gardener who cultivated the land.  At this, in one day, the unruly child was transformed into a thrifty, selfish lad, hurriedly matured, as regards his instincts, by the strange improvident life which he could no longer bear to see around him without a feeling of anguish.  Those vegetables, from the sale of which the market-gardener derived the largest profits, really belonged to him; the wine which his mother’s offspring drank, the bread they ate, also belonged to him.  The whole house, the entire fortune, was his by right; according to his boorish logic, he alone, the legitimate son, was the heir.  And as his riches were in danger, as everybody was greedily gnawing at his future fortune, he sought a means of turning them all out—­mother, brother, sister, servants—­and of succeeding immediately to his inheritance.

The conflict was a cruel one; the lad knew that he must first strike his mother.  Step by step, with patient tenacity, he executed a plan whose every detail he had long previously thought out.  His tactics were to appear before Adelaide like a living reproach—­not that he flew into a passion, or upbraided her for her misconduct; but he had acquired a certain manner of looking at her, without saying a word, which terrified her.  Whenever she returned from a short sojourn in Macquart’s hovel she could not turn her eyes on her son without a shudder.  She felt his cold glances, as sharp as steel blades pierce her deeply and pitilessly.  The severe, taciturn demeanour of the child of the man whom she had so soon forgotten strangely troubled her poor disordered brain.  She would fancy at times that Rougon had risen from the dead to punish her for her dissoluteness.  Every week she fell into one of those nervous fits which were shattering her constitution.  She was left to struggle until she recovered consciousness, after which she would creep about more feebly than ever.  She would also often sob the whole night long, holding her head in her hands, and accepting the wounds that Pierre dealt her with resignation, as if they had been the strokes of an avenging deity.  At other times she repudiated him; she would not acknowledge her own flesh and blood in that heavy-faced lad, whose calmness chilled her own feverishness so painfully.  She would a thousand times rather have been beaten than glared at like that.  Those implacable looks, which followed her everywhere, threw her at last into such unbearable torments that on several occasions she determined to see her lover no more.  As soon, however, as Macquart returned she forgot her vows and hastened to him.  The conflict with her son began afresh, silent and terrible, when she came back home.  At the end of a few months she fell completely under his sway.  She stood before him like a child doubtful of her behaviour and fearing that she deserves a whipping.  Pierre had skilfully bound her hand and foot, and made a very submissive servant of her, without opening his lips, without once entering into difficult and compromising explanations.