"You are too kind; we merely did our business."

But Charrier was more polished. He finished his glass of Pomard and found means to make an observation.

"The works about Paris," said he, "have enabled the workman to live."

"Say also," resumed Monsieur Toutin-Laroche, "that they have given a magnificent spurt to all financial and industrial undertakings."

"And don't forget the artistic side of the question; the new thoroughfares are majestic," added Monsieur Hupel de la Noue, who flattered himself on his good taste.

"Yes, yes, it is a fine piece of work," murmured Monsieur de Mareuil, for the sake of saying something.

"As for the cost," gravely declared the deputy Haffner, who only opened his mouth on grand occasions, "our children will pay it, and that is only justice."

And as, when saying that, he looked at Monsieur de Saffré, who had not seemed to be getting on so well with the pretty Madame Michelin for the last few minutes, the young secretary, wishing to appear thoroughly acquainted with what was being said, repeated:

"That is indeed only justice."

Every one had had his say in the group formed by the serious men at the middle of the table. Monsieur Michelin, the head of department, smiled and wagged his head; it was his usual way of joining in a conversation; he had smiles for greeting, for answering, for approving, for thanking, for wishing good-bye, quite a pretty collection of smiles which enabled him to dispense almost entirely with the use of his tongue, an arrangement he no doubt considered far more polite and more favourable to his own advancement.

Another personage also had remained silent—that was Baron Gouraud, who was slowly chewing like a drowsy ox. Up till then he had appeared absorbed in the contemplation of his plate. Renée, full of little attentions towards him, only obtained faint grunts of satisfaction. Therefore every one was surprised to see him raise his head and to hear him observe, as he wiped his greasy lips:

"I am a landlord, and when I do up and re-decorate any apartments, I raise the rent."

Monsieur Haffner's remark: "Our children will pay," had succeeded in awakening the senator. They all discreetly applauded, and Monsieur de Saffré exclaimed:

"Ah! charming, charming! I shall send that to-morrow to the newspapers."

"You are quite right, gentlemen, we live in good times," said the worthy Mignon by way of conclusion amidst the smiles and the praise which the baron's observation had called forth. "I know more than one who have nicely built up their fortunes. Everything is lovely, you see, when it enables one to make money."

These last words quite froze the grave men. The conversation stopped short, and each one seemed to avoid looking at his neighbour. The mason's remark unfortunately might have been applied to all these gentlemen. Michelin, who was just then looking at Saccard in a most agreeable manner, suddenly ceased smiling, greatly afraid of having appeared for a moment to apply the contractor's words to the master of the house. The latter glanced at Madame Sidonie, who once more monopolised Mignon, saying: "So you are fond of pink, sir?"—Then Saccard paid Madame d'Espanet a long compliment; his dark, mean-looking face almost touched the milky shoulders of the young woman as she leant back in her chair and laughed.

They had now arrived at the dessert. The lackeys turned more quickly round the table. There was a slight pause whilst the cloth was being covered with the rest of the fruit and the sweetmeats. At Maxime's end the laughter was becoming more silvery; one could hear Louise's shrill voice saying: "I assure you that Sylvia wore a blue satin dress in her part of Dindonnette;" and another childish voice added: "Yes, but the dress was trimmed with white lace." The air was laden with the warm fumes from the dishes. The faces of the guests had assumed a rosier hue, and seemed softened by an internal beatitude. Two lackeys made the round of the table, filling the glasses with Alicant and Tokay.

Ever since the commencement of the dinner, Renée had seemed absent-minded. She fulfilled her duties as mistress of the house with a mechanical sort of smile. At each burst of mirth which came from the end of the table where Maxime and Louise were sitting side-by-side joking like two comrades, she cast a glistening glance in their direction. She felt dreadfully bored. The serious men were too much for her. Madame d'Espanet and Madame Haffner looked at her in despair.

"And the coming elections, how do they promise to turn out?" suddenly inquired Saccard of Monsieur Hupel de la Noue.

"Very well indeed," replied the latter, smiling; "only as yet no candidates have been decided upon for my department. The minister is hesitating, it appears."

Monsieur de Mareuil, who had thanked Saccard with a glance for having introduced this subject, looked as though he were sitting on red-hot cinders. He blushed slightly and made a few awkward bows when the prefect, addressing him, continued:

"I have heard a great deal about you in the country, sir. Your vast estates have won you a great many friends there, and it is known how devoted you are to the Emperor. You have every chance in your favour."

"Papa, is it not true that little Sylvia sold cigarettes at Marseilles in 1849?" cried Maxime at this moment from his end of the table.

And as Aristide Saccard pretended not to hear, the young man continued in a lower tone of voice:

"My father knew her very intimately."

A few smothered laughs greeted this statement. Whilst Monsieur de Mareuil was still bowing, Monsieur Haffner had sententiously resumed:

"Devotion to the Emperor is the only virtue, the only patriotism, in these days of interested democracy. Whosoever loves the Emperor loves France. We would see Monsieur do Mareuil become our colleague with most sincere joy."

"You will succeed, sir," said Monsieur Toutin-Laroche in his turn. "All the great fortunes should gather round the throne."

Renée could stand it no longer. Opposite to her the marchioness was stifling a yawn. And as Saccard was again about to join in, his wife said to him with a delightful smile:

"For goodness sake, my dear, take compassion upon us. Do try and forget your horrid politics."

Then Monsieur Hupel de la Noue, gallant as a prefect should be, protested, saying that the ladies were right. And he forthwith commenced the story of a rather smutty affair which had occurred in the chief town of his department. The marchioness, Madame Haffner and the other ladies laughed immensely at some of the details. The prefect related in a very piquant style, interspersed with hints, reticences, and inflections of the voice, which gave a very naughty meaning to the most innocent expressions. Then they talked of the duchess's first Tuesday at home, of a burlesque that had been produced the night before, of the death of a poet, and of the last of the autumn races. Monsieur Toutin-Laroche, who at certain times could be very amiable, compared women to roses, and Monsieur de Mareuil, amidst the confusion in which his electoral hopes had plunged him, was able to make some profound remarks respecting the new shape for bonnets. Renée continued absent-minded.

The guests were no longer eating. A warm breath seemed to have passed over the cloth, clouding the glasses, scattering the bread, blackening the fruit parings in the plates, and upsetting all the beautiful symmetry of the table. The flowers were fading in the great chased silver cornucopia. And the guests lingered there a moment in presence of the remnants of the dessert, full of contentment, and lacking the courage to rise from their seats. One arm on the table, and bending slightly forward, they had a vacant look in their eyes, and showed the vague depression of that measured and decent inebriation of fashionable people who become intoxicated by degrees. The laughter had subsided and the conversation flagged. A great deal had been eaten and drank, and that gave a still deeper gravity to the group formed by the decorated men. In the close atmosphere of the apartment, the ladies felt a moisture about their necks and temples. They were awaiting the moment to adjourn to the drawing-room, looking serious and slightly pale, as though they felt a swimming in their heads. Madame d'Espanet was quite rosy, whilst Madame Haffner's shoulders had assumed a waxy whiteness. Monsieur Hupel de la Noue was examining the handle of a knife; Monsieur Toutin-Laroche was still addressing a few disconnected remarks to Monsieur Haffner who nodded his head in reply; Monsieur de Mareuil was musing as he looked at Monsieur Michelin, who was slyly smiling upon him. As for the pretty Madame Michelin, she had not been talking for a long while; she was very red in the face, whilst the cloth hung over one of her hands which Monsieur de Saffré was no doubt holding in his, for he was leaning awkwardly on the edge of the table, with his brows knit, and grimacing like a man trying to solve some problem in algebra. Madame Sidonie also had conquered; the Messieurs Mignon and Charrier, both turned towards her and with their elbows on the table, appeared delighted at being taken into her confidence; she was owning that she had a great liking for milky things, and that she was afraid of ghosts. And Aristide Saccard himself, with his eyes half closed, and plunged in that beatitude of the master of a house conscious of having honestly intoxicated his guests, had no thought of leaving the table; he was contemplating with respectful affection Baron Gouraud painfully digesting, with his right hand stretched over the white cloth, a sensual old man's hand, short and thick, studded with purple blotches and covered with reddish hairs.

Renée slowly drank up the few drops of Tokay which remained in her glass. Her face tingled; the little light hairs on her temples and at the nape of her neck were rebellious and would not remain in their places, as though moistened by some damp breath. Her lips and her nose were contracted nervously, her face bore the expression of a child who has drank pure wine. If good middle-class thoughts had come to her whilst in the presence of the shadows of the Parc Monceaux, these thoughts had now succumbed to the excitation of the viands, of the wines and of the lights, of these disturbing surroundings impregnated with noisy mirth and warm breaths. She was no longer exchanging quiet smiles with her sister Christine and her aunt Élisabeth, both of them modest and retiring, and scarcely uttering a word. With a harsh look she had forced poor Monsieur de Mussy to lower his eyes. In her apparent absent-mindedness, though, she was careful to avoid turning round and remained leaning against the back of her chair, whilst the satin of her dress body gently crackled, she allowed an almost imperceptible shudder of the shoulders to escape her each time a burst of laughter reached her from the corner where Maxime and Louise were joking, still as loudly as ever, in the expiring buzz of the conversations.

And behind her, just on the edge of the shadow—his tall person dominating the satiated guests and the disordered table—stood Baptiste, looking pale and grave, in the disdainful attitude of a lackey who has feasted his masters. He alone, in the atmosphere heavy with drunkenness, beneath the vivid light, now turning to a yellowish hue, of the chandelier, remained faultless, with his silver chain around his neck, his cold eyes in which the sight of the women's bare shoulders did not even kindle a spark, and his air of an eunuch waiting on some Parisians in the time of their decline and maintaining his dignity.

At length Renée rose with a nervous movement. Everyone followed her example. They adjourned to the drawing-room where coffee awaited them.

The principal drawing-room of the mansion was a vast oblong apartment, a sort of gallery going from one of the wings to the other, and occupying the whole of the façade on the garden side. A large French window opened on to the steps. This gallery was resplendent with gilding. The ceiling which was slightly arched was covered with fanciful scrolls winding about enormous gilded medallions, which glittered like shields. Arabesques and dazzling garlands formed the border; fillets of gold, like jets of molten metal, were scattered about the walls, framing the panels hung with red silk; clusters of roses crowned with tufts of full blown blossoms trailed down the sides of the mirrors. An Aubusson carpet displayed its purple flowers over the flooring. The furniture upholstered in red damask silk, the door hangings and the curtains of the same material, the enormous rock-work clock on the mantle, the China vases standing on the consoles, the legs of the two long tables ornamented with Florentine mosaics, even the flowerstands placed in the window recesses, were so to say reeking and dripping with gold. At the four corners were four great lamps standing on red marble pedestals to which they were attached by chains of gilded bronze which hung with symmetrical grace. And from the ceiling were suspended three crystal lustres streaming with pink and blue scintillations, and the ardent glare from which was dazzlingly reflected by all the gilding in the apartment.

The men soon withdrew to the smoking-room. Monsieur de Mussy, who, though six years older, had known Maxime at college, took him familiarly by the arm. He led him out on to the terrace, and, after they had lighted their cigars, he complained bitterly of Renée.

"But, tell me, whatever is the matter with her? When I saw her yesterday she was most charming. And now to-day she treats me as though all were over between us. What crime can I have been guilty of? It would be so kind of you, my dear Maxime, to ask her, and to tell her how she makes me suffer."

"Not if I know it!" replied Maxime laughing. "Renée's nerves are upset, I've no wish to receive the brunt of her ill-humour. Settle your differences between yourselves."

And after slowly puffing out the smoke of his havanna, he added:

"It's a pretty part you want me to play!"

But Monsieur de Mussy talked of his great friendship, and assured the young man he was only awaiting an opportunity to show him how devoted he was to him. He was very miserable, he loved Renée so!

"Very well! it's agreed," said Maxime at length, "I will speak to her; but, you know, I can promise nothing; she is pretty sure to send me about my business."

They re-entered the smoking-room, and stretched themselves out in two capacious easy-chairs. And during a good half hour Monsieur de Mussy related all his tribulations to Maxime; he told him for the tenth time how it was he had fallen in love with the young man's stepmother, and how she had been gracious enough to notice him; and whilst finishing his cigar Maxime gave him some advice, explaining Renée's nature to him, and showing him how he should set to work to overcome her.

Saccard having taken a seat a few steps away from the young men, Monsieur de Mussy lapsed into silence, and Maxime said in conclusion:

"Were I in your place, I would treat her very cavalierly. She likes it."

The smoking-room occupied, at one end of the principal drawing-room, one of the round apartments formed by the towers. It was fitted up in a style both very rich and very sober. Papered with a material imitating Cordovan leather, it had Algerian curtains and door hangings, and a Wilton carpet of Persian design. The furniture was upholstered with shagreen leather the colour of wood, and comprised settees, easy-chairs and a circular divan which went nearly all round the room. The little chandelier, the ornaments of the table and of the fire-place, were of pale green Florentine bronze.

There had only remained with the ladies a few young fellows, and some pale and flabby-faced old men, who held tobacco in horror. In the smoking-room, there was a great deal of laughing going on and some very broad jokes were being bandied about. Monsieur Hupel de la Noue diverted the gentlemen immensely by again relating the story he had told during dinner, but completing it this time by some most indecent details. He had a specialty for this sort of thing; he always had two versions of an anecdote, one for ladies, the other for men. Then, Aristide Saccard entered and was at once surrounded and complimented; and as he pretended not to understand what it was all about, Monsieur de Saffré told him, in a greatly applauded speech, that he had deserved well of his country for having prevented the beautiful Laure d'Aurigny from going over to the English.

"No, really, gentlemen, you are mistaken," stammered Saccard with false modesty.

"Oh! don't try to excuse yourself!" cried Maxime chaffingly. "It's very meritorious at your age."

The young man who had just thrown away the stump of his cigar returned to the drawing-room. A great number of visitors had arrived. The gallery was full of men in evening dress standing up and conversing in low tones, and of ladies in ample skirts which they spread out on the couches. Some lackeys were taking round some silver salvers bearing ices and glasses of punch.

Maxime, who wished to speak to Renée, passed right through the drawing-room, knowing very well where to find the ladies' favourite spot. At the opposite end to the smoking-room was another round apartment adorably fitted up as a boudoir. Its curtains and hangings of satin, the colour of buttercups, gave it a voluptuous charm, of quite an original and exquisite taste. The lights of the chandelier, which was of very delicate workmanship, appeared quite pale amidst all this sun-like splendour. The effect resembled a flood of the subdued rays from a sunset on a field of ripe corn. The light expired at one's feet on an Aubusson carpet strewn with dead leaves. An ebony piano inlaid with ivory, two little cabinets the glass doors of which displayed a host of nicknacks, a Louis XVI. table, and a flowerstand holding an enormous sheaf of flowers, sufficed to furnish the room. The small couches, the easy-chairs and the settees, were covered with padded buttercup satin divided at intervals by broad black bands of the same material embroidered with gay coloured tulips. And there were also low seats, lounge-chairs, and every variety of stool, both elegant and fantastical. Not a glimpse of the woodwork of these articles was visible; the satin and the padding covered all. The backs were so curved as to be as comfortable as bolsters. They were like so many discreet beds on which one could sleep and love amidst the down, to the accompaniment of the sensual symphony of the pale yellow light.

Renée had an especial liking for this little room, one of the French windows of which opened into the magnificent conservatory fixed to the side of the mansion. During the day-time she spent most of her leisure hours there. Instead of softening her light hair, the yellow hangings gave it a strangely golden hue; her head stood out all pink and white in the midst of a dawn-like glimmer, like that of a fair Diana awakening at the break of day; and this was no doubt why she loved this little room which gave a heavenly setting to her beauty.

At this hour she was there with her intimate friends. Her sister and her aunt had just departed. There were none but madcaps in the sanctum. Leaning back in the depths of a sofa, Renée was listening to the secrets of her friend Adeline, who was whispering in her ear with feline playfulness and sudden bursts of laughter. Suzanne Haffner was in great request; she was holding her own against a group of young men who were pressing her closely, without losing any of her German languor, her provoking effrontery, as bare and cold as her shoulders. In a corner, Madame Sidonie was enlightening in a low voice a young woman with the eyes of a virgin. Farther off, Louise was standing talking with a big timid fellow who blushed violently; whilst Baron Gouraud was dozing in an easy-chair full in the light, displaying his flabby flesh, his pale elephantine form, in the midst of the frail graces and the silky daintiness of the ladies. And all about the room, on the stiff satin skirts shining like china, on the milky white shoulders studded with diamonds, a light of fairy-land fell in a golden dust. A soft voice, a laugh no louder than the cooing of a dove, had as limpid a ring as crystal. It was very warm in there. Fans were moving slowly to and fro like wings, disseminating at each breath in the sultry atmosphere the musked perfumes of the bodices.

When Maxime appeared in the doorway, Renée, who was listening to the marchioness in an absent-minded way, rose up hastily, pretending to have to play her part as mistress of the house. She passed into the principal drawing-room where the young man followed her. After smilingly taking a few steps there and shaking hands with different people, she drew Maxime aside.

"Well!" whispered she ironically, "the task seems an easy one; you don't appear to find courting as stupid as you imagined."

"I don't understand you," replied the young man, who was about to plead for Monsieur de Mussy.

"Why I think I did well not to deliver you from Louise. You don't waste any time, you two."

And she added with a sort of vexation:

"At table, too, it was quite indecent."

Maxime burst out laughing.

"Ah! yes, we were telling each other stories. I did not know her, the chit. She's very funny. She's just like a boy."

And as Renée's face still bore the irritated look of a prude, the young man, who had never known her so indignant before, resumed with smiling familiarity:

"Do you think, pretty mamma, that I pinched her legs under the table? Hang it all, one knows how to behave towards one's betrothed! I have something far more serious to tell you. Listen to me—you are listening, are you not?"

He lowered his voice still more.

"This is what's the matter. Monsieur de Mussy is very miserable; he has just told me so. You know it's not for me to bring you together again, if you've had a row. But, you understand, I was at college with him, and as he really seems to be in despair, I promised him I would speak to you."

He stopped. Renée was looking at him in a very strange manner.

"You don't answer?" continued he. "Anyhow, I have done what I promised. Settle the matter between you as you like. But, really now, I cannot help thinking you cruel. I quite feel for the poor fellow. In your place I would send him at least a kind message."

Then Renée, who had not taken the bright, fixed look of her eyes off Maxime, replied:

"Go and tell Monsieur de Mussy that he bores me."

And she resumed her slow walk amidst the groups, smiling, bowing, and shaking hands. Maxime stood for a moment lost in surprise; then he quietly laughed to himself.

Not at all desirous of delivering the message to Monsieur de Mussy, he took a turn round the principal drawing-room. The party was drawing to a close, marvellous and commonplace like most parties. It was close upon midnight; the guests were slowly departing. Not wishing to retire with a feeling of unpleasantness, he decided to seek Louise. He was passing before the hall door when he caught sight of the pretty Madame Michelin being wrapt up by her husband in a little pink and blue cloak.

"He was most charming, most charming," the young woman was saying. "We talked of you the whole of dinner. He will speak to the minister; only, it is not in his province—"

And as, close to them, a footman was assisting Baron Gouraud on with a big fur coat:

"That's the old fellow who could settle the matter!" added she in her husband's ear, whilst he was tying the string of her hood under her chin. "He does just as he likes at the ministry. At the Mareuils' to-morrow we must try—"

Monsieur Michelin smiled. He took his wife off with the greatest care, as though he had on his arm a most fragile and precious object. After assuring himself by a glance that Louise was not in the hall, Maxime went straight to the little drawing-room. She was still there, almost alone, and awaiting her father, who had probably spent the evening in the smoking-room with the politicians. The marchioness and Madame Haffner had taken their departure. There only remained Madame Sidonie telling the wives of some functionaries how much she loved animals.

"Ah! here's my little husband," exclaimed Louise. "Come and sit down and tell me in what chair my father can have fallen asleep. He must already be fancying himself in the Chamber."

Maxime answered her in a similar strain, and the two young people were soon again laughing as loud as during dinner. Seated on a very low chair at her feet, he ended by taking hold of her hands and by playing with her, just the same as with a comrade. And in truth, with her high-made dress of soft white silk studded with red spots, her flat chest, and her ugly and cunning little urchin's head, she resembled a boy disguised as a girl. But at times her puny arms, her crooked form, assumed negligent postures, and gleams of passion would appear in the depths of her eyes still full of childishness, without her blushing the least in the world at Maxime's playfulness. And they both laughed away, just as though they were by themselves, without even noticing Renée, who was standing half hidden in the centre of the conservatory watching them from a distance.

A moment ago, as she was crossing a path, the sight of Maxime and Louise had suddenly brought the young woman to a standstill behind a shrub. All about her, the warm conservatory, similar to the nave of a church, and the glass arched roof of which was supported on slender iron columns, displayed its fertile vegetation, its masses of gigantic leaves, its clumps of luxuriant verdure.

In the centre, in an oval tank on a level with the ground, lived, in the mysterious manner of water plants, all the aquatic flora of the land of the sun. A border of Cyclantheæ raising their tall green plumes, surrounded with a monumental belt the fountain which resembled the truncated capital of some Cyclopean column. Then, at either end, two enormous Tornelias reared their strange-looking bushes above the water, their dry, bare stems twisted like agonizing serpents, and emitting aerial roots which had an appearance of fishermen's nets hung up to dry. Close to the edge, a Pandanus from Java expanded its sheaf of greenish leaves streaked with white, as thin as swords, prickly and serrated like Malay daggers. And floating amid the warmth of the gently heated sheet of slumbering water, some Nymphæa opened their rosy stars, whilst some Euryale trailed their round and leprous-looking leaves over the surface, appearing like the backs of so many monstrous toads covered with pustules.

By way of carpeting, a broad edging of Selaginella surrounded the tank. This dwarf fern formed a thick moss-like sward of a tender green. And beyond the wide circular path, four enormous groups of exotic plants shot right up to the arched roof; the palms, slightly drooping in their gracefulness, spread out their fan-like leaves, displayed their rounded heads, hung down their branches like so many oars wearied by their eternal voyage in the azure of the air; the great bamboos from India ascended erect, slender and hard, with their fine shower of leaves falling from on high; a Ravenala, the traveller's tree, held up its bunch of immense Chinese screens; and, in a corner, a Banana tree loaded with fruit stretched out in all directions its long, horizontal leaves, on which two lovers might easily recline providing they kept pretty close to each other. In the corners were some Euphorbia from Abyssinia, those prickly, ill-shaped torch-thistles covered with horrid excrescences and reeking with poison. And the ground beneath the taller plants was carpeted by dwarf ferns, including the Adiantum and the Pteris, with fronds as delicate as the finest lace-work. A taller species, the Alsophilas, tapered upwards with their rows of symmetrical and sexangular foliage so regular that it had the appearance of enormous pieces of crockery intended to hold the fruits of some gigantic dessert. Then an edging of Begonias and Caladiums surrounded the beds; the Begonias with their twisted leaves superbly streaked with green and red; the Caladiums, the leaves of which, shaped like lance heads, white and veined with green, resemble the wings of some monstrous butterfly; bizarre plants which vegetate strangely with the sombre or palish glow of noisome flowers.

Behind the beds a second path, a narrower one, went right round the conservatory. And there, on stages, half hiding the pipes of the heating apparatus, bloomed Marantas, as soft to the touch as velvet, Gloxinias, with their purple bell-shaped flowers, Dracænas, resembling blades of old lacquer.

But one of the charms of this winter garden consisted in alcoves of verdure in the four corners, roomy arbours shut in by thick curtains of tropical creepers. Bits of virgin forests had weaved in these spots their walls of leaves, their impenetrable medley of stems, of supple shoots, clinging to the branches, traversing space by a bold leap, and hanging from the arched roof like the tassels of some rich drapery. A root of Vanilla, with its ripe pods exhaling a penetrating perfume, trailed about the arch of a moss-covered porch, whilst the Indian berry decked the little columns with its round leaves; Bauhinias, with their red bunches, and the Quisqualis, the flowers of which hung like necklets of glass beads, glided, twined and entangled themselves like slender snakes endlessly playing and stretching amidst the depths of the foliage.

And beneath the arches placed here and there between the beds, and held by wire chains, hung baskets filled with Orchids, those bizarre plants of the air, which spread in all directions their stunted and knotted shoots bent and twisted like crippled limbs. There were Lady's-slippers, the flowers of which resemble a marvellous shoe adorned on the heel with the wings of a dragon-fly; Ærides with their delicate perfume; and Stanhopeas, the pale streaked flowers of which, like the bitter mouth of some convalescent, exhale to a distance a strong and acrid breath.

But that which, from every point of view, was the most conspicuous object, was a great Hibiscus from China, its immense expanse of flowers and foliage covering the whole side of the mansion to which the conservatory was fixed. The large purple flowers of this gigantic mallow are ever being renewed, and live but a few hours. One could almost fancy them a woman's sensual, opening mouths, the red soft moist lips of some giant Messalina, bruised by kisses and yet ever reviving with their eager and bleeding smile.

Renée stood near the tank, and shivered in the midst of all these superb blossoms. Behind her, a great black marble sphinx, squatting on a block of granite, its head turned towards the water, wore on its features the wary and cruel smile of a cat; and it looked like the dark Idol with shining thighs of that land of fire. At this hour ground glass globes cast a milky light over the surrounding foliage. Statues, women's heads with the necks thrown back, and swelling with mirth, stood out white from the recesses of the groups of shrubs, with patches of shadow which contorted their mad laughter. Strange rays played about the deep still water of the tank, lighting up vague forms and glaucous masses resembling rough designs of monsters. Over the smooth leaves of the Ravenala, on the glossy fans of the Latanias, streamed a flood of white light; whilst from the lace-work of the ferns fell a gentle rain of sparks. Up above shone the reflections from the glass roof amongst the sombre heads of the tall palms. Then, all around, everything was wrapt in shadow; the arbours, with their drapery of tropical creepers, became lost in the darkness, like the nests of slumbering reptiles.

CHAPTER II.

Aristide Rougon swooped down upon Paris on the morrow of the Coup d'État, with that scent of birds of prey which sniff the field of carnage from afar. He came from Plassans, a sub-prefecture of the South, where his father had at length netted in the troubled waters of events an office of tax collector for which he had long been angling. As for himself, still young, and having compromised his position like a fool, with neither glory nor profit, he could only feel very fortunate in issuing safe and sound from the squabble. He came, with a rush, enraged at his mistake, cursing the country, speaking of Paris with a wolf-like greed, and swearing "that he would never be caught napping again;" and the keen smile with which he accompanied these words assumed a terrible significance on his thin lips.

He arrived in the early days of 1852. He was accompanied by his wife Angèle, a fair and insignificant creature, whom he placed in a small lodging in the Rue Saint-Jacques, like some awkward piece of furniture he was anxious to be rid of. The young woman had been unwilling to be separated from her daughter, little Clotilde, a child four years old, whom the father would willingly have left behind to be taken care of by his relations. But he had only yielded to his wife's wish on condition that the college at Plassans should retain their son Maxime, a youngster of eleven, who would be looked after by the grandmother. Aristide wished to have his hands free; a woman and a child already seemed to him a crushing weight to encumber a man decided to overcome all obstacles, though he grovelled in the mud or perished in the attempt.

The very evening of his arrival, whilst Angèle was unpacking, he felt an eager longing to explore Paris, to hear his heavy countryman's boots striking that burning pavement from which he hoped to cause millions to spring forth. It was a regular taking of possession. He walked for the sake of walking, following the footpaths, just as though in a conquered country. He had a very clear conception of the battle he was about to offer, and it was not in the least repugnant to his feelings to compare himself to a skilful picklock who, by artifice or violence, was about to take his share of the common wealth which had been wickedly refused him until then. Had he felt the need of an excuse, he would have invoked his every desire denied him for ten years, his wretched country existence, his faults especially, for which he held society at large responsible. But at this moment, in that emotion of a gambler who at last places his eager hands on the green baize of the gaming-table, he was filled with joy, a joy of his own, in which blended the gratification of covetousness and the expectation of an unpunished rogue. The atmosphere of Paris intoxicated him, he fancied he could hear, in the rumbling of the vehicles, the voices from "Macbeth" calling to him: "You will be rich!" During close upon two hours he wandered thus from street to street, enjoying the voluptuousness of a man roaming amidst his own vice. He had not been back in Paris since the happy year he had passed there as a student. Night was falling; his dream grew in the bright lights which the shops and the cafés cast on the pavement; he lost himself.

When he raised his eyes, he found himself towards the middle of the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. One of his brothers, Eugène Rougon, lived in a street close by, the Rue de Penthièvre. In coming to Paris, Aristide had especially counted upon Eugène who, after having been one of the most active agents of the Coup d'État, had now become an occult power, a lawyer of no particular standing but who was shortly to blossom into a great political personage. But, superstitious as a gambler, he was unwilling to knock at his brother's door on that evening. He slowly retraced his steps to the Rue Saint-Jacques, inwardly envying Eugène's lot, glancing down at his own shabby clothes still covered with the dust of the journey, and seeking to console himself by resuming his dream of riches. Even this dream had become bitter to him. Having started out through a necessity for expansion, joyfully enlivened by the busy activity of Paris trade, he returned home irritated at the happiness which seemed to him to be rampant in the streets, feeling more ferocious than ever, imagining all kinds of desperate struggles in which he would take pleasure in defeating and duping that crowd which had jostled him on the pavement. Never before had he felt so keen and vast an appetite, so immediate and ardent a necessity for enjoying.

On the morrow he was at his brother's, almost at daybreak. Eugène occupied two large cold rooms, very barely furnished, and which quite chilled Aristide. He had expected to find his brother sprawling in the lap of luxury. The latter was seated working at a little black table. He merely said in his slow voice, accompanying his words with a smile:

"Ah! it's you, I was expecting your visit."

Aristide was very bitter. He accused Eugène of having left him to vegetate, of not even having bestowed upon him so much as a word of advice during the time he had been dabbling about in his native province. He would never be able to forgive himself for having remained Republican up to the very day of the Coup d'État; it caused him the most poignant regret, and filled him with eternal confusion. Eugène had quietly taken up his pen again. When the other had finished speaking, he observed:

"Bah! all mistakes can be rectified. You have a fine future before you."

He uttered these words in so clear a tone of voice, and with so penetrating a glance, that Aristide bowed his head, feeling that his brother was descending into the innermost depths of his being. The latter continued with a sort of friendly bluntness:

"You've come to me to get you something to do, have you not? I've already thought of you, but I've found nothing as yet. You see, I can't put you into the first position that offers. You need an occupation that will enable you to carry on your little game without danger either to yourself or to me. Don't protest, we're alone here, and can say anything to each other."

Aristide thought it best to laugh.

"Oh! I know that you're intelligent," continued Eugène, "and that you're not likely to do anything foolish again without you reap some benefit from it. So soon as a good opportunity offers, I will do something for you. Meanwhile, if you should happen to be in want of a twenty-franc piece, come to me for it."

They talked for a few minutes about the insurrection in the South, through which their father had gained his appointment of tax collector. Eugène dressed himself while talking. Just as he was parting from his brother outside in the street, he detained him a moment longer to say in a lower tone of voice:

"By-the-way, you'll oblige me by not loafing about, but by quietly waiting at home for the berth I promise you. It would annoy me to see my brother dancing attendance on any one."

Aristide had a high respect for Eugène, who seemed to him a wonderfully smart fellow. He did not however forgive him his mistrust, nor his rather rough frankness; nevertheless he obediently went and shut himself up in the Rue Saint-Jacques. He had arrived with five hundred francs which his wife's father had lent him. After paying the expenses of the journey, he made the three hundred francs that remained to him last a month. Angèle was a hearty eater; moreover she thought it necessary to retrim her best dress with some mauve ribbons. This month of waiting appeared interminable to Aristide. He was burning with impatience. Each time he leaned out of his window and felt the gigantic labour of Paris beneath him, he experienced a mad longing to throw himself into the furnace with one bound, so as to mould the gold with his quivering fingers, as though it had been wax. He inhaled those still vague vapours which rose from the great city, that breath of the nascent Empire, laden already with the odours of alcoves and financial hells, with the warm effluvia of every kind of enjoyment. The faint fumes that reached him seemed to tell him that he was on the right scent, that the quarry was scudding along before him, that the grand imperial hunt, the pursuit of adventures, of women, and of millions, was about to begin. His nostrils quivered, his instinct of a famished beast caught in a marvellous manner as they passed the slightest signs of that fierce division of spoil of which the city was to be the scene.

Twice he called on his brother to urge him to be more expeditious. Eugène received him rather ungraciously, repeating that he was not forgetting him, but that it was necessary to wait patiently. At length Aristide received a letter requesting him to call in the Rue de Penthièvre. He hastened thither, his heart beating violently, as though he were on his way to a lovers' meeting. He found Eugène seated before the same little black table, in the large cold room which he used as a study. On his appearance the lawyer held a document towards him, saying:

"There, I settled your matter yesterday. You are appointed deputy trustee of roads at the Hôtel de Ville. You will be in receipt of a salary of two thousand four hundred francs."

Aristide had remained standing. He turned ghastly pale, and did not take the document, thinking that his brother was poking fun at him. He had at least expected an appointment worth six thousand francs a year. Eugène, guessing what was passing within him, wheeled his chair round and folded his arms.

"Are you a fool after all?" he asked angrily. "You've been building castles in the air like a girl, have you not? You would wish to have a grand establishment with footmen, to live on the fat of the land, sleep in silk, gratify your desires at once in no matter whose arms, in a boudoir furnished in a couple of hours. You and those like you, if we allowed you to have your way, would empty the coffers even before they were full. Now, in the name of all that's good! do have a little patience! See how I live, and do at least take the trouble to stoop to pick up a fortune."

He spoke with profound contempt of his brother's schoolboy impatience. One could feel, in his rough speech, a loftier ambition, a longing for untarnished power; that naive appetite for money no doubt appeared to him both paltry and puerile. He continued in a gentler voice and with a crafty smile:

"No doubt your propensities are excellent, and I have not the least desire to thwart them. Men like you are precious. We have every intention of choosing our friends from among the most hungry. You may be quite easy, we shall keep open house, and the greatest appetites will be satisfied. And this is after all the easiest way of reigning. But, for goodness sake, wait till the cloth is laid, and, if you'll accept my advice, just go yourself and fetch your knife and fork from the kitchen."

Aristide continued to look very glum. His brother's pleasant comparisons were unable to bring a smile to his countenance. Then the latter again gave way to anger.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, "my first opinion was the right one: you're a fool! What on earth did you expect, whatever did you imagine I was going to do with your illustrious person? You didn't even have the courage to finish your reading for the bar, you went and buried yourself for ten years in the wretched berth of clerk at a sub-prefecture, and you come to me with the detestable reputation of a Republican whom the Coup d'État was alone able to convert. Do you think that with such a past there is the making of a cabinet minister in you? Oh! I know that you have in your favour a ferocious desire to reach the goal by any means possible. That is a great virtue, I admit, and it was precisely on that account that I obtained your admittance into the Hôtel de Ville."

And rising from his seat he placed the document containing the appointment in Aristide's hands.

"Take it," continued he, "you'll thank me some day. It's I who chose the berth, I know what you'll be able to get out of it. All you'll have to do will be to look about you and keep your ears open. If you are intelligent, you'll soon understand and know how to act. Now pay particular attention to what I am about to say to you. Make piles of money, I permit it; only do nothing foolish, no noisy scandal, otherwise I shall suppress you instantly."

This threat produced the effect his promises had been unable to obtain. All Aristide's ardour was rekindled at the thought of the fortune to which his brother alluded. It seemed to him that he was at last let loose in the thick of the fray, authorised to slaughter right and left, but legally, and without causing too much commotion. Eugène gave him two hundred francs to enable him to wait till the end of the month. Then he remained wrapt in thought.

"I'm thinking of changing my name," said he at length; "you ought to do the same. We should interfere with each other less."

"As you like," answered Aristide quietly.

"You need not trouble yourself about anything. I will attend to the necessary formalities. How would you like to call yourself by your wife's name Sicardot?"

Aristide glanced up at the ceiling, repeating the name, and listening to the sound of the syllables.

"Sicardot—Aristide Sicardot—no, on my word, it's clownish and has a suggestion of bankruptcy about it."

"Think of something better then," said Eugène.

"I would prefer Sicard without the ot," resumed the other after a pause; "Aristide Sicard—that isn't bad, is it? perhaps a bit jaunty—"

He stood thinking a few moments longer, and then triumphantly exclaimed:

"I've got it, I've found it at last! Saccard, Aristide Saccard! with a double c. Eh! there's money in such a name as that; it has a sound like the counting out of five franc pieces."

Eugène was rather brutal in his jokes. He dismissed his brother, saying to him with a smile:

"Yes, a name that will make you a convict or a millionaire."

A few days later Aristide Saccard found himself at the Hôtel de Ville. He there learnt that his brother must have commanded considerable influence to get him appointed without the customary examinations.

Then the couple began the monotonous life of the underpaid clerk. Aristide and his wife resumed their old Plassans ways. Only they fell from a dream of sudden fortune, and their poverty-stricken existence weighed heavier upon them, now that they looked upon it as a time of probation, the duration of which they were unable to fix. To be poor in Paris, is to be doubly poor. Angèle accepted the wretchedness of their position with all the listlessness of a chlorotic woman. She spent days in her kitchen, or else lying on the floor, playing with her daughter, and never lamenting except when she reached her last twenty-sou piece. But Aristide quivered with rage in the midst of this poverty, of this narrow existence, out of which he sought an issue like some caged beast. To him it was a period of ineffable suffering; his pride was wounded, his unsated cravings goaded him furiously. And he suffered all the more on learning that his brother had been elected to represent Plassans in Parliament. He felt too much Eugène's superiority to be foolishly jealous; but he accused him of not doing all that he might have done for him. On several occasions, absolute necessity forced him to knock at his door for the purpose of borrowing a trifle. Eugène lent the money, but at the same time roughly reproached him with being destitute of both courage and will. Then Aristide took the bull indeed by the horns. He swore to himself that he would never again borrow so much as a sou from any one, and he kept his oath. The last eight days of each month, Angèle would eat dry bread and sigh. This apprenticeship completed Saccard's terrible education. His thin lips became narrower still; he was no longer so stupid as to dream of millions out loud; his scraggy person became dumb, and no longer expressed but one will, one fixed idea nursed at every hour of the day. When he hurried along from the Rue Saint-Jacques to the Hôtel de Ville, his boots worn down at heel resounded harshly on the pavement, and he buttoned himself up in his shabby old overcoat as though in an asylum of hatred, while his weasel-like snout sniffed the air of the streets. He was an angular figure of the jealous misery that one sees roaming along the Paris side-walks, carrying with him his plan for conquering a fortune, and the dream of the eventual gratification of his appetite.

Early in 1853, Aristide Saccard was appointed trustee of roads. He now received a salary of four thousand five hundred francs. This rise came at an opportune moment; Angèle was slowly wasting away; little Clotilde was looking quite pale. He retained his small lodging of two rooms, the dining-room furnished in walnut, and the bedroom in mahogany, continuing to lead an austere life, carefully avoiding getting into debt, unwilling to touch other people's money until he could bury his arms into it to the elbows. He thus belied his instincts, disdaining the few extra sous he received, preferring to remain on the watch. Angèle felt completely happy. She bought herself some new clothes, and had a joint to roast every day of the week. She could no longer understand the reason of her husband's suppressed passion, his gloomy ways of a man working out the solution of some formidable problem.

Acting on Eugène's advice, Aristide was keeping his eyes and ears open. When he went to thank his brother for his promotion, the latter understood the revolution that had taken place within him; he complimented him on what he called his good appearance. The clerk, whom envy was inwardly rendering inflexible, had outwardly become pliant and insinuating. In a few months he was transformed into a marvellous comedian. All his southern animation had awakened, and he carried the art so far that his comrades at the Hôtel de Ville looked upon him as a jolly good fellow, whose near relationship to a deputy designed beforehand for some grand appointment. This relationship also secured him the good will of his chiefs. He thus enjoyed a kind of authority superior to his position, which enabled him to open certain doors, and to poke his nose into certain portfolios, without his indiscretion appearing in the least culpable. For two years he was seen roaming about all the passages, lingering in all the rooms, getting up from his seat twenty times a day to talk to a comrade, carry an order, or take a stroll through the different departments, endless wanderings which caused his colleagues to say:

"That devil of a Southerner! he can't keep still a minute; he must indeed have quicksilver in his legs."

His own particular friends took him for a lazy fellow, and the worthy man laughed when they accused him of seeking to rob the service of a few minutes. He never committed the mistake of listening at key-holes; but he had a bold way of opening doors, and crossing rooms, apparently deeply intent upon some document or other in his hand, and with so slow and regular a walk that he never lost a word of whatever was being said. They were the tactics of a genius; people ended by no longer interrupting their conversation when this energetic clerk passed by, gliding so to say in the shadow of the offices, and seemingly so wrapt in his own business. He had yet another method; he was extremely obliging, and would offer to assist his comrades, whenever they were behindhand with their work; and then he would study the registers and the documents that passed through his hands with quite a meditative tenderness. But one of his favourite peccadilloes was to form acquaintance with the messengers. He would even shake hands with them. For hours together he would keep them talking in doorways, stifling little bursts of laughter, telling them stories, and drawing them out. These worthy fellows quite worshipped him, and were in the habit of saying:

"There's a gentleman who isn't a bit proud!"

The moment there was the least scandal, he knew of it before any one. It was thus that at the end of two years the Hôtel de Ville held no mysteries for him. He knew everybody employed there, even to the lamp cleaners, and was acquainted with every paper the place contained, not omitting the washing books.

At this time, Paris formed, for a man like Aristide Saccard, a most interesting spectacle. The Empire had just been proclaimed, after that famous journey during which the Prince President had succeeded in arousing the enthusiasm of some Bonapartist departments. Silence reigned both at the tribune and in the press. Society, saved once more, was congratulating itself and indolently resting, now that a strong government was protecting it and relieving it even of the trouble of thinking and of attending to its own business. The great preoccupation of society was to know in what way it should kill time. As Eugène Rougon so happily expressed it, Paris was dining and anticipating no end of pleasure at dessert. Politics produced an universal scare, like some dangerous drug. The wearied minds turned to pleasure and money-making. Those who had any of the latter brought it out, and those who had none sought in all the out-of-the-way places for forgotten treasures. A secret quiver seemed to run through the multitude, accompanied by a nascent jingling of five-franc pieces, by the rippling laughter of women, and the yet faint clatter of crockery and murmur of kisses. Amidst the great silence of the reign of order, the profound peacefulness brought by the change of government, there arose all sorts of pleasant rumours, gilded and voluptuous promises. It was as though one were passing in front of one of those little houses, the carefully drawn curtains of which reveal no more than the shadows of women, and where one can overhear the jingling of gold on the marble mantelpieces. The Empire was about to turn Paris into the bagnio of Europe. The handful of adventurers who had just stolen a throne needed a reign of adventure, of shadowy business transactions, of consciences sold, of women bought, of furious and universal intoxication. And, in the city where the blood of December was scarcely wiped away, there slowly uprose, timidly as yet, that mad desire for enjoyment which was destined to bring the country to the lowest dregs of corrupt and dishonoured nations.

From the very first days Aristide Saccard had felt the approach of this rising tide of speculation, the foam of which was soon to envelop the whole of Paris. He watched its progress with profound attention. He found himself right in the very midst of the warm downpour of silver crowns falling thick and fast on to the roofs of the city. In his constant wanderings through the Hôtel de Ville, he had obtained an inkling of the vast project for the transformation of Paris, of the plan of the demolitions and of the new thoroughfares and the altered districts, of the formidable jobbery with respect to the sale of the land and the buildings, which was kindling all over the town the battle of interests and the flare-up of unbridled luxury. From that moment his activity had an object. It was at this epoch that he became quite a jolly good fellow. He even grew a trifle stout, he no longer hurried about the streets like a half starved cat in search of something to devour. At his office he was more talkative, more obliging than ever. His brother, to whom he paid occasional visits, in some measure official, congratulated him on so happily putting his counsels into practice. In the early days of 1854, Saccard confided to him that he had several affairs in view, but that he would require some rather large advances in the way of money.

"You should look about," said Eugène.

"You are right, I will look about," he replied without the least trace of ill-humour, and without appearing to notice that his brother declined to furnish him with the necessary funds.

How to procure this money had now become his constant thought. His plan was formed; it grew maturer every day. But he was as far as ever from obtaining the first few thousands of francs he required. His faculties became keener; he began to look at people in a profound and nervous manner, as though he were seeking a lender in every passer-by. Angèle continued to lead at home her secluded and happy existence. He was for ever watching for an opportunity, and his laugh of a jolly good fellow became more bitter as this opportunity delayed in presenting itself.

Aristide had a sister living in Paris. Sidonie Rougon had married a solicitor's clerk at Plassans, who had come with her to the Rue Saint-Honoré to start business as a dealer in Southern commodities. When her brother came across her, the husband had disappeared, and the business had long ago gone to the dogs. She occupied in the Rue du Faubourg-Poissonnière, a small mezzanine floor consisting of three rooms. She also leased the shop beneath, a narrow and mysterious shop in which she pretended to carry on the business of a dealer in lace. True enough, there was a display of Valenciennes and Maltese lace suspended from gilt rods in the window; but inside, the place had more the look of an ante-room, with its polished wainscotting, and a total absence of goods of any description. Light curtains hung before the glazed door and the window, intercepting the glances of the passers-by, and helping to give the shop the veiled and discreet appearance of a waiting-room at the entrance to some strange temple. It was very seldom that any customer was seen to call at Madame Sidonie's; the handle was even generally removed from the door. She spread a report in the neighbourhood that she went personally to offer her wares to ladies of fortune. The convenient arrangement of the place, she would say, had alone caused her to rent the shop and the floor above which communicated by a staircase hidden in the wall. And indeed the lace-dealer was constantly out of doors; she might be seen hurrying in or out at least ten times a day.

The lace trade, however, was not her only business; she utilised her upper floor—cramming it full of merchandise of one sort or another, bought up no one knew where. At different times she had dealt there in gutta-percha goods, such as waterproof coats, shoes, braces, &c; then had followed a new oil to promote the growth of the hair, various orthopedic instruments, and an automatic coffee-pot, a patented invention, the working of which gave her a great deal of trouble. The first time her brother came to see her, she had gone in for pianos, to such an extent that her apartments were full of them; they were even in her bedroom, a very daintily decorated room, which contrasted violently with the commercial untidiness of the two others. She carried on her two businesses with perfect method; the customers who came for the goods on the mezzanine floor, entered and departed by means of a carriage entrance which gave admittance to the house from the Rue Papillon; only those acquainted with the mysterious little staircase were able to form an idea of the lace-dealer's underhand trading. Up in her apartments she was known as Madame Touche, which was the name of her husband, whilst she had had only her Christian name painted on the shop-door, which was the reason for her being generally addressed as Madame Sidonie.

Madame Sidonie was thirty-five years of age, but she dressed so carelessly, she had so little of the woman in her appearance, that one would have taken her to be much older. In truth, she was a person whose age it would have been difficult to tell. She was always seen in the same black dress, frayed at the edges, rumpled and discoloured by constant wear, reminding one of a lawyer's old gown become threadbare through years of daily attendance in court. With a black bonnet which came as low as her forehead and hid all her hair, and a pair of thick heavy shoes, she scurried along the streets, carrying on her arm a little basket the handles of which had been mended with pieces of string. This basket, which never left her, was quite a little world in itself. Whenever she raised the lid, samples of all sorts issued forth, diaries, pocket books, and especially bundles of stamped documents, the almost illegible writing of which she deciphered with extraordinary dexterity. She comprised in her person something of the broker and of the man of law. She lived amidst protests, writs, and orders of the court; when she had secured an order for ten francs' worth of pomatum or lace, she would insinuate herself into the good graces of her customer, and become her man of business, calling in her stead on solicitors, barristers and judges.

She would thus carry for weeks together at the bottom of her basket all the documents relating to a case, taking no end of trouble about it, going from one end of Paris to the other, with the same regular little trot-trot, never for a moment thinking of riding to save her legs. It would have been difficult to say what profit she obtained from such a business; in the first place she engaged in it through an instinctive taste for questionable matters, a love for cavilling; besides this, however, it enabled her to secure a host of little profits; invitations to dinner in every direction, innumerable franc pieces pocketed here and there. But her clearest gain was undoubtedly the numerous secrets confided to her wherever she went, which showed her where a good stroke of business was to be done or a handsome windfall to be obtained. Living in the homes of others and wrapt up in their affairs, she had become a veritable repertory existing on offers and demands. She knew where there was a daughter ready to be married at once, a family in need of three thousand francs, an old gentleman willing to lend the three thousand francs, but on substantial security and at a high rate of interest. She knew of matters more delicate still: the sadness of a fair lady whose husband did not understand her, and who longed to be understood; the secret desires of a good mother who dreamed of settling her daughter advantageously; the taste of a certain baron for little supper-parties and very young girls. And smiling faintly, she went about hawking these offers and these demands, she would walk a couple of leagues to bring her clients together; she sent the baron to the good mother, prevailed upon the old gentleman to lend the three thousand francs to the needy family, obtained the necessary consolation for the fair lady and a not over-scrupulous husband for the young girl in a hurry to marry.

She was also engaged in some very important business, business that there was no occasion to keep secret, and with which she pestered whoever went near her: an interminable law-suit that a noble but ruined family had intrusted her with, and a debt owing by the English to the French nation since the time of the Stuarts, and which amounted with the compound interest to nearly three milliards of francs. This debt of three milliards was her hobby-horse; she would explain the case with no end of particulars, launching out into quite a course of history, and a flush of enthusiasm would rush to her cheeks, usually yellow and flabby like wax. At times, between a call on a lawyer and a visit paid to a lady friend, she would secure an order for a coffee-pot, a mackintosh, a piece of lace, or a piano on hire. These were matters arranged in a moment. Then she would hurry back to her shop, where a lady customer had an appointment with her to see a piece of Chantilly. The customer arrived and glided like a shadow into the discreet and veiled shop. And it often happened that a gentleman, entering by way of the carriage entrance in the Rue Papillon, called at the same time to see Madame Touche's pianos on the floor above.

If Madame Sidonie had not made a fortune, it was because she often worked for love of the thing. With a great hankering after legal business, forgetting her own affairs for those of others, she allowed herself to be fleeced by the lawyers, which procured her, however, an enjoyment unknown to any but litigious persons. There was scarcely anything womanly left about her; she had become nothing more nor less than a man of business, an agent ever bustling about the four corners of Paris, carrying in her legendary basket articles of the most equivocal description, selling every thing, dreaming of milliards, and even going to the court-house for a favourite client to plead in a case of a disputed ten francs. Short, skinny and pale, dressed in that thin black garment which looked as though it had been cut out of a barrister's gown, she seemed to have shrivelled up, and to see her scuttling along close to the houses, one would have taken her for an errand-boy disguised as a girl. Her complexion had the mournful wanness of stamped paper. Her lips parted in a dim smile, whilst her eyes seemed to be wandering amidst the hubbub of business, matters of every description with which she loaded her brain. Of discreet and timid ways, moreover, combined with a vague odour of the confessional and a midwife's sanctum, she always appeared as gentle and maternal as a nun who, having renounced all the affections of this world, takes pity on the sufferings of the heart. She never mentioned her husband, neither did she allude to her childhood, her family, or her affairs. There was only one thing she did not deal in, and that was herself; not that she had any scruples about the matter, but because the idea of such a bargain could never occur to her. She was as dry as an invoice, as cold as a protest, and at heart as brutal and indifferent as a bumbailiff.

Saccard, all fresh from his province, could not at first fathom the delicate depths of Madame Sidonie's numerous callings. As he had during twelve months studied for the bar, she one day spoke to him of the three milliards with a very grave air, which gave him but a poor opinion of her intelligence. She came and rummaged in all the corners of the lodging in the Rue Saint-Jacques, weighed Angèle at a glance, and never again put in an appearance excepting when her own affairs brought her into the neighbourhood, and when she felt a desire to again discuss the question of the three milliards. Angèle had swallowed the bait of the story of the English debt. The woman of business mounted her hobby, and made it rain gold for an hour or more. It was the crack in this shrewd intellect, the gentle myth with which she deluded her life wasted in a wretched traffic, the magical lure that intoxicated not only herself but the more credulous of her clients. Thoroughly convinced, moreover, she ended by speaking of the three milliards as of some private fortune, which the judges would have to restore to her sooner or later, and this shed a marvellous aureola around her shabby black bonnet on which hung a few faded violets attached to brass-wire stems bare of all covering. Angèle would open her eyes wide with amazement. On several occasions, she spoke to her husband of her sister-in-law with great respect, saying that Madame Sidonie would perhaps make them all rich one day. Saccard merely shrugged his shoulders; he had gone and inspected the shop and floor above in the Rue du Faubourg-Poissonnière, and the only impression he had taken away with him was that of an approaching bankruptcy. He wished to know Eugène's opinion of their sister; but his brother became grave and merely replied that he never saw her, that he knew she was very intelligent, though perhaps rather compromising.

However as Saccard was returning to the Rue de Penthièvre some little while afterwards, he fancied he saw Madame Sidonie's black dress leave his brother's abode and glide rapidly along the houses. He hastened forward, but lost all trace of the black garment. The woman of business had one of those spare figures which so easily lose themselves in a crowd. This set him thinking, and it was from this moment that he commenced to study his sister more attentively. It was not long before he began to understand the immense task performed by that pale and shadowy little body, whose entire face seemed to squint and melt away. He came to look upon her with respect. She had the true Rougon blood in her veins. He recognised that appetite for money, that longing for every kind of intrigue which was characteristic of the family; only, in her case, thanks to the surroundings amidst which she had grown old, thanks to that Paris where every morning she had been obliged to set forth to seek her evening meal, the common temperament had deviated from its usual course to produce this extraordinary hermaphrodism of a woman changed into a being without a gender, both man of business and procuress at the same time.

When Saccard, after having fixed upon his plan, was seeking for the means for putting it into execution, he naturally bethought him of his sister. She shook her head, and with a sigh alluded to the three milliards. But the civil servant would not humour her whim, he pulled her up rather roughly each time she mentioned the debt connected with the Stuarts; such a chimera seemed to him to dishonour so practical an intelligence. Madame Sidonie, who quietly swallowed the most cutting irony without in any way allowing her convictions to be shaken, next explained to him in a very lucid manner that he would never raise a sou, having no security to offer. This conversation took place opposite the Bourse, where she no doubt dabbled with her savings. Towards three o'clock one was sure to find her leaning against the railing to the left, near the post-office; it was there that she gave audience to individuals as fishy and shadowy as herself. Her brother was on the point of leaving her, when she murmured regretfully: "Ah! if only you were not married!" This reticence, the full and exact sense of which he was unwilling to ask, made Saccard singularly thoughtful.

Months passed by, the Crimean war had just been declared. Paris, quite unaffected by a war so far away, was launching with more ardour than ever into speculation and women; whilst Saccard stood by gnawing his fists as he assisted at this ever increasing mania which he had long before foreseen. The hammers in the gigantic forge beating the gold upon the anvil made him quiver with rage and impatience. His intelligence and his will were worked up to such a pitch that he lived as in a dream, like a somnambulist walking along the edge of a roof a prey to some fixed idea. He was therefore surprised and annoyed one evening to find Angèle ill and in bed. His home-life, regulated like a clock, was getting out of order, and this exasperated him like some intentional spitefulness of destiny. Poor Angèle complained in a gentle voice; she had taken a severe chill. When the doctor arrived, he appeared very anxious; he told the husband, outside on the landing, that his wife was suffering from inflammation of the lungs and that he could not answer for her life. From that moment the civil servant tended the invalid without a vestige of anger; he no longer went to his office, he remained beside her, watching her with an indefinable expression as she lay sleeping, flushed and panting with fever.