She said this with such refined irony that her husband did not detect that she was deriding him. He simply felt profound remorse. And, all of a sudden, he burst out into a confession. He spoke of Eugène’s letters, explained his plans, his conduct, with all the loquacity of a man who is relieving his conscience and imploring a saviour. At every moment he broke off to ask: “What would you have done in my place?” or else he cried, “Isn’t that so? I was right, I could not act otherwise.” But Félicité did not even deign to make a sign. She listened with all the frigid reserve of a judge. In reality she was tasting the most exquisite pleasure; she had got that sly-boots fast at last; she played with him like a cat playing with a ball of paper; and he virtually held out his hands to be manacled by her. “But wait,” he said hastily, jumping out of bed. “I’ll give you Eugène’s correspondence to read. You can judge the situation better then.” She vainly tried to hold him back by his night-shirt. He spread out the letters on the table by the bed-side, and then got into bed again, and read whole pages of them, and compelled her to go through them herself. She suppressed a smile, and began to feel some pity for the poor man. “Well,” he said anxiously, when he had finished, “now you know everything. Do you see any means of saving us from ruin!” She still gave no answer. She appeared to be pondering deeply. “You are an intelligent woman,” he continued, in order to flatter her, “I did wrong in keeping any secret from you; I see it now.” “Let us say nothing more about that,” she replied. “In my opinion, if you had enough courage——” And as he looked at her eagerly, she broke off and said, with a smile: “But you promise not to distrust me any more? You will tell me everything, eh? You will do nothing without consulting me?” He swore, and accepted the most rigid conditions. Félicité then got into bed; and in a whisper, as if she feared somebody might hear them, she explained at length her plan of campaign. In her opinion the town must be allowed to fall into still greater panic, while Pierre was to maintain an heroic demeanour in the midst of the terrified inhabitants. A secret presentiment, she said, warned her that the insurgents were still at a distance. Moreover, the party of order would sooner or later carry the day, and the Rougons would be rewarded. After the role of deliverer, that of martyr was not to be despised. And she argued so well, and spoke with so much conviction, that her husband, surprised at first by the simplicity of her plan, which consisted in facing it out, at last detected in it a marvellous tactical scheme, and promised to conform to it with the greatest possible courage. “And don’t forget that it is I who am saving you,” the old woman murmured in a coaxing tone. “Will you be nice to me?”