gentlemen
being so polite as to lend her novels now and then.

"But go on!" for she had been a minute there already, and had listened
to them with pleasure.

They hoped she would excuse them. She insisted.

"Faith!" said Bouvard, "there's nothing to prevent----"

Pecuchet, through bashfulness, remarked that he could not act unprepared
and without costume.

"To do it effectively, we should need to disguise ourselves!"

And Bouvard looked about for something to put on, but found only the
Greek cap, which he snatched up.

As the corridor was not big enough, they went down to the drawing-room.
Spiders crawled along the walls, and the geological specimens that
encumbered the floor had whitened with their dust the velvet of the
armchairs. On the chair which had least dirt on it they spread a cover,
so that Madame Bordin might sit down.

It was necessary to give her something good.

Bouvard was in favour of the _Tour de Nesle_. But Pecuchet was afraid of
parts which called for too much action.

"She would prefer some classical piece! _Phedre_, for instance."

"Be it so."

Bouvard set forth the theme: "It is about a queen whose husband has a
son by another wife. She has fallen madly in love with the young man.
Are we there? Start!

"'Yes, prince! for Theseus I grow faint, I burn--
I love him!'"[9]

And, addressing Pecuchet's side-face, he gushed out admiration of his
port, his visage, "that charming head"; grieved at not having met him
with the Greek fleet; would have gladly been lost with him in the
labyrinth.

The border of the red cap bent forward amorously, and his trembling
voice and his appealing face begged of the cruel one to take pity on a
hopeless flame.

Pecuchet, turning aside, breathed hard to emphasise his emotion.

Madame Bordin, without moving, kept her eyes wide open, as if gazing at
people whirling round; Melie was listening behind the door; Gorju, in
his shirt-sleeves, was staring at them through the window. Bouvard made
a dash into the second part. His acting gave expression to the delirium
of the senses, remorse, despair; and he flung himself on the imaginary
sword of Pecuchet with such violence that, slipping over some of the
stone specimens, he was near tumbling on the ground.

"Pay no attention! Then Theseus arrives, and she poisons herself."

"Poor woman!" said Madame Bordin.

After this they begged of her to choose a piece for them.

She felt perplexed about makin