manner.  The hovel in the Impasse Saint-Mittre remained closed and preserved its secrets.  It was merely guessed that Macquart had probably acquired the habit of beating Adelaide, although the sound of a quarrel never issued from the house.  However, on several occasions she was seen with her face black and blue, and her hair torn away.  At the same time, she did not display the least dejection or grief, nor did she seek in any way to hide her bruises.  She smiled, and seemed happy.  No doubt she allowed herself to be beaten without breathing a word.  This existence lasted for more than fifteen years.

At times when Adelaide returned home she would find her house upside down, but would not take the least notice of it.  She was utterly ignorant of the practical meaning of life, of the proper value of things and the necessity for order.  She let her children grow up like those plum-trees which sprout along the highways at the pleasure of the rain and sun.  They bore their natural fruits like wild stock which has never known grafting or pruning.  Never was nature allowed such complete sway, never did such mischievous creatures grow up more freely under the sole influence of instinct.  They rolled among the vegetables, passed their days in the open air playing and fighting like good-for-nothing urchins.  They stole provisions from the house and pillaged the few fruit-trees in the enclosure; they were the plundering, squalling, familiar demons of this strange abode of lucid insanity.  When their mother was absent for days together, they would make such an uproar, and hit upon such diabolical devices for annoying people, that the neighbours had to threaten them with a whipping.  Moreover, Adelaide did not inspire them with much fear; if they were less obnoxious to other people when she was at home, it was because they made her their victim, shirking school five or six times a week and doing everything they could to receive some punishment which would allow them to squall to their hearts’ content.  But she never beat them, nor even lost her temper; she lived on very well, placidly, indolently, in a state of mental abstraction amidst all the uproar.  At last, indeed, this uproar became indispensable to her, to fill the void in her brain.  She smiled complacently when she heard anyone say, “Her children will beat her some day, and it will serve her right.”  To all remarks, her utter indifference seemed to reply, “What does it matter?” She troubled even less about her property than about her children.  The Fouques’ enclosure, during the many years that this singular existence lasted would have become a piece of waste ground if the young woman had not luckily entrusted the cultivation of her vegetables to a clever market-gardener.  This man, who was to share the profits with her, robbed her impudently, though she never noticed it.  This circumstance had its advantages, however; for, in order to steal the more, the gardener drew as much as possible from the land, which in the result almost doubled in value.