hen she had put a
plaice into the pantry, she was frightened on seeing it covered with
flame; she became worse than ever after that, and ended by believing
that they had cast a spell over her.

Hoping to behold visions, they pressed the napes of each other's necks;
they made themselves little bags of belladonna; finally they adopted the
magic box, out of which rises a mushroom bristling with nails, to be
worn over the heart by means of a ribbon attached to the breast.
Everything proved unsuccessful. But they might make use of the sphere of
Dupotet!

Pecuchet, with a piece of charcoal, traced on the ground a black shield,
in order to enclose within its compass the animal spirits whose duty it
is to assist the ambient spirits, and rejoicing at having the mastery
over Bouvard, he said to him, with a pontifical air:

"I defy you to cross it!"

Bouvard viewed this circular space. Soon his heart began throbbing, his
eyes became clouded.

"Ha! let us make an end of it!" And he jumped over it, to get rid of an
inexpressible sense of unpleasantness.

Pecuchet, whose exultation was increasing, desired to make a corpse
appear.

Under the Directory a man in the Rue de l'Echiquier exhibited the
victims of the Terror. There are innumerable examples of persons coming
back from the other world. Though it may be a mere appearance, what
matter? The thing was to produce the effect.

The nearer to us we feel the phantom, the more promptly it responds to
our appeal. But he had no relic of his family--ring, miniature, or lock
of hair--while Bouvard was in a position to conjure up his father; but,
as he testified a certain repugnance on the subject, Pecuchet asked him:

"What are you afraid of?"

"I? Oh! nothing at all! Do what you like."

They kept Chamberlan in their pay, and he supplied them by stealth with
an old death's-head. A seamster cut out for them two long black robes
with hoods attached, like monks' habits. The Falaise coach brought them
a large parcel in a wrapper. Then they set about the work, the one
interested in executing it, the other afraid to believe in it.

The museum was spread out like a catafalque. Three wax tapers burned at
the side of the table pushed against the wall beneath the portrait of
Pere Bouvard, above which rose the death's-head. They had even stuffed a
candle into the interior of the skull, and rays of light shot out
through the two eyeholes.

In the centre, on a chafing-dish, incense was