right, above the pink roofs, rose the belfry of St. Saturnin, a gilded
tower with arises that, in the blinding light, looked like whitened
bones.

"Yes," continued Felicite, "I think of going shortly to the Tulettes,
and I wished to know if Charles were here, to take him with me. He is
not here--I see that--I will take him another day."

But while she gave this pretext for her visit, her ferret-like eyes
were making the tour of the apartment. Besides, she did not insist,
speaking immediately afterward of her son Pascal, on hearing the
rhythmical noise of the pestle, which had not ceased in the adjoining
chamber.

"Ah! he is still at his devil's cookery! Don't disturb him, I have
nothing to say to him."

Martine, who had resumed her work on the chair, shook her head, as if
to say that she had no mind to disturb her master, and there was
silence again, while Clotilde wiped her fingers, stained with crayon,
on a cloth, and Felicite began to walk about the room with short
steps, looking around inquisitively.

Old Mme. Rougon would soon be two years a widow. Her husband who had
grown so corpulent that he could no longer move, had succumbed to an
attack of indigestion on the 3d of September, 1870, on the night of
the day on which he had learned of the catastrophe of Sedan. The ruin
of the government of which he flattered himself with being one of the
founders, seemed to have crushed him. Thus, Felicite affected to
occupy herself no longer with politics, living, thenceforward, like a