workmen of the Faubourg. The reaction
was at its last gasp.

Pierre, at this overthrow of all his hopes, began to wonder what support
he might still rely on if occasion should require any.

"Wasn't Aristide to come here this evening," he asked, "to make it up
with us?"

"Yes," answered Felicite. "He promised me a good article. The
'Independant' has not appeared yet--"

But her husband interrupted her, crying: "See! isn't that he who is just
coming out of the Sub-Prefecture?"

The old woman glanced in that direction. "He's got his arm in a sling
again!" she cried.

Aristide's hand was indeed wrapped in the silk handkerchief once more.
The Empire was breaking up, but the Republic was not yet triumphant,
and he had judged it prudent to resume the part of a disabled man. He
crossed the square stealthily, without raising his head. Then doubtless
hearing some dangerous and compromising remarks among the groups of
bystanders, he made all haste to turn the corner of the Rue de la Banne.

"Bah! he won't come here," said Felicite bitterly. "It's all up with us.
Even our children forsake us!"

She shut the window violently, in order that she might not see or hear
anything more. When she had lit the lamp, she and her husband sat down
to dinner, disheartened and without appetite, leaving most of their food
on their plates. They only had a few hours left them to take a decisive
step. It was absolutely indispensable that before daybreak Plassans
should be at their feet beseeching forgiveness, or else they must
entirely renounce the fortune which they had dreamed of. The total
absence of any reliable news was the sole cause of their anxious
indecision. Felicite, with her clear intellect, had quickly perceived
this. If they had been able to learn the result of the Coup d'Etat,
they would either have faced it out and have still pursued their role of
deliverers, or else have done what they could to efface all recollection
of their unlucky campaign. But they had no precise information; they
were losing their heads; the thought that they were thus risking their
fortune on a throw, in complete ignorance of what was happening, brought
a cold perspiration to their brows.

"And why the devil doesn't Eugene write to me?" Rougon suddenly cried,
in an outburst of despair, forgetting that he was betraying the secret
of his correspondence to his wife.

But Felicite pretended not to have heard. Her husband's exclamation
had profoundly af