'But they say it is your wife who is not very well,' interrupted the retired tanner bluntly.
'My wife! There is nothing the matter with her! It is a pack of falsehoods! There is nothing the matter with her—nothing at all. People say things against us because—because we keep quietly at home. Ill, indeed! my wife! She is very strong, and never even has so much the matter with her as—as a headache.'
He went on speaking in short sentences, stammering and hesitating in the uneasy way of a man who is telling falsehoods; full too of the embarrassment of a whilom gossip who has become tongue-tied. The retired traders shook their heads with pitying looks, and the captain tapped his forehead with his finger. A former hatter of the suburbs who had scrutinised Mouret from his cravat to the bottom button of his overcoat, was now absorbed in the examination of his boots. The lace of the one on the left foot had come undone, and this seemed to the hatter a most extraordinary circumstance. He nudged his neighbours' elbows, and winked as he called their attention to the loosened lace. Soon the whole bench had eyes for nothing else but the lace. It was the last proof. The men shrugged their shoulders in a way that seemed to imply that they had lost their last spark of hope.
'Mouret,' said the captain, in a paternal fashion, 'fasten up your boot-lace.'
Mouret glanced at his feet, but did not seem to understand; and he went on talking. Then, as no one replied, he became silent, and after standing there for a moment or two longer he quietly continued his walk.
'He will fall, I'm sure,' exclaimed the master-tanner, who had risen from his seat that he might keep Mouret longer in view.
When Mouret got to the end of the Cours Sauvaire, and passed in front of the Young Men's Club, he was again greeted with the low laughs which had followed him since he had set foot out of doors. He could distinctly see Séverin Rastoil, who was standing at the door of the club, pointing him out to a group of young men. Clearly, he thought, it was himself who was thus providing sport for the town. He bent his head and was seized with a kind of fear, which he could not explain to himself, as he hastily stepped past the houses. Just as he was about to turn into the Rue Canquoin, he heard a noise behind him, and, turning his head, he saw three lads following him; two of them were big, impudent-looking boys, while the third was a very little one, with a serious face. The latter was holding in his hand a dirty orange which he had picked out of the gutter. Mouret made his way along the Rue Canquoin, and then, crossing the Place des Récollets, he reached the Rue de la Banne. The lads were still following him.
'Do you want your ears pulled?' he called out, suddenly stepping up to them.
They dashed on one side, shouting and laughing, and made their escape on their hands and knees. Mouret turned very red, realising that he was an object of ridicule. He felt a perfect fear of crossing the Place of the Sub-Prefecture, and passing in front of the Rougons' windows with a following of street-arabs, whom he could hear, increasing in numbers and boldness, behind him. As he went on, he was obliged to step out of his way to avoid his mother-in-law, who was returning from vespers with Madame de Condamin.
'Wolf! wolf!' cried the lads.