It was furnished with a few
arm-chairs, a sofa, and a marble wash-stand. Pierre double-locked the
door, after partially unbinding his brother's hands. Macquart was then
heard to throw himself on the sofa, and start singing the "Ca Ira" in a
loud voice, as though he were trying to sing himself to sleep.
Rougon, who at last found himself alone, now in his turn sat down in
the mayor's arm-chair. He heaved a sigh as he wiped his brow. How hard,
indeed, it was to win fortune and honours! However, he was nearing the
end at last. He felt the soft seat of the arm-chair yield beneath him,
while with a mechanical movement he caressed the mahogany writing-table
with his hands, finding it apparently quite silky and delicate, like the
skin of a beautiful woman. Then he spread himself out, and assumed
the dignified attitude which Macquart had previously affected while
listening to the proclamation. The silence of the room seemed fraught
with religious solemnity, which inspired Rougon with exquisite delight.
Everything, even the dust and the old documents lying in the corners,
seemed to exhale an odour of incense, which rose to his dilated
nostrils. This room, with its faded hangings redolent of petty
transactions, all the trivial concerns of a third-rate municipality,
became a temple of which he was the god.
Nevertheless, amidst his rapture, he started nervously at every shout
from Macquart. The words aristocrat and lamp-post, the threats of
hanging that form the refrain of the famous revolutionary song, the "Ca
Ira," reached him in angry bursts, interrupting his triumphant dream in
the most disagreeable manner.
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