at the cathedral who was the confidant of all the better people of the town.  Vuillet was one of those terribly bitter, frigid gossips, who worm out everything, but never repeat what they hear, except by way of dealing somebody a mortal blow.  He had, consequently, often longed to dip his arms into the public letter-box.  Since the previous evening the private room at the post-office had become a big confessional full of darkness and mystery, in which he tasted exquisite rapture while sniffing at the letters which exhaled veiled longings and quivering avowals.  Moreover, he carried on his work with consummate impudence.  The crisis through which the country was passing secured him perfect impunity.  If some letters should be delayed, or others should miscarry altogether, it would be the fault of those villainous Republicans who were scouring the country and interrupting all communication.  The closing of the town gates had for a moment vexed him, but he had come to an understanding with Roudier, whereby the couriers were allowed to enter and bring the mails direct to him without passing by the town-hall.

As a matter of fact he had only opened a few letters, the important ones, those in which his keen scent divined some information which it would be useful for him to know before anybody else.  Then he contented himself by locking up in a drawer, for delivery subsequently, such letters as might give information and rob him of the merit of his valour at a time when the whole town was trembling with fear.  This pious personage, in selecting the management of the post-office as his own share of the spoils, had given proof of singular insight into the situation.

When Madame Rougon entered, he was taking his choice of a heap of letters and papers, under the pretext, no doubt, of classifying them.  He rose, with his humble smile, and offered her a seat; his reddened eyelids blinking rather uneasily.  But Felicite did not sit down; she roughly exclaimed:  “I want the letter.”

At this Vuillet’s eyes opened widely, with an expression of perfect innocence.

“What letter, madame?” he asked.

“The letter you received this morning for my husband.  Come, Monsieur Vuillet, I’m in a hurry.”

And as he stammered that he did not know, that he had not seen anything, that it was very strange, Felicite continued in a covertly threatening voice:  “A letter from Paris, from my son, Eugene; you know what I mean, don’t you?  I’ll look for it myself.”

Thereupon she stepped forward as if intending to examine the various packets which littered the writing table.  But he at once bestirred himself, and said he would go and see.  The service was necessarily in great confusion!  Perhaps, indeed, there might be a letter.  In that case they would find it.  But, as far as he was concerned, he swore he had not seen any.  While he was speaking he moved about the office turning over all the papers.  Then he opened the drawers and the portfolios.  Felicite waited, quite calm and collected.