Page 380 - madame-bovary

She none the less went on writing him love letters, in vir-
tue of the notion that a woman must write to her lover.
But whilst she wrote it was another man she saw, a phan-
tom fashioned out of her most ardent memories, of her finest
reading, her strongest lusts, and at last he became so real, so
tangible, that she palpitated wondering, without, however,
the power to imagine him clearly, so lost was he, like a god,
beneath the abundance of his attributes. He dwelt in that
azure land where silk ladders hang from balconies under
the breath of flowers, in the light of the moon. She felt him
near her; he was coming, and would carry her right away
in a kiss.
Then she fell back exhausted, for these transports of
vague love wearied her more than great debauchery.
She now felt constant ache all over her. Often she even re-
ceived summonses, stamped paper that she barely looked at.
She would have liked not to be alive, or to be always asleep.
On Mid-Lent she did not return to Yonville, but in the
evening went to a masked ball. She wore velvet breeches,
red stockings, a club wig, and three-cornered hat cocked on
one side. She danced all night to the wild tones of the trom-
bones; people gathered round her, and in the morning she
found herself on the steps of the theatre together with five
or six masks, debardeuses* and sailors, Leon’s comrades,
who were talking about having supper.
* People dressed as longshoremen.
The neighbouring cafes were full. They caught sight of
one on the harbour, a very indifferent restaurant, whose
proprietor showed them to a little room on the fourth floor.