This article, in which periphrastic abuse was strung together with all the heaviness of touch which characterises French provincial journalism, quite terrified Rougon, who muttered, as Felicite replaced the “Gazette” on the table:  “Ah! the wretch! he is giving us the last blow; people will believe that I inspired this diatribe.”

“But,” his wife remarked, pensively, “did you not this morning tell me that he absolutely refused to write against the Republicans?  The news that circulated had terrified him, and he was as pale as death, you said.”

“Yes! yes!  I can’t understand it at all.  When I insisted, he went so far as to reproach me for not having killed all the insurgents.  It was yesterday that he ought to have written that article; to-day he’ll get us all butchered!”

Felicite was lost in amazement.  What could have prompted Vuillet’s change of front?  The idea of that wretched semi-sacristan carrying a musket and firing on the ramparts of Plassans seemed to her one of the most ridiculous things imaginable.  There was certainly some determining cause underlying all this which escaped her.  Only one thing seemed certain.  Vuillet was too impudent in his abuse and too ready with his valour, for the insurrectionary band to be really so near the town as some people asserted.

“He’s a spiteful fellow, I always said so,” Rougon resumed, after reading the article again.  “He has only been waiting for an opportunity to do us this injury.  What a fool I was to leave him in charge of the post-office!”

This last sentence proved a flash of light.  Felicite started up quickly, as though at some sudden thought.  Then she put on a cap and threw a shawl over her shoulders.

“Where are you going, pray?” her husband asked her with surprise.  “It’s past nine o’clock.”

“You go to bed,” she replied rather brusquely, “you’re not well; go and rest yourself.  Sleep on till I come back; I’ll wake you if necessary, and then we can talk the matter over.”

She went out with her usual nimble gait, ran to the post-office, and abruptly entered the room where Vuillet was still at work.  On seeing her he made a hasty gesture of vexation.

Never in his life had Vuillet felt so happy.  Since he had been able to slip his little fingers into the mail-bag he had enjoyed the most exquisite pleasure, the pleasure of an inquisitive priest about to relish the confessions of his penitents.  All the sly blabbing, all the vague chatter of sacristies resounded in his ears.  He poked his long, pale nose into the letters, gazed amorously at the superscriptions with his suspicious eyes, sounded the envelopes just like little abbes sound the souls of maidens.  He experienced endless enjoyment, was titillated by the most enticing temptation.  The thousand secrets of Plassans lay there.  He held in his hand the honour of women, the fortunes of men, and had only to break a seal to know as much as the grand vicar