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- Гюстав Флобер
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- Госпожа Бовари
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- Стр. 211/303
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The
warm
room
,
with
its
discreet
carpet
,
its
gay
ornaments
,
and
its
calm
light
,
seemed
made
for
the
intimacies
of
passion
.
The
curtain-rods
,
ending
in
arrows
,
their
brass
pegs
,
and
the
great
balls
of
the
fire-dogs
shone
suddenly
when
the
sun
came
in
.
On
the
chimney
between
the
candelabra
there
were
two
of
those
pink
shells
in
which
one
hears
the
murmur
of
the
sea
if
one
holds
them
to
the
ear
.
How
they
loved
that
dear
room
,
so
full
of
gaiety
,
despite
its
rather
faded
splendour
!
They
always
found
the
furniture
in
the
same
place
,
and
sometimes
hairpins
,
that
she
had
forgotten
the
Thursday
before
,
under
the
pedestal
of
the
clock
.
They
lunched
by
the
fireside
on
a
little
round
table
,
inlaid
with
rosewood
.
Emma
carved
,
put
bits
on
his
plate
with
all
sorts
of
coquettish
ways
,
and
she
laughed
with
a
sonorous
and
libertine
laugh
when
the
froth
of
the
champagne
ran
over
from
the
glass
to
the
rings
on
her
fingers
.
They
were
so
completely
lost
in
the
possession
of
each
other
that
they
thought
themselves
in
their
own
house
,
and
that
they
would
live
there
till
death
,
like
two
spouses
eternally
young
.
They
said
"
our
room
,
"
"
our
carpet
,
"
she
even
said
"
my
slippers
,
"
a
gift
of
Leon
's
,
a
whim
she
had
had
.
They
were
pink
satin
,
bordered
with
swansdown
.
When
she
sat
on
his
knees
,
her
leg
,
then
too
short
,
hung
in
the
air
,
and
the
dainty
shoe
,
that
had
no
back
to
it
,
was
held
only
by
the
toes
to
her
bare
foot
.
He
for
the
first
time
enjoyed
the
inexpressible
delicacy
of
feminine
refinements
.
He
had
never
met
this
grace
of
language
,
this
reserve
of
clothing
,
these
poses
of
the
weary
dove
.
He
admired
the
exaltation
of
her
soul
and
the
lace
on
her
petticoat
.
Besides
,
was
she
not
"
a
lady
"
and
a
married
woman
--
a
real
mistress
,
in
fine
?
By
the
diversity
of
her
humour
,
in
turn
mystical
or
mirthful
,
talkative
,
taciturn
,
passionate
,
careless
,
she
awakened
in
him
a
thousand
desires
,
called
up
instincts
or
memories
.
She
was
the
mistress
of
all
the
novels
,
the
heroine
of
all
the
dramas
,
the
vague
"
she
"
of
all
the
volumes
of
verse
.
He
found
again
on
her
shoulder
the
amber
colouring
of
the
"
Odalisque
Bathing
"
;
she
had
the
long
waist
of
feudal
chatelaines
,
and
she
resembled
the
"
Pale
Woman
of
Barcelona
.
"
But
above
all
she
was
the
Angel
!
Often
looking
at
her
,
it
seemed
to
him
that
his
soul
,
escaping
towards
her
,
spread
like
a
wave
about
the
outline
of
her
head
,
and
descended
drawn
down
into
the
whiteness
of
her
breast
.
He
knelt
on
the
ground
before
her
,
and
with
both
elbows
on
her
knees
looked
at
her
with
a
smile
,
his
face
upturned
.
She
bent
over
him
,
and
murmured
,
as
if
choking
with
intoxication
--
"
Oh
,
do
not
move
!
do
not
speak
!
look
at
me
!
Something
so
sweet
comes
from
your
eyes
that
helps
me
so
much
!
"
She
called
him
"
child
.
"
"
Child
,
do
you
love
me
?
"
