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 was
absolutely deserted.

Farther down, the Canal St. Martin, confined by two locks, showed in a
straight 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 the
reverberating light of the sun, the white facades, the slate roofs, and
the granite wharves glowed dazzlingly. In the distance arose a confused
noise in the warm atmosphere; and the idleness of Sunday, as well as the
melancholy engendered by the summer heat, seemed to shed around a
universal languor.

Two men made their appearance.

One came from the direction of the Bastille; the other from that of the
Jardin des Plantes. The taller of the pair, arrayed in linen cloth,
walked with his hat back, his waistcoat unbuttoned, and his cravat in
his 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, at
the same moment, on the same seat.

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

"Look here!" he said; "we have both had the same idea--to write our
names 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 charmed
Pecuchet.

His blue eyes, always half-closed, smiled in his fresh-coloured face.
His trousers, with big flaps, which creased at the end over beaver
shoes, took the shape of his stomach, and made his shirt bulge out at
the waist; and his fair hair, which of its own accord grew in tiny
curls, 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 have
thought that he wore a wig, so flat and black were the locks which
adorned his high skull. His face seemed entirely in profile, on account
of his nose