Yes, I enjoyed Flaubert. James Wood and others have called him the most anxious style-driven author, causing writers after him to never be quite 'okay' about their performance, their works as they are published. At some point, when he'd had his first real publication, he fell into a depression: that's it, nothing more can be done. And when he went back to read, he found himself wanting to change more, cut more, words having been written and published then meaning less somehow. It's not uncommon, that kind of self-haranguing after publication. We see it recorded in Graham Greene's biography, where Sherry lightly addresses the issue by showing young Greene reading a story he'd written as a boy within a day of its publication, the world over seemingly his oyster, only then to find himself doubting all of his work later as soon as it showed on the page as some gangly, ugly thing regardless of praise, or in Greene's case because of it.
A relief is to read Troyat's depiction of George Sand's eloquent way of sloughing off worry and anxiety of her texts by continuing on with others, a way Doris Lessing also had. Sand then meant to allow Flaubert the same grace, but as with most closed boxes, influence isn't so easy from without.
With Flaubert, praise and publication came with a cost; that his life before was somehow holy, or insulated in the primary language of his art; then destroyed because of its parading around Paris, because of society's embrace. He finds the court system, society, and its writers a kind of lurching monster, a door-knocking threat--
All in all, we admire him for his ability to take hard hits early on, and keep with his temperament throughout and well into his most important years as the best friend of George Sand, and the War years.
Things I don't like about Troyat's work are few. He can't be shooed away at any point, because he seems closer to the author than you are or ever will be, and somehow that's not offensive; and so you tend to want to hear any of his judgements at all, as though the closer he sits and leans into Flaubert's letters and rituals, victuals and remonstrances, the more closer we pull to Troyat. His judgements are ancillary to our seeking out of the mind that can construct Madame Bovary, the mind that endures struggle with every word, with every letter from the world outside. It is easy to fall into the mindset that he had it so good, how could he NOT produce literary work of value. But it wasn't so good. Rats in the attic, illness early in life, seizures. In the end we love the author, the boy, the man-child who became a model for later stylists, not in life but in practice, and the child who nearly died as many times as he lived becomes a sort of ghost worth having around when you're trying your best to make that sentence mean something so close to its character.