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These words, accompanied by a sneer, sent a cold chill through Felicite's bones. But she was a strong-minded woman, and the sight of Monsieur Peirotte's beautiful curtains, which she religiously viewed every morning, sustained her courage. Whenever she felt herself giving way, she planted herself at the window and contemplated the tax-receiver's house. For her it was the Tuileries.
Look! he is doing it again!" And casting a glance at the windows, where groups of people were congregated, she added: "How wild they must be! Look at Monsieur Peirotte's wife, she's biting her handkerchief. And over there, the notary's daughter, and Madame Massicot, and the Brunet family, what faces, eh? how angry they look! Ah, indeed, it's our turn now."
Amid the grey hues of the blouses and jackets, and the bluish glitter of the weapons, the pelisse worn by Miette, who was holding the banner with both hands, looked like a large red splotch a fresh and bleeding wound. All at once perfect silence fell. Monsieur Peirotte's pale face appeared at a window of the Hotel de la Mule-Blanche. And he began to speak, gesticulating with his hands.
True, Felicite, on returning to her seat, espied a taper burning behind a window on the other side of the road. Some one sat watching Monsieur Peirotte's corpse, which had been brought back from Sainte-Roure that morning. She sat down, feeling as if that taper were heating her back.
She was busy with these thoughts all night; and on the morrow, as she opened the shutters, she instinctively cast her first glance across the street towards Monsieur Peirotte's house, and smiled as she contemplated the broad damask curtains hanging in the windows. Felicite's hopes, in becoming modified, had grown yet more intense. Like all women, she did not object to a tinge of mystery.
Felicite, already accustoming herself to her new station in life, said that they would probably rent poor Monsieur Peirotte's flat until they could purchase a house of their own in the new town. She was already planning how she would place her future furniture in the receiver's rooms. She was entering into possession of her Tuileries.
But the strip of pink satin fastened to Pierre's button-hole was not the only red spot in that triumph of the Rougons. A shoe, with a blood-stained heel, still lay forgotten under the bedstead in the adjoining room. The taper burning at Monsieur Peirotte's bedside, over the way, gleamed too with the lurid redness of a gaping wound amidst the dark night.
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