The Conquest of Plassans (Les Rougon-Macquart Book 4) by Émile Zola Page B

thanks to him, returned to France, after being compromised in the countryside uprisings in 1851. * Since his return from Piedmont he had led the life of a well-heeled bourgeois with a regular income. He had bought, by some means or other, a little house situated in the village of Les Tulettes, about seven or eight miles from Plassans. Little by little, he had feathered his nest. He had even ended up buying a horse and carriage, so that you were bound to meet him on the roads, smoking his pipe, drinking in the sunshine, chortling away to himself. The enemies of the Rougons said behind their backs that the two brothers together had done some dastardly deed and that Pierre Rougon was responsible for his brother’s upkeep.
    ‘Hello, Uncle!’ Mouret said again ostentatiously. ‘Have you come to pay us a little visit then?’
    ‘Indeed!’ replied Macquart in an innocent tone of voice. ‘Every time I come to Plassans, you know… Oh, Félicité! Fancy finding you here! I came to see Rougon, I had something to tell him…’
    ‘He was at home, wasn’t he?’ she quickly interrupted, suddenly concerned.
    ‘Yes, he was there,’ Macquart went on calmly. ‘I saw him and we had a little chat. Rougon’s a good chap.’
    He gave a little laugh. And while Félicité shifted uneasily, he continued in the strangely crackly drawl that made him seem as if he were always having fun at your expense:
    ‘Mouret, my boy, I’ve brought you a couple of rabbits there in the basket. I gave them to Rose… I had two for Rougon as well; you’ll find them in your house, Félicité, and do tell me what you think of them. Oh, the little rascals are well covered—I fattened them up for you… Well, you know, my dears, I do like giving presents.’
    Félicité was rather pale and tight-lipped, and Mouret continued to look at her with a smile that was only half-concealed. She would have liked to leave, but was afraid they would gossip about her if she left Macquart there.
    ‘Thanks, Uncle,’ Mouret said. ‘Last time the plums were delicious… Will you have a drink?’
    ‘Why not?’
    And when Rose had brought a glass of wine, he sat down on the terrace. He drank the glass slowly, smacking his lips and holding the wine up to the light.
    ‘That wine comes from the Saint-Eutrope vineyard,’ he muttered. ‘You can’t deceive
me
. I know this part of the country too well.’
    He shook his head and chuckled.
    Then abruptly Mouret asked, in a particularly meaningful tone:
    ‘How are they over at Les Tulettes then?’
    Macquart looked up, and around at everybody. Then, with one last smack of his lips, putting the glass down on the stone at his side, he answered casually:
    ‘Not too bad. I had news the day before yesterday. She’s just the same.’
    Félicité had turned her head. There was a silence. Mouret had just touched on one of the sore points in the family, by alluding to the mother of Rougon and Macquart, who had been shut up like a madwoman for several years, in the asylum in Les Tulettes. * Macquart’s house was nearby and it was as if Rougon had deliberately placed the old man there to keep an eye on their mother.
    ‘Well, it’s getting late,’ said Macquart. ‘I must be home before dark… Mouret, my boy, I’m relying on you to come over sometime soon. You promised.’
    ‘I shall come, Uncle, I shall come.’
    ‘I don’t just mean you—I want everyone to come over, do you understand? Everybody… I get bored on my own over there. I’ll cook you a nice meal.’
    Then, turning to Félicité:
    ‘Tell Rougon I’m expecting you both. Don’t be put off coming on account of our old mother next door. After all, we have to enjoy ourselves sometimes… She’s fine, you know, well looked after. You can trust me… You’ll be able to try a little wine from a vineyard on the Seille that I discovered. That wine’ll go to your head, you mark my words!’
    As he spoke he was making for the door. Félicité was following so hard