going, pray?" her husband asked her with surprise. "It's
past nine o'clock."

"You go to bed," she replied rather brusquely, "you're not well; go and
rest yourself. Sleep on till I come back; I'll wake you if necessary,
and then we can talk the matter over."

She went out with her usual nimble gait, ran to the post-office, and
abruptly entered the room where Vuillet was still at work. On seeing her
he made a hasty gesture of vexation.

Never in his life had Vuillet felt so happy. Since he had been able
to slip his little fingers into the mail-bag he had enjoyed the most
exquisite pleasure, the pleasure of an inquisitive priest about to
relish the confessions of his penitents. All the sly blabbing, all the
vague chatter of sacristies resounded in his ears. He poked his long,
pale nose into the letters, gazed amorously at the superscriptions with
his suspicious eyes, sounded the envelopes just like little abbes sound
the souls of maidens. He experienced endless enjoyment, was titillated
by the most enticing temptation. The thousand secrets of Plassans lay
there. He held in his hand the honour of women, the fortunes of men,
and had only to break a seal to know as much as the grand vicar at the
cathedral who was the confidant of all the better people of the town.
Vuillet was one of those terribly bitter, frigid gossips, who worm out
everything, but never repeat what they hear, except by way of dealing
somebody a mortal blow. He had, consequently, often longed to dip his
arms into the public letter-box. Since the previous evening the private
room at the post-office had become a big confessional full of darkness
and mystery, in which he tasted exquisite rapture while sniffing at the
letters which exhaled veiled longings and quivering avowals. Moreover,
he carried on his work with consummate impudence. The crisis through
which the country was passing secured him perfect impunity. If some
letters should be delayed, or others should miscarry altogether, it
would be the fault of those villainous Republicans who were scouring
the country and interrupting all communication. The closing of the town
gates had for a moment vexed him, but he had come to an understanding
with Roudier, whereby the couriers were allowed to enter and bring the
mails direct to him without passing by the town-hall.

As a matter of fact he had only opened a few letters, the important
ones, those in which his keen scent divined some information which it
w