struggle, for she had vowed that she would some day make the whole town
burst with envy, by an insolent display of happiness and luxury. Had
she been able to act her part on a more spacious stage, where full play
would have been allowed her ready wit, she would have quickly brought
her dream to pass. Her intelligence was far superior to that of the
girls of her own station and education. Evil tongues asserted that her
mother, who had died a few years after she was born, had, during the
early period of her married life, been familiar with the Marquis de
Carnavant, a young nobleman of the Saint-Marc quarter. In fact, Felicite
had the hands and feet of a marchioness, and, in this respect, did not
appear to belong to that class of workers from which she was descended.

Her marriage with Pierre Rougon, that semi-peasant, that man of the
Faubourg, whose family was in such bad odour, kept the old quarter in
a state of astonishment for more than a month. She let people gossip,
however, receiving the stiff congratulations of her friends with strange
smiles. Her calculations had been made; she had chosen Rougon for a
husband as one would choose an accomplice. Her father, in accepting the
young man, had merely had eyes for the fifty thousand francs which were
to save him from bankruptcy. Felicite, however, was more keen-sighted.
She looked into the future, and felt that she would be in want of a
robust man, even if he were somewhat rustic, behind whom she might
conceal herself, and whose limbs she would move at will. She entertained
a deliberate hatred for the insignificant little exquisites of
provincial towns, the lean herd of notaries' clerks and prospective
barristers, who stand shivering with cold while waiting for clients.
Having no dowry, and despairing of ever marrying a rich merchant's son,
she by far preferred a peasant whom she could use as a passive tool,
to some lank graduate who would overwhelm her with his academical
superiority, and drag her about all her life in search of hollow