They asked themselves what impression it would cause in the district, what would become of their library, their papers, their collections. The thought of death made them feel tenderly about themselves. However, they did not abandon their project, and by dint of talking about it they grew accustomed to the idea.
On the evening of the 24th of December, between ten and eleven o'clock, they sat thinking in the museum, both differently attired. Bouvard wore a blouse over his knitted waistcoat, and Pécuchet, through economy, had not left off his monk's habit for the past three months.
As they were very hungry (for Marcel, having gone out at daybreak, had not reappeared), Bouvard thought it would be a healthful thing for him to drink a quart bottle of brandy, and for Pécuchet to take some tea.
While he was lifting up the kettle he spilled some water on the floor.
"Awkward!" exclaimed Bouvard.
Then, thinking the infusion too small, he wanted to strengthen it with two additional spoonfuls.
"This will be execrable," said Pécuchet.
"Not at all."
And while each of them was trying to draw the work-box closer to himself, the tray upset and fell down. One of the cups was smashed—the last of their fine porcelain tea-service.
Bouvard turned pale.