
was
always
a
confused
spot
,
into
which
her
dream
died
.
She
bought
a
plan
of
Paris
,
and
with
the
tip
of
her
finger
on
the
map
she
walked
about
the
capital
.
She
went
up
the
boulevards
,
stopping
at
every
turning
,
between
the
lines
of
the
streets
,
in
front
of
the
white
squares
that
represented
the
houses
.
At
last
she
would
close
the
lids
of
her
weary
eyes
,
and
see
in
the
darkness
the
gas
jets
flaring
in
the
wind
and
the
steps
of
carriages
lowered
with
much
noise
before
the
peristyles
of
theatres
.
