ould be useful for him to know before anybody else. Then he contented
himself by locking up in a drawer, for delivery subsequently, such
letters as might give information and rob him of the merit of his
valour at a time when the whole town was trembling with fear. This pious
personage, in selecting the management of the post-office as his own
share of the spoils, had given proof of singular insight into the
situation.

When Madame Rougon entered, he was taking his choice of a heap of
letters and papers, under the pretext, no doubt, of classifying them.
He rose, with his humble smile, and offered her a seat; his reddened
eyelids blinking rather uneasily. But Felicite did not sit down; she
roughly exclaimed: "I want the letter."

At this Vuillet's eyes opened widely, with an expression of perfect
innocence.

"What letter, madame?" he asked.

"The letter you received this morning for my husband. Come, Monsieur
Vuillet, I'm in a hurry."

And as he stammered that he did not know, that he had not seen anything,
that it was very strange, Felicite continued in a covertly threatening
voice: "A letter from Paris, from my son, Eugene; you know what I mean,
don't you? I'll look for it myself."

Thereupon she stepped forward as if intending to examine the various
packets which littered the writing table. But he at once bestirred
himself, and said he would go and see. The service was necessarily in
great confusion! Perhaps, indeed, there might be a letter. In that case
they would find it. But, as far as he was concerned, he swore he had not
seen any. While he was speaking he moved about the office turning over
all the papers. Then he opened the drawers and the portfolios. Felicite
waited, quite calm and collected.

"Yes, indeed, you're right, here's a letter for you," he cried at last,
as he took a few papers from a portfolio. "Ah! those confounded clerks,
they take advantage of the situation to do nothing in the proper way."

Felicite took the letter and examined the seal attentively, apparently
quite regardless of the fact that such scrutiny might wound Vuillet's
susceptibilities. She clearly perceived that the envelope must have been
opened; the bookseller, in his unskilful way, had used some sealing
wax of a darker colour to secure it again. She took care to open the
envelope in such a manner as to preserve the seal intact, so that it
might serve as proof of this. Then she read the note. Eugene briefly
announced the com