Macquart had now been kept in the room for two days and two nights.  He had had time to indulge in lengthy reflections.  After his sleep, his first hours had been given up to outbursts of impotent rage.  Goaded by the idea that his brother was lording it in the adjoining room, he had felt a great longing to break the door open.  At all events he would strangle Rougon with his own hands, as soon as the insurgents should return and release him.  But, in the evening, at twilight, he calmed down, and gave over striding furiously round the little room.  He inhaled a sweet odour there; a feeling of comfort relaxed his nerves.  Monsieur Garconnet, who was very rich, refined, and vain, had caused this little room to be arranged in a very elegant fashion; the sofa was soft and warm; scents, pomades, and soaps adorned the marble washstand, and the pale light fell from the ceiling with a soft glow, like the gleams of a lamp suspended in an alcove.  Macquart, amidst this perfumed soporific atmosphere fell asleep, thinking that those scoundrels, the rich, “were very fortunate, all the same.”  He had covered himself with a blanket which had been given to him, and with his head and back and arms reposing on the cushions, he stretched himself out on the couch until morning.  When he opened his eyes, a ray of sunshine was gliding through the opening above.  Still he did not leave the sofa.  He felt warm, and lay thinking as he gazed around him.  He bethought himself that he would never again have such a place to wash in.  The washstand particularly interested him.  It was by no means hard, he thought, to keep oneself spruce when one had so many little pots and phials at one’s disposal.  This made him think bitterly of his own life of privation.  The idea occurred to him that perhaps he had been on the wrong track.  There is nothing to be gained by associating with beggars.  He ought to have played the scamp; he should have acted in concert with the Rougons.

Then, however, he rejected this idea.  The Rougons were villains who had robbed him.  But the warmth and softness of the sofa, continued to work upon his feelings, and fill him with vague regrets.  After all, the insurgents were abandoning him, and allowing themselves to be beaten like idiots.  Eventually he came to the conclusion that the Republic was mere dupery.  Those Rougons were lucky!  And he recalled his own bootless wickedness and underhand intrigues.  Not one member of the family had ever been on his side; neither Aristide, nor Silvere’s brother, nor Silvere himself, who was a fool to grow so enthusiastic about the Republic and would never do any good for himself.  Then Macquart reflected that his wife was dead, that his children had left him, and that he would die alone, like a dog in some wretched corner, without a copper to bless himself with.  Decidedly, he ought to have sold himself to the reactionary party.  Pondering in this fashion, he eyed the washstand, feeling a strong inclination