Even her face had scarcely undergone any change; it
was simply rather more sunken, rather more suggestive of the snout of a
pole-cat.
As for Pierre Rougon, he had grown corpulent, and had become a highly
respectable looking citizen, who only lacked a decent income to make him
a very dignified individual. His pale, flabby face, his heaviness,
his languid manner, seemed redolent of wealth. He had one day heard a
peasant who did not know him say: "Ah! he's some rich fellow, that fat
old gentleman there. He's no cause to worry about his dinner!" This
was a remark which stung him to the heart, for he considered it cruel
mockery to be only a poor devil while possessing the bulk and contented
gravity of a millionaire. When he shaved on Sundays in front of a small
five-sou looking-glass hanging from the fastening of a window, he would
often think that in a dress coat and white tie he would cut a far better
figure at the Sub-Prefect's than such or such a functionary of Plassans.
This peasant's son, who had grown sallow from business worries, and
corpulent from a sedentary life, whose hateful passions were hidden
beneath naturally placid features, really had that air of solemn
imbecility which gives a man a position in an official salon. People
imagined that his wife held a rod over him, but they were mistaken. He
was as self-willed as a brute. Any determined expression of extraneous
will would drive him into a violent rage. Felicite was far too supple to
thwart him openly; with her light fluttering nature she did not attack
obstacles in front.
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