"My uncle!" said Bouvard. And the taper which he held in his hand shed its light on the portrait of a gentleman.
Red whiskers enlarged his visage, which was surmounted by a forelock curling at its ends. His huge cravat, with the triple collar of his shirt, and his velvet waistcoat and black coat, appeared to cramp him. You would have imagined there were diamonds on his shirt-frill. His eyes seemed fastened to his cheekbones, and he smiled with a cunning little air.
Pécuchet could not keep from saying, "One would rather take him for your father!"
"He is my godfather," replied Bouvard carelessly, adding that his baptismal name was François-Denys-Bartholemée.
Pécuchet's baptismal name was Juste-Romain-Cyrille, and their ages were identical—forty-seven years. This coincidence caused them satisfaction, but surprised them, each having thought the other much older. They next vented their admiration for Providence, whose combinations are sometimes marvellous.
"For, in fact, if we had not gone out a while ago to take a walk we might have died before knowing each other."
And having given each other their employers' addresses, they exchanged a cordial "good night."
"Don't go to see the women!" cried Bouvard on the stairs.
Pécuchet descended the steps without answering this coarse jest.
Next day, in the space in front of the establishment of MM. Descambos Brothers, manufacturers of Alsatian tissues, 92, Rue Hautefeuille, a voice called out: