Bouvard and Pécuchet: A Tragi-comic Novel of Bourgeois Life, part 1 Read online

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  "NO, MY LITTLE ANGEL! DON'T BE AFRAID!"]

  BOUVARD AND PECUCHET

  _A TRAGI-COMIC NOVEL OFBOURGEOIS LIFE_

  BY

  GUSTAVE FLAUBERT

  _VOLUME IX._

  SIMON P. MAGEEPUBLISHERCHICAGO, ILL.

  COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY

  M. WALTER DUNNE

  _Entered at Stationer's Hall, London_

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I. PAGE KINDRED SOULS 1

  CHAPTER II. EXPERIMENTS IN AGRICULTURE 26

  CHAPTER III. AMATEUR CHEMISTS 72

  CHAPTER IV. RESEARCHES IN ARCHAEOLOGY 123

  CHAPTER V. ROMANCE AND THE DRAMA 163

  CHAPTER VI. REVOLT OF THE PEOPLE 191

  CHAPTER VII. "UNLUCKY IN LOVE" 228

  CHAPTER VIII. NEW DIVERSIONS 242

  ILLUSTRATIONS

  FACING PAGE"NO, MY LITTLE ANGEL! DON'T BE AFRAID!" (Seepage 238) _Frontispiece_

  MUTUALLY BECOMING AFFLICTED, THEY LOOKED ATTHEIR TONGUES 90

  HE WAS ABOUT TO CLASP HER IN HIS ARMS 234

  BOUVARD AND PECUCHET

  CHAPTER I.

  KINDRED SOULS.

  As there were thirty-three degrees of heat the Boulevard Bourdon wasabsolutely deserted.

  Farther down, the Canal St. Martin, confined by two locks, showed in astraight line its water black as ink. In the middle of it was a boat,filled with timber, and on the bank were two rows of casks.

  Beyond the canal, between the houses which separated the timber-yards,the great pure sky was cut up into plates of ultramarine; and under thereverberating light of the sun, the white facades, the slate roofs, andthe granite wharves glowed dazzlingly. In the distance arose a confusednoise in the warm atmosphere; and the idleness of Sunday, as well as themelancholy engendered by the summer heat, seemed to shed around auniversal languor.

  Two men made their appearance.

  One came from the direction of the Bastille; the other from that of theJardin des Plantes. The taller of the pair, arrayed in linen cloth,walked with his hat back, his waistcoat unbuttoned, and his cravat inhis hand. The smaller, whose form was covered with a maroon frock-coat,wore a cap with a pointed peak.

  As soon as they reached the middle of the boulevard, they sat down, atthe same moment, on the same seat.

  In order to wipe their foreheads they took off their headgear, eachplacing his beside himself; and the little man saw "Bouvard" written inhis neighbour's hat, while the latter easily traced "Pecuchet" in thecap of the person who wore the frock-coat.

  "Look here!" he said; "we have both had the same idea--to write ournames in our head-coverings!"

  "Yes, faith, for they might carry off mine from my desk."

  "'Tis the same way with me. I am an employe."

  Then they gazed at each other. Bouvard's agreeable visage quite charmedPecuchet.

  His blue eyes, always half-closed, smiled in his fresh-coloured face.His trousers, with big flaps, which creased at the end over beavershoes, took the shape of his stomach, and made his shirt bulge out atthe waist; and his fair hair, which of its own accord grew in tinycurls, gave him a somewhat childish look.

  He kept whistling continually with the tips of his lips.

  Bouvard was struck by the serious air of Pecuchet. One would havethought that he wore a wig, so flat and black were the locks whichadorned his high skull. His face seemed entirely in profile, on accountof his nose, which descended very low. His legs, confined in tightwrappings of lasting, were entirely out of proportion with the length ofhis bust. His voice was loud and hollow.

  This exclamation escaped him:

  "How pleasant it would be in the country!"

  But, according to Bouvard, the suburbs were unendurable on account ofthe noise of the public-houses outside the city. Pecuchet was of thesame opinion. Nevertheless, he was beginning to feel tired of thecapital, and so was Bouvard.

  And their eyes wandered over heaps of stones for building, over thehideous water in which a truss of straw was floating, over a factorychimney rising towards the horizon. Sewers sent forth their poisonousexhalations. They turned to the opposite side; and they had in front ofthem the walls of the Public Granary.

  Decidedly (and Pecuchet was surprised at the fact), it was still warmerin the street than in his own house. Bouvard persuaded him to put downhis overcoat. As for him, he laughed at what people might say about him.

  Suddenly, a drunken man staggered along the footpath; and the pair begana political discussion on the subject of working-men. Their opinionswere similar, though perhaps Bouvard was rather more liberal in hisviews.

  A noise of wheels sounded on the pavement amid a whirlpool of dust. Itturned out to be three hired carriages which were going towards Bercy,carrying a bride with her bouquet, citizens in white cravats, ladieswith their petticoats huddled up so as almost to touch their armpits,two or three little girls, and a student.

  The sight of this wedding-party led Bouvard and Pecuchet to talk aboutwomen, whom they declared to be frivolous, waspish, obstinate. In spiteof this, they were often better than men; but at other times they wereworse. In short, it was better to live without them. For his part,Pecuchet was a bachelor.

  "As for me, I'm a widower," said Bouvard, "and I have no children."

  "Perhaps you are lucky there. But, in the long run, solitude is verysad."

  Then, on the edge of the wharf, appeared a girl of the town with asoldier,--sallow, with black hair, and marked with smallpox. She leanedon the soldier's arm, dragging her feet along, and swaying on her hips.

  When she was a short distance from them, Bouvard indulged in a coarseremark. Pecuchet became very red in the face, and, no doubt to avoidanswering, gave him a look to indicate the fact that a priest was comingin their direction.

  The ecclesiastic slowly descended the avenue, along which lean elm treeswere placed as landmarks, and Bouvard, when he no longer saw thepriest's three-cornered head-piece, expressed his relief; for he hatedJesuits. Pecuchet, without absolving them from blame, exhibited somerespect for religion.

  Meanwhile, the twilight was falling, and the window-blinds in front ofthem were raised. The passers-by became more numerous. Seven o'clockstruck.

  Their words rushed on in an inexhaustible stream; remarks succeeding toanecdotes, philosophic views to individual considerations. Theydisparaged the management of the bridges and causeways, the tobaccoadministration, the theatres, our marine, and the entire human race,like people who had undergone great mortifications. In listening to eachother both found again some ideas which had long since slipped out oftheir minds; and though they had passed the age of simple emotions, theyex
perienced a new pleasure, a kind of expansion, the tender charmassociated with their first appearance on life's stage.

  Twenty times they had risen and sat down again, and had proceeded alongthe boulevard from the upper to the lower lock, each time intending totake their departure, but not having the strength to do so, held back bya kind of fascination.

  However, they came to parting at last, and they had clasped each other'shands, when Bouvard said all of a sudden:

  "Faith! what do you say to our dining together?"

  "I had the very same idea in my own head," returned Pecuchet, "but Ihadn't the courage to propose it to you."

  And he allowed himself to be led towards a little restaurant facing theHotel de Ville, where they would be comfortable.

  Bouvard called for the _menu_. Pecuchet was afraid of spices, as theymight inflame his blood. This led to a medical discussion. Then theyglorified the utility of science: how many things could be learned, howmany researches one could make, if one had only time! Alas! earningone's bread took up all one's time; and they raised their arms inastonishment, and were near embracing each other over the table ondiscovering that they were both copyists, Bouvard in a commercialestablishment, and Pecuchet in the Admiralty, which did not, however,prevent him from devoting a few spare moments each evening to study. Hehad noted faults in M. Thiers's work, and he spoke with the utmostrespect of a certain professor named Dumouchel.

  Bouvard had the advantage of him in other ways. His hair watch-chain,and his manner of whipping-up the mustard-sauce, revealed the greybeard,full of experience; and he ate with the corners of his napkin under hisarmpits, giving utterance to things which made Pecuchet laugh. It was apeculiar laugh, one very low note, always the same, emitted at longintervals. Bouvard's laugh was explosive, sonorous, uncovering histeeth, shaking his shoulders, and making the customers at the door turnround to stare at him.

  When they had dined they went to take coffee in another establishment.Pecuchet, on contemplating the gas-burners, groaned over the spreadingtorrent of luxury; then, with an imperious movement, he flung aside thenewspapers. Bouvard was more indulgent on this point. He liked allauthors indiscriminately, having been disposed in his youth to go on thestage.

  He had a fancy for trying balancing feats with a billiard-cue and twoivory balls, such as Barberou, one of his friends, had performed. Theyinvariably fell, and, rolling along the floor between people's legs, gotlost in some distant corner. The waiter, who had to rise every time tosearch for them on all-fours under the benches, ended by makingcomplaints. Pecuchet picked a quarrel with him; the coffee-house keepercame on the scene, but Pecuchet would listen to no excuses, and evencavilled over the amount consumed.

  He then proposed to finish the evening quietly at his own abode, whichwas quite near, in the Rue St. Martin. As soon as they had entered heput on a kind of cotton nightgown, and did the honours of his apartment.

  A deal desk, placed exactly in the centre of the room causedinconvenience by its sharp corners; and all around, on the boards, onthe three chairs, on the old armchair, and in the corners, werescattered pell-mell a number of volumes of the "Roret Encyclopaedia,""The Magnetiser's Manual," a Fenelon, and other old books, with heaps ofwaste paper, two cocoa-nuts, various medals, a Turkish cap, and shellsbrought back from Havre by Dumouchel. A layer of dust velveted thewalls, which otherwise had been painted yellow. The shoe-brush was lyingat the side of the bed, the coverings of which hung down. On the ceilingcould be seen a big black stain, produced by the smoke of the lamp.

  Bouvard, on account of the smell no doubt, asked permission to open thewindow.

  "The papers will fly away!" cried Pecuchet, who was more afraid of thecurrents of air.

  However, he panted for breath in this little room, heated since morningby the slates of the roof.

  Bouvard said to him: "If I were in your place, I would remove myflannel."

  "What!" And Pecuchet cast down his head, frightened at the idea of nolonger having his healthful flannel waistcoat.

  "Let me take the business in hand," resumed Bouvard; "the air fromoutside will refresh you."

  At last Pecuchet put on his boots again, muttering, "Upon my honour, youare bewitching me." And, notwithstanding the distance, he accompaniedBouvard as far as the latter's house at the corner of the Rue deBethune, opposite the Pont de la Tournelle.

  Bouvard's room, the floor of which was well waxed, and which hadcurtains of cotton cambric and mahogany furniture, had the advantage ofa balcony overlooking the river. The two principal ornaments were aliqueur-frame in the middle of the chest of drawers, and, in a rowbeside the glass, daguerreotypes representing his friends. An oilpainting occupied the alcove.

  "My uncle!" said Bouvard. And the taper which he held in his hand shedits light on the portrait of a gentleman.

  Red whiskers enlarged his visage, which was surmounted by a forelockcurling at its ends. His huge cravat, with the triple collar of hisshirt, and his velvet waistcoat and black coat, appeared to cramp him.You would have imagined there were diamonds on his shirt-frill. His eyesseemed fastened to his cheekbones, and he smiled with a cunning littleair.

  Pecuchet could not keep from saying, "One would rather take him for yourfather!"

  "He is my godfather," replied Bouvard carelessly, adding that hisbaptismal name was Francois-Denys-Bartholemee.

  Pecuchet's baptismal name was Juste-Romain-Cyrille, and their ages wereidentical--forty-seven years. This coincidence caused them satisfaction,but surprised them, each having thought the other much older. They nextvented their admiration for Providence, whose combinations are sometimesmarvellous.

  "For, in fact, if we had not gone out a while ago to take a walk wemight have died before knowing each other."

  And having given each other their employers' addresses, they exchanged acordial "good night."

  "Don't go to see the women!" cried Bouvard on the stairs.

  Pecuchet descended the steps without answering this coarse jest.

  Next day, in the space in front of the establishment of MM. DescambosBrothers, manufacturers of Alsatian tissues, 92, Rue Hautefeuille, avoice called out:

  "Bouvard! Monsieur Bouvard!"

  The latter glanced through the window-panes and recognised Pecuchet, whoarticulated more loudly:

  "I am not ill! I have remained away!"

  "Why, though?"

  "This!" said Pecuchet, pointing at his breast.

  All the talk of the day before, together with the temperature of theapartment and the labours of digestion, had prevented him from sleeping,so much so that, unable to stand it any longer, he had flung off hisflannel waistcoat. In the morning he recalled his action, whichfortunately had no serious consequences, and he came to inform Bouvardabout it, showing him in this way that he had placed him very high inhis esteem.

  He was a small shopkeeper's son, and had no recollection of his mother,who died while he was very young. At fifteen he had been taken away froma boarding-school to be sent into the employment of a process-server.The gendarmes invaded his employer's residence one day, and that worthywas sent off to the galleys--a stern history which still caused him athrill of terror. Then he had attempted many callings--apothecary'sapprentice, usher, book-keeper in a packet-boat on the Upper Seine. Atlength, a head of a department in the Admiralty, smitten by hishandwriting, had employed him as a copying-clerk; but the consciousnessof a defective education, with the intellectual needs engendered by it,irritated his temper, and so he lived altogether alone, withoutrelatives, without a mistress. His only distraction was to go out onSunday to inspect public works.

  The earliest recollections of Bouvard carried him back across the banksof the Loire into a farmyard. A man who was his uncle had brought him toParis to teach him commerce. At his majority, he got a few thousandfrancs. Then he took a wife, and opened a confectioner's shop. Sixmonths later his wife disappeared, carrying off the cash-box. Friends,good cheer, and above all, idleness, had speedily accomplished his ruin.But he was inspired by the
notion of utilising his beautifulchirography, and for the past twelve years he had clung to the same postin the establishment of MM. Descambos Brothers, manufacturers oftissues, 92, Rue Hautefeuille. As for his uncle, who formerly had senthim the celebrated portrait as a memento, Bouvard did not even know hisresidence, and expected nothing more from him. Fifteen hundred francs ayear and his salary as copying-clerk enabled him every evening to take anap at a coffee-house. Thus their meeting had the importance of anadventure. They were at once drawn together by secret fibres. Besides,how can we explain sympathies? Why does a certain peculiarity, a certainimperfection, indifferent or hateful in one person, prove a fascinationin another? That which we call the thunderbolt is true as regards allthe passions.

  Before the month was over they "thou'd" and "thee'd" each other.

  Frequently they came to see each other at their respective offices. Assoon as one made his appearance, the other shut up his writing-desk, andthey went off together into the streets. Bouvard walked with longstrides, whilst Pecuchet, taking innumerable steps, with his frock-coatflapping at his heels, seemed to slip along on rollers. In the same way,their peculiar tastes were in harmony. Bouvard smoked his pipe, lovedcheese, regularly took his half-glass of brandy. Pecuchet snuffed, atdessert ate only preserves, and soaked a piece of sugar in his coffee.One was self-confident, flighty, generous; the other prudent,thoughtful, and thrifty.

  In order to please him, Bouvard desired to introduce Pecuchet toBarberou. He was an ex-commercial traveller, and now a purse-maker--agood fellow, a patriot, a ladies' man, and one who affected the languageof the faubourgs. Pecuchet did not care for him, and he brought Bouvardto the residence of Dumouchel. This author (for he had published alittle work on mnemonics) gave lessons in literature at a young ladies'boarding-school, and had orthodox opinions and a grave deportment. Hebored Bouvard.

  Neither of the two friends concealed his opinion from the other. Eachrecognised the correctness of the other's view. They altered theirhabits, they quitting their humdrum lodgings, and ended by diningtogether every day.

  They made observations on the plays at the theatre, on the government,the dearness of living, and the frauds of commerce. From time to time,the history of Collier or the trial of Fualdes turned up in theirconversations; and then they sought for the causes of the Revolution.

  They lounged along by the old curiosity shops. They visited the Schoolof Arts and Crafts, St. Denis, the Gobelins, the Invalides, and all thepublic collections.

  When they were asked for their passports, they made pretence of havinglost them, passing themselves off as two strangers, two Englishmen.

  In the galleries of the Museum, they viewed the stuffed quadrupeds withamazement, the butterflies with delight, and the metals withindifference; the fossils made them dream; the conchological specimensbored them. They examined the hot-houses through the glass, and groanedat the thought that all these leaves distilled poisons. What theyadmired about the cedar was that it had been brought over in a hat.

  At the Louvre they tried to get enthusiastic about Raphael. At the greatlibrary they desired to know the exact number of volumes.

  On one occasion they attended at a lecture on Arabic at the College ofFrance, and the professor was astonished to see these two unknownpersons attempting to take notes. Thanks to Barberou, they penetratedinto the green-room of a little theatre. Dumouchel got them tickets fora sitting at the Academy. They inquired about discoveries, read theprospectuses, and this curiosity developed their intelligence. At theend of a horizon, growing every day more remote, they perceived thingsat the same time confused and marvellous.

  When they admired an old piece of furniture they regretted that they hadnot lived at the period when it was used, though they were absolutelyignorant of what period it was. In accordance with certain names, theyimagined countries only the more beautiful in proportion to their utterlack of definite information about them. The works of which the titleswere to them unintelligible, appeared to their minds to contain somemysterious knowledge.

  And the more ideas they had, the more they suffered. When a mail-coachcrossed them in the street, they felt the need of going off with it. TheQuay of Flowers made them sigh for the country.

  One Sunday they started for a walking tour early in the morning, and,passing through Meudon, Bellevue, Suresnes, and Auteuil, they wanderedabout all day amongst the vineyards, tore up wild poppies by the sidesof fields, slept on the grass, drank milk, ate under the acacias in thegardens of country inns, and got home very late--dusty, worn-out, andenchanted.

  They often renewed these walks. They felt so sad next day that theyended by depriving themselves of them.

  The monotony of the desk became odious to them. Always the eraser andthe sandarac, the same inkstand, the same pens, and the same companions.Looking on the latter as stupid fellows, they talked to them less andless. This cost them some annoyances. They came after the regular hourevery day, and received reprimands.

  Formerly they had been almost happy, but their occupation humiliatedthem since they had begun to set a higher value on themselves, and theirdisgust increased while they were mutually glorifying and spoiling eachother. Pecuchet contracted Bouvard's bluntness, and Bouvard assumed alittle of Pecuchet's moroseness.

  "I have a mind to become a mountebank in the streets!" said one to theother.

  "As well to be a rag-picker!" exclaimed his friend.

  What an abominable situation! And no way out of it. Not even the hope ofit!

  One afternoon (it was the 20th of January, 1839) Bouvard, while at hisdesk, received a letter left by the postman.

  He lifted up both hands; then his head slowly fell back, and he sank onthe floor in a swoon.

  The clerks rushed forward; they took off his cravat; they sent for aphysician. He re-opened his eyes; then, in answer to the questions theyput to him:

  "Ah! the fact is----the fact is----A little air will relieve me. No; letme alone. Kindly give me leave to go out."

  And, in spite of his corpulence, he rushed, all breathless, to theAdmiralty office, and asked for Pecuchet.

  Pecuchet appeared.

  "My uncle is dead! I am his heir!"

  "It isn't possible!"

  Bouvard showed him the following lines:

  OFFICE OF MAITRE TARDIVEL, NOTARY.

  _Savigny-en-Septaine, 14th January, 1839._

  SIR,--I beg of you to call at my office in order to take notice there of the will of your natural father, M. Francois-Denys-Bartholomee Bouvard, ex-merchant in the town of Nantes, who died in this parish on the 10th of the present month. This will contains a very important disposition in your favour.

  TARDIVEL, _Notary_.

  Pecuchet was obliged to sit down on a boundary-stone in the courtyardoutside the office.

  Then he returned the paper, saying slowly:

  "Provided that this is not--some practical joke."

  "You think it is a farce!" replied Bouvard, in a stifled voice like therattling in the throat of a dying man.

  But the postmark, the name of the notary's office in printed characters,the notary's own signature, all proved the genuineness of the news; andthey regarded each other with a trembling at the corners of their mouthsand tears in their staring eyes.

  They wanted space to breathe freely. They went to the Arc de Triomphe,came back by the water's edge, and passed beyond Notre Dame. Bouvard wasvery flushed. He gave Pecuchet blows with his fist in the back, and forfive minutes talked utter nonsense.

  They chuckled in spite of themselves. This inheritance, surely, ought tomount up----?

  "Ah! that would be too much of a good thing. Let's talk no more aboutit."

  They did talk again about it. There was nothing to prevent them fromimmediately demanding explanations. Bouvard wrote to the notary withthat view.

  The notary sent a copy of the will, which ended thus:

  _"Consequently, I give to Francois-Denys-Bartholemee Bouvard, my recognised natural son,
the portion of my property disposable by law."_

  The old fellow had got this son in his youthful days, but he hadcarefully kept it dark, making him pass for a nephew; and the "nephew"had always called him "my uncle," though he had his own idea on thematter. When he was about forty, M. Bouvard married; then he was left awidower. His two legitimate sons having gone against his wishes, remorsetook possession of him for the desertion of his other child during along period of years. He would have even sent for the lad but for theinfluence of his female cook. She left him, thanks to the manoeuvres ofthe family, and in his isolation, when death drew nigh, he wished torepair the wrongs he had done by bequeathing to the fruit of his earlylove all that he could of his fortune. It ran up to half a millionfrancs, thus giving the copying-clerk two hundred and fifty thousandfrancs. The eldest of the brothers, M. Etienne, had announced that hewould respect the will.

  Bouvard fell into a kind of stupefied condition. He kept repeating in alow tone, smiling with the peaceful smile of drunkards: "An income offifteen thousand livres!"--and Pecuchet, whose head, however, wasstronger, was not able to get over it.

  They were rudely shaken by a letter from Tardivel. The other son, M.Alexandre, declared his intention to have the entire matter decided bylaw, and even to question the legacy, if he could, requiring, first ofall, to have everything sealed, and to have an inventory taken and asequestrator appointed, etc. Bouvard got a bilious attack inconsequence. Scarcely had he recovered when he started for Savigny, fromwhich place he returned without having brought the matter nearer to asettlement, and he could only grumble about having gone to the expenseof a journey for nothing. Then followed sleepless nights, alternationsof rage and hope, of exaltation and despondency. Finally, after thelapse of six months, his lordship Alexandre was appeased, and Bouvardentered into possession of his inheritance.

  His first exclamation was: "We will retire into the country!" And thisphrase, which bound up his friend with his good fortune, Pecuchet hadfound quite natural. For the union of these two men was absolute andprofound. But, as he did not wish to live at Bouvard's expense, he wouldnot go before he got his retiring pension. Two years more; no matter! Heremained inflexible, and the thing was decided.

  In order to know where to settle down, they passed in review all theprovinces. The north was fertile, but too cold; the south delightful, sofar as the climate was concerned, but inconvenient because of themosquitoes; and the middle portion of the country, in truth, had nothingabout it to excite curiosity. Brittany would have suited them, were itnot for the bigoted tendency of its inhabitants. As for the regions ofthe east, on account of the Germanic _patois_ they could not dream ofit. But there were other places. For instance, what about Forez, Bugey,and Rumois? The maps said nothing about them. Besides, whether theirhouse happened to be in one place or in another, the important thing wasto have one. Already they saw themselves in their shirt-sleeves, at theedge of a plat-band, pruning rose trees, and digging, dressing, settlingthe ground, growing tulips in pots. They would awaken at the singing ofthe lark to follow the plough; they would go with baskets to gatherapples, would look on at butter-making, the thrashing of corn,sheep-shearing, bee-culture, and would feel delight in the lowing ofcows and in the scent of new-mown hay. No more writing! No more headsof departments! No more even quarters' rent to pay! For they had adwelling-house of their own! And they would eat the hens of their ownpoultry-yard, the vegetables of their own garden, and would dine withouttaking off their wooden shoes! "We'll do whatever we like! We'll let ourbeards grow!"

  They would purchase horticultural implements, then a heap of things"that might perhaps be useful," such as a tool-chest (there was alwaysneed of one in a house), next, scales, a land-surveyor's chain, abathing-tub in case they got ill, a thermometer, and even a barometer,"on the Gay-Lussac system," for physical experiences, if they took afancy that way. It would not be a bad thing either (for a person cannotalways be working out of doors), to have some good literary works; andthey looked out for them, very embarrassed sometimes to know if such abook was really "a library book."

  Bouvard settled the question. "Oh! we shall not want a library. Besides,I have my own."

  They prepared their plans beforehand. Bouvard would bring his furniture,Pecuchet his big black table; they would turn the curtains to account;and, with a few kitchen utensils, this would be quite sufficient. Theyswore to keep silent about all this, but their faces spoke volumes. Sotheir colleagues thought them funny. Bouvard, who wrote spread over hisdesk, with his elbows out, in order the better to round his letters,gave vent to a kind of whistle while half-closing his heavy eyelids witha waggish air. Pecuchet, squatted on a big straw foot-stool, was alwayscarefully forming the pot-hooks of his large handwriting, but all thewhile swelling his nostrils and pressing his lips together, as if hewere afraid of letting his secret slip.

  After eighteen months of inquiries, they had discovered nothing. Theymade journeys in all the outskirts of Paris, both from Amiens to Evreux,and from Fontainebleau to Havre. They wanted a country place which wouldbe a thorough country place, without exactly insisting on a picturesquesite; but a limited horizon saddened them.

  They fled from the vicinity of habitations, and only redoubled theirsolitude.

  Sometimes they made up their minds; then, fearing they would repentlater, they changed their opinion, the place having appeared unhealthy,or exposed to the sea-breeze, or too close to a factory, or difficult ofaccess.

  Barberou came to their rescue. He knew what their dream was, and onefine day he called on them to let them know that he had been told aboutan estate at Chavignolles, between Caen and Falaise. This comprised afarm of thirty-eight hectares,[1] with a kind of chateau, and a gardenin a very productive state.

  They proceeded to Calvados, and were quite enraptured. For the farm,together with the house (one would not be sold without the other), onlya hundred and forty-three thousand francs were asked. Bouvard did notwant to give more than a hundred and twenty thousand.

  Pecuchet combated his obstinacy, begged of him to give way, and finallydeclared that he would make up the surplus himself. This was his entirefortune, coming from his mother's patrimony and his own savings. Neverhad he breathed a word, reserving this capital for a great occasion.

  The entire amount was paid up about the end of 1840, six months beforehis retirement.

  Bouvard was no longer a copying-clerk. At first he had continued hisfunctions through distrust of the future; but he had resigned once hewas certain of his inheritance. However, he willingly went back to MM.Descambos; and the night before his departure he stood drinks to all theclerks.

  Pecuchet, on the contrary, was morose towards his colleagues, and wentoff, on the last day, roughly clapping the door behind him.

  He had to look after the packing, to do a heap of commissions, then tomake purchases, and to take leave of Dumouchel.

  The professor proposed to him an epistolary interchange between them, ofwhich he would make use to keep Pecuchet well up in literature; and,after fresh felicitations, wished him good health.

  Barberou exhibited more sensibility in taking leave of Bouvard. Heexpressly gave up a domino-party, promised to go to see him "overthere," ordered two aniseed cordials, and embraced him.

  Bouvard, when he got home, inhaled over the balcony a deep breath ofair, saying to himself, "At last!" The lights along the quays quiveredin the water, the rolling of omnibuses in the distance gradually ceased.He recalled happy days spent in this great city, supper-parties atrestaurants, evenings at the theatre, gossips with his portress, all hishabitual associations; and he experienced a sinking of the heart, asadness which he dared not acknowledge even to himself.

  Pecuchet was walking in his room up to two o'clock in the morning. Hewould come back there no more: so much the better! And yet, in order toleave behind something of himself, he printed his name on the plasterover the chimney-piece.

  The larger portion of the baggage was gone since the night before. Thegarden implements, the b
edsteads, the mattresses, the tables, thechairs, a cooking apparatus, and three casks of Burgundy would go by theSeine, as far as Havre, and would be despatched thence to Caen, whereBouvard, who would wait for them, would have them brought on toChavignolles.

  But his father's portrait, the armchairs the liqueur-case, the oldbooks, the time-piece, all the precious objects were put into afurniture waggon, which would proceed through Nonancourt, Verneuil, andFalaise. Pecuchet was to accompany it.

  He installed himself beside the conductor, upon a seat, and, wrapped upin his oldest frock-coat, with a comforter, mittens, and his officefoot-warmer, on Sunday, the 20th of March, at daybreak, he set forthfrom the capital.

  The movement and the novelty of the journey occupied his attentionduring the first few hours. Then the horses slackened their pace, whichled to disputes between the conductor and the driver. They selectedexecrable inns, and, though they were accountable for everything,Pecuchet, through excess of prudence, slept in the same lodgings.

  Next day they started again, at dawn, and the road, always the same,stretched out, uphill, to the verge of the horizon. Yards of stones cameafter each other; the ditches were full of water; the country showeditself in wide tracts of green, monotonous and cold; clouds scuddedthrough the sky. From time to time there was a fall of rain. On thethird day squalls arose. The awning of the waggon, badly fastened on,went clapping with the wind, like the sails of a ship. Pecuchet loweredhis face under his cap, and every time he opened his snuff-box it wasnecessary for him, in order to protect his eyes, to turn roundcompletely.

  During the joltings he heard all his baggage swinging behind him, andshouted out a lot of directions. Seeing that they were useless, hechanged his tactics. He assumed an air of good-fellowship, and made adisplay of civilities; in the troublesome ascents he assisted the men inpushing on the wheels: he even went so far as to pay for the coffee andbrandy after the meals. From that time they went on more slowly; so muchso that, in the neighbourhood of Gauburge, the axletree broke, and thewaggon remained tilted over. Pecuchet immediately went to inspect theinside of it: the sets of porcelain lay in bits. He raised his arms,while he gnashed his teeth, and cursed these two idiots; and thefollowing day was lost owing to the waggon-driver getting tipsy: but hehad not the energy to complain, the cup of bitterness being full.

  Bouvard had quitted Paris only on the third day, as he had to dine oncemore with Barberou. He arrived in the coach-yard at the last moment;then he woke up before the cathedral of Rouen: he had mistaken the_diligence_.

  In the evening, all the places for Caen were booked. Not knowing what todo, he went to the Theatre of Arts, and he smiled at his neighbours,telling them he had retired from business, and had lately purchased anestate in the neighbourhood. When he started on Friday for Caen, hispackages were not there. He received them on Sunday, and despatched themin a cart, having given notice to the farmer who was working the landthat he would follow in the course of a few hours.

  At Falaise, on the ninth day of his journey, Pecuchet took a freshhorse, and even till sunset they kept steadily on. Beyond Bretteville,having left the high-road, he got off into a cross-road, fancying thatevery moment he could see the gable-ends of Chavignolles. However, theruts hid them from view; they vanished, and then the party foundthemselves in the midst of ploughed fields. The night was falling. Whatwas to become of them? At last Pecuchet left the waggon behind, and,splashing in the mire, advanced in front of it to reconnoitre. When hedrew near farm-houses, the dogs barked. He called out as loudly as everhe could, asking what was the right road. There was no answer. He wasafraid, and got back to the open ground. Suddenly two lanterns flashed.He perceived a cabriolet, and rushed forward to meet it. Bouvard wasinside.

  But where could the furniture waggon be? For an hour they called out toit through the darkness. At length it was found, and they arrived atChavignolles.

  A great fire of brushwood and pine-apples was blazing in thedining-room. Two covers were placed there. The furniture, which had comeby the cart, was piled up near the vestibule. Nothing was wanting. Theysat down to table.

  Onion soup had been prepared for them, also a chicken, bacon, andhard-boiled eggs. The old woman who cooked came from time to time toinquire about their tastes. They replied, "Oh! very good, very good!"and the big loaf, hard to cut, the cream, the nuts, all delighted them.There were holes in the flooring, and the damp was oozing through thewalls. However, they cast around them a glance of satisfaction, whileeating on the little table on which a candle was burning. Their faceswere reddened by the strong air. They stretched out their stomachs; theyleaned on the backs of their chairs, which made a cracking sound inconsequence, and they kept repeating: "Here we are in the place, then!What happiness! It seems to me that it is a dream!"

  Although it was midnight, Pecuchet conceived the idea of taking a turnround the garden. Bouvard made no objection. They took up the candle,and, screening it with an old newspaper, walked along the paths. Theyfound pleasure in mentioning aloud the names of the vegetables.

  "Look here--carrots! Ah!--cabbages!"

  Next, they inspected the espaliers. Pecuchet tried to discover the buds.Sometimes a spider would scamper suddenly over the wall, and the twoshadows of their bodies appeared magnified, repeating their gestures.The ends of the grass let the dew trickle out. The night was perfectlyblack, and everything remained motionless in a profound silence, aninfinite sweetness. In the distance a cock was crowing.

  Their two rooms had between them a little door, which was hidden by thepapering of the wall. By knocking a chest of drawers up against it,nails were shaken out; and they found the place gaping open. This was asurprise.

  When they had undressed and got into bed, they kept babbling for sometime. Then they went asleep--Bouvard on his back, with his mouth open,his head bare; Pecuchet on his right side, his knees in his stomach, hishead muffled in a cotton night-cap; and the pair snored under themoonlight which made its way in through the windows.