lf up in it. The prohibition to enter it was
formal. It was here that he gave himself up to special preparations, of
which he spoke to no one. Almost immediately the slow and regular sound
of a pestle grinding in a mortar was heard.

"Come," said Clotilde, smiling, "there he is, at his devil's cookery, as
grandmother says."

And she tranquilly resumed her copying of the hollyhocks. She completed
the drawing with mathematical precision, she found the exact tone of
the violet petals, striped with yellow, even to the most delicate
discoloration of the shades.

"Ah!" murmured Martine, after a moment, again seated on the ground, and
occupied in mending the chair, "what a misfortune for a good man like
that to lose his soul wilfully. For there is no denying it; I have known
him now for thirty years, and in all that time he has never so much as
spoken an unkind word to any one. A real heart of gold, who would take
the bit from his own mouth. And handsome, too, and always well, and
always gay, a real blessing! It is a murder that he does not wish
to make his peace with the good God. We will force him to do it,
mademoiselle, will we not?"

Clotilde, surprised at hearing her speak so long at one time on the
subject, gave her word with a grave air.

"Certainly, Martine, it is a promise. We will force him."

Silence reigned again, broken a moment afterward by the ringing of the
bell attached to the street door below. It had been attached to the door
so that they might have notice when any one entered the house, too vast
for the three persons who inhabited it. The servant appeared surprised,
and grumbled a few words under her breath. Who could have come in such
heat as this? She rose, opened the door, and went and leaned over the
balustrade; then she returned, saying:

"It is Mme. Felicite."

Old Mme. Rougon entered briskly. In spite of her eighty years, she had
mounted the stairs with the activity of a young girl; she was still the
brown, lean, shrill grasshopper of old. Dressed elegantly now in
black silk, she might still be taken, seen from behind, thanks to the
slenderness of her figure, for some coquette, or some ambitious woman
following her favorite pursuit. Seen in front, her eyes still lighted
up her withered visage with their fires, and she smiled with an engaging
smile when she so desired.

"What! is it you, grandmother?" cried Clotilde, going to meet her. "Why,
this sun is enough to bake one."

Felicite, kis