ne, he ought to do himself justice.

Pecuchet did not weep. Very pale, or rather livid, with open mouth, and
hair stuck together with cold sweat, he stood apart, brooding. But the
cure who had suddenly arrived on the scene, murmured, in a wheedling
tone:

"Ah! really, what a misfortune! It is very annoying. Be sure that I
enter into your feelings."

The others did not affect any regret. They chatted and smiled, with
hands spread out before the flame. An old man picked out burning straws
to light his pipe with; and one blackguard cried out that it was very
funny.

"Yes, 'tis nice fun!" retorted Bouvard, who had just overheard him.

The fire abated, the burning piles subsided, and an hour later only
ashes remained, making round, black marks on the plain. Then all
withdrew.

Madame Bordin and the Abbe Jeufroy led MM. Bouvard and Pecuchet back to
their abode.

On the way the widow addressed very polite reproaches to her neighbour
on his unsociableness, and the ecclesiastic expressed his great surprise
at not having up to the present known such a distinguished parishioner
of his.

When they were alone together, they inquired into the cause of the
conflagration, and, in place of recognising, like the rest of the world,
that the moist straw had taken fire of its own accord, they suspected
that it was a case of revenge. It proceeded, no doubt, from Maitre Gouy,
or perhaps from the mole-catcher. Six months before Bouvard had refused
to accept his services, and even maintained, before a circle of
listeners, that his trade was a baneful one, and that the government
ought to prohibit it. Since that time the man prowled about the
locality. He wore his beard full-grown, and appeared to them
frightful-looking, especially in the evening, when he presented himself
outside the farmyard, shaking his long pole garnished with hanging
moles.

The damage done was considerable, and in order to know their exact
position, Pecuchet for eight days worked at Bouvard's books, which he
pronounced to be "a veritable labyrinth." After he had compared the
day-book, the correspondence, and the ledger covered with pencil-notes
and discharges, he realised the truth: no goods to sell, no funds to get
in, and in the cash-box zero. The capital showed a deficit of
thirty-three thousand francs.

Bouvard would not believe it, and more than twenty times they went over
the accounts. They always arrived at the same conclusion. Two years
more of such