Bouvard was in favour of the _Tour de Nesle_. But Pecuchet was afraid of parts which called for too much action.

"She would prefer some cla.s.sical piece! _Phedre_, for instance."

"Be it so."

Bouvard set forth the theme: "It is about a queen whose husband has a son by another wife. She has fallen madly in love with the young man.

Are we there? Start!

"'Yes, prince! for Theseus I grow faint, I burn-- I love him!'"[9]

And, addressing Pecuchet's side-face, he gushed out admiration of his port, his visage, "that charming head"; grieved at not having met him with the Greek fleet; would have gladly been lost with him in the labyrinth.

The border of the red cap bent forward amorously, and his trembling voice and his appealing face begged of the cruel one to take pity on a hopeless flame.

Pecuchet, turning aside, breathed hard to emphasise his emotion.

Madame Bordin, without moving, kept her eyes wide open, as if gazing at people whirling round; Melie was listening behind the door; Gorju, in his shirt-sleeves, was staring at them through the window. Bouvard made a dash into the second part. His acting gave expression to the delirium of the senses, remorse, despair; and he flung himself on the imaginary sword of Pecuchet with such violence that, slipping over some of the stone specimens, he was near tumbling on the ground.

"Pay no attention! Then Theseus arrives, and she poisons herself."

"Poor woman!" said Madame Bordin.

After this they begged of her to choose a piece for them.

She felt perplexed about making a selection. She had seen only three pieces: _Robert le Diable_ in the capital, _Le Jeune Mari_ at Rouen, and another at Falaise which was very funny, and which was called _La Brouette du Vinaigrier_.[10]

Finally, Bouvard suggested to her the great scene of Tartuffe in the second act.

Pecuchet thought an explanation was desirable:

"You must know that Tartuffe----"

Madame Bordin interrupted him: "We know what a Tartuffe is."

Bouvard had wished for a robe for a certain pa.s.sage.

"I see only the monk's habit," said Pecuchet.

"No matter; bring it here."

He reappeared with it and a copy of Moliere.

The opening was tame, but at the place where Tartuffe caresses Elmire's knees, Pecuchet a.s.sumed the tone of a gendarme:

"_What is your hand doing there?_"

Bouvard instantly replied in a sugary voice:

"_I am feeling your dress; the stuff of it is marrowy._"

And he shot forth glances from his eyes, bent forward his mouth, sniffed with an exceedingly lecherous air, and ended by even addressing himself to Madame Bordin.

His impa.s.sioned gaze embarra.s.sed her, and when he stopped, humble and palpitating, she almost sought for something to say in reply.

Pecuchet took refuge in the book: "_The declaration is quite gallant._"

"Ha! yes," cried she; "he is a bold wheedler."

"Is it not so?" returned Bouvard confidently. "But here's another with a more modern touch about it." And, having opened his coat, he squatted over a piece of ashlar, and, with his head thrown back, burst forth:

"Your eyes' bright flame my vision floods with joy.

Sing me some song like those, in bygone years, You sang at eve, your dark eye filled with tears."[11]

"That is like me," she thought.

"Drink and be merry! let the wine-cup flow: Give me this hour, and all the rest may go!"[12]

"How droll you are!" And she laughed with a little laugh, which made her throat rise up, and exposed her teeth.

"Ah! say, is it not sweet To love and see your lover at your feet?"[13]

He knelt down.

"Finish, then."

"'Oh! let me sleep and dream upon thy breast, My beauty, Dona Sol, my love!'[14]

"Here the bells are heard, and they are disturbed by a mountaineer."

"Fortunately; for, but for that----" And Madame Bordin smiled, in place of finishing the sentence.

It was getting dark. She arose.

It had been raining a short time before, and the path through the beech grove not being dry enough, it was more convenient to return across the fields. Bouvard accompanied her into the garden, in order to open the gate for her.

At first they walked past the trees cut like distaffs, without a word being spoken on either side. He was still moved by his declamation, and she, at the bottom of her heart, felt a certain kind of fascination, a charm which was generated by the influence of literature. There are occasions when art excites commonplace natures; and worlds may be unveiled by the clumsiest interpreters.

The sun had reappeared, making the leaves glisten, and casting luminous spots here and there amongst the brakes. Three sparrows with little chirpings hopped on the trunk of an old linden tree which had fallen to the ground. A hawthorn in blossom exhibited its pink sheath; lilacs drooped, borne down by their foliage.

"Ah! that does one good!" said Bouvard, inhaling the air till it filled his lungs.

"You are so painstaking."

"It is not that I have talent; but as for fire, I possess some of that."

"One can see," she returned, pausing between the words, "that you--were in love--in your early days."

"Only in my early days, you believe?"