The allusion was direct. The widow's cheeks flushed scarlet; but, recovering her composure almost the next moment:
"We are past the age for folly, are we not, M. Bouvard?"
"Ha! ha! For my part, I don't admit that."
And he offered his arm to lead her towards the adjoining room.
"Be careful about the steps. All right? Now observe the church window."
They traced on its surface a scarlet cloak and two angels' wings. All the rest was lost under the leads which held in equilibrium the numerous breakages in the glass. The day was declining; the shadows were lengthening; Madame Bordin had become grave.
Bouvard withdrew, and presently reappeared muffled up in a woollen wrapper, then knelt down at the prie-dieu with his elbows out, his face in his hands, the light of the sun falling on his bald patch; and he was conscious of this effect, for he said:
"Don't I look like a monk of the Middle Ages?"
Then he raised his forehead on one side, with swimming eyes, and trying to give a mystical expression to his face. The solemn voice of Pécuchet was heard in the corridor:
"Don't be afraid. It is I." And he entered, his head covered with a helmet—an iron pot with pointed ear-pieces.