She was humiliated and annoyed, and whenever she thought of her big girls, she felt ashamed: she knew that she had made herself ridiculous. But fear was the last feeling in her mind, for either by craft or audacity, she felt sure she could manage this gentle, timid man, so ignorant of the ways of the world, so far inferior to herself. She had never lost the idea that she was immeasurably superior to M. Bergeret. This notion inspired all her words and acts, nay, even her silence. She suffered from the pride of race, for she was a Pouilly, the daughter of Pouilly, the University Inspector, the niece of Pouilly of the Dictionary, the great-granddaughter of a Pouilly who, in 1811, composed _la Mythologie des Demoiselles_ and _l’Abeille des Dames_. She had been encouraged by her father in this sentiment of family pride. What was a Bergeret by the side of a Pouilly? She had, therefore, no misgivings as to the result of the struggle which she foresaw, and she awaited her husband’s return with an attitude of boldness dashed with cunning. But when, at lunch time, she heard him going downstairs, a shade of anxiety crept over her mind. When he was out of her sight, this husband of hers disquieted her: he became mysterious, almost formidable. She wore out her nerves in imagining what he would say to her and in preparing different deceitful or defiant answers, according to the circumstances. She strained and stiffened her courage, in order to repel attack. She pictured to herself pitiable attitudes and threats of suicide followed by a scene of reconciliation. By the time evening came, she was thoroughly unnerved. She cried and bit her handkerchief. Now she wanted, she longed for explanations, abuse, violent speeches. She waited for M. Bergeret with burning impatience, and at nine o’clock she at last recognised his step on the landing. But he did not come into her room; the little maid came instead: “Monsieur says,” she announced, with a sly, pert grin, “that I’m to put up the iron bedstead for him in the study.” Madame Bergeret said not a word, for she was thunderstruck. Although she slept as soundly as usual that night, yet her audacious spirit was quelled. VIII The curé of Saint-Exupère, the arch-priest Laprune, had been invited to déjeuner by Abbé Guitrel. They were now both seated at the little round table on which Joséphine had just set a flaming rum omelette.