stand my impatience?"

"I rather think so!"

And in their emotion they embraced each other.

Like all artists, they felt the need of being applauded, and Bouvard
thought of giving a great dinner.

"Take care!" said Pecuchet, "you are going to plunge into
entertainments. It is a whirlpool!"

The matter, however, was decided. Since they had come to live in the
country, they had kept themselves isolated. Everybody, through eagerness
to make their acquaintance, accepted their invitation, except the Count
de Faverges, who had been summoned to the capital by business. They fell
back on M. Hurel, his factotum.

Beljambe, the innkeeper, formerly a _chef_ at Lisieux, was to cook
certain dishes; Germaine had engaged the services of the poultry-wench;
and Marianne, Madame Bordin's servant-girl, would also come. Since four
o'clock the range was wide open; and the two proprietors, full of
impatience, awaited their guests.

Hurel stopped under the beech row to adjust his frock-coat. Then the
cure stepped forward, arrayed in a new cassock, and, a second later, M.
Foureau, in a velvet waistcoat. The doctor gave his arm to his wife,
who walked with some difficulty, assisting herself with her parasol. A
stream of red ribbons fluttered behind them--it was the cap of Madame
Bordin, who was dressed in a lovely robe of shot silk. The gold chain of
her watch dangled over her breast, and rings glittered on both her
hands, which were partly covered with black mittens. Finally appeared
the notary, with a Panama hat on his head, and an eyeglass--for the
professional practitioner had not stifled in him the man of the world.
The drawing-room floor was waxed so that one could not stand upright
there. The eight Utrecht armchairs had their backs to the wall; a round
table in the centre supported the liqueur case; and above the
mantelpiece could be seen the portrait of Pere Bouvard. The shades,
reappearing in the imperfect light, made the mouth grin and the eyes
squint, and a slight mouldiness on the cheek-bones seemed to produce the
illusion of real whiskers. The guests traced a resemblance between him
and his son, and Madame Bordin added, glancing at Bouvard, that he must
have been a very fine man.

After an hour's waiting, Pecuchet 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 the