impossible!"

On whom could they depend? For, in fact, the doctor was not a Catholic!

They continued their studies, but without enthusiasm, being weary of
eocene and miocene, of Mount Jurillo, of the Julia Island, of the
mammoths of Siberia and of the fossils, invariably compared in all the
authors to "medals which are authentic testimonies," so much so that one
day Bouvard threw his knapsack on the ground, declaring that he would
not go any farther.

"Geology is too defective. Some parts of Europe are hardly known. As for
the rest, together with the foundation of the oceans, we shall always be
in a state of ignorance on the subject."

Finally, Pecuchet having pronounced the word "mineral kingdom":

"I don't believe in it, this mineral kingdom, since organic substances
have taken part in the formation of flint, of chalk, and perhaps of
gold. Hasn't the diamond been charcoal; coal a collection of vegetables?
and by heating it to I know not how many degrees, we get the sawdust of
wood, so that everything passes, everything goes to ruin, and everything
is transformed. Creation is carried out in an undulating and fugitive
fashion. Much better to occupy ourselves with something else."

He stretched himself on his back and went to sleep, while Pecuchet, with
his head down and one knee between his hands, gave himself up to his own
reflections.

A border of moss stood on the edge of a hollow path overhung by ash
trees, whose slender tops quivered; angelica, mint, and lavender exhaled
warm, pungent odours. The atmosphere was drowsy, and Pecuchet, in a kind
of stupor, dreamed of the innumerable existences scattered around
him--of the insects that buzzed, the springs hidden beneath the grass,
the sap of plants, the birds in their nests, the wind, the clouds--of
all Nature, without seeking to unveil her mysteries, enchanted by her
power, lost in her grandeur.

"I'm thirsty!" said Bouvard, waking up.

"So am I. I should be glad to drink something."

"That's easy," answered a man who was passing by in his shirt-sleeves
with a plank on his shoulder. And they recognised that vagabond to whom,
on a former occasion, Bouvard had given a glass of wine. He seemed ten
years younger, wore his hair foppishly curled, his moustache well waxed,
and twisted his figure about in quite a Parisian fashion. After walking
about a hundred paces, he opened the gateway of a farmyard, threw down
his plank against the wall, and led them into a la