bove all, you
must be bold."

But boldness cannot be had to order.

From day to day Pecuchet put off his determination, and besides he was
intimidated by the presence of Germaine.

Hoping that she would ask to have her wages paid, he exacted additional
work from her, took notice every time she got tipsy, referred in a loud
voice to her want of cleanliness, her quarrelsomeness, and did it all so
effectively that she had to go.

Then Pecuchet was free! With what impatience he waited for Bouvard to go
out! What a throbbing of the heart he felt as soon as the door closed!

Melie was working at a round table near the window by the light of a
candle; from time to time she broke the threads with her teeth, then she
half-closed her eyes while adjusting it in the slit of the needle. At
first he asked her what kind of men she liked. Was it, for instance,
Bouvard's style?

"Oh, no." She preferred thin men.

He ventured to ask her if she ever had had any lovers.

"Never."

Then, drawing closer to her, he surveyed her piquant nose, her small
mouth, her charmingly-rounded figure. He paid her some compliments, and
exhorted her to prudence.

In bending over her he got a glimpse, under her corsage, of her white
skin, from which emanated a warm odour that made his cheeks tingle. One
evening he touched with his lips the wanton hairs at the back of her
neck, and he felt shaken even to the marrow of his bones. Another time
he kissed her on the chin, and had to restrain himself from putting his
teeth in her flesh, so savoury was it. She returned his kiss. The
apartment whirled round; he no longer saw anything.

He made her a present of a pair of lady's boots, and often treated her
to a glass of aniseed cordial.

To save her trouble he rose early, chopped up the wood, lighted the
fire, and was so attentive as to clean Bouvard's shoes.

Melie did not faint or let her handkerchief fall, and Pecuchet did not
know what to do, his passion increasing through the fear of satisfying
it.

Bouvard was assiduously paying his addresses to Madame Bordin. She used
to receive him rather cramped in her gown of shot silk, which creaked
like a horse's harness, all the while fingering her long gold chain to
keep herself in countenance.

Their conversations turned on the people of Chavignolles or on "the dear
departed," who had been an usher at Livarot.

Then she inquired about Bouvard's past, curious to know something of his
"youthful frea