There was certainly some determining
cause underlying all this which escaped her. Only one thing seemed
certain. Vuillet was too impudent in his abuse and too ready with his
valour, for the insurrectionary band to be really so near the town as
some people asserted.
"He's a spiteful fellow, I always said so," Rougon resumed, after
reading the article again. "He has only been waiting for an opportunity
to do us this injury. What a fool I was to leave him in charge of the
post-office!"
This last sentence proved a flash of light. Felicite started up quickly,
as though at some sudden thought. Then she put on a cap and threw a
shawl over her shoulders.
"Where are you going, pray?" her husband asked her with surprise. "It's
past nine o'clock."
"You go to bed," she replied rather brusquely, "you're not well; go and
rest yourself. Sleep on till I come back; I'll wake you if necessary,
and then we can talk the matter over."
She went out with her usual nimble gait, ran to the post-office, and
abruptly entered the room where Vuillet was still at work. On seeing her
he made a hasty gesture of vexation.
Never in his life had Vuillet felt so happy. Since he had been able
to slip his little fingers into the mail-bag he had enjoyed the most
exquisite pleasure, the pleasure of an inquisitive priest about to
relish the confessions of his penitents. All the sly blabbing, all the
vague chatter of sacristies resounded in his ears. He poked his long,
pale nose into the letters, gazed amorously at the superscriptions with
his suspicious eyes, sounded the envelopes just like little abbes sound
the souls of maidens.
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