“What can they be plotting up there?” the journalist asked himself, with anxious curiosity.

A fierce desire to know the opinion of the yellow drawing-room with regard to recent events then assailed him.  He credited this group of reactionaries with little intelligence; but his doubts recurred, he was in that frame of mind when one might seek advice from a child.  He could not think of entering his father’s home at that moment, after the campaign he had waged against Granoux and the others.  Nevertheless, he went upstairs, reflecting what a singular figure he would cut if he were surprised on the way by anyone.  On reaching the Rougons’ door, he could only catch a confused echo of voices.

“What a child I am,” said he, “fear makes me stupid.”  And he was going to descend again, when he heard the approach of his mother, who was about to show somebody out.  He had barely time to hide in a dark corner formed by a little staircase leading to the garrets of the house.  The Rougons’ door opened, and the marquis appeared, followed by Felicite.  Monsieur de Carnavant usually left before the gentlemen of the new town did, in order no doubt to avoid having to shake hands with them in the street.

“Eh! little one,” he said on the landing, in a low voice, “these men are greater cowards than I should have thought.  With such men France will always be at the mercy of whoever dares to lay his hands upon her!” And he added, with some bitterness, as though speaking to himself:  “The monarchy is decidedly becoming too honest for modern times.  Its day is over.”

“Eugene announced the crisis to his father,” replied Felicite.  “Prince Louis’s triumph seems to him certain.”

“Oh, you can proceed without fear,” the marquis replied, as he descended the first steps.  “In two or three days the country will be well bound and gagged.  Good-bye till to-morrow, little one.”

Felicite closed the door again.  Aristide had received quite a shock in his dark corner.  However, without waiting for the marquis to reach the street, he bounded down the staircase, four steps at a time, rushed outside like a madman, and turned his steps towards the printing-office of the “Independant.”  A flood of thoughts surged through his mind.  He was enraged, and accused his family of having duped him.  What!  Eugene kept his parents informed of the situation, and yet his mother had never given him any of his eldest brother’s letters to read, in order that he might follow the advice given therein!  And it was only now he learnt by chance that his eldest brother regarded the success of the Coup d’Etat as certain!  This circumstance, moreover, confirmed certain presentiments which that idiot of a sub-prefect had prevented him from obeying.  He was especially exasperated against his father, whom he had thought stupid enough to be a Legitimist, but who revealed himself as a Bonapartist at the right moment.

“What a lot of folly they have allowed me to perpetrate,” he muttered as he ran along.  “I’m a fine fellow now.  Ah! what a lesson!  Granoux is more capable than I.”