e
currents of air.

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

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

"What!" And Pecuchet cast down his head, frightened at the idea of no
longer having his healthful flannel waistcoat.

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

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

Bouvard's room, the floor of which was well waxed, and which had
curtains of cotton cambric and mahogany furniture, had the advantage of
a balcony overlooking the river. The two principal ornaments were a
liqueur-frame in the middle of the chest of drawers, and, in a row
beside the glass, daguerreotypes representing his friends. An oil
painting occupied the alcove.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And having given each other their employers' addresses, they exchanged a
cordial "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. Descambos
Brothers, manufacturers of Alsati