ithout thinking of the consequences.

Bouvard conceived the idea of converting the museum into the bridal
chamber, unless Pecuchet objected, in which case he might take up his
residence at his wife's house.

One afternoon in the following week--it was in her garden; the buds were
just opening, and between the clouds there were great blue spaces--she
stopped to gather some violets, and said as she offered them to him:

"Salute Madame Bouvard!"

"What! Is it true?"

"Perfectly true."

He was about to clasp her in his arms. She kept him back. "What a man!"
Then, growing serious, she warned him that she would shortly be asking
him for a favour.

"'Tis granted."

They fixed the following Thursday for the formality of signing the
marriage contract.

Nobody should know anything about it up to the last moment.

"Agreed."

And off he went, looking up towards the sky, nimble as a roebuck.

Pecuchet on the morning of the same day said in his own mind that he
would die if he did not obtain the favours of his little maid, and he
followed her into the cellar, hoping the darkness would give him
courage.

She tried to go away several times, but he detained her in order to
count the bottles, to choose laths, or to look into the bottoms of
casks--and this occupied a considerable time.

She stood facing him under the light that penetrated through an
air-hole, with her eyes cast down, and the corner of her mouth slightly
raised.

"Do you love me?" said Pecuchet abruptly.

"Yes, I do love you."

"Well, then prove it to me."

And throwing his left arm around her, he embraced her with ardour.

"You're going to do me some harm."

"No, my little angel. Don't be afraid."

"If Monsieur Bouvard----"

"I'll tell him nothing. Make your mind easy."

There was a heap of faggots behind them. She sank upon them, and hid her
face under one arm;--and another man would have understood that she was
no novice.

Bouvard arrived soon for dinner.

The meal passed in silence, each of them being afraid of betraying
himself, while Melie attended them with her usual impassiveness.

Pecuchet turned away his eyes to avoid hers; and Bouvard, his gaze
resting on the walls, pondered meanwhile on his projected improvements.

Eight days after he came back in a towering rage.

"The damned traitress!"

"Who, pray?"

"Madame Bordin."

And he related how he had been so infatuated as to offer to make her his
wife, but all had come to