"Go on! Confusion! Don't put yourself about!"
"Truly, a great misfortune! I attribute it to my father."
"Your natural father," corrected Pécuchet, with a sneer.
"Ha! you insult me!"
"No; but I am tiring you out! I see it plainly! Confess it!"
And Pécuchet was seized with anger, or rather with madness. So was Bouvard. The pair began shrieking, the one excited by hunger, the other by alcohol. Pécuchet's throat at length emitted no sound save a rattling.
"It is infernal, a life like this. I much prefer death. Adieu!"
He snatched up the candlestick and rushed out, slamming the door behind him.
Bouvard, plunged in darkness, found some difficulty in opening it. He ran after Pécuchet, and followed him up to the garret.
The candle was on the floor, and Pécuchet was standing on one of the chairs, with a rope in his hand. The spirit of imitation got the better of Bouvard.