After an hour’s waiting, Pécuchet announced that they might pass into the dining-room.
The white calico curtains with red borders were, like those of the drawing-room, completely drawn before the windows, and the sun’s rays passing across them, flung a brilliant light on the wainscotings, the only ornament of which was a barometer.
Bouvard placed the two ladies beside him, while Pécuchet had the mayor on his left and the curé on his right.
They began with the oysters. They had the taste of mud. Bouvard was annoyed, and was prodigal of excuses, and Pécuchet got up in order to go into the kitchen and make a scene with Beljambe.
During the whole of the first course, which consisted of a brill with a vol-au-vent and stewed pigeons, the conversation turned on the mode of manufacturing cider; after which they discussed what meats were digestible or indigestible. Naturally, the doctor was consulted. He looked at matters sceptically, like a man who had dived into the depths of science, and yet did not brook the slightest contradiction.
At the same time, with the sirloin of beef, Burgundy was supplied. It was muddy. Bouvard, attributing this accident to the rinsing of the bottles, got them to try three others without more success; then he poured out some St. Julien, manifestly not long enough in bottle, and all the guests were mute. Hurel smiled without discontinuing; the heavy steps of the waiters resounded over the flooring.
Madame Vaucorbeil, who was dumpy and waddling in her gait (she was near her confinement), had maintained absolute silence. Bouvard, not knowing what to talk to her about, spoke of the theatre at Caen.
“My wife never goes to the play,” interposed the doctor.
M. Marescot observed that, when he lived in Paris, he used to go only to the Italian operas.
“For my part,” said Bouvard, “I used to pay for a seat in the pit sometimes at the Vaudeville to hear farces.”
Foureau asked Madame Bordin whether she liked farces.
“That depends on what kind they are,” she said.
The mayor rallied her. She made sharp rejoinders to his pleasantries. Then she mentioned a recipe for preparing gherkins. However, her talents for housekeeping were well known, and she had a little farm, which was admirably looked after.
Foureau asked Bouvard, “Is it your intention to sell yours?”
“Upon my word, up to this I don’t know what to do exactly.”
“What! not even the Escalles piece?” interposed the notary. “That would suit you, Madame Bordin.”
The widow replied in an affected manner:
“The demands of M. Bouvard would be too high.”
“Perhaps someone could soften him.”
“I will not try.”
“Bah! if you embraced him?”
“Let us try, all the same,” said Bouvard.
And he kissed her on both cheeks, amid the plaudits of the guests.
Almost immediately after this incident, they uncorked the champagne, whose detonations caused an additional sense of enjoyment. Pécuchet made a sign; the curtains opened, and the garden showed itself.
In the twilight it looked dreadful. The rockery, like a mountain, covered the entire grass plot; the tomb formed a cube in the midst of spinaches, the Venetian bridge a circumflex accent over the kidney-beans, and the summer-house beyond a big black spot, for they had burned its straw roof to make it more poetic. The yew trees, shaped like stags or armchairs, succeeded to the tree that seemed thunderstricken, extending transversely from the elm row to the arbour, where tomatoes hung like stalactites. Here and there a sunflower showed its yellow disk.62 The Chinese pagoda, painted red, seemed a lighthouse on the hillock. The peacocks’ beaks, struck by the sun, reflected back the rays, and behind the railed gate, now freed from its boards, a perfectly flat landscape bounded the horizon.
In the face of their guests’ astonishment Bouvard and Pécuchet experienced a veritable delight.
Madame Bordin admired the peacocks above all; but the tomb was not appreciated, nor the cot in flames, nor the wall in ruins. Then each in turn passed over the bridge. In order to fill the basin, Bouvard and Pécuchet had been carrying water in carts all the morning. It had escaped between the foundation stones, which were imperfectly joined together, and covered them over again with lime.
While they were walking about, the guests indulged in criticism.
“In your place that’s what I’d have done.” — “The green peas are late.” — “Candidly, this corner is not all right.” — “With such pruning you’ll never get fruit.”
Bouvard was obliged to answer that he did not care a jot for fruit.
As they walked past the hedge of trees, he said with a sly air:
“Ah! here’s a lady that puts us out of countenance: a thousand excuses!”
It was a well-seasoned joke; everyone knew “the lady in plaster.”
Finally, after many turns in the labyrinth, they arrived in front of the gate with the pipes. Looks of amazement were exchanged. Bouvard observed the faces of his guests, and, impatient to learn what was their opinion, asked:
“What do you say to it?”
Madame Bordin burst out laughing. All the others followed her example, after their respective ways — the curé giving a sort of cluck like a hen, Hurel coughing, the doctor mourning over it, while his wife had a nervous spasm, and Foureau, an unceremonious type of man, breaking an Abd-el-Kader and putting it into his pocket as a souvenir.
When they had left the tree-hedge, Bouvard, to astonish the company with the echo, exclaimed with all his strength:
“Servant, ladies!”
Nothing! No echo. This was owing to the repairs made in the barn, the gable and the roof having been demolished.
The coffee was served on the hillock; and the gentlemen were about to begin a game of ball, when they saw in front of them, behind the railed fence, a man staring at them.
He was lean and sunburnt, with a pair of red trousers in rags, a blue waistcoat, no shirt, his black beard cut like a brush. He articulated, in a hoarse voice:
“Give me a glass of wine!”
The mayor and the Abbé Jeufroy had at once recognised him. He had formerly been a joiner at Chavignolles.
“Come, Gorju! take yourself off,” said M. Foureau. “You ought not to be asking for alms.”
“I! Alms!” cried the exasperated man. “I served seven years in the wars in Africa. I’ve only just got up out of a hospital. Good God! must I turn cutthroat?”
His anger subsided of its own accord, and, with his two fists on his hips, he surveyed the assembled guests with a melancholy and defiant air. The fatigue of bivouacs, absinthe, and fever, an entire existence of wretchedness and debauchery, stood revealed in his dull eyes. His white lips quivered, exposing the gums. The vast sky, empurpled, enveloped him in a blood-red light; and his obstinacy in remaining there caused a species of terror.
Bouvard,