he passed recognised each courtyard. He remembered mornings like this,
when, after visiting some patient, he came out from one and returned to
her.
The black cloth bestrewn with white beads blew up from time to time,
laying bare the coffin. The tired bearers walked more slowly, and it
advanced with constant jerks, like a boat that pitches with every wave.
They reached the cemetery. The men went right down to a place in the
grass where a grave was dug. They ranged themselves all round; and while
the priest spoke, the red soil thrown up at the sides kept noiselessly
slipping down at the corners.
Then when the four ropes were arranged the coffin was placed upon them.
He watched it descend; it seemed descending for ever. At last a thud was
heard; the ropes creaked as they were drawn up. Then Bournisien took
the spade handed to him by Lestiboudois; with his left hand all the
time sprinkling water, with the right he vigorously threw in a large
spadeful; and the wood of the coffin, struck by the pebbles, gave forth
that dread sound that seems to us the reverberation of eternity.
The ecclesiastic passed the holy water sprinkler to his neighbour. This
was Homais. He swung it gravely, then handed it to Charles, who sank to
his knees in the earth and threw in handfuls of it, crying, "Adieu!" He
sent her kisses; he dragged himself towards the grave, to engulf himself
with her. They led him away, and he soon grew calmer, feeling perhaps,
like the others, a vague satisfaction that it was all over.
Old Rouault on his way back began quietly smoking a pipe, which Homais
in his innermost conscience thought not quite the thing. He also noticed
that Monsieur Binet had not been present, and that Tuvache had "made
off" after mass, and that Theodore, the notary’s servant wore a blue
coat, "as if one could not have got a black coat, since that is the
custom, by Jove!" And to share his observations with others he went from
group to group. They were deploring Emma’s death, especially Lheureux,
who had not failed to come to the funeral.
"Poor little woman! What a trouble for her husband!"
The druggist continued, "Do you know that but for me he would have
committed some fatal attempt upon himself?"
"Such a good woman! To think that I saw her only last Saturday in my
shop."
"I haven’t had leisure," said Homais, "to prepare a few words that I
would have cast upon her tomb."
Charles on getting home undressed, and old Rouault put on his blue
blouse. It was a new one, and as he had often during the journey wiped
his eyes on the sleeves, the dye had stained his face, and the traces of
tears made lines in the layer of dust that covered it.
Madame Bovary senior was with them. All three were silent. At last the
old fellow sighed--
"Do you remember, my friend, that I went to Tostes once when you had
just lost your first deceased? I consoled you at that time. I thought of
something to say then, but now--" Then, with a loud groan that shook his
whole chest, "Ah! this is the end for me, do you see! I saw my wife go,
then my son, and now to-day it’s my daughter."
He wanted to go back at once to Bertaux, saying that he could not sleep
in this house. He even refused to see his granddaughter.
"No, no! It would grieve me too much. Only you’ll kiss her many times
for me. Good-bye! you’re a good fellow! And then I shall never forget
that," he said, slapping his thigh. "Never fear, you shall always have
your turkey."
But when he reached the top of the hill he turned back, as he had turned
once before on the road of Saint-Victor when he had parted from her. The
windows of the village were all on fire beneath the slanting rays of the
sun sinking behind the field. He put his hand over his eyes, and saw
in the horizon an enclosure of walls, where trees here and there formed
black clusters between white stones; then he went on his way at a gentle
trot, for his nag had gone lame.
Despite their fatigue, Charles and his mother stayed very long that
evening talking together. They spoke of the days of the past and of the
future. She would come to live at Yonville; she would keep house for
him; they would never part again. She was ingenious and caressing,
rejoicing in her heart at gaining once more an affection that had
wandered from her for so many years. Midnight struck. The village as
usual was silent, and Charles, awake, thought always of her.
Rodolphe, who, to distract himself, had been rambling about the wood all
day, was sleeping quietly in his chateau, and Leon, down yonder, always
slept.
There was another who at that hour was not asleep.
On the grave between the pine-trees a child was on his knees weeping,
and his heart, rent by sobs, was beating in the shadow beneath the load
of an immense regret, sweeter than the moon and fathomless as the night.
The gate suddenly grated. It was Lestiboudois; he came to fetch his
spade, that he had forgotten. He recognised Justin climbing over the
wall, and at last knew who was the culprit who stole his potatoes.
Chapter Eleven
The next day Charles had the child brought back. She asked for her
mamma. They told her she was away; that she would bring her back some
playthings. Berthe spoke of her again several times, then at last
thought no more of her. The child’s gaiety broke Bovary’s heart, and he
had to bear besides the intolerable consolations of the chemist.
Money troubles soon began again, Monsieur Lheureux urging on anew his
friend Vincart, and Charles pledged himself for exorbitant sums; for he
would never consent to let the smallest of the things that had belonged
to HER be sold. His mother was exasperated with him; he grew even more
angry than she did. He had altogether changed. She left the house.
Then everyone began "taking advantage" of him. Mademoiselle Lempereur
presented a bill for six months’ teaching, although Emma had never taken
a lesson (despite the receipted bill she had shown Bovary); it was an
arrangement between the two women. The man at the circulating library
demanded three years’ subscriptions; Mere Rollet claimed the postage due
for some twenty letters, and when Charles asked for an explanation, she
had the delicacy to reply--
"Oh, I don’t know. It was for her business affairs."
With every debt he paid Charles thought he had come to the end of them.
But others followed ceaselessly. He sent in accounts for professional
attendance. He was shown the letters his wife had written. Then he had
to apologise.
Felicite now wore Madame Bovary’s gowns; not all, for he had kept some
of them, and he went to look at them in her dressing-room, locking
himself up there; she was about her height, and often Charles, seeing
her from behind, was seized with an illusion, and cried out--
"Oh, stay, stay!"
But at Whitsuntide she ran away from Yonville, carried off by Theodore,
stealing all that was left of the wardrobe.
It was about this time that the widow Dupuis had the honour to inform
him of the "marriage of Monsieur Leon Dupuis her son, notary at Yvetot,
to Mademoiselle Leocadie Leboeuf of Bondeville." Charles, among the
other congratulations he sent him, wrote this sentence--
"How glad my poor wife would have been!"
One day when, wandering aimlessly about the house, he had gone up to the
attic, he felt a pellet of fine paper under his slipper. He opened it
and read: "Courage, Emma, courage. I would not bring misery into your
life." It was Rodolphe’s letter, fallen to the ground between the boxes,
where it had remained, and that the wind from the dormer window had just
blown towards the door. And Charles stood, motionless and staring, in
the very same place where, long ago, Emma, in despair, and paler even
than he, had thought of dying. At last he discovered a small R at the
bottom of the second page. What did this mean? He remembered Rodolphe’s
attentions, his sudden, disappearance, his constrained air when they
had met two or three times since. But the respectful tone of the letter
deceived him.
"Perhaps they loved one another platonically," he said to himself.
Besides, Charles was not of those who go to the bottom of things; he
shrank from the proofs, and his vague jealousy was lost in the immensity
of his woe.
Everyone, he thought, must have adored her; all men assuredly must have
coveted her. She seemed but the more beautiful to him for this; he
was seized with a lasting, furious desire for her, that inflamed his
despair, and that was boundless, because it was now unrealisable.
To please her, as if she were still living, he adopted her
predilections, her ideas; he bought patent leather boots and took to
wearing white cravats. He put cosmetics on his moustache, and, like her,
signed notes of hand. She corrupted him from beyond the grave.
He was obliged to sell his silver piece by piece; next he sold the
drawing-room furniture. All the rooms were stripped; but the bedroom,
her own room, remained as before. After his dinner Charles went up
there. He pushed the round table in front of the fire, and drew up her
armchair. He sat down opposite it. A candle burnt in one of the gilt
candlesticks. Berthe by his side was painting prints.
He suffered, poor man, at seeing her so badly dressed, with laceless
boots, and the arm-holes of her pinafore torn down to the hips; for the
charwoman took no care of her. But she was so sweet, so pretty, and her
little head bent forward so gracefully, letting the dear fair hair fall
over her rosy cheeks, that an infinite joy came upon him, a happiness
mingled with bitterness, like those ill-made wines that taste of
resin. He mended her toys, made her puppets from cardboard, or sewed up
half-torn dolls. Then, if his eyes fell upon the workbox, a ribbon lying
about, or even a pin left in a crack of the table, he began to dream,
and looked so sad that she became as sad as he.
No one now came to see them, for Justin had run away to Rouen, where he
was a grocer’s assistant, and the druggist’s children saw less and less
of the child, Monsieur Homais not caring, seeing the difference of their
social position, to continue the intimacy.
The blind man, whom he had not been able to cure with the pomade, had
gone back to the hill of Bois-Guillaume, where he told the travellers of
the vain attempt of the druggist, to such an extent, that Homais when
he went to town hid himself behind the curtains of the "Hirondelle" to
avoid meeting him. He detested him, and wishing, in the interests of his
own reputation, to get rid of him at all costs, he directed against
him a secret battery, that betrayed the depth of his intellect and the
baseness of his vanity. Thus, for six consecutive months, one could read
in the "Fanal de Rouen" editorials such as these--
"All who bend their steps towards the fertile plains of Picardy have, no
doubt, remarked, by the Bois-Guillaume hill, a wretch suffering from
a horrible facial wound. He importunes, persecutes one, and levies a
regular tax on all travellers. Are we still living in the monstrous
times of the Middle Ages, when vagabonds were permitted to display in
our public places leprosy and scrofulas they had brought back from the
Crusades?"
Or--
"In spite of the laws against vagabondage, the approaches to our great
towns continue to be infected by bands of beggars. Some are seen going
about alone, and these are not, perhaps, the least dangerous. What are
our ediles about?"
Then Homais invented anecdotes--
"Yesterday, by the Bois-Guillaume hill, a skittish horse--" And then
followed the story of an accident caused by the presence of the blind
man.
He managed so well that the fellow was locked up. But he was released.
He began again, and Homais began again. It was a struggle. Homais won
it, for his foe was condemned to life-long confinement in an asylum.
This success emboldened him, and henceforth there was no longer a dog
run over, a barn burnt down, a woman beaten in the parish, of which
he did not immediately inform the public, guided always by the love of
progress and the hate of priests. He instituted comparisons between the
elementary and clerical schools to the detriment of the latter; called
to mind the massacre of St. Bartholomew a propos of a grant of one
hundred francs to the church, and denounced abuses, aired new views.
That was his phrase. Homais was digging and delving; he was becoming
dangerous.
However, he was stifling in the narrow limits of journalism, and soon a
book, a work was necessary to him. Then he composed "General Statistics
of the Canton of Yonville, followed by Climatological Remarks." The
statistics drove him to philosophy. He busied himself with great
questions: the social problem, moralisation of the poorer classes,
pisciculture, caoutchouc, railways, etc. He even began to blush at being
a bourgeois. He affected the artistic style, he smoked. He bought two
chic Pompadour statuettes to adorn his drawing-room.
He by no means gave up his shop. On the contrary, he kept well abreast
of new discoveries. He followed the great movement of chocolates; he
was the first to introduce "cocoa" and "revalenta" into the
Seine-Inferieure. He was enthusiastic about the hydro-electric
Pulvermacher chains; he wore one himself, and when at night he took off
his flannel vest, Madame Homais stood quite dazzled before the golden
spiral beneath which he was hidden, and felt her ardour redouble for
this man more bandaged than a Scythian, and splendid as one of the Magi.
He had fine ideas about Emma’s tomb. First he proposed a broken column
with some drapery, next a pyramid, then a Temple of Vesta, a sort of
rotunda, or else a "mass of ruins." And in all his plans Homais always
stuck to the weeping willow, which he looked upon as the indispensable
symbol of sorrow.
Charles and he made a journey to Rouen together to look at some tombs
at a funeral furnisher’s, accompanied by an artist, one Vaufrylard, a
friend of Bridoux’s, who made puns all the time. At last, after having
examined some hundred designs, having ordered an estimate and made
another journey to Rouen, Charles decided in favour of a mausoleum,
which on the two principal sides was to have a "spirit bearing an
extinguished torch."
As to the inscription, Homais could think of nothing so fine as Sta
viator*, and he got no further; he racked his brain, he constantly
repeated Sta viator. At last he hit upon Amabilen conjugem calcas**,
which was adopted.
* Rest traveler.
** Tread upon a loving wife.
A strange thing was that Bovary, while continually thinking of Emma, was
forgetting her. He grew desperate as he felt this image fading from his
memory in spite of all efforts to retain it. Yet every night he dreamt
of her; it was always the same dream. He drew near her, but when he was
about to clasp her she fell into decay in his arms.
For a week he was seen going to church in the evening. Monsieur
Bournisien even paid him two or three visits, then gave him up.
Moreover, the old fellow was growing intolerant, fanatic, said Homais.
He thundered against the spirit of the age, and never failed, every
other week, in his sermon, to recount the death agony of Voltaire, who
died devouring his excrements, as everyone knows.
In spite of the economy with which Bovary lived, he was far from being
able to pay off his old debts. Lheureux refused to renew any more
bills. A distraint became imminent. Then he appealed to his mother, who
consented to let him take a mortgage on her property, but with a great
many recriminations against Emma; and in return for her sacrifice she
asked for a shawl that had escaped the depredations of Felicite. Charles
refused to give it her; they quarrelled.
She made the first overtures of reconciliation by offering to have the
little girl, who could help her in the house, to live with her. Charles
consented to this, but when the time for parting came, all his courage
failed him. Then there was a final, complete rupture.
As his affections vanished, he clung more closely to the love of his
child. She made him anxious, however, for she coughed sometimes, and had
red spots on her cheeks.
Opposite his house, flourishing and merry, was the family of the
chemist, with whom everything was prospering. Napoleon helped him in the
laboratory, Athalie embroidered him a skullcap, Irma cut out rounds of
paper to cover the preserves, and Franklin recited Pythagoras’ table in
a breath. He was the happiest of fathers, the most fortunate of men.
Not so! A secret ambition devoured him. Homais hankered after the cross
of the Legion of Honour. He had plenty of claims to it.
"First, having at the time of the cholera distinguished myself by a
boundless devotion; second, by having published, at my expense,
various works of public utility, such as" (and he recalled his pamphlet
entitled, "Cider, its manufacture and effects," besides observation
on the lanigerous plant-louse, sent to the Academy; his volume of
statistics, and down to his pharmaceutical thesis); "without counting
that I am a member of several learned societies" (he was member of a
single one).
"In short!" he cried, making a pirouette, "if it were only for
distinguishing myself at fires!"
Then Homais inclined towards the Government. He secretly did the
prefect great service during the elections. He sold himself--in a word,
prostituted himself. He even addressed a petition to the sovereign
in which he implored him to "do him justice"; he called him "our good
king," and compared him to Henri IV.
And every morning the druggist rushed for the paper to see if his
nomination were in it. It was never there. At last, unable to bear it
any longer, he had a grass plot in his garden designed to represent the
Star of the Cross of Honour with two little strips of grass running from
the top to imitate the ribband. He walked round it with folded arms,
meditating on the folly of the Government and the ingratitude of men.
From respect, or from a sort of sensuality that made him carry on his
investigations slowly, Charles had not yet opened the secret drawer of
a rosewood desk which Emma had generally used. One day, however, he
sat down before it, turned the key, and pressed the spring. All Leon’s
letters were there. There could be no doubt this time. He devoured them
to the very last, ransacked every corner, all the furniture, all the
drawers, behind the walls, sobbing, crying aloud, distraught, mad. He
found a box and broke it open with a kick. Rodolphe’s portrait flew full
in his face in the midst of the overturned love-letters.
People wondered at his despondency. He never went out, saw no one,
refused even to visit his patients. Then they said "he shut himself up
to drink."
Sometimes, however, some curious person climbed on to the garden hedge,
and saw with amazement this long-bearded, shabbily clothed, wild man,
who wept aloud as he walked up and down.
In the evening in summer he took his little girl with him and led her to
the cemetery. They came back at nightfall, when the only light left in
the Place was that in Binet’s window.
The voluptuousness of his grief was, however, incomplete, for he had no
one near him to share it, and he paid visits to Madame Lefrancois to be
able to speak of her.
But the landlady only listened with half an ear, having troubles
like himself. For Lheureux had at last established the "Favorites du
Commerce," and Hivert, who enjoyed a great reputation for doing errands,
insisted on a rise of wages, and was threatening to go over "to the
opposition shop."
One day when he had gone to the market at Argueil to sell his horse--his
last resource--he met Rodolphe.
They both turned pale when they caught sight of one another. Rodolphe,
who had only sent his card, first stammered some apologies, then grew
bolder, and even pushed his assurance (it was in the month of August and
very hot) to the length of inviting him to have a bottle of beer at the
public-house.
Leaning on the table opposite him, he chewed his cigar as he talked, and
Charles was lost in reverie at this face that she had loved. He seemed
to see again something of her in it. It was a marvel to him. He would
have liked to have been this man.
The other went on talking agriculture, cattle, pasturage, filling out
with banal phrases all the gaps where an allusion might slip in. Charles
was not listening to him; Rodolphe noticed it, and he followed the
succession of memories that crossed his face. This gradually grew
redder; the nostrils throbbed fast, the lips quivered. There was at
last a moment when Charles, full of a sombre fury, fixed his eyes on
Rodolphe, who, in something of fear, stopped talking. But soon the same
look of weary lassitude came back to his face.
"I don’t blame you," he said.
Rodolphe was dumb. And Charles, his head in his hands, went on in a
broken voice, and with the resigned accent of infinite sorrow--
"No, I don’t blame you now."
He even added a fine phrase, the only one he ever made--
"It is the fault of fatality!"
Rodolphe, who had managed the fatality, thought the remark very offhand
from a man in his position, comic even, and a little mean.
The next day Charles went to sit down on the seat in the arbour. Rays
of light were straying through the trellis, the vine leaves threw their
shadows on the sand, the jasmines perfumed the air, the heavens were
blue, Spanish flies buzzed round the lilies in bloom, and Charles was
suffocating like a youth beneath the vague love influences that filled
his aching heart.
At seven o’clock little Berthe, who had not seen him all the afternoon,
went to fetch him to dinner.
His head was thrown back against the wall, his eyes closed, his mouth
open, and in his hand was a long tress of black hair.
"Come along, papa," she said.
And thinking he wanted to play; she pushed him gently. He fell to the
ground. He was dead.
Thirty-six hours after, at the druggist’s request, Monsieur Canivet came
thither. He made a post-mortem and found nothing.
When everything had been sold, twelve francs seventy-five centimes
remained, that served to pay for Mademoiselle Bovary’s going to
her grandmother. The good woman died the same year; old Rouault was
paralysed, and it was an aunt who took charge of her. She is poor, and
sends her to a cotton-factory to earn a living.
Since Bovary’s death three doctors have followed one another at Yonville
without any success, so severely did Homais attack them. He has an
enormous practice; the authorities treat him with consideration, and
public opinion protects him.
He has just received the cross of the Legion of Honour.
.
,
1
,
,
2
.
3
4
,
5
.
,
6
,
.
7
8
.
9
.
;
10
,
11
.
12
13
.
14
;
.
15
;
.
16
;
17
,
18
;
,
,
19
.
20
21
.
22
.
,
,
23
,
,
"
!
"
24
;
,
25
.
,
,
,
26
,
.
27
28
,
29
.
30
,
"
31
"
,
,
’
32
,
"
,
33
,
!
"
34
.
’
,
,
35
.
36
37
"
!
!
"
38
39
,
"
40
?
"
41
42
"
!
43
.
"
44
45
"
’
,
"
,
"
46
.
"
47
48
,
49
.
,
50
,
,
51
.
52
53
.
.
54
-
-
55
56
"
,
,
57
?
.
58
,
-
-
"
,
59
,
"
!
,
!
,
60
,
-
’
.
"
61
62
,
63
.
.
64
65
"
,
!
.
’
66
.
-
!
’
!
67
,
"
,
.
"
,
68
.
"
69
70
,
71
-
.
72
73
.
,
74
,
75
;
76
,
.
77
78
,
79
.
80
.
;
81
;
.
,
82
83
.
.
84
,
,
,
.
85
86
,
,
,
87
,
,
,
,
88
.
89
90
.
91
92
-
,
93
,
,
94
,
.
95
.
;
96
,
.
97
,
.
98
99
100
101
102
103
.
104
.
;
105
.
,
106
.
’
’
,
107
.
108
109
,
110
,
;
111
112
.
;
113
.
.
.
114
115
"
"
.
116
’
,
117
(
)
;
118
.
119
’
;
120
,
,
121
-
-
122
123
"
,
’
.
.
"
124
125
.
126
.
127
.
.
128
.
129
130
’
;
,
131
,
-
,
132
;
,
,
133
,
,
-
-
134
135
"
,
,
!
"
136
137
,
,
138
.
139
140
141
"
,
,
142
.
"
,
143
,
-
-
144
145
"
!
"
146
147
,
,
148
,
.
149
:
"
,
,
.
150
.
"
’
,
,
151
,
152
.
,
,
153
,
,
,
,
154
,
.
155
.
?
’
156
,
,
,
157
.
158
.
159
160
"
,
"
.
161
162
,
;
163
,
164
.
165
166
,
,
;
167
.
;
168
,
,
169
,
,
.
170
171
,
,
172
,
;
173
.
,
,
,
174
.
.
175
176
;
177
-
.
;
,
178
,
.
179
.
,
180
.
.
181
.
.
182
183
,
,
,
184
,
-
;
185
.
,
,
186
,
187
,
,
188
,
-
189
.
,
,
190
-
.
,
,
191
,
,
,
192
.
193
194
,
,
195
’
,
’
196
,
,
197
,
.
198
199
,
,
200
-
,
201
,
,
202
"
"
203
.
,
,
204
,
,
205
,
206
.
,
,
207
"
"
-
-
208
209
"
,
210
,
,
-
,
211
.
,
,
212
.
213
,
214
215
?
"
216
217
-
-
218
219
"
,
220
.
221
,
,
,
.
222
?
"
223
224
-
-
225
226
"
,
-
,
-
-
"
227
228
.
229
230
.
.
231
,
.
.
232
,
-
.
233
234
,
235
,
,
,
236
,
237
.
238
;
239
.
240
,
,
.
241
.
;
242
.
243
244
,
,
245
,
.
"
246
,
.
"
247
.
248
:
,
,
249
,
,
,
.
250
.
,
.
251
-
.
252
253
.
,
254
.
;
255
"
"
"
"
256
-
.
-
257
;
,
258
,
259
,
260
,
.
261
262
’
.
263
,
,
,
264
,
"
.
"
265
,
266
.
267
268
269
’
,
,
,
270
’
,
.
,
271
,
272
,
,
273
"
274
.
"
275
276
,
277
*
,
;
,
278
.
*
*
,
279
.
280
281
*
.
282
283
*
*
.
284
285
,
,
286
.
287
.
288
;
.
,
289
.
290
291
.
292
,
.
293
,
,
,
.
294
,
,
295
,
,
,
296
,
.
297
298
,
299
.
300
.
.
,
301
,
302
;
303
.
304
;
.
305
306
307
,
,
.
308
,
,
309
.
,
.
310
311
,
312
.
,
,
,
313
.
314
315
,
,
316
,
.
317
,
,
318
,
’
319
.
,
.
320
321
!
.
322
.
.
323
324
"
,
325
;
,
,
,
326
,
"
(
327
,
"
,
,
"
328
-
,
;
329
,
)
;
"
330
"
(
331
)
.
332
333
"
!
"
,
,
"
334
!
"
335
336
.
337
.
-
-
,
338
.
339
"
"
;
"
340
,
"
.
341
342
343
.
.
,
344
,
345
346
.
,
347
.
348
349
,
350
,
351
.
,
,
352
,
,
.
’
353
.
.
354
,
,
,
355
,
,
,
,
,
.
356
.
’
357
-
.
358
359
.
,
,
360
.
"
361
.
"
362
363
,
,
,
364
-
,
,
,
365
.
366
367
368
.
,
369
’
.
370
371
,
,
,
372
,
373
.
374
375
,
376
.
"
377
,
"
,
,
378
,
"
379
.
"
380
381
-
-
382
-
-
.
383
384
.
,
385
,
,
386
,
(
387
)
388
-
.
389
390
,
,
391
.
392
.
.
393
.
394
395
,
,
,
396
.
397
;
,
398
.
399
;
,
.
400
,
,
401
,
,
,
.
402
.
403
404
"
’
,
"
.
405
406
.
,
,
407
,
-
-
408
409
"
,
’
.
"
410
411
,
-
-
412
413
"
!
"
414
415
,
,
416
,
,
.
417
418
.
419
,
420
,
,
421
,
,
422
423
.
424
425
’
,
,
426
.
427
428
,
,
429
,
.
430
431
"
,
,
"
.
432
433
;
.
434
.
.
435
436
-
,
’
,
437
.
-
.
438
439
,
-
440
,
’
441
.
;
442
,
.
,
443
-
.
444
445
’
446
,
.
447
;
,
448
.
449
450
.
451