When he was back again in Plassans, Antoine became the more menacing from the conviction that his hands were tied.  During a whole month he was seen all over the place.  He paraded the streets, recounting his story to all who would listen to him.  Whenever he succeeded in extorting a franc from his mother, he would drink it away at some tavern, where he would revile his brother, declaring that the rascal should shortly hear from him.  In places like these, the good-natured fraternity which reigns among drunkards procured him a sympathetic audience; all the scum of the town espoused his cause, and poured forth bitter imprecations against that rascal Rougon, who left a brave soldier to starve; the discussion generally terminating with an indiscriminate condemnation of the rich.  Antoine, the better to revenge himself, continued to march about in his regimental cap and trousers and his old yellow velvet jacket, although his mother had offered to purchase some more becoming clothes for him.  But no; he preferred to make a display of his rags, and paraded them on Sundays in the most frequented parts of the Cours Sauvaire.

One of his most exquisite pleasures was to pass Pierre’s shop ten times a day.  He would enlarge the holes in his jacket with his fingers, slacken his step, and sometimes stand talking in front of the door, so as to remain longer in the street.  On these occasions, too, he would bring one of his drunken friends and gossip to him; telling him about the theft of the fifty thousand francs, accompanying his narrative with loud insults and menaces, which could be heard by everyone in the street, and taking particular care that his abuse should reach the furthest end of the shop.

“He’ll finish by coming to beg in front of our house,” Felicite used to say in despair.

The vain little woman suffered terribly from this scandal.  She even at this time felt some regret at ever having married Rougon; his family connections were so objectionable.  She would have given all she had in the world to prevent Antoine from parading his rags.  But Pierre, who was maddened by his brother’s conduct, would not allow his name to be mentioned.  When his wife tried to convince him that it would perhaps be better to free himself from all annoyance by giving Antoine a little money:  “No, nothing; not a sou,” he cried with rage.  “Let him starve!”

He confessed, however, at last that Antoine’s demeanour was becoming intolerable.  One day, Felicite, desiring to put an end to it, called to “that man,” as she styled him with a disdainful curl on her lip.  “That man” was in the act of calling her a foul name in the middle of the street, where he stood with one of his friends, even more ragged than himself.  They were both drunk.

“Come, they want us in there,” said Antoine to his companion in a jeering tone.

But Felicite drew back, muttering:  “It’s you alone we wish to speak to.”

“Bah!” the young man replied, “my friend’s a decent fellow.  You needn’t mind him hearing.  He’ll be my witness.”