Pierre stood up, held out his glass, and exclaimed: "I drink to Prince
Louis--to the Emperor!"
The gentlemen, who had drowned their jealousies in champagne, rose in a
body and clinked glasses with deafening shouts. It was a fine spectacle.
The bourgeois of Plassans, Roudier, Granoux, Vuillet, and all the
others, wept and embraced each other over the corpse of the Republic,
which as yet was scarcely cold. But a splendid idea occurred to
Sicardot. He took from Felicite's hair a pink satin bow, which she had
placed over her right ear in honour of the occasion, cut off a strip
of the satin with his dessert knife, and then solemnly fastened it
to Rougon's button-hole. The latter feigned modesty, and pretended to
resist. But his face beamed with joy, as he murmured: "No, I beg you, it
is too soon. We must wait until the decree is published."
"Zounds!" Sicardot exclaimed, "will you please keep that! It's an old
soldier of Napoleon who decorates you!"
The whole company burst into applause. Felicite almost swooned with
delight. Silent Granoux jumped up on a chair in his enthusiasm, waving
his napkin and making a speech which was lost amid the uproar. The
yellow drawing-room was wild with triumph.
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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