Госпожа Бовари

Chapter 8

           Thewallstrembled,theceilingwascrushingher,andshepassedbackthroughthelongalley,stumblingagainsttheheapsofdeadleavesscatteredbythewind.Atlastshereachedtheha-hahedgeinfrontofthegate;shebrokehernailsagainstthelockinherhastetoopenit.Thenahundredstepsfartheron,breathless,almostfalling,shestopped.Andnowturninground,sheoncemoresawtheimpassivechateau,withthepark,thegardens,thethreecourts,andallthewindowsofthefacade.

           Sheremainedlostinstupor,andhavingnomoreconsciousnessofherselfthanthroughthebeatingofherarteries,thatsheseemedtohearburstingforthlikeadeafeningmusicfillingallthefields.Theearthbeneathherfeetwasmoreyieldingthanthesea,andthefurrowsseemedtoherimmensebrownwavesbreakingintofoam.Everythinginherhead,ofmemories,ideas,wentoffatoncelikeathousandpiecesoffireworks.Shesawherfather,Lheureux’scloset,theirroomathome,anotherlandscape.Madnesswascominguponher;shegrewafraid,andmanagedtorecoverherself,inaconfusedway,itistrue,forshedidnotinthe,leastrememberthecauseoftheterribleconditionshewasin,thatistosay,thequestionofmoney.Shesufferedonlyinherlove,andfelthersoulpassingfromherinthismemory;aswoundedmen,dying,feeltheirlifeebbfromtheirbleedingwounds.

           Nightwasfalling,crowswereflyingabout.

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