The Rougons, whose assistant Mouret had been prior to his marriage, when their shabby little shop in the old quarter of the town had ever suggested bankruptcy, were the objects of his constant suspicions. They returned the feeling with bitter and deep-seated animosity, their rancour being especially aroused by the speedy success which had attended him in business. When their son-in-law said, 'I simply owe my fortune to my own exertions,' they bit their lips and understood quite well that he was accusing them of having gained theirs by less honourable means. Notwithstanding the fine house she now had on the Place of the Sub-Prefecture, Félicité silently envied the peaceful little home of the Mourets, with all the bitter jealousy of a retired shopkeeper who owed her fortune to something else than the profits of her business.
Félicité kissed Marthe on the forehead and then gave her hand to Mouret. She and her son-in-law generally affected a mocking tone in their conversations together.
'Well,' she said to him with a smile, 'the gendarmes haven't been for you yet then, you revolutionist?'
'No, not yet,' he replied with a responsive smile; 'they are waiting till your husband gives them the order.'
'It's very nice and polite of you to say that!' exclaimed Félicité, whose eyes were beginning to glisten.
Marthe turned a beseeching glance upon Mouret. He had gone too far; but his feelings were roused and he added:
'Good gracious! What are we thinking of to receive you in the dining-room? Let us go into the drawing-room, I beg you.'
This was one of his usual pleasantries. He affected all Félicité's fine airs whenever he received a visit from her. It was to no purpose that Marthe protested that they were very comfortable where they were; her husband insisted that she and her mother should follow him into the drawing-room. When they got there, he bustled about, opening the shutters and drawing out the chairs. The drawing-room, which was seldom entered, and the shutters of which were generally kept closed, was a great wilderness of a room, with furniture swathed in white dust-covers which were turning yellow from the proximity of the damp garden.
'It is really disgraceful!' muttered Mouret, wiping the dust from a small console; 'that wretched Rose neglects everything abominably.'
Then, turning towards his mother-in-law, he said with ill-concealed irony: