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, Adelaïde Fouqué at the root, then the scoundrelly old uncle, then himself, then Clotilde and Maxime, and lastly, Charles. Félicité 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?” Félicité 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 is with his hands. And you will see when you have brightened him up in Paris, in a different way from what we have been able to do at Plassans, eh?” “No doubt,” murmured Maxime. “I do not say no; I will think about it.” He seemed embarrassed for a moment, and then added: “You know I came only to see him. I cannot take him with me now as I am to spend a month at St. Gervais. But as soon as I return to Paris I will think of it, I will write to you.” Then, taking out his watch, he cried: “The devil! Half-past five. You know that I would not miss the nine o’clock train for anything in the world.” “Yes, yes, let us go,” said Félicité brusquely. “We have nothing more to do here.” Macquart, whom his sister-in-law’s anger seemed still to divert, endeavored to delay them with all sorts of stories. He told of the days when Aunt Dide talked, and he affirmed that he had found her one morning singing a romance of her youth. And then he had no need of the carriage, he would take the boy back on foot, since they left him to him. “Kiss your papa, my boy, for you know now that you see him, but you don’t know whether you shall ever see him again or not.”