RESEARCHES IN ARCHAEOLOGY.

Six months later they had become archaeologists, and their house was like a museum.

In the vestibule stood an old wooden beam.  The staircase was encumbered with the geological specimens, and an enormous chain was stretched on the ground all along the corridor.  They had taken off its hinges the door between the two rooms in which they did not sleep, and had condemned the outer door of the second in order to convert both into a single apartment.

As soon as you crossed the threshold, you came in contact with a stone trough (a Gallo-Roman sarcophagus); the ironwork next attracted your attention.  Fixed to the opposite wall, a warming-pan looked down on two andirons and a hearthplate representing a monk caressing a shepherdess.  On the boards all around, you saw torches, locks, bolts, and nuts of screws.  The floor was rendered invisible beneath fragments of red tiles.  A table in the centre exhibited curiosities of the rarest description:  the shell of a Cauchoise cap, two argil urns, medals, and a phial of opaline glass.  An upholstered armchair had at its back a triangle worked with guipure.  A piece of a coat of mail adorned the partition to the right, and on the other side sharp spikes sustained in a horizontal position a unique specimen of a halberd.

The second room, into which two steps led down, contained the old books which they had brought with them from Paris, and those which, on their arrival, they had found in a press.  The leaves of the folding-doors had been removed hither.  They called it the library.

The back of the door was entirely covered by the genealogical tree of the Croixmare family.  In the panelling on the return side, a pastel of a lady in the dress of the period of Louis XV. made a companion picture to the portrait of Pere Bouvard.  The casing of the glass was decorated with a sombrero of black felt, and a monstrous galoche filled with leaves, the remains of a nest.

Two cocoanuts (which had belonged to Pecuchet since his younger days) flanked on the chimney-piece an earthenware cask on which a peasant sat astride.  Close by, in a straw basket, was a little coin brought up by a duck.

In front of the bookcase stood a shell chest of drawers trimmed with plush.  The cover of it supported a cat with a mouse in its mouth ­a petrifaction from St. Allyre; a work-box, also of shell work, and on this box a decanter of brandy contained a Bon Chretien pear.

But the finest thing was a statue of St. Peter in the embrasure of the window.  His right hand, covered with a glove of apple-green colour, was pressing the key of Paradise.  His chasuble, ornamented with fleurs-de-luce, was azure blue, and his tiara very yellow, pointed like a pagoda.  He had flabby cheeks, big round eyes, a gaping mouth, and a crooked nose shaped like a trumpet.  Above him hung a canopy made of an old carpet in which you could distinguish two Cupids in a circle of roses, and at his feet, like a pillar, rose a butter-pot bearing these words in white letters on a chocolate ground:  “Executed in the presence of H.R.H. the Duke of Angoulême at Noron, 3rd of October, 1847.”

Pecuchet, from his bed, saw all these things in a row, and sometimes he went as far as Bouvard’s room to lengthen the perspective.

One spot remained empty, exactly opposite to the coat of arms, that intended for the Renaissance chest.  It was not finished; Gorju was still working at it, jointing the panels in the bakehouse, squaring them or undoing them.

At eleven o’clock he took his breakfast, chatted after that with Melie, and often did not make his appearance again for the rest of the day.

In order to have pieces of furniture in good style, Bouvard and Pecuchet went scouring the country.  What they brought back was not suitable; but they had come across a heap of curious things.  Their first passion was a taste for articles of virtu; then came the love of the Middle Ages.

To begin with, they visited cathedrals; and the lofty naves mirroring themselves in the holy-water fonts, the glass ornaments dazzling as hangings of precious stones, the tombs in the recesses of the chapels, the uncertain light of crypts ­everything, even to the coolness of the walls, thrilled them with a shudder of joy, a religious emotion.

They were soon able to distinguish the epochs, and, disdainful of sacristans, they would say:  “Ha! a Romanesque apsis!” “That’s of the twelfth century!” “Here we are falling back again into the flamboyant!”

They strove to interpret the sculptured symbols on the capitals, such as the two griffins of Marigny pecking at a tree in blossom; Pecuchet read a satire in the singers with grotesque jaws which terminate the mouldings at Feugerolles; and as for the exuberance of the man that covers one of the mullions at Herouville, that was a proof, according to Bouvard, of our ancestors’ love of broad jokes.

They ended by not tolerating the least symptom of decadence.  All was decadence, and they deplored vandalism, and thundered against badigeon.

But the style of a monument does not always agree with its supposed date.  The semicircular arch of the thirteenth century still holds sway in Provence.  The ogive is, perhaps, very ancient; and authors dispute as to the anteriority of the Romanesque to the Gothic.  This want of certainty disappointed them.

After the churches they studied fortresses ­those of Domfront and Falaise.  They admired under the gate the grooves of the portcullis, and, having reached the top, they first saw all the country around them, then the roofs of the houses in the town, the streets intersecting one another, the carts on the square, the women at the washhouse.  The wall descended perpendicularly as far as the palisade; and they grew pale as they thought that men had mounted there, hanging to ladders.  They would have ventured into the subterranean passages but that Bouvard found an obstacle in his stomach and Pecuchet in his horror of vipers.

They desired to make the acquaintance of the old manor-houses ­Curcy, Bully, Fontenay, Lemarmion, Argonge.  Sometimes a Carlovingian tower would show itself at the corner of some farm-buildings behind a heap of manure.  The kitchen, garnished with stone benches, made them dream of feudal junketings.  Others had a forbiddingly fierce aspect with their three enceintes still visible, their loopholes under the staircase, and their high turrets with pointed sides.  Then they came to an apartment in which a window of the Valois period, chased so as to resemble ivory, let in the sun, which heated the grains of colza that strewed the floor.  Abbeys were used as barns.  The inscriptions on tombstones were effaced.  In the midst of fields a gable-end remained standing, clad from top to bottom in ivy which trembled in the wind.

A number of things excited in their breasts a longing to possess them ­a tin pot, a paste buckle, printed calicoes with large flowerings.  The shortness of money restrained them.

By a happy chance, they unearthed at Balleroy in a tinman’s house a Gothic church window, and it was big enough to cover, near the armchair, the right side of the casement up to the second pane.  The steeple of Chavignolles displayed itself in the distance, producing a magnificent effect.  With the lower part of a cupboard Gorju manufactured a prie-dieu to put under the Gothic window, for he humoured their hobby.  So pronounced was it that they regretted monuments about which nothing at all is known ­such as the villa residence of the bishops of Seez.

“Bayeux,” says M. de Caumont, “must have possessed a theatre.”  They searched for the site of it without success.

The village of Montrecy contained a meadow celebrated for the number of medals which chanced formerly to have been found there.  They calculated on making a fine harvest in this place.  The caretaker refused to admit them.

They were not more fortunate as to the connection which existed between a cistern at Falaise and the faubourg of Caen.  Ducks which had been put in there reappeared at Vaucelles, quacking, “Can, can, can” ­whence is derived the name of the town!

No step, no sacrifice, was too great for them.

At the inn of Mesnil-Villement, in 1816, M. Galerón got a breakfast for the sum of four sous.  They took the same meal there, and ascertained with surprise that things were altered!

Who was the founder of the abbey of St. Anne?  Is there any relationship between Marin Onfroy, who, in the twelfth century, imported a new kind of potato, and Onfroy, governor of Hastings at the period of the Conquest?  How were they to procure L’Astucieuse Pythonisse, a comedy in verse by one Dutrezor, produced at Bayeux, and just now exceedingly rare?  Under Louis XIV., Herambert Dupaty, or Dupastis Herambert, composed a work which has never appeared, full of anecdotes about Argentan:  the question was how to recover these anecdotes.  What have become of the autograph memoirs of Madame Dubois de la Pierre, consulted for the unpublished history of L’Aigle by Louis Daspres, curate of St. Martin?  So many problems, so many curious points, to clear up.

But a slight mark often puts one on the track of an invaluable discovery.

Accordingly, they put on their blouses, in order not to put people on their guard, and, in the guise of hawkers, they presented themselves at houses, where they expressed a desire to buy up old papers.  They obtained heaps of them.  These included school copybooks, invoices, newspapers that were out of date ­nothing of any value.

At last Bouvard and Pecuchet addressed themselves to Larsoneur.

He was absorbed in Celtic studies, and while summarily replying to their questions put others to them.

Had they observed in their rounds any traces of dog-worship, such as are seen at Montargis, or any special circumstances with regard to the fires on St. John’s night, marriages, popular sayings, etc.?  He even begged of them to collect for him some of those flint axes, then called celtae, which the Druids used in their criminal holocausts.

They procured a dozen of them through Gorju, sent him the smallest of them, and with the others enriched the museum.  There they walked with delight, swept the place themselves, and talked about it to all their acquaintances.

One afternoon Madame Bordin and M. Marescot came to see it.

Bouvard welcomed them, and began the demonstration in the porch.

The beam was nothing less than the old gibbet of Falaise, according to the joiner who had sold it, and who had got this information from his grand-father.

The big chain in the corridor came from the subterranean cells of the keep of Torteval.  In the notary’s opinion it resembled the boundary chains in front of the entrance-courts of manor-houses.  Bouvard was convinced that it had been used in former times to bind the captives.  He opened the door of the first chamber.

“What are all these tiles for?” exclaimed Madame Bordin.

“To heat the stoves.  But let us be a little regular, if you please.  This is a tomb discovered in an inn where they made use of it as a horse-trough.”

After this, Bouvard took up the two urns filled with a substance which consisted of human dust, and he drew the phials up to his eyes, for the purpose of showing the way the Romans used to shed tears in it.

“But one sees only dismal things at your house!”

Indeed it was a rather grave subject for a lady.  So he next drew out of a case several copper coins, together with a silver denarius.

Madame Bordin asked the notary what sum this would be worth at the present day.

The coat of mail which he was examining slipped out of his fingers; some of the links snapped.

Bouvard stifled his annoyance.  He had even the politeness to unfasten the halberd, and, bending forward, raising his arms and stamping with his heels, he made a show of hamstringing a horse, stabbing as if with a bayonet and overpowering an enemy.

The widow inwardly voted him a rough person.

She went into raptures over the shell chest of drawers.

The cat of St. Allyre much astonished her, the pear in the decanter not quite so much; then, when she came to the chimney-piece:  “Ha! here’s a hat that would need mending!”

Three holes, marks of bullets, pierced its brims.

It was the head-piece of a robber chief under the Directory, David de la Bazoque, caught in the act of treason, and immediately put to death.

“So much the better!  They did right,” said Madame Bordin.

Marescot smiled disdainfully as he gazed at the different objects.  He did not understand this galoche having been the sign of a hosier, nor the purport of the earthenware cask ­a common cider-keg ­and, to be candid, the St. Peter was lamentable with his drunkard’s physiognomy.

Madame Bordin made this observation: 

“All the same, it must have cost you a good deal?”

“Oh! not too much, not too much.”

A slater had given it to him for fifteen francs.

After this, she found fault on the score of propriety with the low dress of the lady in the powdered wig.

“Where is the harm,” replied Bouvard, “when one possesses something beautiful?” And he added in a lower tone:  “Just as you are yourself, I’m sure.”

(The notary turned his back on them, and studied the branches of the
Croixmare family.)

She made no response but began to play with her long gold chain.  Her bosom swelled out the black taffeta of her corsage, and, with her eyelashes slightly drawn together, she lowered her chin like a turtle-dove bridling up; then, with an ingenuous air: 

“What is this lady’s name?”

“It is unknown; she was one of the Regent’s mistresses, you know; he who played so many pranks.”

“I believe you; the memoirs of the time ­”

And the notary, without giving her time to finish the sentence, deplored this example of a prince carried away by his passions.

“But you are all like that!”

The two gentlemen protested, and then followed a dialogue on women and on love.  Marescot declared that there were many happy unions; sometimes even, without suspecting it, we have close beside us what we require for our happiness.

The allusion was direct.  The widow’s cheeks flushed scarlet; but, recovering her composure almost the next moment: 

“We are past the age for folly, are we not, M. Bouvard?”

“Ha! ha!  For my part, I don’t admit that.”

And he offered his arm to lead her towards the adjoining room.

“Be careful about the steps.  All right?  Now observe the church window.”

They traced on its surface a scarlet cloak and two angels’ wings.  All the rest was lost under the leads which held in equilibrium the numerous breakages in the glass.  The day was declining; the shadows were lengthening; Madame Bordin had become grave.

Bouvard withdrew, and presently reappeared muffled up in a woollen wrapper, then knelt down at the prie-dieu with his elbows out, his face in his hands, the light of the sun falling on his bald patch; and he was conscious of this effect, for he said: 

“Don’t I look like a monk of the Middle Ages?”

Then he raised his forehead on one side, with swimming eyes, and trying to give a mystical expression to his face.  The solemn voice of Pecuchet was heard in the corridor: 

“Don’t be afraid.  It is I.”  And he entered, his head covered with a helmet ­an iron pot with pointed ear-pieces.

Bouvard did not quit the prie-dieu.  The two others remained standing.  A minute slipped away in glances of amazement.

Madame Bordin appeared rather cold to Pecuchet.  However he wished to know whether everything had been shown to them.

“It seems to me so.”  And pointing towards the wall:  “Ah! pray excuse us; there is an object which we may restore in a moment.”

The widow and Marescot thereupon took their leave.  The two friends conceived the idea of counterfeiting a competition.  They set out on a race after each other; one giving the other the start.  Pecuchet won the helmet.

Bouvard congratulated him upon it, and received praises from his friend on the subject of the wrapper.

Melie arranged it with cords, in the fashion of a gown.  They took turns about in receiving visits.

They had visits from Girbal, Foureau, and Captain Heurtaux, and then from inferior persons ­Langlois, Beljambe, their husbandmen, and even the servant-girls of their neighbours; and, on each occasion, they went over the same explanations, showed the place where the chest would be, affected a tone of modesty, and claimed indulgence for the obstruction.

Pecuchet on these days wore the Zouave’s cap which he had formerly in Paris, considering it more in harmony with an artistic environment.  At a particular moment, he would put the helmet on his head, and incline it over the back of his neck, in order to have his face free.  Bouvard did not forget the movement with the halberd; finally, with one glance, they would ask each other whether the visitor was worthy of having “the monk of the Middle Ages” represented.

What a thrill they felt when M. de Faverges’ carriage drew up before the garden gate!  He had only a word to say to them.  This was the occasion of his visit: 

Hurel, his man of business, had informed him that, while searching everywhere for documents, they had bought up old papers at the farm of Aubrye.

That was perfectly true.

Had they not discovered some letters of Baron de Gonneval, a former aide-de-camp of the Duke of Angoulême, who had stayed at Aubrye?  He wished to have this correspondence for family reasons.

They had not got it in the house, but they had in their possession something that would interest him if he would be good enough to follow them into their library.

Never before had such well-polished boots creaked in the corridor.  They knocked against the sarcophagus.  He even went near smashing several tiles, moved an armchair about, descended two steps; and, when they reached the second chamber, they showed him under the canopy, in front of the St. Peter, the butter-pot made at Noron.

Bouvard and Pecuchet thought that the date might some time be of use.  Through politeness, the nobleman inspected their museum.  He kept repeating, “Charming! very nice!” all the time giving his mouth little taps with the handle of his switch; and said that, for his part, he thanked them for having rescued those remains of the Middle Ages, an epoch of religious faith and chivalrous devotion.  He loved progress, and would have given himself up like them to these interesting studies, but that politics, the General Council, agriculture, a veritable whirlwind, drove him away from them.

“After you, however, one would have merely gleanings, for soon you will have captured all the curiosities of the department.”

“Without vanity, we think so,” said Pecuchet.

However, one might still discover some at Chavignolles; for example, there was, close to the cemetery wall in the lane, a holy-water basin buried under the grass from time immemorial.

They were pleased with the information, then exchanged a significant glance ­“Is it worth the trouble?” ­but already the Count was opening the door.

Melie, who was behind it, fled abruptly.

As he passed out of the house into the grounds, he observed Gorju smoking his pipe with folded arms.

“You employ this fellow?  I would not put much confidence in him in a time of disturbance.”

And M. de Faverges sprang lightly into his tilbury.

Why did their servant-maid seem to be afraid of him?

They questioned her, and she told them she had been employed on his farm.  She was that little girl who poured out drink for the harvesters when they came there two years before.  They had taken her on as a help at the chateau, and dismissed her in consequence of false reports.

As for Gorju, how could they find fault with him?  He was very handy, and showed the utmost consideration for them.

Next day, at dawn, they repaired to the cemetery.  Bouvard felt with his walking-stick at the spot indicated.  They heard the sound of a hard substance.  They pulled up some nettles, and discovered a stone basin, a baptismal font, out of which plants were sprouting.  It is not usual, however, to bury baptismal fonts outside churches.

Pecuchet made a sketch of it; Bouvard wrote out a description of it; and they sent both to Larsoneur.  His reply came immediately.

“Victory, my dear associates!  Unquestionably, it is a druidical bowl!”

However, let them be careful about the matter.  The axe was doubtful; and as much for his sake as for their own, he pointed out a series of works to be consulted.

In a postscript, Larsoneur confessed his longing to have a look at this bowl, which opportunity would be afforded him in a few days, when he would be starting on a trip from Brittany.

Then Bouvard and Pecuchet plunged into Celtic archaeology.

According to this science, the ancient Gauls, our ancestors, adored Kirk and Kron, Taranis Esus, Nelalemnia, Heaven and Earth, the Wind, the Waters, and, above all, the great Teutates, who is the Saturn of the Pagans; for Saturn, when he reigned in Phoenicia, wedded a nymph named Anobret, by whom he had a child called Jeued.  And Anobret presents the same traits as Sara; Jeued was sacrificed (or near being so), like Isaac; therefore, Saturn is Abraham; whence the conclusion must be drawn that the religion of the Gauls had the same principles as that of the Jews.

Their society was very well organised.  The first class of persons amongst them included the people, the nobility, and the king; the second, the jurisconsults; and in the third, the highest, were ranged, according to Taillepied, “the various kinds of philosophers,” that is to say, the Druids or Saronides, themselves divided into Eubages, Bards, and Vates.

One section of them prophesied, another sang, while a third gave instruction in botany, medicine, history, and literature, in short, all the arts of their time.

Pythagoras and Plato were their pupils.  They taught metaphysics to the Greeks, sorcery to the Persians, aruspicy to the Etruscans, and to the Romans the plating of copper and the traffic in hams.

But of this people, who ruled the ancient world, there remain only stones either isolated or in groups of three, or placed together so as to resemble a rude chamber, or forming enclosures.

Bouvard and Pecuchet, filled with enthusiasm, studied in succession the stone on the Post-farm at Ussy, the Coupled Stone at Quest, the Standing Stone near L’Aigle, and others besides.

All these blocks, of equal insignificance, speedily bored them; and one day, when they had just seen the menhir at Passais, they were about to return from it when their guide led them into a beech wood, which was blocked up with masses of granite, like pedestals or monstrous tortoises.  The most remarkable of them is hollowed like a basin.  One of its sides rises, and at the further end two channels run down to the ground; this must have been for the flowing of blood ­impossible to doubt it!  Chance does not make these things.

The roots of the trees were intertwined with these rugged pedestals.  In the distance rose columns of fog like huge phantoms.  It was easy to imagine under the leaves the priests in golden tiaras and white robes, and their human victims with arms bound behind their backs, and at the side of the bowl the Druidess watching the red stream, whilst around her the multitude yelled, to the accompaniment of cymbals and of trumpets made from the horns of the wild bull.

Immediately they decided on their plan.  And one night, by the light of the moon, they took the road to the cemetery, stealing in like thieves, in the shadows of the houses.  The shutters were fastened, and quiet reigned around every dwelling-place; not a dog barked.

Gorju accompanied them.  They set to work.  All that could be heard was the noise of stones knocking against the spade as it dug through the soil.

The vicinity of the dead was disagreeable to them.  The church clock struck with a rattling sound, and the rosework on its tympanum looked like an eye espying a sacrilege.  At last they carried off the bowl.

They came next morning to the cemetery to see the traces of the operation.

The abbe, who was taking the air at his door, begged of them to do him the honour of a visit, and, having introduced them into his breakfast-parlour, he gazed at them in a singular fashion.

In the middle of the sideboard, between the plates, was a soup-tureen decorated with yellow bouquets.

Pecuchet praised it, at a loss for something to say.

“It is old Rouen,” returned the cure; “an heirloom.  Amateurs set a high value on it ­M.  Marescot especially.”  As for him, thank God, he had no love of curiosities; and, as they appeared not to understand, he declared that he had seen them himself stealing the baptismal font.

The two archaeologists were quite abashed.  The article in question was not in actual use.

No matter! they should give it back.

No doubt!  But, at least, let them be permitted to get a painter to make a drawing of it.

“Be it so, gentlemen.”

“Between ourselves, is it not?” said Bouvard, “under the seal of confession.”

The ecclesiastic, smiling, reassured them with a gesture.

It was not he whom they feared, but rather Larsoneur.  When he would be passing through Chavignolles, he would feel a hankering after the bowl; and his chatterings might reach the ears of the Government.  Out of prudence they kept it hidden in the bakehouse, then in the arbour, in the trunk, in a cupboard.  Gorju was tired of dragging it about.

The possession of such a rare piece of furniture bound them the closer to the Celticism of Normandy.

Its sources were Egyptian.  Seez, in the department of the Orne, is sometimes written Sais, like the city of the Delta.  The Gauls swore by the bull, an idea derived from the bull Apis.  The Latin name of Bellocastes, which was that of the people of Bayeux, comes from Beli Casa, dwelling, sanctuary of Belus ­Belus and Osiris, the same divinity!

“There is nothing,” says Mangou de la Londe, “opposed to the idea that druidical monuments existed near Bayeux.”  “This country,” adds M. Roussel, “is like the country in which the Egyptians built the temple of Jupiter Ammon.”

So then there was a temple in which riches were shut up.  All the Celtic monuments contain them.

“In 1715,” relates Dom Martin, “one Sieur Heribel exhumed in the vicinity of Bayeux, several argil vases full of bones, and concluded (in accordance with tradition and authorities which had disappeared) that this place, a necropolis, was the Mount Faunus in which the Golden Calf is buried.”

In the first place, where is Mount Faunus?  The authors do not point it out.  The natives know nothing about it.  It would be necessary to devote themselves to excavations, and with that view they forwarded a petition to the prefect, to which they got no response.

Perhaps Mount Faunus had disappeared, and was not a hill but a barrow?

Several of them contain skeletons that have the position of the foetus in the mother’s womb.  This meant that for them the tomb was, as it were, a second gestation, preparing them for another life.  Therefore the barrow symbolises the female organ, just as the raised stone is the male organ.

In fact, where menhirs are found, an obscene creed has persisted.  Witness what took place at Guerande, at Chichebouche, at Croissic, at Livarot.  In former times the towers, the pyramids, the wax tapers, the boundaries of roads, and even the trees had a phallic meaning.  Bouvard and Pecuchet collected whipple-trees of carriages, legs of armchairs, bolts of cellars, apothecaries’ pestles.  When people came to see them they would ask, “What do you think that is like?” and then they would confide the secret.  And, if anyone uttered an exclamation, they would shrug their shoulders in pity.

One evening as they were dreaming about the dogmas of the Druids, the abbe cautiously stole in.

Immediately they showed the museum, beginning with the church window; but they longed to reach the new compartment ­that of the phallus.  The ecclesiastic stopped them, considering the exhibition indecent.  He came to demand back his baptismal font.

Bouvard and Pecuchet begged for another fortnight, the time necessary for taking a moulding of it.

“The sooner the better,” said the abbe.

Then he chatted on general topics.

Pecuchet, who had left the room a minute, on coming back slipped a napoléon into his hand.

The priest made a backward movement.

“Oh! for your poor!”

And, colouring, M. Jeufroy crammed the gold piece into his cassock.

To give back the bowl, the bowl for sacrifices!  Never, while they lived!  They were even anxious to learn Hebrew, which is the mother-tongue of Celtic, unless indeed the former language be derived from it!  And they had planned a journey into Brittany, commencing with Rennes, where they had an appointment with Larsoneur, with a view of studying that urn mentioned in the Memorials of the Celtic Academy, which appeared to have contained the ashes of Queen Artimesia, when the mayor entered unceremoniously with his hat on, like the boorish individual he was.

“All this won’t do, my fine fellows!  You must give it up!”

“What, pray?”

“Rogues!  I know well you are concealing it!”

Someone had betrayed them.

They replied that they had the cure’s permission to keep it.

“We’ll soon see that!”

Foureau went away.  An hour later he came back.

They were obstinate.

In the first place, this holy-water basin was not wanted, as it really was not a holy-water basin at all.  They would prove this by a vast number of scientific reasons.  Next, they offered to acknowledge in their will that it belonged to the parish.  They even proposed to buy it.

“And, besides, it is my property,” Pecuchet asseverated.

The twenty francs accepted by M. Jeufroy furnished a proof of the contract, and if he compelled them to go before a justice of the peace, so much the worse:  he would be taking a false oath!

During these disputes he had again seen the soup-tureen many times, and in his soul had sprung up the desire, the thirst for possession of this piece of earthenware.  If the cure was willing to give it to him, he would restore the bowl, otherwise not.

Through weariness or fear of scandal, M. Jeufroy yielded it up.  It was placed amongst their collection near the Cauchoise cap.  The bowl decorated the church porch; and they consoled themselves for the loss of it with the reflection that the people of Chavignolles were ignorant of its value.

But the soup-tureen inspired them with a taste for earthenware ­a new subject for study and for explorations through the country.

It was the period when persons of good position were looking out for old Rouen dishes.  The notary possessed a few of them, and derived from the fact, as it were, an artistic reputation which was prejudicial to his profession, but for which he made up by the serious side of his character.

When he learned that Bouvard and Pecuchet had got the soup-tureen, he came to propose to them an exchange.

Pecuchet would not consent to this.

“Let us say no more about it!” and Marescot proceeded to examine their ceramic collection.

All the specimens hung up along the wall were blue on a background of dirty white, and some showed their horn of plenty in green or reddish tones.  There were shaving-dishes, plates and saucers, objects long sought for, and brought back in the recesses of one’s frock-coat close to one’s heart.

Marescot praised them, and then talked about other kinds of faience, the Hispano-Arabian, the Dutch, the English, and the Italian, and having dazzled them with his erudition: 

“Might I see your soup-tureen again?”

He made it ring by rapping on it with his fingers, then he contemplated the two S’s painted on the lid.

“The mark of Rouen!” said Pecuchet.

“Ho! ho!  Rouen, properly speaking, would not have any mark.  When Moutiers was unknown, all the French faience came from Nevers.  So with Rouen to-day.  Besides, they imitate it to perfection at El-boeuf.”

“It isn’t possible!”

“Majolica is cleverly imitated.  Your specimen is of no value; and as for me, I was about to do a downright foolish thing.”

When the notary had gone, Pecuchet sank into an armchair in a state of nervous prostration.

“We shouldn’t have given back the bowl,” said Bouvard; “but you get excited, and always lose your head.”

“Yes, I do lose my head”; and Pecuchet, snatching up the soup-tureen, flung it some distance away from him against the sarcophagus.

Bouvard, more self-possessed, picked up the broken pieces one by one; and some time afterwards this idea occurred to him:  “Marescot, through jealousy, might have been making fools of us!”

“How?”

“There’s nothing to show me that the soup-tureen was not genuine!  Whereas the other specimens which he pretended to admire are perhaps counterfeit.”

And so the day closed with uncertainties and regrets.

This was no reason for abandoning their tour into Brittany.

They even purposed to take Gorju along with them to assist them in their excavations.

For some time past, he had slept at the house, in order to finish the more quickly the repairing of the chest.

The prospect of a change of place annoyed him, and when they talked about menhirs and barrows which they calculated on seeing:  “I know better ones,” said he to them; “in Algeria, in the South, near the sources of Bou-Mursoug, you meet quantities of them.”  He then gave a description of a tomb which chanced to be open right in front of him, and which contained a skeleton squatting like an ape with its two arms around its legs.

Larsoneur, when they informed him of the circumstance, would not believe a word of it.

Bouvard sifted the matter, and started the question again.

How does it happen that the monuments of the Gauls are shapeless, whereas these same Gauls were civilised in the time of Julius Cæsar?  No doubt they were traceable to a more ancient people.

Such a hypothesis, in Larsoneur’s opinion, betrayed a lack of patriotism.

No matter; there is nothing to show that these monuments are the work of Gauls.  “Show us a text!”

The Academician was displeased, and made no reply; and they were very glad of it, so much had the Druids bored them.

If they did not know what conclusion to arrive at as to earthenware and as to Celticism, it was because they were ignorant of history, especially the history of France.

The work of Anquetil was in their library; but the series of “do-nothing kings” amused them very little.  The villainy of the mayors of the Palace did not excite their indignation, and they gave Anquetil up, repelled by the ineptitude of his reflections.

Then they asked Dumouchel, “What is the best history of France?”

Dumouchel subscribed, in their names, to a circulating library, and forwarded to them the work of Augustin Thierry, together with two volumes of M. de Genoude.

According to Genoude, royalty, religion, and the national assemblies ­here are “the principles” of the French nation, which go back to the Merovingians.  The Carlovingians fell away from them.  The Capetians, being in accord with the people, made an effort to maintain them.  Absolute power was established under Louis XIII., in order to conquer Protestantism, the final effort of feudalism; and ’89 is a return to the constitution of our ancestors.

Pecuchet admired his ideas.  They excited Bouvard’s pity, as he had read Augustin Thierry first:  “What trash you talk with your French nation, seeing that France did not exist! nor the national assemblies! and the Carlovingians usurped nothing at all! and the kings did not set free the communes!  Read for yourself.”

Pecuchet gave way before the evidence, and surpassed him in scientific strictness.  He would have considered himself dishonoured if he had said “Charlemagne” and not “Karl the Great,” “Clovis” in place of “Clodowig.”

Nevertheless he was beguiled by Genoude, deeming it a clever thing to join together both ends of French history, so that the middle period becomes rubbish; and, in order to ease their minds about it, they took up the collection of Buchez and Roux.

But the fustian of the preface, that medley of Socialism and Catholicism, disgusted them; and the excessive accumulation of details prevented them from grasping the whole.

They had recourse to M. Thiers.

It was during the summer of 1845, in the garden beneath the arbour.  Pecuchet, his feet resting on a small chair, read aloud in his cavernous voice, without feeling tired, stopping to plunge his fingers into his snuff-box.  Bouvard listened, his pipe in his mouth, his legs wide apart, and the upper part of his trousers unbuttoned.

Old men had spoken to them of ’93, and recollections that were almost personal gave life to the prosy descriptions of the author.  At that time the high-roads were covered with soldiers singing the “Marseillaise.”  At the thresholds of doors women sat sewing canvas to make tents.  Sometimes came a wave of men in red caps, bending forward a pike, at the end of which could be seen a discoloured head with the hair hanging down.  The lofty tribune of the Convention looked down upon a cloud of dust, amid which wild faces were yelling cries “Death!” Anyone who passed, at midday, close to the basin of the Tuileries could hear each blow of the guillotine, as if they were cutting up sheep.

And the breeze moved the vine-leaves of the arbour; the ripe barley swayed at intervals; a blackbird was singing.  And, casting glances around them, they relished this tranquil scene.

What a pity that from the beginning they had failed to understand one another!  For if the royalists had reflected like the patriots, if the court had exhibited more candour, and its adversaries less violence, many of the calamities would not have happened.

By force of chattering in this way they roused themselves into a state of excitement.  Bouvard, being liberal-minded and of a sensitive nature, was a Constitutionalist, a Girondist, a Thermidorian; Pecuchet, being of a bilious temperament and a lover of authority, declared himself a sans-culotte, and even a Robespierrist.  He expressed approval of the condemnation of the King, the most violent decrees, the worship of the Supreme Being.  Bouvard preferred that of Nature.  He would have saluted with pleasure the image of a big woman pouring out from her breasts to her adorers not water but Chambertin.

In order to have more facts for the support of their arguments they procured other works:  Montgaillard, Prudhomme, Gallois, Lacretelle, etc.; and the contradictions of these books in no way embarrassed them.  Each took from them what might vindicate the cause that he espoused.

Thus Bouvard had no doubt that Danton accepted a hundred thousand crowns to bring forward motions that would destroy the Republic; while in Pecuchet’s opinion Vergniaud would have asked for six thousand francs a month.

“Never!  Explain to me, rather, why Robespierre’s sister had a pension from Louis XVIII.”

“Not at all!  It was from Bonaparte.  And, since you take it that way, who is the person that a few months before Égalité’s death had a secret conference with him?  I wish they would reinsert in the Memoirs of La Campan the suppressed paragraphs.  The death of the Dauphin appears to me equivocal.  The powder magazine at Grenelle by exploding killed two thousand persons.  The cause was unknown, they tell us:  what nonsense!” For Pecuchet was not far from understanding it, and threw the blame for every crime on the manoeuvres of the aristocrats, gold, and the foreigner.

In the mind of Bouvard there could be no dispute as to the use of the words, “Ascend to heaven, son of St. Louis,” as to the incident about the virgins of Verdun, or as to the culottes clothed in human skin.  He accepted Prudhomme’s lists, a million of victims, exactly.

But the Loire, red with gore from Saumur to Nantes, in a line of eighteen leagues, made him wonder.  Pecuchet in the same degree entertained doubts, and they began to distrust the historians.

For some the Revolution is a Satanic event; others declare it to be a sublime exception.  The vanquished on each side naturally play the part of martyrs.

Thierry demonstrates, with reference to the Barbarians, that it is foolish to institute an inquiry as to whether such a prince was good or was bad.  Why not follow this method in the examination of more recent epochs?  But history must needs avenge morality:  we feel grateful to Tacitus for having lacerated Tiberius.  After all, whether the Queen had lovers; whether Dumouriez, since Valmy, intended to betray her; whether in Prairial it was the Mountain or the Girondist party that began, and in Thermidor the Jacobins or the Plain; what matters it to the development of the Revolution, of which the causes were far to seek and the results incalculable?

Therefore it was bound to accomplish itself, to be what it was; but, suppose the flight of the King without impediment, Robespierre escaping or Bonaparte assassinated ­chances which depended upon an innkeeper proving less scrupulous, a door being left open, or a sentinel falling asleep ­and the progress of the world would have taken a different direction.

They had no longer on the men and the events of that period a single well-balanced idea.  In order to form an impartial judgment upon it, it would have been necessary to have read all the histories, all the memoirs, all the newspapers, and all the manuscript productions, for through the least omission might arise an error, which might lead to others without limit.

They abandoned the subject.  But the taste for history had come to them, the need of truth for its own sake.

Perhaps it is easier to find it in more ancient epochs?  The authors, being far removed from the events, ought to speak of them without passion.  And they began the good Rollin.

“What a heap of rubbish!” exclaimed Bouvard, after the first chapter.

“Wait a bit,” said Pecuchet, rummaging at the end of their library, where lay heaped up the books of the last proprietor, an old lawyer, an accomplished man with a mania for literature; and, having put out of their places a number of novels and plays, together with an edition of Montesquieu and translations of Horace, he obtained what he was looking for ­Beaufort’s work on Roman History.

Titus Livius attributes the foundation of Rome to Romulus; Sallust gives the credit of it to the Trojans under AEneas.  Coriolanus died in exile, according to Fabius Pictor; through the stratagems of Attius Tullius, if we may believe Dionysius.  Seneca states that Horatius Cocles came back victorious; and Dionysius that he was wounded in the leg.  And La Mothe lé Vayer gives expression to similar doubts with reference to other nations.

There is no agreement as to the antiquity of the Chaldeans, the age of Homer, the existence of Zoroaster, the two empires of Assyria.  Quintus Curtius has manufactured fables.  Plutarch gives the lie to Herodotus.  We should have a different idea of Cæsar if Vercingetorix had written his Commentaries.

Ancient history is obscure through want of documents.  There is an abundance of them in modern history; and Bouvard and Pecuchet came back to France, and began Sismondi.

The succession of so many men filled them with a desire to understand them more thoroughly, to enter into their lives.  They wanted to read the originals ­Gregory of Tours, Monstrelet, Commines, all those whose names were odd or agreeable.  But the events got confused through want of knowledge of the dates.

Fortunately they possessed Dumouchel’s work on mnemonics, a duodecimo in boards with this epigraph:  “To instruct while amusing.”

It combined the three systems of Allevy, of Paris, and of Fenaigle.

Allevy transforms numbers into external objects, the number 1 being expressed by a tower, 2 by a bird, 3 by a camel, and so on.  Paris strikes the imagination by means of rebuses:  an armchair garnished with clincher-nails will give “Clou, vis ­Clovis”; and, as the sound of frying makes “ric, ric,” whitings in a stove will recall “Chilperic.”  Fenaigle divides the universe into houses, which contain rooms, each having four walls with nine panels, and each panel bearing an emblem.  A pharos on a mountain will tell the name of “Phar-a-mond” in Paris’s system; and, according to Allevy’s directions, by placing above a mirror, which signifies 4, a bird 2, and a hoop 0, we shall obtain 420, the date of that prince’s accession.

For greater clearness, they took as their mnemotechnic basis their own house, their domicile, associating a distinct fact with each part of it; and the courtyard, the garden, the outskirts, the entire country, had for them no meaning any longer except as objects for facilitating memory.  The boundaries in the fields defined certain epochs; the apple trees were genealogical stems, the bushes battles; everything became symbolic.  They sought for quantities of absent things on their walls, ended by seeing them, but lost the recollection of what dates they represented.

Besides the dates are not always authentic.  They learned out of a manual for colleges that the birth of Jesus ought to be carried back five years earlier than the date usually assigned for it; that there were amongst the Greeks three ways of counting the Olympiads, and eight amongst the Latin of making the year begin.  So many opportunities for mistakes outside of those which result from the zodiacs, from the epochs, and from the different calendars!

And from carelessness as to dates they passed to contempt for facts.

What is important is the philosophy of history!

Bouvard could not finish the celebrated discourse of Bossuet.

“The eagle of Meaux is a farce-actor!  He forgets China, the Indies, and America; but is careful to let us know that Theodosius was ’the joy of the universe,’ that Abraham ‘treated kings as his equals,’ and that the philosophy of the Greeks has come down from the Hebrews.  His preoccupation with the Hebrews provokes me.”

Pecuchet shared this opinion, and wished to make him read Vico.

“Why admit,” objected Bouvard, “that fables are more true than the truths of historians?”

Pecuchet tried to explain myths, and got lost in the Scienza Nuova.

“Will you deny the design of Providence?”

“I don’t know it!” said Bouvard.  And they decided to refer to Dumouchel.

The professor confessed that he was now at sea on the subject of history.

“It is changing every day.  There is a controversy as to the kings of Rome and the journeys of Pythagoras.  Doubts have been thrown on Belisarius, William Tell, and even on the Cid, who has become, thanks to the latest discoveries, a common robber.  It is desirable that no more discoveries should be made, and the Institute ought even to lay down a kind of canon prescribing what it is necessary to believe!”

In a postscript he sent them some rules of criticism taken from Daunou’s course of lectures: 

“To cite by way of proof the testimony of multitudes is a bad method of proof; they are not there to reply.

“To reject impossible things.  Pausanias was shown the stone swallowed by Saturn.

“Architecture may lie:  instance, the arch of the Forum, in which Titus is called the first conqueror of Jerusalem, which had been conquered before him by Pompey.

“Medals sometimes deceive.  Under Charles IX. money was minted from the coinage of Henry II.

“Take into account the skill of forgers and the interestedness of apologists and calumniators.”

Few historians have worked in accordance with these rules, but all in view of one special cause, of one religion, of one nation, of one party, of one system, in order to curb kings, to advise the people, or to offer moral examples.

The others, who pretend merely to narrate, are no better; for everything cannot be told ­some selection must be made.  But in the selection of documents some special predilection will have the upper hand, and, as this varies according to the conditions under which the writer views the matter, history will never be fixed.

“It is sad,” was their reflection.  However, one might take a subject, exhaust the sources of information concerning it, make a good analysis of them, then condense it into a narrative, which would be, as it were, an epitome of the facts reflecting the entire truth.

“Do you wish that we should attempt to compose a history?”

“I ask for nothing better.  But of what?”

“Suppose we write the life of the Duke of Angoulême?”

“But he was an idiot!” returned Bouvard.

“What matter?  Personages of an inferior mould have sometimes an enormous influence, and he may have controlled the machinery of public affairs.”

The books would furnish them with information; and M. de Faverges, no doubt, would have them himself, or could procure them from some elderly gentleman of his acquaintance.

They thought over this project, discussed it, and finally determined to spend a fortnight at the municipal library at Caen in making researches there.

The librarian placed at their disposal some general histories and some pamphlets with a coloured lithograph portrait representing at three-quarters’ length Monseigneur the Duke of Angoulême.

The blue cloth of his uniform disappeared under the epaulets, the stars, and the large red ribbon of the Legion of Honour; a very high collar surrounded his long neck; his pear-shaped head was framed by the curls of his hair and by his scanty whiskers and heavy eyelashes; and a very big nose and thick lips gave his face an expression of commonplace good-nature.

When they had taken notes, they drew up a programme: 

“Birth and childhood but slightly interesting.  One of his tutors is the Abbe Guenee, Voltaire’s enemy.  At Turin he is made to cast a cannon; and he studies the campaigns of Charles VIII.  Also he is nominated, despite his youth, colonel of a regiment of noble guards.

“1797. ­His marriage.

“1814. ­The English take possession of Bordeaux.  He runs up behind them and shows his person to the inhabitants.  Description of the prince’s person.

“1815. ­Bonaparte surprises him.  Immediately he appeals to the King of Spain; and Toulon, were it not for Massena, would have been surrendered to England.

“Operations in the South.  He is beaten, but released under the promise to restore the crown diamonds carried off at full gallop by the King, his uncle.

“After the Hundred Days he returns with his parents and lives in peace.  Several years glide away.

“War with Spain.  Once he has crossed the Pyrénées, victories everywhere follow the grandson of Henry IV.  He takes the Trocadero, reaches the pillars of Hercules, crushes the factions, embraces Ferdinand, and returns.

“Triumphal arches; flowers presented by young girls; dinners at the Prefecture; ‘Te Deum’ in the cathedrals.  The Parisians are at the height of intoxication.  The city offers him a banquet.  Songs containing allusions to the hero are sung at the theatre.

“The enthusiasm diminishes; for in 1827 a ball organised by subscription proves a failure.

“As he is High Admiral of France, he inspects the fleet, which is going to start for Algiers.

“July 1830. ­Marmont informs him of the state of affairs.  Then he gets into such a rage that he wounds himself in the hand with the general’s sword.  The King entrusts him with the command of all the forces.

“He meets detachments of the line in the Bois de Boulogne, and has not a word to say to them.

“From St. Cloud he flies to the bridge of Sèvres.  Coldness of the troops.  That does not shake him.  The Royal family leave Trianon.  He sits down at the foot of an oak, unrolls a map, meditates, remounts his horse, passes in front of St. Cyr, and sends to the students words of hope.

“At Rambouillet the bodyguards bid him good-bye.  He embarks, and during the entire passage is ill.  End of his career.

“The importance possessed by the bridges ought here to be noticed.  First, he exposes himself needlessly on the bridge of the Inn; he carries the bridge St. Esprit and the bridge of Lauriol; at Lyons the two bridges are fatal to him, and his fortune dies before the bridge of Sèvres.

“List of his virtues.  Needless to praise his courage, to which he joined a far-seeing policy.  For he offered every soldier sixty francs to desert the Emperor, and in Spain he tried to corrupt the Constitutionalists with ready money.

“His reserve was so profound that he consented to the marriage arranged between his father and the Queen of Etruria, to the formation of a new cabinet after the Ordinances, to the abdication in favour of Chambord ­to everything that they asked him.

“Firmness, however, was not wanting in him.  At Angers, he cashiered the infantry of the National Guard, who, jealous of the cavalry, had succeeded by means of a stratagem in forming his escort, so that his Highness found himself jammed into the ranks at the cost of having his knees squeezed.  But he censured the cavalry, the cause of the disorder, and pardoned the infantry ­a veritable judgment of Solomon.

“His piety manifested itself by numerous devotions, and his clemency by obtaining the pardon of General Debelle, who had borne arms against him.

“Intimate details; characteristics of the Prince: 

“At the chateau of Beauregard, in his childhood, he took pleasure in deepening, along with his brother, a sheet of water, which may still be seen.  On one occasion, he visited the barracks of the chasseurs, called for a glass of wine, and drank the King’s health.

“While walking, in order to mark the step, he used to keep repeating to himself:  ‘One, two ­one, two ­one, two!’

“Some of his sayings have been preserved: ­

“To a deputation from Bordeaux: 

“’What consoles me for not being at Bordeaux is to find myself amidst you.’

“To the Protestants of Nismes: 

“’I am a good Catholic, but I shall never forget that my distinguished ancestor was a Protestant.’

“To the pupils of St. Cyr, when all was lost: 

“‘Right, my friends!  The news is good!  This is right ­all right!’

“After Charles X.’s abdication: 

“‘Since they don’t want me, let them settle it themselves.’

“And in 1814, at every turn, in the smallest village: 

“‘No more war; no more conscription; no more united rights.’

“His style was as good as his utterance.  His proclamations surpassed everything.

“The first, of the Count of Artois, began thus: 

“‘Frenchmen, your King’s brother has arrived!’

“That of the prince: 

‘"I come.  I am the son of your kings.  You are Frenchmen!’

“Order of the day, dated from Bayonne: 

“‘Soldiers, I come!’

“Another, in the midst of disaffection: 

“’Continue to sustain with the vigour which befits the French soldier the struggle which you have begun.  France expects it of you.’

“Lastly, at Rambouillet: 

“’The King has entered into an arrangement with the government established at Paris, and everything brings us to believe that this arrangement is on the point of being concluded.’

“‘Everything brings us to believe’ was sublime.”

“One thing vexed me,” said Bouvard, “that there is no mention of his love affairs!” And they made a marginal note:  “To search for the prince’s amours.”

At the moment when they were taking their leave, the librarian, bethinking himself of it, showed them another portrait of the Duke of Angoulême.

In this one he appeared as a colonel of cuirassiers, on a vaulting-horse, his eyes still smaller, his mouth open, and his hair straight.

How were they to reconcile the two portraits?  Had he straight hair, or rather crisped ­unless he carried affectation so far as to get it curled?

A grave question, from Pecuchet’s point of view, for the mode of wearing the hair indicates the temperament, and the temperament the individual.

Bouvard considered that we know nothing of a man as long as we are ignorant of his passions; and in order to clear up these two points, they presented themselves at the chateau of Faverges.  The count was not there; this retarded their work.  They returned home annoyed.

The door of the house was wide open; there was nobody in the kitchen.  They went upstairs, and who should they see in the middle of Bouvard’s room but Madame Bordin, looking about her right and left!

“Excuse me,” she said, with a forced laugh, “I have for the last hour been searching for your cook, whom I wanted for my preserves.”

They found her in the wood-house on a chair fast asleep.  They shook her.  She opened her eyes.

“What is it now?  You are always prodding at me with your questions!”

It was clear that Madame Bordin had been putting some to her in their absence.

Germaine got out of her torpor, and complained of indigestion.

“I am remaining to take care of you,” said the widow.

Then they perceived in the courtyard a big cap, the lappets of which were fluttering.  It was Madame Castillon, proprietress of a neighbouring farm.  She was calling out:  “Gorju!  Gorju!”

And from the corn-loft the voice of their little servant-maid answered loudly: 

“He is not there!”

At the end of five minutes she came down, with her cheeks flushed and looking excited.  Bouvard and Pecuchet reprimanded her for having been so slow.  She unfastened their gaiters without a murmur.

Then they went to look at the chest.  The bakehouse was covered with its scattered fragments; the carvings were damaged, the leaves broken.

At this sight, in the face of this fresh disaster, Bouvard had to keep back his tears, and Pecuchet got a fit of nervous shivering.

Gorju, making his appearance almost immediately, explained the matter.  He had just put the chest outside in order to varnish it, when a wandering cow knocked it down on the ground.

“Whose cow?” said Pecuchet.

“I don’t know.”

“Ah! you left the door open, as you did some time ago.  It is your fault.”

At any rate, they would have nothing more to do with him.  He had been trifling with them too long, and they wanted no more of him or his work.

“These gentlemen were wrong.  The damage was not so great.  It would be all settled before three weeks.”  And Gorju accompanied them into the kitchen, where Germaine was seen dragging herself along to see after the dinner.

They noticed on the table a bottle of Calvados, three quarters emptied.

“By you, no doubt,” said Pecuchet to Gorju.

“By me! never!”

Bouvard met his protest by observing: 

“You are the only man in the house.”

“Well, and what about the women?” rejoined the workman, with a side wink.

Germaine caught him up: 

“You’d better say ’twas I!”

“Certainly it was you.”

“And perhaps ’twas I smashed the press?”

Gorju danced about.

“Don’t you see that she’s drunk?”

Then they squabbled violently with each other, he with a pale face and a biting manner, she purple with rage, tearing tufts of grey hair from under her cotton cap.  Madame Bordin took Germaine’s part, while Melie took Gorju’s.

The old woman burst out: 

“Isn’t it an abomination that you two should be spending days together in the grove, not to speak of the nights? ­a sort of Parisian, eating up honest women, who comes to our master’s house to play tricks on them!”

Bouvard opened his eyes wide.

“What tricks?”

“I tell you he’s making fools of you!”

“Nobody can make a fool of me!” exclaimed Pecuchet, and, indignant at her insolence, exasperated by the mortification inflicted on him, he dismissed her, telling her to go and pack.  Bouvard did not oppose this decision, and they went out, leaving Germaine in sobs over her misfortune, while Madame Bordin was trying to console her.

In the course of the evening, as they grew calmer, they went over these occurrences, asked themselves who had drunk the Calvados, how the chest got broken, what Madame Castillon wanted when she was calling Gorju, and whether he had dishonoured Melie.

“We are not able to tell,” said Bouvard, “what is happening in our own household, and we lay claim to discover all about the hair and the love affairs of the Duke of Angoulême.”

Pecuchet added:  “How many questions there are in other respects important and still more difficult!”

Whence they concluded that external facts are not everything.  It is necessary to complete them by means of psychology.  Without imagination, history is defective.

“Let us send for some historical romances!”