Silent Granoux jumped up on a chair in his enthusiasm, waving his napkin and making a speech which was lost amid the uproar.

The yellow drawing-room was wild with triumph.
But the strip of pink satin fastened to Pierre's button-hole was not the only red spot in that triumph of the Rougons.

A shoe, with a blood-stained heel, still lay forgotten under the bedstead in the adjoining room.

The taper burning at Monsieur Peirotte's bedside, over the way, gleamed too with the lurid redness of a gaping wound amidst the dark night.

And yonder, far away, in the depths of the Aire Saint-Mittre, a pool of blood was congealing upon a tombstone..