nt her
back, so that her blue stockings could be seen as high as the calf of
her legs. Then, with a rapid movement, she raised her right arm, while
she turned her head a little to one side; and Pecuchet, as he gazed at
her, felt quite a new sensation, a charm, a thrill of intense delight.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER VII.

"UNLUCKY IN LOVE."

And now the days began to be sad. They studied no longer, fearing lest
they might be disillusioned. The inhabitants of Chavignolles avoided
them. The newspapers they tolerated gave them no information; and so
their solitude was unbroken, their time completely unoccupied.

Sometimes they would open a book, and then shut it again--what was the
use of it? On other days they would be seized with the idea of cleaning
up the garden: at the end of a quarter of an hour they would be
fatigued; or they would set out to have a look at the farm, and come
back disenchanted; or they tried to interest themselves in household
affairs, with the result of making Germaine break out into lamentations.
They gave it up.

Bouvard wanted to draw up a catalogue for the museum, and declared their
curios stupid.

Pecuchet borrowed Langlois' duck-gun to shoot larks with; the weapon
burst at the first shot, and was near killing him.

Then they lived in the midst of that rural solitude so depressing when
the grey sky covers in its monotony a heart without hope. The step of a
man in wooden shoes is heard as he steals along by the wall, or
perchance it is the rain dripping from the roof to the ground. From time
to time a dead leaf just grazes one of the windows, then whirls about
and flies away. The indistinct echoes of some funeral bell are borne to
the ear by the wind. From a corner of the stable comes the lowing of a
cow. They yawned in each other's faces, consulted the almanac, looked at
the clock, waited for meal-time; and the horizon was ever the
same--fields in front, the church to the right, a screen of poplars to
the left, their tops swaying incessantly in the hazy atmosphere with a
melancholy air.

Habits which they formerly tolerated now gave them annoyance. Pecuchet
became quite a bore from his mania for putting his handkerchief on the
tablecloth. Bouvard never gave up his pipe, and would keep twisting
himself about while he was talking. They started disputes about the
dishes, or about the quality of the butter; and while they were chatting
face to face each was thinking of different t