ted by life, to
this delicate child's face that was also as if worn, aged, and wasted,
through the wear of the race. Fronting each other, the imbecile child of
a deathlike beauty seemed the last of the race of which she, forgotten
by the world, was the ancestress.

Maxime bent over to press a kiss on the boy's forehead; and a chill
struck to his heart--this very beauty disquieted him; his uneasiness
grew in this chamber of madness, whence, it seemed to him, breathed a
secret horror come from the far-off past.

"How beautiful you are, my pet! Don't you love me a little?"

Charles looked at him without comprehending, and went back to his play.

But all were chilled. Without the set expression of her countenance
changing Aunt Dide wept, a flood of tears rolled from her living eyes
over her dead cheeks. Her gaze fixed immovably upon the boy, she wept
slowly, endlessly. A great thing had happened.

And now an extraordinary emotion took possession of Pascal. He caught
Clotilde by the arm and pressed it hard, trying to make her understand.
Before his eyes appeared the whole line, the legitimate branch and the
bastard branch, which had sprung from this trunk already vitiated by
neurosis. Five generations were there present--the Rougons and the
Macquarts, Adelaide Fouque at the root, then the scoundrelly old uncle,
then himself, then Clotilde and Maxime, and lastly, Charles. Felicite
occupied the place of her dead husband. There was no link wanting; the
chain of heredity, logical and implacable, was unbroken. And what a
world was evoked from the depths of the tragic cabin which breathed
this horror that came from the far-off past in such appalling shape that
every one, notwithstanding the oppressive heat, shivered.

"What is it, master?" whispered Clotilde, trembling.

"No, no, nothing!" murmured the doctor. "I will tell you later."

Macquart, who alone continued to sneer, scolded the old mother. What an
idea was hers, to receive people with tears when they put themselves out
to come and make her a visit. It was scarcely polite. And then he turned
to Maxime and Charles.

"Well, nephew, you have seen your boy at last. Is it not true that he is
pretty, and that he is a credit to you, after all?"

Felicite hastened to interfere. Greatly dissatisfied with the turn which
affairs were taking, she was now anxious only to get away.

"He is certainly a handsome boy, and less backward than people think.
Just see how skilful he