review, even
his grand-nephews, and find some grievance and reason for threatening
every one of them.

"Yes, yes," he repeated bitterly, "they'd leave me to die like a dog."

Gervaise, without raising her head or ceasing to ply her needle, would
sometimes say timidly: "Still, father, cousin Pascal was very kind to
us, last year, when you were ill."

"He attended you without charging a sou," continued Fine, coming to her
daughter's aid, "and he often slipped a five-franc piece into my hand to
make you some broth."

"He! he'd have killed me if I hadn't had a strong constitution!"
Macquart retorted. "Hold your tongues, you fools! You'd let yourselves
be twisted about like children. They'd all like to see me dead. When I'm
ill again, I beg you not to go and fetch my nephew, for I didn't feel at
all comfortable in his hands. He's only a twopenny-halfpenny doctor, and
hasn't got a decent patient in all his practice."

When once Macquart was fully launched, he could not stop. "It's like
that little viper, Aristide," he would say, "a false brother, a traitor.
Are you taken in by his articles in the 'Independant,' Silvere? You
would be a fine fool if you were. They're not even written in good
French; I've always maintained that this contraband Republican is in
league with his worthy father to humbug us. You'll see how he'll turn
his coat. And his brother, the illustrious Eugene, that big blockhead
of whom the Rougons make such a fuss! Why, they've got the impudence to
assert that he occupies a good position in Paris! I know something about
his position; he's employed at the Rue de Jerusalem; he's a police spy."

"Who told you so? You know nothing about it," interrupted Silvere, whose
upright spirit at last felt hurt by his uncle's lying accusations.

"Ah! I know nothing about it? Do you think so? I tell you he is a
police spy. You'll be shorn like a lamb one of these days, with your
benevolence. You're not manly enough. I don't want to say anything
against your brother Francois; but, if I were in your place, I shouldn't
like the scurvy manner in which he treats you. He earns a heap of money
at Marseilles, and yet he never sends you a paltry twenty-franc pierce
for pocket money. If ever you become poor, I shouldn't advise you to
look to him for anything."

"I've no need of anybody," the young man replied in a proud and slightly
injured tone of voice. "My own work suffices for aunt Dide and myself.
You're cruel, uncle."