Ng its stone flooring. This work of nature astonished them, and as they
went on their way collecting shells, they started considerations as to
the origin of the world. Bouvard inclined towards Neptunism; Pecuchet,
on the contrary, was a Plutonist. "The central fire had broken the crust
of the globe, heaved up the masses of earth, and made fissures. It is,
as it were, an interior sea, which has its flow and ebb, its tempests; a
thin film separates us from it. We could not sleep if we thought of all
that is under our heels. However, the central fire diminishes, and the
sun grows more feeble, so much so that one day the earth will perish of
refrigeration. It will become sterile; all the wood and all the coal
will be converted into carbonic acid, and no life can subsist there."
"We haven't come to that yet," said Bouvard. "Let us expect it,"
returned Pecuchet. No matter, this end of the world, far away as it
might be, made them gloomy; and, side by side, they walked in silence
over the shingles. The cliff, perpendicular, a mass of white, striped
with black here and there by lines of flint, stretched towards the
horizon like the curve of a rampart five leagues wide. An east wind,
bitter and cold, was blowing; the sky was grey; the sea greenish and, as
it were, swollen. From the highest points of rocks birds took wing,
wheeled round, and speedily re-entered their hiding places. Sometimes a
stone, getting loosened, would rebound from one place to another before
reaching them. Pecuchet continued his reflections aloud: "Unless the
earth should be destroyed by a cataclysm! We do not know the length of
our period. The central fire has only to overflow." "However, it is
diminishing." "That does not prevent its explosions from having produced
the Julia I

TEXT ONLY EQUIVALENT
Ng its stone flooring. This work of nature astonished them, and as they went on their way collecting shells, they started considerations as to the origin of the world. Bouvard inclined towards Neptunism; Pecuchet, on the contrary, was a Plutonist. "The central fire had broken the crust of the globe, heaved up the masses of earth, and made fissures. It is, as it were, an interior sea, which has its flow and ebb, its tempests; a thin film separates us from it. We could not sleep if we thought of all that is under our heels. However, the central fire diminishes, and the sun grows more feeble, so much so that one day the earth will perish of refrigeration. It will become sterile; all the wood and all the coal will be converted into carbonic acid, and no life can subsist there." "We haven't come to that yet," said Bouvard. "Let us expect it," returned Pecuchet. No matter, this end of the world, far away as it might be, made them gloomy; and, side by side, they walked in silence over the shingles. The cliff, perpendicular, a mass of white, striped with black here and there by lines of flint, stretched towards the horizon like the curve of a rampart five leagues wide. An east wind, bitter and cold, was blowing; the sky was grey; the sea greenish and, as it were, swollen. From the highest points of rocks birds took wing, wheeled round, and speedily re-entered their hiding places. Sometimes a stone, getting loosened, would rebound from one place to another before reaching them. Pecuchet continued his reflections aloud: "Unless the earth should be destroyed by a cataclysm! We do not know the length of our period. The central fire has only to overflow." "However, it is diminishing." "That does not prevent its explosions from having produced the Julia I