Clorinde had lowered her eyes, and her fingers were playing with the tassel of her sun-shade. She now made no attempt to speak, but let Rougon talk on freely. 'The others,' said he, 'are almost as unreasonable. If the colonel and Bouchard complain of me, they do wrong, for I have already done too much for them. I say that for all my friends. I've got a dozen mill-stones about my neck! Till they've got the very skin off my body they won't be satisfied!' He paused for a moment, and then resumed with a good-natured laugh: 'Well, well, if they really needed something more, I would give it to them. When a man has once opened his hands it is impossible for him to shut them again. In spite of all the unkind things my friends say of me, I spend my time in asking favours of all sorts for them.' Then he touched Clorinde's knee to force her to look at him. 'Well, now, about yourself!' he continued. 'I am going to talk to the Emperor this morning. Is there anything that I can ask for you?' 'No, thank you,' she answered drily. And as he still persisted in his offers, she grew a little vexed, and accused him of reproaching herself and her husband with the few services he had already rendered them. They would not trouble him in future, said she. 'I manage my affairs myself now,' she added. 'I'm big enough to get on by myself, am I not?' Meantime the carriage had emerged from the Bois. It was now passing through Boulogne amid the clatter of several heavy carts, which were jolting along the high street. Delestang had been silent ever since the start, keeping his hands upon his morocco portfolio, and apparently absorbed in momentous thoughts. However, he now bent forward and called to Rougon amidst the uproar: 'Do you think that his Majesty will keep us to _déjeuner_?' Rougon made a gesture expressive of doubt. Then he exclaimed: 'We do generally have _déjeuner_ at the palace when the council is a long one.' Delestang fell back into his corner, and once more appeared to be absorbed in a very serious reverie. Presently he bent forward again, to ask: 'Will there be much business before the council this morning?' 'Perhaps so,' answered Rougon. 'But one can never tell beforehand. Several of our colleagues, I fancy, are going to report on certain important matters. For my own part, at any rate, I intend to raise the question of that book about which I am in dispute with the Licensing Committee.'[16] 'What book is that?' asked Clorinde eagerly. 'Oh! an idiotic publication; one of those volumes which are got up for circulation amongst the peasantry. It is called "Friend Jacques's Evening Chats." It is a mixture of socialism, witchcraft, and agriculture; and there's even a chapter on the advantages of trades' unions. Briefly, it is a very dangerous book!' The young woman, whose curiosity did not seem quite satisfied, turned to her husband as if to question him.