CHAPTER VI

It was about five o’clock in the morning when Rougon at last ventured

to leave his mother’s house. The old woman had gone to sleep on a

chair. He crept stealthily to the end of the Impasse Saint-Mittre.

There was not a sound, not a shadow. He pushed on as far as the Porte

de Rome. The gates stood wide open in the darkness that enveloped the

slumbering town. Plassans was sleeping as sound as a top, quite

unconscious, apparently, of the risk it was running in allowing the

gates to remain unsecured. It seemed like a city of the dead. Rougon,

taking courage, made his way into the Rue de Nice. He scanned from a

distance the corners of each successive lane; and trembled at every

door, fearing lest he should see a band of insurgents rush out upon

him. However, he reached the Cours Sauvaire without any mishap. The

insurgents seemed to have vanished in the darkness like a nightmare.

Pierre then paused for a moment on the deserted pavement, heaving a

deep sigh of relief and triumph. So those rascals had really abandoned

Plassans to him. The town belonged to him now; it slept like the

foolish thing it was; there it lay, dark and tranquil, silent and

confident, and he had only to stretch out his hand to take possession

of it. That brief halt, the supercilious glance which he cast over the

drowsy place, thrilled him with unspeakable delight. He remained there,

alone in the darkness, and crossed his arms, in the attitude of a great

general on the eve of a victory. He could hear nothing in the distance

but the murmur of the fountains of the Cours Sauvaire, whose jets of

water fell into the basins with a musical plashing.

Then he began to feel a little uneasy. What if the Empire should

unhappily have been established without his aid? What if Sicardot,

Garconnet, and Peirotte, instead of being arrested and led away by the

insurrectionary band, had shut the rebels up in prison? A cold

perspiration broke out over him, and he went on his way again, hoping

that Félicité would give him some accurate information. He now pushed

on more rapidly, and was skirting the houses of the Rue de la Banne,

when a strange spectacle, which caught his eyes as he raised his head,

riveted him to the ground. One of the windows of the yellow

drawing-room was brilliantly illuminated, and, in the glare, he saw a

dark form, which he recognized as that of his wife, bending forward,

and shaking its arms in a violent manner. He asked himself what this

could mean, but, unable to think of any explanation, was beginning to

feel seriously alarmed, when some hard object bounded over the pavement

at his feet. Félicité had thrown him the key of the cart-house, where

he had concealed a supply of muskets. This key clearly signified that

he must take up arms. So he turned away again, unable to comprehend why

his wife had prevented him from going upstairs, and imagining the most

horrible things.

He now went straight to Roudier, whom he found dressed and ready to

march, but completely ignorant of the events of the night. Roudier

lived at the far end of the new town, as in a desert, whither no

tidings of the insurgents’ movements had penetrated. Pierre, however,

proposed to him that they should go to Granoux, whose house stood on

one of the corners of the Place des Récollets, and under whose windows

the insurgent contingents must have passed. The municipal councillor’s

servant remained for a long time parleying before consenting to admit

them, and they heard poor Granoux calling from the first floor in a

trembling voice:

“Don’t open the door, Catherine! The streets are full of bandits.”

He was in his bedroom, in the dark. When he recognised his two faithful

friends he felt relieved; but he would not let the maid bring a lamp,

fearing lest the light might attract a bullet. He seemed to think that

the town was still full of insurgents. Lying back on an arm-chair near

the window, in his pants, and with a silk handkerchief round his head,

he moaned: “Ah! my friends, if you only knew!—I tried to go to bed, but

they were making such a disturbance! At last I lay down in my arm-chair

here. I’ve seen it all, everything. Such awful-looking men; a band of

escaped convicts! Then they passed by again, dragging brave Commander

Sicardot, worthy Monsieur Garconnet, the postmaster, and others away

with them, and howling the while like cannibals!”

Rougon felt a thrill of joy. He made Granoux repeat to him how he had

seen the mayor and the others surrounded by the “brigands.”

“I saw it all!” the poor man wailed. “I was standing behind the blind.

They had just seized Monsieur Peirotte, and I heard him saying as he

passed under my window: ‘Gentlemen, don’t hurt me!’ They were certainly

maltreating him. It’s abominable, abominable.”

However, Roudier calmed Granoux by assuring him that the town was free.

And the worthy gentleman began to feel quite a glow of martial ardour

when Pierre informed him that he had come to recruit his services for

the purpose of saving Plassans. These three saviours then took council

together. They each resolved to go and rouse their friends, and appoint

a meeting at the cart-shed, the secret arsenal of the reactionary

party. Meantime Rougon constantly bethought himself of Félicité’s wild

gestures, which seemed to betoken danger somewhere. Granoux, assuredly

the most foolish of the three, was the first to suggest that there must

be some Republicans left in the town. This proved a flash of light, and

Rougon, with a feeling of conviction, reflected: “There must be

something of Macquart’s doing under all this.”

An hour or so later the friends met again in the cart-shed, which was

situated in a very lonely spot. They had glided stealthily from door to

door, knocking and ringing as quietly as possible, and picking up all

the men they could. However, they had only succeeded in collecting some

forty, who arrived one after the other, creeping along in the dark,

with the pale and drowsy countenances of men who had been violently

startled from their sleep. The cart-shed, let to a cooper, was littered

with old hoops and broken casks, of which there were piles in every

corner. The guns were stored in the middle, in three long boxes. A

taper, stuck on a piece of wood, illumined the strange scene with a

flickering glimmer. When Rougon had removed the covers of the three

boxes, the spectacle became weirdly grotesque. Above the fire-arms,

whose barrels shown with a bluish, phosphorescent glitter, were

outstretched necks and heads that bent with a sort of secret fear,

while the yellow light of the taper cast shadows of huge noses and

locks of stiffened hair upon the walls.

However, the reactionary forces counted their numbers, and the

smallness of the total filled them with hesitation. They were only

thirty-nine all told, and this adventure would mean certain death for

them. A father of a family spoke of his children; others, without

troubling themselves about excuses, turned towards the door. Then,

however, two fresh conspirators arrived, who lived in the neighbourhood

of the Town Hall, and knew for certain that there were not more than

about twenty Republicans still at the mayor’s. The band thereupon

deliberated afresh. Forty-one against twenty—these seemed practicable

conditions. So the arms were distributed amid a little trembling. It

was Rougon who took them from the boxes, and each man present, as he

received his gun, the barrel of which on that December night was icy

cold, felt a sudden chill freeze him to his bones. The shadows on the

walls assumed the clumsy postures of bewildered conscripts stretching

out their fingers. Pierre closed the boxes regretfully; he left there a

hundred and nine guns which he would willingly have distributed;

however, he now had to divide the cartridges. Of these, there were two

large barrels full in the furthest corner of the cart-shed, sufficient

to defend Plassans against an army. And as this corner was dark, one of

the gentlemen brought the taper near, whereupon another conspirator—a

burly pork-butcher, with immense fists—grew angry, declaring that it

was most imprudent to bring a light so close. They strongly approved

his words, so the cartridges were distributed in the dark. They

completely filled their pockets with them. Then, after they had loaded

their guns, with endless precautions, they lingered there for another

moment, looking at each other with suspicious eyes, or exchanging

glances in which cowardly ferocity was mingled with an expression of

stupidity.

In the streets they kept close to the houses, marching silently and in

single file, like savages on the war-path. Rougon had insisted upon

having the honour of marching at their head; the time had come when he

must needs run some risk, if he wanted to see his schemes successful.

Drops of perspiration poured down his forehead in spite of the cold.

Nevertheless he preserved a very martial bearing. Roudier and Granoux

were immediately behind him. Upon two occasions the column came to an

abrupt halt. They fancied they had heard some distant sound of

fighting; but it was only the jingle of the little brass shaving-dishes

hanging from chains, which are used as signs by the barbers of Southern

France. These dishes were gently shaking to and fro in the breeze.

After each halt, the saviours of Plassans continued their stealthy

march in the dark, retaining the while the mien of terrified heroes. In

this manner they reached the square in front of the Town Hall. There

they formed a group round Rougon, and took counsel together once more.

In the façade of the building in front of them only one window was

lighted. It was now nearly seven o’clock and the dawn was approaching.

After a good ten minutes’ discussion, it was decided to advance as far

as the door, so as to ascertain what might be the meaning of this

disquieting darkness and silence. The door proved to be half open. One

of the conspirators thereupon popped his head in, but quickly withdrew

it, announcing that there was a man under the porch, sitting against

the wall fast asleep, with a gun between his legs. Rougon, seeing a

chance of commencing with a deed of valour, thereupon entered first,

and, seizing the man, held him down while Roudier gagged him. This

first triumph, gained in silence, singularly emboldened the little

troop, who had dreamed of a murderous fusillade. And Rougon had to make

imperious signs to restrain his soldiers from indulging in

over-boisterous delight.

They continued their advance on tip-toes. Then, on the left, in the

police guard-room, which was situated there, they perceived some

fifteen men lying on camp-beds and snoring, amid the dim glimmer of a

lantern hanging from the wall. Rougon, who was decidedly becoming a

great general, left half of his men in front of the guard-room with

orders not to rouse the sleepers, but to watch them and make them

prisoners if they stirred. He was personally uneasy about the lighted

window which they had seen from the square. He still scented Macquart’s

hand in the business, and, as he felt that he would first have to make

prisoners of those who were watching upstairs, he was not sorry to be

able to adopt surprise tactics before the noise of a conflict should

impel them to barricade themselves in the first-floor rooms. So he went

up quietly, followed by the twenty heroes whom he still had at his

disposal. Roudier commanded the detachment remaining in the courtyard.

As Rougon had surmised, it was Macquart who was comfortably installed

upstairs in the mayor’s office. He sat in the mayor’s arm-chair, with

his elbows on the mayor’s writing-table. With the characteristic

confidence of a man of coarse intellect, who is absorbed by a fixed

idea and bent upon his own triumph, he had imagined after the departure

of the insurgents that Plassans was now at his complete disposal, and

that he would be able to act there like a conqueror. In his opinion

that body of three thousand men who had just passed through the town

was an invincible army, whose mere proximity would suffice to keep the

bourgeois humble and docile in his hands. The insurgents had imprisoned

the gendarmes in their barracks, the National Guard was already

dismembered, the nobility must be quaking with terror, and the retired

citizens of the new town had certainly never handled a gun in their

lives. Moreover, there were no arms any more than there were soldiers.

Thus Macquart did not even take the precaution to have the gates shut.

His men carried their confidence still further by falling asleep, while

he calmly awaited the dawn which he fancied would attract and rally all

the Republicans of the district round him.

He was already meditating important revolutionary measures; the

nomination of a Commune of which he would be the chief, the

imprisonment of all bad patriots, and particularly of all such persons

as had incurred his displeasure. The thought of the baffled Rougons and

their yellow drawing-room, of all that clique entreating him for mercy,

thrilled him with exquisite pleasure. In order to while away the time

he resolved to issue a proclamation to the inhabitants of Plassans.

Four of his party set to work to draw up this proclamation, and when it

was finished Macquart, assuming a dignified manner in the mayor’s

arm-chair, had it read to him before sending it to the printing office

of the “Indépendant,” on whose patriotism he reckoned. One of the

writers was commencing, in an emphatic voice, “Inhabitants of Plassans,

the hour of independence has struck, the reign of justice has begun——”

when a noise was heard at the door of the office, which was slowly

pushed open.

“Is it you, Cassoute?” Macquart asked, interrupting the perusal.

Nobody answered; but the door opened wider.

“Come in, do!” he continued, impatiently. “Is my brigand of a brother

at home?”

Then, all at once both leaves of the door were violently thrown back

and slammed against the walls, and a crowd of armed men, in the midst

of whom marched Rougon, with his face very red and his eyes starting

out of their sockets, swarmed into the office, brandishing their guns

like cudgels.

“Ah! the blackguards, they’re armed!” shouted Macquart.

He was about to seize a pair of pistols which were lying on the

writing-table, when five men caught hold of him by the throat and held

him in check. The four authors of the proclamation struggled for an

instant. There was a good deal of scuffling and stamping, and a noise

of persons falling. The combatants were greatly hampered by their guns,

which they would not lay aside, although they could not use them. In

the struggle, Rougon’s weapon, which an insurgent had tried to wrest

from him, went off of itself with a frightful report, and filled the

room with smoke. The bullet shattered a magnificent mirror that reached

from the mantelpiece to the ceiling, and was reputed to be one of the

finest mirrors in the town. This shot, fired no one knew why, deafened

everybody, and put an end to the battle.

Then, while the gentlemen were panting and puffing, three other reports

were heard in the courtyard. Granoux immediately rushed to one of the

windows. And as he and the others anxiously leaned out, their faces

lengthened perceptibly, for they were in nowise eager for a struggle

with the men in the guard-room, whom they had forgotten amidst their

triumph. However, Roudier cried out from below that all was right. And

Granoux then shut the window again, beaming with joy. The fact of the

matter was, that Rougon’s shot had aroused the sleepers, who had

promptly surrendered, seeing that resistance was impossible. Then,

however, three of Roudier’s men, in their blind haste to get the

business over, had discharged their firearms in the air, as a sort of

answer to the report from above, without knowing quite why they did so.

It frequently happens that guns go off of their own accord when they

are in the hands of cowards.

And now, in the room upstairs, Rougon ordered Macquart’s hands to be

bound with the bands of the large green curtains which hung at the

windows. At this, Macquart, wild with rage, broke into scornful jeers.

“All right; go on,” he muttered. “This evening or to-morrow, when the

others return, we’ll settle accounts!”

This allusion to the insurrectionary forces sent a shudder to the

victors’ very marrow; Rougon for his part almost choked. His brother,

who was exasperated at having been surprised like a child by these

terrified bourgeois, who, old soldier that he was, he disdainfully

looked upon as good-for-nothing civilians, defied him with a glance of

the bitterest hatred.

“Ah! I can tell some pretty stories about you, very pretty ones!” the

rascal exclaimed, without removing his eyes from the retired oil

merchant. “Just send me before the Assize Court, so that I may tell the

judge a few tales that will make them laugh.”

At this Rougon turned pale. He was terribly afraid lest Macquart should

blab then and there, and ruin him in the esteem of the gentlemen who

had just been assisting him to save Plassans. These gentlemen,

astounded by the dramatic encounter between the two brothers, and,

foreseeing some stormy passages, had retired to a corner of the room.

Rougon, however, formed a heroic resolution. He advanced towards the

group, and in a very proud tone exclaimed: “We will keep this man here.

When he has reflected on his position he will be able to give us some

useful information.” Then, in a still more dignified voice, he went on:

“I will discharge my duty, gentlemen. I have sworn to save the town

from anarchy, and I will save it, even should I have to be the

executioner of my nearest relative.”

One might have thought him some old Roman sacrificing his family on the

altar of his country. Granoux, who felt deeply moved, came to press his

hand with a tearful countenance, which seemed to say: “I understand

you; you are sublime!” And then he did him the kindness to take

everybody away, under the pretext of conducting the four other

prisoners into the courtyard.

When Pierre was alone with his brother, he felt all his self-possession

return to him. “You hardly expected me, did you?” he resumed. “I

understand things now; you have been laying plots against me. You

wretched fellow; see what your vices and disorderly life have brought

you to!”

Macquart shrugged his shoulders. “Shut up,” he replied; “go to the

devil. You’re an old rogue. He laughs best who laughs last.”

Thereupon Rougon, who had formed no definite plan with regard to him,

thrust him into a dressing-room whither Monsieur Garconnet retired to

rest sometimes. This room lighted from above, had no other means of

exit than the doorway by which one entered. It was furnished with a few

arm-chairs, a sofa, and a marble wash-stand. Pierre double-locked the

door, after partially unbinding his brother’s hands. Macquart was then

heard to throw himself on the sofa, and start singing the “Ça Ira” in a

loud voice, as though he were trying to sing himself to sleep.

Rougon, who at last found himself alone, now in his turn sat down in

the mayor’s arm-chair. He heaved a sigh as he wiped his brow. How hard,

indeed, it was to win fortune and honours! However, he was nearing the

end at last. He felt the soft seat of the arm-chair yield beneath him,

while with a mechanical movement he caressed the mahogany writing-table

with his hands, finding it apparently quite silky and delicate, like

the skin of a beautiful woman. Then he spread himself out, and assumed

the dignified attitude which Macquart had previously affected while

listening to the proclamation. The silence of the room seemed fraught

with religious solemnity, which inspired Rougon with exquisite delight.

Everything, even the dust and the old documents lying in the corners,

seemed to exhale an odour of incense, which rose to his dilated

nostrils. This room, with its faded hangings redolent of petty

transactions, all the trivial concerns of a third-rate municipality,

became a temple of which he was the god.

Nevertheless, amidst his rapture, he started nervously at every shout

from Macquart. The words aristocrat and lamp-post, the threats of

hanging that form the refrain of the famous revolutionary song, the “Ca

Ira,” reached him in angry bursts, interrupting his triumphant dream in

the most disagreeable manner. Always that man! And his dream, in which

he saw Plassans at his feet, ended with a sudden vision of the Assize

Court, of the judges, the jury, and the public listening to Macquart’s

disgraceful revelations; the story of the fifty thousand francs, and

many other unpleasant matters; or else, while enjoying the softness of

Monsieur Garconnet’s arm-chair, he suddenly pictured himself suspended

from a lamp-post in the Rue de la Banne. Who would rid him of that

wretched fellow? At last Antoine fell asleep, and then Pierre enjoyed

ten good minutes’ pure ecstasy.

Roudier and Granoux came to rouse him from this state of beatitude.

They had just returned from the prison, whither they had taken the

insurgents. Daylight was coming on apace, the town would soon be awake,

and it was necessary to take some decisive step. Roudier declared that,

before anything else, it would be advisable to issue a proclamation to

the inhabitants. Pierre was, at that moment, reading the one which the

insurgents had left upon the table.

“Why,” cried he, “this will suit us admirably! There are only a few

words to be altered.”

And, in fact, a quarter of an hour sufficed for the necessary changes,

after which Granoux read out, in an earnest voice: “Inhabitants of

Plassans—The hour of resistance has struck, the reign of order has

returned——”

It was decided that the proclamation should be printed at the office of

the “Gazette,” and posted at all the street corners.

“Now listen,” said Rougon; “we’ll go to my house; and in the meantime

Monsieur Granoux will assemble here the members of the municipal

council who had not been arrested and acquaint them with the terrible

events of the night.” Then he added, majestically: “I am quite prepared

to accept the responsibility of my actions. If what I have already done

appears a satisfactory pledge of my desire for order, I am willing to

place myself at the head of a municipal commission, until such time as

the regular authorities can be reinstated. But, in order, that nobody

may accuse me of ambitious designs, I shall not re-enter the Town Hall

unless called upon to do so by my fellow-citizens.”

At this Granoux and Roudier protested that Plassans would not be

ungrateful. Their friend had indeed saved the town. And they recalled

all that he had done for the cause of order: the yellow drawing-room

always open to the friends of authority, his services as spokesman in

the three quarters of the town, the store of arms which had been his

idea, and especially that memorable night—that night of prudence and

heroism—in which he had rendered himself forever illustrious. Granoux

added that he felt sure of the admiration and gratitude of the

municipal councillors.

“Don’t stir from your house,” he concluded; “I will come and fetch you

to lead you back in triumph.”

Then Roudier said that he quite understood the tact and modesty of

their friend, and approved it. Nobody would think of accusing him of

ambition, but all would appreciate the delicacy which prompted him to

take no office save with the consent of his fellow-citizens. That was

very dignified, very noble, altogether grand.

Under this shower of eulogies, Rougon humbly bowed his head. “No, no;

you go too far,” he murmured, with voluptuous thrillings of exquisite

pleasure. Each sentence that fell from the retired hosier and the old

almond-merchant, who stood on his right and left respectively, fell

sweetly on his ears; and, leaning back in the mayor’s arm-chair,

steeped in the odour of officiality which pervaded the room, he bowed

to the right and to the left, like a royal pretender whom a _coup

d’etat_ is about to convert into an emperor.

When they were tired of belauding each other, they all three went

downstairs. Granoux started off to call the municipal council together,

while Roudier told Rougon to go on in front, saying that he would join

him at his house, after giving the necessary orders for guarding the

Town Hall. The dawn was now fast rising, and Pierre proceeded to the

Rue de la Banne, tapping his heels in a martial manner on the still

deserted pavement. He carried his hat in his hand in spite of the

bitter cold; for puffs of pride sent all his blood to his head.

On reaching his house he found Cassoute at the bottom of the stairs.

The navvy had not stirred, for he had seen nobody enter. He sat there,

on the first step, resting his big head in his hands, and gazing

fixedly in front of him, with the vacant stare and mute stubbornness of

a faithful dog.

“You were waiting for me, weren’t you?” Pierre said to him, taking in

the situation at a glance. “Well, go and tell Monsieur Macquart that

I’ve come home. Go and ask for him at the Town Hall.”

Cassoute rose and took himself off, with an awkward bow. He was going

to get himself arrested like a lamb, to the great delight of Pierre,

who laughed as he went upstairs, asking himself, with a feeling of

vague surprise: “I have certainly plenty of courage; shall I turn out

as good a diplomatist?”

Félicité had not gone to bed last night. He found her dressed in her

Sunday clothes, wearing a cap with lemon-coloured ribbons, like a lady

expecting visitors. She had sat at the window in vain; she had heard

nothing, and was dying with curiosity.

“Well?” she asked, rushing to meet her husband.

The latter, quite out of breath, entered the yellow drawing-room,

whither she followed him, carefully closing the door behind her. He

sank into an arm-chair, and, in a gasping voice, faltered: “It’s done;

we shall get the receivership.”

At this she fell on his neck and kissed him.

“Really? Really?” she cried. “But I haven’t heard anything. Oh, my

darling husband, do tell me; tell me all!”

She felt fifteen years old again, and began to coax him and whirl round

him like a grasshopper fascinated by the light and heat. And Pierre, in

the effusion of his triumph, poured out his heart to her. He did not

omit a single detail. He even explained his future projects, forgetting

that, according to his theories, wives were good for nothing, and that

his must be kept in complete ignorance of what went on if he wished to

remain master. Félicité leant over him and drank in his words. She made

him repeat certain parts of his story, declaring she had not heard; in

fact, her delight bewildered her so much that at times she seemed quite

deaf. When Pierre related the events at the Town Hall, she burst into a

fit of laughter, changed her chair three times, and moved the furniture

about, quite unable to sit still. After forty years of continuous

struggle, fortune had at last yielded to them. Eventually she became so

mad over it that she forgot all prudence.

“It’s to me you owe all this!” she exclaimed, in an outburst of

triumph. “If I hadn’t looked after you, you would have been nicely

taken in by the insurgents. You booby, it was Garconnet, Sicardot, and

the others, that had got to be thrown to those wild beasts.”

Then, showing her teeth, loosened by age, she added, with a girlish

smile: “Well, the Republic for ever! It has made our path clear.”

But Pierre had turned cross. “That’s just like you!” he muttered; “you

always fancy that you’ve foreseen everything. It was I who had the idea

of hiding myself. As though women understood anything about politics!

Bah, my poor girl, if you were to steer the bark we should very soon be

shipwrecked.”

Félicité bit her lip. She had gone too far and forgotten her

self-assigned part of good, silent fairy. Then she was seized with one

of those fits of covert exasperation, which she generally experienced

when her husband tried to crush her with his superiority. And she again

promised herself, when the right time should arrive, some exquisite

revenge, which would deliver this man into her power, bound hand and

foot.

“Ah! I was forgetting!” resumed Rougon, “Monsieur Peirotte is amongst

them. Granoux saw him struggling in the hands of the insurgents.”

Félicité gave a start. She was just at that moment standing at the

window, gazing with longing eyes at the house where the receiver of

taxes lived. She had felt a desire to do so, for in her mind the idea

of triumph was always associated with envy of that fine house.

“So Monsieur Peirotte is arrested!” she exclaimed in a strange tone as

she turned round.

For an instant she smiled complacently; then a crimson blush rushed to

her face. A murderous wish had just ascended from the depths of her

being. “Ah! if the insurgents would only kill him!”

Pierre no doubt read her thoughts in her eyes.

“Well, if some ball were to hit him,” he muttered, “our business would

be settled. There would be no necessity to supercede him, eh? and it

would be no fault of ours.”

But Félicité shuddered. She felt that she had just condemned a man to

death. If Monsieur Peirotte should now be killed, she would always see

his ghost at night time. He would come and haunt her. So she only

ventured to cast furtive glances, full of fearful delight, at the

unhappy man’s windows. Henceforward all her enjoyment would be fraught

with a touch of guilty terror.

Moreover, Pierre, having now poured out his soul, began to perceive the

other side of the situation. He mentioned Macquart. How could they get

rid of that blackguard? But Félicité, again fired with enthusiasm,

exclaimed: “Oh! one can’t do everything at once. We’ll gag him,

somehow. We’ll soon find some means or other.”

She was now walking to and fro, putting the arm-chairs in order, and

dusting their backs. Suddenly, she stopped in the middle of the room,

and gave the faded furniture a long glance.

“Good Heavens!” she said, “how ugly it is here! And we shall have

everybody coming to call upon us!”

“Bah!” replied Pierre, with supreme indifference, “we’ll alter all

that.”

He who, the night before, had entertained almost religious veneration

for the arm-chairs and the sofa, would now have willingly stamped on

them. Félicité, who felt the same contempt, even went so far as to

upset an arm-chair which was short of a castor and did not yield to her

quickly enough.

It was at this moment that Roudier entered. It at once occurred to the

old woman that he had become much more polite. His “Monsieur” and

“Madame” rolled forth in delightfully musical fashion. But the other

_habitués_ were now arriving one after the other; and the drawing-room

was fast getting full. Nobody yet knew the full particulars of the

events of the night, and all had come in haste, with wondering eyes and

smiling lips, urged on by the rumours which were beginning to circulate

through the town. These gentlemen who, on the previous evening, had

left the drawing-room with such precipitation at the news of the

insurgents’ approach, came back, inquisitive and importunate, like a

swarm of buzzing flies which a puff of wind would have dispersed. Some

of them had not even taken time to put on their braces. They were very

impatient, but it was evident that Rougon was waiting for some one else

before speaking out. He constantly turned an anxious look towards the

door. For an hour there was only significant hand-shaking, vague

congratulation, admiring whispering, suppressed joy of uncertain

origin, which only awaited a word of enlightenment to turn to

enthusiasm.

At last Granoux appeared. He paused for a moment on the threshold, with

his right hand pressed to his breast between the buttons of his

frock-coat; his broad pale face was beaming; in vain he strove to

conceal his emotion beneath an expression of dignity. All the others

became silent on perceiving him; they felt that something extraordinary

was about to take place. Granoux walked straight up to Rougon, through

two lines of visitors, and held out his hand to him.

“My friend,” he said, “I bring you the homage of the Municipal Council.

They call you to their head, until our mayor shall be restored to us.

You have saved Plassans. In the terrible crisis through which we are

passing we want men who, like yourself, unite intelligence with

courage. Come—”

At this point Granoux, who was reciting a little speech which he had

taken great trouble to prepare on his way from the Town Hall to the Rue

de la Banne felt his memory fail him. But Rougon, overwhelmed with

emotion, broke in, shaking his hand and repeating: “Thank you, my dear

Granoux; I thank you very much.”

He could find nothing else to say. However, a loud burst of voices

followed. Every one rushed upon him, tried to shake hands, poured forth

praises and compliments, and eagerly questioned him. But he, already

putting on official dignity, begged for a few minutes’ delay in order

that he might confer with Messieurs Granoux and Roudier. Business

before everything. The town was in such a critical situation! Then the

three accomplices retired to a corner of the drawing-room, where, in an

undertone, they divided power amongst themselves; the rest of the

visitors, who remained a few paces away, trying meanwhile to look

extremely wise and furtively glancing at them with mingled admiration

and curiosity. It was decided that Rougon should take the title of

president of the Municipal Commission; Granoux was to be secretary;

whilst, as for Roudier, he became commander-in-chief of the reorganised

National Guard. They also swore to support each other against all

opposition.

However, Félicité, who had drawn near, abruptly inquired: “And

Vuillet?”

At this they looked at each other. Nobody had seen Vuillet. Rougon

seemed somewhat uneasy.

“Perhaps they’ve taken him away with the others,” he said, to ease his

mind.

But Félicité shook her head. Vuillet was not the man to let himself be

arrested. Since nobody had seen or heard him, it was certain he had

been doing something wrong.

Suddenly the door opened and Vuillet entered, bowing humbly, with

blinking glance and stiff sacristan’s smile. Then he held out his moist

hand to Rougon and the two others.

Vuillet had settled his little affairs alone. He had cut his own slice

out of the cake, as Félicité would have said. While peeping through the

ventilator of his cellar he had seen the insurgents arrest the

postmaster, whose offices were near his bookshop. At daybreak,

therefore, at the moment when Rougon was comfortably seated in the

mayor’s arm-chair, he had quietly installed himself in the postmaster’s

office. He knew the clerks; so he received them on their arrival, told

them that he would replace their chief until his return, and that

meantime they need be in nowise uneasy. Then he ransacked the morning

mail with ill-concealed curiosity. He examined the letters, and seemed

to be seeking a particular one. His new berth doubtless suited his

secret plans, for his satisfaction became so great that he actually

gave one of the clerks a copy of the “Oeuvres Badines de Piron.”

Vuillet, it should be mentioned, did business in objectionable

literature, which he kept concealed in a large drawer, under the stock

of heads and religious images. It is probable that he felt some slight

qualms at the free-and-easy manner in which he had taken possession of

the post office, and recognised the desirability of getting his

usurpation confirmed as far as possible. At all events, he had thought

it well to call upon Rougon, who was fast becoming an important

personage.

“Why! where have you been?” Félicité asked him in a distrustful manner.

Thereupon he related his story with sundry embellishments. According to

his own account he had saved the post-office from pillage.

“All right then! That’s settled! Stay on there!” said Pierre, after a

moment’s reflection. “Make yourself useful.”

This last sentence revealed the one great fear that possessed the

Rougons. They were afraid that some one might prove too useful, and do

more than themselves to save the town. Still, Pierre saw no serious

danger in leaving Vuillet as provisional postmaster; it was even a

convenient means of getting rid of him. Félicité, however, made a sharp

gesture of annoyance.

The consultation having ended, the three accomplices mingled with the

various groups that filled the drawing-room. They were at last obliged

to satisfy the general curiosity by giving detailed accounts of recent

events. Rougon proved magnificent. He exaggerated, embellished, and

dramatised the story which he had related to his wife. The distribution

of the guns and cartridges made everybody hold their breath. But it was

the march through the deserted streets and the seizure of the town-hall

that most amazed these worthy bourgeois. At each fresh detail there was

an interruption.

“And you were only forty-one; it’s marvellous!”

“Ah, indeed! it must have been frightfully dark!”

“No; I confess I never should have dared it!”

“Then you seized him, like that, by the throat?

“And the insurgents, what did they say?”

These remarks and questions only incited Rougon’s imagination the more.

He replied to everybody. He mimicked the action. This stout man, in his

admiration of his own achievements, became as nimble as a schoolboy; he

began afresh, repeated himself, amidst the exclamations of surprise and

individual discussions which suddenly arose about some trifling detail.

And thus he continued blowing his trumpet, making himself more and more

important as if some irresistible force impelled him to turn his

narrative into a genuine epic. Moreover Granoux and Roudier stood by

his side prompting him, reminding him of such trifling matters as he

omitted. They also were burning to put in a word, and occasionally they

could not restrain themselves, so that all three went on talking

together. When, in order to keep the episode of the broken mirror for

the _dénouement_, like some crowning glory, Rougon began to describe

what had taken place downstairs in the courtyard, after the arrest of

the guard, Roudier accused him of spoiling the narrative by changing

the sequence of events. For a moment they wrangled about it somewhat

sharply. Then Roudier, seeing a good opportunity for himself, suddenly

exclaimed: “Very well, let it be so. But you weren’t there. So let me

tell it.”

He thereupon explained at great length how the insurgents had awoke,

and how the muskets of the town’s deliverers had been levelled at them

to reduce them to impotence. He added, however, that no blood,

fortunately, had been shed. This last sentence disappointed his

audience, who had counted upon one corpse at least.

“But I thought you fired,” interrupted Félicité, recognising that the

story was wretchedly deficient in dramatic interest.

“Yes, yes, three shots,” resumed the old hosier. “The pork-butcher

Dubruel, Monsieur Lievin, and Monsieur Massicot discharged their guns

with really culpable alacrity.” And as there were some murmurs at this

remark; “Culpable, I repeat the word,” he continued. “There are quite

enough cruel necessities in warfare without any useless shedding of

blood. Besides, these gentlemen swore to me that it was not their

fault; they can’t understand how it was their guns went off.

Nevertheless, a spent ball after ricocheting grazed the cheek of one of

the insurgents and left a mark on it.”

This graze, this unexpected wound, satisfied the audience. Which cheek,

right or left, had been grazed, and how was it that a bullet, a spent

one, even, could strike a cheek without piercing it? These points

supplied material for some long discussions.

“Meantime,” continued Rougon at the top of his voice, without giving

time for the excitement to abate; “meantime we had plenty to do

upstairs. The struggle was quite desperate.”

Then he described, at length, the arrival of his brother and the four

other insurgents, without naming Macquart, whom he simply called “the

leader.” The words, “the mayor’s office,” “the mayor’s arm-chair,” “the

mayor’s writing table,” recurred to him every instant, and in the

opinion of his audience imparted marvellous grandeur to the terrible

scene. It was not at the porter’s lodge that the fight was now being

waged, but in the private sanctum of the chief magistrate of the town.

Roudier was quite cast in to the background. Then Rougon at last came

to the episode which he had been keeping in reserve from the

commencement, and which would certainly exalt him to the dignity of a

hero.

“Thereupon,” said he, “an insurgent rushes upon me. I push the mayor’s

arm-chair away, and seize the man by the throat. I hold him tightly,

you may be sure of it! But my gun was in my way. I didn’t want to let

it drop; a man always sticks to his gun. I held it, like this, under

the left arm. All of a sudden, it went off—”

The whole audience hung on Rougon’s lips. But Granoux, who was opening

his mouth wide with a violent itching to say something, shouted: “No,

no, that isn’t right. You were not in a position to see things, my

friend; you were fighting like a lion. But I saw everything, while I

was helping to bind one of the prisoners. The man tried to murder you;

it was he who fired the gun; I saw him distinctly slip his black

fingers under your arm.”

“Really?” said Rougon, turning quite pale.

He did not know he had been in such danger, and the old almond

merchant’s account of the incident chilled him with fright. Granoux, as

a rule, did not lie; but, on a day of battle, it is surely allowable to

view things dramatically.

“I tell you the man tried to murder you,” he repeated, with conviction.

“Ah,” said Rougon in a faint voice, “that’s how it is I heard the

bullet whiz past my ear!”

At this, violent emotion came upon the audience. Everybody gazed at the

hero with respectful awe. He had heard a bullet whiz past his ear!

Certainly, none of the other bourgeois who were there could say as

much. Félicité felt bound to rush into her husband’s arms so as to work

up the emotion to boiling point. But Rougon immediately freed himself,

and concluded his narrative with this heroic sentence, which has become

famous at Plassans: “The shot goes off; I hear the bullet whiz past my

ear; and whish! it smashes the mayor’s mirror.”

This caused complete consternation. Such a magnificent mirror, too! It

was scarcely credible! the damage done to that looking-glass almost

out-balanced Rougon’s heroism, in the estimation of the company. The

glass became an object of absorbing interest, and they talked about it

for a quarter of an hour, with many exclamations and expressions of

regret, as though it had been some dear friend that had been stricken

to the heart. This was the culminating point that Rougon had aimed at,

the _dénouement_ of his wonderful Odyssey. A loud hubbub of voices

filled the yellow drawing-room. The visitors were repeating what they

had just heard, and every now and then one of them would leave a group

to ask the three heroes the exact truth with regard to some contested

incident. The heroes set the matter right with scrupulous minuteness,

for they felt that they were speaking for history!

At last Rougon and his two lieutenants announced that they were

expected at the town-hall. Respectful silence was then restored, and

the company smiled at each other discreetly. Granoux was swelling with

importance. He was the only one who had seen the insurgent pull the

trigger and smash the mirror; this sufficed to exalt him, and almost

made him burst his skin. On leaving the drawing-room, he took Roudier’s

arm with the air of a great general who is broken down with fatigue.

“I’ve been up for thirty-six hours,” he murmured, “and heaven alone

knows when I shall get to bed!”

Rougon, as he withdrew, took Vuillet aside and told him that the party

of order relied more than ever on him and the “Gazette.” He would have

to publish an effective article to reassure the inhabitants and treat

the band of villains who had passed through Plassans as it deserved.

“Be easy!” replied Vuillet. “In the ordinary course the ‘Gazette’ ought

not to appear till to-morrow morning, but I’ll issue it this very

evening.”

When the leaders had left, the rest of the visitors remained in the

yellow drawing-room for another moment, chattering like so many old

women, whom the escape of a canary has gathered together on the

pavement. These retired tradesmen, oil dealers, and wholesale hatters,

felt as if they were in a sort of fairyland. Never had they experienced

such thrilling excitement before. They could not get over their

surprise at discovering such heroes as Rougon, Granoux, and Roudier in

their midst. At last, half stifled by the stuffy atmosphere, and tired

of ever telling each other the same things, they decided to go off and

spread the momentous news abroad. They glided away one by one, each

anxious to have the glory of being the first to know and relate

everything, and Félicité, as she leaned out of the window, on being

left alone, saw them dispersing in the Rue de la Banne, waving their

arms in an excited manner, eager as they were to diffuse emotion to the

four corners of the town.

It was ten o’clock, and Plassans, now wide awake, was running about the

streets, wildly excited by the reports which were circulating. Those

who had seen or heard the insurrectionary forces, related the most

foolish stories, contradicting each other, and indulging in the wildest

suppositions. The majority, however, knew nothing at all about the

matter; they lived at the further end of the town, and listened with

gaping mouths, like children to a nursery tale, to the stories of how

several thousand bandits had invaded the streets during the night and

vanished before daybreak like an army of phantoms. A few of the most

sceptical said: “Nonsense!” Yet some of the details were very precise;

and Plassans at last felt convinced that some frightful danger had

passed over it while it slept. The darkness which had shrouded this

danger, the various contradictory reports that spread, all invested the

matter with mystery and vague horror, which made the bravest shudder.

Whose hand had diverted the thunderbolt from them? There seemed to be

something quite miraculous about it. There were rumours of unknown

deliverers, of a handful of brave men who had cut off the hydra’s head;

but no one seemed acquainted with the exact particulars, and the whole

story appeared scarcely credible, until the company from the yellow

drawing-room spread through the streets, scattering tidings, ever

repeating the same narrative at each door they came to.

It was like a train of powder. In a few minutes the story had spread

from one end of the town to the other. Rougon’s name flew from mouth to

mouth, with exclamations of surprise in the new town, and of praise in

the old quarter. The idea of being without a sub-prefect, a mayor, a

postmaster, a receiver of taxes, or authorities of any kind, at first

threw the inhabitants into consternation. They were stupefied at having

been able to sleep through the night and get up as usual, in the

absence of any settled government. Their first stupor over, they threw

themselves recklessly into the arms of their liberators. The few

Republicans shrugged their shoulders, but the petty shopkeepers, the

small householders, the Conservatives of all shades, invoked blessings

on those modest heroes whose achievements had been shrouded by the

night. When it was known that Rougon had arrested his own brother, the

popular admiration knew no bounds. People talked of Brutus, and thus

the indiscretion which had made Pierre rather anxious, really redounded

to his glory. At this moment when terror still hovered over them, the

townsfolk were virtually unanimous in their gratitude. Rougon was

accepted as their saviour without the slightest show of opposition.

“Just think of it!” the poltroons exclaimed, “there were only forty-one

of them!”

That number of forty-one amazed the whole town, and this was the origin

of the Plassans legend of how forty-one bourgeois had made three

thousand insurgents bite the dust. There were only a few envious

spirits of the new town, lawyers without work and retired military men

ashamed of having slept ingloriously through that memorable night, who

raised any doubts. The insurgents, these sceptics hinted, had no doubt

left the town of their own accord. There were no indications of a

combat, no corpses, no blood-stains. So the deliverers had certainly

had a very easy task.

“But the mirror, the mirror!” repeated the enthusiasts. “You can’t deny

that the mayor’s mirror has been smashed; go and see it for

yourselves.”

And, in fact, until night-time, quite a stream of town’s-people flowed,

under one pretext or another, into the mayor’s private office, the door

of which Rougon left wide open. The visitors planted themselves in

front of the mirror, which the bullet had pierced and starred, and they

all gave vent to the same exclamation: “By Jove; that ball must have

had terrible force!”

Then they departed quite convinced.

Félicité, at her window, listened with delight to all the rumours and

laudatory and grateful remarks which arose from the town. At that

moment all Plassans was talking of her husband. She felt that the two

districts below her were quivering, wafting her the hope of approaching

triumph. Ah! how she would crush that town which she had been so long

in getting beneath her feet! All her grievances crowded back to her

memory, and her past disappointments redoubled her appetite for

immediate enjoyment.

At last she left the window, and walked slowly round the drawing-room.

It was there that, a little while previously, everybody had held out

their hands to her husband and herself. He and she had conquered; the

citizens were at their feet. The yellow drawing-room seemed to her a

holy place. The dilapidated furniture, the frayed velvet, the

chandelier soiled with fly-marks, all those poor wrecks now seemed to

her like the glorious bullet-riddled debris of a battle-field. The

plain of Austerlitz would not have stirred her to deeper emotion.

When she returned to the window, she perceived Aristide wandering about

the place of the Sub-Prefecture, with his nose in the air. She beckoned

to him to come up, which he immediately did. It seemed as if he had

only been waiting for this invitation.

“Come in,” his mother said to him on the landing, seeing that he

hesitated. “Your father is not here.”

Aristide evinced all the shyness of a prodigal son returning home. He

had not been inside the yellow drawing-room for nearly four years. He

still carried his arm in a sling.

“Does your hand still pain you?” his mother asked him, ironically.

He blushed as he answered with some embarrassment: “Oh! it’s getting

better; it’s nearly well again now.”

Then he lingered there, loitering about and not knowing what to say.

Félicité came to the rescue. “I suppose you’ve heard them talking about

your father’s noble conduct?” she resumed.

He replied that the whole town was talking of it. And then, as he

regained his self-possession, he paid his mother back for her raillery

in her own coin. Looking her full in the face he added: “I came to see

if father was wounded.”

“Come, don’t play the fool!” cried Félicité, petulantly. “If I were you

I would act boldly and decisively. Confess now that you made a false

move in joining those good-for-nothing Republicans. You would be very

glad, I’m sure, to be well rid of them, and to return to us, who are

the stronger party. Well, the house is open to you!”

But Aristide protested. The Republic was a grand idea. Moreover, the

insurgents might still carry the day.

“Don’t talk nonsense to me!” retorted the old woman, with some

irritation. “You’re afraid that your father won’t have a very warm

welcome for you. But I’ll see to that. Listen to me: go back to your

newspaper, and, between now and to-morrow, prepare a number strongly

favouring the Coup d’État. To-morrow evening, when this number has

appeared, come back here and you will be received with open arms.”

Then seeing that the young man remained silent: “Do you hear?” she

added, in a lower and more eager tone; “it is necessary for our sake,

and for your own, too, that it should be done. Don’t let us have any

more nonsense and folly. You’ve already compromised yourself enough in

that way.”

The young man made a gesture—the gesture of a Caesar crossing the

Rubicon—and by doing so escaped entering into any verbal engagement. As

he was about to withdraw, his mother, looking for the knot in his

sling, remarked: “First of all, you must let me take off this rag. It’s

getting a little ridiculous, you know!”

Aristide let her remove it. When the silk handkerchief was untied, he

folded it neatly and placed it in his pocket. And as he kissed his

mother he exclaimed: “Till to-morrow then!”

In the meanwhile, Rougon was taking official possession of the mayor’s

offices. There were only eight municipal councillors left; the others

were in the hands of the insurgents, as well as the mayor and his two

assessors. The eight remaining gentlemen, who were all on a par with

Granoux, perspired with fright when the latter explained to them the

critical situation of the town. It requires an intimate knowledge of

the kind of men who compose the municipal councils of some of the

smaller towns, in order to form an idea of the terror with which these

timid folk threw themselves into Rougon’s arms. At Plassans, the mayor

had the most incredible blockheads under him, men without any ideas of

their own, and accustomed to passive obedience. Consequently, as

Monsieur Garconnet was no longer there, the municipal machine was bound

to get out of order, and fall completely under the control of the man

who might know how to set it working. Moreover, as the sub-prefect had

left the district, Rougon naturally became sole and absolute master of

the town; and thus, strange to relate, the chief administrative

authority fell into the hands of a man of indifferent repute, to whom,

on the previous evening, not one of his fellow-citizens would have lent

a hundred francs.

Pierre’s first act was to declare the Provisional Commission “en

permanence.” Then he gave his attention to the organisation of the

national guard, and succeeded in raising three hundred men. The hundred

and nine muskets left in the cart-shed were also distributed to

volunteers, thereby bringing up the number of men armed by the

reactionary party to one hundred and fifty; the remaining one hundred

and fifty guards consisted of well-affected citizens and some of

Sicardot’s soldiers. When Commander Roudier reviewed the little army in

front of the town-hall, he was annoyed to see the market-people smiling

in their sleeves. The fact is that several of his men had no uniforms,

and some of them looked very droll with their black hats, frock-coats,

and muskets. But, at any rate, they meant well. A guard was left at the

town-hall and the rest of the forces were sent in detachments to the

various town gates. Roudier reserved to himself the command of the

guard stationed at the Grand’-Porte, which seemed to be more liable to

attack than the others.

Rougon, who now felt very conscious of his power, repaired to the Rue

Canquoin to beg the gendarmes to remain in their barracks and interfere

with nothing. He certainly had the doors of the gendarmerie opened—the

keys having been carried off by the insurgents—but he wanted to triumph

alone, and had no intention of letting the gendarmes rob him of any

part of his glory. If he should really have need of them he could

always send for them. So he explained to them that their presence might

tend to irritate the working-men and thus aggravate the situation. The

sergeant in command thereupon complimented him on his prudence. When

Rougon was informed that there was a wounded man in the barracks, he

asked to see him, by way of rendering himself popular. He found Rengade

in bed, with his eye bandaged, and his big moustaches just peeping out

from under the linen. With some high-sounding words about duty, Rougon

endeavoured to comfort the unfortunate fellow who, having lost an eye,

was swearing with exasperation at the thought that his injury would

compel him to quit the service. At last Rougon promised to send the

doctor to him.

“I’m much obliged to you, sir,” Rengade replied; “but, you know, what

would do me more good than any quantity of doctor’s stuff would be to

wring the neck of the villain who put my eye out. Oh! I shall know him

again; he’s a little thin, palish fellow, quite young.”

Thereupon Pierre bethought himself of the blood he had seen on

Silvère’s hand. He stepped back a little, as though he was afraid that

Rengade would fly at his throat, and cry: “It was your nephew who

blinded me; and you will have to pay for it.” And whilst he was

mentally cursing his disreputable family, he solemnly declared that if

the guilty person were found he should be punished with all the rigour

of the law.

“No, no, it isn’t worth all that trouble,” the one-eyed man replied;

“I’ll just wring his neck for him when I catch him.”

Rougon hastened back to the town-hall. The afternoon was employed in

taking various measures. The proclamation posted up about one o’clock

produced an excellent impression. It ended by an appeal to the good

sense of the citizens, and gave a firm assurance that order would not

again be disturbed. Until dusk, in fact, the streets presented a

picture of general relief and perfect confidence. On the pavements, the

groups who were reading the proclamation exclaimed:

“It’s all finished now; we shall soon see the troops who have been sent

in pursuit of the insurgents.”

This belief that some soldiers were approaching was so general that the

idles of the Cours Sauvaire repaired to the Nice road, in order to meet

and hear the regimental band. But they returned at nightfall

disappointed, having seen nothing; and then a feeling of vague alarm

began to disturb the townspeople.

At the town-hall, the Provisional Commission had talked so much,

without coming to any decision, that the members, whose stomachs were

quite empty, began to feel alarmed again. Rougon dismissed them to

dine, saying that they would meet afresh at nine o’clock in the

evening. He was just about to leave the room himself, when Macquart

awoke and began to pommel the door of his prison. He declared he was

hungry, then asked what time it was, and when his brother had told him

it was five o’clock, he feigned great astonishment, and muttered, with

diabolical malice, that the insurgents had promised to return much

earlier, and that they were very slow in coming to deliver him. Rougon,

having ordered some food to be taken to him, went downstairs, quite

worried by the earnestness with which the rascal spoke of the return of

the insurgents.

When he reached the street, his disquietude increased. The town seemed

to him quite altered. It was assuming a strange aspect; shadows were

gliding along the footpaths, which were growing deserted and silent,

while gloomy fear seemed, like fine rain, to be slowly, persistently

falling with the dusk over the mournful-looking houses. The babbling

confidence of the daytime was fatally terminating in groundless panic,

in growing alarm as the night drew nearer; the inhabitants were so

weary and so satiated with their triumph that they had no strength left

but to dream of some terrible retaliation on the part of the

insurgents. Rougon shuddered as he passed through this current of

terror. He hastened his steps, feeling as if he would choke. As he

passed a cafe on the Place des Récollets, where the lamps had just been

lit, and where the petty cits of the new town were assembled, he heard

a few words of terrifying conversation.

“Well! Monsieur Picou,” said one man in a thick voice, “you’ve heard

the news? The regiment that was expected has not arrived.”

“But nobody expected any regiment, Monsieur Touche,” a shrill voice

replied.

“I beg your pardon. You haven’t read the proclamation, then?”

“Oh yes, it’s true the placards declare that order will be maintained

by force, if necessary.”

“You see, then, there’s force mentioned; that means armed forces, of

course.”

“What do people say then?”

“Well, you know, folks are beginning to feel rather frightened; they

say that this delay on the part of the soldiers isn’t natural, and that

the insurgents may well have slaughtered them.”

A cry of horror resounded through the cafe. Rougon was inclined to go

in and tell those bourgeois that the proclamation had never announced

the arrival of a regiment, that they had no right to strain its meaning

to such a degree, nor to spread such foolish theories abroad. But he

himself, amidst the disquietude which was coming over him, was not

quite sure he had not counted upon a despatch of troops; and he did, in

fact, consider it strange that not a single soldier had made his

appearance. So he reached home in a very uneasy state of mind.

Félicité, still petulant and full of courage, became quite angry at

seeing him upset by such silly trifles. Over the dessert she comforted

him.

“Well, you great simpleton,” she said, “so much the better, if the

prefect does forget us! We shall save the town by ourselves. For my

part, I should like to see the insurgents return, so that we might

receive them with bullets and cover ourselves with glory. Listen to me,

go and have the gates closed, and don’t go to bed; bustle about all

night; it will all be taken into account later on.”

Pierre returned to the town-hall in rather more cheerful spirits. He

required some courage to remain firm amidst the woeful maunderings of

his colleagues. The members of the Provisional Commission seemed to

reek with panic, just as they might with damp in the rainy season. They

all professed to have counted upon the despatch of a regiment, and

began to exclaim that brave citizens ought not to be abandoned in such

a manner to the fury of the rabble. Pierre, to preserve peace, almost

promised they should have a regiment on the morrow. Then he announced,

in a solemn manner, that he was going to have the gates closed. This

came as a relief. Detachments of the national guards had to repair

immediately to each gate and double-lock it. When they had returned,

several members confessed that they really felt more comfortable; and

when Pierre remarked that the critical situation of the town imposed

upon them the duty of remaining at their posts, some of them made

arrangements with the view of spending the night in an arm-chair.

Granoux put on a black silk skull cap which he had brought with him by

way of precaution. Towards eleven o’clock, half of the gentlemen were

sleeping round Monsieur Garconnet’s writing table. Those who still

managed to keep their eyes open fancied, as they listened to the

measured tramp of the national guards in the courtyard, that they were

heroes and were receiving decorations. A large lamp, placed on the

writing-table, illumined this strange vigil. All at once, however,

Rougon, who had seemed to be slumbering, jumped up, and sent for

Vuillet. He had just remembered that he had not received the “Gazette.”

The bookseller made his appearance in a very bad humour.

“Well!” Rougon asked him as he took him aside, “what about the article

you promised me? I haven’t seen the paper.”

“Is that what you disturbed me for?” Vuillet angrily retorted. “The

‘Gazette’ has not been issued; I’ve no desire to get myself murdered

to-morrow, should the insurgents come back.”

Rougon tried to smile as he declared that, thank heaven, nobody would

be murdered at all. It was precisely because false and disquieting

rumours were running about that the article in question would have

rendered great service to the good cause.

“Possibly,” Vuillet resumed; “but the best of causes at the present

time is to keep one’s head on one’s shoulders.” And he added, with

maliciousness, “And I was under the impression you had killed all the

insurgents! You’ve left too many of them for me to run any risk.”

Rougon, when he was alone again, felt amazed at this mutiny on the part

of a man who was usually so meek and mild. Vuillet’s conduct seemed to

him suspicious. But he had no time to seek an explanation; he had

scarcely stretched himself out afresh in his arm-chair, when Roudier

entered, with a big sabre, which he had attached to his belt,

clattering noisily against his legs. The sleepers awoke in a fright.

Granoux thought it was a call to arms.

“Eh? what! What’s the matter?” he asked, as he hastily put his black

silk cap into his pocket.

“Gentlemen,” said Roudier, breathlessly, without thinking of taking any

oratorical precautions, “I believe that a band of insurgents is

approaching the town.”

These words were received with the silence of terror. Rougon alone had

the strength to ask, “Have you seen them?”

“No,” the retired hosier replied; “but we hear strange noises out in

the country; one of my men assured me that he had seen fires along the

slope of the Garrigues.”

Then, as all the gentlemen stared at each other white and speechless,

“I’ll return to my post,” he continued. “I fear an attack. You had

better take precautions.”

Rougon would have followed him, to obtain further particulars, but he

was already too far away. After this the Commission was by no means

inclined to go to sleep again. Strange noises! Fires! An attack! And in

the middle of the night too! It was very easy to talk of taking

precautions, but what were they to do? Granoux was very near advising

the course which had proved so successful the previous evening: that is

of hiding themselves, waiting till the insurgents has passed through

Plassans, and then triumphing in the deserted streets. Pierre, however,

fortunately remembering his wife’s advice, said that Roudier might have

made a mistake, and that the best thing would be to go and see for

themselves. Some of the members made a wry face at this suggestion; but

when it had been agreed that an armed escort should accompany the

Commission, they all descended very courageously. They only left a few

men downstairs; they surrounded themselves with about thirty of the

national guards, and then they ventured into the slumbering town, where

the moon, creeping over the house roofs, slowly cast lengthened

shadows. They went along the ramparts, from one gate to the other,

seeing nothing and hearing nothing. The national guards at the various

posts certainly told them that peculiar sounds occasionally reached

them from the country through the closed gates. When they strained

their ears, however, they detected nothing but a distant murmur, which

Granoux said was merely the noise of the Viorne.

Nevertheless they remained doubtful. And they were about to return to

the town-hall in a state of alarm, though they made a show of shrugging

their shoulders and of treating Roudier as a poltroon and a dreamer,

when Rougon, anxious to reassure them, thought of enabling them to view

the plain over a distance of several leagues. Thereupon he led the

little company to the Saint-Marc quarter and knocked at the door of the

Valqueyras mansion.

At the very outset of the disturbances Count de Valqueyras had left for

his chateau at Corbière. There was no one but the Marquis de Carnavant

at the Plassans house. He, since the previous evening, had prudently

kept aloof; not that he was afraid, but because he did not care to be

seen plotting with the Rougons at the critical moment. As a matter of

fact, he was burning with curiosity. He had been compelled to shut

himself up in order to resist the temptation of hastening to the yellow

drawing-room. When the footman came to tell him, in the middle of the

night, that there were some gentlemen below asking for him, he could

not hold back any longer. He got up and went downstairs in all haste.

“My dear Marquis,” said Rougon, as he introduced to him the members of

the Municipal Commission, “we want to ask a favour of you. Will you

allow us to go into the garden of the mansion?”

“By all means,” replied the astonished marquis, “I will conduct you

there myself.”

On the way thither he ascertained what their object was. At the end of

the garden rose a terrace which overlooked the plain. A large portion

of the ramparts had there tumbled in, leaving a boundless prospect to

the view. It had occurred to Rougon that this would serve as an

excellent post of observation. While conversing together the members of

the Commission leaned over the parapet. The strange spectacle that

spread out before them soon made them silent. In the distance, in the

valley of the Viorne, across the vast hollow which stretched westward

between the chain of the Garrigues and the mountains of the Seille, the

rays of the moon were streaming like a river of pale light. The clumps

of trees, the gloomy rocks, looked, here and there, like islets and

tongues of land, emerging from a luminous sea; and, according to the

bends of the Viorne one could now and again distinguish detached

portions of the river, glittering like armour amidst the fine silvery

dust falling from the firmament. It all looked like an ocean, a world,

magnified by the darkness, the cold, and their own secret fears. At

first the gentlemen could neither hear nor see anything. The quiver of

light and of distant sound blinded their eyes and confused their ears.

Granoux, though he was not naturally poetic, was struck by the calm

serenity of that winter night, and murmured: “What a beautiful night,

gentlemen!”

“Roudier was certainly dreaming,” exclaimed Rougon, rather

disdainfully.

But the marquis, whose ears were quick, had begun to listen. “Ah!” he

observed in his clear voice, “I hear the tocsin.”

At this they all leant over the parapet, holding their breath. And

light and pure as crystal the distant tolling of a bell rose from the

plain. The gentlemen could not deny it. It was indeed the tocsin.

Rougon pretended that he recognised the bell of Beage, a village fully

a league from Plassans. This he said in order to reassure his

colleagues.

But the marquis interrupted him. “Listen, listen: this time it is the

bell of Saint-Maur.” And he indicated another point of the horizon to

them. There was, in fact, a second bell wailing through the clear

night. And very soon there were ten bells, twenty bells, whose

despairing tollings were detected by their ears, which had by this time

grown accustomed to the quivering of the darkness. Ominous calls rose

from all sides, like the faint rattles of dying men. Soon the whole

plain seemed to be wailing. The gentlemen no longer jeered at Roudier;

particularly as the marquis, who took a malicious delight in terrifying

them, was kind enough to explain the cause of all this bell-ringing.

“It is the neighbouring villages,” he said to Rougon, “banding together

to attack Plassans at daybreak.”

At this Granoux opened his eyes wide. “Didn’t you see something just

this moment over there?” he asked all of a sudden.

Nobody had looked; the gentlemen had been keeping their eyes closed in

order to hear the better.

“Ah! look!” he resumed after a short pause. “There, beyond the Viorne,

near that black mass.”

“Yes, I see,” replied Rougon, in despair; “it’s a fire they’re

kindling.”

A moment later another fire appeared almost immediately in front of the

first one, then a third, and a fourth. In this wise red splotches

appeared at nearly equal distances throughout the whole length of the

valley, resembling the lamps of some gigantic avenue. The moonlight,

which dimmed their radiance, made them look like pools of blood. This

melancholy illumination gave a finishing touch to the consternation of

the Municipal Commission.

“Of course!” the marquis muttered, with his bitterest sneer, “those

brigands are signalling to each other.” And he counted the fires

complacently, to get some idea, he said, as to how many men “the brave

national guard of Plassans” would have to deal with. Rougon endeavoured

to raise doubts by saying the villages were taking up arms in order to

join the army of the insurgents, and not for the purpose of attacking

the town. But the gentlemen, by their silent consternation, made it

clear that they had formed their own opinion, and were not to be

consoled.

“I can hear the ‘Marseillaise’ now,” remarked Granoux in a hushed

voice.

It was indeed true. A detachment must have been following the course of

the Viorne, passing, at that moment, just under the town. The cry, “To

arms, citizens! Form your battalions!” reached the on-lookers in sudden

bursts with vibrating distinctness. Ah! what an awful night it was! The

gentlemen spent it leaning over the parapet of the terrace, numbed by

the terrible cold, and yet quite unable to tear themselves away from

the sight of that plain which resounded with the tocsin and the

“Marseillaise,” and was all ablaze with signal-fires. They feasted

their eyes upon that sea of light, flecked with blood-red flames; and

they strained their ears in order to listen to the confused clamour,

till at last their senses began to deceive them, and they saw and heard

the most frightful things. Nothing in the world would have induced them

to leave the spot. If they had turned their backs, they would have

fancied that a whole army was at their heels. After the manner of a

certain class of cowards, they wished to witness the approach of the

danger, in order that they might take flight at the right moment.

Towards morning, when the moon had set and they could see nothing in

front of them but a dark void, they fell into a terrible fright. They

fancied they were surrounded by invisible enemies, who were crawling

along in the darkness, ready to fly at their throats. At the slightest

noise they imagined there were enemies deliberating beneath the

terrace, prior to scaling it. Yet there was nothing, nothing but

darkness upon which they fixed their eyes distractedly. The marquis, as

if to console them, said in his ironical way: “Don’t be uneasy! They

will certainly wait till daybreak.”

Meanwhile Rougon cursed and swore. He felt himself again giving way to

fear. As for Granoux, his hair turned completely white. At last the

dawn appeared with weary slowness. This again was a terribly anxious

moment. The gentlemen, at the first ray of light, expected to see an

army drawn up in line before the town. It so happened that day that the

dawn was lazy and lingered awhile on the edge of the horizon. With

outstretched necks and fixed gaze, the party on the terrace peered

anxiously into the misty expanse. In the uncertain light they fancied

they caught glimpses of colossal profiles, the plain seemed to be

transformed into a lake of blood, the rocks looked like corpses

floating on its surface, and the clusters of trees took the forms of

battalions drawn up and threatening attack. When the growing light had

at last dispersed these phantoms, the morning broke so pale, so

mournful, so melancholy, that even the marquis’s spirits sank. Not a

single insurgent was to be seen, and the high roads were free; but the

grey valley wore a gruesomely sad and deserted aspect. The fires had

now gone out, but the bells still rang on. Towards eight o’clock,

Rougon observed a small party of men who were moving off along the

Viorne.

By this time the gentlemen were half dead with cold and fatigue. Seeing

no immediate danger, they determined to take a few hours’ rest. A

national guard was left on the terrace as a sentinel, with orders to

run and inform Roudier if he should perceive any band approaching in

the distance. Then Granoux and Rougon, quite worn out by the emotions

of the night, repaired to their homes, which were close together, and

supported each other on the way.

Félicité put her husband to bed with every care. She called him “poor

dear,” and repeatedly told him that he ought not to give way to evil

fancies, and that all would end well. But he shook his head; he felt

grave apprehensions. She let him sleep till eleven o’clock. Then, after

he had had something to eat, she gently turned him out of doors, making

him understand that he must go through with the matter to the end. At

the town-hall, Rougon found only four members of the Commission in

attendance; the others had sent excuses, they were really ill. Panic

had been sweeping through the town with growing violence all through

the morning. The gentlemen had not been able to keep quiet respecting

the memorable night they had spent on the terrace of the Valqueyras

mansion. Their servants had hastened to spread the news, embellishing

it with various dramatic details. By this time it had already become a

matter of history that from the heights of Plassans troops of cannibals

had been seen dancing and devouring their prisoners. Yes, bands of

witches had circled hand in hand round their caldrons in which they

were boiling children, while on and on marched endless files of

bandits, whose weapons glittered in the moonlight. People spoke too of

bells that of their own accord, sent the tocsin ringing through the

desolate air, and it was even asserted that the insurgents had fired

the neighbouring forests, so that the whole country side was in flames.

It was Tuesday, the market-day at Plassans, and Roudier had thought it

necessary to have the gates opened in order to admit the few peasants

who had brought vegetables, butter, and eggs. As soon as it had

assembled, the Municipal Commission, now composed of five members only,

including its president, declared that this was unpardonable

imprudence. Although the sentinel stationed at the Valqueyras mansion

had seen nothing, the town ought to have been kept closed. Then Rougon

decided that the public crier, accompanied by a drummer, should go

through the streets, proclaim a state of siege, and announce to the

inhabitants that whoever might go out would not be allowed to return.

The gates were officially closed in broad daylight. This measure,

adopted in order to reassure the inhabitants, raised the scare to its

highest pitch. And there could scarcely have been a more curious sight

than that of this little city, thus padlocking and bolting itself up

beneath the bright sunshine, in the middle of the nineteenth century.

When Plassans had buckled and tightened its belt of dilapidated

ramparts, when it had bolted itself in like a besieged fortress at the

approach of an assault, the most terrible anguish passed over the

mournful houses. At every moment, in the centre of the town, people

fancied they could hear a discharge of musketry in the Faubourgs. They

no longer received any news; they were, so to say, at the bottom of a

cellar, in a walled hole, where they were anxiously awaiting either

deliverance or the finishing stroke. For the last two days the

insurgents, who were scouring the country, had cut off all

communication. Plassans found itself isolated from the rest of France.

It felt that it was surrounded by a region in open rebellion, where the

tocsin was ever ringing and the “Marseillaise” was ever roaring like a

river that has overflowed its banks. Abandoned to its fate and

shuddering with alarm the town lay there like some prey which would

prove the reward of the victorious party. The strollers on the Cours

Sauvaire were ever swaying between fear and hope according as they

fancied that they could see the blouses of insurgents or the uniforms

of soldiers at the Grand’-Porte. Never had sub-prefecture, pent within

tumble-down walls, endured more agonising torture.

Towards two o’clock it was rumoured that the Coup d’État had failed,

that the prince-president was imprisoned at Vincennes, and that Paris

was in the hands of the most advanced demagogues. It was reported also

that Marseilles, Toulon, Draguignan, the entire South, belonged to the

victorious insurrectionary army. The insurgents would arrive in the

evening and put Plassans to the sword.

Thereupon a deputation repaired to the town-hall to expostulate with

the Municipal Commission for closing the gates, whereby they would only

irritate the insurgents. Rougon, who was losing his head, defended his

order with all his remaining strength. This locking of the gates seemed

to him one of the most ingenious acts of his administration; he

advanced the most convincing arguments in its justification. But the

others embarrassed him by their questions, asking him where were the

soldiers, the regiment that he had promised. Then he began to lie, and

told them flatly that he had promised nothing at all. The

non-appearance of this legendary regiment, which the inhabitants longed

for with such eagerness that they had actually dreamt of its arrival,

was the chief cause of the panic. Well-informed people even named the

exact spot on the high road where the soldiers had been butchered.

At four o’clock Rougon, followed by Granoux, again repaired to the

Valqueyras mansion. Small bands, on their way to join the insurgents at

Orcheres, still passed along in the distance, through the valley of the

Viorne. Throughout the day urchins climbed the ramparts, and bourgeois

came to peep through the loopholes. These volunteer sentinels kept up

the terror by counting the various bands, which were taken for so many

strong battalions. The timorous population fancied it could see from

the battlements the preparations for some universal massacre. At dusk,

as on the previous evening, the panic became yet more chilling.

On returning to the municipal offices Rougon and his inseparable

companion, Granoux, recognised that the situation was growing

intolerable. During their absence another member of the Commission had

disappeared. They were only four now, and they felt they were making

themselves ridiculous by staying there for hours, looking at each

other’s pale countenances, and never saying a word. Moreover, they were

terribly afraid of having to spend a second night on the terrace of the

Valqueyras mansion.

Rougon gravely declared that as the situation of affairs was unchanged,

there was no need for them to continue to remain there _en permanence_.

If anything serious should occur information would be sent to them.

And, by a decision duly taken in council, he deputed to Roudier the

carrying on of the administration. Poor Roudier, who remembered that he

had served as a national guard in Paris under Louis-Philippe, was

meantime conscientiously keeping watch at the Grand’-Porte.

Rougon went home looking very downcast, and creeping along under the

shadows of the houses. He felt that Plassans was becoming hostile to

him. He heard his name bandied about amongst the groups, with

expressions of anger and contempt. He walked upstairs, reeling and

perspiring. Félicité received him with speechless consternation. She,

also, was beginning to despair. Their dreams were being completely

shattered. They stood silent, face to face, in the yellow drawing-room.

The day was drawing to a close, a murky winter day which imparted a

muddy tint to the orange-coloured wall-paper with its large flower

pattern; never had the room looked more faded, more mean, more shabby.

And at this hour they were alone; they no longer had a crowd of

courtiers congratulating them, as on the previous evening. A single day

had sufficed to topple them over, at the very moment when they were

singing victory. If the situation did not change on the morrow their

game would be lost.

Félicité who, when gazing on the previous evening at the ruins of the

yellow drawing-room, had thought of the plains of Austerlitz, now

recalled the accursed field of Waterloo as she observed how mournful

and deserted the place was. Then, as her husband said nothing, she

mechanically went to the window—that window where she had inhaled with

delight the incense of the entire town. She perceived numerous groups

below on the square, but she closed the blinds upon seeing some heads

turn towards their house, for she feared that she might be hooted. She

felt quite sure that those people were speaking about them.

Indeed, voices rose through the twilight. A lawyer was clamouring in

the tone of a triumphant pleader. “That’s just what I said; the

insurgents left of their own accord, and they won’t ask the permission

of the forty-one to come back. The forty-one indeed! a fine farce! Why,

I believe there were at least two hundred.”

“No, indeed,” said a burly trader, an oil-dealer and a great

politician, “there were probably not even ten. There was no fighting or

else we should have seen some blood in the morning. I went to the

town-hall myself to look; the courtyard was as clean as my hand.”

Then a workman, who stepped timidly up to the group, added: “There was

no need of any violence to seize the building; the door wasn’t even

shut.”

This remark was received with laughter, and the workman, thus

encouraged, continued: “As for those Rougons, everybody knows that they

are a bad lot.”

This insult pierced Félicité to the heart. The ingratitude of the

people was heartrending to her, for she herself was at last beginning

to believe in the mission of the Rougons. She called for her husband.

She wanted him to learn how fickle was the multitude.

“It’s all a piece with their mirror,” continued the lawyer. “What a

fuss they made about that broken glass! You know that Rougon is quite

capable of having fired his gun at it just to make believe there had

been a battle.”

Pierre restrained a cry of pain. What! they did not even believe in his

mirror now! They would soon assert that he had not heard a bullet whiz

past his ear. The legend of the Rougons would be blotted out; nothing

would remain of their glory. But his torture was not at an end yet. The

groups manifested their hostility as heartily as they had displayed

their approval on the previous evening. A retired hatter, an old man

seventy years of age, whose factory had formerly been in the Faubourg,

ferreted out the Rougons’ past history. He spoke vaguely, with the

hesitation of a wandering memory, about the Fouques’ property, and

Adélaïde, and her amours with a smuggler. He said just enough to give a

fresh start to the gossip. The tattlers drew closer together and such

words as “rogues,” “thieves,” and “shameless intriguers,” ascended to

the shutter behind which Pierre and Félicité were perspiring with fear

and indignation. The people on the square even went so far as to pity

Macquart. This was the final blow. On the previous day Rougon had been

a Brutus, a stoic soul sacrificing his own affections to his country;

now he was nothing but an ambitious villain, who felled his brother to

the ground and made use of him as a stepping-stone to fortune.

“You hear, you hear them?” Pierre murmured in a stifled voice. “Ah! the

scoundrels, they are killing us; we shall never retrieve ourselves.”

Félicité, enraged, was beating a tattoo on the shutter with her

impatient fingers.

“Let them talk,” she answered. “If we get the upper hand again they

shall see what stuff I’m made of. I know where the blow comes from. The

new town hates us.”