bourhood. When he started on Friday for Caen, his
packages were not there. He received them on Sunday, and despatched them
in a cart, having given notice to the farmer who was working the land
that he would follow in the course of a few hours.

At Falaise, on the ninth day of his journey, Pecuchet took a fresh
horse, and even till sunset they kept steadily on. Beyond Bretteville,
having left the high-road, he got off into a cross-road, fancying that
every moment he could see the gable-ends of Chavignolles. However, the
ruts hid them from view; they vanished, and then the party found
themselves in the midst of ploughed fields. The night was falling. What
was to become of them? At last Pecuchet left the waggon behind, and,
splashing in the mire, advanced in front of it to reconnoitre. When he
drew near farm-houses, the dogs barked. He called out as loudly as ever
he could, asking what was the right road. There was no answer. He was
afraid, and got back to the open ground. Suddenly two lanterns flashed.
He perceived a cabriolet, and rushed forward to meet it. Bouvard was
inside.

But where could the furniture waggon be? For an hour they called out to
it through the darkness. At length it was found, and they arrived at
Chavignolles.

A great fire of brushwood and pine-apples was blazing in the
dining-room. Two covers were placed there. The furniture, which had come
by the cart, was piled up near the vestibule. Nothing was wanting. They
sat down to table.

Onion soup had been prepared for them, also a chicken, bacon, and
hard-boiled eggs. The old woman who cooked came from time to time to
inquire about their tastes. They replied, "Oh! very good, very good!"
and the big loaf, hard to cut, the cream, the nuts, all delighted them.
There were holes in the flooring, and the damp was oozing through the
walls. However, they cast around them a glance of satisfaction, while
eating on the little table on which a candle was burning. Their faces
were reddened by the strong air. They stretched out their stomachs; they
leaned on the backs of their chairs, which made a cracking sound in
consequence, and they kept repeating: "Here we are in the place, then!
What happiness! It seems to me that it is a dream!"

Although it was midnight, Pecuchet conceived the idea of taking a turn
round the garden. Bouvard made no objection. They took up the candle,
and, screening it with an old newspaper, walked along the paths. They
found pleasure in