"No, really, Monsieur Saccard," the latter was saying in a thick voice, "we cannot take it back from you at more than two hundred francs the metre." And Saccard retorted in his shrill tones: "But in my share you valued it at two hundred and fifty francs." "Well, listen! we will make it two hundred and twenty-five francs." And the voices continued, harsh, and ringing strangely beneath the drooping palms. But they merely traversed Renée's dream like some vain noise, as there rose before her, conjured up by her delirium, an unknown enjoyment, hot with crime, and more vehement than all those she had already exhausted, the last that remained to her to partake of. She no longer felt weary. The shrub behind which she remained half hidden was an accursed plant, a Tanghinia from Madagascar, with broad box-like leaves and whitish stems, the smallest veins of which distil a poisonous juice. And, at one moment, as Louise's and Maxime's mirth became louder, in the yellow reflection, in the sunset of the little drawing-room, Renée, her mind wandering, her mouth parched and irritated, took between her teeth a sprig of the Tanghinia, which was on a level with her lips, and closed them on one of the bitter leaves. CHAPTER II. Aristide Rougon swooped down upon Paris on the morrow of the Coup d'État, with that scent of birds of prey which sniff the field of carnage from afar. He came from Plassans, a sub-prefecture of the South, where his father had at length netted in the troubled waters of events an office of tax collector for which he had long been angling. As for himself, still young, and having compromised his position like a fool, with neither glory nor profit, he could only feel very fortunate in issuing safe and sound from the squabble. He came, with a rush, enraged at his mistake, cursing the country, speaking of Paris with a wolf-like greed, and swearing "that he would never be caught napping again;" and the keen smile with which he accompanied these words assumed a terrible significance on his thin lips. He arrived in the early days of 1852. He was accompanied by his wife Angèle, a fair and insignificant creature, whom he placed in a small lodging in the Rue Saint-Jacques, like some awkward piece of furniture he was anxious to be rid of. The young woman had been unwilling to be separated from her daughter, little Clotilde, a child four years old, whom the father would willingly have left behind to be taken care of by his relations. But he had only yielded to his wife's wish on condition that the college at Plassans should retain their son Maxime, a youngster of eleven, who would be looked after by the grandmother. Aristide wished to have his hands free; a woman and a child already seemed to him a crushing weight to encumber a man decided to overcome all obstacles, though he grovelled in the mud or perished in the attempt.