-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Стендаль
-
- Красное и черное
-
- Стр. 278/396
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
He
tried
,
on
the
following
day
,
to
make
himself
and
his
horse
dead
tired
with
fatigue
.
He
made
no
attempt
in
the
evening
to
go
near
the
blue
sofa
to
which
Mathilde
remained
constant
.
He
noticed
that
comte
Norbert
did
not
even
deign
to
look
at
him
when
he
met
him
about
the
house
.
"
He
must
be
doing
something
very
much
against
the
grain
,
"
he
thought
;
"
he
is
naturally
so
polite
.
"
Sleep
would
have
been
a
happiness
to
Julien
.
In
spite
of
his
physical
fatigue
,
memories
which
were
only
too
seductive
commenced
to
invade
his
imagination
.
He
had
not
the
genius
to
see
that
,
inasmuch
as
his
long
rides
on
horseback
over
forests
on
the
outskirts
of
Paris
only
affected
him
,
and
had
no
affect
at
all
on
Mathilde
’
s
heart
or
mind
,
he
was
consequently
leaving
his
eventual
destiny
to
the
caprice
of
chance
.
He
thought
that
one
thing
would
give
his
pain
an
infinite
relief
:
it
would
be
to
speak
to
Mathilde
.
Yet
what
would
he
venture
to
say
to
her
?
He
was
dreaming
deeply
about
this
at
seven
o
’
clock
one
morning
when
he
suddenly
saw
her
enter
the
library
.
"
I
know
,
monsieur
,
that
you
are
anxious
to
speak
to
me
.
"
"
Great
heavens
!
who
told
you
?
"
"
I
know
,
anyway
;
that
is
enough
.
If
you
are
dishonourable
,
you
can
ruin
me
,
or
at
least
try
to
.
But
this
danger
,
which
I
do
not
believe
to
be
real
,
will
certainly
not
prevent
me
from
being
sincere
.
I
do
not
love
you
any
more
,
monsieur
,
I
have
been
led
astray
by
my
foolish
imagination
.
"
Distracted
by
love
and
unhappiness
,
as
a
result
of
this
terrible
blow
,
Julien
tried
to
justify
himself
.
Nothing
could
have
been
more
absurd
.
Does
one
make
any
excuses
for
failure
to
please
?
But
reason
had
no
longer
any
control
over
his
actions
.
A
blind
instinct
urged
him
to
get
the
determination
of
his
fate
postponed
.
He
thought
that
,
so
long
as
he
kept
on
speaking
,
all
could
not
be
over
.
Mathilde
had
not
listened
to
his
words
;
their
sound
irritated
her
.
She
could
not
conceive
how
he
could
have
the
audacity
to
interrupt
her
.
She
was
rendered
equally
unhappy
this
morning
by
remorseful
virtue
and
remorseful
pride
.
She
felt
to
some
extent
pulverised
by
the
idea
of
having
given
a
little
abbé
,
who
was
the
son
of
a
peasant
,
rights
over
her
.
"
It
is
almost
,
"
she
said
to
herself
,
in
those
moments
when
she
exaggerated
her
own
misfortune
,
"
as
though
I
had
a
weakness
for
one
of
my
footmen
to
reproach
myself
with
.
"
In
bold
,
proud
natures
there
is
only
one
step
from
anger
against
themselves
to
wrath
against
others
.
In
these
cases
the
very
transports
of
fury
constitute
a
vivid
pleasure
.
