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- Гюстав Флобер
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- Госпожа Бовари
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- Стр. 82/303
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"
That
it
is
very
likely
,
"
Homais
went
on
,
raising
his
eyebrows
and
assuming
one
of
his
most
serious
expression
,
"
that
the
agricultural
meeting
of
the
Seine-Inferieure
will
be
held
this
year
at
Yonville-l'Abbaye
.
The
rumour
,
at
all
events
,
is
going
the
round
.
This
morning
the
paper
alluded
to
it
.
It
would
be
of
the
utmost
importance
for
our
district
.
But
we
'll
talk
it
over
later
on
.
I
can
see
,
thank
you
;
Justin
has
the
lantern
.
"
The
next
day
was
a
dreary
one
for
Emma
.
Everything
seemed
to
her
enveloped
in
a
black
atmosphere
floating
confusedly
over
the
exterior
of
things
,
and
sorrow
was
engulfed
within
her
soul
with
soft
shrieks
such
as
the
winter
wind
makes
in
ruined
castles
.
It
was
that
reverie
which
we
give
to
things
that
will
not
return
,
the
lassitude
that
seizes
you
after
everything
was
done
;
that
pain
,
in
fine
,
that
the
interruption
of
every
wonted
movement
,
the
sudden
cessation
of
any
prolonged
vibration
,
brings
on
.
As
on
the
return
from
Vaubyessard
,
when
the
quadrilles
were
running
in
her
head
,
she
was
full
of
a
gloomy
melancholy
,
of
a
numb
despair
.
Leon
reappeared
,
taller
,
handsomer
,
more
charming
,
more
vague
.
Though
separated
from
her
,
he
had
not
left
her
;
he
was
there
,
and
the
walls
of
the
house
seemed
to
hold
his
shadow
.
She
could
not
detach
her
eyes
from
the
carpet
where
he
had
walked
,
from
those
empty
chairs
where
he
had
sat
.
The
river
still
flowed
on
,
and
slowly
drove
its
ripples
along
the
slippery
banks
.
They
had
often
walked
there
to
the
murmur
of
the
waves
over
the
moss-covered
pebbles
.
How
bright
the
sun
had
been
!
What
happy
afternoons
they
had
seen
along
in
the
shade
at
the
end
of
the
garden
!
He
read
aloud
,
bareheaded
,
sitting
on
a
footstool
of
dry
sticks
;
the
fresh
wind
of
the
meadow
set
trembling
the
leaves
of
the
book
and
the
nasturtiums
of
the
arbour
.
Ah
!
he
was
gone
,
the
only
charm
of
her
life
,
the
only
possible
hope
of
joy
.
Why
had
she
not
seized
this
happiness
when
it
came
to
her
?
Why
not
have
kept
hold
of
it
with
both
hands
,
with
both
knees
,
when
it
was
about
to
flee
from
her
?
And
she
cursed
herself
for
not
having
loved
Leon
.
She
thirsted
for
his
lips
.
The
wish
took
possession
of
her
to
run
after
and
rejoin
him
,
throw
herself
into
his
arms
and
say
to
him
,
"
It
is
I
;
I
am
yours
.
"
But
Emma
recoiled
beforehand
at
the
difficulties
of
the
enterprise
,
and
her
desires
,
increased
by
regret
,
became
only
the
more
acute
.
Henceforth
the
memory
of
Leon
was
the
centre
of
her
boredom
;
it
burnt
there
more
brightly
than
the
fire
travellers
have
left
on
the
snow
of
a
Russian
steppe
.
She
sprang
towards
him
,
she
pressed
against
him
,
she
stirred
carefully
the
dying
embers
,
sought
all
around
her
anything
that
could
revive
it
;
and
the
most
distant
reminiscences
,
like
the
most
immediate
occasions
,
what
she
experienced
as
well
as
what
she
imagined
,
her
voluptuous
desires
that
were
unsatisfied
,
her
projects
of
happiness
that
crackled
in
the
wind
like
dead
boughs
,
her
sterile
virtue
,
her
lost
hopes
,
the
domestic
tete-a-tete
--
she
gathered
it
all
up
,
took
everything
,
and
made
it
all
serve
as
fuel
for
her
melancholy
.
The
flames
,
however
,
subsided
,
either
because
the
supply
had
exhausted
itself
,
or
because
it
had
been
piled
up
too
much
.
Love
,
little
by
little
,
was
quelled
by
absence
;
regret
stifled
beneath
habit
;
and
this
incendiary
light
that
had
empurpled
her
pale
sky
was
overspread
and
faded
by
degrees
.
In
the
supineness
of
her
conscience
she
even
took
her
repugnance
towards
her
husband
for
aspirations
towards
her
lover
,
the
burning
of
hate
for
the
warmth
of
tenderness
;
but
as
the
tempest
still
raged
,
and
as
passion
burnt
itself
down
to
the
very
cinders
,
and
no
help
came
,
no
sun
rose
,
there
was
night
on
all
sides
,
and
she
was
lost
in
the
terrible
cold
that
pierced
her
.
Then
the
evil
days
of
Tostes
began
again
.
She
thought
herself
now
far
more
unhappy
;
for
she
had
the
experience
of
grief
,
with
the
certainty
that
it
would
not
end
.
