“What a knave,” she muttered, when she reached the street, forgetting that she herself had just laid an interdict upon the mail.

She went home slowly, wrapped in thought.  She even went out of her way, passing along the Cours Sauvaire, as if to gain time and ease for reflection before going in.  Under the trees of the promenade she met Monsieur de Carnavant, who was taking advantage of the darkness to ferret about the town without compromising himself.  The clergy of Plassans, to whom all energetic action was distasteful, had, since the announcement of the Coup d’Etat, preserved absolute neutrality.  In the priests’ opinion the Empire was virtually established, and they awaited an opportunity to resume in some new direction their secular intrigues.  The marquis, who had now become a useless agent, remained only inquisitive on one point—­he wished to know how the turmoil would finish, and in what manner the Rougons would play their role to the end.

“Oh! it’s you, little one!” he exclaimed, as soon as he recognized Felicite.  “I wanted to see you; your affairs are getting muddled!”

“Oh, no; everything is going on all right,” she replied, in an absent-minded way.

“So much the better.  You’ll tell me all about it, won’t you?  Ah!  I must confess that I gave your husband and his colleagues a terrible fright the other night.  You should have seen how comical they looked on the terrace, while I was pointing out a band of insurgents in every cluster of trees in the valley!  You forgive me?”

“I’m much obliged to you,” said Felicite quickly.  “You should have made them die of fright.  My husband is a big sly-boots.  Come and see me some morning, when I am alone.”

Then she turned away, as though this meeting with the marquis had determined her.  From head to foot the whole of her little person betokened implacable resolution.  At last she was going to revenge herself on Pierre for his petty mysteries, have him under her heel, and secure, once for all, her omnipotence at home.  There would be a fine scene, quite a comedy, indeed, the points of which she was already enjoying in anticipation, while she worked out her plan with all the spitefulness of an injured woman.

She found Pierre in bed, sleeping heavily; she brought the candle near him for an instant, and gazed with an air of compassion, at his big face, across which slight twitches occasionally passed; then she sat down at the head of the bed, took off her cap, let her hair fall loose, assumed the appearance of one in despair, and began to sob quite loudly.

“Hallo!  What’s the matter?  What are you crying for?” asked Pierre, suddenly awaking.

She did not reply, but cried more bitterly.

“Come, come, do answer,” continued her husband, frightened by this mute despair.  “Where have you been?  Have you seen the insurgents?”

She shook her head; then, in a faint voice, she said:  “I’ve just come from the Valqueyras mansion.  I wanted to ask Monsieur de Carnavant’s advice.  Ah! my dear, all is lost.”