Read The Conquest of Plassans (Les Rougon-Macquart Book 4) for Free Online Page B

behind her. ‘All the same, we shall eat your supper.’
    Mouret was home. Rose turned her head and looked straight at her master, as though ready to explode with rage. But faced with his level expression, which displayed just a hint of bourgeois mockery, she could think of nothing to say, and withdrew. Mouret went down on to the terrace, where, instead of sitting down, he walked back and forth. He did no more than lightly touch Désirée’s cheek with his fingertips, and she smiled up at him. Marthe raised her eyes. Then, after a glance at her husband, she started to put her work away in her table.
    ‘Aren’t you tired?’ Octave asked, looking at his father’s shoes, which were white with dust.
    ‘A little,’ Mouret replied, saying no more about the long walk he had just had.
    But then in the middle of the garden he spied a rake and a spade that had no doubt been left out by the children.
    ‘Why have the tools not been put away?’ he shouted. ‘I’ve said it a hundred times. If it were to rain they would all rust.’
    Without another word he went down and tidied the tools away at the back of the small greenhouse. As he came back up the terrace he scanned every corner of the paths to check that everything was in the right place.
    ‘You doing your homework?’ he asked, as he passed Serge who was still reading his book.
    ‘No, father,’ his son answered. ‘It’s a book Abbé Bourrette * lent me,
The Missions to China
.’ *
    Mouret stopped abruptly in front of his wife.
    ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘has anybody called?’
    ‘No, nobody, my dear,’ said Marthe, surprised.
    He was about to say more, but appeared to think better of it. He walked around for another moment or two without saying anything, then, going towards the steps:
    ‘Well, Rose, where’s this supper that was burnt?’
    From the end of the passage came the furious voice of the cook shouting:
    ‘My sakes, nothing’s ready any more now, it’s all gone cold. You’ll have to wait, Sir.’
    Mouret laughed silently; with his left eye he winked at his wife and children. Rose’s anger seemed to amuse him a great deal. Then he became absorbed in his neighbour’s fruit trees.
    ‘It’s astonishing,’ he remarked softly, ‘Monsieur Rastoil has some magnificent pears this year.’
    Marthe, who had suddenly become a little anxious, seemed about to ask him something. Summoning up her courage, she ventured:
    ‘Were you expecting someone today, my dear?’
    ‘Yes and no,’ he replied, beginning to walk up and down.
    ‘Have you perhaps rented out the second floor?’
    ‘I have indeed.’
    And as there followed an embarrassed silence, he went on calmly:
    ‘This morning before I left for Les Tulettes I went up to Abbé Bourrette’s. He was very insistent and I’m afraid I agreed… I know you didn’t want me to. But, if you think about it, you are not being sensible, my dear. This second floor is no use to us. It’s in a state of disrepair. The fruit we’ve been keeping in the bedrooms has made it damp and caused the wallpaper to peel off… And while I think of it, don’t forget to move the fruit tomorrow: our tenant might arrive at any moment.’
    ‘But we were so happy on our own in the house!’ Marthe said in a small voice.
    ‘Nonsense!’ Mouret rejoined. ‘A priest won’t be in our way very much. He will live in his part of the house and we shall live in ours. Those hooded ravens always keep themselves to themselves, even if all they are drinking is a glass of water… You know there’s no love lost between them and me! Most of them are good-for-nothings… Well, what decided me to let it, is that I have indeed found a priest. We shan’t have to worry about the money where they are concerned, and we shan’t even hear him put his key in the lock.’
    But Marthe was still very upset. She looked around at her happy household, the garden bathed in the light of the departing sun, the grey shadows darkening; she looked at her