She shut the window violently, in order that she might not see or hear anything more. When she had lit the lamp, she and her husband sat down to dinner, disheartened and without appetite, leaving most of their food on their plates. They only had a few hours left them to take a decisive step. It was absolutely indispensable that before daybreak Plassans should be at their feet beseeching forgiveness, or else they must entirely renounce the fortune which they had dreamed of. The total absence of any reliable news was the sole cause of their anxious indecision. Félicité, with her clear intellect, had quickly perceived this. If they had been able to learn the result of the Coup d’État, they would either have faced it out and have still pursued their role of deliverers, or else have done what they could to efface all recollection of their unlucky campaign. But they had no precise information; they were losing their heads; the thought that they were thus risking their fortune on a throw, in complete ignorance of what was happening, brought a cold perspiration to their brows. “And why the devil doesn’t Eugène write to me?” Rougon suddenly cried, in an outburst of despair, forgetting that he was betraying the secret of his correspondence to his wife. But Félicité pretended not to have heard. Her husband’s exclamation had profoundly affected her. Why, indeed, did not Eugène write to his father? After keeping him so accurately informed of the progress of the Bonapartist cause, he ought at least to have announced the triumph or defeat of Prince Louis. Mere prudence would have counselled the despatch of such information. If he remained silent, it must be that the victorious Republic had sent him to join the pretender in the dungeons of Vincennes. At this thought Félicité felt chilled to the marrow; her son’s silence destroyed her last hopes. At that moment somebody brought up the “Gazette,” which had only just appeared. “Ah!” said Pierre, with surprise. “Vuillet has issued his paper!” Thereupon he tore off the wrapper, read the leading article, and finished it looking as white as a sheet, and swaying on his chair. “Here, read,” he resumed, handing the paper to Félicité.