#1 包法利太太遇上茶花女
发表于 ： 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.
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.
