She guessed rightly. The sudden unpopularity of the Rougons was the

work of a group of lawyers who were very much annoyed at the importance

acquired by an old illiterate oil-dealer, whose house had been on the

verge of bankruptcy. The Saint-Marc quarter had shown no sign of life

for the last two days. The inhabitants of the old quarter and the new

town alone remained in presence, and the latter had taken advantage of

the panic to injure the yellow drawing-room in the minds of the

tradespeople and working-classes. Roudier and Granoux were said to be

excellent men, honourable citizens, who had been led away by the

Rougons’ intrigues. Their eyes ought to be opened to it. Ought not

Monsieur Isidore Granoux to be seated in the mayor’s arm-chair, in the

place of that big portly beggar who had not a copper to bless himself

with? Thus launched, the envious folks began to reproach Rougon for all

the acts of his administration, which only dated from the previous

evening. He had no right to retain the services of the former Municipal

Council; he had been guilty of grave folly in ordering the gates to be

closed; it was through his stupidity that five members of the

Commission had contracted inflammation of the lungs on the terrace of

the Valqueyras mansion. There was no end to his faults. The Republicans

likewise raised their heads. They talked of the possibility of a sudden

attack upon the town-hall by the workmen of the Faubourg. The reaction

was at its last gasp.

Pierre, at this overthrow of all his hopes, began to wonder what

support he might still rely on if occasion should require any.

“Wasn’t Aristide to come here this evening,” he asked, “to make it up

with us?”

“Yes,” answered Félicité. “He promised me a good article. The

‘Indépendant’ has not appeared yet—”

But her husband interrupted her, crying: “See! isn’t that he who is

just coming out of the Sub-Prefecture?”

The old woman glanced in that direction. “He’s got his arm in a sling

again!” she cried.

Aristide’s hand was indeed wrapped in the silk handkerchief once more.

The Empire was breaking up, but the Republic was not yet triumphant,

and he had judged it prudent to resume the part of a disabled man. He

crossed the square stealthily, without raising his head. Then doubtless

hearing some dangerous and compromising remarks among the groups of

bystanders, he made all haste to turn the corner of the Rue de la

Banne.

“Bah! he won’t come here,” said Félicité bitterly. “It’s all up with

us. Even our children forsake us!”

She shut the window violently, in order that she might not see or hear

anything more. When she had lit the lamp, she and her husband sat down

to dinner, disheartened and without appetite, leaving most of their

food on their plates. They only had a few hours left them to take a

decisive step. It was absolutely indispensable that before daybreak

Plassans should be at their feet beseeching forgiveness, or else they

must entirely renounce the fortune which they had dreamed of. The total

absence of any reliable news was the sole cause of their anxious

indecision. Félicité, with her clear intellect, had quickly perceived

this. If they had been able to learn the result of the Coup d’État,

they would either have faced it out and have still pursued their role

of deliverers, or else have done what they could to efface all

recollection of their unlucky campaign. But they had no precise

information; they were losing their heads; the thought that they were

thus risking their fortune on a throw, in complete ignorance of what

was happening, brought a cold perspiration to their brows.

“And why the devil doesn’t Eugène write to me?” Rougon suddenly cried,

in an outburst of despair, forgetting that he was betraying the secret

of his correspondence to his wife.

But Félicité pretended not to have heard. Her husband’s exclamation had

profoundly affected her. Why, indeed, did not Eugène write to his

father? After keeping him so accurately informed of the progress of the

Bonapartist cause, he ought at least to have announced the triumph or

defeat of Prince Louis. Mere prudence would have counselled the

despatch of such information. If he remained silent, it must be that

the victorious Republic had sent him to join the pretender in the

dungeons of Vincennes. At this thought Félicité felt chilled to the

marrow; her son’s silence destroyed her last hopes.

At that moment somebody brought up the “Gazette,” which had only just

appeared.

“Ah!” said Pierre, with surprise. “Vuillet has issued his paper!”

Thereupon he tore off the wrapper, read the leading article, and

finished it looking as white as a sheet, and swaying on his chair.

“Here, read,” he resumed, handing the paper to Félicité.

It was a magnificent article, attacking the insurgents with unheard of

violence. Never had so much stinging bitterness, so many falsehoods,

such bigoted abuse flowed from pen before. Vuillet commenced by

narrating the entry of the insurgents into Plassans. The description

was a perfect masterpiece. He spoke of “those bandits, those

villainous-looking countenances, that scum of the galleys,” invading

the town, “intoxicated with brandy, lust, and pillage.” Then he

exhibited them “parading their cynicism in the streets, terrifying the

inhabitants with their savage cries and seeking only violence and

murder.” Further on, the scene at the town-hall and the arrest of the

authorities became a most horrible drama. “Then they seized the most

respectable people by the throat; and the mayor, the brave commander of

the national guard, the postmaster, that kindly functionary, were—even

like the Divinity—crowned with thorns by those wretches, who spat in

their faces.” The passage devoted to Miette and her red pelisse was

quite a flight of imagination. Vuillet had seen ten, twenty girls

steeped in blood: “and who,” he wrote, “did not behold among those

monsters some infamous creatures clothed in red, who must have bathed

themselves in the blood of the martyrs murdered by the brigands along

the high roads? They were brandishing banners, and openly receiving the

vile caresses of the entire horde.” And Vuillet added, with Biblical

magniloquence, “The Republic ever marches on amidst debauchery and

murder.”

That, however, was only the first part of the article; the narrative

being ended, the editor asked if the country would any longer tolerate

“the shamelessness of those wild beasts, who respected neither property

nor persons.” He made an appeal to all valorous citizens, declaring

that to tolerate such things any longer would be to encourage them, and

that the insurgents would then come and snatch “the daughter from her

mother’s arms, the wife from her husband’s embraces.” And at last,

after a pious sentence in which he declared that Heaven willed the

extermination of the wicked, he concluded with this trumpet blast: “It

is asserted that these wretches are once more at our gates; well then

let each one of us take a gun and shoot them down like dogs. I for my

part shall be seen in the front rank, happy to rid the earth of such

vermin.”

This article, in which periphrastic abuse was strung together with all

the heaviness of touch which characterises French provincial

journalism, quite terrified Rougon, who muttered, as Félicité replaced

the “Gazette” on the table: “Ah! the wretch! he is giving us the last

blow; people will believe that I inspired this diatribe.”

“But,” his wife remarked, pensively, “did you not this morning tell me

that he absolutely refused to write against the Republicans? The news

that circulated had terrified him, and he was as pale as death, you

said.”

“Yes! yes! I can’t understand it at all. When I insisted, he went so

far as to reproach me for not having killed all the insurgents. It was

yesterday that he ought to have written that article; to-day he’ll get

us all butchered!”

Félicité was lost in amazement. What could have prompted Vuillet’s

change of front? The idea of that wretched semi-sacristan carrying a

musket and firing on the ramparts of Plassans seemed to her one of the

most ridiculous things imaginable. There was certainly some determining

cause underlying all this which escaped her. Only one thing seemed

certain. Vuillet was too impudent in his abuse and too ready with his

valour, for the insurrectionary band to be really so near the town as

some people asserted.

“He’s a spiteful fellow, I always said so,” Rougon resumed, after

reading the article again. “He has only been waiting for an opportunity

to do us this injury. What a fool I was to leave him in charge of the

post-office!”

This last sentence proved a flash of light. Félicité started up

quickly, as though at some sudden thought. Then she put on a cap and

threw a shawl over her shoulders.

“Where are you going, pray?” her husband asked her with surprise. “It’s

past nine o’clock.”

“You go to bed,” she replied rather brusquely, “you’re not well; go and

rest yourself. Sleep on till I come back; I’ll wake you if necessary,

and then we can talk the matter over.”

She went out with her usual nimble gait, ran to the post-office, and

abruptly entered the room where Vuillet was still at work. On seeing

her he made a hasty gesture of vexation.

Never in his life had Vuillet felt so happy. Since he had been able to

slip his little fingers into the mail-bag he had enjoyed the most

exquisite pleasure, the pleasure of an inquisitive priest about to

relish the confessions of his penitents. All the sly blabbing, all the

vague chatter of sacristies resounded in his ears. He poked his long,

pale nose into the letters, gazed amorously at the superscriptions with

his suspicious eyes, sounded the envelopes just like little abbés sound

the souls of maidens. He experienced endless enjoyment, was titillated

by the most enticing temptation. The thousand secrets of Plassans lay

there. He held in his hand the honour of women, the fortunes of men,

and had only to break a seal to know as much as the grand vicar at the

cathedral who was the confidant of all the better people of the town.

Vuillet was one of those terribly bitter, frigid gossips, who worm out

everything, but never repeat what they hear, except by way of dealing

somebody a mortal blow. He had, consequently, often longed to dip his

arms into the public letter-box. Since the previous evening the private

room at the post-office had become a big confessional full of darkness

and mystery, in which he tasted exquisite rapture while sniffing at the

letters which exhaled veiled longings and quivering avowals. Moreover,

he carried on his work with consummate impudence. The crisis through

which the country was passing secured him perfect impunity. If some

letters should be delayed, or others should miscarry altogether, it

would be the fault of those villainous Republicans who were scouring

the country and interrupting all communication. The closing of the town

gates had for a moment vexed him, but he had come to an understanding

with Roudier, whereby the couriers were allowed to enter and bring the

mails direct to him without passing by the town-hall.

As a matter of fact he had only opened a few letters, the important

ones, those in which his keen scent divined some information which it

would be useful for him to know before anybody else. Then he contented

himself by locking up in a drawer, for delivery subsequently, such

letters as might give information and rob him of the merit of his

valour at a time when the whole town was trembling with fear. This

pious personage, in selecting the management of the post-office as his

own share of the spoils, had given proof of singular insight into the

situation.

When Madame Rougon entered, he was taking his choice of a heap of

letters and papers, under the pretext, no doubt, of classifying them.

He rose, with his humble smile, and offered her a seat; his reddened

eyelids blinking rather uneasily. But Félicité did not sit down; she

roughly exclaimed: “I want the letter.”

At this Vuillet’s eyes opened widely, with an expression of perfect

innocence.

“What letter, madame?” he asked.

“The letter you received this morning for my husband. Come, Monsieur

Vuillet, I’m in a hurry.”

And as he stammered that he did not know, that he had not seen

anything, that it was very strange, Félicité continued in a covertly

threatening voice: “A letter from Paris, from my son, Eugène; you know

what I mean, don’t you? I’ll look for it myself.”

Thereupon she stepped forward as if intending to examine the various

packets which littered the writing table. But he at once bestirred

himself, and said he would go and see. The service was necessarily in

great confusion! Perhaps, indeed, there might be a letter. In that case

they would find it. But, as far as he was concerned, he swore he had

not seen any. While he was speaking he moved about the office turning

over all the papers. Then he opened the drawers and the portfolios.

Félicité waited, quite calm and collected.

“Yes, indeed, you’re right, here’s a letter for you,” he cried at last,

as he took a few papers from a portfolio. “Ah! those confounded clerks,

they take advantage of the situation to do nothing in the proper way.”

Félicité took the letter and examined the seal attentively, apparently

quite regardless of the fact that such scrutiny might wound Vuillet’s

susceptibilities. She clearly perceived that the envelope must have

been opened; the bookseller, in his unskilful way, had used some

sealing wax of a darker colour to secure it again. She took care to

open the envelope in such a manner as to preserve the seal intact, so

that it might serve as proof of this. Then she read the note. Eugène

briefly announced the complete success of the Coup d’État. Paris was

subdued, the provinces generally speaking remained quiet, and he

counselled his parents to maintain a very firm attitude in face of the

partial insurrection which was disturbing the South. In conclusion he

told them that the foundation of their fortune was laid, if they did

not weaken.

Madame Rougon put the letter in her pocket, and sat down slowly,

looking into Vuillet’s face. The latter had resumed his sorting in a

feverish manner, as though he were very busy.

“Listen to me, Monsieur Vuillet,” she said to him. And when he raised

his head: “let us play our cards openly; you do wrong to betray us;

some misfortune may befall you. If, instead of unsealing our letters—”

At this he protested, and feigned great indignation. But she calmly

continued: “I know, I know your school, you never confess. Come, don’t

let us waste any more words, what interest have you in favouring the

Coup d’État?”

And, as he continued to assert his perfect honesty, she at last lost

patience. “You take me for a fool!” she cried. “I’ve read your article.

You would do much better to act in concert with us.”

Thereupon, without avowing anything, he flatly submitted that he wished

to have the custom of the college. Formerly it was he who had supplied

that establishment with school books. But it had become known that he

sold objectionable literature clandestinely to the pupils; for which

reason, indeed, he had almost been prosecuted at the Correctional

Police Court. Since then he had jealously longed to be received back

into the good graces of the directors.

Félicité was surprised at the modesty of his ambition, and told him so.

To open letters and risk the galleys just for the sake of selling a few

dictionaries and grammars!

“Eh!” he exclaimed in a shrill voice, “it’s an assured sale of four or

five thousand francs a year. I don’t aspire to impossibilities like

some people.”

She did not take any notice of his last taunting words. No more was

said about his opening the letters. A treaty of alliance was concluded,

by which Vuillet engaged that he would not circulate any news or take

any step in advance, on condition that the Rougons should secure him

the custom of the college. As she was leaving, Félicité advised him not

to compromise himself any further. It would be sufficient for him to

detain the letters and distribute them only on the second day.

“What a knave,” she muttered, when she reached the street, forgetting

that she herself had just laid an interdict upon the mail.

She went home slowly, wrapped in thought. She even went out of her way,

passing along the Cours Sauvaire, as if to gain time and ease for

reflection before going in. Under the trees of the promenade she met

Monsieur de Carnavant, who was taking advantage of the darkness to

ferret about the town without compromising himself. The clergy of

Plassans, to whom all energetic action was distasteful, had, since the

announcement of the Coup d’État, preserved absolute neutrality. In the

priests’ opinion the Empire was virtually established, and they awaited

an opportunity to resume in some new direction their secular intrigues.

The marquis, who had now become a useless agent, remained only

inquisitive on one point—he wished to know how the turmoil would

finish, and in what manner the Rougons would play their role to the

end.

“Oh! it’s you, little one!” he exclaimed, as soon as he recognized

Félicité. “I wanted to see you; your affairs are getting muddled!”

“Oh, no; everything is going on all right,” she replied, in an

absent-minded way.

“So much the better. You’ll tell me all about it, won’t you? Ah! I must

confess that I gave your husband and his colleagues a terrible fright

the other night. You should have seen how comical they looked on the

terrace, while I was pointing out a band of insurgents in every cluster

of trees in the valley! You forgive me?”

“I’m much obliged to you,” said Félicité quickly. “You should have made

them die of fright. My husband is a big sly-boots. Come and see me some

morning, when I am alone.”

Then she turned away, as though this meeting with the marquis had

determined her. From head to foot the whole of her little person

betokened implacable resolution. At last she was going to revenge

herself on Pierre for his petty mysteries, have him under her heel, and

secure, once for all, her omnipotence at home. There would be a fine

scene, quite a comedy, indeed, the points of which she was already

enjoying in anticipation, while she worked out her plan with all the

spitefulness of an injured woman.

She found Pierre in bed, sleeping heavily; she brought the candle near

him for an instant, and gazed with an air of compassion, at his big

face, across which slight twitches occasionally passed; then she sat

down at the head of the bed, took off her cap, let her hair fall loose,

assumed the appearance of one in despair, and began to sob quite

loudly.

“Hallo! What’s the matter? What are you crying for?” asked Pierre,

suddenly awaking.

She did not reply, but cried more bitterly.

“Come, come, do answer,” continued her husband, frightened by this mute

despair. “Where have you been? Have you seen the insurgents?”

She shook her head; then, in a faint voice, she said: “I’ve just come

from the Valqueyras mansion. I wanted to ask Monsieur de Carnavant’s

advice. Ah! my dear, all is lost.”

Pierre sat up in bed, very pale. His bull neck, which his unbuttoned

night-shirt exposed to view, all his soft, flabby flesh seemed to swell

with terror. At last he sank back, pale and tearful, looking like some

grotesque Chinese figure in the middle of the untidy bed.

“The marquis,” continued Félicité, “thinks that Prince Louis has

succumbed. We are ruined; we shall never get a sou.”

Thereupon, as often happens with cowards, Pierre flew into a passion.

It was the marquis’s fault, it was his wife’s fault, the fault of all

his family. Had he ever thought of politics at all, until Monsieur de

Carnavant and Félicité had driven him to that tomfoolery?

“I wash my hands of it altogether,” he cried. “It’s you two who are

responsible for the blunder. Wasn’t it better to go on living on our

little savings in peace and quietness? But then, you were always

determined to have your own way! You see what it has brought us to.”

He was losing his head completely, and forgot that he had shown himself

as eager as his wife. However, his only desire now was to vent his

anger, by laying the blame of his ruin upon others.

“And, moreover,” he continued, “could we ever have succeeded with

children like ours? Eugène abandons us just at the critical moment;

Aristide has dragged us through the mire, and even that big simpleton

Pascal is compromising us by his philanthropic practising among the

insurgents. And to think that we brought ourselves to poverty simply to

give them a university education!”

Then, as he drew breath, Félicité said to him softly: “You are

forgetting Macquart.”

“Ah! yes; I was forgetting him,” he resumed more violently than ever;

“there’s another whom I can’t think of without losing all patience! But

that’s not all; you know little Silvère. Well, I saw him at my mother’s

the other evening with his hands covered with blood. He has put some

gendarme’s eye out. I did not tell you of it, as I didn’t want to

frighten you. But you’ll see one of my nephews in the Assize Court. Ah!

what a family! As for Macquart, he has annoyed us to such an extent

that I felt inclined to break his head for him the other day when I had

a gun in my hand. Yes, I had a mind to do it.”

Félicité let the storm pass over. She had received her husband’s

reproaches with angelic sweetness, bowing her head like a culprit,

whereby she was able to smile in her sleeve. Her demeanour provoked and

maddened Pierre. When speech failed the poor man, she heaved deep

sighs, feigning repentance; and then she repeated, in a disconsolate

voice: “Whatever shall we do! Whatever shall we do! We are over head

and ears in debt.”

“It’s your fault!” Pierre cried, with all his remaining strength.

The Rougons, in fact, owed money on every side. The hope of approaching

success had made them forget all prudence. Since the beginning of 1851

they had gone so far as to entertain the frequenters of the yellow

drawing-room every evening with syrup and punch, and cakes—providing,

in fact, complete collations, at which they one and all drank to the

death of the Republic. Besides this, Pierre had placed a quarter of his

capital at the disposal of the reactionary party, as a contribution

towards the purchase of guns and cartridges.

“The pastry-cook’s bill amounts to at least a thousand francs,”

Félicité resumed, in her sweetest tone, “and we probably owe twice as

much to the liqueur-dealer. Then there’s the butcher, the baker, the

greengrocer——”

Pierre was in agony. And Félicité struck him a final blow by adding: “I

say nothing of the ten thousand francs you gave for the guns.”

“I, I!” he faltered, “but I was deceived, I was robbed! It was that

idiot Sicardot who let me in for that by swearing that the Napoleonists

would be triumphant. I thought I was only making an advance. But the

old dolt will have to repay me my money.”

“Ah! you won’t get anything back,” said his wife, shrugging her

shoulders. “We shall suffer the fate of war. When we have paid off

everything, we sha’n’t even have enough to buy dry bread with. Ah! it’s

been a fine campaign. We can now go and live in some hovel in the old

quarter.”

This last phrase had a most lugubrious sound. It seemed like the knell

of their existence. Pierre pictured the hovel in the old quarter, which

had just been mentioned by Félicité. ‘Twas there, then, that he would

die on a pallet, after striving all his life for the enjoyment of ease

and luxury. In vain had he robbed his mother, steeped his hands in the

foulest intrigues, and lied and lied for many a long year. The Empire

would not pay his debts—that Empire which alone could save him. He

jumped out of bed in his night-shirt, crying: “No; I’ll take my gun; I

would rather let the insurgents kill me.”

“Well!” Félicité rejoined, with great composure, “you can have that

done to-morrow or the day after; the Republicans are not far off. And

that way will do as well as another to make an end of matters.”

Pierre shuddered. It seemed as if some one had suddenly poured a large

pail of cold water over his shoulders. He slowly got into bed again,

and when he was warmly wrapped up in the sheets, he began to cry. This

fat fellow easily burst into tears—gently flowing, inexhaustible

tears—which streamed from his eyes without an effort. A terrible

reaction was now going on within him. After his wrath he became as weak

as a child. Félicité, who had been waiting for this crisis, was

delighted to see him so spiritless, so resourceless, and so humbled

before her. She still preserved silence, and an appearance of

distressed humility. After a long pause, her seeming resignation, her

mute dejection, irritated Pierre’s nerves.

“But do say something!” he implored; “let us think matters over

together. Is there really no hope left us?”

“None, you know very well,” she replied; “you explained the situation

yourself just now; we have no help to expect from anyone; even our

children have betrayed us.”

“Let us flee, then. Shall we leave Plassans to-night—immediately?”

“Flee! Why, my dear, to-morrow we should be the talk of the whole town.

Don’t you remember, too, that you have had the gates closed?”

A violent struggle was going on in Pierre’s mind, which he exerted to

the utmost in seeking for some solution; at last, as though he felt

vanquished, he murmured, in supplicating tones: “I beseech you, do try

to think of something; you haven’t said anything yet.”

Félicité raised her head, feigning surprise; and with a gesture of

complete powerlessness she said: “I am a fool in these matters. I don’t

understand anything about politics, you’ve told me so a hundred times.”

And then, as her embarrassed husband held his tongue and lowered his

eyes, she continued slowly, but not reproachfully: “You have not kept

me informed of your affairs, have you? I know nothing at all about

them, I can’t even give you any advice. It was quite right of you,

though; women chatter sometimes, and it is a thousand times better for

the men to steer the ship alone.”

She said this with such refined irony that her husband did not detect

that she was deriding him. He simply felt profound remorse. And, all of

a sudden, he burst out into a confession. He spoke of Eugène’s letters,

explained his plans, his conduct, with all the loquacity of a man who

is relieving his conscience and imploring a saviour. At every moment he

broke off to ask: “What would you have done in my place?” or else he

cried, “Isn’t that so? I was right, I could not act otherwise.” But

Félicité did not even deign to make a sign. She listened with all the

frigid reserve of a judge. In reality she was tasting the most

exquisite pleasure; she had got that sly-boots fast at last; she played

with him like a cat playing with a ball of paper; and he virtually held

out his hands to be manacled by her.

“But wait,” he said hastily, jumping out of bed. “I’ll give you

Eugène’s correspondence to read. You can judge the situation better

then.”

She vainly tried to hold him back by his night-shirt. He spread out the

letters on the table by the bed-side, and then got into bed again, and

read whole pages of them, and compelled her to go through them herself.

She suppressed a smile, and began to feel some pity for the poor man.

“Well,” he said anxiously, when he had finished, “now you know

everything. Do you see any means of saving us from ruin!”

She still gave no answer. She appeared to be pondering deeply.

“You are an intelligent woman,” he continued, in order to flatter her,

“I did wrong in keeping any secret from you; I see it now.”

“Let us say nothing more about that,” she replied. “In my opinion, if

you had enough courage——” And as he looked at her eagerly, she broke

off and said, with a smile: “But you promise not to distrust me any

more? You will tell me everything, eh? You will do nothing without

consulting me?”

He swore, and accepted the most rigid conditions. Félicité then got

into bed; and in a whisper, as if she feared somebody might hear them,

she explained at length her plan of campaign. In her opinion the town

must be allowed to fall into still greater panic, while Pierre was to

maintain an heroic demeanour in the midst of the terrified inhabitants.

A secret presentiment, she said, warned her that the insurgents were

still at a distance. Moreover, the party of order would sooner or later

carry the day, and the Rougons would be rewarded. After the role of

deliverer, that of martyr was not to be despised. And she argued so

well, and spoke with so much conviction, that her husband, surprised at

first by the simplicity of her plan, which consisted in facing it out,

at last detected in it a marvellous tactical scheme, and promised to

conform to it with the greatest possible courage.

“And don’t forget that it is I who am saving you,” the old woman

murmured in a coaxing tone. “Will you be nice to me?”

They kissed each other and said good-night. But neither of them slept;

after a quarter of an hour had gone by, Pierre, who had been gazing at

the round reflection of the night-lamp on the ceiling, turned, and in a

faint whisper told his wife of an idea that had just occurred to him.

“Oh! no, no,” Félicité murmured, with a shudder. “That would be too

cruel.”

“Well,” he resumed, “but you want to spread consternation among the

inhabitants! They would take me seriously, if what I told you should

occur.” Then perfecting his scheme, he cried: “We might employ

Macquart. That would be a means of getting rid of him.”

Félicité seemed to be struck with the idea. She reflected, seemed to

hesitate, and then, in a distressful tone faltered: “Perhaps you are

right. We must see. After all we should be very stupid if we were

over-scrupulous, for it’s a matter of life and death to us. Let me do

it. I’ll see Macquart to-morrow, and ascertain if we can come to an

understanding with him. You would only wrangle and spoil all.

Good-night; sleep well, my poor dear. Our troubles will soon be ended,

you’ll see.”

They again kissed each other and fell asleep. The patch of light on the

ceiling now seemed to be assuming the shape of a terrified eye, that

stared wildly and fixedly upon the pale, slumbering couple who reeked

with crime beneath their very sheets, and dreamt they could see a rain

of blood falling in big drops which turned into golden coins as they

plashed upon the floor.

On the morrow, before daylight, Félicité repaired to the town-hall,

armed with instructions from Pierre to seek an interview with Macquart.

She took her husband’s national guard uniform with her, wrapped in a

cloth. There were only a few men fast asleep in the guard-house. The

doorkeeper, who was entrusted with the duty of supplying Macquart with

food, went upstairs with her to open the door of the dressing-room,

which had been turned into a cell. Then quietly he came down again.

Macquart had now been kept in the room for two days and two nights. He

had had time to indulge in lengthy reflections. After his sleep, his

first hours had been given up to outbursts of impotent rage. Goaded by

the idea that his brother was lording it in the adjoining room, he had

felt a great longing to break the door open. At all events he would

strangle Rougon with his own hands, as soon as the insurgents should

return and release him. But, in the evening, at twilight, he calmed

down, and gave over striding furiously round the little room. He

inhaled a sweet odour there; a feeling of comfort relaxed his nerves.

Monsieur Garconnet, who was very rich, refined, and vain, had caused

this little room to be arranged in a very elegant fashion; the sofa was

soft and warm; scents, pomades, and soaps adorned the marble washstand,

and the pale light fell from the ceiling with a soft glow, like the

gleams of a lamp suspended in an alcove. Macquart, amidst this perfumed

soporific atmosphere fell asleep, thinking that those scoundrels, the

rich, “were very fortunate, all the same.” He had covered himself with

a blanket which had been given to him, and with his head and back and

arms reposing on the cushions, he stretched himself out on the couch

until morning. When he opened his eyes, a ray of sunshine was gliding

through the opening above. Still he did not leave the sofa. He felt

warm, and lay thinking as he gazed around him. He bethought himself

that he would never again have such a place to wash in. The washstand

particularly interested him. It was by no means hard, he thought, to

keep oneself spruce when one had so many little pots and phials at

one’s disposal. This made him think bitterly of his own life of

privation. The idea occurred to him that perhaps he had been on the

wrong track. There is nothing to be gained by associating with beggars.

He ought to have played the scamp; he should have acted in concert with

the Rougons.

Then, however, he rejected this idea. The Rougons were villains who had

robbed him. But the warmth and softness of the sofa, continued to work

upon his feelings, and fill him with vague regrets. After all, the

insurgents were abandoning him, and allowing themselves to be beaten

like idiots. Eventually he came to the conclusion that the Republic was

mere dupery. Those Rougons were lucky! And he recalled his own bootless

wickedness and underhand intrigues. Not one member of the family had

ever been on his side; neither Aristide, nor Silvère’s brother, nor

Silvère himself, who was a fool to grow so enthusiastic about the

Republic and would never do any good for himself. Then Macquart

reflected that his wife was dead, that his children had left him, and

that he would die alone, like a dog in some wretched corner, without a

copper to bless himself with. Decidedly, he ought to have sold himself

to the reactionary party. Pondering in this fashion, he eyed the

washstand, feeling a strong inclination to go and wash his hands with a

certain powder soap which he saw in a glass jar. Like all lazy fellows

who live upon their wives or children, he had foppish tastes. Although

he wore patched trousers, he liked to inundate himself with aromatic

oil. He spent hours with his barber, who talked politics, and brushed

his hair for him between their discussions. So, at last, the temptation

became too strong, and Macquart installed himself before the washstand.

He washed his hands and face, dressed his hair, perfumed himself, in

fact went through a complete toilet. He made use in turn of all the

bottles, all the various soaps and powders; but his greatest pleasure

was to dry his hands with the mayor’s towels, which were so soft and

thick. He buried his wet face in them, and inhaled, with delight, all

the odour of wealth. Then, having pomaded himself, and smelling sweetly

from head to foot, he once more stretched himself on the sofa, feeling

quite youthful again, and disposed to the most conciliatory thoughts.

He felt yet greater contempt for the Republic since he had dipped his

nose into Monsieur Garconnet’s phials. The idea occurred to him that

there was, perhaps, still time for him to make peace with his brother.

He wondered what he might well ask in return for playing the traitor.

His rancour against the Rougons still gnawed at his heart; but he was

in one of those moods when, lying on one’s back in silence, one is apt

to admit stern facts, and scold oneself for neglecting to feather a

comfortable nest in which one may wallow in slothful ease, even at the

cost of relinquishing one’s most cherished animosities. Towards evening

Antoine determined to send for his brother on the following day. But

when, in the morning, he saw Félicité enter the room he understood that

his aid was wanted, so he remained on his guard.

The negotiations were long and full of pitfalls, being conducted on

either side with infinite skill. At first they both indulged in vague

complaints, then Félicité, who was surprised to find Macquart almost

polite, after the violent manner in which he had behaved at her house

on the Sunday evening, assumed a tone of gentle reproach. She deplored

the hatred which severed their families. But, in truth, he had so

calumniated his brother, and manifested such bitter animosity towards

him, that he had made poor Rougon quite lose his head.

“But, dash it, my brother has never behaved like a brother to me,”

Macquart replied, with restrained violence. “Has he ever given me any

assistance? He would have let me die in my hovel! When he behaved

differently towards me—you remember, at the time he gave me two hundred

francs—I am sure no one can reproach me with having said a single

unpleasant word about him. I said everywhere that he was a very

good-hearted fellow.”

This clearly signified: “If you had continued to supply me with money,

I should have been very pleasant towards you, and would have helped

you, instead of fighting against you. It’s your own fault. You ought to

have bought me.”

Félicité understood this so well that she replied: “I know you have

accused us of being hard upon you, because you imagine we are in

comfortable circumstances; but you are mistaken, my dear brother; we

are poor people; we have never been able to act towards you as our

hearts would have desired.” She hesitated a moment, and then continued:

“If it were absolutely necessary in some serious contingency, we might

perhaps be able to make a sacrifice; but, truly, we are very poor, very

poor!”

Macquart pricked up his ears. “I have them!” he thought. Then, without

appearing to understand his sister-in-law’s indirect offer, he detailed

the wretchedness of his life in a doleful manner, and spoke of his

wife’s death and his children’s flight. Félicité, on her side, referred

to the crisis through which the country was passing, and declared that

the Republic had completely ruined them. Then from word to word she

began to bemoan the exigencies of a situation which compelled one

brother to imprison another. How their hearts would bleed if justice

refused to release its prey! And finally she let slip the word

“galleys!”

“Bah! I defy you,” said Macquart calmly.

But she hastily exclaimed: “Oh! I would rather redeem the honour of the

family with my own blood. I tell you all this to show you that we shall

not abandon you. I have come to give you the means of effecting your

escape, my dear Antoine.”

They gazed at each other for a moment, sounding each other with a look,

before engaging in the contest.

“Unconditionally?” he asked, at length.

“Without any condition,” she replied.

Then she sat down beside him on the sofa, and continued, in a

determined voice: “And even, before crossing the frontier, if you want

to earn a thousand-franc note, I can put you in the way of doing so.”

There was another pause.

“If it’s all above board I shall have no objection,” Antoine muttered,

apparently reflecting. “You know I don’t want to mix myself up with

your underhand dealings.”

“But there are no underhand dealings about it,” Félicité resumed,

smiling at the old rascal’s scruples. “Nothing can be more simple: you

will presently leave this room, and go and conceal yourself in your

mother’s house, and this evening you can assemble your friends and come

and seize the town-hall again.”

Macquart did not conceal his extreme surprise. He did not understand it

at all.

“I thought,” he said, “that you were victorious.”

“Oh! I haven’t got time now to tell you all about it,” the old woman

replied, somewhat impatiently. “Do you accept or not?”

“Well, no; I don’t accept—I want to think it over. It would be very

stupid of me to risk a possible fortune for a thousand francs.”

Félicité rose. “Just as you like my dear fellow,” she said, coldly.

“You don’t seem to realise the position you are in. You came to my

house and treated me as though I were a mere outcast; and then, when I

am kind enough to hold out a hand to you in the hole into which you

have stupidly let yourself fall, you stand on ceremony, and refuse to

be rescued. Well, then, stay here, wait till the authorities come back.

As for me, I wash my hands of the whole business.”

With these words she reached the door.

“But give me some explanations,” he implored. “I can’t strike a bargain

with you in perfect ignorance of everything. For two days past I have

been quite in the dark as to what’s going on. How do I know that you

are not cheating me?”

“Bah! you’re a simpleton,” replied Félicité, who had retraced her steps

at Antoine’s doleful appeal. “You are very foolish not to trust

yourself implicitly to us. A thousand francs! That’s a fine sum, a sum

that one would only risk in a winning cause. I advise you to accept.”

He still hesitated.

“But when we want to seize the place, shall we be allowed to enter

quietly?”

“Ah! I don’t know,” she said, with a smile. “There will perhaps be a

shot or two fired.”

He looked at her fixedly.

“Well, but I say, little woman,” he resumed in a hoarse voice, “you

don’t intend, do you, to have a bullet lodged in my head?”

Félicité blushed. She was, in fact, just thinking that they would be

rendered a great service, if, during the attack on the town-hall, a

bullet should rid them of Antoine. It would be a gain of a thousand

francs, besides all the rest. So she muttered with irritation: “What an

idea! Really, it’s abominable to think such things!”

Then, suddenly calming down, she added:

“Do you accept? You understand now, don’t you?”

Macquart had understood perfectly. It was an ambush that they were

proposing to him. He did not perceive the reasons or the consequences

of it, and this was what induced him to haggle. After speaking of the

Republic as though it were a mistress whom, to his great grief, he

could no longer love, he recapitulated the risks which he would have to

run, and finished by asking for two thousand francs. But Félicité

abided by her original offer. They debated the matter until she

promised to procure him, on his return to France, some post in which he

would have nothing to do, and which would pay him well. The bargain was

then concluded. She made him don the uniform she had brought with her.

He was to betake himself quietly to aunt Dide’s, and afterwards,

towards midnight, assemble all the Republicans he could in the

neighbourhood of the town-hall, telling them that the municipal offices

were unguarded, and that they had only to push open the door to take

possession of them. Antoine then asked for earnest money, and received

two hundred francs. Félicité undertook to pay the remaining eight

hundred on the following day. The Rougons were risking the last sum

they had at their disposal.

When Félicité had gone downstairs, she remained on the square for a

moment to watch Macquart go out. He passed the guard-house, quietly

blowing his nose. He had previously broken the skylight in the

dressing-room, to make it appear that he had escaped that way.

“It’s all arranged,” Félicité said to her husband, when she returned

home. “It will be at midnight. It doesn’t matter to me at all now. I

should like to see them all shot. How they slandered us yesterday in

the street!”

“It was rather silly of you to hesitate,” replied Pierre, who was

shaving. “Every one would do the same in our place.”

That morning—it was a Wednesday—he was particularly careful about his

toilet. His wife combed his hair and tied his cravat, turning him about

like a child going to a distribution of prizes. And when he was ready,

she examined him, declared that he looked very nice, and that he would

make a very good figure in the midst of the serious events that were

preparing. His big pale face wore an expression of grave dignity and

heroic determination. She accompanied him to the first landing, giving

him her last advice: he was not to depart in any way from his

courageous demeanour, however great the panic might be; he was to have

the gates closed more hermetically than ever, and leave the town in

agonies of terror within its ramparts; it would be all the better if he

were to appear the only one willing to die for the cause of order.

What a day it was! The Rougons still speak of it as of a glorious and

decisive battle. Pierre went straight to the town-hall, heedless of the

looks or words that greeted him on his way. He installed himself there

in magisterial fashion, like a man who did not intend to quit the

place, whatever might happen. And he simply sent a note to Roudier, to

advise him that he was resuming authority.

“Keep watch at the gates,” he added, knowing that these lines might

become public: “I myself will watch over the town and ensure the

security of life and property. It is at the moment when evil passions

reappear and threaten to prevail that good citizens should endeavour to

stifle them, even at the peril of their lives.” The style, and the very

errors in spelling, made this note—the brevity of which suggested the

laconic style of the ancients—appear all the more heroic. Not one of

the gentlemen of the Provisional Commission put in an appearance. The

last two who had hitherto remained faithful, and Granoux himself, even,

prudently stopped at home. Thus Rougon was the only member of the

Commission who remained at his post, in his presidential arm-chair, all

the others having vanished as the panic increased. He did not even

deign to issue an order summoning them to attend. He was there, and

that sufficed, a sublime spectacle, which a local journal depicted

later on in a sentence: “Courage giving the hand to duty.”

During the whole morning Pierre was seen animating the town-hall with

his goings and comings. He was absolutely alone in the large, empty

building, whose lofty halls reechoed with the noise of his heels. All

the doors were left open. He made an ostentatious show of his

presidency over a non-existent council in the midst of this desert, and

appeared so deeply impressed with the responsibility of his mission

that the doorkeeper, meeting him two or three times in the passages,

bowed to him with an air of mingled surprise and respect. He was seen,

too, at every window, and, in spite of the bitter cold, he appeared

several times on the balcony with bundles of papers in his hand, like a

busy man attending to important despatches.

Then, towards noon, he passed through the town and visited the

guard-houses, speaking of a possible attack, and letting it be

understood, that the insurgents were not far off; but he relied, he

said, on the courage of the brave national guards. If necessary they

must be ready to die to the last man for the defence of the good cause.

When he returned from this round, slowly and solemnly, after the manner

of a hero who has set the affairs of his country in order, and now only

awaits death, he observed signs of perfect stupor along his path; the

people promenading in the Cours, the incorrigible little householders,

whom no catastrophe would have prevented from coming at certain hours

to bask in the sun, looked at him in amazement, as if they did not

recognize him, and could not believe that one of their own set, a

former oil-dealer, should have the boldness to face a whole army.

In the town the anxiety was at its height. The insurrectionists were

expected every moment. The rumour of Macquart’s escape was commented

upon in a most alarming manner. It was asserted that he had been

rescued by his friends, the Reds, and that he was only waiting for

nighttime in order to fall upon the inhabitants and set fire to the

four corners of the town. Plassans, closed in and terror-stricken,

gnawing at its own vitals within its prison-like walls, no longer knew

what to imagine in order to frighten itself. The Republicans, in the

face of Rougon’s bold demeanour, felt for a moment distrustful. As for

the new town—the lawyers and retired tradespeople who had denounced the

yellow drawing-room on the previous evening—they were so surprised that

they dared not again openly attack such a valiant man. They contented

themselves with saying “It was madness to brave victorious insurgents

like that, and such useless heroism would bring the greatest

misfortunes upon Plassans.” Then, at about three o’clock, they

organised a deputation. Pierre, though he was burning with desire to

make a display of his devotion before his fellow-citizens, had not

ventured to reckon upon such a fine opportunity.

He spoke sublimely. It was in the mayor’s private room that the

president of the Provisional Commission received the deputation from

the new town. The gentlemen of the deputation, after paying homage to

his patriotism, besought him to forego all resistance. But he, in a

loud voice, talked of duty, of his country, of order, of liberty, and

various other things. Moreover, he did not wish to compel any one to

imitate him; he was simply discharging a duty which his conscience and

his heart dictated to him.

“You see, gentlemen, I am alone,” he said in conclusion. “I will take

all the responsibility, so that nobody but myself may be compromised.

And if a victim is required I willingly offer myself; I wish to

sacrifice my own life for the safety of the inhabitants.”

A notary, the wiseacre of the party, remarked that he was running to

certain death.

“I know it,” he resumed solemnly. “I am prepared!”

The gentlemen looked at each other. Those words “I am prepared!” filled

them with admiration. Decidedly this man was a brave fellow. The notary

implored him to call in the aid of the gendarmes; but he replied that

the blood of those brave soldiers was precious, and he would not have

it shed, except in the last extremity. The deputation slowly withdrew,

feeling deeply moved. An hour afterwards, Plassans was speaking of

Rougon as of a hero; the most cowardly called him “an old fool.”

Towards evening, Rougon was much surprised to see Granoux hasten to

him. The old almond-dealer threw himself in his arms, calling him

“great man,” and declaring that he would die with him. The words “I am

prepared!” which had just been reported to him by his maid-servant, who

had heard it at the greengrocer’s, had made him quite enthusiastic.

There was charming naivete in the nature of this grotesque, timorous

old man. Pierre kept him with him, thinking that he would not be of

much consequence. He was even touched by the poor fellow’s devotion,

and resolved to have him publicly complimented by the prefect, in order

to rouse the envy of the other citizens who had so cowardly abandoned

him. And so both of them awaited the night in the deserted building.

At the same time Aristide was striding about at home in an uneasy

manner. Vuillet’s article had astonished him. His father’s demeanour

stupefied him. He had just caught sight of him at the window, in a

white cravat and black frock-coat, so calm at the approach of danger

that all his ideas were upset. Yet the insurgents were coming back

triumphant, that was the belief of the whole town. But Aristide felt

some doubts on the point; he had suspicions of some lugubrious farce.

As he did not dare to present himself at his parents’ house, he sent

his wife thither. And when Angèle returned, she said to him, in her

drawling voice: “Your mother expects you; she is not angry at all, she

seems rather to be making fun of you. She told me several times that

you could just put your sling back in your pocket.”

Aristide felt terribly vexed. However, he ran to the Rue de la Banne,

prepared to make the most humble submission. His mother was content to

receive him with scornful laughter. “Ah! my poor fellow,” said she,

“you’re certainly not very shrewd.”

“But what can one do in a hole like Plassans!” he angrily retorted. “On

my word of honour, I am becoming a fool here. No news, and everybody

shivering! That’s what it is to be shut up in these villainous

ramparts. Ah! If I had only been able to follow Eugène to Paris!”

Then, seeing that his mother was still smiling, he added bitterly: “You

haven’t been very kind to me, mother. I know many things, I do. My

brother kept you informed of what was going on, and you have never

given me the faintest hint that might have been useful to me.”

“You know that, do you?” exclaimed Félicité, becoming serious and

distrustful. “Well, you’re not so foolish as I thought, then. Do you

open letters like some one of my acquaintance?”

“No; but I listen at doors,” Aristide replied, with great assurance.

This frankness did not displease the old woman. She began to smile

again, and asked more softly: “Well, then, you blockhead, how is it you

didn’t rally to us sooner?”

“Ah! that’s where it is,” the young man said, with some embarrassment.

“I didn’t have much confidence in you. You received such idiots: my

father-in-law, Granoux, and the others!—And then, I didn’t want to go

too far. . . .” He hesitated, and then resumed, with some uneasiness:

“To-day you are at least quite sure of the success of the Coup d’État,

aren’t you?”

“I!” cried Félicité, wounded by her son’s doubts; “no, I’m not sure of

anything.”

“And yet you sent word to say that I was to take off my sling!”

“Yes; because all the gentlemen are laughing at you.”

Aristide remained stock still, apparently contemplating one of the

flowers of the orange-coloured wall-paper. And his mother felt sudden

impatience as she saw him hesitating thus.

“Ah! well,” she said, “I’ve come back again to my former opinion;

you’re not very shrewd. And you think you ought to have had Eugène’s

letters to read? Why, my poor fellow you would have spoilt everything,

with your perpetual vacillation. You never can make up your mind. You

are hesitating now.”

“I hesitate?” he interrupted, giving his mother a cold, keen glance.

“Ah! well, you don’t know me. I would set the whole town on fire if it

were necessary, and I wanted to warm my feet. But, understand me, I’ve

no desire to take the wrong road! I’m tired of eating hard bread, and I

hope to play fortune a trick. But I only play for certainties.”

He spoke these words so sharply, with such a keen longing for success,

that his mother recognised the cry of her own blood.

“Your father is very brave,” she whispered.

“Yes, I’ve seen him,” he resumed with a sneer. “He’s got a fine look on

him! He reminded me of Leonidas at Thermopylae. Is it you, mother, who

have made him cut this figure?”

And he added cheerfully, with a gesture of determination: “Well, so

much the worse! I’m a Bonapartist! Father is not the man to risk the

chance of being killed unless it pays him well.”

“You’re quite right,” his mother replied; “I mustn’t say anything; but

to-morrow you’ll see.”

He did not press her, but swore that she would soon have reason to be

proud of him; and then he took his departure, while Félicité, feeling

her old preference reviving, said to herself at the window, as she

watched him going off, that he had the devil’s own wit, that she would

never have had sufficient courage to let him leave without setting him

in the right path.

And now for the third time a night full of anguish fell upon Plassans.

The unhappy town was almost at its death-rattle. The citizens hastened

home and barricaded their doors with a great clattering of iron bolts

and bars. The general feeling seemed to be that, by the morrow,

Plassans would no longer exist, that it would either be swallowed up by

the earth or would evaporate in the atmosphere. When Rougon went home

to dine, he found the streets completely deserted. This desolation made

him sad and melancholy. As a result of this, when he had finished his

meal, he felt some slight misgivings, and asked his wife if it were

necessary to follow up the insurrection that Macquart was preparing.

“Nobody will run us down now,” said he. “You should have seen those

gentlemen of the new town, how they bowed to me! It seems to me quite

unnecessary now to kill anybody—eh? What do you think? We shall feather

our nest without that.”

“Ah! what a nerveless fellow you are!” Félicité cried angrily. “It was

your own idea to do it, and now you back out! I tell you that you’ll

never do anything without me! Go then, go your own way. Do you think

the Republicans would spare you if they got hold of you?”

Rougon went back to the town-hall, and prepared for the ambush. Granoux

was very useful to him. He despatched him with orders to the different

posts guarding the ramparts. The national guards were to repair to the

town-hall in small detachments, as secretly as possible. Roudier, that

bourgeois who was quite out of his element in the provinces, and who

would have spoilt the whole affair with his humanitarian preaching, was

not even informed of it. Towards eleven o’clock, the court-yard of the

town-hall was full of national guards. Then Rougon frightened them; he

told them that the Republicans still remaining in Plassans were about

to attempt a desperate _coup de main_, and plumed himself on having

been warned in time by his secret police. When he had pictured the

bloody massacre which would overtake the town, should these wretches

get the upper hand, he ordered his men to cease speaking, and

extinguish all lights. He took a gun himself. Ever since the morning he

had been living as in a dream; he no longer knew himself; he felt

Félicité behind him. The crisis of the previous night had thrown him

into her hands, and he would have allowed himself to be hanged,

thinking: “It does not matter, my wife will come and cut me down.” To

augment the tumult, and prolong the terror of the slumbering town, he

begged Granoux to repair to the cathedral and have the tocsin rung at

the first shots he might hear. The marquis’s name would open the

beadle’s door. And then, in darkness and dismal silence, the national

guards waited in the yard, in a terrible state of anxiety, their eyes

fixed on the porch, eager to fire, as though they were lying in wait

for a pack of wolves.

In the meantime, Macquart had spent the day at aunt Dide’s house.

Stretching himself on the old coffer, and lamenting the loss of

Monsieur Garconnet’s sofa, he had several times felt a mad inclination

to break into his two hundred francs at some neighbouring cafe. This

money was burning a hole in his waistcoat pocket; however, he whiled

away his time by spending it in imagination. His mother moved about, in

her stiff, automatic way, as if she were not even aware of his

presence. During the last few days her children had been coming to her

rather frequently, in a state of pallor and desperation, but she

departed neither from her taciturnity, nor her stiff, lifeless

expression. She knew nothing of the fears which were throwing the

pent-up town topsy-turvy, she was a thousand leagues away from

Plassans, soaring into the one constant fixed idea which imparted such

a blank stare to her eyes. Now and again, however, at this particular

moment, some feeling of uneasiness, some human anxiety, occasionally

made her blink. Antoine, unable to resist the temptation of having

something nice to eat, sent her to get a roast chicken from an

eating-house in the Faubourg. When it was set on the table: “Hey!” he

said to her, “you don’t often eat fowl, do you? It’s only for those who

work, and know how to manage their affairs. As for you, you always

squandered everything. I bet you’re giving all your savings to that

little hypocrite, Silvère. He’s got a mistress, the sly fellow. If

you’ve a hoard of money hidden in some corner, he’ll ease you of it

nicely some day.”

Macquart was in a jesting mood, glowing with wild exultation. The money

he had in his pocket, the treachery he was preparing, the conviction

that he had sold himself at a good price—all filled him with the

self-satisfaction characteristic of vicious people who naturally became

merry and scornful amidst their evil practices. Of all his talk,

however, aunt Dide only heard Silvère’s name.

“Have you seen him?” she asked, opening her lips at last.

“Who? Silvère?” Antoine replied. “He was walking about among the

insurgents with a tall red girl on his arm. It will serve him right if

he gets into trouble.”

The grandmother looked at him fixedly, then, in a solemn voice,

inquired: “Why?”

“Eh! Why, he shouldn’t be so stupid,” resumed Macquart, feeling

somewhat embarrassed. “People don’t risk their necks for the sake of

ideas. I’ve settled my own little business. I’m no fool.”

But aunt Dide was no longer listening to him. She was murmuring: “He

had his hands covered with blood. They’ll kill him like the other one.

His uncles will send the gendarmes after him.”

“What are you muttering there?” asked her son, as he finished picking

the bones of the chicken. “You know I like people to accuse me to my

face. If I have sometimes talked to the little fellow about the

Republic, it was only to bring him round to a more reasonable way of

thinking. He was dotty. I love liberty myself, but it mustn’t

degenerate into license. And as for Rougon, I esteem him. He’s a man of

courage and common-sense.”

“He had the gun, hadn’t he?” interrupted aunt Dide, whose wandering

mind seemed to be following Silvère far away along the high road.

“The gun? Ah! yes; Macquart’s carbine,” continued Antoine, after

casting a glance at the mantel-shelf, where the fire-arm was usually

hung. “I fancy I saw it in his hands. A fine instrument to scour the

country with, when one has a girl on one’s arm. What a fool!”

Then he thought he might as well indulge in a few coarse jokes. Aunt

Dide had begun to bustle about the room again. She did not say a word.

Towards the evening Antoine went out, after putting on a blouse, and

pulling over his eyes a big cap which his mother had bought for him. He

returned into the town in the same manner as he had quitted it, by

relating some nonsensical story to the national guards who were on duty

at the Rome Gate. Then he made his way to the old quarter, where he

crept from house to house in a mysterious manner. All the Republicans

of advanced views, all the members of the brotherhood who had not

followed the insurrectionary army, met in an obscure inn, where

Macquart had made an appointment with them. When about fifty men were

assembled, he made a speech, in which he spoke of personal vengeance

that must be wreaked, of a victory that must be gained, and of a

disgraceful yoke that must be thrown off. And he ended by undertaking

to deliver the town-hall over to them in ten minutes. He had just left

it, it was quite unguarded, he said, and the red flag would wave over

it that very night if they so desired. The workmen deliberated. At that

moment the reaction seemed to be in its death throes. The insurgents

were virtually at the gates of the town. It would therefore be more

honourable to make an effort to regain power without awaiting their

return, so as to be able to receive them as brothers, with the gates

wide open, and the streets and squares adorned with flags. Moreover,

none of those present distrusted Macquart. His hatred of the Rougons,

the personal vengeance of which he spoke, could be taken as

guaranteeing his loyalty. It was arranged that each of them who was a

sportsman and had a gun at home should fetch it, and that the band

should assemble at midnight in the neighbourhood of the town-hall. A

question of detail very nearly put an end to their plans—they had no

bullets; however, they decided to load their weapons with small shot:

and even that seemed unnecessary, as they were told that they would

meet with no resistance.

Once more Plassans beheld a band of armed men filing along close to the

houses, in the quiet moonlight. When the band was assembled in front of

the town-hall, Macquart, while keeping a sharp look-out, boldly

advanced to the building. He knocked, and when the door-keeper, who had

learnt his lesson, asked what was wanted, he uttered such terrible

threats, that the man, feigning fright, made haste to open the door.

Both leaves of it swung back slowly, and the porch then lay open and

empty before them, while Macquart shouted in a loud voice: “Come on, my

friends!”

That was the signal. He himself quickly jumped aside, and as the

Republicans rushed in, there came, from the darkness of the yard, a

stream of fire and a hail of bullets, which swept through the gaping

porch with a roar as of thunder. The doorway vomited death. The

national guards, exasperated by their long wait, eager to shake off the

discomfort weighing upon them in that dismal court-yard, had fired a

volley with feverish haste. The flash of the firing was so bright,

that, through the yellow gleams Macquart distinctly saw Rougon taking

aim. He fancied that his brother’s gun was deliberately levelled at

himself, and he recalled Félicité’s blush, and made his escape,

muttering: “No tricks! The rascal would kill me. He owes me eight

hundred francs.”

In the meantime a loud howl had arisen amid the darkness. The surprised

Republicans shouted treachery, and fired in their turn. A national

guard fell under the porch. But the Republicans, on their side, had

three dead. They took to flight, stumbling over the corpses, stricken

with panic, and shouting through the quiet lanes: “Our brothers are

being murdered!” in despairing voices which found no echo. Thereupon

the defenders of order, having had time to reload their weapons, rushed

into the empty square, firing at every street corner, wherever the

darkness of a door, the shadow of a lamp-post, or the jutting of a

stone made them fancy they saw an insurgent. In this wise they remained

there ten minutes, firing into space.

The affray had burst over the slumbering town like a thunderclap. The

inhabitants in the neighbouring streets, roused from sleep by this

terrible fusillade, sat up in bed, their teeth chattering with fright.

Nothing in the world would have induced them to poke their noses out of

the window. And slowly, athwart the air, in which the shots had

suddenly resounded, one of the cathedral bells began to ring the tocsin

with so irregular, so strange a rhythm, that one might have thought the

noise to be the hammering of an anvil or the echoes of a colossal

kettle struck by a child in a fit of passion. This howling bell, whose

sound the citizens did not recognise, terrified them yet more than the

reports of the fire-arms had done; and there were some who thought they

heard an endless train of artillery rumbling over the paving-stones.

They lay down again and buried themselves beneath their blankets, as if

they would have incurred some danger by still sitting up in bed in

their closely-fastened rooms. With their sheets drawn up to their

chins, they held their breath, and made themselves as small as

possible, while their wives, by their side, almost fainted with terror

as they buried their heads among the pillows.

The national guards who had remained at the ramparts had also heard the

shots, and thinking that the insurgents had entered by means of some

subterranean passage, they ran up helter-skelter, in groups of five or

six, disturbing the silence of the streets with the tumult of their

excited rush. Roudier was one of the first to arrive. However, Rougon

sent them all back to their posts, after reprimanding them severely for

abandoning the gates of the town. Thrown into consternation by this

reproach—for in their panic, they had, in fact, left the gates

absolutely defenceless—they again set off at a gallop, hurrying through

the streets with still more frightful uproar. Plassans might well have

thought that an infuriated army was crossing it in all directions. The

fusillade, the tocsin, the marches and countermarches of the national

guards, the weapons which were being dragged along like clubs, the

terrified cries in the darkness, all produced a deafening tumult, such

as might break forth in a town taken by assault and given over to

plunder. It was the final blow of the unfortunate inhabitants, who

really believed that the insurgents had arrived. They had, indeed, said

that it would be their last night—that Plassans would be swallowed up

in the earth, or would evaporate into smoke before daybreak; and now,

lying in their beds, they awaited the catastrophe in the most abject

terror, fancying at times that their houses were already tottering.

Meantime Granoux still rang the tocsin. When, in other respects,

silence had again fallen upon the town, the mournfulness of that

ringing became intolerable. Rougon, who was in a high fever, felt

exasperated by its distant wailing. He hastened to the cathedral, and

found the door open. The beadle was on the threshold.

“Ah! that’s quite enough!” he shouted to the man; “anybody would think

there was some one crying; it’s quite unbearable.”

“But it isn’t me, sir,” replied the beadle in a distressed manner.

“It’s Monsieur Granoux, he’s gone up into the steeple. I must tell you

that I removed the clapper of the bell, by his Reverence’s order,

precisely to prevent the tocsin from being sounded. But Monsieur

Granoux wouldn’t listen to reason. He climbed up, and I’ve no idea what

he can be making that noise with.”

Thereupon Rougon hastily ascended the staircase which led to the bells,

shouting: “That will do! That will do! For goodness’ sake leave off!”

When he had reached the top he caught sight of Granoux, by the light of

the moon which glided through an embrasure; the ex almond dealer was

standing there hatless, and dealing furious blows with a heavy hammer.

He did so with a right good will. He first threw himself back, then

took a spring, and finally fell upon the sonorous bronze as if he

wanted to crack it. One might have thought he was a blacksmith striking

hot iron—but a frock-coated blacksmith, short and bald, working in a

wild and awkward way.

Surprise kept Rougon motionless for a moment at the sight of this

frantic bourgeois thus belabouring the bell in the moonlight. Then he

understood the kettle-like clang which this strange ringer had

disseminated over the town. He shouted to him to stop, but Granoux did

not hear. Rougon was obliged to take hold of his frock-coat, and then

the other recognising him, exclaimed in a triumphant voice: “Ah! you’ve

heard it. At first I tried to knock the bell with my fists, but that

hurt me. Fortunately I found this hammer. Just a few more blows, eh?”

However, Rougon dragged him away. Granoux was radiant. He wiped his

forehead, and made his companion promise to let everybody know in the

morning that he had produced all that noise with a mere hammer. What an

achievement, and what a position of importance that furious ringing

would confer upon him!

Towards morning, Rougon bethought himself of reassuring Félicité. In

accordance with his orders, the national guards had shut themselves up

in the town-hall. He had forbidden them to remove the corpses, under

the pretext that it was necessary to give the populace of the old

quarter a lesson. And as, while hastening to the Rue de la Banne, he

passed over the square, on which the moon was no longer shining, he

inadvertently stepped on the clenched hand of a corpse that lay beside

the footpath. At this he almost fell. That soft hand, which yielded

beneath his heel, brought him an indefinable sensation of disgust and

horror. And thereupon he hastened at full speed along the deserted

streets, fancying that a bloody fist was pursuing him.

“There are four of them on the ground,” he said, as he entered his

house.

He and his wife looked at one another as though they were astonished at

their crime.

The lamplight imparted the hue of yellow wax to their pale faces.

“Have you left them there?” asked Félicité; “they must be found there.”

“Of course! I didn’t pick them up. They are lying on their backs. I

stepped on something soft——”

Then he looked at his boot; its heel was covered with blood. While he

was putting on a pair of shoes, Félicité resumed:

“Well! so much the better! It’s over now. People won’t be inclined to

repeat that you only fire at mirrors.”

The fusillade which the Rougons had planned in order that they might be

finally recognised as the saviours of Plassans, brought the whole

terrified and grateful town to their feet. The day broke mournfully

with the grey melancholy of a winter-morning. The inhabitants, hearing

nothing further, ventured forth, weary of trembling beneath their

sheets. At first some ten or fifteen appeared. Later on, when a rumour

spread that the insurgents had taken flight, leaving their dead in

every gutter, Plassans rose in a body and descended upon the town-hall.

Throughout the morning people strolled inquisitively round the four

corpses. They were horribly mutilated, particularly one, which had

three bullets in the head. But the most horrible to look upon was the

body of a national guard, who had fallen under the porch; he had

received a charge of the small shot, used by the Republicans in lieu of

bullets, full in the face; and blood oozed from his torn and riddled

countenance. The crowd feasted their eyes upon this horror, with the

avidity for revolting spectacles which is so characteristic of cowards.

The national guard was freely recognised; he was the pork-butcher

Dubruel, the man whom Roudier had accused on the Monday morning of

having fired with culpable eagerness. Of the three other corpses, two

were journeymen hatters; the third was not identified. For a long while

gaping groups remained shuddering in front of the red pools which

stained the pavement, often looking behind them with an air of

mistrust, as though that summary justice which had restored order

during the night by force of arms, were, even now, watching and

listening to them, ready to shoot them down in their turn, unless they

kissed with enthusiasm the hand that had just rescued them from the

demagogy.

The panic of the night further augmented the terrible effect produced

in the morning by the sight of the four corpses. The true history of

the fusillade was never known. The firing of the combatants, Granoux’s

hammering, the helter-skelter rush of the national guards through the

streets, had filled people’s ears with such terrifying sounds that most

of them dreamed of a gigantic battle waged against countless enemies.

When the victors, magnifying the number of their adversaries with

instinctive braggardism, spoke of about five hundred men, everybody

protested against such a low estimate. Some citizens asserted that they

had looked out of their windows and seen an immense stream of fugitives

passing by for more than an hour. Moreover everybody had heard the

bandits running about. Five hundred men would never have been able to

rouse a whole town. It must have been an army, and a fine big army too,

which the brave militia of Plassans had “driven back into the ground.”

This phrase of their having been “driven back into the ground,” first

used by Rougon, struck people as being singularly appropriate, for the

guards who were charged with the defence of the ramparts swore by all

that was holy that not a single man had entered or quitted the town, a

circumstance which tinged what had happened with mystery, even

suggesting the idea of horned demons who had vanished amidst flames,

and thus fairly upsetting the minds of the multitude. It is true the

guards avoided all mention of their mad gallops; and so the more

rational citizens were inclined to believe that a band of insurgents

had really entered the town either by a breach in the wall or some

other channel. Later on, rumours of treachery were spread abroad, and

people talked of an ambush. The cruel truth could no longer be

concealed by the men whom Macquart had led to slaughter, but so much

terror still prevailed, and the sight of blood had thrown so many

cowards into the arms of the reactionary party, that these rumours were

attributed to the rage of the vanquished Republicans. It was asserted,

on the other hand, that Macquart had been made prisoner by Rougon, who

kept him in a damp cell, where he was letting him slowly die of

starvation. This horrible tale made people bow to the very ground

whenever they encountered Rougon.

Thus it was that this grotesque personage, this pale, flabby,

tun-bellied citizen became, in one night, a terrible captain, whom

nobody dared to ridicule any more. He had steeped his foot in blood.

The inhabitants of the old quarter stood dumb with fright before the

corpses. But towards ten o’clock, when the respectable people of the

new town arrived, the whole square hummed with subdued chatter. People

spoke of the other attack, of the seizure of the mayor’s office, in

which a mirror only had been wounded; but this time they no longer

pooh-poohed Rougon, they spoke of him with respectful dismay; he was

indeed a hero, a deliverer. The corpses, with open eyes, stared at

those gentlemen, the lawyers and householders, who shuddered as they

murmured that civil war had many cruel necessities. The notary, the

chief of the deputation sent to the town-hall on the previous evening,

went from group to group, recalling the proud words “I am prepared!”

then used by the energetic man to whom the town owed its safety. There

was a general feeling of humiliation. Those who had railed most cruelly

against the forty-one, those, especially, who had referred to the

Rougons as intriguers and cowards who merely fired shots in the air,

were the first to speak of granting a crown of laurels “to the noble

citizen of whom Plassans would be for ever proud.” For the pools of

blood were drying on the pavement, and the corpses proclaimed to what a

degree of audacity the party of disorder, pillage, and murder had gone,

and what an iron hand had been required to put down the insurrection.

Moreover, the whole crowd was eager to congratulate Granoux, and shake

hands with him. The story of the hammer had become known. By an

innocent falsehood, however, of which he himself soon became

unconscious, he asserted that, having been the first to see the

insurgents, he had set about striking the bell, in order to sound the

alarm, so that, but for him, the national guards would have been

massacred. This doubled his importance. His achievement was declared

prodigious. People spoke of him now as “Monsieur Isidore, don’t you

know? the gentleman who sounded the tocsin with a hammer!” Although the

sentence was somewhat lengthy, Granoux would willingly have accepted it

as a title of nobility; and from that day forward he never heard the

word “hammer” pronounced without imagining it to be some delicate

flattery.

While the corpses were being removed, Aristide came to look at them. He

examined them on all sides, sniffing and looking inquisitively at their

faces. His eyes were bright, and he had a sharp expression of

countenance. In order to see some wound the better he even lifted up

the blouse of one corpse with the very hand which on the previous day

had been suspended in a sling. This examination seemed to convince him

and remove all doubt from his mind. He bit his lips, remained there for

a moment in silence, and then went off for the purpose of hastening the

issue of the “Indépendant,” for which he had written a most important

article. And as he hurried along beside the houses he recalled his

mother’s words: “You will see to-morrow!” Well, he had seen now; it was

very clever; it even frightened him somewhat.

In the meantime, Rougon’s triumph was beginning to embarrass him. Alone

in Monsieur Garconnet’s office, hearing the buzzing of the crowd, he

became conscious of a strange feeling, which prevented him from showing

himself on the balcony. That blood, in which he had stepped, seemed to

have numbed his legs. He wondered what he should do until the evening.

His poor empty brain, upset by the events of the night, sought

desperately for some occupation, some order to give, or some measure to

be taken, which might afford him some distraction. But he could think

about nothing clearly. Whither was Félicité leading him? Was it really

all finished now, or would he still have to kill somebody else? Then

fear again assailed him, terrible doubts arose in his mind, and he

already saw the ramparts broken down on all sides by an avenging army

of the Republicans, when a loud shout: “The insurgents! The

insurgents!” burst forth under the very windows of his room. At this he

jumped up, and raising a curtain, saw the crowd rushing about the

square in a state of terror. What a thunderbolt! In less than a second

he pictured himself ruined, plundered, and murdered; he cursed his

wife, he cursed the whole town. Then, as he looked behind him in a

suspicious manner, seeking some means of escape, he heard the mob break

out into applause, uttering shouts of joy, making the very glass rattle

with their wild delight. Then he returned to the window; the women were

waving their handkerchiefs, and the men were embracing each other.

There were some among them who joined hands and began to dance. Rougon

stood there stupefied, unable to comprehend it all, and feeling his

head swimming. The big, deserted, silent building, in which he was

alone, quite frightened him.

When he afterwards confessed his feelings to Félicité, he was unable to

say how long his torture had lasted. He only remembered that a noise of

footsteps, re-echoing through the vast halls, had roused him from his

stupor. He expected to be attacked by men in blouses, armed with

scythes and clubs, whereas it was the Municipal Commission which

entered, quite orderly and in evening dress, each member with a beaming

countenance. Not one of them was absent. A piece of good news had

simultaneously cured all these gentlemen. Granoux rushed into the arms

of his dear president.

“The soldiers!” he stammered, “the soldiers!”

A regiment had, in fact, just arrived, under the command of Colonel

Masson and Monsieur de Bleriot, prefect of the department. The

gunbarrels which had been observed from the ramparts, far away in the

plain, had at first suggested the approach of the insurgents. Rougon

was so deeply moved on learning the truth, that two big tears rolled

down his cheeks. He was weeping, the great citizen! The Municipal

Commission watched those big tears with most respectful admiration. But

Granoux again threw himself on his friend’s neck, crying:

“Ah! how glad I am! You know I’m a straightforward man. Well, we were

all of us afraid; it is not so, gentlemen? You, alone, were great,

brave, sublime! What energy you must have had! I was just now saying to

my wife: ‘Rougon is a great man; he deserves to be decorated.’”

Then the gentlemen proposed to go and meet the prefect. For a moment

Rougon felt both stunned and suffocated; he was unable to believe in

this sudden triumph, and stammered like a child. However, he drew

breath, and went downstairs with the quiet dignity suited to the

solemnity of the occasion. But the enthusiasm which greeted the

commission and its president outside the town-hall almost upset his

magisterial gravity afresh. His name sped through the crowd,

accompanied this time by the warmest eulogies. He heard everyone repeat

Granoux’s avowal, and treat him as a hero who had stood firm and

resolute amidst universal panic. And, as far as the Sub-Prefecture,

where the commission met the prefect, he drank his fill of popularity

and glory.

Monsieur de Bleriot and Colonel Masson had entered the town alone,

leaving their troops encamped on the Lyons road. They had lost

considerable time through a misunderstanding as to the direction taken

by the insurgents. Now, however, they knew the latter were at Orcheres;

and it would only be necessary to stop an hour at Plassans, just

sufficient time to reassure the population and publish the cruel

ordinances which decreed the sequestration of the insurgents’ property,

and death to every individual who might be taken with arms in his

hands. Colonel Masson smiled when, in accordance with the orders of the

commander of the national guards, the bolts of the Rome Gate were drawn

back with a great rattling of rusty old iron. The detachment on duty

there accompanied the prefect and the colonel as a guard of honour. As

they traversed the Cours Sauvaire, Roudier related Rougon’s epic

achievements to the gentlemen—the three days of panic that had

terminated with the brilliant victory of the previous night. When the

two processions came face to face therefore, Monsieur de Bleriot

quickly advanced towards the president of the Commission, shook hands

with him, congratulated him, and begged him to continue to watch over

the town until the return of the authorities. Rougon bowed, while the

prefect, having reached the door of the Sub-Prefecture, where he wished

to take a brief rest, proclaimed in a loud voice that he would not

forget to mention his brave and noble conduct in his report.

In the meantime, in spite of the bitter cold, everybody had come to

their windows. Félicité, leaning forward at the risk of falling out,

was quite pale with joy. Aristide had just arrived with a number of the

“Indépendant,” in which he had openly declared himself in favour of the

Coup d’État, which he welcomed “as the aurora of liberty in order and

of order in liberty.” He had also made a delicate allusion to the

yellow drawing-room, acknowledging his errors, declaring that “youth is

presumptuous,” and that “great citizens say nothing, reflect in

silence, and let insults pass by, in order to rise heroically when the

day of struggle comes.” He was particularly pleased with this sentence.

His mother thought his article extremely well written. She kissed her

dear child, and placed him on her right hand. The Marquis de Carnavant,

weary of incarcerating himself, and full of eager curiosity, had

likewise come to see her, and stood on her left, leaning on the window

rail.

When Monsieur de Bleriot offered his hand to Rougon on the square below

Félicité began to weep. “Oh! see, see,” she said to Aristide. “He has

shaken hands with him. Look! he is doing it again!” And casting a

glance at the windows, where groups of people were congregated, she

added: “How wild they must be! Look at Monsieur Peirotte’s wife, she’s

biting her handkerchief. And over there, the notary’s daughter, and

Madame Massicot, and the Brunet family, what faces, eh? how angry they

look! Ah, indeed, it’s our turn now.”

She followed the scene which was being acted outside the Sub-Prefecture

with thrills of delight, which shook her ardent, grasshopper-like

figure from head to foot. She interpreted the slightest gesture,

invented words which she was unable to catch, and declared that Pierre

bowed very well indeed. She was a little vexed when the prefect deigned

to speak to poor Granoux, who was hovering about him fishing for a word

of praise. No doubt Monsieur de Bleriot already knew the story of the

hammer, for the retired almond-dealer turned as red as a young girl,

and seemed to be saying that he had only done his duty. However, that

which angered Félicité still more was her husband’s excessive

amiability in presenting Vuillet to the authorities. Vuillet, it is

true, pushed himself forward amongst them, and Rougon was compelled to

mention him.

“What a schemer!” muttered Félicité. “He creeps in everywhere. How

confused my poor dear husband must be! See, there’s the colonel

speaking to him. What can he be saying to him?”

“Ah! little one,” the marquis replied with a touch of irony, “he is

complimenting him for having closed the gates so carefully.”

“My father has saved the town,” Aristide retorted curtly. “Have you

seen the corpses, sir?”

Monsieur de Carnavant did not answer. He withdrew from the window, and

sat down in an arm-chair, shaking his head with an air of some disgust.

At that moment, the prefect having taken his departure, Rougon came

upstairs and threw himself upon his wife’s neck.

“Ah! my dear!” he stammered.

He was unable to say more. Félicité made him kiss Aristide after

telling him of the superb article which the young man had inserted in

the “Indépendant.” Pierre would have kissed the marquis as well, he was

deeply affected. However, his wife took him aside, and gave him

Eugène’s letter which she had sealed up in an envelope again. She

pretended that it had just been delivered. Pierre read it and then

triumphantly held it out to her.

“You are a sorceress,” he said to her laughing. “You guessed

everything. What folly I should have committed without you! We’ll

manage our little affairs together now. Kiss me: you’re a good woman.”

He clasped her in his arms, while she discreetly exchanged a knowing

smile with the marquis.