She sat down.
Her breath, slow and steady, gradually calmed her racing heart. She had not intended to come here—to slip through that narrow corridor hidden behind the velvet curtains, into this quiet, private lounge set apart from the theater’s glittering crowd. But when she had glimpsed those silk gowns gliding past, heard the faint rustle of laughter drifting from beyond the doorway, she had allowed curiosity to guide her steps. A small indulgence, she told herself—a stolen moment within the evening's glow. For a woman whose husband was merely a provincial doctor earning scarcely two thousand francs a year, even a single evening in Rouen’s grand theater felt like a daring extravagance.
The quiet of the lounge enveloped her now, thick and warm, broken only by the faint crackling of candle flames. Her eyes wandered slowly around, drinking in the luxurious details. There were gold-framed mirrors reflecting muted candlelight, deep-red velvet draperies cascading heavily from ceiling to floor, and ornate sconces casting gentle shadows on polished marble walls. A silver tray holding crystal decanters gleamed discreetly from a corner table, the wine inside shimmering darkly like rubies. Nearby, a vase held fresh white roses, their subtle fragrance blending delicately with the sharper scent of burning wax.
Her gaze shifted to the only other occupant of the room—a slender woman standing at the mirror. The woman’s features were strikingly delicate: dark eyes beneath long, shadowy lashes, a pale complexion gently touched with rouge, lips slightly full yet finely shaped. Her gown was silk, subtly luminous, cut with a grace that spoke of Parisian elegance. A single lock of her dark hair had slipped from its carefully arranged coiffure, brushing lightly against the graceful curve of her neck.
The woman reached into an embroidered silk pouch and withdrew a crystal perfume bottle, exquisitely faceted. In the candlelight, Emma clearly saw a delicate gold coronet etched upon its surface, unmistakably a nobleman’s mark. Her heart quickened. She had seen that very coronet sketched in the pages of a magazine, handed around discreetly in Rouen. It belonged, she recalled vividly, to the Duke of Y—he who, as the whispers went, was said in Madrid to be ruining himself in Paris, and in Paris to be ruining himself in Madrid, yet somehow never even reached the limit of his considerable fortune.
Watching the woman’s graceful motions, Emma felt a small, bitter thrill. Women like her—she knew instinctively—spent tens of thousands of francs a year, perhaps even more, to maintain such effortless elegance. Carriages ready at every hour, silk gowns ordered from the finest couturiers, camellias delivered fresh daily... all paid for by wealthy men whose names passed through salons in whispers. Emma’s cheeks flushed at the thought of her own husband’s modest income, the quiet provincial life she led, and the elaborate precautions required just for this brief evening’s pleasure.
A young maid stepped softly forward, a velvet cloak draped carefully over her arm. In a gentle voice, she murmured, “Madame Gautier, votre voiture vous attend.”
The woman at the mirror turned, smiling graciously as she moved to leave. But as she passed Emma, a single red camellia slipped unnoticed from her sleeve and settled silently upon the floor.
Emma rose instinctively, bending to pick it up. She held it out gently, her voice quiet yet clear: “Votre fleur, madame.”
The woman paused, turning her head slightly, the smile returning to her lips as she took the flower with a gentle nod. “Merci, mademoiselle.”
Then, gathering her cloak around her shoulders, Madame Gautier swept gracefully from the room. The door clicked softly shut behind her, leaving only the lingering scent of her perfume.
Emma remained standing, breathing in the faint fragrance—orange blossoms and musk, refined and unforgettable. It lingered in the air, unwilling to fade, a quiet reminder of the world she had touched, if only for a fleeting moment.
包法利太太遇上茶花女
版主： kazaawang， wh
#2 Re: 包法利太太遇上茶花女
你自己写的？文字很漂亮！不过茶花女不是交际花吗？没读过原著，原著里写的是她打扮得像豪门贵妇一样？wdong 写了： 2025年 5月 25日 01:50 She sat down.
Her breath, slow and steady, gradually calmed her racing heart. She had not intended to come here—to slip through that narrow corridor hidden behind the velvet curtains, into this quiet, private lounge set apart from the theater’s glittering crowd. But when she had glimpsed those silk gowns gliding past, heard the faint rustle of laughter drifting from beyond the doorway, she had allowed curiosity to guide her steps. A small indulgence, she told herself—a stolen moment within the evening's glow. For a woman whose husband was merely a provincial doctor earning scarcely two thousand francs a year, even a single evening in Rouen’s grand theater felt like a daring extravagance.
The quiet of the lounge enveloped her now, thick and warm, broken only by the faint crackling of candle flames. Her eyes wandered slowly around, drinking in the luxurious details. There were gold-framed mirrors reflecting muted candlelight, deep-red velvet draperies cascading heavily from ceiling to floor, and ornate sconces casting gentle shadows on polished marble walls. A silver tray holding crystal decanters gleamed discreetly from a corner table, the wine inside shimmering darkly like rubies. Nearby, a vase held fresh white roses, their subtle fragrance blending delicately with the sharper scent of burning wax.
Her gaze shifted to the only other occupant of the room—a slender woman standing at the mirror. The woman’s features were strikingly delicate: dark eyes beneath long, shadowy lashes, a pale complexion gently touched with rouge, lips slightly full yet finely shaped. Her gown was silk, subtly luminous, cut with a grace that spoke of Parisian elegance. A single lock of her dark hair had slipped from its carefully arranged coiffure, brushing lightly against the graceful curve of her neck.
The woman reached into an embroidered silk pouch and withdrew a crystal perfume bottle, exquisitely faceted. In the candlelight, Emma clearly saw a delicate gold coronet etched upon its surface, unmistakably a nobleman’s mark. Her heart quickened. She had seen that very coronet sketched in the pages of a magazine, handed around discreetly in Rouen. It belonged, she recalled vividly, to the Duke of Y—he who, as the whispers went, was said in Madrid to be ruining himself in Paris, and in Paris to be ruining himself in Madrid, yet somehow never even reached the limit of his considerable fortune.
Watching the woman’s graceful motions, Emma felt a small, bitter thrill. Women like her—she knew instinctively—spent tens of thousands of francs a year, perhaps even more, to maintain such effortless elegance. Carriages ready at every hour, silk gowns ordered from the finest couturiers, camellias delivered fresh daily... all paid for by wealthy men whose names passed through salons in whispers. Emma’s cheeks flushed at the thought of her own husband’s modest income, the quiet provincial life she led, and the elaborate precautions required just for this brief evening’s pleasure.
A young maid stepped softly forward, a velvet cloak draped carefully over her arm. In a gentle voice, she murmured, “Madame Gautier, votre voiture vous attend.”
The woman at the mirror turned, smiling graciously as she moved to leave. But as she passed Emma, a single red camellia slipped unnoticed from her sleeve and settled silently upon the floor.
Emma rose instinctively, bending to pick it up. She held it out gently, her voice quiet yet clear: “Votre fleur, madame.”
The woman paused, turning her head slightly, the smile returning to her lips as she took the flower with a gentle nod. “Merci, mademoiselle.”
Then, gathering her cloak around her shoulders, Madame Gautier swept gracefully from the room. The door clicked softly shut behind her, leaving only the lingering scent of her perfume.
Emma remained standing, breathing in the faint fragrance—orange blossoms and musk, refined and unforgettable. It lingered in the air, unwilling to fade, a quiet reminder of the world she had touched, if only for a fleeting moment.
#3 Re: 包法利太太遇上茶花女
当然是用了AI。来回来去磨情节磨句子，写了三个钟头。没有AI我自己不可能写出来。AI写英文，能写出来很漂亮的句子，所以我才乐此不疲。但是结构不行，只会三段论。所以起承转合都要自己琢磨。写中文彻底不行。
茶花女是跟豪门贵妇一样的。包法利夫人爱玛老公一年赚两千,她一年花五六千，就已经是当地的高端了。茶花女一年花十万往上（文中少写了一个数量级)。但是爱玛其实是有天赋的，就是他对高端生活有天然的适应性，有钱人家里从来没见过的东西，稍经观察就能明白是怎么回事，而且能appreciate，所以她和贵妇人们交际并不会显得很局促。命不好，可惜可惜。
茶花女是跟豪门贵妇一样的。包法利夫人爱玛老公一年赚两千,她一年花五六千，就已经是当地的高端了。茶花女一年花十万往上（文中少写了一个数量级)。但是爱玛其实是有天赋的，就是他对高端生活有天然的适应性，有钱人家里从来没见过的东西，稍经观察就能明白是怎么回事，而且能appreciate，所以她和贵妇人们交际并不会显得很局促。命不好，可惜可惜。
#5 Re: 包法利太太遇上茶花女
明白了。AI写的中文很程式化，比较容易辨认。英文不容易辨认，这篇我看不出哪些是你写的，哪些是AI写的。可见我的英语语感不如中文语感wdong 写了： 2025年 5月 26日 15:38 当然是用了AI。来回来去磨情节磨句子，写了三个钟头。没有AI我自己不可能写出来。AI写英文，能写出来很漂亮的句子，所以我才乐此不疲。但是结构不行，只会三段论。所以起承转合都要自己琢磨。写中文彻底不行。
茶花女是跟豪门贵妇一样的。包法利夫人爱玛老公一年赚两千,她一年花五六千，就已经是当地的高端了。茶花女一年花十万往上（文中少写了一个数量级)。但是爱玛其实是有天赋的，就是他对高端生活有天然的适应性，有钱人家里从来没见过的东西，稍经观察就能明白是怎么回事，而且能appreciate，所以她和贵妇人们交际并不会显得很局促。命不好，可惜可惜。
茶花女我可能看过中文，没印象了。包法利没看过全篇，以前网友还送给我这本中译本，我看过前几页……
