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Title: The Fortune of the Rougons

Author: Emile Zola

Editor: Ernest Alfred Vizetelly

Release Date: April 22, 2006 [EBook #5135]
Last Updated: September 5, 2016

Language: English

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Produced by Dagny; John Bickers; David Widger





THE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGONS

By Emile Zola


Edited With Introduction By Ernest Alfred Vizetelly




INTRODUCTION

“The Fortune of the Rougons” is the initial volume of the
Rougon-Macquart series. Though it was by no means M. Zola’s first essay
in fiction, it was undoubtedly his first great bid for genuine literary
fame, and the foundation of what must necessarily be regarded as his
life-work. The idea of writing the “natural and social history of a
family under the Second Empire,” extending to a score of volumes, was
doubtless suggested to M. Zola by Balzac’s immortal “Comedie Humaine.”
 He was twenty-eight years of age when this idea first occurred to him;
he was fifty-three when he at last sent the manuscript of his concluding
volume, “Dr. Pascal,” to the press. He had spent five-and-twenty years
in working out his scheme, persevering with it doggedly and stubbornly,
whatever rebuffs he might encounter, whatever jeers and whatever insults
might be directed against him by the ignorant, the prejudiced, and the
hypocritical. Truth was on the march and nothing could stay it; even as,
at the present hour, its march, if slow, none the less continues athwart
another and a different crisis of the illustrious novelist’s career.

It was in the early summer of 1869 that M. Zola first began the actual
writing of “The Fortune of the Rougons.” It was only in the following
year, however, that the serial publication of the work commenced in
the columns of “Le Siecle,” the Republican journal of most influence
in Paris in those days of the Second Empire. The Franco-German war
interrupted this issue of the story, and publication in book form did
not take place until the latter half of 1871, a time when both the war
and the Commune had left Paris exhausted, supine, with little or no
interest in anything. No more unfavourable moment for the issue of an
ambitious work of fiction could have been found. Some two or three
years went by, as I well remember, before anything like a revival of
literature and of public interest in literature took place. Thus, M.
Zola launched his gigantic scheme under auspices which would have made
many another man recoil. “The Fortune of the Rougons,” and two or three
subsequent volumes of his series, attracted but a moderate degree
of attention, and it was only on the morrow of the publication of
“L’Assommoir” that he awoke, like Byron, to find himself famous.

As previously mentioned, the Rougon-Macquart series forms twenty
volumes. The last of these, “Dr. Pascal,” appeared in 1893. Since
then M. Zola has written “Lourdes,” “Rome,” and “Paris.” Critics have
repeated _ad nauseam_ that these last works constitute a new departure
on M. Zola’s part, and, so far as they formed a new series, this
is true. But the suggestion that he has in any way repented of the
Rougon-Macquart novels is ridiculous. As he has often told me of recent
years, it is, as far as possible, his plan to subordinate his style and
methods to his subject. To have written a book like “Rome,” so largely
devoted to the ambitions of the Papal See, in the same way as he had
written books dealing with the drunkenness or other vices of Paris,
would have been the climax of absurdity.

Yet the publication of “Rome,” was the signal for a general outcry on
the part of English and American reviewers that Zolaism, as typified by
the Rougon-Macquart series, was altogether a thing of the past. To my
thinking this is a profound error. M. Zola has always remained faithful
to himself. The only difference that I perceive between his latest
work, “Paris,” and certain Rougon-Macquart volumes, is that with time,
experience and assiduity, his genius has expanded and ripened, and that
the hesitation, the groping for truth, so to say, which may be found in
some of his earlier writings, has disappeared.

At the time when “The Fortune of the Rougons” was first published, none
but the author himself can have imagined that the foundation-stone of
one of the great literary monuments of the century had just been laid.
From the “story” point of view the book is one of M. Zola’s very best,
although its construction--particularly as regards the long interlude of
the idyll of Miette and Silvere--is far from being perfect. Such a work
when first issued might well bring its author a measure of popularity,
but it could hardly confer fame. Nowadays, however, looking backward,
and bearing in mind that one here has the genius of M. Zola’s lifework,
“The Fortune of the Rougons” becomes a book of exceptional interest
and importance. This has been so well understood by French readers that
during the last six or seven years the annual sales of the work have
increased threefold. Where, over a course of twenty years, 1,000 copies
were sold, 2,500 and 3,000 are sold to-day. How many living English
novelists can say the same of their early essays in fiction, issued more
than a quarter of a century ago?

I may here mention that at the last date to which I have authentic
figures, that is, Midsummer 1897 (prior, of course, to what is called
“L’Affaire Dreyfus”), there had been sold of the entire Rougon-Macquart
series (which had begun in 1871) 1,421,000 copies. These were of the
ordinary Charpentier editions of the French originals. By adding thereto
several _editions de luxe_ and the widely-circulated popular illustrated
editions of certain volumes, the total amounts roundly to 2,100,000.
“Rome,” “Lourdes,” “Paris,” and all M. Zola’s other works, apart from
the “Rougon-Macquart” series, together with the translations into a
dozen different languages--English, German, Italian, Spanish, Dutch,
Danish, Portuguese, Bohemian, Hungarian, and others--are not included
in the above figures. Otherwise the latter might well be doubled. Nor
is account taken of the many serial issues which have brought M. Zola’s
views to the knowledge of the masses of all Europe.

It is, of course, the celebrity attaching to certain of M. Zola’s
literary efforts that has stimulated the demand for his other writings.
Among those which are well worthy of being read for their own sakes, I
would assign a prominent place to the present volume. Much of the story
element in it is admirable, and, further, it shows M. Zola as a
genuine satirist and humorist. The Rougons’ yellow drawing-room and
its habitues, and many of the scenes between Pierre Rougon and his wife
Felicite, are worthy of the pen of Douglas Jerrold. The whole account,
indeed, of the town of Plassans, its customs and its notabilities, is
satire of the most effective kind, because it is satire true to life,
and never degenerates into mere caricature.

It is a rather curious coincidence that, at the time when M. Zola was
thus portraying the life of Provence, his great contemporary, bosom
friend, and rival for literary fame, the late Alphonse Daudet, should
have been producing, under the title of “The Provencal Don Quixote,”
 that unrivalled presentment of the foibles of the French Southerner,
with everyone nowadays knows as “Tartarin of Tarascon.” It is possible
that M. Zola, while writing his book, may have read the instalments of
“Le Don Quichotte Provencal” published in the Paris “Figaro,” and it may
be that this perusal imparted that fillip to his pen to which we owe
the many amusing particulars that he gives us of the town of Plassans.
Plassans, I may mention, is really the Provencal Aix, which M. Zola’s
father provided with water by means of a canal still bearing his name.
M. Zola himself, though born in Paris, spent the greater part of his
childhood there. Tarascon, as is well known, never forgave Alphonse
Daudet for his “Tartarin”; and in a like way M. Zola, who doubtless
counts more enemies than any other literary man of the period, has none
bitterer than the worthy citizens of Aix. They cannot forget or forgive
the rascally Rougon-Macquarts.

The name Rougon-Macquart has to me always suggested that splendid and
amusing type of the cynical rogue, Robert Macaire. But, of course, both
Rougon and Macquart are genuine French names and not inventions. Indeed,
several years ago I came by chance upon them both, in an old French deed
which I was examining at the Bibliotheque Nationale in Paris. I
there found mention of a Rougon family and a Macquart family dwelling
virtually side by side in the same village. This, however, was in
Champagne, not in Provence. Both families farmed vineyards for a once
famous abbey in the vicinity of Epernay, early in the seventeenth
century. To me, personally, this trivial discovery meant a great deal.
It somehow aroused my interest in M. Zola and his works. Of the latter I
had then only glanced through two or three volumes. With M. Zola himself
I was absolutely unacquainted. However, I took the liberty to inform him
of my little discovery; and afterwards I read all the books that he had
published. Now, as it is fairly well known, I have given the greater
part of my time, for several years past, to the task of familiarising
English readers with his writings. An old deed, a chance glance,
followed by the great friendship of my life and years of patient labour.
If I mention this matter, it is solely with the object of endorsing the
truth of the saying that the most insignificant incidents frequently
influence and even shape our careers.

But I must come back to “The Fortune of the Rougons.” It has, as I have
said, its satirical and humorous side; but it also contains a strong
element of pathos. The idyll of Miette and Silvere is a very touching
one, and quite in accord with the conditions of life prevailing in
Provence at the period M. Zola selects for his narrative. Miette is
a frank child of nature; Silvere, her lover, in certain respects
foreshadows, a quarter of a century in advance, the Abbe Pierre Fromont
of “Lourdes,” “Rome,” and “Paris.” The environment differs, of course,
but germs of the same nature may readily be detected in both characters.
As for the other personages of M. Zola’s book--on the one hand, Aunt
Dide, Pierre Rougon, his wife, Felicite, and their sons Eugene, Aristide
and Pascal, and, on the other, Macquart, his daughter Gervaise of
“L’Assommoir,” and his son Jean of “La Terre” and “La Debacle,” together
with the members of the Mouret branch of the ravenous, neurotic, duplex
family--these are analysed or sketched in a way which renders their
subsequent careers, as related in other volumes of the series,
thoroughly consistent with their origin and their up-bringing. I venture
to asset that, although it is possible to read individual volumes of
the Rougon-Macquart series while neglecting others, nobody can really
understand any one of these books unless he makes himself acquainted
with the alpha and the omega of the edifice, that is, “The Fortune of
the Rougons” and “Dr. Pascal.”

With regard to the present English translation, it is based on one made
for my father several years ago. But to convey M. Zola’s meaning more
accurately I have found it necessary to alter, on an average, at least
one sentence out of every three. Thus, though I only claim to edit the
volume, it is, to all intents and purposes, quite a new English version
of M. Zola’s work.

E. A. V. MERTON, SURREY: August, 1898.




AUTHOR’S PREFACE

I wish to explain how a family, a small group of human beings, conducts
itself in a given social system after blossoming forth and giving birth
to ten or twenty members, who, though they may appear, at the first
glance, profoundly dissimilar one from the other, are, as analysis
demonstrates, most closely linked together from the point of view of
affinity. Heredity, like gravity, has its laws.

By resolving the duplex question of temperament and environment, I shall
endeavour to discover and follow the thread of connection which leads
mathematically from one man to another. And when I have possession of
every thread, and hold a complete social group in my hands, I shall
show this group at work, participating in an historical period; I shall
depict it in action, with all its varied energies, and I shall analyse
both the will power of each member, and the general tendency of the
whole.

The great characteristic of the Rougon-Macquarts, the group or family
which I propose to study, is their ravenous appetite, the great
outburst of our age which rushes upon enjoyment. Physiologically the
Rougon-Macquarts represent the slow succession of accidents pertaining
to the nerves or the blood, which befall a race after the first organic
lesion, and, according to environment, determine in each individual
member of the race those feelings, desires and passions--briefly, all
the natural and instinctive manifestations peculiar to humanity--whose
outcome assumes the conventional name of virtue or vice. Historically
the Rougon-Macquarts proceed from the masses, radiate throughout the
whole of contemporary society, and ascend to all sorts of positions by
the force of that impulsion of essentially modern origin, which sets the
lower classes marching through the social system. And thus the dramas of
their individual lives recount the story of the Second Empire, from the
ambuscade of the Coup d’Etat to the treachery of Sedan.

For three years I had been collecting the necessary documents for this
long work, and the present volume was even written, when the fall of the
Bonapartes, which I needed artistically, and with, as if by fate, I
ever found at the end of the drama, without daring to hope that it
would prove so near at hand, suddenly occurred and furnished me with
the terrible but necessary denouement for my work. My scheme is, at
this date, completed; the circle in which my characters will revolve
is perfected; and my work becomes a picture of a departed reign, of a
strange period of human madness and shame.

This work, which will comprise several episodes, is therefore, in
my mind, the natural and social history of a family under the Second
Empire. And the first episode, here called “The Fortune of the Rougons,”
 should scientifically be entitled “The Origin.”

EMILE ZOLA PARIS, July 1, 1871.





THE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGONS



CHAPTER I

On quitting Plassans by the Rome Gate, on the southern side of the town,
you will find, on the right side of the road to Nice, and a little way
past the first suburban houses, a plot of land locally known as the Aire
Saint-Mittre.

This Aire Saint-Mittre is of oblong shape and on a level with the
footpath of the adjacent road, from which it is separated by a strip of
trodden grass. A narrow blind alley fringed with a row of hovels borders
it on the right; while on the left, and at the further end, it is closed
in by bits of wall overgrown with moss, above which can be seen the
top branches of the mulberry-trees of the Jas-Meiffren--an extensive
property with an entrance lower down the road. Enclosed upon three
sides, the Aire Saint-Mittre leads nowhere, and is only crossed by
people out for a stroll.

In former times it was a cemetery under the patronage of Saint-Mittre, a
greatly honoured Provencal saint; and in 1851 the old people of Plassans
could still remember having seen the wall of the cemetery standing,
although the place itself had been closed for years. The soil had been
so glutted with corpses that it had been found necessary to open a new
burial-ground at the other end of town. Then the old abandoned cemetery
had been gradually purified by the dark thick-set vegetation which had
sprouted over it every spring. The rich soil, in which the gravediggers
could no longer delve without turning up some human remains, was
possessed of wondrous fertility. The tall weeds overtopped the walls
after the May rains and the June sunshine so as to be visible from the
high road; while inside, the place presented the appearance of a deep,
dark green sea studded with large blossoms of singular brilliancy.
Beneath one’s feet amidst the close-set stalks one could feel that the
damp soil reeked and bubbled with sap.

Among the curiosities of the place at that time were some large
pear-trees, with twisted and knotty boughs; but none of the housewives
of Plassans cared to pluck the large fruit which grew upon them. Indeed,
the townspeople spoke of this fruit with grimaces of disgust. No such
delicacy, however, restrained the suburban urchins, who assembled in
bands at twilight and climbed the walls to steal the pears, even before
they were ripe.

The trees and the weeds with their vigorous growth had rapidly
assimilated all the decomposing matter in the old cemetery of
Saint-Mittre; the malaria rising from the human remains interred
there had been greedily absorbed by the flowers and the fruit; so that
eventually the only odour one could detect in passing by was the strong
perfume of wild gillyflowers. This had merely been a question of a few
summers.

At last the townspeople determined to utilise this common property,
which had long served no purpose. The walls bordering the roadway and
the blind alley were pulled down; the weeds and the pear-trees uprooted;
the sepulchral remains were removed; the ground was dug deep, and such
bones as the earth was willing to surrender were heaped up in a
corner. For nearly a month the youngsters, who lamented the loss of
the pear-trees, played at bowls with the skulls; and one night
some practical jokers even suspended femurs and tibias to all the
bell-handles of the town. This scandal, which is still remembered at
Plassans, did not cease until the authorities decided to have the bones
shot into a hole which had been dug for the purpose in the new cemetery.
All work, however, is usually carried out with discreet dilatoriness
in country towns, and so during an entire week the inhabitants saw a
solitary cart removing these human remains as if they had been mere
rubbish. The vehicle had to cross Plassans from end to end, and owing to
the bad condition of the roads fragments of bones and handfuls of rich
mould were scattered at every jolt. There was not the briefest religious
ceremony, nothing but slow and brutish cartage. Never before had a town
felt so disgusted.

For several years the old cemetery remained an object of terror.
Although it adjoined the main thoroughfare and was open to all comers,
it was left quite deserted, a prey to fresh vegetable growth. The local
authorities, who had doubtless counted on selling it and seeing
houses built upon it, were evidently unable to find a purchaser. The
recollection of the heaps of bones and the cart persistently jolting
through the streets may have made people recoil from the spot; or
perhaps the indifference that was shown was due to the indolence, the
repugnance to pulling down and setting up again, which is characteristic
of country people. At all events the authorities still retained
possession of the ground, and at last forgot their desire to dispose of
it. They did not even erect a fence round it, but left it open to all
comers. Then, as time rolled on, people gradually grew accustomed to
this barren spot; they would sit on the grass at the edges, walk about,
or gather in groups. When the grass had been worn away and the
trodden soil had become grey and hard, the old cemetery resembled a
badly-levelled public square. As if the more effectually to efface the
memory of all objectionable associations, the inhabitants slowly changed
the very appellation of the place, retaining but the name of the saint,
which was likewise applied to the blind alley dipping down at one corner
of the field. Thus there was the Aire Saint-Mittre and the Impasse
Saint-Mittre.

All this dates, however, from some considerable time back. For more
than thirty years now the Aire Saint-Mittre has presented a different
appearance. One day the townspeople, far too inert and indifferent to
derive any advantage from it, let it, for a trifling consideration,
to some suburban wheelwrights, who turned it into a wood-yard. At the
present day it is still littered with huge pieces of timber thirty or
forty feet long, lying here and there in piles, and looking like lofty
overturned columns. These piles of timber, disposed at intervals from
one end of the yard to the other, are a continual source of delight
to the local urchins. In some places the ground is covered with fallen
wood, forming a kind of uneven flooring over which it is impossible to
walk, unless one balance one’s self with marvellous dexterity. Troops of
children amuse themselves with this exercise all day long. You will see
them jumping over the big beams, walking in Indian file along the narrow
ends, or else crawling astride them; various games which generally
terminate in blows and bellowings. Sometimes, too, a dozen of them will
sit, closely packed one against the other, on the thin end of a pole
raised a few feet from the ground, and will see-saw there for hours
together. The Aire Saint-Mittre thus serves as a recreation ground,
where for more than a quarter of a century all the little suburban
ragamuffins have been in the habit of wearing out the seats of their
breeches.

The strangeness of the place is increased by the circumstance that
wandering gipsies, by a sort of traditional custom always select the
vacant portions of it for their encampments. Whenever any caravan
arrives at Plassans it takes up its quarters on the Aire Saint-Mittre.
The place is consequently never empty. There is always some strange band
there, some troop of wild men and withered women, among whom groups of
healthy-looking children roll about on the grass. These people live
in the open air, regardless of everybody, setting their pots boiling,
eating nameless things, freely displaying their tattered garments, and
sleeping, fighting, kissing, and reeking with mingled filth and misery.

The field, formerly so still and deserted, save for the buzzing of
hornets around the rich blossoms in the heavy sunshine, has thus become
a very rowdy spot, resounding with the noisy quarrels of the gipsies and
the shrill cries of the urchins of the suburb. In one corner there is a
primitive saw-mill for cutting the timber, the noise from which serves
as a dull, continuous bass accompaniment to the sharp voices. The wood
is placed on two high tressels, and a couple of sawyers, one of whom
stands aloft on the timber itself, while the other underneath is half
blinded by the falling sawdust, work a large saw to and fro for
hours together, with rigid machine-like regularity, as if they were
wire-pulled puppets. The wood they saw is stacked, plank by plank, along
the wall at the end, in carefully arranged piles six or eight feet high,
which often remain there several seasons, and constitute one of the
charms of the Aire Saint-Mittre. Between these stacks are mysterious,
retired little alleys leading to a broader path between the timber and
the wall, a deserted strip of verdure whence only small patches of
sky can be seen. The vigorous vegetation and the quivering, deathlike
stillness of the old cemetery still reign in this path. In all the
country round Plassans there is no spot more instinct with languor,
solitude, and love. It is a most delightful place for love-making. When
the cemetery was being cleared the bones must have been heaped up in
this corner; for even to-day it frequently happens that one’s foot comes
across some fragment of a skull lying concealed in the damp turf.

Nobody, however, now thinks of the bodies that once slept under that
turf. In the daytime only the children go behind the piles of wood when
playing at hide and seek. The green path remains virginal, unknown to
others who see nought but the wood-yard crowded with timber and grey
with dust. In the morning and afternoon, when the sun is warm, the whole
place swarms with life. Above all the turmoil, above the ragamuffins
playing among the timber, and the gipsies kindling fires under their
cauldrons, the sharp silhouette of the sawyer mounted on his beam stands
out against the sky, moving to and fro with the precision of clockwork,
as if to regulate the busy activity that has sprung up in this spot
once set apart for eternal slumber. Only the old people who sit on the
planks, basking in the setting sun, speak occasionally among themselves
of the bones which they once saw carted through the streets of Plassans
by the legendary tumbrel.

When night falls the Aire Saint-Mittre loses its animation, and looks
like some great black hole. At the far end one may just espy the dying
embers of the gipsies’ fires, and at times shadows slink noiselessly
into the dense darkness. The place becomes quite sinister, particularly
in winter time.

One Sunday evening, at about seven o’clock, a young man stepped lightly
from the Impasse Saint-Mittre, and, closely skirting the walls, took
his way among the timber in the wood-yard. It was in the early part of
December, 1851. The weather was dry and cold. The full moon shone with
that sharp brilliancy peculiar to winter moons. The wood-yard did not
have the forbidding appearance which it wears on rainy nights; illumined
by stretches of white light, and wrapped in deep and chilly silence, it
spread around with a soft, melancholy aspect.

For a few seconds the young man paused on the edge of the yard and gazed
mistrustfully in front of him. He carried a long gun, the butt-end of
which was hidden under his jacket, while the barrel, pointed towards the
ground, glittered in the moonlight. Pressing the weapon to his side, he
attentively examined the square shadows cast by the piles of timber. The
ground looked like a chess-board, with black and white squares clearly
defined by alternate patches of light and shade. The sawyers’ tressels
in the centre of the plot threw long, narrow fantastic shadows,
suggesting some huge geometrical figure, upon a strip of bare grey
ground. The rest of the yard, the flooring of beams, formed a great
couch on which the light reposed, streaked here and there with the
slender black shadows which edged the different pieces of timber. In the
frigid silence under the wintry moon, the motionless, recumbent poles,
stiffened, as it were, with sleep and cold, recalled the corpses of
the old cemetery. The young man cast but a rapid glance round the empty
space; there was not a creature, not a sound, no danger of being seen or
heard. The black patches at the further end caused him more anxiety, but
after a brief examination he plucked up courage and hurriedly crossed
the wood-yard.

As soon as he felt himself under cover he slackened his pace. He was now
in the green pathway skirting the wall behind the piles of planks. Here
his very footsteps became inaudible; the frozen grass scarcely crackled
under his tread. He must have loved the spot, have feared no danger,
sought nothing but what was pleasant there. He no longer concealed
his gun. The path stretched away like a dark trench, except that the
moonrays, gliding ever and anon between the piles of timber, then
streaked the grass with patches of light. All slept, both darkness and
light, with the same deep, soft, sad slumber. No words can describe the
calm peacefulness of the place. The young man went right down the path,
and stopped at the end where the walls of the Jas-Meiffren form an
angle. Here he listened as if to ascertain whether any sound might be
coming from the adjoining estate. At last, hearing nothing, he stooped
down, thrust a plank aside, and hid his gun in a timber-stack.

An old tombstone, which had been overlooked in the clearing of the
burial-ground, lay in the corner, resting on its side and forming a high
and slightly sloping seat. The rain had worn its edges, and moss was
slowly eating into it. Nevertheless, the following fragment of an
inscription, cut on the side which was sinking into the ground, might
still have been distinguished in the moonlight: “_Here lieth . . . Marie
. . . died . . ._” The finger of time had effaced the rest.

When the young man had concealed his gun he again listened attentively,
and still hearing nothing, resolved to climb upon the stone. The wall
being low, he was able to rest his elbows on the coping. He could,
however, perceive nothing except a flood of light beyond the row of
mulberry-trees skirting the wall. The flat ground of the Jas-Meiffren
spread out under the moon like an immense sheet of unbleached linen;
a hundred yards away the farmhouse and its outbuildings formed a still
whiter patch. The young man was still gazing anxiously in that direction
when, suddenly, one of the town clocks slowly and solemnly struck seven.
He counted the strokes, and then jumped down, apparently surprised and
relieved.

He seated himself on the tombstone, like one who is prepared to
wait some considerable time. And for about half an hour he remained
motionless and deep in thought, apparently quite unconscious of the
cold, while his eyes gazed fixedly at a mass of shadow. He had placed
himself in a dark corner, but the beams of the rising moon had gradually
reached him, and at last his head was in the full light.

He was a strong, sturdy-looking lad, with a fine mouth, and soft
delicate skin that bespoke youthfulness. He looked about seventeen years
of age, and was handsome in a characteristic way.

His thin, long face looked like the work of some master sculptor; his
high forehead, overhanging brows, aquiline nose, broad flat chin, and
protruding cheek bones, gave singularly bold relief to his countenance.
Such a face would, with advancing age, become too bony, as fleshless as
that of a knight errant. But at this stage of youth, with chin and cheek
lightly covered with soft down, its latent harshness was attenuated by
the charming softness of certain contours which had remained vague and
childlike. His soft black eyes, still full of youth, also lent delicacy
to his otherwise vigorous countenance. The young fellow would probably
not have fascinated all women, as he was not what one calls a handsome
man; but his features, as a whole, expressed such ardent and sympathetic
life, such enthusiasm and energy, that they doubtless engaged the
thoughts of the girls of his own part--those sunburnt girls of the
South--as he passed their doors on sultry July evenings.

He remained seated upon the tombstone, wrapped in thought, and
apparently quite unconscious of the moonlight which now fell upon
his chest and legs. He was of middle stature, rather thick-set, with
over-developed arms and a labourer’s hands, already hardened by toil;
his feet, shod with heavy laced boots, looked large and square-toed.
His general appearance, more particularly the heaviness of his limbs,
bespoke lowly origin. There was, however, something in him, in the
upright bearing of his neck and the thoughtful gleams of his eyes, which
seemed to indicate an inner revolt against the brutifying manual labour
which was beginning to bend him to the ground. He was, no doubt, an
intelligent nature buried beneath the oppressive burden of race and
class; one of those delicate refined minds embedded in a rough envelope,
from which they in vain struggle to free themselves. Thus, in spite of
his vigour, he seemed timid and restless, feeling a kind of unconscious
shame at his imperfection. An honest lad he doubtless was, whose very
ignorance had generated enthusiasm, whose manly heart was impelled by
childish intellect, and who could show alike the submissiveness of
a woman and the courage of a hero. On the evening in question he was
dressed in a coat and trousers of greenish corduroy. A soft felt hat,
placed lightly on the back of his head, cast a streak of shadow over his
brow.

As the neighbouring clock struck the half hour, he suddenly started from
his reverie. Perceiving that the white moonlight was shining full upon
him, he gazed anxiously ahead. Then he abruptly dived back into the
shade, but was unable to recover the thread of his thoughts. He now
realised that his hands and feet were becoming very cold, and impatience
seized hold of him. So he jumped upon the stone again, and once more
glanced over the Jas-Meiffren, which was still empty and silent.
Finally, at a loss how to employ his time, he jumped down, fetched
his gun from the pile of planks where he had concealed it, and amused
himself by working the trigger. The weapon was a long, heavy carbine,
which had doubtless belonged to some smuggler. The thickness of the butt
and the breech of the barrel showed it to be an old flintlock which had
been altered into a percussion gun by some local gunsmith. Such firearms
are to be found in farmhouses, hanging against the wall over the
chimney-piece. The young man caressed his weapon with affection; twenty
times or more he pulled the trigger, thrust his little finger into the
barrel, and examined the butt attentively. By degrees he grew full of
youth enthusiasm, combined with childish frolicsomeness, and ended by
levelling his weapon and aiming at space, like a recruit going through
his drill.

It was now very nearly eight o’clock, and he had been holding his gun
levelled for over a minute, when all at once a low, panting call, light
as a breath, came from the direction of the Jas-Meiffren.

“Are you there, Silvere?” the voice asked.

Silvere dropped his gun and bounded on to the tombstone.

“Yes, yes,” he replied, also in a hushed voice. “Wait, I’ll help you.”

Before he could stretch out his arms, however, a girl’s head appeared
above the wall. With singular agility the damsel had availed herself of
the trunk of a mulberry-tree, and climbed aloft like a kitten. The ease
and certainty with which she moved showed that she was familiar with
this strange spot. In another moment she was seated on the coping of
the wall. Then Silvere, taking her in his arms, carried her, though not
without a struggle, to the seat.

“Let go,” she laughingly cried; “let go, I can get down alone very
well.” And when she was seated on the stone slab she added:

“Have you been waiting for me long? I’ve been running, and am quite out
of breath.”

Silvere made no reply. He seemed in no laughing humour, but gazed
sorrowfully into the girl’s face. “I wanted to see you, Miette,” he
said, as he seated himself beside her. “I should have waited all night
for you. I am going away at daybreak to-morrow morning.”

Miette had just caught sight of the gun lying on the grass, and with a
thoughtful air, she murmured: “Ah! so it’s decided then? There’s your
gun!”

“Yes,” replied Silvere, after a brief pause, his voice still faltering,
“it’s my gun. I thought it best to remove it from the house to-night;
to-morrow morning aunt Dide might have seen me take it, and have felt
uneasy about it. I am going to hide it, and shall fetch it just before
starting.”

Then, as Miette could not remove her eyes from the weapon which he had
so foolishly left on the grass, he jumped up and again hid it among the
woodstacks.

“We learnt this morning,” he said, as he resumed his seat, “that the
insurgents of La Palud and Saint Martin-de-Vaulx were on the march, and
spent last night at Alboise. We have decided to join them. Some of the
workmen of Plassans have already left the town this afternoon; those who
still remain will join their brothers to-morrow.”

He spoke the word brothers with youthful emphasis.

“A contest is becoming inevitable,” he added; “but, at any rate, we have
right on our side, and we shall triumph.”

Miette listened to Silvere, her eyes meantime gazing in front of her,
without observing anything.

“‘Tis well,” she said, when he had finished speaking. And after a fresh
pause she continued: “You warned me, yet I still hoped. . . . However,
it is decided.”

Neither of them knew what else to say. The green path in the deserted
corner of the wood-yard relapsed into melancholy stillness; only the
moon chased the shadows of the piles of timber over the grass. The two
young people on the tombstone remained silent and motionless in the
pale light. Silvere had passed his arm round Miette’s waist, and she was
leaning against his shoulder. They exchanged no kisses, naught but
an embrace in which love showed the innocent tenderness of fraternal
affection.

Miette was enveloped in a long brown hooded cloak reaching to her feet,
and leaving only her head and hands visible. The women of the lower
classes in Provence--the peasantry and workpeople--still wear these
ample cloaks, which are called pelisses; it is a fashion which must have
lasted for ages. Miette had thrown back her hood on arriving. Living in
the open air and born of a hotblooded race, she never wore a cap. Her
bare head showed in bold relief against the wall, which the moonlight
whitened. She was still a child, no doubt, but a child ripening into
womanhood. She had reached that adorable, uncertain hour when the
frolicsome girl changes to a young woman. At that stage of life a
bud-like delicacy, a hesitancy of contour that is exquisitely charming,
distinguishes young girls. The outlines of womanhood appear amidst
girlhood’s innocent slimness, and woman shoots forth at first all
embarrassment, still retaining much of the child, and ever and
unconsciously betraying her sex. This period is very unpropitious for
some girls, who suddenly shoot up, become ugly, sallow and frail, like
plants before their due season. For those, however, who, like Miette,
are healthy and live in the open air, it is a time of delightful
gracefulness which once passed can never be recalled.

Miette was thirteen years of age, and although strong and sturdy did not
look any older, so bright and childish was the smile which lit up her
countenance. However, she was nearly as tall as Silvere, plump and full
of life. Like her lover, she had no common beauty. She would not have
been considered ugly, but she might have appeared peculiar to many young
exquisites. Her rich black hair rose roughly erect above her forehead,
streamed back like a rushing wave, and flowed over her head and neck
like an inky sea, tossing and bubbling capriciously. It was very thick
and inconvenient to arrange. However, she twisted it as tightly as
possible into coils as thick as a child’s fist, which she wound together
at the back of her head. She had little time to devote to her toilette,
but this huge chignon, hastily contrived without the aid of any mirror,
was often instinct with vigorous grace. On seeing her thus naturally
helmeted with a mass of frizzy hair which hung about her neck and
temples like a mane, one could readily understand why she always went
bareheaded, heedless alike of rain and frost.

Under her dark locks appeared her low forehead, curved and golden like a
crescent moon. Her large prominent eyes, her short tip-tilted nose with
dilated nostrils, and her thick ruddy lips, when regarded apart from one
another, would have looked ugly; viewed, however, all together, amidst
the delightful roundness and vivacious mobility of her countenance, they
formed an ensemble of strange, surprising beauty. When Miette laughed,
throwing back her head and gently resting it on her right shoulder, she
resembled an old-time Bacchante, her throat distending with sonorous
gaiety, her cheeks round like those of a child, her teeth large and
white, her twists of woolly hair tossed by every outburst of merriment,
and waving like a crown of vine leaves. To realise that she was only a
child of thirteen, one had to notice the innocence underlying her full
womanly laughter, and especially the child-like delicacy of her chin and
soft transparency of her temples. In certain lights Miette’s sun-tanned
face showed yellow like amber. A little soft black down already shaded
her upper lip. Toil too was beginning to disfigure her small hands,
which, if left idle, would have become charmingly plump and delicate.

Miette and Silvere long remained silent. They were reading their own
anxious thoughts, and, as they pondered upon the unknown terrors of the
morrow, they tightened their mutual embrace. Their hearts communed with
each other, they understood how useless and cruel would be any verbal
plaint. The girl, however, could at last no longer contain herself,
and, choking with emotion, she gave expression, in one phrase, to their
mutual misgivings.

“You will come back again, won’t you?” she whispered, as she hung on
Silvere’s neck.

Silvere made no reply, but, half-stifling, and fearing lest he should
give way to tears like herself, he kissed her in brotherly fashion
on the cheek, at a loss for any other consolation. Then disengaging
themselves they again lapsed into silence.

After a moment Miette shuddered. Now that she no longer leant against
Silvere’s shoulder she was becoming icy cold. Yet she would not have
shuddered thus had she been in this deserted path the previous evening,
seated on this tombstone, where for several seasons they had tasted so
much happiness.

“I’m very cold,” she said, as she pulled her hood over her head.

“Shall we walk about a little?” the young man asked her. “It’s not yet
nine o’clock; we can take a stroll along the road.”

Miette reflected that for a long time she would probably not have the
pleasure of another meeting--another of those evening chats, the joy of
which served to sustain her all day long.

“Yes, let us walk a little,” she eagerly replied. “Let us go as far as
the mill. I could pass the whole night like this if you wanted to.”

They rose from the tombstone, and were soon hidden in the shadow of a
pile of planks. Here Miette opened her cloak, which had a quilted
lining of red twill, and threw half of it over Silvere’s shoulders,
thus enveloping him as he stood there close beside her. The same garment
cloaked them both, and they passed their arms round each other’s waist,
and became as it were but one being. When they were thus shrouded in the
pelisse they walked slowly towards the high road, fearlessly crossing
the vacant parts of the wood-yard, which looked white in the moonlight.
Miette had thrown the cloak over Silvere, and he had submitted to it
quite naturally, as though indeed the garment rendered them a similar
service every evening.

The road to Nice, on either side of which the suburban houses are built,
was, in the year 1851, lined with ancient elm-trees, grand and gigantic
ruins, still full of vigour, which the fastidious town council has
replaced, some years since, by some little plane-trees. When Silvere and
Miette found themselves under the elms, the huge boughs of which cast
shadows on the moonlit footpath, they met now and again black forms
which silently skirted the house fronts. These, too, were amorous
couples, closely wrapped in one and the same cloak, and strolling in the
darkness.

This style of promenading has been instituted by the young lovers of
Southern towns. Those boys and girls among the people who mean to marry
sooner or later, but who do not dislike a kiss or two in advance, know
no spot where they can kiss at their ease without exposing themselves to
recognition and gossip. Accordingly, while strolling about the suburbs,
the plots of waste land, the footpaths of the high road--in fact,
all these places where there are few passers-by and numerous shady
nooks--they conceal their identity by wrapping themselves in these long
cloaks, which are capacious enough to cover a whole family. The parents
tolerate these proceedings; however stiff may be provincial propriety,
no apprehensions, seemingly, are entertained. And, on the other hand,
nothing could be more charming than these lovers’ rambles, which appeal
so keenly to the Southerner’s fanciful imagination. There is a veritable
masquerade, fertile in innocent enjoyments, within the reach of the most
humble. The girl clasps her sweetheart to her bosom, enveloping him in
her own warm cloak; and no doubt it is delightful to be able to kiss
one’s sweetheart within those shrouding folds without danger of being
recognised. One couple is exactly like another. And to the belated
pedestrian, who sees the vague groups gliding hither and thither, ‘tis
merely love passing, love guessed and scarce espied. The lovers
know they are safely concealed within their cloaks, they converse in
undertones and make themselves quite at home; most frequently they do
not converse at all, but walk along at random and in silence, content
in their embrace. The climate alone is to blame for having in the first
instance prompted these young lovers to retire to secluded spots in the
suburbs. On fine summer nights one cannot walk round Plassans without
coming across a hooded couple in every patch of shadow falling from the
house walls. Certain places, the Aire Saint-Mittre, for instance, are
full of these dark “dominoes” brushing past one another, gliding softly
in the warm nocturnal air. One might imagine they were guests invited
to some mysterious ball given by the stars to lowly lovers. When the
weather is very warm and the girls do not wear cloaks, they simply turn
up their over-skirts. And in the winter the more passionate lovers make
light of the frosts. Thus, Miette and Silvere, as they descended the
Nice road, thought little of the chill December night.

They passed through the slumbering suburb without exchanging a word,
but enjoying the mute delight of their warm embrace. Their hearts were
heavy; the joy which they felt in being side by side was tinged with the
painful emotion which comes from the thought of approaching severance,
and it seemed to them that they could never exhaust the mingled
sweetness and bitterness of the silence which slowly lulled their
steps. But the houses soon grew fewer, and they reached the end of the
Faubourg. There stands the entrance to the Jas-Meiffren, an iron gate
fixed to two strong pillars; a low row of mulberry-trees being visible
through the bars. Silvere and Miette instinctively cast a glance inside
as they passed on.

Beyond the Jas-Meiffren the road descends with a gentle slope to a
valley, which serves as the bed of a little rivulet, the Viorne, a brook
in summer but a torrent in winter. The rows of elms still extended the
whole way at that time, making the high road a magnificent avenue, which
cast a broad band of gigantic trees across the hill, which was planted
with corn and stunted vines. On that December night, under the clear
cold moonlight, the newly-ploughed fields stretching away on either hand
resembled vast beds of greyish wadding which deadened every sound in the
atmosphere. The dull murmur of the Viorne in the distance alone sent a
quivering thrill through the profound silence of the country-side.

When the young people had begun to descend the avenue, Miette’s thoughts
reverted to the Jas-Meiffren which they had just left behind them.

“I had great difficulty in getting away this evening,” she said. “My
uncle wouldn’t let me go. He had shut himself up in a cellar, where he
was hiding his money, I think, for he seemed greatly frightened this
morning at the events that are taking place.”

Silvere clasped her yet more lovingly. “Be brave!” said he. “The time
will come when we shall be able to see each other freely the whole day
long. You must not fret.”

“Oh,” replied the girl, shaking her head, “you are very hopeful. For my
part I sometimes feel very sad. It isn’t the hard work which grieves me;
on the contrary, I am often very glad of my uncle’s severity, and the
tasks he sets me. He was quite right to make me a peasant girl; I should
perhaps have turned out badly, for, do you know, Silvere, there are
moments when I fancy myself under a curse. . . . I feel, then, that I
should like to be dead. . . . I think of you know whom.”

As she spoke these last words, her voice broke into a sob. Silvere
interrupted her somewhat harshly. “Be quiet,” he said. “You promised not
to think about it. It’s no crime of yours. . . . We love each other very
much, don’t we?” he added in a gentler tone. “When we’re married you’ll
have no more unpleasant hours.”

“I know,” murmured Miette. “You are so kind, you sustain me. But what am
I to do? I sometimes have fears and feelings of revolt. I think at times
that I have been wronged, and then I should like to do something wicked.
You see I pour forth my heart to you. Whenever my father’s name is
thrown in my face, I feel my whole body burning. When the urchins cry
at me as I pass, ‘Eh, La Chantegreil,’ I lose all control of myself, and
feel that I should like to lay hold of them and whip them.”

After a savage pause she resumed: “As for you, you’re a man; you’re
going to fight; you’re very lucky.”

Silvere had let her speak on. After a few steps he observed sorrowfully:
“You are wrong, Miette; yours is bad anger. You shouldn’t rebel against
justice. As for me, I’m going to fight in defence of our common rights,
not to gratify any personal animosity.”

“All the same,” the young girl continued, “I should like to be a man and
handle a gun. I feel that it would do me good.”

Then, as Silvere remained silent, she perceived that she had displeased
him. Her feverishness subsided, and she whispered in a supplicating
tone: “You are not angry with me, are you? It’s your departure which
grieves me and awakens such ideas. I know very well you are right--that
I ought to be humble.”

Then she began to cry, and Silvere, moved by her tears, grasped her
hands and kissed them.

“See, now, how you pass from anger to tears, like a child,” he said
lovingly. “You must be reasonable. I’m not scolding you. I only want to
see you happier, and that depends largely upon yourself.”

The remembrance of the drama which Miette had so sadly evoked cast a
temporary gloom over the lovers. They continued their walk with bowed
heads and troubled thoughts.

“Do you think I’m much happier than you?” Silvere at last inquired,
resuming the conversation in spite of himself. “If my grandmother had
not taken care of me and educated me, what would have become of me? With
the exception of my Uncle Antoine, who is an artisan like myself, and
who taught me to love the Republic, all my other relations seem to fear
that I might besmirch them by coming near them.”

He was now speaking with animation, and suddenly stopped, detaining
Miette in the middle of the road.

“God is my witness,” he continued, “that I do not envy or hate anybody.
But if we triumph, I shall have to tell the truth to those fine
gentlemen. Uncle Antoine knows all about this matter. You’ll see when we
return. We shall all live free and happy.”

Then Miette gently led him on, and they resumed their walk.

“You dearly love your Republic?” the girl asked, essaying a joke. “Do
you love me as much?”

Her smile was not altogether free from a tinge of bitterness. She was
thinking, perhaps, how easily Silvere abandoned her to go and scour the
country-side. But the lad gravely replied: “You are my wife, to whom I
have given my whole heart. I love the Republic because I love you. When
we are married we shall want plenty of happiness, and it is to procure a
share of that happiness that I’m going way to-morrow morning. You surely
don’t want to persuade me to remain at home?”

“Oh, no!” cried the girl eagerly. “A man should be brave! Courage
is beautiful! You must forgive my jealousy. I should like to be as
strong-minded as you are. You would love me all the more, wouldn’t you?”

After a moment’s silence she added, with charming vivacity and
ingenuousness: “Ah, how willingly I shall kiss you when you come back!”

This outburst of a loving and courageous heart deeply affected Silvere.
He clasped Miette in his arms and printed several kisses on her cheek.
As she laughingly struggled to escape him, her eyes filled with tears of
emotion.

All around the lovers the country still slumbered amid the deep
stillness of the cold. They were now half-way down the hill. On the top
of a rather lofty hillock to the left stood the ruins of a windmill,
blanched by the moon; the tower, which had fallen in on one side, alone
remained. This was the limit which the young people had assigned to
their walk. They had come straight from the Faubourg without casting a
single glance at the fields between which they passed. When Silvere had
kissed Miette’s cheek, he raised his head and observed the mill.

“What a long walk we’ve had!” he exclaimed. “See--here is the mill. It
must be nearly half-past nine. We must go home.”

But Miette pouted. “Let us walk a little further,” she implored; “only a
few steps, just as far as the little cross-road, no farther, really.”

Silvere smiled as he again took her round the waist. Then they continued
to descend the hill, no longer fearing inquisitive glances, for they had
not met a living soul since passing the last houses. They nevertheless
remained enveloped in the long pelisse, which seemed, as it were, a
natural nest for their love. It had shrouded them on so many happy
evenings! Had they simply walked side by side, they would have felt
small and isolated in that vast stretch of country, whereas, blended
together as they were, they became bolder and seemed less puny. Between
the folds of the pelisse they gazed upon the fields stretching on both
sides of the road, without experiencing that crushing feeling with which
far-stretching callous vistas oppress the human affections. It seemed
to them as though they had brought their house with them; they felt a
pleasure in viewing the country-side as from a window, delighting in the
calm solitude, the sheets of slumbering light, the glimpses of nature
vaguely distinguishable beneath the shroud of night and winter, the
whole of that valley indeed, which while charming them could not thrust
itself between their close-pressed hearts.

All continuity of conversation had ceased; they spoke no more of others,
nor even of themselves. They were absorbed by the present, pressing each
other’s hands, uttering exclamations at the sight of some particular
spot, exchanging words at rare intervals, and then understanding each
other but little, for drowsiness came from the warmth of their embrace.
Silvere forgot his Republican enthusiasm; Miette no longer reflected
that her lover would be leaving her in an hour, for a long time, perhaps
for ever. The transports of their affection lulled them into a feeling
of security, as on other days, when no prospect of parting had marred
the tranquility of their meetings.

They still walked on, and soon reached the little crossroad mentioned by
Miette--a bit of a lane which led through the fields to a village on the
banks of the Viorne. But they passed on, pretending not to notice
this path, where they had agreed to stop. And it was only some minutes
afterwards that Silvere whispered, “It must be very late; you will get
tired.”

“No; I assure you I’m not at all tired,” the girl replied. “I could walk
several leagues like this easily.” Then, in a coaxing tone, she added:
“Let us go down as far as the meadows of Sainte-Claire. There we will
really stop and turn back.”

Silvere, whom the girl’s rhythmic gait lulled to semi-somnolence, made
no objection, and their rapture began afresh. They now went on more
slowly, fearing the moment when they would have to retrace their steps.
So long as they walked onward, they felt as though they were advancing
to the eternity of their mutual embrace; the return would mean
separation and bitter leave-taking.

The declivity of the road was gradually becoming more gentle. In the
valley below there are meadows extending as far as the Viorne, which
runs at the other end, beneath a range of low hills. These meadows,
separated from the high-road by thickset hedges, are the meadows of
Sainte-Claire.

“Bah!” exclaimed Silvere this time, as he caught sight of the first
patches of grass: “we may as well go as far as the bridge.”

At this Miette burst out laughing, clasped the young man round the neck,
and kissed him noisily.

At the spot where the hedges begin, there were in those days two elms
forming the end of the long avenue, two colossal trees larger than any
of the others. The treeless fields stretch out from the high road, like
a broad band of green wool, as far as the willows and birches by the
river. The distance from the last elms to the bridge is scarcely three
hundred yards. The lovers took a good quarter of an hour to cover that
space. At last, however slow their gait, they reached the bridge, and
there they stopped.

The road to Nice ran up in front of them, along the opposite slope of
the valley. But they could only see a small portion of it, as it takes a
sudden turn about half a mile from the bridge, and is lost to view among
the wooded hills. On looking round they caught sight of the other end
of the road, that which they had just traversed, and which leads in
a direct line from Plassans to the Viorne. In the beautiful winter
moonlight it looked like a long silver ribbon, with dark edgings traced
by the rows of elms. On the right and left the ploughed hill-land showed
like vast, grey, vague seas intersected by this ribbon, this roadway
white with frost, and brilliant as with metallic lustre. Up above, on a
level with the horizon, lights shone from a few windows in the Faubourg,
resembling glowing sparks. By degrees Miette and Silvere had walked
fully a league. They gazed at the intervening road, full of silent
admiration for the vast amphitheatre which rose to the verge of the
heavens, and over which flowed bluish streams of light, as over the
superposed rocks of a gigantic waterfall. The strange and colossal
picture spread out amid deathlike stillness and silence. Nothing could
have been of more sovereign grandeur.

Then the young people, having leant against the parapet of the bridge,
gazed beneath them. The Viorne, swollen by the rains, flowed on with a
dull, continuous sound. Up and down stream, despite the darkness which
filled the hollows, they perceived the black lines of the trees growing
on the banks; here and there glided the moonbeams, casting a trail of
molten metal, as it were, over the water, which glittered and danced
like rays of light on the scales of some live animal. The gleams darted
with a mysterious charm along the gray torrent, betwixt the vague
phantom-like foliage. You might have thought this an enchanted valley,
some wondrous retreat where a community of shadows and gleams lived a
fantastic life.

This part of the river was familiar to the lovers; they had often come
here in search of coolness on warm July nights; they had spent hours
hidden among the clusters of willows on the right bank, at the spot
where the meadows of Sainte-Claire spread their verdant carpet to the
waterside. They remembered every bend of the bank, the stones on which
they had stepped in order to cross the Viorne, at that season as narrow
as a brooklet, and certain little grassy hollows where they had indulged
in their dreams of love. Miette, therefore, now gazed from the bridge at
the right bank of the torrent with longing eyes.

“If it were warmer,” she sighed, “we might go down and rest awhile
before going back up the hill.” Then, after a pause, during which
she kept her eyes fixed on the banks, she resumed: “Look down there,
Silvere, at that black mass yonder in front of the lock. Do you
remember? That’s the brushwood where we sat last Corpus Christi Day.”

“Yes, so it is,” replied Silvere, softly.

This was the spot where they had first ventured to kiss each other on
the cheek. The remembrance just roused by the girl’s words brought both
of them a delightful feeling, an emotion in which the joys of the
past mingled with the hopes of the morrow. Before their eyes, with the
rapidity of lightening, there passed all the delightful evenings they
had spent together, especially that evening of Corpus Christi Day, with
the warm sky, the cool willows of the Viorne, and their own loving talk.
And at the same time, whilst the past came back to their hearts full
of a delightful savour, they fancied they could plunge into the unknown
future, see their dreams realised, and march through life arm in
arm--even as they had just been doing on the highway--warmly wrapped in
the same cloak. Then rapture came to them again, and they smiled in each
other’s eyes, alone amidst all the silent radiance.

Suddenly, however, Silvere raised his head and, throwing off the cloak,
listened attentively. Miette, in her surprise, imitated him, at a loss
to understand why he had started so abruptly from her side.

Confused sounds had for a moment been coming from behind the hills
in the midst of which the Nice road wends its way. They suggested the
distant jolting of a procession of carts; but not distinctly, so loud
was the roaring of the Viorne. Gradually, however, they became more
pronounced, and rose at last like the tramping of an army on the march.
Then amidst the continuous growing rumble one detected the shouts of a
crowd, strange rhythmical blasts as of a hurricane. One could even have
fancied they were the thunderclaps of a rapidly approaching storm which
was already disturbing the slumbering atmosphere. Silvere listened
attentively, unable to tell, however, what were those tempest-like
shouts, for the hills prevented them from reaching him distinctly.
Suddenly a dark mass appeared at the turn of the road, and then the
“Marseillaise” burst forth, formidable, sung as with avenging fury.

“Ah, here they are!” cried Silvere, with a burst of joyous enthusiasm.

Forthwith he began to run up the hill, dragging Miette with him. On the
left of the road was an embankment planted with evergreen oaks, up which
he clambered with the young girl, to avoid being carried away by the
surging, howling multitude.

When he had reached the top of the bank and the shadow of the brushwood,
Miette, rather pale, gazed sorrowfully at those men whose distant song
had sufficed to draw Silvere from her embrace. It seemed as if the
whole band had thrust itself between them. They had been so happy a few
minutes before, locked in each other’s arms, alone and lost amidst the
overwhelming silence and discreet glimmer of the moon! And now Silvere,
whose head was turned away from her, who no longer seemed even conscious
of her presence, had eyes only for those strangers whom he called his
brothers.

The band descended the slope with a superb, irresistible stride. There
could have been nothing grander than the irruption of those few thousand
men into that cold, still, deathly scene. The highway became a torrent,
rolling with living waves which seemed inexhaustible. At the bend in the
road fresh masses ever appeared, whose songs ever helped to swell the
roar of this human tempest. When the last battalions came in sight the
uproar was deafening. The “Marseillaise” filled the atmosphere as
if blown through enormous trumpets by giant mouths, which cast it,
vibrating with a brazen clang, into every corner of the valley. The
slumbering country-side awoke with a start--quivering like a beaten drum
resonant to its very entrails, and repeating with each and every echo
the passionate notes of the national song. And then the singing was
no longer confined to the men. From the very horizon, from the distant
rocks, the ploughed land, the meadows, the copses, the smallest bits
of brushwood, human voices seemed to come. The great amphitheatre,
extending from the river to Plassans, the gigantic cascade over which
the bluish moonlight flowed, was as if filled with innumerable invisible
people cheering the insurgents; and in the depths of the Viorne, along
the waters streaked with mysterious metallic reflections, there was not
a dark nook but seemed to conceal human beings, who took up each refrain
with yet greater passion. With air and earth alike quivering, the whole
country-side cried for vengeance and liberty. So long as the little army
was descending the slope, the roar of the populace thus rolled on in
sonorous waves broken by abrupt outbursts which shook the very stones in
the roadway.

Silvere, pale with emotion, still listened and looked on. The insurgents
who led the van of that swarming, roaring stream, so vague and monstrous
in the darkness, were rapidly approaching the bridge.

“I thought,” murmured Miette, “that you would not pass through
Plassans?”

“They must have altered the plan of operations,” Silvere replied; “we
were, in fact, to have marched to the chief town by the Toulon road,
passing to the left of Plassans and Orcheres. They must have left
Alboise this afternoon and passed Les Tulettes this evening.”

The head of the column had already arrived in front of the young people.
The little army was more orderly than one would have expected from a
band of undisciplined men. The contingents from the various towns and
villages formed separate battalions, each separated by a distance of a
few paces. These battalions were apparently under the orders of certain
chiefs. For the nonce the pace at which they were descending the
hillside made them a compact mass of invincible strength. There were
probably about three thousand men, all united and carried away by the
same storm of indignation. The strange details of the scene were not
discernible amidst the shadows cast over the highway by the lofty
slopes. At five or six feet from the brushwood, however, where Miette
and Silvere were sheltered, the left-hand embankment gave place to
a little pathway which ran alongside the Viorne; and the moonlight,
flowing through this gap, cast a broad band of radiance across the road.
When the first insurgents reached this patch of light they were
suddenly illumined by a sharp white glow which revealed, with singular
distinctness, every outline of visage or costume. And as the various
contingents swept on, the young people thus saw them emerge, fiercely
and without cessation, from the surrounding darkness.

As the first men passed through the light Miette instinctively clung
to Silvere, although she knew she was safe, even from observation. She
passed her arm round the young fellow’s neck, resting her head against
his shoulder. And with the hood of her pelisse encircling her pale
face she gazed fixedly at that square patch of light as it was rapidly
traversed by those strange faces, transfigured by enthusiasm, with dark
open mouths full of the furious cry of the “Marseillaise.” Silvere,
whom she felt quivering at her side, then bent towards her and named the
various contingents as they passed.

The column marched along eight abreast. In the van were a number of big,
square-headed fellows, who seemed to possess the herculean strength and
naïve confidence of giants. They would doubtless prove blind, intrepid
defenders of the Republic. On their shoulders they carried large axes,
whose edges, freshly sharpened, glittered in the moonlight.

“Those are the woodcutters of the forests of the Seille,” said Silvere.
“They have been formed into a corps of sappers. At a signal from their
leaders they would march as far as Paris, battering down the gates of
the towns with their axes, just as they cut down the old cork-trees on
the mountain.”

The young man spoke with pride of the heavy fists of his brethren. And
on seeing a band of labourers and rough-bearded men, tanned by the
sun, coming along behind the woodcutters, he continued: “That is the
contingent from La Palud. That was the first place to rise. The men in
blouses are labourers who cut up the cork-trees; the others in velveteen
jackets must be sportsmen, poachers, and charcoal-burners living in the
passes of the Seille. The poachers knew your father, Miette. They have
good firearms, which they handle skilfully. Ah! if all were armed in the
same manner! We are short of muskets. See, the labourers have only got
cudgels!”

Miette, still speechless, looked on and listened. As Silvere spoke to
her of her father, the blood surged to her cheeks. Her face burnt as she
scrutinised the sportsmen with a strange air of mingled indignation and
sympathy. From this moment she grew animated, yielding to the feverish
quiver which the insurgents’ songs awakened.

The column, which had just begun the “Marseillaise” afresh, was still
marching down as though lashed on by the sharp blasts of the “Mistral.”
 The men of La Palud were followed by another troop of workmen, among
whom a goodly number of middle class folks in great-coats were to be
seen.

“Those are the men of Saint-Martin-de-Vaulx,” Silvere resumed. “That
_bourg_ rose almost at the same time as La Palud. The masters joined the
workmen. There are some rich men there, Miette; men whose wealth would
enable them to live peacefully at home, but who prefer to risk their
lives in defence of liberty. One can but admire them. Weapons are very
scarce, however; they’ve scarcely got a few fowling-pieces. But do you
see those men yonder, Miette, with red bands round their left elbows?
They are the leaders.”

The contingents descended the hill more rapidly than Silvere could
speak. While he was naming the men from Saint-Martin-de-Vaulx, two
battalions had already crossed the ray of light which blanched the
roadway.

“Did you see the insurgents from Alboise and Les Tulettes pass by just
now?” he asked. “I recognised Burgat the blacksmith. They must have
joined the band to-day. How they do run!”

Miette was now leaning forward, in order to see more of the little bands
described to her by the young man. The quiver she felt rose from her
bosom to her throat. Then a battalion larger and better disciplined than
the others appeared. The insurgents composing it were nearly all dressed
in blue blouses, with red sashes round their waists. One would have
thought they were arrayed in uniform. A man on horseback, with a sabre
at his side, was in the midst of them. And most of these improvised
soldiers carried guns, probably carbines and old muskets of the National
Guard.

“I don’t know those,” said Silvere. “The man on horseback must be the
chief I’ve heard spoken of. He brought with him the contingents from
Faverolles and the neighbouring villages. The whole column ought to be
equipped in the same manner.”

He had no time to take breath. “Ah! see, here are the country people!”
 he suddenly cried.

Small groups of ten or twenty men at the most were now advancing behind
the men of Faverolles. They all wore the short jacket of the Southern
peasantry, and as they sang they brandished pitchforks and scythes. Some
of them even only carried large navvies’ shovels. Every hamlet, however,
had sent its able-bodied men.

Silvere, who recognised the parties by their leaders, enumerated them in
feverish tones. “The contingent from Chavanoz!” said he. “There are
only eight men, but they are strong; Uncle Antoine knows them. Here’s
Nazeres! Here’s Poujols! They’re all here; not one has failed to answer
the summons. Valqueyras! Hold, there’s the parson amongst them; I’ve
heard about him, he’s a staunch Republican.”

He was becoming intoxicated with the spectacle. Now that each battalion
consisted of only a few insurgents he had to name them yet more hastily,
and his precipitancy gave him the appearance of one in a frenzy.

“Ah! Miette,” he continued, “what a fine march past! Rozan! Vernoux!
Corbiere! And there are more still, you’ll see. These have only got
scythes, but they’ll mow down the troops as close as the grass in their
meadows--Saint-Eutrope! Mazet! Les Gardes, Marsanne! The whole north
side of the Seille! Ah, we shall be victorious! The whole country is
with us. Look at those men’s arms, they are hard and black as iron.
There’s no end to them. There’s Pruinas! Roches Noires! Those last
are smugglers: they are carrying carbines. Still more scythes and
pitchforks, the contingents of country folk are still passing.
Castel-le-Vieux! Sainte-Anne! Graille! Estourmel! Murdaran!”

His voice was husky with emotion as he finished naming these men, who
seemed to be borne away by a whirlwind as fast as he enumerated them.
Erect, with glowing countenance, he pointed out the several contingents
with a nervous gesture. Miette followed his movements. The road below
attracted her like the depths of a precipice. To avoid slipping down
the incline she clung to the young man’s neck. A strange intoxication
emanated from those men, who themselves were inebriated with clamour,
courage, and confidence. Those beings, seen athwart a moonbeam, those
youths and those men in their prime, those old people brandishing
strange weapons and dressed in the most diverse costumes, from working
smock to middle class overcoat, those endless rows of heads, which
the hour and the circumstances endowed with an expression of fanatical
energy and enthusiasm, gradually appeared to the girl like a whirling,
impetuous torrent. At certain moments she fancied they were not of
themselves moving, that they were really being carried away by the force
of the “Marseillaise,” by that hoarse, sonorous chant. She could not
distinguish any conversation, she heard but a continuous volume of
sound, alternating from bass to shrill notes, as piercing as nails
driven into one’s flesh. This roar of revolt, this call to combat,
to death, with its outbursts of indignation, its burning thirst for
liberty, its remarkable blending of bloodthirsty and sublime impulses,
unceasingly smote her heart, penetrating more deeply at each fierce
outburst, and filling her with the voluptuous pangs of a virgin martyr
who stands erect and smiles under the lash. And the crowd flowed on ever
amidst the same sonorous wave of sound. The march past, which did not
really last more than a few minutes, seemed to the young people to be
interminable.

Truly, Miette was but a child. She had turned pale at the approach of
the band, she had wept for the loss of love, but she was a brave child,
whose ardent nature was easily fired by enthusiasm. Thus ardent emotions
had gradually got possession of her, and she became as courageous as
a youth. She would willingly have seized a weapon and followed the
insurgents. As the muskets and scythes filed past, her white teeth
glistened longer and sharper between her red lips, like the fangs of
a young wolf eager to bite and tear. And as she listened to Silvere
enumerating the contingents from the country-side with ever-increasing
haste, the pace of the column seemed to her to accelerate still more.
She soon fancied it all a cloud of human dust swept along by a tempest.
Everything began to whirl before her. Then she closed her eyes; big hot
tears were rolling down her cheeks.

Silvere’s eyelashes were also moist. “I don’t see the men who left
Plassans this afternoon,” he murmured.

He tried to distinguish the end of the column, which was still hidden by
the darkness. Suddenly he cried with joyous exultation: “Ah, here they
are! They’ve got the banner--the banner has been entrusted to them!”

Then he wanted to leap from the slope in order to join his companions.
At this moment, however, the insurgents halted. Words of command ran
along the column, the “Marseillaise” died out in a final rumble, and
one could only hear the confused murmuring of the still surging crowd.
Silvere, as he listened, caught the orders which were passed on from one
contingent to another; they called the men of Plassans to the van. Then,
as each battalion ranged itself alongside the road to make way for the
banner, the young man reascended the embankment, dragging Miette with
him.

“Come,” he said; “we can get across the river before they do.”

When they were on the top, among the ploughed land, they ran along to a
mill whose lock bars the river. Then they crossed the Viorne on a
plank placed there by the millers, and cut across the meadows of
Sainte-Claire, running hand-in-hand, without exchanging a word. The
column threw a dark line over the highway, which they followed alongside
the hedges. There were some gaps in the hawthorns, and at last Silvere
and Miette sprang on to the road through one of them.

In spite of the circuitous way they had come, they arrived at the same
time as the men of Plassans. Silvere shook hands with some of them. They
must have thought he had heard of the new route they had chosen, and had
come to meet them. Miette, whose face was half-concealed by her hood,
was scrutinised rather inquisitively.

“Why, it’s Chantegreil,” at last said one of the men from the Faubourg
of Plassans, “the niece of Rebufat, the _meger_[*] of the Jas-Meiffren.”

     [*] A _meger_ is a farmer in Provence who shares the
     expenses and profits of his farm with the owner of the land.

“Where have you sprung from, gadabout?” cried another voice.

Silvere, intoxicated with enthusiasm, had not thought of the distress
which his sweetheart would feel at the jeers of the workmen. Miette, all
confusion, looked at him as if to implore his aid. But before he
could even open his lips another voice rose from the crowd, brutally
exclaiming:

“Her father’s at the galleys; we don’t want the daughter of a thief and
murderer amongst us.”

At this Miette turned dreadfully pale.

“You lie!” she muttered. “If my father did kill anybody, he never
thieved!”

And as Silvere, pale and trembling more than she, began to clench his
fists: “Stop!” she continued; “this is my affair.”

Then, turning to the men, she repeated with a shout: “You lie! You lie!
He never stole a copper from anybody. You know it well enough. Why do
you insult him when he can’t be here?”

She drew herself up, superb with indignation. With her ardent, half-wild
nature she seemed to accept the charge of murder composedly enough, but
that of theft exasperated her. They knew it, and that was why folks,
from stupid malice, often cast the accusation in her face.

The man who had just called her father a thief was merely repeating
what he had heard said for many years. The girl’s defiant attitude
only incited the workmen to jeer the more. Silvere still had his fists
clenched, and matters might have become serious if a poacher from
the Seille, who had been sitting on a heap of stones at the roadside
awaiting the order to march, had not come to the girl’s assistance.

“The little one’s right,” he said. “Chantegreil was one of us. I knew
him. Nobody knows the real facts of his little matter. I always believed
in the truth of his deposition before the judge. The gendarme whom he
brought down with a bullet, while he was out shooting, was no doubt
taking aim at him at the time. A man must defend himself! At all events
Chantegreil was a decent fellow; he committed no robbery.”

As often happens in such cases, the testimony of this poacher sufficed
to bring other defenders to Miette’s aid. Several workmen also professed
to have known Chantegreil.

“Yes, yes, it’s true!” they all said. “He wasn’t a thief. There are
some scoundrels at Plassans who ought to be sent to prison in his place.
Chantegreil was our brother. Come, now, be calm, little one.”

Miette had never before heard anyone speak well of her father. He was
generally referred to as a beggar, a villain, and now she found good
fellows who had forgiving words for him, and declared him to be an
honest man. She burst into tears, again full of the emotion awakened in
her by the “Marseillaise;” and she bethought herself how she might thank
these men for their kindness to her in misfortune. For a moment she
conceived the idea of shaking them all by the hand like a man. But her
heart suggested something better. By her side stood the insurgent
who carried the banner. She touched the staff, and, to express her
gratitude, said in an entreating tone, “Give it to me; I will carry it.”

The simple-minded workmen understood the ingenuous sublimity of this
form of gratitude.

“Yes,” they all cried, “Chantegreil shall carry the banner.”

However, a woodcutter remarked that she would soon get tired, and would
not be able to go far.

“Oh! I’m quite strong,” she retorted proudly, tucking up her sleeves and
showing a pair of arms as big as those of a grown woman. Then as they
handed her the flag she resumed, “Wait just a moment.”

Forthwith she pulled off her cloak, and put it on again after turning
the red lining outside. In the clear moonlight she appeared to be
arrayed in a purple mantle reaching to her feet. The hood resting on the
edge of her chignon formed a kind of Phrygian cap. She took the flag,
pressed the staff to her bosom, and held herself upright amid the folds
of that blood-coloured banner which waved behind her. Enthusiastic child
that she was, her countenance, with its curly hair, large eyes moist
with tears, and lips parted in a smile, seemed to rise with energetic
pride as she turned it towards the sky. At that moment she was the
virgin Liberty.

The insurgents burst into applause. The vivid imagination of those
Southerners was fired with enthusiasm at the sudden apparition of this
girl so nervously clasping their banner to her bosom. Shouts rose from
the nearest group:

“Bravo, Chantegreil! Chantegreil for ever! She shall remain with us;
she’ll bring us luck!”

They would have cheered her for a long time yet had not the order to
resume the march arrived. Whilst the column moved on, Miette pressed
Silvere’s hand and whispered in his ear: “You hear! I shall remain with
you. Are you glad?”

Silvere, without replying, returned the pressure. He consented. In fact,
he was deeply affected, unable to resist the enthusiasm which fired his
companions. Miette seemed to him so lovely, so grand, so saintly! During
the whole climb up the hill he still saw her before him, radiant, amidst
a purple glory. She was now blended with his other adored mistress--the
Republic. He would have liked to be in action already, with his gun on
his shoulder. But the insurgents moved slowly. They had orders to make
as little noise as possible. Thus the column advanced between the
rows of elms like some gigantic serpent whose every ring had a strange
quivering. The frosty December night had again sunk into silence, and
the Viorne alone seemed to roar more loudly.

On reaching the first houses of the Faubourg, Silvere ran on in front to
fetch his gun from the Aire Saint-Mittre, which he found slumbering in
the moonlight. When he again joined the insurgents they had reached
the Porte de Rome. Miette bent towards him, and with her childish smile
observed: “I feel as if I were at the procession on Corpus Christi Day
carrying the banner of the Virgin.”



CHAPTER II

Plassans is a sub-prefecture with about ten thousand inhabitants. Built
on a plateau overlooking the Viorne, and resting on the north side
against the Garrigues hills, one of the last spurs of the Alps, the
town is situated, as it were, in the depths of a cul-de-sac. In 1851
it communicated with the adjoining country by two roads only, the Nice
road, which runs down to the east, and the Lyons road, which rises to
the west, the one continuing the other on almost parallel lines. Since
that time a railway has been built which passes to the south of the
town, below the hill which descends steeply from the old ramparts to
the river. At the present day, on coming out of the station on the right
bank of the little torrent, one can see, by raising one’s head, the
first houses of Plassans, with their gardens disposed in terrace
fashion. It is, however, only after an uphill walk lasting a full
quarter of an hour that one reaches these houses.

About twenty years ago, owing, no doubt, to deficient means of
communication, there was no town that had more completely retained the
pious and aristocratic character of the old Provencal cities. Plassans
then had, and has even now, a whole district of large mansions built
in the reigns of Louis XIV. and Louis XV., a dozen churches, Jesuit
and Capuchin houses, and a considerable number of convents. Class
distinctions were long perpetuated by the town’s division into various
districts. There were three of them, each forming, as it were, a
separate and complete locality, with its own churches, promenades,
customs, and landscapes.

The district of the nobility, called Saint-Marc, after the name of one
of its parish churches, is a sort of miniature Versailles, with straight
streets overgrown with grass, and large square houses which conceal
extensive gardens. It extends to the south along the edge of the
plateau. Some of the mansions built on the declivity itself have a
double row of terraces whence one can see the whole valley of the
Viorne, a most charming vista much vaunted in that part of the country.
Then on the north-west, the old quarter, formed of the original town,
rears its narrow, tortuous lanes bordered with tottering hovels. The
Town-Hall, the Civil Court, the Market, and the Gendarmerie barracks
are situated here. This, the most populous part of the Plassans, is
inhabited by working-men and shop-keepers, all the wretched, toiling,
common folk. The new town forms a sort of parallelogram to the
north-east; the well-to-do, those who have slowly amassed a fortune, and
those engaged in the liberal professions, here occupy houses set out
in straight lines and coloured a light yellow. This district, which is
embellished by the Sub-Prefecture, an ugly plaster building decorated
with rose-mouldings, numbered scarcely five or six streets in 1851; it
is of quite recent formation, and it is only since the construction of
the railway that it has been growing in extent.

One circumstance which even at the present time tends to divide
Plassans into three distinct independent parts is that the limits of the
districts are clearly defined by the principal thoroughfares. The Cours
Sauvaire and the Rue de Rome, which is, as it were, a narrow extension
of the former, run from west to east, from the Grand’-Porte to the
Porte de Rome, thus cutting the town into two portions, and dividing
the quarter of the nobility from the others. The latter are themselves
parted by the Rue de la Banne. This street, the finest in the locality,
starts from the extremity of the Cours Sauvaire, and ascends northwards,
leaving the black masses of the old quarter on its left, and the
light-yellow houses of the new town on its right. It is here, about
half-way along the street, that stands the Sub-Prefecture, in the rear
of a small square planted with sickly trees; the people of Plassans are
very proud of this edifice.

As if to keep more isolated and shut up within itself, the town is
belted with old ramparts, which only serve to increase its gloom and
render it more confined. These ridiculous fortifications, preyed upon by
ivy and crowned with wild gillyflowers, are about as high and as thick
as the walls of a convent, and could be demolished by gunshot. They
have several openings, the principal of which, the Porte de Rome and the
Grand’-Porte, afford access to the Nice road and the Lyons road, at the
other end of town. Until 1853 these openings were furnished with huge
wooden two-leaved gates, arched at the top, and strengthened with bars
of iron. These gates were double-locked at eleven o’clock in summer, and
ten o’clock in winter. The town having thus shot its bolts like a timid
girl, went quietly to sleep. A keeper, who lived in a little cell in one
of the inner corners of each gateway, was authorised to admit belated
persons. But it was necessary to stand parleying a long time. The keeper
would not let people in until, by the light of his lantern, he had
carefully scrutinised their faces through a peep-hole. If their looks
displeased him they had to sleep outside. This custom of locking the
gates every evening was highly characteristic of the spirit of the town,
which was a commingling of cowardice, egotism, routine, exclusiveness,
and devout longing for a cloistered life. Plassans, when it had shut
itself up, would say to itself, “I am at home,” with the satisfaction
of some pious bourgeois, who, assured of the safety of his cash-box,
and certain that no noise will disturb him, duly says his prayers and
retires gladly to bed. No other town, I believe, has so long persisted
in thus incarcerating itself like a nun.

The population of Plassans is divided into three groups, corresponding
with the same number of districts. Putting aside the functionaries--the
sub-prefect, the receiver of taxes, the mortgage commissioner, and
the postmaster, who are all strangers to the locality, where they are
objects of envy rather than of esteem, and who live after their own
fashion--the real inhabitants, those who were born there and have
every intention of ending their days there, feel too much respect for
traditional usages and established boundaries not to pen themselves of
their own accord in one or other of the town’s social divisions.

The nobility virtually cloister themselves. Since the fall of Charles X.
they scarcely ever go out, and when they do they are eager to return
to their large dismal mansions, and walk along furtively as though they
were in a hostile country. They do not visit anyone, nor do they even
receive each other. Their drawing-rooms are frequented by a few priests
only. They spend the summer in the chateaux which they possess in the
environs; in the winter, they sit round their firesides. They are, as
it were, dead people weary of life. And thus the gloomy silence of a
cemetery hangs over their quarter of the town. The doors and windows
are carefully barricaded; one would think their mansions were so many
convents shut off from all the tumult of the world. At rare intervals
an abbe, whose measured tread adds to the gloomy silence of these sealed
houses, passes by and glides like a shadow through some half-opened
doorway.

The well-to-do people, the retired tradesmen, the lawyers and notaries,
all those of the little easy-going, ambitious world that inhabits the
new town, endeavour to infuse some liveliness into Plassans. They go
to the parties given by the sub-prefect, and dream of giving similar
entertainments. They eagerly seek popularity, call a workman “my good
fellow,” chat with the peasants about the harvest, read the papers, and
walk out with their wives on Sundays. Theirs are the enlightened
minds of the district, they are the only persons who venture to speak
disparagingly of the ramparts; in fact, they have several times demanded
of the authorities the demolition of those old walls, relics of a former
age. At the same time, the most sceptical among them experience a shock
of delight whenever a marquis or a count deigns to honour them with a
stiff salutation. Indeed, the dream of every citizen of the new town is
to be admitted to a drawing-room of the Saint-Marc quarter. They know
very well that their ambition is not attainable, and it is this which
makes them proclaim all the louder that they are freethinkers. But they
are freethinkers in words only; firm friends of the authorities, they
are ready to rush into the arms of the first deliverer at the slightest
indication of popular discontent.

The group which toils and vegetates in the old quarter is not so clearly
defined as the others. The labouring classes are here in a majority; but
retail dealers and even a few wholesale traders are to be found among
them. As a matter of fact, Plassans is far from being a commercial
centre; there is only just sufficient trade to dispose of the products
of the country--oil, wine, and almonds. As for industrial labour, it is
represented almost entirely by three or four evil-smelling tanyards,
a felt hat manufactory, and some soap-boiling works, which last are
relegated to a corner of the Faubourg. This little commercial and
industrial world, though it may on high days and holidays visit the
people of the new district, generally takes up its quarters among the
operatives of the old town. Merchants, retail traders, and artisans have
common interests which unite them together. On Sundays only, the masters
make themselves spruce and foregather apart. On the other hand, the
labouring classes, which constitute scarcely a fifth of the population,
mingle with the idlers of the district.

It is only once a week, and during the fine weather, that the three
districts of Plassans come together face to face. The whole town repairs
to the Cours Sauvaire on Sunday after vespers; even the nobility venture
thither. Three distinct currents flow along this sort of boulevard
planted with rows of plane-trees. The well-to-do citizens of the new
quarter merely pass along before quitting the town by the Grand’-Porte
and taking the Avenue du Mail on the right, where they walk up and down
till nightfall. Meantime, the nobility and the lower classes share the
Cours Sauvaire between them. For more than a century past the nobility
have selected the walk on the south side, which is bordered with large
mansions, and is the first to escape the heat of the sun; the lower
classes have to rest content with the walk on the north, where the
cafes, inns, and tobacconists’ shops are located. The people and the
nobility promenade the whole afternoon, walking up and down the Cours
without anyone of either party thinking of changing sides. They are only
separated by a distance of some seven or eight yards, yet it is as if
they were a thousand leagues away from each other, for they scrupulously
follow those two parallel lines, as though they must not come in contact
here below. Even during the revolutionary periods each party kept to
its own side. This regulation walk on Sunday and the locking of the town
gates in the evening are analogous instances which suffice to indicate
the character of the ten thousand people inhabiting the town.

Here, amidst these surroundings, until the year 1848, there vegetated
an obscure family that enjoyed little esteem, but whose head, Pierre
Rougon, subsequently played an important part in life owing to certain
circumstances.

Pierre Rougon was the son of a peasant. His mother’s family, the
Fouques, owned, towards the end of the last century, a large plot of
ground in the Faubourg, behind the old cemetery of Saint-Mittre; this
ground was subsequently joined to the Jas-Meiffren. The Fouques were the
richest market-gardeners in that part of the country; they supplied an
entire district of Plassans with vegetables. However, their name
died out a few years before the Revolution. Only one girl, Adelaide,
remained; born in 1768, she had become an orphan at the age of eighteen.
This girl, whose father had died insane, was a long, lank, pale
creature, with a scared look and strange ways which one might have taken
for shyness so long as she was a little girl. As she grew up,
however, she became still stranger; she did certain things which were
inexplicable even to the cleverest folk of the Faubourg, and from that
time it was rumoured that she was cracked like her father.

She had scarcely been an orphan six months, in possession of a fortune
which rendered her an eagerly sought heiress, when it transpired that
she had married a young gardener named Rougon, a rough-hewn peasant from
the Basses-Alpes. This Rougon, after the death of the last of the male
Fouques, who had engaged him for a term, had remained in the service
of the deceased’s daughter. From the situation of salaried servant he
ascended rapidly to the enviable position of husband. This marriage was
a first shock to public opinion. No one could comprehend why Adelaide
preferred this poor fellow, coarse, heavy, vulgar, scarce able to speak
French, to those other young men, sons of well-to-do farmers, who had
been seen hovering round her for some time. And, as provincial people do
not allow anything to remain unexplained, they made sure there was some
mystery at the bottom of this affair, alleging even that the marriage of
the two young people had become an absolute necessity. But events proved
the falsity of the accusation. More than a year went by before Adelaide
had a son. The Faubourg was annoyed; it could not admit that it was
wrong, and determined to penetrate the supposed mystery; accordingly all
the gossips kept a watch upon the Rougons. They soon found ample matter
for tittle-tattle. Rougon died almost suddenly, fifteen months after his
marriage, from a sunstroke received one afternoon while he was weeding a
bed of carrots.

Scarcely a year then elapsed before the young widow caused unheard-of
scandal. It became known, as an indisputable fact, that she had a lover.
She did not appear to make any secret of it; several persons asserted
that they had heard her use endearing terms in public to poor Rougon’s
successor. Scarcely a year of widowhood and a lover already! Such a
disregard of propriety seemed monstrous out of all reason. And the
scandal was heightened by Adelaide’s strange choice. At that time there
dwelt at the end of the Impasse Saint-Mittre, in a hovel the back
of which abutted on the Fouques’ land, a man of bad repute, who was
generally referred to as “that scoundrel Macquart.” This man would
vanish for weeks and then turn up some fine evening, sauntering about
with his hands in his pockets and whistling as though he had just
come from a short walk. And the women sitting at their doorsteps as he
passed: “There’s that scoundrel Macquart! He has hidden his bales and
his gun in some hollow of the Viorne.” The truth was, Macquart had
no means, and yet ate and drank like a happy drone during his short
sojourns in the town. He drank copiously and with fierce obstinacy.
Seating himself alone at a table in some tavern, he would linger there
evening after evening, with his eyes stupidly fixed on his glass,
neither seeing nor hearing anything around him. When the landlord closed
his establishment, he would retire with a firm step, with his head
raised, as if he were kept yet more erect by inebriation. “Macquart
walks so straight, he’s surely dead drunk,” people used to say, as they
saw him going home. Usually, when he had had no drink, he walked with
a slight stoop and shunned the gaze of curious people with a kind of
savage shyness.

Since the death of his father, a journeyman tanner who had left him as
sole heritage the hovel in the Impasse Saint-Mittre, he had never
been known to have either relatives or friends. The proximity of the
frontiers and the neighbouring forests of the Seille had turned this
singular, lazy fellow into a combination of smuggler and poacher, one
of those suspicious-looking characters of whom passers-by observe: “I
shouldn’t care to meet that man at midnight in a dark wood.” Tall, with
a formidable beard and lean face, Macquart was the terror of the
good women of the Faubourg of Plassans; they actually accused him of
devouring little children raw. Though he was hardly thirty years old,
he looked fifty. Amidst his bushy beard and the locks of hair which hung
over his face in poodle fashion, one could only distinguish the gleam
of his brown eyes, the furtive sorrowful glance of a man of vagrant
instincts, rendered vicious by wine and a pariah life. Although no
crimes had actually been brought home to him, no theft or murder was
ever perpetrated in the district without suspicion at once falling upon
him.

And it was this ogre, this brigand, this scoundrel Macquart, whom
Adelaide had chosen! In twenty months she had two children by him, first
a boy and then a girl. There was no question of marriage between
them. Never had the Faubourg beheld such audacious impropriety. The
stupefaction was so great, the idea of Macquart having found a young and
wealthy mistress so completely upset the gossips, that they even spoke
gently of Adelaide. “Poor thing! She’s gone quite mad,” they would say.
“If she had any relatives she would have been placed in confinement long
ago.” And as they never knew anything of the history of those strange
amours, they accused that rogue Macquart of having taken advantage of
Adelaide’s weak mind to rob her of her money.

The legitimate son, little Pierre Rougon, grew up with his mother’s
other offspring. The latter, Antoine and Ursule, the young wolves as
they were called in the district, were kept at home by Adelaide, who
treated them as affectionately as her first child. She did not appear to
entertain a very clear idea of the position in life reserved for these
two poor creatures. To her they were the same in every respect as her
first-born. She would sometimes go out holding Pierre with one hand and
Antoine with the other, never noticing how differently the two little
fellows were already regarded.

It was a strange home. For nearly twenty years everyone lived there
after his or her fancy, the children like the mother. Everything went
on free from control. In growing to womanhood, Adelaide had retained the
strangeness which had been taken for shyness when she was fifteen. It
was not that she was insane, as the people of the Faubourg asserted,
but there was a lack of equilibrium between her nerves and her blood,
a disorder of the brain and heart which made her lead a life out of
the ordinary, different from that of the rest of the world. She was
certainly very natural, very consistent with herself; but in the eyes of
the neighbours her consistency became pure insanity. She seemed
desirous of making herself conspicuous, it was thought she was wickedly
determined to turn things at home from bad to worse, whereas with great
naivete she simply acted according to the impulses of her nature.

Ever since giving birth to her first child she had been subject to
nervous fits which brought on terrible convulsions. These fits recurred
periodically, every two or three months. The doctors whom she consulted
declared they could do nothing for her, that age would weaken the
severity of the attacks. They simply prescribed a dietary regimen of
underdone meat and quinine wine. However, these repeated shocks led to
cerebral disorder. She lived on from day to day like a child, like
a fawning animal yielding to its instincts. When Macquart was on his
rounds, she passed her time in lazy, pensive idleness. All she did for
her children was to kiss and play with them. Then as soon as her lover
returned she would disappear.

Behind Macquart’s hovel there was a little yard, separated from the
Fouques’ property by a wall. One morning the neighbours were much
astonished to find in this wall a door which had not been there the
previous evening. Before an hour had elapsed, the entire Faubourg had
flocked to the neighbouring windows. The lovers must have worked the
whole night to pierce the opening and place the door there. They could
now go freely from one house to the other. The scandal was revived,
everyone felt less pity for Adelaide, who was certainly the disgrace
of the suburb; she was reproached more wrathfully for that door, that
tacit, brutal admission of her union, than even for her two illegitimate
children. “People should at least study appearances,” the most tolerant
women would say. But Adelaide did not understand what was meant by
studying appearances. She was very happy, very proud of her door; she
had assisted Macquart to knock the stones from the wall and had even
mixed the mortar so that the work might proceed the quicker; and she
came with childish delight to inspect the work by daylight on the
morrow--an act which was deemed a climax of shamelessness by three
gossips who observed her contemplating the masonry. From that date,
whenever Macquart reappeared, it was thought, as no one then ever
saw the young woman, that she was living with him in the hovel of the
Impasse Saint-Mittre.

The smuggler would come very irregularly, almost always unexpectedly,
to Plassans. Nobody ever knew what life the lovers led during the two
or three days he spent there at distant intervals. They used to shut
themselves up; the little dwelling seemed uninhabited. Then, as the
gossips had declared that Macquart had simply seduced Adelaide in order
to spend her money, they were astonished, after a time, to see him still
lead his wonted life, ever up hill and down dale and as badly equipped
as previously. Perhaps the young woman loved him all the more for
seeing him at rare intervals, perhaps he had disregarded her entreaties,
feeling an irresistible desire for a life of adventure. The gossips
invented a thousand fables, without succeeding in giving any reasonable
explanation of a connection which had originated and continued in so
strange a manner. The hovel in the Impasse Saint-Mittre remained closed
and preserved its secrets. It was merely guessed that Macquart had
probably acquired the habit of beating Adelaide, although the sound of
a quarrel never issued from the house. However, on several occasions she
was seen with her face black and blue, and her hair torn away. At the
same time, she did not display the least dejection or grief, nor did she
seek in any way to hide her bruises. She smiled, and seemed happy. No
doubt she allowed herself to be beaten without breathing a word. This
existence lasted for more than fifteen years.

At times when Adelaide returned home she would find her house upside
down, but would not take the least notice of it. She was utterly
ignorant of the practical meaning of life, of the proper value of things
and the necessity for order. She let her children grow up like those
plum-trees which sprout along the highways at the pleasure of the rain
and sun. They bore their natural fruits like wild stock which has never
known grafting or pruning. Never was nature allowed such complete sway,
never did such mischievous creatures grow up more freely under the sole
influence of instinct. They rolled among the vegetables, passed their
days in the open air playing and fighting like good-for-nothing urchins.
They stole provisions from the house and pillaged the few fruit-trees in
the enclosure; they were the plundering, squalling, familiar demons of
this strange abode of lucid insanity. When their mother was absent
for days together, they would make such an uproar, and hit upon such
diabolical devices for annoying people, that the neighbours had to
threaten them with a whipping. Moreover, Adelaide did not inspire them
with much fear; if they were less obnoxious to other people when she was
at home, it was because they made her their victim, shirking school
five or six times a week and doing everything they could to receive some
punishment which would allow them to squall to their hearts’ content.
But she never beat them, nor even lost her temper; she lived on very
well, placidly, indolently, in a state of mental abstraction amidst all
the uproar. At last, indeed, this uproar became indispensable to her,
to fill the void in her brain. She smiled complacently when she heard
anyone say, “Her children will beat her some day, and it will serve her
right.” To all remarks, her utter indifference seemed to reply, “What
does it matter?” She troubled even less about her property than about
her children. The Fouques’ enclosure, during the many years that this
singular existence lasted would have become a piece of waste ground
if the young woman had not luckily entrusted the cultivation of her
vegetables to a clever market-gardener. This man, who was to share the
profits with her, robbed her impudently, though she never noticed it.
This circumstance had its advantages, however; for, in order to steal
the more, the gardener drew as much as possible from the land, which in
the result almost doubled in value.

Pierre, the legitimate son, either from secret instinct or from his
knowledge of the different manner in which he and the others were
regarded by the neighbours, domineered over his brother and sister
from an early age. In their quarrels, although he was much weaker than
Antoine, he always got the better of the contest, beating the other with
all the authority of a master. With regard to Ursule, a poor, puny, wan
little creature, she was handled with equal roughness by both the
boys. Indeed, until they were fifteen or sixteen, the three children
fraternally beat each other without understanding their vague, mutual
hatred, without realising how foreign they were to one another. It was
only in youth that they found themselves face to face with definite,
self-conscious personalities.

At sixteen, Antoine was a tall fellow, a blend of Macquart’s and
Adelaide’s failings. Macquart, however, predominated in him, with his
love of vagrancy, his tendency to drunkenness, and his brutish savagery.
At the same time, under the influence of Adelaide’s nervous nature, the
vices which in the father assumed a kind of sanguinary frankness were
in the son tinged with an artfulness full of hypocrisy and cowardice.
Antoine resembled his mother by his total want of dignified will, by his
effeminate voluptuous egotism, which disposed him to accept any bed of
infamy provided he could lounge upon it at his ease and sleep warmly in
it. People said of him: “Ah! the brigand! He hasn’t even the courage of
his villainy like Macquart; if ever he commits a murder, it will be with
pin pricks.” Physically, Antoine inherited Adelaide’s thick lips only;
his other features resembled those of the smuggler, but they were softer
and more prone to change of expression.

In Ursule, on the other hand, physical and moral resemblance to the
mother predominated. There was a mixture of certain characteristics in
her also; but born the last, at a time when Adelaide’s love was warmer
than Macquart’s, the poor little thing seemed to have received with her
sex a deeper impress of her mother’s temperament. Moreover, hers was not
a fusion of the two natures, but rather a juxtaposition, a remarkably
close soldering. Ursule was whimsical, and displayed at times the
shyness, the melancholy, and the transports of a pariah; then she would
often break out into nervous fits of laughter, and muse lazily, like
a woman unsound both in head and heart. Her eyes, which at times had
a scared expression like those of Adelaide, were as limpid as crystal,
similar to those of kittens doomed to die of consumption.

In presence of those two illegitimate children Pierre seemed a stranger;
to one who had not penetrated to the roots of his being he would have
appeared profoundly dissimilar. Never did child’s nature show a more
equal balance of the characteristics of its parents. He was the exact
mean between the peasant Rougon and the nervous Adelaide. Paternal
grossness was attenuated by the maternal influence. One found in him the
first phase of that evolution of temperaments which ultimately brings
about the amelioration or deterioration of a race. Although he was still
a peasant, his skin was less coarse, his face less heavy, his intellect
more capacious and more supple. In him the defects of his father and his
mother had advantageously reacted upon each other. If Adelaide’s nature,
rendered exquisitely sensitive by her rebellious nerves, had combated
and lessened Rougon’s full-bodied ponderosity, the latter had
successfully prevented the young woman’s tendency to cerebral disorder
from being implanted in the child. Pierre knew neither the passions nor
the sickly ravings of Macquart’s young whelps. Very badly brought up,
unruly and noisy, like all children who are not restrained during their
infancy, he nevertheless possessed at bottom such sense and intelligence
as would always preserve him from perpetrating any unproductive folly.
His vices, his laziness, his appetite for indulgence, lacked the
instinctiveness which characterised Antoine’s; he meant to cultivate
and gratify them honourably and openly. In his plump person of medium
height, in his long pale face, in which the features derived from his
father had acquired some of the maternal refinement, one could already
detect signs of sly and crafty ambition and insatiable desire, with
the hardness of heart and envious hatred of a peasant’s son whom his
mother’s means and nervous temperament had turned into a member of the
middle classes.

When, at the age of seventeen, Pierre observed and was able to
understand Adelaide’s disorders and the singular position of Antoine and
Ursule, he seemed neither sorry nor indignant, but simply worried as to
the course which would best serve his own interests. He was the only
one of the three children who had pursued his studies with any industry.
When a peasant begins to feel the need of instruction he most frequently
becomes a fierce calculator. At school Pierre’s playmates roused his
first suspicions by the manner in which they treated and hooted his
brother. Later on he came to understand the significance of many looks
and words. And at last he clearly saw that the house was being pillaged.
From that time forward he regarded Antoine and Ursule as shameless
parasites, mouths that were devouring his own substance. Like the people
of the Faubourg, he thought that his mother was a fit subject for a
lunatic asylum, and feared she would end by squandering all her money,
if he did not take steps to prevent it. What gave him the finishing
stroke was the dishonesty of the gardener who cultivated the land.
At this, in one day, the unruly child was transformed into a thrifty,
selfish lad, hurriedly matured, as regards his instincts, by the strange
improvident life which he could no longer bear to see around him without
a feeling of anguish. Those vegetables, from the sale of which the
market-gardener derived the largest profits, really belonged to him;
the wine which his mother’s offspring drank, the bread they ate, also
belonged to him. The whole house, the entire fortune, was his by right;
according to his boorish logic, he alone, the legitimate son, was
the heir. And as his riches were in danger, as everybody was greedily
gnawing at his future fortune, he sought a means of turning them all
out--mother, brother, sister, servants--and of succeeding immediately to
his inheritance.

The conflict was a cruel one; the lad knew that he must first strike his
mother. Step by step, with patient tenacity, he executed a plan whose
every detail he had long previously thought out. His tactics were to
appear before Adelaide like a living reproach--not that he flew into
a passion, or upbraided her for her misconduct; but he had acquired a
certain manner of looking at her, without saying a word, which terrified
her. Whenever she returned from a short sojourn in Macquart’s hovel she
could not turn her eyes on her son without a shudder. She felt his cold
glances, as sharp as steel blades pierce her deeply and pitilessly. The
severe, taciturn demeanour of the child of the man whom she had so soon
forgotten strangely troubled her poor disordered brain. She would fancy
at times that Rougon had risen from the dead to punish her for her
dissoluteness. Every week she fell into one of those nervous fits which
were shattering her constitution. She was left to struggle until she
recovered consciousness, after which she would creep about more feebly
than ever. She would also often sob the whole night long, holding her
head in her hands, and accepting the wounds that Pierre dealt her with
resignation, as if they had been the strokes of an avenging deity. At
other times she repudiated him; she would not acknowledge her own
flesh and blood in that heavy-faced lad, whose calmness chilled her own
feverishness so painfully. She would a thousand times rather have been
beaten than glared at like that. Those implacable looks, which followed
her everywhere, threw her at last into such unbearable torments that
on several occasions she determined to see her lover no more. As soon,
however, as Macquart returned she forgot her vows and hastened to him.
The conflict with her son began afresh, silent and terrible, when she
came back home. At the end of a few months she fell completely under his
sway. She stood before him like a child doubtful of her behaviour and
fearing that she deserves a whipping. Pierre had skilfully bound her
hand and foot, and made a very submissive servant of her, without
opening his lips, without once entering into difficult and compromising
explanations.

When the young man felt that his mother was in his power, that he could
treat her like a slave, he began, in his own interest, to turn her
cerebral weakness and the foolish terror with which his glances inspired
her to his own advantage. His first care, as soon as he was master at
home, was to dismiss the market-gardener and replace him by one of his
own creatures. Then he took upon himself the supreme direction of the
household, selling, buying, and holding the cash-box. On the other hand,
he made no attempt to regulate Adelaide’s actions, or to correct Antoine
and Ursule for their laziness. That mattered little to him, for he
counted upon getting rid of these people as soon as an opportunity
presented itself. He contented himself with portioning out their bread
and water. Then, having already got all the property in his own hands,
he awaited an event which would permit him to dispose of it as he
pleased.

Circumstances proved singularly favourable. He escaped the conscription
on the ground of being a widow’s eldest son. But two years later Antoine
was called out. His bad luck did not affect him much; he counted on his
mother purchasing a substitute for him. Adelaide, in fact, wished to
save him from serving; Pierre, however, who held the money, turned a
deaf ear to her. His brother’s compulsory departure would be a lucky
event for him, and greatly assist the accomplishment of his plans. When
his mother mentioned the matter to him, he gave her such a look that
she did not venture to pursue it. His glance plainly signified, “Do you
wish, then, to ruin me for the sake of your illegitimate offspring?”
 Forthwith she selfishly abandoned Antoine, for before everything else
she sought her own peace and quietness. Pierre, who did not like violent
measures, and who rejoiced at being able to eject his brother without a
disturbance, then played the part of a man in despair: the year had been
a bad one, money was scarce, and to raise any he would be compelled to
sell a portion of the land, which would be the beginning of their ruin.
Then he pledged his word of honour to Antoine that he would buy him out
the following year, though he meant to do nothing of the kind. Antoine
then went off, duped, and half satisfied.

Pierre got rid of Ursule in a still more unexpected manner. A journeyman
hatter of the Faubourg, named Mouret, conceived a real affection for the
girl, whom he thought as white and delicate as any young lady from the
Saint-Marc quarter. He married her. On his part it was a love match,
free from all sordid motives. As for Ursule, she accepted the marriage
in order to escape a home where her eldest brother rendered life
intolerable. Her mother, absorbed in her own courses, and using her
remaining energy to defend her own particular interests, regarded
the matter with absolute indifference. She was even glad of Ursule’s
departure from the house, hoping that Pierre, now that he had no further
cause for dissatisfaction, would let her live in peace after her
own fashion. No sooner had the young people been married than Mouret
perceived that he would have to quit Plassans, if he did not wish to
hear endless disparaging remarks about his wife and his mother-in-law.
Taking Ursule with him, he accordingly repaired to Marseilles, where he
worked at his trade. It should be mentioned that he had not asked
for one sou of dowry. When Pierre, somewhat surprised by this
disinterestedness, commenced to stammer out some explanations, Mouret
closed his mouth by saying that he preferred to earn his wife’s bread.
Nevertheless the worthy son of the peasant remained uneasy; Mouret’s
indifference seemed to him to conceal some trap.

Adelaide now remained to be disposed of. Nothing in the world would have
induced Pierre to live with her any longer. She was compromising him;
it was with her that he would have liked to make a start. But he found
himself between two very embarrassing alternatives: to keep her, and
thus, in a measure, share her disgrace, and bind a fetter to his feet
which would arrest him in his ambitious flight; or to turn her out, with
the certainty of being pointed at as a bad son, which would have robbed
him of the reputation for good nature which he desired. Knowing that he
would be in want of everybody, he desired to secure an untarnished
name throughout Plassans. There was but one method to adopt, namely, to
induce Adelaide to leave of her own accord. Pierre neglected nothing to
accomplish this end. He considered his mother’s misconduct a sufficient
excuse for his own hard-heartedness. He punished her as one would
chastise a child. The tables were turned. The poor woman cowered under
the stick which, figuratively, was constantly held over her. She was
scarcely forty-two years old, and already had the stammerings of
terror, and vague, pitiful looks of an old woman in her dotage. Her son
continued to stab her with his piercing glances, hoping that she would
run away when her courage was exhausted. The unfortunate woman suffered
terribly from shame, restrained desire and enforced cowardice, receiving
the blows dealt her with passive resignation, and nevertheless returning
to Macquart with the determination to die on the spot rather than
submit. There were nights when she would have got out of bed, and thrown
herself into the Viorne, if with her weak, nervous, nature she had not
felt the greatest fear of death. On several occasions she thought of
running away and joining her lover on the frontier. It was only
because she did not know whither to go that she remained in the house,
submitting to her son’s contemptuous silence and secret brutality.
Pierre divined that she would have left long ago if she had only had a
refuge. He was waiting an opportunity to take a little apartment for her
somewhere, when a fortuitous occurrence, which he had not ventured
to anticipate, abruptly brought about the realisation of his desires.
Information reached the Faubourg that Macquart had just been killed on
the frontier by a shot from a custom-house officer, at the moment when
he was endeavouring to smuggle a load of Geneva watches into France. The
story was true. The smuggler’s body was not even brought home, but was
interred in the cemetery of a little mountain village. Adelaide’s grief
plunged her into stupor. Her son, who watched her curiously, did not see
her shed a tear. Macquart had made her sole legatee. She inherited
his hovel in the Impasse Saint-Mittre, and his carbine, which a
fellow-smuggler, braving the balls of the custom-house officers, loyally
brought back to her. On the following day she retired to the little
house, hung the carbine above the mantelpiece, and lived there estranged
from all the world, solitary and silent.

Pierre was at last sole master of the house. The Fouques’ land belonged
to him in fact, if not in law. He never thought of establishing himself
on it. It was too narrow a field for his ambition. To till the ground
and cultivate vegetables seemed to him boorish, unworthy of his
faculties. He was in a hurry to divest himself of everything
recalling the peasant. With his nature refined by his mother’s nervous
temperament, he felt an irresistible longing for the enjoyments of the
middle classes. In all his calculations, therefore, he had regarded the
sale of the Fouques’ property as the final consummation. This sale, by
placing a round sum of money in his hands, would enable him to marry the
daughter of some merchant who would take him into partnership. At this
period the wars of the First Empire were greatly thinning the ranks of
eligible young men. Parents were not so fastidious as previously in the
choice of a son-in-law. Pierre persuaded himself that money would
smooth all difficulties, and that the gossip of the Faubourg would be
overlooked; he intended to pose as a victim, as an honest man suffering
from a family disgrace, which he deplored, without being soiled by it or
excusing it.

For several months already he had cast his eyes on a certain Felicite
Puech, the daughter of an oil-dealer. The firm of Puech & Lacamp, whose
warehouses were in one of the darkest lanes of the old quarter, was
far from prosperous. It enjoyed but doubtful credit in the market, and
people talked vaguely of bankruptcy. It was precisely in consequence of
these evil reports that Pierre turned his batteries in this direction.
No well-to-do trader would have given him his daughter. He meant to
appear on the scene at the very moment when old Puech should no longer
know which way to turn; he would then purchase Felicite of him, and
re-establish the credit of the house by his own energy and intelligence.
It was a clever expedient for ascending the first rung of the social
ladder, for raising himself above his station. Above all things, he
wished to escape from that frightful Faubourg where everybody reviled
his family, and to obliterate all these foul legends, by effacing even
the very name of the Fouques’ enclosure. For that reason the filthy
streets of the old quarter seemed to him perfect paradise. There, only,
he would be able to change his skin.

The moment which he had been awaiting soon arrived. The firm of Puech
and Lacamp seemed to be at the last gasp. The young man then negotiated
the match with prudent skill. He was received, if not as a deliverer, at
least as a necessary and acceptable expedient. The marriage agreed upon,
he turned his attention to the sale of the ground. The owner of the
Jas-Meiffren, desiring to enlarge his estate, had made him repeated
offers. A low, thin, party-wall alone separated the two estates. Pierre
speculated on the eagerness of his wealthy neighbour, who, to gratify
his caprice, offered as much as fifty thousand francs for the land. It
was double its value. Pierre, whoever, with the craftiness of a peasant,
pulled a long face, and said that he did not care to sell; that his
mother would never consent to get rid of the property where the Fouques
had lived from father to son for nearly two centuries. But all the time
that he was seemingly holding back he was really making preparations for
the sale. Certain doubts had arisen in his mind. According to his own
brutal logic, the property belonged to him; he had the right to dispose
of it as he chose. Beneath this assurance, however, he had vague
presentiments of legal complications. So he indirectly consulted a
lawyer of the Faubourg.

He learnt some fine things from him. According to the lawyer, his hands
were completely tied. His mother alone could alienate the property, and
he doubted whether she would. But what he did not know, what came as a
heavy blow to him, was that Ursule and Antoine, those young wolves,
had claims on the estate. What! they would despoil him, rob him, the
legitimate child! The lawyer’s explanations were clear and precise,
however; Adelaide, it is true, had married Rougon under the common
property system; but as the whole fortune consisted of land, the young
woman, according to law, again came into possession of everything at her
husband’s death. Moreover, Macquart and Adelaide had duly acknowledged
their children when declaring their birth for registration, and thus
these children were entitled to inherit from their mother. For
sole consolation, Pierre learnt that the law reduced the share of
illegitimate children in favour of the others. This, however, did not
console him at all. He wanted to have everything. He would not have
shared ten sous with Ursule and Antoine.

This vista of the intricacies of the Code opened up a new horizon, which
he scanned with a singularly thoughtful air. He soon recognised that
a shrewd man must always keep the law on his side. And this is what he
devised without consulting anyone, even the lawyer, whose suspicions he
was afraid of arousing. He knew how to turn his mother round his finger.
One fine morning he took her to a notary and made her sign a deed of
sale. Provided she were left the hovel in the Impasse Saint-Mittre,
Adelaide would have sold all Plassans. Besides, Pierre assured her an
annual income of six hundred francs, and made the most solemn promises
to watch over his brother and sister. This oath satisfied the good
woman. She recited, before the notary, the lesson which it had pleased
her son to teach her. On the following day the young man made her place
her name at the foot of a document in which she acknowledged having
received fifty thousand francs as the price of the property. This was
his stroke of genius, the act of a rogue. He contented himself with
telling his mother, who was a little surprised at signing such a receipt
when she had not seen a centime of the fifty thousand francs, that it
was a pure formality of no consequence whatever. As he slipped the paper
into his pocket, he thought to himself, “Now, let the young wolves ask
me to render an account. I will tell them the old woman has squandered
everything. They will never dare to go to law with me about it.” A week
afterwards, the party-wall no longer existed: a plough had turned up
the vegetable beds; the Fouques’ enclosure, in accordance with young
Rougon’s wish, was about to become a thing of the past. A few months
later, the owner of the Jas-Meiffren even had the old market-gardener’s
house, which was falling to pieces, pulled down.

When Pierre had secured the fifty thousand francs he married Felicite
Puech with as little delay as possible. Felicite was a short, dark
woman, such as one often meets in Provence. She looked like one of
those brown, lean, noisy grasshoppers, which in their sudden leaps often
strike their heads against the almond-trees. Thin, flat-breasted, with
pointed shoulders and a face like that of a pole-cat, her features
singularly sunken and attenuated, it was not easy to tell her age;
she looked as near fifteen as thirty, although she was in reality only
nineteen, four years younger than her husband. There was much feline
slyness in the depths of her little black eyes, which suggested gimlet
holes. Her low, bumpy forehead, her slightly depressed nose with
delicate quivering nostrils, her thin red lips and prominent chin,
parted from her cheeks by strange hollows, all suggested the countenance
of an artful dwarf, a living mask of intrigue, an active, envious
ambition. With all her ugliness, however, Felicite possessed a sort of
gracefulness which rendered her seductive. People said of her that she
could be pretty or ugly as she pleased. It would depend on the fashion
in which she tied her magnificent hair; but it depended still more on
the triumphant smile which illumined her golden complexion when she
thought she had got the better of somebody. Born under an evil star,
and believing herself ill-used by fortune, she was generally content
to appear an ugly creature. She did not, however, intend to abandon the
struggle, for she had vowed that she would some day make the whole town
burst with envy, by an insolent display of happiness and luxury. Had
she been able to act her part on a more spacious stage, where full play
would have been allowed her ready wit, she would have quickly brought
her dream to pass. Her intelligence was far superior to that of the
girls of her own station and education. Evil tongues asserted that her
mother, who had died a few years after she was born, had, during the
early period of her married life, been familiar with the Marquis de
Carnavant, a young nobleman of the Saint-Marc quarter. In fact, Felicite
had the hands and feet of a marchioness, and, in this respect, did not
appear to belong to that class of workers from which she was descended.

Her marriage with Pierre Rougon, that semi-peasant, that man of the
Faubourg, whose family was in such bad odour, kept the old quarter in
a state of astonishment for more than a month. She let people gossip,
however, receiving the stiff congratulations of her friends with strange
smiles. Her calculations had been made; she had chosen Rougon for a
husband as one would choose an accomplice. Her father, in accepting the
young man, had merely had eyes for the fifty thousand francs which were
to save him from bankruptcy. Felicite, however, was more keen-sighted.
She looked into the future, and felt that she would be in want of a
robust man, even if he were somewhat rustic, behind whom she might
conceal herself, and whose limbs she would move at will. She entertained
a deliberate hatred for the insignificant little exquisites of
provincial towns, the lean herd of notaries’ clerks and prospective
barristers, who stand shivering with cold while waiting for clients.
Having no dowry, and despairing of ever marrying a rich merchant’s son,
she by far preferred a peasant whom she could use as a passive tool,
to some lank graduate who would overwhelm her with his academical
superiority, and drag her about all her life in search of hollow
vanities. She was of opinion that the woman ought to make the man. She
believed herself capable of carving a minister out of a cow-herd. That
which had attracted her in Rougon was his broad chest, his heavy frame,
which was not altogether wanting in elegance. A man thus built would
bear with ease and sprightliness the mass of intrigues which she
dreamt of placing on his shoulders. However, while she appreciated her
husband’s strength and vigour, she also perceived that he was far
from being a fool; under his coarse flesh she had divined the cunning
suppleness of his mind. Still she was a long way from really knowing her
Rougon; she thought him far stupider than he was. A few days after her
marriage, as she was by chance fumbling in the drawer of a secretaire,
she came across the receipt for fifty thousand francs which Adelaide
had signed. At sight of it she understood things, and felt rather
frightened; her own natural average honesty rendered her hostile to such
expedients. Her terror, however, was not unmixed with admiration; Rougon
became in her eyes a very smart fellow.

The young couple bravely sought to conquer fortune. The firm of Puech
& Lacamp was not, after all, so embarrassed as Pierre had thought. Its
liabilities were small, it was merely in want of ready-money. In the
provinces, traders adopt prudent courses to save them from serious
disasters. Puech & Lacamp were prudent to an excessive degree; they
never risked a thousand crowns without the greatest fear, and thus their
house, a veritable hole, was an unimportant one. The fifty thousand
francs that Pierre brought into it sufficed to pay the debts and extend
the business. The beginnings were good. During three successive years
the olive harvest was an abundant one. Felicite, by a bold stroke which
absolutely frightened both Pierre and old Puech, made them purchase
a considerable quantity of oil, which they stored in their warehouse.
During the following years, as the young woman had foreseen, the crops
failed, and a considerable rise in prices having set in, they realised
large profits by selling out their stock.

A short time after this haul, Puech & Lacamp retired from the firm,
content with the few sous they had just secured, and ambitious of living
on their incomes.

The young couple now had sole control of the business, and thought
that they had at last laid the foundation of their fortune. “You have
vanquished my ill-luck,” Felicite would sometimes say to her husband.

One of the rare weaknesses of her energetic nature was to believe
herself stricken by misfortune. Hitherto, so she asserted, nothing had
been successful with either herself or her father, in spite of all their
efforts. Goaded by her southern superstition, she prepared to struggle
with fate as one struggles with somebody who is endeavouring to strangle
one. Circumstances soon justified her apprehensions in a singular
manner. Ill-luck returned inexorably. Every year some fresh disaster
shook Rougon’s business. A bankruptcy resulted in the loss of a few
thousand francs; his estimates of crops proved incorrect, through
the most incredible circumstances; the safest speculations collapsed
miserably. It was a truceless, merciless combat.

“You see I was born under an unlucky star!” Felicite would bitterly
exclaim.

And yet she still struggled furiously, not understanding how it was that
she, who had shown such keen scent in a first speculation, could now
only give her husband the most deplorable advice.

Pierre, dejected and less tenacious than herself, would have gone
into liquidation a score of times had it not been for his wife’s firm
obstinacy. She longed to be rich. She perceived that her ambition could
only be attained by fortune. As soon as they possessed a few hundred
thousand francs they would be masters of the town. She would get her
husband appointed to an important post, and she would govern. It was
not the attainment of honours which troubled her; she felt herself
marvellously well armed for such a combat. But she could do nothing to
get together the first few bags of money which were needed. Though the
ruling of men caused her no apprehensions, she felt a sort of impotent
rage at the thought of those inert, white, cold, five-franc pieces over
which her intriguing spirit had no power, and which obstinately resisted
her.

The battle lasted for more than thirty years. The death of Puech proved
another heavy blow. Felicite, who had counted upon an inheritance of
about forty thousand francs, found that the selfish old man, in order
to indulge himself in his old age, had sunk all his money in a life
annuity. The discovery made her quite ill. She was gradually becoming
soured, she was growing more lean and harsh. To see her, from morning
till night, whirling round the jars of oil, one would have thought she
believed that she could stimulate the sales by continually flitting
about like a restless fly. Her husband, on the contrary, became heavier;
misfortune fattened him, making him duller and more indolent. These
thirty years of combat did not, however, bring him to ruin. At each
annual stock-taking they managed to make both ends meet fairly well; if
they suffered any loss during one season, they recouped themselves the
next. However, it was precisely this living from hand to mouth which
exasperated Felicite. She would, by far, have preferred a big failure.
They would then, perhaps, have been able to commence life over again,
instead of obstinately persisting in their petty business, working
themselves to death to gain the bare necessaries of life. During one
third of a century they did not save fifty thousand francs.

It should be mentioned that, from the very first years of their married
life, they had a numerous family, which in the long run became a heavy
burden to them. In the course of five years, from 1811 to 1815, Felicite
gave birth to three boys. Then during the four ensuing years she
presented her husband with two girls. These had but an indifferent
welcome; daughters are a terrible embarrassment when one has no dowry to
give them.

However, the young woman did not regard this troop of children as the
cause of their ruin. On the contrary, she based on her sons’ heads the
building of the fortune which was crumbling in her own hands. They were
hardly ten years old before she discounted their future careers in her
dreams. Doubting whether she would ever succeed herself, she centred
in them all her hopes of overcoming the animosity of fate. They would
provide satisfaction for her disappointed vanity, they would give her
that wealthy, honourable position which she had hitherto sought in vain.
From that time forward, without abandoning the business struggle,
she conceived a second plan for obtaining the gratification of her
domineering instincts. It seemed to her impossible that, amongst her
three sons, there should not be a man of superior intellect, who would
enrich them all. She felt it, she said. Accordingly, she nursed the
children with a fervour in which maternal severity was blended with an
usurer’s solicitude. She amused herself by fattening them as though they
constituted a capital which, later on, would return a large interest.

“Enough!” Pierre would sometimes exclaim, “all children are ungrateful.
You are spoiling them, you are ruining us.”

When Felicite spoke of sending them to college, he got angry. Latin was
a useless luxury, it would be quite sufficient if they went through
the classes of a little neighbouring school The young woman, however,
persisted in her design. She possessed certain elevated instincts which
made her take a great pride in surrounding herself with accomplished
children; moreover, she felt that her sons must never remain as
illiterate as her husband, if she wished to see them become prominent
men. She fancied them all three in Paris in high positions, which she
did not clearly define. When Rougon consented, and the three youngsters
had entered the eighth class, Felicite felt the most lively satisfaction
she had ever experienced. She listened with delight as they talked of
their professors and their studies. When she heard her eldest son make
one of his brothers decline _Rosa, a rose_, it sounded like delicious
music to her. It is only fair to add that her delight was not tarnished
by any sordid calculations. Even Rougon felt the satisfaction which an
illiterate man experiences on perceiving his sons grow more learned than
himself. Then the fellowship which grew up between their sons and
those of the local big-wigs completed the parents’ gratification. The
youngsters were soon on familiar terms with the sons of the Mayor and
the Sub-Prefect, and even with two or three young noblemen whom the
Saint-Marc quarter had deigned to send to the Plassans College. Felicite
was at a loss how to repay such an honour. The education of the three
lads weighed seriously on the budget of the Rougon household.

Until the boys had taken their degrees, their parents, who kept them at
college at enormous sacrifices, lived in hopes of their success. When
they had obtained their diplomas Felicite wished to continue her work,
and even persuaded her husband to send the three to Paris. Two of them
devoted themselves to the study of law, and the third passed through
the School of Medicine. Then, when they were men, and had exhausted the
resources of the Rougon family and were obliged to return and establish
themselves in the provinces, their parents’ disenchantment began. They
idled about and grew fat. And Felicite again felt all the bitterness of
her ill-luck. Her sons were failing her. They had ruined her, and did
not return any interest on the capital which they represented. This
last blow of fate was the heaviest, as it fell on her ambition and her
maternal vanity alike. Rougon repeated to her from morning till night,
“I told you so!” which only exasperated her the more.

One day, as she was bitterly reproaching her eldest son with the large
amount of money expended on his education, he said to her with equal
bitterness, “I will repay you later on if I can. But as you had no
means, you should have brought us up to a trade. We are out of our
element, we are suffering more than you.”

Felicite understood the wisdom of these words. From that time she ceased
to accuse her children, and turned her anger against fate, which never
wearied of striking her. She started her old complaints afresh, and
bemoaned more and more the want of means which made her strand, as it
were, in port. Whenever Rougon said to her, “Your sons are lazy fellows,
they will eat up all we have,” she sourly replied, “Would to God I had
more money to give them; if they do vegetate, poor fellows, it’s because
they haven’t got a sou to bless themselves with.”

At the beginning of the year 1848, on the eve of the Revolution of
February, the three young Rougons held very precarious positions
at Plassans. They presented most curious and profoundly dissimilar
characteristics, though they came of the same stock. They were in
reality superior to their parents. The race of the Rougons was destined
to become refined through its female side. Adelaide had made Pierre
a man of moderate enterprise, disposed to low ambitions; Felicite
had inspired her sons with a higher intelligence, with a capacity for
greater vices and greater virtues.

At the period now referred to the eldest, Eugene, was nearly forty years
old. He was a man of middle height, slightly bald, and already disposed
to obesity. He had his father’s face, a long face with broad features;
beneath his skin one could divine the fat to which were due the flabby
roundness of his features, and his yellowish, waxy complexion. Though
his massive square head still recalled the peasant, his physiognomy was
transfigured, lit up from within as it were, when his drooping eyelids
were raised and his eyes awoke to life. In the son’s case, the father’s
ponderousness had turned to gravity. This big fellow, Eugene, usually
preserved a heavy somnolent demeanour. At the same time, certain of his
heavy, languid movements suggested those of a giant stretching his limbs
pending the time for action. By one of those alleged freaks of nature,
of which, however, science is now commencing to discover the laws, if
physical resemblance to Pierre was perfect in Eugene, Felicite on
her side seemed to have furnished him with his brains. He offered an
instance of certain moral and intellectual qualities of maternal origin
being embedded in the coarse flesh he had derived from his father. He
cherished lofty ambitions, possessed domineering instincts, and showed
singular contempt for trifling expedients and petty fortunes.

He was a proof that Plassans was perhaps not mistaken in suspecting that
Felicite had some blue blood in her veins. The passion for indulgence,
which became formidably developed in the Rougons, and was, in fact, the
family characteristic, attained in his case its highest pitch; he longed
for self-gratification, but in the form of mental enjoyment such as
would gratify his burning desire for domination. A man such as this was
never intended to succeed in a provincial town. He vegetated there
for fifteen years, his eyes turned towards Paris, watching his
opportunities. On his return home he had entered his name on the rolls,
in order to be independent of his parents. After that he pleaded from
time to time, earning a bare livelihood, without appearing to rise above
average mediocrity. At Plassans his voice was considered thick, his
movements heavy. He generally wandered from the question at issue,
rambled, as the wiseacres expressed it. On one occasion particularly,
when he was pleading in a case for damages, he so forgot himself as to
stray into a political disquisition, to such a point that the presiding
judge interfered, whereupon he immediately sat down with a strange
smile. His client was condemned to pay a considerable sum of money,
a circumstance which did not, however, seem to cause Eugene the least
regret for his irrelevant digression. He appeared to regard his speeches
as mere exercises which would be of use to him later on. It was this
that puzzled and disheartened Felicite. She would have liked to see her
son dictating the law to the Civil Court of Plassans. At last she came
to entertain a very unfavourable opinion of her first-born. To her
mind this lazy fellow would never be the one to shed any lustre on the
family. Pierre, on the contrary, felt absolute confidence in him,
not that he had more intuition than his wife, but because external
appearances sufficed him, and he flattered himself by believing in
the genius of a son who was his living image. A month prior to the
Revolution of February, 1848, Eugene became restless; some special
inspiration made him anticipate the crisis. From that time forward he
seemed to feel out of his element at Plassans. He would wander about the
streets like a distressed soul. At last he formed a sudden resolution,
and left for Paris, with scarcely five hundred francs in his pocket.

Aristide, the youngest son, was, so to speak, diametrically opposed
to Eugene. He had his mother’s face, and a covetousness and slyness of
character prone to trivial intrigues, in which his father’s instincts
predominated. Nature has need of symmetry. Short, with a pitiful
countenance suggesting the knob of a stick carved into a Punch’s head,
Aristide ferretted and fumbled everywhere, without any scruples, eager
only to gratify himself. He loved money as his eldest brother loved
power. While Eugene dreamed of bending a people to his will, and
intoxicated himself with visions of future omnipotence, the other
fancied himself ten times a millionaire, installed in a princely
mansion, eating and drinking to his heart’s content, and enjoying life
to the fullest possible extent. Above all things, he longed to make a
rapid fortune. When he was building his castles in the air, they would
rise in his mind as if by magic; he would become possessed of tons of
gold in one night. These visions agreed with his indolence, as he never
troubled himself about the means, considering those the best which were
the most expeditious. In his case the race of the Rougons, of those
coarse, greedy peasants with brutish appetites, had matured too rapidly;
every desire for material indulgence was found in him, augmented
threefold by hasty education, and rendered the more insatiable and
dangerous by the deliberate way in which the young man had come to
regard their realisation as his set purpose. In spite of her keen
feminine intuition, Felicite preferred this son; she did not perceive
the greater affinity between herself and Eugene; she excused the follies
and indolence of her youngest son under the pretext that he would
some day be the superior genius of the family, and that such a man
was entitled to live a disorderly life until his intellectual strength
should be revealed.

Aristide subjected her indulgence to a rude test. In Paris he led a low,
idle life; he was one of those students who enter their names at the
taverns of the Quartier Latin. He did not remain there, however, more
than two years; his father, growing apprehensive, and seeing that he had
not yet passed a single examination, kept him at Plassans and spoke of
finding a wife for him, hoping that domestic responsibility would make
him more steady. Aristide let himself be married. He had no very
clear idea of his own ambitions at this time; provincial life did not
displease him; he was battening in his little town--eating, sleeping,
and sauntering about. Felicite pleaded his cause so earnestly that
Pierre consented to board and lodge the newly-married couple, on
condition that the young man should turn his attention to the business.
From that time, however, Aristide led a life of ease and idleness. He
spent his days and the best part of his nights at the club, again and
again slipping out of his father’s office like a schoolboy to go and
gamble away the few louis that his mother gave him clandestinely.

It is necessary to have lived in the depths of the French provinces to
form an idea of the four brutifying years which the young fellow spent
in this fashion. In every little town there is a group of individuals
who thus live on their parents, pretending at times to work, but in
reality cultivating idleness with a sort of religious zeal. Aristide was
typical of these incorrigible drones. For four years he did little
but play ecarte. While he passed his time at the club, his wife, a
fair-complexioned nerveless woman, helped to ruin the Rougon business
by her inordinate passion for showy gowns and her formidable appetite,
a rather remarkable peculiarity in so frail a creature. Angele, however,
adored sky-blue ribbons and roast beef. She was the daughter of a
retired captain who was called Commander Sicardot, a good-hearted old
gentleman, who had given her a dowry of ten thousand francs--all his
savings. Pierre, in selecting Angele for his son had considered that
he had made an unexpected bargain, so lightly did he esteem Aristide.
However, that dowry of ten thousand francs, which determined his choice,
ultimately became a millstone round his neck. His son, who was already
a cunning rogue, deposited the ten thousand francs with his father,
with whom he entered into partnership, declining, with the most sincere
professions of devotion, to keep a single copper.

“We have no need of anything,” he said; “you will keep my wife and
myself, and we will reckon up later on.”

Pierre was short of money at the time, and accepted, not, however,
without some uneasiness at Aristide’s disinterestedness. The latter
calculated that it would be years before his father would have ten
thousand francs in ready money to repay him, so that he and his wife
would live at the paternal expense so long as the partnership could not
be dissolved. It was an admirable investment for his few bank-notes.
When the oil-dealer understood what a foolish bargain he had made he
was not in a position to rid himself of Aristide; Angele’s dowry was
involved in speculations which were turning out unfavourably. He
was exasperated, stung to the heart, at having to provide for his
daughter-in-law’s voracious appetite and keep his son in idleness. Had
he been able to buy them out of the business he would twenty times have
shut his doors on those bloodsuckers, as he emphatically expressed it.
Felicite secretly defended them; the young man, who had divined her
dreams of ambition, would every evening describe to her the elaborate
plans by which he would shortly make a fortune. By a rare chance she
had remained on excellent terms with her daughter-in-law. It must be
confessed that Angele had no will of her own--she could be moved and
disposed of like a piece of furniture.

Meantime Pierre became enraged whenever his wife spoke to him of the
success their youngest son would ultimately achieve; he declared that
he would really bring them to ruin. During the four years that the young
couple lived with him he stormed in this manner, wasting his impotent
rage in quarrels, without in the least disturbing the equanimity of
Aristide and Angele. They were located there, and there they intended
to remain like blocks of wood. At last Pierre met with a stroke of luck
which enabled him to return the ten thousand francs to his son. When,
however, he wanted to reckon up accounts with him, Aristide interposed
so much chicanery that he had to let the couple go without deducting
a copper for their board and lodging. They installed themselves but
a short distance off, in a part of the old quarter called the Place
Saint-Louis. The ten thousand francs were soon consumed. They had
everything to get for their new home. Moreover Aristide made no change
in his mode of living as long as any money was left in the house. When
he had reached the last hundred-franc note he felt rather nervous. He
was seen prowling about the town in a suspicious manner. He no longer
took his customary cup of coffee at the club; he watched feverishly
whilst play was going on, without touching a card. Poverty made him more
spiteful than he would otherwise have been. He bore the blow for a long
time, obstinately refusing to do anything in the way of work.

In 1840 he had a son, little Maxime, whom his grandmother Felicite
fortunately sent to college, paying his fees clandestinely. That made
one mouth less at home; but poor Angele was dying of hunger, and her
husband was at last compelled to seek a situation. He secured one at the
Sub-Prefecture. He remained there nearly ten years, and only attained a
salary of eighteen hundred francs per annum. From that time forward it
was with ever increasing malevolence and rancour that he hungered for
the enjoyments of which he was deprived. His lowly position exasperated
him; the paltry hundred and fifty francs which he received every month
seemed to him an irony of fate. Never did man burn with such desire for
self-gratification. Felicite, to whom he imparted his sufferings, was
by no means grieved to see him so eager. She thought his misery would
stimulate his energies. At last, crouching in ambush as it were, with
his ears wide open, he began to look about him like a thief seeking his
opportunity. At the beginning of 1848, when his brother left for Paris,
he had a momentary idea of following him. But Eugene was a bachelor;
and he, Aristide, could not take his wife so far without money. So he
waited, scenting a catastrophe, and ready to fall on the first prey that
might come within his reach.

The other son, Pascal, born between Eugene and Aristide, did not appear
to belong to the family. He was one of those frequent cases which give
the lie to the laws of heredity. During the evolution of a race nature
often produces some one being whose every element she derives from her
own creative powers. Nothing in the moral or physical constitution of
Pascal recalled the Rougons. Tall, with a grave and gentle face, he
had an uprightness of mind, a love of study, a retiring modesty which
contrasted strangely with the feverish ambitions and unscrupulous
intrigues of his relatives. After acquitting himself admirably of his
medical studies in Paris, he had retired, by preference, to Plassans,
notwithstanding the offers he received from his professors. He loved a
quiet provincial life; he maintained that for a studious man such a life
was preferable to the excitement of Paris. Even at Plassans he did
not exert himself to extend his practice. Very steady, and despising
fortune, he contented himself with the few patients sent him by chance.
All his pleasures were centred in a bright little house in the new town,
where he shut himself up, lovingly devoting his whole time to the study
of natural history. He was particularly fond of physiology. It was known
in the town that he frequently purchased dead bodies from the hospital
grave-digger, a circumstance which rendered him an object of horror to
delicate ladies and certain timid gentlemen. Fortunately, they did not
actually look upon him as a sorcerer; but his practice diminished,
and he was regarded as an eccentric character, to whom people of good
society ought not to entrust even a finger-tip, for fear of being
compromised. The mayor’s wife was one day heard to say: “I would sooner
die than be attended by that gentleman. He smells of death.”

From that time, Pascal was condemned. He seemed to rejoice at the mute
terror which he inspired. The fewer patients he had, the more time he
could devote to his favourite sciences. As his fees were very moderate,
the poorer people remained faithful to him; he earned just enough to
live, and lived contentedly, a thousand leagues away from the rest
of the country, absorbed in the pure delight of his researches and
discoveries. From time to time he sent a memoir to the Academie des
Sciences at Paris. Plassans did not know that this eccentric character,
this gentleman who smelt of death was well-known and highly-esteemed
in the world of science. When people saw him starting on Sundays for an
excursion among the Garrigues hills, with a botanist’s bag hung round
his neck and a geologist’s hammer in his hand, they would shrug their
shoulders and institute a comparison between him and some other doctor
of the town who was noted for his smart cravat, his affability to the
ladies, and the delicious odour of violets which his garments always
diffused. Pascal’s parents did not understand him any better than other
people. When Felicite saw him adopting such a strange, unpretentious
mode of life she was stupefied, and reproached him for disappointing
her hopes. She, who tolerated Aristide’s idleness because she thought it
would prove fertile, could not view without regret the slow progress
of Pascal, his partiality for obscurity and contempt for riches, his
determined resolve to lead a life of retirement. He was certainly not
the child who would ever gratify her vanities.

“But where do you spring from?” she would sometimes say to him. “You
are not one of us. Look at your brothers, how they keep their eyes open,
striving to profit by the education we have given them, whilst you waste
your time on follies and trifles. You make a very poor return to us, who
have ruined ourselves for your education. No, you are certainly not one
of us.”

Pascal, who preferred to laugh whenever he was called upon to feel
annoyed, replied cheerfully, but not without a sting of irony: “Oh,
you need not be frightened, I shall never drive you to the verge of
bankruptcy; when any of you are ill, I will attend you for nothing.”

Moreover, though he never displayed any repugnance to his relatives,
he very rarely saw them, following in this wise his natural instincts.
Before Aristide obtained a situation at the Sub-Prefecture, Pascal
had frequently come to his assistance. For his part he had remained a
bachelor. He had not the least suspicion of the grave events that were
preparing. For two or three years he had been studying the great problem
of heredity, comparing the human and animal races together, and becoming
absorbed in the strange results which he obtained. Certain observations
which he had made with respect to himself and his relatives had been, so
to say, the starting-point of his studies. The common people, with their
natural intuition, so well understood that he was quite different from
the other Rougons, that they invariably called him Monsieur Pascal,
without ever adding his family name.

Three years prior to the Revolution of 1848 Pierre and Felicite retired
from business. Old age was coming on apace; they were both past fifty
and were weary enough of the struggle. In face of their ill fortune,
they were afraid of being ultimately ruined if they obstinately
persisted in the fight. Their sons, by disappointing their expectations,
had dealt them the final blow. Now that they despaired of ever being
enriched by them, they were anxious to make some little provision for
old age. They retired with forty thousand francs at the utmost. This
sum provided an annual income of two thousand francs, just sufficient
to live in a small way in the provinces. Fortunately, they were by
themselves, having succeeded in marrying their daughters Marthe and
Sidonie, the former of whom resided at Marseilles and the latter in
Paris.

After they had settled their affairs they would much have liked to take
up their abode in the new town, the quarter of the retired traders, but
they dared not do so. Their income was too small; they were afraid that
they would cut but a poor figure there. So, as a sort of compromise,
they took apartments in the Rue de la Banne, the street which separates
the old quarter from the new one. As their abode was one of the row
of houses bordering the old quarter, they still lived among the common
people; nevertheless, they could see the town of the richer classes from
their windows, so that they were just on the threshold of the promised
land.

Their apartments, situated on the second floor, consisted of three
large rooms--dining-room, drawing-room, and bedroom. The first floor was
occupied by the owner of the house, a stick and umbrella manufacturer,
who had a shop on the ground floor. The house, which was narrow and
by no means deep, had only two storeys. Felicite moved into it with a
bitter pang. In the provinces, to live in another person’s house is an
avowal of poverty. Every family of position at Plassans has a house
of its own, landed property being very cheap there. Pierre kept the
purse-strings well tied; he would not hear of any embellishments. The
old furniture, faded, worn, damaged though it was, had to suffice,
without even being repaired. Felicite, however, who keenly felt the
necessity for this parsimony, exerted herself to give fresh polish to
all the wreckage; she herself knocked nails into some of the furniture
which was more dilapidated than the rest, and darned the frayed velvet
of the arm-chairs.

The dining-room, which, like the kitchen, was at the back of the house,
was nearly bare; a table and a dozen chairs were lost in the gloom of
this large apartment, whose window faced the grey wall of a neighbouring
building. As no strangers ever went into the bedroom, Felicite had
stowed all her useless furniture there; thus, besides a bedstead,
wardrobe, secretaire, and wash-stand, it contained two cradles, one
perched atop of the other, a sideboard whose doors were missing, and an
empty bookcase, venerable ruins which the old woman could not make up
her mind to part with. All her cares, however, were bestowed upon the
drawing-room, and she almost succeeded in making it comfortable and
decent. The furniture was covered with yellowish velvet with satin
flowers; in the middle stood a round table with a marble top, while a
couple of pier tables, surmounted by mirrors, leant against the walls at
either end of the room. There was even a carpet, which just covered the
middle of the floor, and a chandelier in a white muslin cover which the
flies had spotted with black specks. On the walls hung six lithographs
representing the great battles of Napoleon I. Moreover, the furniture
dated from the first years of the Empire. The only embellishment that
Felicite could obtain was to have the walls hung with orange-hued paper
covered with large flowers. Thus the drawing room had a strange yellow
glow, which filled it with an artificial dazzling light. The furniture,
the paper, and the window curtains were yellow; the carpet and even the
marble table-tops showed touches of yellow. However, when the curtains
were drawn the colours harmonised fairly well and the drawing-room
looked almost decent.

But Felicite had dreamed of quite a different kind of luxury. She
regarded with mute despair this ill-concealed misery. She usually
occupied the drawing-room, the best apartment in the house, and the
sweetest and bitterest of her pastimes was to sit at one of the windows
which overlooked the Rue de la Banne and gave her a side view of the
square in front of the Sub-Prefecture. That was the paradise of her
dreams. That little, neat, tidy square, with its bright houses, seemed
to her a Garden of Eden. She would have given ten years of her life to
possess one of those habitations. The house at the left-hand corner,
in which the receiver of taxes resided, particularly tempted her. She
contemplated it with eager longing. Sometimes, when the windows of
this abode were open, she could catch a glimpse of rich furniture and
tasteful elegance which made her burn with envy.

At this period the Rougons passed through a curious crisis of vanity
and unsatiated appetite. The few proper feelings which they had once
entertained had become embittered. They posed as victims of evil
fortune, not with resignation, however, for they seemed still more
keenly determined that they would not die before they had satisfied
their ambitions. In reality, they did not abandon any of their hopes,
notwithstanding their advanced age. Felicite professed to feel a
presentiment that she would die rich. However, each day of poverty
weighed them down the more. When they recapitulated their vain
attempts--when they recalled their thirty years’ struggle, and the
defection of their children--when they saw their airy castles end in
this yellow drawing-room, whose shabbiness they could only conceal by
drawing the curtains, they were overcome with bitter rage. Then, as a
consolation, they would think of plans for making a colossal fortune,
seeking all sorts of devices. Felicite would fancy herself the winner
of the grand prize of a hundred thousand francs in some lottery, while
Pierre pictured himself carrying out some wonderful speculation. They
lived with one sole thought--that of making a fortune immediately, in a
few hours--of becoming rich and enjoying themselves, if only for a year.
Their whole beings tended to this, stubbornly, without a pause. And they
still cherished some faint hopes with regard to their sons, with that
peculiar egotism of parents who cannot bear to think that they have sent
their children to college without deriving some personal advantage from
it.

Felicite did not appear to have aged; she was still the same dark little
woman, ever on the move, buzzing about like a grasshopper. Any person
walking behind her on the pavement would have thought her a girl of
fifteen, from the lightness of her step and the angularity of her
shoulders and waist. Even her face had scarcely undergone any change; it
was simply rather more sunken, rather more suggestive of the snout of a
pole-cat.

As for Pierre Rougon, he had grown corpulent, and had become a highly
respectable looking citizen, who only lacked a decent income to make him
a very dignified individual. His pale, flabby face, his heaviness,
his languid manner, seemed redolent of wealth. He had one day heard a
peasant who did not know him say: “Ah! he’s some rich fellow, that fat
old gentleman there. He’s no cause to worry about his dinner!” This
was a remark which stung him to the heart, for he considered it cruel
mockery to be only a poor devil while possessing the bulk and contented
gravity of a millionaire. When he shaved on Sundays in front of a small
five-sou looking-glass hanging from the fastening of a window, he would
often think that in a dress coat and white tie he would cut a far better
figure at the Sub-Prefect’s than such or such a functionary of Plassans.
This peasant’s son, who had grown sallow from business worries, and
corpulent from a sedentary life, whose hateful passions were hidden
beneath naturally placid features, really had that air of solemn
imbecility which gives a man a position in an official salon. People
imagined that his wife held a rod over him, but they were mistaken. He
was as self-willed as a brute. Any determined expression of extraneous
will would drive him into a violent rage. Felicite was far too supple to
thwart him openly; with her light fluttering nature she did not attack
obstacles in front. When she wished to obtain something from her
husband, or drive him the way she thought best, she would buzz round him
in her grasshopper fashion, stinging him on all sides, and returning
to the charge a hundred times until he yielded almost unconsciously. He
felt, moreover, that she was shrewder than he, and tolerated her advice
fairly patiently. Felicite, more useful than the coach fly, would
sometimes do all the work while she was thus buzzing round Pierre’s
ears. Strange to say, the husband and wife never accused each other
of their ill-success. The only bone of contention between them was the
education lavished on their children.

The Revolution of 1848 found all the Rougons on the lookout, exasperated
by their bad luck, and disposed to lay violent hands on fortune if ever
they should meet her in a byway. They were a family of bandits lying in
wait, ready to rifle and plunder. Eugene kept an eye on Paris; Aristide
dreamed of strangling Plassans; the mother and father, perhaps the most
eager of the lot, intended to work on their own account, and reap
some additional advantage from their sons’ doings. Pascal alone, that
discreet wooer of science, led the happy, indifferent life of a lover in
his bright little house in the new town.



CHAPTER III

In that closed, sequestered town of Plassans, where class distinction
was so clearly marked in 1848, the commotion caused by political events
was very slight. Even at the present day the popular voice sounds very
faintly there; the middle classes bring their prudence to bear in the
matter, the nobility their mute despair, and the clergy their shrewd
cunning. Kings may usurp thrones, or republics may be established,
without scarcely any stir in the town. Plassans sleeps while Paris
fights. But though on the surface the town may appear calm and
indifferent, in the depths hidden work goes on which it is curious
to study. If shots are rare in the streets, intrigues consume the
drawing-rooms of both the new town and the Saint-Marc quarter. Until the
year 1830 the masses were reckoned of no account. Even at the present
time they are similarly ignored. Everything is settled between the
clergy, the nobility, and the bourgeoisie. The priests, who are very
numerous, give the cue to the local politics; they lay subterranean
mines, as it were, and deal blows in the dark, following a prudent
tactical system, which hardly allows of a step in advance or retreat
even in the course of ten years. The secret intrigues of men who desire
above all things to avoid noise requires special shrewdness, a special
aptitude for dealing with small matters, and a patient endurance such
as one only finds in persons callous to all passions. It is thus that
provincial dilatoriness, which is so freely ridiculed in Paris, is full
of treachery, secret stabs, hidden victories and defeats. These worthy
men, particularly when their interests are at stake, kill at home with
a snap of the fingers, as we, the Parisians, kill with cannon in the
public thoroughfares.

The political history of Plassans, like that of all little towns in
Provence, is singularly characteristic. Until 1830, the inhabitants
remained observant Catholics and fervent royalists; even the lower
classes only swore by God and their legitimate sovereigns. Then there
came a sudden change; faith departed, the working and middle classes
deserted the cause of legitimacy, and gradually espoused the great
democratic movement of our time. When the Revolution of 1848 broke out,
the nobility and the clergy were left alone to labour for the triumph
of Henri V. For a long time they had regarded the accession of the
Orleanists as a ridiculous experiment, which sooner or later would bring
back the Bourbons; although their hopes were singularly shaken, they
nevertheless continued the struggle, scandalised by the defection of
their former allies, whom they strove to win back to their cause. The
Saint-Marc quarter, assisted by all the parish priests, set to
work. Among the middle classes, and especially among the people, the
enthusiasm was very great on the morrow of the events of February; these
apprentice republicans were in haste to display their revolutionary
fervour. As regards the gentry of the new town, however, the
conflagration, bright though it was, lasted no longer than a fire of
straw. The small houseowners and retired tradespeople who had had their
good days, or had made snug little fortunes under the monarchy, were
soon seized with panic; the Republic, with its constant shocks and
convulsions, made them tremble for their money and their life of
selfishness.

Consequently, when the Clerical reaction of 1849 declared itself, nearly
all the middle classes passed over to the Conservative party. They were
received with open arms. The new town had never before had such close
relations with the Saint-Marc quarter: some of the nobility even went
so far as to shake hands with lawyers and retired oil-dealers. This
unexpected familiarity kindled the enthusiasm of the new quarter, which
henceforward waged bitter warfare against the republican government. To
bring about such a coalition, the clergy had to display marvellous skill
and endurance. The nobility of Plassans for the most part lay prostrate,
as if half dead. They retained their faith, but lethargy had fallen on
them, and they preferred to remain inactive, allowing the heavens to
work their will. They would gladly have contented themselves with silent
protest, feeling, perhaps, a vague presentiment that their divinities
were dead, and that there was nothing left for them to do but rejoin
them. Even at this period of confusion, when the catastrophe of 1848 was
calculated to give them a momentary hope of the return of the Bourbons,
they showed themselves spiritless and indifferent, speaking of rushing
into the melee, yet never quitting their hearths without a pang of
regret.

The clergy battled indefatigably against this feeling of impotence and
resignation. They infused a kind of passion into their work: a priest,
when he despairs, struggles all the more fiercely. The fundamental
policy of the Church is to march straight forward; even though she
may have to postpone the accomplishment of her projects for several
centuries, she never wastes a single hour, but is always pushing forward
with increasing energy. So it was the clergy who led the reaction of
Plassans; the nobility only lent them their name, nothing more. The
priests hid themselves behind the nobles, restrained them, directed
them, and even succeeded in endowing them with a semblance of life. When
they had induced them to overcome their repugnance so far as to make
common cause with the middle classes, they believed themselves certain
of victory. The ground was marvellously well prepared. This ancient
royalist town, with its population of peaceful householders and timorous
tradespeople, was destined to range itself, sooner or later, on the side
of law and order. The clergy, by their tactics, hastened the conversion.
After gaining the landlords of the new town to their side, they even
succeeded in convincing the little retail-dealers of the old quarter.
From that time the reactionary movement obtained complete possession of
the town. All opinions were represented in this reaction; such a mixture
of embittered Liberals, Legitimists, Orleanists, Bonapartists, and
Clericals had never before been seen. It mattered little, however, at
that time. The sole object was to kill the Republic; and the Republic
was at the point of death. Only a fraction of the people--a thousand
workmen at most, out of the ten thousand souls in the town--still
saluted the tree of liberty planted in the middle of the square in front
of the Sub-Prefecture.

The shrewdest politicians of Plassans, those who led the reactionary
movement, did not scent the approach of the Empire until very much
later. Prince Louis Napoleon’s popularity seemed to them a mere passing
fancy of the multitude. His person inspired them with but little
admiration. They reckoned him a nonentity, a dreamer, incapable of
laying his hands on France, and especially of maintaining his authority.
To them he was only a tool whom they would make use of, who would clear
the way for them, and whom they would turn out as soon as the hour
arrived for the rightful Pretender to show himself.[*] However, months
went by, and they became uneasy. It was only then that they vaguely
perceived they were being duped: they had no time, however, to take any
steps; the Coup d’Etat burst over their heads, and they were compelled
to applaud. That great abomination, the Republic, had been assassinated;
that, at least, was some sort of triumph. So the clergy and the nobility
accepted accomplished facts with resignation; postponing, until
later, the realisation of their hopes, and making amends for their
miscalculations by uniting with the Bonapartists for the purpose of
crushing the last Republicans.

     [*] The Count de Chambord, “Henri V.”

It was these events that laid the foundation of the Rougons’ fortune.
After being mixed up with the various phases of the crisis, they rose to
eminence on the ruins of liberty. These bandits had been lying in wait
to rob the Republic; as soon as it had been strangled, they helped to
plunder it.

After the events of February 1848, Felicite, who had the keenest scent
of all the members of the family, perceived that they were at last on
the right track. So she began to flutter round her husband, goading
him on to bestir himself. The first rumours of the Revolution that had
overturned King Louis Philippe had terrified Pierre. When his wife,
however, made him understand that they had little to lose and much to
gain from a convulsion, he soon came round to her way of thinking.

“I don’t know what you can do,” Felicite repeatedly said, “but it seems
to me that there’s plenty to be done. Did not Monsieur de Carnavant say
to us one day that he would be rich if ever Henri V. should return, and
that this sovereign would magnificently recompense those who had worked
for his restoration? Perhaps our fortune lies in that direction. We may
yet be lucky.”

The Marquis de Carnavant, the nobleman who, according to the scandalous
talk of the town, had been on very familiar terms with Felicite’s
mother, used occasionally to visit the Rougons. Evil tongues asserted
that Madame Rougon resembled him. He was a little, lean, active man,
seventy-five years old at that time, and Felicite certainly appeared to
be taking his features and manner as she grew older. It was said that
the wreck of his fortune, which had already been greatly diminished by
his father at the time of the Emigration, had been squandered on women.
Indeed, he cheerfully acknowledged his poverty. Brought up by one of
his relatives, the Count de Valqueyras, he lived the life of a parasite,
eating at the count’s table and occupying a small apartment just under
his roof.

“Little one,” he would often say to Felicite, as he patted her on
the cheek, “if ever Henri V. gives me a fortune, I will make you my
heiress!”

He still called Felicite “little one,” even when she was fifty years
old. It was of these friendly pats, of these repeated promises of an
inheritance, that Madame Rougon was thinking when she endeavoured
to drive her husband into politics. Monsieur de Carnavant had often
bitterly lamented his inability to render her any assistance. No
doubt he would treat her like a father if ever he should acquire some
influence. Pierre, to whom his wife half explained the situation in
veiled terms, declared his readiness to move in any direction indicated.

The marquis’s peculiar position qualified him to act as an energetic
agent of the reactionary movement at Plassans from the first days of the
Republic. This bustling little man, who had everything to gain from the
return of his legitimate sovereigns, worked assiduously for their cause.
While the wealthy nobility of the Saint-Marc quarter were slumbering in
mute despair, fearing, perhaps that they might compromise themselves and
again be condemned to exile, he multiplied himself, as it were, spread
the propaganda and rallied faithful ones together. He was a weapon whose
hilt was held by an invisible hand. From that time forward he paid daily
visits to the Rougons. He required a centre of operations. His relative,
Monsieur de Valqueyras, had forbidden him to bring any of his associates
into his house, so he had chosen Felicite’s yellow drawing-room.
Moreover, he very soon found Pierre a valuable assistant. He could not
go himself and preach the cause of Legitimacy to the petty traders and
workmen of the old quarter; they would have hooted him. Pierre, on the
other hand, who had lived among these people, spoke their language and
knew their wants, was able to catechise them in a friendly way. He thus
became an indispensable man. In less than a fortnight the Rougons were
more determined royalists than the king himself. The marquis, perceiving
Pierre’s zeal, shrewdly sheltered himself behind him. What was the use
of making himself conspicuous, when a man with such broad shoulders was
willing to bear on them the burden of all the follies of a party? He
allowed Pierre to reign, puff himself out with importance and speak
with authority, content to restrain or urge him on, according to
the necessities of the cause. Thus, the old oil-dealer soon became a
personage of mark. In the evening, when they were alone, Felicite used
to say to him: “Go on, don’t be frightened. We’re on the right track. If
this continues we shall be rich; we shall have a drawing-room like the
tax-receiver’s, and be able to entertain people.”

A little party of Conservatives had already been formed at the Rougons’
house, and meetings were held every evening in the yellow drawing-room
to declaim against the Republic.

Among those who came were three or four retired merchants who trembled
for their money, and clamoured with all their might for a wise and
strong government. An old almond-dealer, a member of the Municipal
Council, Monsieur Isidore Granoux, was the head of this group. His
hare-lipped mouth was cloven a little way from the nose; his round eyes,
his air of mingled satisfaction and astonishment, made him resemble a
fat goose whose digestion is attended by wholesome terror of the cook.
He spoke little, having no command of words; and he only pricked up
his ears when anyone accused the Republicans of wishing to pillage the
houses of the rich; whereupon he would colour up to such a degree as
to make one fear an approaching apoplectic fit, and mutter low
imprecations, in which the words “idlers,” “scoundrels,” “thieves,” and
“assassins” frequently recurred.

All those who frequented the yellow drawing-room were not, however,
as heavy as this fat goose. A rich landowner, Monsieur Roudier, with a
plump, insinuating face, used to discourse there for hours altogether,
with all the passion of an Orleanist whose calculations had been upset
by the fall of Louis Philippe. He had formerly been a hosier at Paris,
and a purveyor to the Court, but had now retired to Plassans. He had
made his son a magistrate, relying on the Orleanist party to promote him
to the highest dignities. The revolution having ruined all his hopes, he
had rushed wildly into the reaction. His fortune, his former commercial
relations with the Tuileries, which he transformed into friendly
intercourse, that prestige which is enjoyed by every man in the
provinces who has made his money in Paris and deigns to come and spend
it in a far away department, gave him great influence in the district;
some persons listened to him as though he were an oracle.

However, the strongest intellect of the yellow drawing-room was
certainly Commander Sicardot, Aristide’s father-in-law. Of Herculean
frame, with a brick-red face, scarred and planted with tufts of grey
hair, he was one of the most glorious old dolts of the Grande Armee.
During the February Revolution he had been exasperated with the
street warfare and never wearied of referring to it, proclaiming with
indignation that this kind of fighting was shameful: whereupon he
recalled with pride the grand reign of Napoleon.

Another person seen at the Rougons’ house was an individual with clammy
hands and equivocal look, one Monsieur Vuillet, a bookseller, who
supplied all the devout ladies of the town with holy images and
rosaries. Vuillet dealt in both classical and religious works; he was
a strict Catholic, a circumstance which insured him the custom of the
numerous convents and parish churches. Further, by a stroke of genius he
had added to his business the publication of a little bi-weekly
journal, the “Gazette de Plassans,” which was devoted exclusively to
the interests of the clergy. This paper involved an annual loss of a
thousand francs, but it made him the champion of the Church, and enabled
him to dispose of his sacred unsaleable stock. Though he was virtually
illiterate and could not even spell correctly, he himself wrote the
articles of the “Gazette” with a humility and rancour that compensated
for his lack of talent. The marquis, in entering on the campaign, had
perceived immediately the advantage that might be derived from the
co-operation of this insipid sacristan with the coarse, mercenary pen.
After the February Revolution the articles in the “Gazette” contained
fewer mistakes; the marquis revised them.

One can now imagine what a singular spectacle the Rougons’ yellow
drawing-room presented every evening. All opinions met there to bark at
the Republic. Their hatred of that institution made them agree together.
The marquis, who never missed a meeting, appeased by his presence the
little squabbles which occasionally arose between the commander and
the other adherents. These plebeians were inwardly flattered by the
handshakes which he distributed on his arrival and departure. Roudier,
however, like a free-thinker of the Rue Saint-Honore, asserted that the
marquis had not a copper to bless himself with, and was disposed to make
light of him. M. de Carnavant on his side preserved the amiable smile of
a nobleman lowering himself to the level of these middle class people,
without making any of those contemptuous grimaces which any other
resident of the Saint-Marc quarter would have thought fit under such
circumstances. The parasite life he had led had rendered him supple. He
was the life and soul of the group, commanding in the name of unknown
personages whom he never revealed. “They want this, they don’t want
that,” he would say. The concealed divinities who thus watched over
the destinies of Plassans from behind some cloud, without appearing to
interfere directly in public matters, must have been certain priests,
the great political agents of the country. When the marquis pronounced
that mysterious word “they,” which inspired the assembly with such
marvellous respect, Vuillet confessed, with a gesture of pious devotion,
that he knew them very well.

The happiest person in all this was Felicite. At last she had people
coming to her drawing-room. It was true she felt a little ashamed of her
old yellow velvet furniture. She consoled herself, however, thinking
of the rich things she would purchase when the good cause should have
triumphed. The Rougons had, in the end, regarded their royalism as very
serious. Felicite went as far as to say, when Roudier was not present,
that if they had not made a fortune in the oil business the fault lay in
the monarchy of July. This was her mode of giving a political tinge to
their poverty. She had a friendly word for everybody, even for Granoux,
inventing each evening some new polite method of waking him up when it
was time for departure.

The drawing-room, that little band of Conservatives belonging to
all parties, and daily increasing in numbers, soon wielded powerful
influence. Owing to the diversified characters of its members, and
especially to the secret impulse which each one received from the
clergy, it became the centre of the reactionary movement and spread its
influence throughout Plassans. The policy of the marquis, who sank his
own personality, transformed Rougon into the leader of the party. The
meetings were held at his house, and this circumstance sufficed in the
eyes of most people to make him the head of the group, and draw public
attention to him. The whole work was attributed to him; he was believed
to be the chief artisan of the movement which was gradually bringing
over to the Conservative party those who had lately been enthusiastic
Republicans. There are some situations which benefit only persons of bad
repute. These lay the foundations of their fortune where men of better
position and more influence would never dare to risk theirs. Roudier,
Granoux, and the others, all men of means and respectability, certainly
seemed a thousand times preferable to Pierre as the acting leaders of
the Conservative party. But none of them would have consented to turn
his drawing-room into a political centre. Their convictions did not go
so far as to induce them to compromise themselves openly; in fact, they
were only so many provincial babblers, who liked to inveigh against the
Republic at a neighbour’s house as long as the neighbour was willing to
bear the responsibility of their chatter. The game was too risky. There
was no one among the middle classes of Plassans who cared to play it
except the Rougons, whose ungratified longings urged them on to extreme
measures.

In the month of April, 1849, Eugene suddenly left Paris, and came to
stay with his father for a fortnight. Nobody ever knew the purpose of
this journey. It is probable that Eugene wanted to sound his native
town, to ascertain whether he might successfully stand as a candidate
for the legislature which was about to replace the Constituent Assembly.
He was too shrewd to risk a failure. No doubt public opinion appeared to
him little in his favour, for he abstained from any attempt. It was not
known at Plassans what had become of him in Paris, what he was doing
there. On his return to his native place, folks found him less heavy and
somnolent than formerly. They surrounded him and endeavoured to make him
speak out concerning the political situation. But he feigned ignorance
and compelled them to talk. A little perspicacity would have detected
that beneath his apparent unconcern there was great anxiety with regard
to the political opinions of the town. However, he seemed to be sounding
the ground more on behalf of a party than on his own account.

Although he had renounced all hope for himself, he remained at Plassans
until the end of the month, assiduously attending the meetings in the
yellow drawing-room. As soon as the bell rang, announcing the first
visitor, he would take up his position in one of the window recesses as
far as possible from the lamp. And he remained there the whole
evening, resting his chin on the palm of his right hand, and listening
religiously. The greatest absurdities did not disturb his equanimity.
He nodded approval even to the wild grunts of Granoux. When anyone asked
him his own opinion, he politely repeated that of the majority. Nothing
seemed to tire his patience, neither the hollow dreams of the marquis,
who spoke of the Bourbons as if 1815 were a recent date, nor the
effusions of citizen Roudier, who grew quite pathetic when he recounted
how many pairs of socks he had supplied to the citizen king, Louis
Philippe. On the contrary, he seemed quite at his ease in this Tower of
Babel. Sometimes, when these grotesque personages were storming against
the Republic, his eyes would smile, while his lips retained their
expression of gravity. His meditative manner of listening, and his
invariable complacency, had earned him the sympathy of everyone. He was
considered a nonentity, but a very decent fellow. Whenever an old oil or
almond dealer failed to get a hearing, amidst the clamour, for some plan
by which he could save France if he were only a master, he took himself
off to Eugene and shouted his marvellous suggestions in his ear. And
Eugene gently nodded his head, as though delighted with the grand
projects he was listening to. Vuillet, alone, regarded him with a
suspicious eye. This bookseller, half-sacristan and half-journalist,
spoke less than the others, but was more observant. He had noticed
that Eugene occasionally conversed at times in a corner with Commander
Sicardot. So he determined to watch them, but never succeeded in
overhearing a word. Eugene silenced the commander by a wink whenever
Vuillet approached them. From that time, Sicardot never spoke of the
Napoleons without a mysterious smile.

Two days before his return to Paris, Eugene met his brother Aristide, on
the Cours Sauvaire, and the latter accompanied him for a short distance
with the importunity of a man in search of advice. As a matter of fact,
Aristide was in great perplexity. Ever since the proclamation of the
Republic, he had manifested the most lively enthusiasm for the new
government. His intelligence, sharpened by two years’ stay at Paris,
enabled him to see farther than the thick heads of Plassans. He divined
the powerlessness of the Legitimists and Orleanists, without clearly
distinguishing, however, what third thief would come and juggle the
Republic away. At all hazard he had ranged himself on the side of the
victors, and he had severed his connection with his father, whom he
publicly denounced as an old fool, an old dolt whom the nobility had
bamboozled.

“Yet my mother is an intelligent woman,” he would add. “I should never
have thought her capable of inducing her husband to join a party whose
hopes are simply chimerical. They are taking the right course to end
their lives in poverty. But then women know nothing about politics.”

For his part he wanted to sell himself as dearly as possible. His great
anxiety as to the direction in which the wind was blowing, so that he
might invariably range himself on the side of that party, which, in
the hour of triumph, would be able to reward him munificently.
Unfortunately, he was groping in the dark. Shut up in his far away
province, without a guide, without any precise information, he felt
quite lost. While waiting for events to trace out a sure and certain
path, he preserved the enthusiastic republican attitude which he had
assumed from the very first day. Thanks to this demeanour, he remained
at the Sub-Prefecture; and his salary was even raised. Burning, however,
with the desire to play a prominent part, he persuaded a bookseller,
one of Vuillet’s rivals, to establish a democratic journal, to which
he became one of the most energetic contributors. Under his impulse the
“Independant” waged merciless warfare against the reactionaries. But the
current gradually carried him further than he wished to go; he ended by
writing inflammatory articles, which made him shudder when he re-perused
them. It was remarked at Plassans that he directed a series of attacks
against all whom his father was in the habit of receiving of an evening
in his famous yellow drawing-room. The fact is that the wealth of
Roudier and Granoux exasperated Aristide to such a degree as to make him
forget all prudence. Urged on by his jealous, insatiate bitterness,
he had already made the middle classes his irreconcilable enemy,
when Eugene’s arrival and demeanour at Plassans caused him great
consternation. He confessed to himself that his brother was a skilful
man. According to him, that big, drowsy fellow always slept with one
eye open, like a cat lying in wait before a mouse-hole. And now here was
Eugene spending entire evenings in the yellow drawing-room, and devoting
himself to those same grotesque personages whom he, Aristide, had so
mercilessly ridiculed. When he discovered from the gossip of the town
that his brother shook hands with Granoux and the marquis, he asked
himself, with considerable anxiety, what was the meaning of it? Could he
himself have been deceived? Had the Legitimists or the Orleanists
really any chance of success? The thought terrified him. He lost his
equilibrium, and, as frequently happens, he fell upon the Conservatives
with increased rancour, as if to avenge his own blindness.

On the evening prior to the day when he stopped Eugene on the Cours
Sauvaire, he had published, in the “Independant,” a terrible article
on the intrigues of the clergy, in response to a short paragraph from
Vuillet, who had accused the Republicans of desiring to demolish the
churches. Vuillet was Aristide’s bugbear. Never a week passed but these
two journalists exchanged the greatest insults. In the provinces,
where a periphrastic style is still cultivated, polemics are clothed in
high-sounding phrases. Aristide called his adversary “brother Judas,”
 or “slave of Saint-Anthony.” Vuillet gallantly retorted by terming the
Republican “a monster glutted with blood whose ignoble purveyor was the
guillotine.”

In order to sound his brother, Aristide, who did not dare to appear
openly uneasy, contented himself with asking: “Did you read my article
yesterday? What do you think of it?”

Eugene lightly shrugged his shoulders. “You’re a simpleton, brother,”
 was his sole reply.

“Then you think Vuillet right?” cried the journalist, turning pale; “you
believe in Vuillet’s triumph?”

“I!--Vuillet----”

He was certainly about to add, “Vuillet is as big a fool as you are.”
 But, observing his brother’s distorted face anxiously extended towards
him, he experienced sudden mistrust. “Vuillet has his good points,” he
calmly replied.

On parting from his brother, Aristide felt more perplexed than before.
Eugene must certainly have been making game of him, for Vuillet was
really the most abominable person imaginable. However, he determined to
be prudent and not tie himself down any more; for he wished to have his
hands free should he ever be called upon to help any party in strangling
the Republic.

Eugene, on the morning of his departure, an hour before getting into the
diligence, took his father into the bedroom and had a long conversation
with him. Felicite, who remained in the drawing-room, vainly tried to
catch what they were saying. They spoke in whispers, as if they feared
lest a single word should be heard outside. When at last they quitted
the bedroom they seemed in high spirits. After kissing his father and
mother, Eugene, who usually spoke in a drawling tone, exclaimed with
vivacity: “You have understood me, father? There lies our fortune. We
must work with all our energy in that direction. Trust in me.”

“I’ll follow your instructions faithfully,” Rougon replied. “Only don’t
forget what I asked you as the price of my cooperation.”

“If we succeed your demands shall be satisfied, I give you my word.
Moreover, I will write to you and guide you according to the direction
which events may take. Mind, no panic or excitement. You must obey me
implicitly.”

“What have you been plotting there?” Felicite asked inquisitively.

“My dear mother,” Eugene replied with a smile, “you have had too
little faith in me thitherto to induce me to confide in you my hopes,
particularly as at present they are only based on probabilities. To
be able to understand me you would require faith. However, father will
inform you when the right time comes.”

Then, as Felicite assumed the demeanour of a woman who feels somewhat
piqued, he added in her ear, as he kissed her once more: “I take after
you, although you disowned me. Too much intelligence would be dangerous
at the present moment. When the crisis comes, it is you who will have to
manage the business.”

He then quitted the room, but, suddenly re-opening the door, exclaimed
in an imperious tone: “Above all things, do not trust Aristide; he is a
mar-all, who would spoil everything. I have studied him sufficiently to
feel certain that he will always fall on his feet. Don’t have any
pity; if we make a fortune, he’ll know well enough how to rob us of his
share.”

When Eugene had gone, Felicite endeavoured to ferret out the secret that
was being hidden from her. She knew her husband too well to interrogate
him openly. He would have angrily replied that it was no business of
hers. In spite, however, of the clever tactics she pursued, she learnt
absolutely nothing. Eugene had chosen a good confidant for those
troubled times, when the greatest discretion was necessary. Pierre,
flattered by his son’s confidence, exaggerated that passive ponderosity
which made him so impenetrable. When Felicite saw she would not learn
anything from him, she ceased to flutter round him. On one point only
did she remain inquisitive, but in this respect her curiosity was
intense. The two men had mentioned a price stipulated by Pierre himself.
What could that price be? This after all was the sole point of interest
for Felicite, who did not care a rap for political matters. She knew
that her husband must have sold himself dearly, but she was burning to
know the nature of the bargain. One evening, when they had gone to bed,
finding Pierre in a good humour, she brought the conversation round to
the discomforts of their poverty.

“It’s quite time to put an end to this,” she said. “We have been ruining
ourselves in oil and fuel since those gentlemen have been coming here.
And who will pay the reckoning? Nobody perhaps.”

Her husband fell into the trap, and smiled with complacent superiority.
“Patience,” said he. And with an air of shrewdness he looked into his
wife’s eyes and added: “Would you be glad to be the wife of a receiver
of taxes?”

Felicite’s face flushed with a joyous glow. She sat up in bed and
clapped her old withered little hands like a child.

“Really?” she stammered. “At Plassans?”

Pierre, without replying, gave a long affirmative nod. He enjoyed his
consort’s astonishment and emotion.

“But,” she at last resumed, half sitting, “you would have to deposit
an enormous sum as security. I have heard that our neighbour, Monsieur
Peirotte, had to deposit eighty thousand francs with the Treasury.”

“Eh!” said the retired oil-dealer, “that’s nothing to do with me; Eugene
will see to that. He will get the money advanced by a banker in Paris.
You see, I selected an appointment bringing in a good income. Eugene at
first made a wry face, saying one must be rich to occupy such posts, to
which influential men were usually nominated. I persisted, however, and
he yielded. To be a receiver of taxes one need not know either Greek
or Latin. I shall have a representative, like Monsieur Peirotte, and he
will do all the work.”

Felicite listened to him with rapture.

“I guessed, however,” he continued, “what it was that worried our dear
son. We’re not much liked here. People know that we have no means, and
will make themselves obnoxious. But all sorts of things occur in a
time of crisis. Eugene wished to get me an appointment in another town.
However, I objected; I want to remain at Plassans.”

“Yes, yes, we must remain here,” the old woman quickly replied. “We have
suffered here, and here we must triumph. Ah! I’ll crush them all, those
fine ladies on the Mail, who scornfully eye my woollen dresses! I didn’t
think of the appointment of receiver of taxes at all; I thought you
wanted to become mayor.”

“Mayor! Nonsense. That appointment is honorary. Eugene also mentioned
the mayoralty to me. I replied: ‘I’ll accept, if you give me an income
of fifteen thousand francs.’”

This conversation, in which high figures flew about like rockets, quite
excited Felicite. She felt delightfully buoyant. But at last she put on
a devout air, and gravely said: “Come, let us reckon it out. How much
will you earn?”

“Well,” said Pierre, “the fixed salary, I believe, is three thousand
francs.”

“Three thousand,” Felicite counted.

“Then there is so much per cent on the receipts, which at Plassans, may
produce the sum of twelve thousand francs.”

“That makes fifteen thousand.”

“Yes, about fifteen thousand francs. That’s what Peirotte earns. That’s
not all. Peirotte does a little banking business on his own account.
It’s allowed. Perhaps I shall be disposed to make a venture when I feel
luck on my side.”

“Well, let us say twenty thousand. Twenty thousand francs a year!”
 repeated Felicite, overwhelmed by the amount.

“We shall have to repay the advances,” Pierre observed.

“That doesn’t matter,” Felicite replied, “we shall be richer than many
of those gentlemen. Are the marquis and the others going to share the
cake with you?”

“No, no; it will be all for us,” he replied.

Then, as she continued to importune him with her questions, Pierre
frowned, thinking that she wanted to wrest his secret from him. “We’ve
talked enough,” he said, abruptly. “It’s late, let us go to sleep. It
will bring us bad luck to count our chickens beforehand. I haven’t got
the place yet. Above all things, be prudent.”

When the lamp was extinguished, Felicite could not sleep. With her eyes
closed she built the most marvellous castles in the air. Those twenty
thousand francs a year danced a diabolical dance before her in the
darkness. She occupied splendid apartments in the new town, enjoyed the
same luxuries as Monsieur Peirotte, gave parties, and bespattered the
whole place with her wealth. That, however, which tickled her vanity
most was the high position that her husband would then occupy. He would
pay their state dividends to Granoux, Roudier, and all those people who
now came to her house as they might come to a cafe, to swagger and learn
the latest news. She had noticed the free-and-easy manner in which these
people entered her drawing-room, and it had made her take a dislike to
them. Even the marquis, with his ironical politeness, was beginning
to displease her. To triumph alone, therefore, to keep the cake
for themselves, as she expressed it, was a revenge which she fondly
cherished. Later on, when all those ill-bred persons presented
themselves, hats off, before Monsieur Rougon the receiver of taxes,
she would crush them in her turn. She was busy with these thoughts all
night; and on the morrow, as she opened the shutters, she instinctively
cast her first glance across the street towards Monsieur Peirotte’s
house, and smiled as she contemplated the broad damask curtains hanging
in the windows.

Felicite’s hopes, in becoming modified, had grown yet more intense. Like
all women, she did not object to a tinge of mystery. The secret object
that her husband was pursuing excited her far more than the Legitimist
intrigues of Monsieur de Carnavant had ever done. She abandoned, without
much regret, the calculations she had based on the marquis’s success
now that her husband declared he would be able to make large profits
by other means. She displayed, moreover, remarkable prudence and
discretion.

In reality, she was still tortured by anxious curiosity; she studied
Pierre’s slightest actions, endeavouring to discover their meaning.
What if by chance he were following the wrong track? What if Eugene were
dragging them in his train into some break-neck pit, whence they would
emerge yet more hungry and impoverished? However, faith was dawning
on her. Eugene had commanded with such an air of authority that she
ultimately came to believe in him. In this case again some unknown power
was at work. Pierre would speak mysteriously of the high personages whom
their eldest son visited in Paris. For her part she did not know what
he could have to do with them, but on the other hand she was unable to
close her eyes to Aristide’s ill-advised acts at Plassans. The
visitors to her drawing-room did not scruple to denounce the democratic
journalist with extreme severity. Granoux muttered that he was a
brigand, and Roudier would three or four times a week repeat to
Felicite: “Your son is writing some fine articles. Only yesterday he
attacked our friend Vuillet with revolting scurrility.”

The whole room joined in the chorus, and Commander Sicardot spoke of
boxing his son-in-law’s ears, while Pierre flatly disowned him. The poor
mother hung her head, restraining her tears. For an instant she felt
an inclination to burst forth, to tell Roudier that her dear child,
in spite of his faults, was worth more than he and all the others put
together. But she was tied down, and did not wish to compromise the
position they had so laboriously attained. Seeing the whole town so
bitter against Aristide, she despaired of his future, thinking he was
hopelessly ruining himself. On two occasions she spoke to him in
secret, imploring him to return to them, and not to irritate the yellow
drawing-room any further. Aristide replied that she did not understand
such matters; that she was the one who had committed a great blunder in
placing her husband at the service of the marquis. So she had to abandon
her son to his own courses, resolving, however that if Eugene succeeded
she would compel him to share the spoils with the poor fellow who was
her favourite child.

After the departure of his eldest son, Pierre Rougon pursued his
reactionary intrigues. Nothing seemed to have changed in the opinions of
the famous yellow drawing-room. Every evening the same men came to join
in the same propaganda in favour of the establishment of a monarchy,
while the master of the house approved and aided them with as much zeal
as in the past. Eugene had left Plassans on May 1. A few days later,
the yellow drawing-room was in raptures. The gossips were discussing the
letter of the President of the Republic to General Oudinot, in which
the siege of Rome had been decided upon. This letter was regarded as a
brilliant victory, due to the firm demeanour of the reactionary party.
Since 1848 the Chambers had been discussing the Roman question; but it
had been reserved for a Bonaparte to stifle a rising Republic by an act
of intervention which France, if free, would never have countenanced.
The marquis declared, however, that one could not better promote the
cause of legitimacy, and Vuillet wrote a superb article on the matter.
The enthusiasm became unbounded when, a month later, Commander Sicardot
entered the Rougons’ house one evening and announced to the company
that the French army was fighting under the walls of Rome. Then, while
everybody was raising exclamations at this news, he went up to Pierre,
and shook hands with him in a significant manner. And when he had taken
a seat, he began to sound the praises of the President of the Republic,
who, said he, was the only person able to save France from anarchy.

“Let him save it, then, as quickly as possible,” interrupted the
marquis, “and let him then understand his duty by restoring it to its
legitimate masters.”

Pierre seemed to approve this fine retort, and having thus given
proof of his ardent royalism, he ventured to remark that Prince Louis
Bonaparte had his entire sympathy in the matter. He thereupon exchanged
a few short sentences with the commander, commending the excellent
intentions of the President, which sentences one might have thought
prepared and learnt beforehand. Bonapartism now, for the first time,
made its entry into the yellow drawing-room. It is true that since the
election of December 10 the Prince had been treated there with a certain
amount of consideration. He was preferred a thousand times to Cavaignac,
and the whole reactionary party had voted for him. But they regarded
him rather as an accomplice than a friend; and, as such, they distrusted
him, and even began to accuse him of a desire to keep for himself
the chestnuts which he had pulled out of the fire. On that particular
evening, however, owing to the fighting at Rome, they listened with
favour to the praises of Pierre and the commander.

The group led by Granoux and Roudier already demanded that the President
should order all republican rascals to be shot; while the marquis,
leaning against the mantelpiece, gazed meditatively at a faded rose on
the carpet. When he at last lifted his head, Pierre, who had furtively
watched his countenance as if to see the effect of his words, suddenly
ceased speaking. However, Monsieur de Carnavant merely smiled and
glanced at Felicite with a knowing look. This rapid by-play was not
observed by the other people. Vuillet alone remarked in a sharp tone:

“I would rather see your Bonaparte at London than at Paris. Our affairs
would get along better then.”

At this the old oil-dealer turned slightly pale, fearing that he had
gone too far. “I’m not anxious to retain ‘my’ Bonaparte,” he said, with
some firmness; “you know where I would send him to if I were the master.
I simply assert that the expedition to Rome was a good stroke.”

Felicite had followed this scene with inquisitive astonishment. However,
she did not speak of it to her husband, which proved that she adopted it
as the basis of secret study. The marquis’s smile, the significance of
which escaped her, set her thinking.

From that day forward, Rougon, at distant intervals, whenever the
occasion offered, slipped in a good word for the President of the
Republic. On such evenings, Commander Sicardot acted the part of a
willing accomplice. At the same time, Clerical opinions still reigned
supreme in the yellow drawing-room. It was more particularly in
the following year that this group of reactionaries gained decisive
influence in the town, thanks to the retrograde movement which was going
on at Paris. All those anti-Liberal laws which the country called “the
Roman expedition at home” definitively secured the triumph of the Rougon
faction. The last enthusiastic bourgeois saw the Republic tottering, and
hastened to rally round the Conservatives. Thus the Rougons’ hour had
arrived; the new town almost gave them an ovation on the day when the
tree of Liberty, planted on the square before the Sub-Prefecture, was
sawed down. This tree, a young poplar brought from the banks of the
Viorne, had gradually withered, much to the despair of the republican
working-men, who would come every Sunday to observe the progress of
the decay without being able to comprehend the cause of it. A hatter’s
apprentice at last asserted that he had seen a woman leave Rougon’s
house and pour a pail of poisoned water at the foot of the tree. It
thenceforward became a matter of history that Felicite herself got up
every night to sprinkle the poplar with vitriol. When the tree was dead
the Municipal Council declared that the dignity of the Republic required
its removal. For this, as they feared the displeasure of the working
classes, they selected an advanced hour of the night. However, the
conservative householders of the new town got wind of the little
ceremony, and all came down to the square before the Sub-Prefecture in
order to see how the tree of Liberty would fall. The frequenters of the
yellow drawing-room stationed themselves at the windows there. When the
poplar cracked and fell with a thud in the darkness, as tragically rigid
as some mortally stricken hero, Felicite felt bound to wave a white
handkerchief. This induced the crowd to applaud, and many responded to
the salute by waving their handkerchiefs likewise. A group of people
even came under the window shouting: “We’ll bury it, we’ll bury it.”

They meant the Republic, no doubt. Such was Felicite’s emotion, that
she almost had a nervous attack. It was a fine evening for the yellow
drawing-room.

However, the marquis still looked at Felicite with the same mysterious
smile. This little old man was far too shrewd to be ignorant of whither
France was tending. He was among the first to scent the coming of the
Empire. When the Legislative Assembly, later on, exhausted its energies
in useless squabbling, when the Orleanists and the Legitimists tacitly
accepted the idea of the Coup d’Etat, he said to himself that the
game was definitely lost. In fact, he was the only one who saw things
clearly. Vuillet certainly felt that the cause of Henry V., which his
paper defended, was becoming detestable; but it mattered little to him;
he was content to be the obedient creature of the clergy; his entire
policy was framed so as to enable him to dispose of as many rosaries and
sacred images as possible. As for Roudier and Granoux, they lived in
a state of blind scare; it was not certain whether they really had any
opinions; all that they desired was to eat and sleep in peace; their
political aspirations went no further. The marquis, though he had bidden
farewell to his hopes, continued to come to the Rougons’ as regularly as
ever. He enjoyed himself there. The clash of rival ambitions among
the middle classes, and the display of their follies, had become an
extremely amusing spectacle to him. He shuddered at the thought of again
shutting himself in the little room which he owed to the beneficence of
the Count de Valqueyras. With a kind of malicious delight, he kept to
himself the conviction that the Bourbons’ hour had not yet arrived. He
feigned blindness, working as hitherto for the triumph of Legitimacy,
and still remaining at the orders of the clergy and nobility, though
from the very first day he had penetrated Pierre’s new course of action,
and believed that Felicite was his accomplice.

One evening, being the first to arrive, he found the old lady alone
in the drawing-room. “Well! little one,” he asked, with his smiling
familiarity, “are your affairs going on all right? Why the deuce do you
make such mysteries with me?”

“I’m not hiding anything from you,” Felicite replied, somewhat
perplexed.

“Come, do you think you can deceive an old fox like me, eh? My dear
child, treat me as a friend. I’m quite ready to help you secretly. Come
now, be frank!”

A bright idea struck Felicite. She had nothing to tell; but perhaps she
might find out something if she kept quiet.

“Why do you smile?” Monsieur de Carnavant resumed. “That’s the beginning
of a confession, you know. I suspected that you must be behind your
husband. Pierre is too stupid to invent the pretty treason you are
hatching. I sincerely hope the Bonapartists will give you what I should
have asked for you from the Bourbons.”

This single sentence confirmed the suspicions which the old woman had
entertained for some time past.

“Prince Louis has every chance, hasn’t he?” she eagerly inquired.

“Will you betray me if I tell you that I believe so?” the marquis
laughingly replied. “I’ve donned my mourning over it, little one. I’m
simply a poor old man, worn out and only fit to be laid on the shelf.
It was for you, however, that I was working. Since you have been able to
find the right track without me, I shall feel some consolation in seeing
you triumph amidst my own defeat. Above all things, don’t make any more
mysteries. Come to me if you are ever in trouble.”

And he added, with the sceptical smile of a nobleman who has lost caste:
“Pshaw! I also can go in for a little treachery!”

At this moment the clan of retired oil and almond dealers arrived.

“Ah! the dear reactionaries!” Monsieur de Carnavant continued in an
undertone. “You see, little one, the great art of politics consists in
having a pair of good eyes when other people are blind. You hold all the
best cards in the pack.”

On the following day, Felicite, incited by this conversation, desired
to make sure on the matter. They were then in the first days of the year
1851. For more than eighteen months, Rougon had been in the habit of
receiving a letter from his son Eugene regularly every fortnight. He
would shut himself in the bedroom to read these letters, which he then
hid at the bottom of an old secretaire, the key of which he carefully
kept in his waistcoat pocket. Whenever his wife questioned him about
their son he would simply answer: “Eugene writes that he is going on
all right.” Felicite had long since thought of laying hands on her son’s
letters. So early on the morning after her chat with the marquis, while
Pierre was still asleep, she got up on tiptoes, took the key of the
secretaire from her husband’s waistcoat and substituted in its place
that of the chest of drawers, which was of the same size. Then, as soon
as her husband had gone out, she shut herself in the room in her turn,
emptied the drawer, and read all the letters with feverish curiosity.

Monsieur de Carnavant had not been mistaken, and her own suspicions were
confirmed. There were about forty letters, which enabled her to follow
the course of that great Bonapartist movement which was to terminate in
the second Empire. The letters constituted a sort of concise journal,
narrating events as they occurred, and drawing hopes and suggestions
from each of them. Eugene was full of faith. He described Prince Louis
Bonaparte to his father as the predestined necessary man who alone could
unravel the situation. He had believed in him prior even to his return
to France, at a time when Bonapartism was treated as a ridiculous
chimera. Felicite understood that her son had been a very active secret
agent since 1848. Although he did not clearly explain his position in
Paris, it was evident that he was working for the Empire, under
the orders of personages whose names he mentioned with a sort of
familiarity. Each of his letters gave information as to the progress of
the cause, to which an early denouement was foreshadowed; and usually
concluded by pointing out the line of action that Pierre should pursue
at Plassans. Felicite could now comprehend certain words and acts of
her husband, whose significance had previously escaped her; Pierre was
obeying his son, and blindly following his recommendations.

When the old woman had finished reading, she was convinced. Eugene’s
entire thoughts were clearly revealed to her. He reckoned upon making
his political fortune in the squabble, and repaying his parents the debt
he owed them for his education, by throwing them a scrap of the prey as
soon as the quarry was secured. However small the assistance his father
might render to him and to the cause, it would not be difficult to get
him appointed receiver of taxes. Nothing would be refused to one who
like Eugene had steeped his hands in the most secret machinations. His
letters were simply a kind attention on his part, a device to prevent
the Rougons from committing any act of imprudence, for which Felicite
felt deeply grateful. She read certain passages of the letters twice
over, notably those in which Eugene spoke, in vague terms, of “a final
catastrophe.” This catastrophe, the nature or bearings of which she
could not well conceive became a sort of end of the world for her. God
would range the chosen ones on His right hand and the damned on His
left, and she placed herself among the former.

When she succeeded in replacing the key in her husband’s waistcoat
pocket on the following night, she made up her mind to employ the same
expedient for reading every fresh letter that arrived. She resolved,
likewise, to profess complete ignorance. This plan was an excellent one.
Henceforward, she gave her husband the more assistance as she appeared
to render it unconsciously. When Pierre thought he was working alone
it was she who brought the conversation round to the desired topic,
recruiting partisans for the decisive moment. She felt hurt at Eugene’s
distrust of her. She wanted to be able to say to him, after the triumph:
“I knew all, and so far from spoiling anything, I have secured the
victory.” Never did an accomplice make less noise or work harder. The
marquis, whom she had taken into her confidence, was astounded at it.

The fate of her dear Aristide, however, continued to make her uneasy.
Now that she shared the faith of her eldest son, the rabid articles of
the “Independant” alarmed her all the more. She longed to convert the
unfortunate republican to Napoleonist ideas; but she did not know how
to accomplish this in a discreet manner. She recalled the emphasis with
which Eugene had told them to be on their guard against Aristide. At
last she submitted the matter to Monsieur de Carnavant, who was entirely
of the same opinion.

“Little one,” he said to her, “in politics one must know how to look
after one’s self. If you were to convert your son, and the ‘Independant’
were to start writing in defence of Bonapartism, it would deal the party
a rude blow. The ‘Independant’ has already been condemned, its title
alone suffices to enrage the middle classes of Plassans. Let dear
Aristide flounder about; this only moulds young people. He does not
appear to me to be cut out for carrying on the role of a martyr for any
length of time.”

However, in her eagerness to point out the right way to her family,
now that she believed herself in possession of the truth, Felicite even
sought to convert her son Pascal. The doctor, with the egotism of a
scientist immersed in his researches, gave little heed to politics.
Empires might fall while he was making an experiment, yet he would not
have deigned to turn his head. He at last yielded, however, to certain
importunities of his mother, who accused him more than ever of living
like an unsociable churl.

“If you were to go into society,” she said to him, “you would get some
well-to-do patients. Come, at least, and spend some evenings in our
drawing-room. You will make the acquaintance of Messieurs Roudier,
Granoux, and Sicardot, all gentlemen in good circumstances, who will pay
you four or five francs a visit. The poor people will never enrich you.”

The idea of succeeding in life, of seeing all her family attain to
fortune, had become a form of monomania with Felicite. Pascal, in order
to be agreeable to her, came and spent a few evenings in the yellow
drawing-room. He was much less bored there than he had apprehended. At
first he was rather stupefied at the degree of imbecility to which
sane men can sink. The old oil and almond dealers, the marquis and the
commander even, appeared to him so many curious animals, which he
had not hitherto had an opportunity of studying. He looked with a
naturalist’s interest at their grimacing faces, in which he discerned
traces of their occupations and appetites; he listened also to their
inane chatter, just as he might have tried to catch the meaning of
a cat’s mew or a dog’s bark. At this period he was occupied with
comparative natural history, applying to the human race the observations
which he had made upon animals with regard to the working of heredity.
While he was in the yellow drawing-room, therefore, he amused himself
with the belief that he had fallen in with a menagerie. He established
comparisons between the grotesque creatures he found there and certain
animals of his acquaintance. The marquis, with his leanness and small
crafty-looking head, reminded him exactly of a long green grasshopper.
Vuillet impressed him as a pale, slimy toad. He was more considerate for
Roudier, a fat sheep, and for the commander, an old toothless mastiff.
But the prodigious Granoux was a perpetual cause of astonishment to him.
He spent a whole evening measuring this imbecile’s facial angle. When he
heard him mutter indistinct imprecations against those blood-suckers
the Republicans, he always expected to hear him moan like a calf; and
he could never see him rise from his chair without imagining that he was
about to leave the room on all fours.

“Talk to them,” his mother used to say in an undertone; “try and make a
practice out of these gentlemen.”

“I am not a veterinary surgeon,” he at last replied, exasperated.

One evening Felicite took him into a corner and tired to catechise
him. She was glad to see him come to her house rather assiduously.
She thought him reconciled to Society, not suspecting for a moment the
singular amusement that he derived from ridiculing these rich people.
She cherished the secret project of making him the fashionable doctor
of Plassans. It would be sufficient if men like Granoux and Roudier
consented to give him a start. She wished, above all, to impart to
him the political views of the family, considering that a doctor had
everything to gain by constituting himself a warm partisan of the regime
which was to succeed the Republic.

“My dear boy,” she said to him, “as you have now become reasonable,
you must give some thought to the future. You are accused of being a
Republican, because you are foolish enough to attend all the beggars
of the town without making any charge. Be frank, what are your real
opinions?”

Pascal looked at his mother with naïve astonishment, then with a smile
replied: “My real opinions? I don’t quite know--I am accused of being a
Republican, did you say? Very well! I don’t feel at all offended. I
am undoubtedly a Republican, if you understand by that word a man who
wishes the welfare of everybody.”

“But you will never attain to any position,” Felicite quickly
interrupted. “You will be crushed. Look at your brothers, they are
trying to make their way.”

Pascal then comprehended that he was not called upon to defend his
philosophic egotism. His mother simply accused him of not speculating
on the political situation. He began to laugh somewhat sadly, and then
turned the conversation into another channel. Felicite could never
induce him to consider the chances of the various parties, nor to enlist
in that one of them which seemed likely to carry the day. However, he
still occasionally came to spend an evening in the yellow drawing-room.
Granoux interested him like an antediluvian animal.

In the meantime, events were moving. The year 1851 was a year of anxiety
and apprehension for the politicians of Plassans, and the cause which
the Rougons served derived advantage from this circumstance. The most
contradictory news arrived from Paris; sometimes the Republicans were
in the ascendant, sometimes the Conservative party was crushing the
Republic. The echoes of the squabbles which were rending the Legislative
Assembly reached the depths of the provinces, now in an exaggerated, now
in an attenuated form, varying so greatly as to obscure the vision of
the most clear-sighted. The only general feeling was that a denouement
was approaching. The prevailing ignorance as to the nature of this
denouement kept timid middle class people in a terrible state of
anxiety. Everybody wished to see the end. They were sick of uncertainty,
and would have flung themselves into the arms of the Grand Turk, if he
would have deigned to save France from anarchy.

The marquis’s smile became more acute. Of an evening, in the yellow
drawing-room, when Granoux’s growl was rendered indistinct by fright, he
would draw near to Felicite and whisper in her ear: “Come, little one,
the fruit is ripe--but you must make yourself useful.”

Felicite, who continued to read Eugene’s letters, and knew that
a decisive crisis might any day occur, had already often felt the
necessity of making herself useful, and reflected as to the manner in
which the Rougons should employ themselves. At last she consulted the
marquis.

“It all depends upon circumstances,” the little old man replied. “If the
department remains quiet, if no insurrection occurs to terrify Plassans,
it will be difficult for you to make yourselves conspicuous and render
any services to the new government. I advise you, in that case, to
remain at home, and peacefully await the bounties of your son Eugene.
But if the people rise, and our brave bourgeois think themselves in
danger, there will be a fine part to play. Your husband is somewhat
heavy--”

“Oh!” said Felicite, “I’ll undertake to make him supple. Do you think
the department will revolt?”

“To my mind it’s a certainty. Plassans, perhaps, will not make a
stir; the reaction has secured too firm a hold here for that. But the
neighbouring towns, especially the small ones and the villages, have
long been worked by certain secret societies, and belong to the advanced
Republican party. If a Coup d’Etat should burst forth, the tocsin will
be heard throughout the entire country, from the forests of the Seille
to the plateau of Sainte-Roure.”

Felicite reflected. “You think, then,” she resumed, “that an
insurrection is necessary to ensure our fortune!”

“That’s my opinion,” replied Monsieur de Carnavant. And he added, with a
slightly ironical smile: “A new dynasty is never founded excepting upon
an affray. Blood is good manure. It will be a fine thing for the Rougons
to date from a massacre, like certain illustrious families.”

These words, accompanied by a sneer, sent a cold chill through
Felicite’s bones. But she was a strong-minded woman, and the sight of
Monsieur Peirotte’s beautiful curtains, which she religiously viewed
every morning, sustained her courage. Whenever she felt herself
giving way, she planted herself at the window and contemplated the
tax-receiver’s house. For her it was the Tuileries. She had determined
upon the most extreme measures in order to secure an entree into the new
town, that promised land, on the threshold of which she had stood with
burning longing for so many years.

The conversation which she had held with the marquis had at last clearly
revealed the situation to her. A few days afterwards, she succeeded in
reading one of Eugene’s letters, in which he, who was working for the
Coup d’Etat, seemed also to rely upon an insurrection as the means of
endowing his father with some importance. Eugene knew his department
well. All his suggestions had been framed with the object of placing
as much influence as possible in the hands of the yellow drawing-room
reactionaries, so that the Rougons might be able to hold the town at the
critical moment. In accordance with his desires, the yellow drawing-room
was master of Plassans in November, 1851. Roudier represented the rich
citizens there, and his attitude would certainly decide that of the
entire new town. Granoux was still more valuable; he had the Municipal
Council behind him: he was its most powerful member, a fact which
will give some idea of its other members. Finally, through Commander
Sicardot, whom the marquis had succeeded in getting appointed as chief
of the National Guard, the yellow drawing-room had the armed forces at
their disposal.

The Rougons, those poor disreputable devils, had thus succeeded
in rallying round themselves the instruments of their own fortune.
Everyone, from cowardice or stupidity, would have to obey them and work
in the dark for their aggrandisement. They simply had to fear those
other influences which might be working with the same object as
themselves, and might partially rob them of the merit of victory. That
was their great fear, for they wanted to reserve to themselves the role
of deliverers. They knew beforehand that they would be aided rather than
hindered by the clergy and the nobility. But if the sub-prefect, the
mayor, and the other functionaries were to take a step in advance and at
once stifle the insurrection they would find themselves thrown into the
shade, and even arrested in their exploits; they would have neither time
nor means to make themselves useful. What they longed for was complete
abstention, general panic among the functionaries. If only all regular
administration should disappear, and they could dispose of the destinies
of Plassans for a single day, their fortune would be firmly established.

Happily for them, there was not a man in the government service whose
convictions were so firm or whose circumstances were so needy as to
make him disposed to risk the game. The sub-prefect was a man of liberal
spirit whom the executive had forgetfully left at Plassans, owing, no
doubt, to the good repute of the town. Of timid character and incapable
of exceeding his authority, he would no doubt be greatly embarrassed in
the presence of an insurrection. The Rougons, who knew that he was in
favour of the democratic cause, and who consequently never dreaded his
zeal, were simply curious to know what attitude he would assume. As for
the municipality, this did not cause them much apprehension. The mayor,
Monsieur Garconnet, was a Legitimist whose nomination had been procured
by the influence of the Saint-Marc quarter in 1849. He detested the
Republicans and treated them with undisguised disdain; but he was too
closely united by bonds of friendship with certain members of the
church to lend any active hand in a Bonapartist Coup d’Etat. The other
functionaries were in exactly the same position. The justices of the
peace, the post-master, the tax-collector, as well as Monsieur Peirotte,
the chief receiver of taxes, were all indebted for their posts to
the Clerical reaction, and could not accept the Empire with any great
enthusiasm. The Rougons, though they did not quite see how they might
get rid of these people and clear the way for themselves, nevertheless
indulged in sanguine hopes on finding there was little likelihood of
anybody disputing their role as deliverers.

The denouement was drawing near. In the last few days of November, as
the rumour of a Coup d’Etat was circulating, the prince-president was
accused of seeking the position of emperor.

“Eh! we’ll call him whatever he likes,” Granoux exclaimed, “provided he
has those Republican rascals shot!”

This exclamation from Granoux, who was believed to be asleep, caused
great commotion. The marquis pretended not to have heard it; but all
the bourgeois nodded approval. Roudier, who, being rich, did not fear to
applaud the sentiment aloud, went so far as to declare, while glancing
askance at Monsieur de Carnavant, that the position was no longer
tenable, and that France must be chastised as soon as possible, never
mind by what hand.

The marquis still maintained a silence which was interpreted as
acquiescence. And thereupon the Conservative clan, abandoning the cause
of Legitimacy, ventured to offer up prayers in favour of the Empire.

“My friends,” said Commander Sicardot, rising from his seat, “only a
Napoleon can now protect threatened life and property. Have no fear,
I’ve taken the necessary precautions to preserve order at Plassans.”

As a matter of fact the commander, in concert with Rougon, had
concealed, in a kind of cart-house near the ramparts, both a supply of
cartridges and a considerable number of muskets; he had also taken steps
to secure the co-operation of the National Guard, on which he believed
he could rely. His words produced a very favourable impression.
On separating for the evening, the peaceful citizens of the yellow
drawing-room spoke of massacring the “Reds” if they should dare to stir.

On December 1, Pierre Rougon received a letter from Eugene which he went
to read in his bedroom, in accordance with his prudent habit. Felicite
observed, however, that he was very agitated when he came out again.
She fluttered round the secretaire all day. When night came, she could
restrain her impatience no longer. Her husband had scarcely fallen
asleep, when she quietly got up, took the key of the secretaire from
the waistcoat pocket, and gained possession of the letter with as little
noise as possible. Eugene, in ten lines, warned his father that the
crisis was at hand, and advised him to acquaint his mother with the
situation of affairs. The hour for informing her had arrived; he might
stand in need of her advice.

Felicite awaited, on the morrow, a disclosure which did not come. She
did not dare to confess her curiosity; but continued to feign ignorance,
though enraged at the foolish distrust of her husband, who, doubtless,
considered her a gossip, and weak like other women. Pierre, with
that marital pride which inspires a man with the belief in his own
superiority at home, had ended by attributing all their past ill-luck to
his wife. From the time that he fancied he had been conducting matters
alone everything seemed to him to have gone as he desired. He had
decided, therefore, to dispense altogether with his consort’s counsels,
and to confide nothing to her, in spite of his son’s recommendations.

Felicite was piqued to such a degree that she would have upset the whole
affair had she not desired the triumph as ardently as Pierre. So she
continued to work energetically for victory, while endeavouring to take
her revenge.

“Ah! if he could only have some great fright,” thought she; “if he would
only commit some act of imprudence! Then I should see him come to me and
humbly ask for advice; it would be my turn to lay down the law.”

She felt somewhat uneasy at the imperious attitude Pierre would
certainly assume if he were to triumph without her aid. On marrying this
peasant’s son, in preference to some notary’s clerk, she had intended to
make use of him as a strongly made puppet, whose strings she would pull
in her own way; and now, at the decisive moment, the puppet, in his
blind stupidity, wanted to work alone! All the cunning, all the feverish
activity within the old woman protested against this. She knew Pierre
was quite capable of some brutal resolve such as that which he had taken
when he compelled his mother to sign the receipt for fifty thousand
francs; the tool was indeed a useful and unscrupulous one; but she felt
the necessity for guiding it, especially under present circumstances,
when considerable suppleness was requisite.

The official news of the Coup d’Etat did not reach Plassans until the
afternoon of December 3--a Thursday. Already, at seven o’clock in the
evening, there was a full meeting in the yellow drawing-room. Although
the crisis had been eagerly desired, vague uneasiness appeared on the
faces of the majority. They discussed events amid endless chatter.
Pierre, who like the others was slightly pale, thought it right, as an
extreme measure of prudence, to excuse Prince Louis’s decisive act to
the Legitimists and Orleanists who were present.

“There is talk of an appeal to the people,” he said; “the nation will
then be free to choose whatever government it likes. The president is a
man to retire before our legitimate masters.”

The marquis, who had retained his aristocratic coolness, was the only
one who greeted these words with a smile. The others, in the enthusiasm
of the moment, concerned themselves very little about what might follow.
All their opinions foundered. Roudier, forgetting the esteem which as a
former shopkeeper he had entertained for the Orleanists, stopped Pierre
rather abruptly. And everybody exclaimed: “Don’t argue the matter. Let
us think of preserving order.”

These good people were terribly afraid of the Republicans. There had,
however been very little commotion in the town on the announcement of
the events in Paris. People had collected in front of the notices posted
on the door of the Sub-Prefecture; it was also rumoured that a few
hundred workmen had left their work and were endeavouring to organise
resistance. That was all. No serious disturbance seemed likely to occur.
The course which the neighbouring towns and rural districts might take
seemed more likely to occasion anxiety; however, it was not yet known
how they had received the news of the Coup d’Etat.

Granoux arrived at about nine o’clock, quite out of breath. He had just
left a sitting of the Municipal Council which had been hastily summoned
together. Choking with emotion, he announced that the mayor, Monsieur
Garconnet, had declared, while making due reserves, that he was
determined to preserve order by the most stringent measures. However,
the intelligence which caused the noisiest chattering in the yellow
drawing-room was that of the resignation of the sub-prefect. This
functionary had absolutely refused to communicate the despatches of the
Minister of the Interior to the inhabitants of Plassans; he had just
left the town, so Granoux asserted, and it was thanks to the mayor that
the messages had been posted. This was perhaps the only sub-prefect in
France who ever had the courage of his democratic opinions.

Although Monsieur Garconnet’s firm demeanour caused the Rougons
some secret anxiety, they rubbed their hands at the flight of the
sub-prefect, which left the post vacant for them. It was decided on this
memorable evening that the yellow drawing-room party should accept the
Coup d’Etat and openly declare that it was in favour of accomplished
facts. Vuillet was commissioned to write an article to that effect, and
publish it on the morrow in the “Gazette.” Neither he nor the marquis
raised any objection. They had, no doubt, received instructions from the
mysterious individuals to whom they sometimes made pious allusions. The
clergy and the nobility were already resigned to the course of lending
a strong hand to the victors, in order to crush their common enemy, the
Republic.

While the yellow drawing-room was deliberating on the evening in
question, Aristide was perspiring with anxiety. Never had gambler,
staking his last louis on a card, felt such anguish. During the day the
resignation of his chief, the sub-prefect, had given him much matter for
reflection. He had heard him repeat several times that the Coup d’Etat
must prove a failure. This functionary, endowed with a limited amount of
honesty, believed in the final triumph of the democracy, though he
had not the courage to work for that triumph by offering resistance.
Aristide was in the habit of listening at the doors of the
Sub-Prefecture, in order to get precise information, for he felt that he
was groping in the dark, and clung to the intelligence which he gleaned
from the officials. The sub-prefect’s opinion struck him forcibly; but
he remained perplexed. He thought to himself: “Why does the fellow go
away if he is so certain that the prince-president will meet with a
check?” However, as he was compelled to espouse one side or the other,
he resolved to continue his opposition. He wrote a very hostile article
on the Coup d’Etat, and took it to the “Independant” the same evening
for the following morning’s issue. He had corrected the proofs of this
article, and was returning home somewhat calmed, when, as he passed
along the Rue de la Banne, he instinctively raised his head and glanced
at the Rougons’ windows. Their windows were brightly lighted up.

“What can they be plotting up there?” the journalist asked himself, with
anxious curiosity.

A fierce desire to know the opinion of the yellow drawing-room with
regard to recent events then assailed him. He credited this group of
reactionaries with little intelligence; but his doubts recurred, he was
in that frame of mind when one might seek advice from a child. He
could not think of entering his father’s home at that moment, after the
campaign he had waged against Granoux and the others. Nevertheless, he
went upstairs, reflecting what a singular figure he would cut if he were
surprised on the way by anyone. On reaching the Rougons’ door, he could
only catch a confused echo of voices.

“What a child I am,” said he, “fear makes me stupid.” And he was going
to descend again, when he heard the approach of his mother, who was
about to show somebody out. He had barely time to hide in a dark corner
formed by a little staircase leading to the garrets of the house. The
Rougons’ door opened, and the marquis appeared, followed by Felicite.
Monsieur de Carnavant usually left before the gentlemen of the new town
did, in order no doubt to avoid having to shake hands with them in the
street.

“Eh! little one,” he said on the landing, in a low voice, “these men are
greater cowards than I should have thought. With such men France will
always be at the mercy of whoever dares to lay his hands upon her!”
 And he added, with some bitterness, as though speaking to himself: “The
monarchy is decidedly becoming too honest for modern times. Its day is
over.”

“Eugene announced the crisis to his father,” replied Felicite. “Prince
Louis’s triumph seems to him certain.”

“Oh, you can proceed without fear,” the marquis replied, as he descended
the first steps. “In two or three days the country will be well bound
and gagged. Good-bye till to-morrow, little one.”

Felicite closed the door again. Aristide had received quite a shock in
his dark corner. However, without waiting for the marquis to reach the
street, he bounded down the staircase, four steps at a time, rushed
outside like a madman, and turned his steps towards the printing-office
of the “Independant.” A flood of thoughts surged through his mind. He
was enraged, and accused his family of having duped him. What! Eugene
kept his parents informed of the situation, and yet his mother had never
given him any of his eldest brother’s letters to read, in order that he
might follow the advice given therein! And it was only now he learnt by
chance that his eldest brother regarded the success of the Coup d’Etat
as certain! This circumstance, moreover, confirmed certain presentiments
which that idiot of a sub-prefect had prevented him from obeying. He was
especially exasperated against his father, whom he had thought stupid
enough to be a Legitimist, but who revealed himself as a Bonapartist at
the right moment.

“What a lot of folly they have allowed me to perpetrate,” he muttered as
he ran along. “I’m a fine fellow now. Ah! what a lesson! Granoux is more
capable than I.”

He entered the office of the “Independant” like a hurricane, and
asked for his article in a choking voice. The article had already been
imposed. He had the forme unlocked and would not rest until he had
himself destroyed the setting, mixing the type in a furious manner, like
a set of dominoes. The bookseller who managed the paper looked at him
in amazement. He was, in reality, rather glad of the incident, as the
article had seemed to him somewhat dangerous. But he was absolutely
obliged to have some copy, if the “Independant” was to appear.

“Are you going to give me something else?” he asked.

“Certainly,” replied Aristide.

He sat down at the table and began a warm panegyric on the Coup d’Etat.
At the very first line, he swore that Prince Louis had just saved the
Republic; but he had hardly written a page before he stopped and seemed
at a loss how to continue. A troubled look came over his pole-cat face.

“I must go home,” he said at last. “I will send you this immediately.
Your paper can appear a little later, if necessary.”

He walked slowly on his way home, lost in meditation. He was again
giving way to indecision. Why should he veer round so quickly? Eugene
was an intelligent fellow, but his mother had perhaps exaggerated the
significance of some sentence in his letter. In any case, it would be
better to wait and hold his tongue.

An hour later Angele called at the bookseller’s, feigning deep emotion.

“My husband has just severely injured himself,” she said. “He jammed his
four fingers in a door as he was coming in. In spite of his sufferings,
he has dictated this little note, which he begs you to publish
to-morrow.”

On the following day the “Independant,” made up almost entirely of
miscellaneous items of news, appeared with these few lines at the head
of the first column:

“A deplorable accident which has occurred to our eminent contributor
Monsieur Aristide Rougon will deprive us of his articles for some
time. He will suffer at having to remain silent in the present grave
circumstances. None of our readers will doubt, however, the good wishes
which he offers up with patriotic feelings for the welfare of France.”

This burlesque note had been maturely studied. The last sentence might
be interpreted in favour of all parties. By this expedient, Aristide
devised a glorious return for himself on the morrow of battle, in the
shape of a laudatory article on the victors. On the following day he
showed himself to the whole town, with his arm in a sling. His mother,
frightened by the notice in the paper, hastily called upon him, but
he refused to show her his hand, and spoke with a bitterness which
enlightened the old woman.

“It won’t be anything,” she said in a reassuring and somewhat sarcastic
tone, as she was leaving. “You only want a little rest.”

It was no doubt owing to this pretended accident, and the sub-prefect’s
departure, that the “Independant” was not interfered with, like most of
the democratic papers of the departments.

The 4th day of the month proved comparatively quiet at Plassans. In the
evening there was a public demonstration which the mere appearance
of the gendarmes sufficed to disperse. A band of working-men came to
request Monsieur Garconnet to communicate the despatches he had received
from Paris, which the latter haughtily refused to do; as it retired
the band shouted: “Long live the Republic! Long live the Constitution!”
 After this, order was restored. The yellow drawing-room, after
commenting at some length on this innocent parade, concluded that
affairs were going on excellently.

The 5th and 6th were, however, more disquieting. Intelligence was
received of successive risings in small neighbouring towns; the
whole southern part of the department had taken up arms; La Palud and
Saint-Martin-de-Vaulx had been the first to rise, drawing after them
the villages of Chavanos, Nazeres, Poujols, Valqueyras and Vernoux. The
yellow drawing-room party was now becoming seriously alarmed. It felt
particularly uneasy at seeing Plassans isolated in the very midst of the
revolt. Bands of insurgents would certainly scour the country and cut
off all communications. Granoux announced, with a terrified look, that
the mayor was without any news. Some people even asserted that blood had
been shed at Marseilles, and that a formidable revolution had broken out
in Paris. Commander Sicardot, enraged at the cowardice of the bourgeois,
vowed he would die at the head of his men.

On Sunday the 7th the terror reached a climax. Already at six o’clock
the yellow drawing-room, where a sort of reactionary committee sat _en
permanence_, was crowded with pale, trembling men, who conversed in
undertones, as though they were in a chamber of death. It had been
ascertained during the day that a column of insurgents, about three
thousand strong, had assembled at Alboise, a big village not more than
three leagues away. It was true that this column had been ordered to
make for the chief town of the department, leaving Plassans on its left;
but the plan of campaign might at any time be altered; moreover, it
sufficed for these cowardly cits to know that there were insurgents a
few miles off, to make them feel the horny hands of the toilers already
tightened round their throats. They had had a foretaste of the revolt in
the morning; the few Republicans at Plassans, seeing that they would
be unable to make any determined move in the town, had resolved to join
their brethren of La Palud and Saint-Martin-de-Vaulx; the first group
had left at about eleven o’clock, by the Porte de Rome, shouting the
“Marseillaise” and smashing a few windows. Granoux had had one broken.
He mentioned the circumstance with stammerings of terror.

Meantime, the most acute anxiety agitated the yellow drawing-room. The
commander had sent his servant to obtain some information as to the
exact movements of the insurgents, and the others awaited this man’s
return, making the most astonishing surmises. They had a full meeting.
Roudier and Granoux, sinking back in their arm-chairs, exchanged the
most pitiable glances, whilst behind them moaned a terror-stricken group
of retired tradesmen. Vuillet, without appearing over scared, reflected
upon what precautions he should take to protect his shop and person; he
was in doubt whether he should hide himself in his garret or cellar,
and inclined towards the latter. For their part Pierre and the commander
walked up and down, exchanging a word ever and anon. The old oil-dealer
clung to this friend Sicardot as if to borrow a little courage from
him. He, who had been awaiting the crisis for such a long time, now
endeavoured to keep his countenance, in spite of the emotion which was
stifling him. As for the marquis, more spruce and smiling than usual, he
conversed in a corner with Felicite, who seemed very gay.

At last a ring came. The gentlemen started as if they had heard a
gun-shot. Dead silence reigned in the drawing-room when Felicite went to
open the door, towards which their pale, anxious faces were turned. Then
the commander’s servant appeared on the threshold, quite out of breath,
and said abruptly to his master: “Sir, the insurgents will be here in an
hour.”

This was a thunderbolt. They all started up, vociferating, and raising
their arms towards the ceiling. For several minutes it was impossible
to hear one’s self speak. The company surrounded the messenger,
overwhelming him with questions.

“Damnation!” the commander at length shouted, “don’t make such a row. Be
calm, or I won’t answer for anything.”

Everyone sank back in his chair again, heaving long-drawn sighs. They
then obtained a few particulars. The messenger had met the column at Les
Tulettes, and had hastened to return.

“There are at least three thousand of them,” said he. “They are marching
in battalions, like soldiers. I thought I caught sight of some prisoners
in their midst.”

“Prisoners!” cried the terrified bourgeois.

“No doubt,” the marquis interrupted in his shrill voice. “I’ve
heard that the insurgents arrest all persons who are known to have
conservative leanings.”

This information gave a finishing touch to the consternation of the
yellow drawing-room. A few bourgeois got up and stealthily made for the
door, reflecting that they had not too much time before them to gain a
place of safety.

The announcement of the arrests made by the Republicans appeared to
strike Felicite. She took the marquis aside and asked him: “What do
these men do with the people they arrest?”

“Why, they carry them off in their train,” Monsieur de Carnavant
replied. “They no doubt consider them excellent hostages.”

“Ah!” the old woman rejoined, in a strange tone.

Then she again thoughtfully watched the curious scene of panic around
her. The bourgeois gradually disappeared; soon there only remained
Vuillet and Roudier, whom the approaching danger inspired with some
courage. As for Granoux, he likewise remained in his corner, his legs
refusing to perform their office.

“Well, I like this better,” Sicardot remarked, as he observed the flight
of the other adherents. “Those cowards were exasperating me at last.
For more than two years they’ve been speaking of shooting all the
Republicans in the province, and to-day they wouldn’t even fire a
halfpenny cracker under their noses.”

Then he took up his hat and turned towards the door.

“Let’s see,” he continued, “time presses. Come, Rougon.”

Felicite, it seemed, had been waiting for this moment. She placed
herself between the door and her husband, who, for that matter, was not
particularly eager to follow the formidable Sicardot.

“I won’t have you go out,” she cried, feigning sudden despair. “I won’t
let you leave my side. Those scoundrels will kill you.”

The commander stopped in amazement.

“Hang it all!” he growled, “if the women are going to whine now--Come
along, Rougon!’

“No, no,” continued the old woman, affecting increase of terror, “he
sha’n’t follow you. I will hang on to his clothes and prevent him.”

The marquis, very much surprised at the scene, looked inquiringly at
Felicite. Was this really the woman who had just now been conversing so
merrily? What comedy was she playing? Pierre, meantime, seeing that his
wife wanted to detain him, deigned a determination to force his way out.

“I tell you you shall not go,” the old woman reiterated, as she clung
to one of his arms. And turning towards the commander, she said to him:
“How can you think of offering any resistance? They are three thousand
strong, and you won’t be able to collect a hundred men of any spirit.
You are rushing into the cannon’s mouth to no purpose.”

“Eh! that is our duty,” said Sicardot, impatiently.

Felicite burst into sobs.

“If they don’t kill him, they’ll make him a prisoner,” she continued,
looked fixedly at her husband. “Good heavens! What will become of me,
left alone in an abandoned town?”

“But,” exclaimed the commander, “we shall be arrested just the same if
we allow the insurgents to enter the town unmolested. I believe that
before an hour has elapsed the mayor and all the functionaries will be
prisoners, to say nothing of your husband and the frequenters of this
drawing-room.”

The marquis thought he saw a vague smile play about Felicite’s lips as
she answered, with a look of dismay: “Do you really think so?”

“Of course!” replied Sicardot; “the Republicans are not so stupid as
to leave enemies behind them. To-morrow Plassans will be emptied of its
functionaries and good citizens.”

At these words, which she had so cleverly provoked, Felicite released
her husband’s arms. Pierre no longer looked as if he wanted to go out.
Thanks to his wife, whose skilful tactics escaped him, however, and
whose secret complicity he never for a moment suspected, he had just
lighted on a whole plan of campaign.

“We must deliberate before taking any decision,” he said to the
commander. “My wife is perhaps not wrong in accusing us of forgetting
the true interests of our families.”

“No, indeed, madame is not wrong,” cried Granoux, who had been listening
to Felicite’s terrified cries with the rapture of a coward.

Thereupon the commander energetically clapped his hat on his head, and
said in a clear voice: “Right or wrong, it matters little to me. I am
commander of the National Guard. I ought to have been at the mayor’s
before now. Confess that you are afraid, that you leaven me to act
alone. . . . Well, good-night.”

He was just turning the handle of the door, when Rougon forcibly
detained him.

“Listen, Sicardot,” he said.

He drew him into a corner, on seeing Vuillet prick up his big ears. And
there he explained to him, in an undertone, that it would be a good plan
to leave a few energetic men behind the insurgents, so as to restore
order in the town. And as the fierce commander obstinately refused to
desert his post, Pierre offered to place himself at the head of such a
reserve corps.

“Give me the key of the cart-shed in which the arms and ammunition are
kept,” he said to him, “and order some fifty of our men not to stir
until I call for them.”

Sicardot ended by consenting to these prudent measures. He entrusted
Pierre with the key of the cart-shed, convinced as he was of the
inexpediency of present resistance, but still desirous of sacrificing
himself.

During this conversation, the marquis had whispered a few words in
Felicite’s ear with a knowing look. He complimented her, no doubt, on
her theatrical display. The old woman could not repress a faint smile.
But, as Sicardot shook hands with Rougon and prepared to go, she again
asked him with an air of fright: “Are you really determined to leave
us?”

“It is not for one of Napoleon’s old soldiers to let himself be
intimidated by the mob,” he replied.

He was already on the landing, when Granoux hurried after him, crying:
“If you go to the mayor’s tell him what’s going on. I’ll just run home
to my wife to reassure her.”

Then Felicite bent towards the marquis’s ear, and whispered with
discreet gaiety: “Upon my word, it is best that devil of a commander
should go and get himself arrested. He’s far too zealous.”

However, Rougon brought Granoux back to the drawing-room. Roudier, who
had quietly followed the scene from his corner, making signs in support
of the proposed measures of prudence, got up and joined them. When the
marquis and Vuillet had likewise risen, Pierre began:

“Now that we are alone, among peaceable men, I propose that we should
conceal ourselves so as to avoid certain arrest, and be at liberty as
soon as ours again becomes the stronger party.”

Granoux was ready to embrace him. Roudier and Vuillet breathed more
easily.

“I shall want you shortly, gentlemen,” the oil-dealer continued, with
an important air. “It is to us that the honour of restoring order in
Plassans is reserved.”

“You may rely upon us!” cried Vuillet, with an enthusiasm which
disturbed Felicite.

Time was pressing. These singular defenders of Plassans, who hid
themselves the better to protect the town, hastened away, to bury
themselves in some hole or other. Pierre, on being left alone with
his wife, advised her not to make the mistake of barricading herself
indoors, but to reply, if anybody came to question her, that he, Pierre,
had simply gone on a short journey. And as she acted the simpleton,
feigning terror and asking what all this was coming to, he replied
abruptly: “It’s nothing to do with you. Let me manage our affairs alone.
They’ll get on all the better.”

A few minutes later he was rapidly threading his way along the Rue de
la Banne. On reaching the Cours Sauvaire, he saw a band of armed workmen
coming out of the old quarter and singing the “Marseillaise.”

“The devil!” he thought. “It was quite time, indeed; here’s the town
itself in revolt now!”

He quickened his steps in the direction of the Porte de Rome. Cold
perspiration came over him while he waited there for the dilatory keeper
to open the gate. Almost as soon as he set foot on the high road, he
perceived in the moonlight at the other end of the Faubourg the column
of insurgents, whose gun barrels gleamed like white flames. So it was
at a run that he dived into the Impasse Saint-Mittre, and reached his
mother’s house, which he had not visited for many a long year.



CHAPTER IV

Antoine Macquart had returned to Plassans after the fall of the first
Napoleon. He had had the incredible good fortune to escape all the
final murderous campaigns of the Empire. He had moved from barracks
to barracks, dragging on his brutifying military life. This mode of
existence brought his natural vices to full development. His idleness
became deliberate; his intemperance, which brought him countless
punishments, became, to his mind, a veritable religious duty. But that
which above all made him the worst of scapegraces was the supercilious
disdain which he entertained for the poor devils who had to earn their
bread.

“I’ve got money waiting for me at home,” he often said to his comrades;
“when I’ve served my time, I shall be able to live like a gentleman.”

This belief, together with his stupid ignorance, prevented him from
rising even to the grade of corporal.

Since his departure he had never spent a day’s furlough at Plassans, his
brother having invented a thousand pretexts to keep him at a distance.
He was therefore completely ignorant of the adroit manner in which
Pierre had got possession of their mother’s fortune. Adelaide, with her
profound indifference, did not even write to him three times to tell him
how she was going on. The silence which generally greeted his numerous
requests for money did not awaken the least suspicion in him; Pierre’s
stinginess sufficed to explain the difficulty he experienced in securing
from time to time a paltry twenty-franc piece. This, however, only
increased his animosity towards his brother, who left him to languish
in military service in spite of his formal promise to purchase his
discharge. He vowed to himself that on his return home he would no
longer submit like a child, but would flatly demand his share of the
fortune to enable him to live as he pleased. In the diligence which
conveyed him home he dreamed of a delightful life of idleness. The
shattering of his castles in the air was terrible. When he reached
the Faubourg, and could no longer even recognise the Fouques’ plot of
ground, he was stupefied. He was compelled to ask for his mother’s new
address. There a terrible scene occurred. Adelaide calmly informed him
of the sale of the property. He flew into a rage, and even raised his
hand against her.

The poor woman kept repeating: “Your brother has taken everything; it is
understood that he will take care of you.”

At last he left her and ran off to see Pierre, whom he had previously
informed of his return, and who was prepared to receive him in such a
way as to put an end to the matter at the first word of abuse.

“Listen,” the oil-dealer said to him, affecting distant coldness; “don’t
rouse my anger, or I’ll turn you out. As a matter of fact, I don’t know
you. We don’t bear the same name. It’s quite misfortune enough for me
that my mother misconducted herself, without having her offspring coming
here and insulting me. I was well disposed towards you, but since you
are insolent I shall do nothing for you, absolutely nothing.”

Antoine was almost choking with rage.

“And what about my money,” he cried; “will you give it up, you thief, or
shall I have to drag you before the judges?”

Pierre shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ve got no money of yours,” he replied, more calmly than ever. “My
mother disposed of her fortune as she thought proper. I am certainly not
going to poke my nose into her business. I willingly renounced all hope
of inheritance. I am quite safe from your foul accusations.”

And as his brother, exasperated by this composure, and not knowing what
to think, muttered something, Pierre thrust Adelaide’s receipt under his
nose. The reading of this scrap of paper completed Antoine’s dismay.

“Very well,” he said, in a calmer voice, “I know now what I have to do.”

The truth was, however, he did not know what to do. His inability to hit
upon any immediate expedient for obtaining his share of the money and
satisfying his desire of revenge increased his fury. He went back to
his mother and subjected her to a disgraceful cross-examination. The
wretched woman could do nothing but again refer him to Pierre.

“Do you think you are going to make me run to and fro like a shuttle?”
 he cried, insolently. “I’ll soon find out which of you two has the
hoard. You’ve already squandered it, perhaps?”

And making an allusion to her former misconduct he asked her if there
were still not some low fellow to whom she gave her last sous? He did
not even spare his father, that drunkard Macquart, as he called him,
who must have lived on her till the day of his death, and who left his
children in poverty. The poor woman listened with a stupefied air; big
tears rolled down her cheeks. She defended herself with the terror of
a child, replying to her son’s questions as though he were a judge; she
swore that she was living respectably, and reiterated with emphasis that
she had never had a sou of the money, that Pierre had taken everything.
Antoine almost came to believe it at last.

“Ah! the scoundrel!” he muttered; “that’s why he wouldn’t purchase my
discharge.”

He had to sleep at his mother’s house, on a straw mattress flung in
a corner. He had returned with his pockets perfectly empty, and was
exasperated at finding himself destitute of resources, abandoned like
a dog in the streets, without hearth or home, while his brother, as he
thought, was in a good way of business, and living on the fat of
the land. As he had no money to buy clothes with, he went out on the
following day in his regimental cap and trousers. He had the good
fortune to find, at the bottom of a cupboard, an old yellowish velveteen
jacket, threadbare and patched, which had belonged to Macquart. In this
strange attire he walked about the town, relating his story to everyone,
and demanding justice.

The people whom he went to consult received him with a contempt which
made him shed tears of rage. Provincial folks are inexorable towards
fallen families. In the general opinion it was only natural that the
Rougon-Macquarts should seek to devour each other; the spectators,
instead of separating them, were more inclined to urge them on. Pierre,
however, was at that time already beginning to purify himself of his
early stains. People laughed at his roguery; some even went so far as to
say that he had done quite right, if he really had taken possession of
the money, and that it would be a good lesson to the dissolute folks of
the town.

Antoine returned home discouraged. A lawyer had advised him, in a
scornful manner, to wash his dirty linen at home, though not until he
had skilfully ascertained whether Antoine possessed the requisite
means to carry on a lawsuit. According to this man, the case was very
involved, the pleadings would be very lengthy, and success was doubtful.
Moreover, it would require money, and plenty of it.

Antoine treated his mother yet more harshly that evening. Not knowing
on whom else to wreak his vengeance, he repeated his accusation of the
previous day; he kept the wretched woman up till midnight, trembling
with shame and fright. Adelaide having informed him that Pierre made
her an allowance, he now felt certain that his brother had pocketed
the fifty thousand francs. But, in his irritation, he still affected to
doubt it, and did not cease to question the poor woman, again and again
reproaching her with misconduct.

Antoine soon found out that, alone and without resources, he could not
successfully carry on a contest with his brother. He then endeavoured
to gain Adelaide to his cause; an accusation lodged by her might have
serious consequences. But, at Antoine’s first suggestion of it, the
poor, lazy, lethargic creature firmly refused to bring trouble on her
eldest son.

“I am an unhappy woman,” she stammered; “it is quite right of you to get
angry. But I should feel too much remorse if I caused one of my sons to
be sent to prison. No; I’d rather let you beat me.”

He saw that he would get nothing but tears out of her, and contented
himself with saying that she was justly punished, and that he had no
pity for her. In the evening, upset by the continual quarrels which her
son had sought with her, Adelaide had one of those nervous attacks which
kept her as rigid as if she had been dead. The young man threw her on
her bed, and then began to rummage the house to see if the wretched
woman had any savings hidden away. He found about forty francs. He took
possession of them, and, while his mother still lay there, rigid and
scarce able to breathe, he quietly took the diligence to Marseilles.

He had just bethought himself that Mouret, the journeyman hatter who had
married his sister Ursule, must be indignant at Pierre’s roguery, and
would no doubt be willing to defend his wife’s interests. But he did
not find in him the man he expected. Mouret plainly told him that he had
become accustomed to look upon Ursule as an orphan, and would have no
contentions with her family at any price. Their affairs were prospering.
Antoine was received so coldly that he hastened to take the diligence
home again. But, before leaving, he was anxious to revenge himself for
the secret contempt which he read in the workman’s eyes; and, observing
that his sister appeared rather pale and dejected, he said to her
husband, in a slyly cruel way, as he took his departure: “Have a care,
my sister was always sickly, and I find her much changed for the worse;
you may lose her altogether.”

The tears which rushed to Mouret’s eyes convinced him that he had
touched a sore wound. But then those work-people made too great a
display of their happiness.

When he was back again in Plassans, Antoine became the more menacing
from the conviction that his hands were tied. During a whole month he
was seen all over the place. He paraded the streets, recounting his
story to all who would listen to him. Whenever he succeeded in extorting
a franc from his mother, he would drink it away at some tavern, where he
would revile his brother, declaring that the rascal should shortly hear
from him. In places like these, the good-natured fraternity which reigns
among drunkards procured him a sympathetic audience; all the scum of the
town espoused his cause, and poured forth bitter imprecations against
that rascal Rougon, who left a brave soldier to starve; the discussion
generally terminating with an indiscriminate condemnation of the rich.
Antoine, the better to revenge himself, continued to march about in his
regimental cap and trousers and his old yellow velvet jacket, although
his mother had offered to purchase some more becoming clothes for him.
But no; he preferred to make a display of his rags, and paraded them on
Sundays in the most frequented parts of the Cours Sauvaire.

One of his most exquisite pleasures was to pass Pierre’s shop ten
times a day. He would enlarge the holes in his jacket with his fingers,
slacken his step, and sometimes stand talking in front of the door, so
as to remain longer in the street. On these occasions, too, he would
bring one of his drunken friends and gossip to him; telling him about
the theft of the fifty thousand francs, accompanying his narrative
with loud insults and menaces, which could be heard by everyone in
the street, and taking particular care that his abuse should reach the
furthest end of the shop.

“He’ll finish by coming to beg in front of our house,” Felicite used to
say in despair.

The vain little woman suffered terribly from this scandal. She even at
this time felt some regret at ever having married Rougon; his family
connections were so objectionable. She would have given all she had in
the world to prevent Antoine from parading his rags. But Pierre, who
was maddened by his brother’s conduct, would not allow his name to be
mentioned. When his wife tried to convince him that it would perhaps
be better to free himself from all annoyance by giving Antoine a little
money: “No, nothing; not a sou,” he cried with rage. “Let him starve!”

He confessed, however, at last that Antoine’s demeanour was becoming
intolerable. One day, Felicite, desiring to put an end to it, called to
“that man,” as she styled him with a disdainful curl on her lip. “That
man” was in the act of calling her a foul name in the middle of the
street, where he stood with one of his friends, even more ragged than
himself. They were both drunk.

“Come, they want us in there,” said Antoine to his companion in a
jeering tone.

But Felicite drew back, muttering: “It’s you alone we wish to speak to.”

“Bah!” the young man replied, “my friend’s a decent fellow. You needn’t
mind him hearing. He’ll be my witness.”

The witness sank heavily on a chair. He did not take off his hat, but
began to stare around him, with the maudlin, stupid grin of drunkards
and coarse people who know that they are insolent. Felicite was so
ashamed that she stood in front of the shop door in order that
people outside might not see what strange company she was receiving.
Fortunately her husband came to the rescue. A violent quarrel ensued
between him and his brother. The latter, after stammering insults,
reiterated his old grievances twenty times over. At last he even began
to cry, and his companion was near following his example. Pierre had
defended himself in a very dignified manner.

“Look here,” he said at last, “you’re unfortunate, and I pity you.
Although you have cruelly insulted me, I can’t forget that we are
children of the same mother. If I give you anything, however, you must
understand I give it you out of kindness, and not from fear. Would you
like a hundred francs to help you out of your difficulties?”

This abrupt offer of a hundred francs dazzled Antoine’s companion. He
looked at the other with an air of delight, which clearly signified: “As
the gentleman offers a hundred francs, it is time to leave off
abusing him.” But Antoine was determined to speculate on his brother’s
favourable disposition. He asked him whether he took him for a fool; it
was his share, ten thousand francs, that he wanted.

“You’re wrong, you’re wrong,” stuttered his friend.

At last, as Pierre, losing all patience, was threatening to turn
them both out, Antoine lowered his demands and contented himself with
claiming one thousand francs. They quarrelled for another quarter of
an hour over this amount. Finally, Felicite interfered. A crowd was
gathering round the shop.

“Listen,” she said, excitedly; “my husband will give you two hundred
francs. I’ll undertake to buy you a suit of clothes, and hire a room for
a year for you.”

Rougon got angry at this. But Antoine’s comrade cried, with transports
of delight: “All right, it’s settled, then; my friend accepts.”

Antoine did, in fact, declare, in a surly way, that he would accept.
He felt he would not be able to get any more. It was arranged that the
money and clothes should be sent to him on the following day, and that a
few days later, as soon as Felicite should have found a room for him, he
would take up his quarters there. As they were leaving, the young
man’s sottish companion became as respectful as he had previously been
insolent. He bowed to the company more than a dozen times, in an awkward
and humble manner, muttering many indistinct thanks, as if the Rougons’
gifts had been intended for himself.

A week later Antoine occupied a large room in the old quarter, in which
Felicite, exceeding her promises, had placed a bed, a table, and some
chairs, on the young man formally undertaking not to molest them in
future. Adelaide felt no regret at her son leaving her; the short stay
he had made with her had condemned her to bread and water for more than
three months. However, Antoine had soon eaten and drunk the two hundred
francs he received from Pierre. He never for a moment thought of
investing them in some little business which would have helped him to
live. When he was again penniless, having no trade, and being, moreover,
unwilling to work, he again sought to slip a hand into the Rougons’
purse. Circumstances were not the same as before, however, and he failed
to intimidate them. Pierre even took advantage of this opportunity to
turn him out, and forbade him ever to set foot in his house again.
It was of no avail for Antoine to repeat his former accusations. The
townspeople, who were acquainted with his brother’s munificence from
the publicity which Felicite had given to it, declared him to be in
the wrong, and called him a lazy, idle fellow. Meantime his hunger was
pressing. He threatened to turn smuggler like his father, and perpetrate
some crime which would dishonour his family. At this the Rougons
shrugged their shoulders; they knew he was too much of a coward to risk
his neck. At last, blindly enraged against his relatives in particular
and society in general, Antoine made up his mind to seek some work.

In a tavern of the Faubourg he made the acquaintance of a basket-maker
who worked at home. He offered to help him. In a short time he learnt to
plait baskets and hampers--a coarse and poorly-paid kind of labour which
finds a ready market. He was very soon able to work on his own account.
This trade pleased him, as it was not over laborious. He could still
indulge his idleness, and that was what he chiefly cared for. He would
only take to his work when he could no longer do otherwise; then he
would hurriedly plait a dozen baskets and go and sell them in the
market. As long as the money lasted he lounged about, visiting all
the taverns and digesting his drink in the sunshine. Then, when he had
fasted a whole day, he would once more take up his osier with a low
growl and revile the wealthy who lived in idleness. The trade of a
basket-maker, when followed in such a manner, is a thankless one.
Antoine’s work would not have sufficed to pay for his drinking bouts
if he had not contrived a means of procuring his osier at low cost. He
never bought any at Plassans, but used to say that he went each month to
purchase a stock at a neighbouring town, where he pretended it was
sold cheaper. The truth, however, was that he supplied himself from
the osier-grounds of the Viorne on dark nights. A rural policeman even
caught him once in the very act, and Antoine underwent a few days’
imprisonment in consequence. It was from that time forward that he posed
in the town as a fierce Republican. He declared that he had been quietly
smoking his pipe by the riverside when the rural policeman arrested him.
And he added: “They would like to get me out of the way because they
know what my opinions are. But I’m not afraid of them, those rich
scoundrels.”

At last, at the end of ten years of idleness, Antoine considered that
he had been working too hard. His constant dream was to devise some
expedient by which he might live at his ease without having to do
anything. His idleness would never have rested content with bread and
water; he was not like certain lazy persons who are willing to put up
with hunger provided they can keep their hands in their pockets. He
liked good feeding and nothing to do. He talked at one time of taking a
situation as servant in some nobleman’s house in the Saint-Marc quarter.
But one of his friends, a groom, frightened him by describing the
exacting ways of his masters. Finally Macquart, sick of his baskets,
and seeing the time approach when he would be compelled to purchase
the requisite osier, was on the point of selling himself as an army
substitute and resuming his military life, which he preferred a thousand
times to that of an artisan, when he made the acquaintance of a woman,
an acquaintance which modified his plans.

Josephine Gavaudan, who was known throughout the town by the familiar
diminutive of Fine, was a tall, strapping wench of about thirty. With
a square face of masculine proportions, and a few terribly long hairs
about her chin and lips, she was cited as a doughty woman, one who could
make the weight of her fist felt. Her broad shoulders and huge arms
consequently inspired the town urchins with marvellous respect; and they
did not even dare to smile at her moustache. Notwithstanding all this,
Fine had a faint voice, weak and clear like that of a child. Those who
were acquainted with her asserted that she was as gentle as a lamb, in
spite of her formidable appearance. As she was very hard-working, she
might have put some money aside if she had not had a partiality for
liqueurs. She adored aniseed, and very often had to be carried home on
Sunday evenings.

On week days she would toil with the stubbornness of an animal. She had
three or four different occupations; she sold fruit or boiled chestnuts
in the market, according to the season; went out charring for a few
well-to-do people; washed up plates and dishes at houses when parties
were given, and employed her spare time in mending old chairs. She was
more particularly known in the town as a chair-mender. In the South
large numbers of straw-bottomed chairs are used.

Antoine Macquart formed an acquaintance with Fine at the market. When he
went to sell his baskets in the winter he would stand beside the stove
on which she cooled her chestnuts and warm himself. He was astonished
at her courage, he who was frightened of the least work. By degrees he
discerned, beneath the apparent roughness of this strapping creature,
signs of timidity and kindliness. He frequently saw her give handfuls of
chestnuts to the ragged urchins who stood in ecstasy round her smoking
pot. At other times, when the market inspector hustled her, she very
nearly began to cry, apparently forgetting all about her heavy fists.
Antoine at last decided that she was exactly the woman he wanted. She
would work for both and he would lay down the law at home. She would
be his beast of burden, an obedient, indefatigable animal. As for her
partiality for liqueurs, he regarded this as quite natural. After well
weighing the advantages of such an union, he declared himself to Fine,
who was delighted with his proposal. No man had ever yet ventured to
propose to her. Though she was told that Antoine was the most worthless
of vagabonds, she lacked the courage to refuse matrimony. The very
evening of the nuptials the young man took up his abode in his wife’s
lodgings in the Rue Civadiere, near the market. These lodgings,
consisting of three rooms, were much more comfortably furnished than his
own, and he gave a sigh of satisfaction as he stretched himself out on
the two excellent mattresses which covered the bedstead.

Everything went on very well for the first few days. Fine attended to
her various occupations as in the past; Antoine, seized with a sort of
marital self-pride which astonished even himself, plaited in one week
more baskets than he had ever before done in a month. On the first
Sunday, however, war broke out. The couple had a goodly sum of money in
the house, and they spent it freely. During the night, when they were
both drunk, they beat each other outrageously, without being able to
remember on the morrow how it was that the quarrel had commenced. They
had remained on most affectionate terms until about ten o’clock, when
Antoine had begun to beat Fine brutally, whereupon the latter, growing
exasperated and forgetting her meekness, had given him back as much as
she received. She went to work again bravely on the following day, as
though nothing had happened. But her husband, with sullen rancour,
rose late and passed the remainder of the day smoking his pipe in the
sunshine.

From that time forward the Macquarts adopted the kind of life which
they were destined to lead in the future. It became, as it were, tacitly
understood between them that the wife should toil and moil to keep her
husband. Fine, who had an instinctive liking for work, did not object
to this. She was as patient as a saint, provided she had had no drink,
thought it quite natural that her husband should remain idle, and even
strove to spare him the most trifling labour. Her little weakness,
aniseed, did not make her vicious, but just. On the evenings when
she had forgotten herself in the company of a bottle of her favourite
liqueur, if Antoine tried to pick a quarrel with her, she would set
upon him with might and main, reproaching him with his idleness and
ingratitude. The neighbours grew accustomed to the disturbances which
periodically broke out in the couple’s room. The two battered each other
conscientiously; the wife slapped like a mother chastising a naughty
child; but the husband, treacherous and spiteful as he was, measured his
blows, and, on several occasions, very nearly crippled the unfortunate
woman.

“You’ll be in a fine plight when you’ve broken one of my arms or legs,”
 she would say to him. “Who’ll keep you then, you lazy fellow?”

Excepting for these turbulent scenes, Antoine began to find his new mode
of existence quite endurable. He was well clothed, and ate and drank his
fill. He had laid aside the basket work altogether; sometimes, when he
was feeling over-bored, he would resolve to plait a dozen baskets for
the next market day; but very often he did not even finish the first
one. He kept, under a couch, a bundle of osier which he did not use up
in twenty years.

The Macquarts had three children, two girls and a boy. Lisa,[*] born
the first, in 1827, one year after the marriage, remained but little
at home. She was a fine, big, healthy, full-blooded child, greatly
resembling her mother. She did not, however, inherit the latter’s animal
devotion and endurance. Macquart had implanted in her a most decided
longing for ease and comfort. While she was a child she would consent to
work for a whole day in return for a cake. When she was scarcely seven
years old, the wife of the postmaster, who was a neighbour of the
Macquarts, took a liking to her. She made a little maid of her. And when
she lost her husband in 1839, and went to live in Paris, she took Lisa
with her. The parents had almost given her their daughter.

     [*] The pork-butcher’s wife in _Le Ventre de Paris_ (_The
     Fat and the Thin_).

The second girl, Gervaise,[*] born the following year, was a cripple
from birth. Her right thigh was smaller than the left and showed signs
of curvature, a curious hereditary result of the brutality which her
mother had to endure during her fierce drunken brawls with Macquart.
Gervaise remained puny, and Fine, observing her pallor and weakness,
put her on a course of aniseed, under the pretext that she required
something to strengthen her. But the poor child became still more
emaciated. She was a tall, lank girl, whose frocks, invariably too
large, hung round her as if they had nothing under them. Above a
deformed and puny body she had a sweet little doll-like head, a tiny
round face, pale and exquisitely delicate. Her infirmity almost became
graceful. Her body swayed gently at every step with a sort of rhythmical
swing.

     [*] The chief female character in _L’Assommoir_ (_The Dramshop_).

The Macquarts’ son, Jean,[*] was born three years later. He was a robust
child, in no respect recalling Gervaise. Like the eldest girl, he took
after his mother, without having any physical resemblance to her. He
was the first to import into the Rougon-Macquart stock a fat face with
regular features, which showed all the coldness of a grave yet not
over-intelligent nature. This boy grew up with the determination of
some day making an independent position for himself. He attended school
diligently, and tortured his dull brain to force a little arithmetic and
spelling into it. After that he became an apprentice, repeating much
the same efforts with a perseverance that was the more meritorious as it
took him a whole day to learn what others acquired in an hour.

     [*] Figures prominently in _La Terre_ (_The Earth_) and _La
     Debacle_ (_The Downfall_).

As long as these poor little things remained a burden to the house,
Antoine grumbled. They were useless mouths that lessened his own share.
He vowed, like his brother, that he would have no more children, those
greedy creatures who bring their parents to penury. It was something to
hear him bemoan his lot when they sat five at table, and the mother gave
the best morsels to Jean, Lisa, and Gervaise.

“That’s right,” he would growl; “stuff them, make them burst!”

Whenever Fine bought a garment or a pair of boots for them, he would
sulk for days together. Ah! if he had only known, he would never had had
that pack of brats, who compelled him to limit his smoking to four sous’
worth of tobacco a day, and too frequently obliged him to eat stewed
potatoes for dinner, a dish which he heartily detested.

Later on, however, as soon as Jean and Gervaise earned their first
francs, he found some good in children after all. Lisa was no longer
there. He lived upon the earnings of the two others without compunction,
as he had already lived upon their mother. It was a well-planned
speculation on his part. As soon as little Gervaise was eight years old,
she went to a neighbouring dealer’s to crack almonds; she there earned
ten sous a day, which her father pocketed right royally, without even
a question from Fine as to what became of the money. The young girl was
next apprenticed to a laundress, and as soon as she received two francs
a day for her work, the two francs strayed in a similar manner into
Macquart’s hands. Jean, who had learnt the trade of a carpenter, was
likewise despoiled on pay-days, whenever Macquart succeeded in catching
him before he had handed the money to his mother. If the money escaped
Macquart, which sometimes happened, he became frightfully surly. He
would glare at his wife and children for a whole week, picking a quarrel
for nothing, although he was, as yet, ashamed to confess the real cause
of his irritations. On the next pay-day, however, he would station
himself on the watch, and as soon as he had succeeded in pilfering the
youngster’s earnings, he disappeared for days together.

Gervaise, beaten and brought up in the streets among all the lads of the
neighbourhood, became a mother when she was fourteen years of age. The
father of her child was not eighteen years old. He was a journeyman
tanner named Lantier. At first Macquart was furious, but he calmed
down somewhat when he learnt that Lantier’s mother, a worthy woman, was
willing to take charge of the child. He kept Gervaise, however; she was
then already earning twenty-five sous a day, and he therefore avoided
all question of marriage. Four years later she had a second child, which
was likewise taken in by Lantier’s mother. This time Macquart shut his
eyes altogether. And when Fine timidly suggested that it was time to
come to some understanding with the tanner, in order to end a state of
things which made people chatter, he flatly declared that his daughter
should not leave him, and that he would give her to her lover later on,
“when he was worthy of her, and had enough money to furnish a home.”

This was a fine time for Antoine Macquart. He dressed like a gentleman,
in frock-coats and trousers of the finest cloth. Cleanly shaved, and
almost fat, he was no longer the emaciated ragged vagabond who had been
wont to frequent the taverns. He dropped into cafes, read the papers,
and strolled on the Cours Sauvaire. He played the gentleman as long as
he had any money in his pocket. At times of impecuniosity he remained at
home, exasperated at being kept in his hovel and prevented from taking
his customary cup of coffee. On such occasions he would reproach the
whole human race with his poverty, making himself ill with rage and
envy, until Fine, out of pity, would often give him the last silver coin
in the house so that he might spend his evening at the cafe. This dear
fellow was fiercely selfish. Gervaise, who brought home as much as sixty
francs a month, wore only thin cotton frocks, while he had black satin
waistcoats made for him by one of the best tailors in Plassans.

Jean, the big lad who earned three or four francs a day, was perhaps
robbed even more impudently. The cafe where his father passed entire
days was just opposite his master’s workshop, and while he had plane or
saw in hand he could see “Monsieur” Macquart on the other side of the
way, sweetening his coffee or playing piquet with some petty annuitant.
It was his money that the lazy old fellow was gambling away. He, Jean,
never stepped inside a cafe, he never had so much as five sous to pay
for a drink. Antoine treated him like a little girl, never leaving him a
centime, and always demanding an exact account of the manner in which he
had employed his time. If the unfortunate lad, led away by some of
his mates, wasted a day somewhere in the country, on the banks of the
Viorne, or on the slopes of Garrigues, his father would storm and raise
his hand, and long bear him a grudge on account of the four francs less
that he received at the end of the fortnight. He thus held his son in
a state of dependence, sometimes even looking upon the sweethearts whom
the young carpenter courted as his own. Several of Gervaise’s friends
used to come to the Macquarts’ house, work-girls from sixteen to
eighteen years of age, bold and boisterous girls who, on certain
evenings, filled the room with youth and gaiety. Poor Jean, deprived of
all pleasure, ever kept at home by the lack of money, looked at these
girls with longing eyes; but the childish life which he was compelled
to lead had implanted invincible shyness in him; in playing with his
sister’s friends, he was hardly bold enough to touch them with the tips
of his fingers. Macquart used to shrug his shoulders with pity.

“What a simpleton!” he would mutter, with an air of ironical
superiority.

And it was he who would kiss the girls, when his wife’s back was turned.
He carried his attentions even further with a little laundress whom Jean
pursued rather more earnestly than the others. One fine evening he stole
her almost from his arms. The old rogue prided himself on his gallantry.

There are some men who live upon their mistresses. Antoine Macquart
lived on his wife and children with as much shamelessness and impudence.
He did not feel the least compunction in pillaging the home and going
out to enjoy himself when the house was bare. He still assumed a
supercilious air, returning from the cafe only to rail against the
poverty and wretchedness that awaited him at home. He found the dinner
detestable, he called Gervaise a blockhead, and declared that Jean would
never be a man. Immersed in his own selfish indulgence, he rubbed his
hands whenever he had eaten the best piece in the dish; and then he
smoked his pipe, puffing slowly, while the two poor children, overcome
with fatigue, went to sleep with their heads resting on the table.
Thus Macquart passed his days in lazy enjoyment. It seemed to him quite
natural that he should be kept in idleness like a girl, to sprawl about
on the benches of some tavern, or stroll in the cool of the day along
the Cours or the Mail. At last he went so far as to relate his amorous
escapades in the presence of his son, who listened with glistening
eyes. The children never protested, accustomed as they were to see their
mother humble herself before her husband.

Fine, that strapping woman who drubbed him soundly when they were both
intoxicated, always trembled before him when she was sober, and allowed
him to rule despotically at home. He robbed her in the night of the
coppers which she had earned during the day at the market, but she
never dared to protest, except by veiled rebukes. Sometimes, when he had
squandered the week’s money in advance, he accused her, poor thing, who
worked herself to death, of being stupid and not knowing how to manage.
Fine, as gentle as a lamb, replied, in her soft, clear voice, which
contrasted so strangely with her big figure, that she was no longer
twenty years old, and that money was becoming hard to earn. In order
to console herself, she would buy a pint of aniseed, and drink little
glassfuls of it with her daughter of an evening, after Antoine had gone
back to the cafe. That was their dissipation. Jean went to bed, while
the two women remained at the table, listening attentively in order to
remove the bottle and glasses at the first sound.

When Macquart was late, they often became intoxicated by the many “nips”
 they thus thoughtlessly imbibed. Stupefied and gazing at each other
with vague smiles, this mother and daughter would end by stuttering.
Red patches appeared on Gervaise’s cheeks; her delicate doll-like face
assumed a look of maudlin beatitude. Nothing could be more heart-rending
than to see this wretched, pale child, aglow with drink and wearing the
idiotic smile of a confirmed sot about her moist lips. Fine, huddled
up on her chair, became heavy and drowsy. They sometimes forgot to keep
watch, or even lacked the strength to remove the bottle and glasses when
Antoine’s footsteps were heard on the stairs. On these occasions
blows were freely exchanged among the Macquarts. Jean had to get up
to separate his father and mother and make his sister go to bed, as
otherwise she would have slept on the floor.

Every political party numbers its grotesques and its villains. Antoine
Macquart, devoured by envy and hatred, and meditating revenge against
society in general, welcomed the Republic as a happy era when he would
be allowed to fill his pockets from his neighbour’s cash-box, and even
strangle the neighbour if the latter manifested any displeasure.
His cafe life and all the newspaper articles he had read without
understanding them had made him a terrible ranter who enunciated the
strangest of political theories. It is necessary to have heard one of
those malcontents who ill digest what they read, haranguing the company
in some provincial taproom, in order to conceive the degree of hateful
folly at which Macquart had arrived. As he talked a good deal, had
seen active service, and was naturally regarded as a man of energy and
spirit, he was much sought after and listened to by simpletons. Although
he was not the chief of any party, he had succeeded in collecting
round him a small group of working-men who took his jealous ravings for
expressions of honest and conscientious indignation.

Directly after the Revolution of February ‘48, he persuaded himself that
Plassans was his own, and, as he strolled along the streets, the
jeering manner in which he regarded the little retail traders who stood
terrified at their shop doors clearly signified: “Our day has come,
my little lambs; we are going to lead you a fine dance!” He had grown
insolent beyond belief; he acted the part of a victorious despot to
such a degree that he ceased to pay for his drinks at the cafe, and the
landlord, a simpleton who trembled whenever Antoine rolled his eyes,
dared not present his bill. The number of cups of coffee he consumed
during this period was incalculable; sometimes he invited his friends,
and shouted for hours together that the people were dying of hunger, and
that the rich ought to share their wealth with them. He himself would
never have given a sou to a beggar.

That which chiefly converted him into a fierce Republican was the hope
of at last being able to revenge himself on the Rougons, who had openly
ranged themselves on the side of the reactionary party. Ah, what a
triumph if he could only hold Pierre and Felicite at his mercy! Although
the latter had not succeeded over well in business, they had at
last become gentlefolks, while he, Macquart, had still remained a
working-man. That exasperated him. Perhaps he was still more mortified
because one of their sons was a barrister, another a doctor, and the
third a clerk, while his son Jean merely worked at a carpenter’s shop,
and his daughter Gervaise at a washerwoman’s. When he compared the
Macquarts with the Rougons, he was still more ashamed to see his wife
selling chestnuts in the market, and mending the greasy old straw-seated
chairs of the neighbourhood in the evening. Pierre, after all, was but
his brother, and had no more right than himself to live fatly on his
income. Moreover, this brother was actually playing the gentleman with
money stolen from him. Whenever Macquart touched upon this subject, he
became fiercely enraged; he clamoured for hours together, incessantly
repeating his old accusations, and never wearying of exclaiming: “If
my brother was where he ought to be, I should be the moneyed man at the
present time!”

And when anyone asked him where his brother ought to be, he would reply,
“At the galleys!” in a formidable voice.

His hatred further increased when the Rougons had gathered the
Conservatives round them, and thus acquired a certain influence in
Plassans. The famous yellow drawing-room became, in his hare-brained
chatter at the cafe, a cave of bandits, an assembly of villains who
every evening swore on their daggers that they would murder the people.
In order to incite the starvelings against Pierre, Macquart went so far
as to circulate a report that the retired oil-dealer was not so poor as
he pretended, but that he concealed his treasures through avarice and
fear of robbery. His tactics thus tended to rouse the poor people by a
repetition of absurdly ridiculous tales, which he often came to believe
in himself. His personal animosity and his desire for revenge were ill
concealed beneath his professions of patriotism; but he was heard so
frequently, and he had such a loud voice, that no one would have dared
to doubt the genuineness of his convictions.

At bottom, all the members of this family had the same brutish passions.
Felicite, who clearly understood that Macquart’s wild theories were
simply the fruit of restrained rage and embittered envy, would much have
liked to purchase his silence. Unfortunately, she was short of money,
and did not dare to interest him in the dangerous game which her husband
was playing. Antoine now injured them very much among the well-to-do
people of the new town. It sufficed that he was a relation of theirs.
Granoux and Roudier often scornfully reproached them for having such a
man in their family. Felicite consequently asked herself with anguish
how they could manage to cleanse themselves of such a stain.

It seemed to her monstrous and indecent that Monsieur Rougon should have
a brother whose wife sold chestnuts, and who himself lived in crapulous
idleness. She at last even trembled for the success of their secret
intrigues, so long as Antoine seemingly took pleasure in compromising
them. When the diatribes which he levelled at the yellow drawing-room
were reported to her, she shuddered at the thought that he was capable
of becoming desperate and ruining all their hopes by force of scandal.

Antoine knew what consternation his demeanour must cause the Rougons,
and it was solely for the purpose of exhausting their patience that he
from day to day affected fiercer opinions. At the cafe he frequented
he used to speak of “my brother Pierre” in a voice which made everybody
turn round; and if he happened to meet some reactionary from the yellow
drawing-room in the street, he would mutter some low abuse which the
worthy citizen, amazed at such audacity, would repeat to the Rougons
in the evening, as though to make them responsible for his disagreeable
encounter.

One day Granoux arrived in a state of fury.

“Really,” he exclaimed, when scarcely across the threshold, “it’s
intolerable; one can’t move a step without being insulted.” Then,
addressing Pierre, he added: “When one has a brother like yours, sir,
one should rid society of him. I was just quietly walking past the
Sub-Prefecture, when that rascal passed me muttering something in which
I could clearly distinguish the words ‘old rogue.’”

Felicite turned pale, and felt it necessary to apologise to Granoux, but
he refused to accept any excuses, and threatened to leave altogether.
The marquis, however, exerted himself to arrange matters.

“It is very strange,” he said, “that the wretched fellow should have
called you an old rogue. Are you sure that he intended the insult for
you?”

Granoux was perplexed; he admitted at last, however, that Antoine might
have muttered: “So you are again going to that old rogue’s?”

At this Monsieur de Carnavant stroked his chin to conceal the smile
which rose to his lips in spite of himself.

Then Rougon, with superb composure, replied: “I thought as much; the
‘old rogue’ was no doubt intended for me. I’ve very glad that this
misunderstanding is now cleared up. Gentlemen, pray avoid the man in
question, whom I formally repudiate.”

Felicite, however, did not take matters so coolly; every fresh scandal
caused by Macquart made her more and more uneasy; she would sometimes
pass the whole night wondering what those gentlemen must think of the
matter.

A few months before the Coup d’Etat, the Rougons received an anonymous
letter, three pages of foul insults, in which they were warned that
if their party should ever triumph, the scandalous story of Adelaide’s
amours would be published in some newspaper, together with an account
of the robbery perpetrated by Pierre, when he had compelled his mother,
driven out of her senses by debauchery, to sign a receipt for fifty
thousand francs. This letter was a heavy blow for Rougon himself.
Felicite could not refrain from reproaching her husband with his
disreputable family; for the husband and wife never for a moment doubted
that this letter was Antoine’s work.

“We shall have to get rid of the blackguard at any price,” said Pierre
in a gloomy tone. “He’s becoming too troublesome by far.”

In the meantime, Macquart, resorting to his former tactics, looked round
among his own relatives for accomplices who would join him against the
Rougons. He had counted upon Aristide at first, on reading his terrible
articles in the “Independant.” But the young man, in spite of all his
jealous rage, was not so foolish as to make common cause with such
a fellow as his uncle. He never even minced matters with him, but
invariably kept him at a distance, a circumstance which induced Antoine
to regard him suspiciously. In the taverns, where Macquart reigned
supreme, people went so far as to say the journalist was paid to provoke
disturbances.

Baffled on this side, Macquart had no alternative but to sound his
sister Ursule’s children. Ursule had died in 1839, thus fulfilling her
brother’s evil prophecy. The nervous affection which she had inherited
from her mother had turned into slow consumption, which gradually killed
her. She left three children; a daughter, eighteen years of age, named
Helene, who married a clerk, and two boys, the elder, Francois, a young
man of twenty-three, and the younger, a sickly little fellow scarcely
six years old, named Silvere. The death of his wife, whom he adored,
proved a thunderbolt to Mouret. He dragged on his existence for another
year, neglecting his business and losing all the money he had saved.
Then, one morning, he was found hanging in a cupboard where Ursule’s
dresses were still suspended. His elder son, who had received a good
commercial training, took a situation in the house of his uncle Rougon,
where he replaced Aristide, who had just left.

Rougon, in spite of his profound hatred for the Macquarts, gladly
welcomed this nephew, whom he knew to be industrious and sober. He
was in want of a youth whom he could trust, and who would help him to
retrieve his affairs. Moreover, during the time of Mouret’s prosperity,
he had learnt to esteem the young couple, who knew how to make money,
and thus he had soon become reconciled with his sister. Perhaps he
thought he was making Francois some compensation by taking him into his
business; having robbed the mother, he would shield himself from remorse
by giving employment to the son; even rogues make honest calculations
sometimes. It was, however, a good thing for him. If the house of Rougon
did not make a fortune at this time, it was certainly through no fault
of that quiet, punctilious youth, Francois, who seemed born to pass his
life behind a grocer’s counter, between a jar of oil and a bundle
of dried cod-fish. Although he physically resembled his mother, he
inherited from his father a just if narrow mind, with an instinctive
liking for a methodical life and the safe speculations of a small
business.

Three months after his arrival, Pierre, pursuing his system of
compensation, married him to his young daughter Marthe,[*] whom he did
not know how to dispose of. The two young people fell in love with
each other quite suddenly, in a few days. A peculiar circumstance had
doubtless determined and enhanced their mutual affection. There was a
remarkably close resemblance between them, suggesting that of brother
and sister. Francois inherited, through Ursule, the face of his
grandmother Adelaide. Marthe’s case was still more curious; she was an
equally exact portrait of Adelaide, although Pierre Rougon had none of
his mother’s features distinctly marked; the physical resemblance
had, as it were, passed over Pierre, to reappear in his daughter. The
similarity between husband and wife went, however, no further than
their faces; if the worthy son of a steady matter-of-fact hatter was
distinguishable in Francois, Marthe showed the nervousness and mental
weakness of her grandmother. Perhaps it was this combination of physical
resemblance and moral dissimilarity which threw the young people into
each other’s arms. From 1840 to 1844 they had three children. Francois
remained in his uncle’s employ until the latter retired. Pierre had
desired to sell him the business, but the young man knew what small
chance there was of making a fortune in trade at Plassans; so he
declined the offer and repaired to Marseilles, where he established
himself with his little savings.

     [*] Both Francois and Marthe figure largely in _The Conquest
     of Plassans_.

Macquart soon had to abandon all hope of dragging this big industrious
fellow into his campaign against the Rougons; whereupon, with all the
spite of a lazybones, he regarded him as a cunning miser. He fancied,
however, that he had discovered the accomplice he was seeking in
Mouret’s second son, a lad of fifteen years of age. Young Silvere had
never even been to school at the time when Mouret was found hanging
among his wife’s skirts. His elder brother, not knowing what to do
with him, took him also to his uncle’s. The latter made a wry face on
beholding the child; he had no intention of carrying his compensation so
far as to feed a useless mouth. Thus Silvere, to whom Felicite also took
a dislike, was growing up in tears, like an unfortunate little outcast,
when his grandmother Adelaide, during one of the rare visits she paid
the Rougons, took pity on him, and expressed a wish to have him with
her. Pierre was delighted; he let the child go, without even suggesting
an increase of the paltry allowance that he made Adelaide, and which
henceforward would have to suffice for two.

Adelaide was then nearly seventy-five years of age. Grown old while
leading a cloistered existence, she was no longer the lanky ardent girl
who formerly ran to embrace the smuggler Macquart. She had stiffened and
hardened in her hovel in the Impasse Saint-Mittre, that dismal silent
hole where she lived entirely alone on potatoes and dry vegetables, and
which she did not leave once in the course of a month. On seeing her
pass, you might have thought her to be one of those delicately white old
nuns with automatic gait, whom the cloister has kept apart from all the
concerns of this world. Her pale face, always scrupulously girt with a
white cap, looked like that of a dying woman; a vague, calm countenance
it was, wearing an air of supreme indifference. Prolonged taciturnity
had made her dumb; the darkness of her dwelling and the continual
sight of the same objects had dulled her glance and given her eyes the
limpidity of spring water. Absolute renunciation, slow physical and
moral death, had little by little converted this crazy _amorosa_ into a
grave matron. When, as often happened, a blank stare came into her
eyes, and she gazed before her without seeing anything, one could detect
utter, internal void through those deep bright cavities.

Nothing now remained of her former voluptuous ardour but weariness of
the flesh and a senile tremor of the hands. She had once loved like
a she-wolf, but was now wasted, already sufficiently worn out for the
grave. There had been strange workings of her nerves during her long
years of chastity. A dissolute life would perhaps have wrecked her less
than the slow hidden ravages of unsatisfied fever which had modified her
organism.

Sometimes, even now, this moribund, pale old woman, who seemed to have
no blood left in her, was seized with nervous fits like electric shocks,
which galvanised her, and for an hour brought her atrocious intensity of
life. She would lie on her bed rigid, with her eyes open; then hiccoughs
would come upon her and she would writhe and struggle, acquiring the
frightful strength of those hysterical madwomen whom one has to tie down
in order to prevent them from breaking their heads against a wall.
This return to former vigour, these sudden attacks, gave her a terrible
shock. When she came to again, she would stagger about with such a
scared, stupefied look, that the gossips of the Faubourg used to say:
“She’s been drinking, the crazy old thing!”

Little Silvere’s childish smile was for her the last pale ray which
brought some warmth to her frozen limbs. Weary of solitude, and
frightened at the thought of dying alone in one of her fits, she had
asked to have the child. With the little fellow running about near
her, she felt secure against death. Without relinquishing her habits of
taciturnity, or seeking to render her automatic movements more supple,
she conceived inexpressible affection for him. Stiff and speechless, she
would watch him playing for hours together, listening with delight to
the intolerable noise with which he filled the old hovel. That tomb
had resounded with uproar ever since Silvere had been running about it,
bestriding broomsticks, knocking up against the doors, and shouting and
crying. He brought Adelaide back to the world, as it were; she looked
after him with the most adorable awkwardness; she who, in her youth,
had neglected the duties of a mother, now felt the divine pleasures
of maternity in washing his face, dressing him, and watching over his
sickly life. It was a reawakening of love, a last soothing passion which
heaven had granted to this woman who had been so ravaged by the want of
some one to love; the touching agony of a heart that had lived amidst
the most acute desires, and which was now dying full of love for a
child.

She was already too far gone to pour forth the babble of good plump
grandmothers; she adored the child in secret with the bashfulness of a
young girl, without knowing how to fondle him. Sometimes she took him on
her knees, and gazed at him for a long time with her pale eyes. When
the little one, frightened by her mute white visage, began to cry, she
seemed perplexed by what she had done, and quickly put him down upon the
floor without even kissing him. Perhaps she recognised in him a faint
resemblance to Macquart the poacher.

Silvere grew up, ever tete-a-tete with Adelaide. With childish cajolery
he used to call her aunt Dide, a name which ultimately clung to the
old woman; the word “aunt” employed in this way is simply a term of
endearment in Provence. The child entertained singular affection, not
unmixed with respectful terror, for his grandmother. During her nervous
fits, when he was quite a little boy, he ran away from her, crying,
terrified by her disfigured countenance; and he came back very timidly
after the attack, ready to run away again, as though the old woman were
disposed to beat him. Later on, however, when he was twelve years old,
he would stop there bravely and watch in order that she might not hurt
herself by falling off the bed. He stood for hours holding her tightly
in his arms to subdue the rude shocks which distorted her. During
intervals of calmness he would gaze with pity on her convulsed features
and withered frame, over which her skirts lay like a shroud. These
hidden dramas, which recurred every month, this old woman as rigid as
a corpse, this child bent over her, silently watching for the return
of consciousness, made up amidst the darkness of the hovel a strange
picture of mournful horror and broken-hearted tenderness.

When aunt Dide came round, she would get up with difficulty, and set
about her work in the hovel without even questioning Silvere. She
remembered nothing, and the child, from a sort of instinctive prudence,
avoided the least allusion to what had taken place. These recurring
fits, more than anything else, strengthened Silvere’s deep attachment
for his grandmother. In the same manner as she adored him without any
garrulous effusiveness, he felt a secret, almost bashful, affection for
her. While he was really very grateful to her for having taken him in
and brought him up, he could not help regarding her as an extraordinary
creature, a prey to some strange malady, whom he ought to pity and
respect. No doubt there was not sufficient life left in Adelaide; she
was too white and too stiff for Silvere to throw himself on her neck.
Thus they lived together amidst melancholy silence, in the depths of
which they felt the tremor of boundless love.

The sad, solemn atmosphere, which he had breathed from childhood, gave
Silvere a strong heart, in which gathered every form of enthusiasm. He
early became a serious, thoughtful little man, seeking instruction with
a kind of stubbornness. He only learnt a little spelling and arithmetic
at the school of the Christian Brothers, which he was compelled to leave
when he was but twelve years old, on account of his apprenticeship. He
never acquired the first rudiments of knowledge. However, he read all
the odd volumes which fell into his hands, and thus provided himself
with strange equipment; he had some notions of a multitude of subjects,
ill-digested notions, which he could never classify distinctly in his
head. When he was quite young, he had been in the habit of playing in
the workshop of a master wheelwright, a worthy man named Vian, who lived
at the entrance of the blind-alley in front of the Aire Saint-Mittre
where he stored his timber. Silvere used to jump up on the wheels of the
tilted carts undergoing repair, and amuse himself by dragging about
the heavy tools which his tiny hands could scarcely lift. One of his
greatest pleasures, too, was to assist the workmen by holding some piece
of wood for them, or bringing them the iron-work which they required.
When he had grown older he naturally became apprenticed to Vian. The
latter had taken a liking to the little fellow who was always kicking
about his heels, and asked Adelaide to let him come, refusing to take
anything for his board and lodging. Silvere eagerly accepted, already
foreseeing the time when he would be able to make his poor aunt Dide
some return for all she had spent upon him.

In a short time he became an excellent workman. He cherished, however,
much higher ambitions. Having once seen, at a coachbuilder’s at
Plassans, a fine new carriage, shining with varnish, he vowed that he
would one day build carriages himself. He remembered this carriage as
a rare and unique work of art, an ideal towards which his aspirations
should tend. The tilted carts at which he worked in Vian’s shop, those
carts which he had lovingly cherished, now seemed unworthy of his
affections. He began to attend the local drawing-school, where he formed
a connection with a youngster who had left college, and who lent him an
old treatise on geometry. He plunged into this study without a guide,
racking his brains for weeks together in order to grasp the simplest
problem in the world. In this matter he gradually became one of those
learned workmen who can hardly sign their name and yet talk about
algebra as though it were an intimate friend.

Nothing unsettles the mind so much as this desultory kind of education,
which reposes on no firm basis. Most frequently such scraps of knowledge
convey an absolutely false idea of the highest truths, and render
persons of limited intellect insufferably stupid. In Silvere’s case,
however, his scraps of stolen knowledge only augmented his liberal
aspirations. He was conscious of horizons which at present remained
closed to him. He formed for himself divine conceptions of things beyond
his reach, and lived on, regarding in a deep, innocent, religious way
the noble thoughts and grand conceptions towards which he was raising
himself, but which he could not as yet comprehend. He was one of the
simple-minded, one whose simplicity was divine, and who had remained
on the threshold of the temple, kneeling before the tapers which from a
distance he took for stars.

The hovel in the Impasse Saint-Mittre consisted, in the first place,
of a large room into which the street door opened. The only pieces of
furniture in this room, which had a stone floor, and served both as a
kitchen and a dining-room, were some straw-seated chairs, a table on
trestles, and an old coffer which Adelaide had converted into a sofa, by
spreading a piece of woollen stuff over the lid. In the left hand
corner of the large fireplace stood a plaster image of the Holy Virgin,
surrounded by artificial flowers; she is the traditional good mother of
all old Provencal women, however irreligious they may be. A passage led
from the room into a yard situated at the rear of the house; in this
yard there was a well. Aunt Dide’s bedroom was on the left side of the
passage; it was a little apartment containing an iron bedstead and one
chair; Silvere slept in a still smaller room on the right hand side,
just large enough for a trestle bedstead; and he had been obliged to
plan a set of shelves, reaching up to the ceiling, to keep by him
all those dear odd volumes which he saved his sous to purchase from a
neighbouring general dealer. When he read at night-time, he would hang
his lamp on a nail at the head of the bed. If his grandmother had an
attack, he merely had to leap out at the first gasp to be at her side in
a moment.

The young man led the life of a child. He passed his existence in this
lonely spot. Like his father, he felt a dislike for taverns and Sunday
strolling. His mates wounded his delicate susceptibilities by their
coarse jokes. He preferred to read, to rack his rain over some simple
geometrical problem. Since aunt Dide had entrusted him with the
little household commissions she did not go out at all, but ceased all
intercourse even with her family. The young man sometimes thought of her
forlornness; he reflected that the poor old woman lived but a few steps
from the children who strove to forget her, as though she were dead;
and this made him love her all the more, for himself and for the others.
When he at times entertained a vague idea that aunt Dide might be
expiating some former transgressions, he would say to himself: “I was
born to pardon her.”

A nature such as Silvere’s, ardent yet self-restrained, naturally
cherished the most exalted republican ideas. At night, in his little
hovel, Silvere would again and again read a work of Rousseau’s which he
had picked up at the neighbouring dealer’s among a number of old locks.
The reading of this book kept him awake till daylight. Amidst his dream
of universal happiness so dear to the poor, the words liberty, equality,
fraternity, rang in his ears like those sonorous sacred calls of the
bells, at the sound of which the faithful fall upon their knees. When,
therefore, he learnt that the Republic had just been proclaimed in
France he fancied that the whole world would enjoy a life of celestial
beatitude. His knowledge, though imperfect, made him see farther than
other workmen; his aspirations did not stop at daily bread; but his
extreme ingenuousness, his complete ignorance of mankind, kept him
in the dreamland of theory, a Garden of Eden where universal justice
reigned. His paradise was for a long time a delightful spot in which he
forgot himself.

When he came to perceive that things did not go on quite satisfactorily
in the best of republics he was sorely grieved, and indulged in another
dream, that of compelling men to be happy even by force. Every act which
seemed to him prejudicial to the interest of the people roused him to
revengeful indignation. Though he was as gentle as a child, he cherished
the fiercest political animosity. He would not have killed a fly, and
yet he was for ever talking of a call to arms. Liberty was his passion,
an unreasoning, absolute passion, to which he gave all the feverish
ardour of his blood. Blinded by enthusiasm, he was both too ignorant and
too learned to be tolerant, and would not allow for men’s weaknesses; he
required an ideal government of perfect justice and perfect liberty. It
was at this period that Antoine Macquart thought of setting him against
the Rougons. He fancied that this young enthusiast would work terrible
havoc if he were only exasperated to the proper pitch. This calculation
was not altogether devoid of shrewdness.

Such being Antoine’s scheme, he tried to induce Silvere to visit him, by
professing inordinate admiration for the young man’s ideas. But he
very nearly compromised the whole matter at the outset. He had a way
of regarding the triumph of the Republic as a question of personal
interest, as an era of happy idleness and endless junketing, which
chilled his nephew’s purely moral aspirations. However, he perceived
that he was on the wrong track, and plunged into strange bathos, a
string of empty but high-sounding words, which Silvere accepted as a
satisfactory proof of his civism. Before long the uncle and the nephew
saw each other two or three times a week. During their long discussions,
in which the fate of the country was flatly settled, Antoine endeavoured
to persuade the young man that the Rougons’ drawing-room was the chief
obstacle to the welfare of France. But he again made a false move by
calling his mother “old jade” in Silvere’s presence. He even repeated to
him the early scandals about the poor woman. The young man blushed for
shame, but listened without interruption. He had not asked his uncle
for this information; he felt heart-broken by such confidences, which
wounded his feeling of respectful affection for aunt Dide. From that
time forward he lavished yet more attention upon his grandmother,
greeting her always with pleasant smiles and looks of forgiveness.
However, Macquart felt that he had acted foolishly, and strove to take
advantage of Silvere’s affection for Adelaide by charging the Rougons
with her forlornness and poverty. According to him, he had always been
the best of sons, whereas his brother had behaved disgracefully; Pierre
had robbed his mother, and now, when she was penniless, he was ashamed
of her. He never ceased descanting on this subject. Silvere thereupon
became indignant with his uncle Pierre, much to the satisfaction of his
uncle Antoine.

The scene was much the same every time the young man called. He used
to come in the evening, while the Macquarts were at dinner. The father
would be swallowing some potato stew with a growl, picking out the
pieces of bacon, and watching the dish when it passed into the hands of
Jean and Gervaise.

“You see, Silvere,” he would say with a sullen rage which was
ill-concealed beneath his air of cynical indifference, “more potatoes,
always potatoes! We never eat anything else now. Meat is only for
rich people. It’s getting quite impossible to make both ends meet with
children who have the devil’s appetite and their own too.”

Gervaise and Jean bent over their plates, no longer even daring to cut
some bread. Silvere, who in his dream lived in heaven, did not grasp the
situation. In a calm voice he pronounced these storm-laden words:

“But you should work, uncle.”

“Ah! yes,” sneered Macquart, stung to the quick. “You want me to work,
eh! To let those beggars, the rich folk, continue to prey upon me. I
should earn probably twenty sous a day, and ruin my constitution. It’s
worth while, isn’t it?”

“Everyone earns what he can,” the young man replied. “Twenty sous are
twenty sous; and it all helps in a home. Besides, you’re an old soldier,
why don’t you seek some employment?”

Fine would then interpose, with a thoughtlessness of which she soon
repented.

“That’s what I’m always telling him,” said she. “The market inspector
wants an assistant; I mentioned my husband to him, and he seems well
disposed towards us.”

But Macquart interrupted her with a fulminating glance. “Eh! hold
your tongue,” he growled with suppressed anger. “Women never know
what they’re talking about! Nobody would have me; my opinions are too
well-known.”

Every time he was offered employment he displayed similar irritation. He
did not cease, however, to ask for situations, though he always refused
such as were found for him, assigning the most extraordinary reasons.
When pressed upon the point he became terrible.

If Jean were to take up a newspaper after dinner he would at once
exclaim: “You’d better go to bed. You’ll be getting up late to-morrow,
and that’ll be another day lost. To think of that young rascal coming
home with eight francs short last week! However, I’ve requested his
master not give him his money in future; I’ll call for it myself.”

Jean would go to bed to avoid his father’s recriminations. He had but
little sympathy with Silvere; politics bored him, and he thought his
cousin “cracked.” When only the women remained, if they unfortunately
started some whispered converse after clearing the table, Macquart would
cry: “Now, you idlers! Is there nothing that requires mending? we’re
all in rags. Look here, Gervaise, I was at your mistress’s to-day, and I
learnt some fine things. You’re a good-for-nothing, a gad-about.”

Gervaise, now a grown girl of more than twenty, coloured up at
thus being scolded in the presence of Silvere, who himself felt
uncomfortable. One evening, having come rather late, when his uncle was
not at home, he had found the mother and daughter intoxicated before
an empty bottle. From that time he could never see his cousin without
recalling the disgraceful spectacle she had presented, with the maudlin
grin and large red patches on her poor, pale, puny face. He was not
less shocked by the nasty stories that circulated with regard to her.
He sometimes looked at her stealthily, with the timid surprise of a
schoolboy in the presence of a disreputable character.

When the two women had taken up their needles, and were ruining their
eyesight in order to mend his old shirts, Macquart, taking the best
seat, would throw himself back with an air of delicious comfort, and sip
and smoke like a man who relishes his laziness. This was the time when
the old rogue generally railed against the wealthy for living on
the sweat of the poor man’s brow. He was superbly indignant with the
gentlemen of the new town, who lived so idly, and compelled the poor
to keep them in luxury. The fragments of communistic notions which he
culled from the newspapers in the morning became grotesque and monstrous
on falling from his lips. He would talk of a time near at hand when
no one would be obliged to work. He always, however, kept his fiercest
animosity for the Rougons. He never could digest the potatoes he had
eaten.

“I saw that vile creature Felicite buying a chicken in the market this
morning,” he would say. “Those robbers of inheritances must eat chicken,
forsooth!”

“Aunt Dide,” interposed Silvere, “says that uncle Pierre was very kind
to you when you left the army. Didn’t he spend a large sum of money in
lodging and clothing you?”

“A large sum of money!” roared Macquart in exasperation; “your
grandmother is mad. It was those thieves who spread those reports
themselves, so as to close my mouth. I never had anything.”

Fine again foolishly interfered, reminding him that he had received two
hundred francs, besides a suit of clothes and a year’s rent. Antoine
thereupon shouted to her to hold her tongue, and continued, with
increasing fury: “Two hundred francs! A fine thing! I want my due, ten
thousand francs. Ah! yes, talk of the hole they shoved me into like a
dog, and the old frock-coat which Pierre gave me because he was ashamed
to wear it any longer himself, it was so dirty and ragged!”

He was not speaking the truth; but, seeing the rage that he was in,
nobody ventured to protest any further. Then, turning towards Silvere:
“It’s very stupid of you to defend them!” he added. “They robbed your
mother, who, good woman, would be alive now if she had had the means of
taking care of herself.”

“Oh! you’re not just, uncle,” the young man said; “my mother did not
die for want of attention, and I’m certain my father would never have
accepted a sou from his wife’s family!”

“Pooh! don’t talk to me! your father would have taken the money just
like anybody else. We were disgracefully plundered, and it’s high time
we had our rights.”

Then Macquart, for the hundredth time, began to recount the story of
the fifty thousand francs. His nephew, who knew it by heart, and all
the variations with which he embellished it, listened to him rather
impatiently.

“If you were a man,” Antoine would say in conclusion, “you would come
some day with me, and we would kick up a nice row at the Rougons. We
would not leave without having some money given us.”

Silvere, however, grew serious, and frankly replied: “If those wretches
robbed us, so much the worse for them. I don’t want their money. You
see, uncle, it’s not for us to fall on our relatives. If they’ve done
wrong, well, one of these days they’ll be severely punished for it.”

“Ah! what a big simpleton you are!” the uncle cried. “When we have the
upper hand, you’ll see whether I sha’n’t settle my own little affairs
myself. God cares a lot about us indeed! What a foul family ours is!
Even if I were starving to death, not one of those scoundrels would
throw me a dry crust.”

Whenever Macquart touched upon this subject, he proved inexhaustible. He
bared all his bleeding wounds of envy and covetousness. He grew mad
with rage when he came to think that he was the only unlucky one in the
family, and was forced to eat potatoes, while the others had meat to
their heart’s content. He would pass all his relations in review, even
his grand-nephews, and find some grievance and reason for threatening
every one of them.

“Yes, yes,” he repeated bitterly, “they’d leave me to die like a dog.”

Gervaise, without raising her head or ceasing to ply her needle, would
sometimes say timidly: “Still, father, cousin Pascal was very kind to
us, last year, when you were ill.”

“He attended you without charging a sou,” continued Fine, coming to her
daughter’s aid, “and he often slipped a five-franc piece into my hand to
make you some broth.”

“He! he’d have killed me if I hadn’t had a strong constitution!”
 Macquart retorted. “Hold your tongues, you fools! You’d let yourselves
be twisted about like children. They’d all like to see me dead. When I’m
ill again, I beg you not to go and fetch my nephew, for I didn’t feel at
all comfortable in his hands. He’s only a twopenny-halfpenny doctor, and
hasn’t got a decent patient in all his practice.”

When once Macquart was fully launched, he could not stop. “It’s like
that little viper, Aristide,” he would say, “a false brother, a traitor.
Are you taken in by his articles in the ‘Independant,’ Silvere? You
would be a fine fool if you were. They’re not even written in good
French; I’ve always maintained that this contraband Republican is in
league with his worthy father to humbug us. You’ll see how he’ll turn
his coat. And his brother, the illustrious Eugene, that big blockhead
of whom the Rougons make such a fuss! Why, they’ve got the impudence to
assert that he occupies a good position in Paris! I know something about
his position; he’s employed at the Rue de Jerusalem; he’s a police spy.”

“Who told you so? You know nothing about it,” interrupted Silvere, whose
upright spirit at last felt hurt by his uncle’s lying accusations.

“Ah! I know nothing about it? Do you think so? I tell you he is a
police spy. You’ll be shorn like a lamb one of these days, with your
benevolence. You’re not manly enough. I don’t want to say anything
against your brother Francois; but, if I were in your place, I shouldn’t
like the scurvy manner in which he treats you. He earns a heap of money
at Marseilles, and yet he never sends you a paltry twenty-franc pierce
for pocket money. If ever you become poor, I shouldn’t advise you to
look to him for anything.”

“I’ve no need of anybody,” the young man replied in a proud and slightly
injured tone of voice. “My own work suffices for aunt Dide and myself.
You’re cruel, uncle.”

“I only say what’s true, that’s all. I should like to open your eyes.
Our family is a disreputable lot; it’s sad but true. Even that little
Maxime, Aristide’s son, that little nine-year-old brat, pokes his
tongue out at me when me meets me. That child will some day beat his
own mother, and a good job too! Say what you like, all those folks don’t
deserve their luck; but it’s always like this in families, the good ones
suffer while the bad ones make their fortunes.”

All this dirty linen, which Macquart washed with such complacency before
his nephew, profoundly disgusted the young man. He would have liked to
soar back into his dream. As soon as he began to show unmistakable signs
of impatience, Antoine would employ strong expedients to exasperate him
against their relatives.

“Defend them! Defend them!” he would say, appearing to calm down. “I,
for my part, have arranged to have nothing more to do with them. I only
mention the matter out of pity for my poor mother, whom all that gang
treat in a most revolting manner.”

“They are wretches!” Silvere murmured.

“Oh! you don’t know, you don’t understand. These Rougons pour all sorts
of insults and abuse on the good woman. Aristide has forbidden his son
even to recognise her. Felicite talks of having her placed in a lunatic
asylum.”

The young man, as white as a sheet, abruptly interrupted his uncle:
“Enough!” he cried. “I don’t want to know any more about it. There will
have to be an end to all this.”

“I’ll hold my tongue, since it annoys you,” the old rascal replied,
feigning a good-natured manner. “Still, there are some things that
you ought not to be ignorant of, unless you want to play the part of a
fool.”

Macquart, while exerting himself to set Silvere against the Rougons,
experienced the keenest pleasure on drawing tears of anguish from the
young man’s eyes. He detested him, perhaps, more than he did the others,
and this because he was an excellent workman and never drank. He brought
all his instincts of refined cruelty into play, in order to invent
atrocious falsehoods which should sting the poor lad to the heart; then
he revelled in his pallor, his trembling hands and his heart-rending
looks, with the delight of some evil spirit who measures his stabs and
finds that he has struck his victim in the right place. When he thought
that he had wounded and exasperated Silvere sufficiently, he would at
last touch upon politics.

“I’ve been assured,” he would say, lowering his voice, “that the Rougons
are preparing some treachery.”

“Treachery?” Silvere asked, becoming attentive.

“Yes, one of these nights they are going to seize all the good citizens
of the town and throw them into prison.”

The young man was at first disposed to doubt it, but his uncle gave
precise details; he spoke of lists that had been drawn up, he mentioned
the persons whose names were on these lists, he indicated in what
manner, at what hour, and under what circumstances the plot would be
carried into effect. Silvere gradually allowed himself to be taken in
by this old woman’s tale, and was soon raving against the enemies of the
Republic.

“It’s they that we shall have to reduce to impotence if they persist in
betraying the country!” he cried. “And what do they intend to do with
the citizens whom they arrest?”

“What do they intend to do with them? Why, they will shoot them in the
lowest dungeons of the prison, of course,” replied Macquart, with a
hoarse laugh. And as the young man, stupefied with horror, looked at
him without knowing what to say: “This will not be the first lot to be
assassinated there,” he continued. “You need only go and prowl about the
Palais de Justice of an evening to hear the shots and groans.”

“Oh, the wretches!” Silvere murmured.

Thereupon uncle and nephew launched out into high politics. Fine and
Gervaise, on finding them hotly debating things, quietly went to bed
without attracting their attention. Then the two men remained together
till midnight, commenting on the news from Paris and discussing the
approaching and inevitable struggle. Macquart bitterly denounced the men
of his own party, Silvere dreamed his dream of ideal liberty aloud, and
for himself only. Strange conversations these were, during which the
uncle poured out many a little nip for himself, and from which the
nephew emerged quite intoxicated with enthusiasm. Antoine, however,
never succeeded in obtaining from the young Republican any perfidious
suggestion or play of warfare against the Rougons. In vain he tried to
goad him on; he seldom heard him suggest aught but an appeal to eternal
justice, which sooner or later would punish the evil-doers.

The ingenuous youth did indeed speak warmly of taking up arms and
massacring the enemies of the Republic; but, as soon as these enemies
strayed out of his dream or became personified in his uncle Pierre or
any other person of his acquaintance, he relied upon heaven to spare
him the horror of shedding blood. It is very probable that he would have
ceased visiting Macquart, whose jealous fury made him so uncomfortable,
if he had not tasted the pleasure of being able to speak freely of his
dear Republic there. In the end, however, his uncle exercised decisive
influence over his destiny; he irritated his nerves by his everlasting
diatribes, and succeeded in making him eager for an armed struggle, the
conquest of universal happiness by violence.

When Silvere reached his sixteenth year, Macquart had him admitted into
the secret society of the Montagnards, a powerful association whose
influence extended throughout Southern France. From that moment the
young Republican gazed with longing eyes at the smuggler’s carbine,
which Adelaide had hung over her chimney-piece. Once night, while his
grandmother was asleep, he cleaned and put it in proper condition. Then
he replaced it on its nail and waited, indulging in brilliant reveries,
fancying gigantic epics, Homeric struggles, and knightly tournaments,
whence the defenders of liberty would emerge victorious and acclaimed by
the whole world.

Macquart meantime was not discouraged. He said to himself that he would
be able to strangle the Rougons alone if he could ever get them into a
corner. His envious rage and slothful greed were increased by certain
successive accidents which compelled him to resume work. In the early
part of 1850 Fine died, almost suddenly, from inflammation of the lungs,
which she had caught by going one evening to wash the family linen in
the Viorne, and carrying it home wet on her back. She returned soaked
with water and perspiration, bowed down by her load, which was terribly
heavy, and she never recovered.

Her death filled Macquart with consternation. His most reliable source
of income was gone. When, a few days later, he sold the caldron in which
his wife had boiled her chestnuts, and the wooden horse which she used
in reseating old chairs, he foully accused the Divinity of having robbed
him of that strong strapping woman of whom he had often felt ashamed,
but whose real worth he now appreciated. He now also fell upon the
children’s earnings with greater avidity than ever. But, a month later,
Gervaise, tired of his continual exactions, ran away with her two
children and Lantier, whose mother was dead. The lovers took refuge in
Paris. Antoine, overwhelmed, vented his rage against his daughter by
expressing the hope that she might die in hospital like most of her
kind. This abuse did not, however, improve the situation, which was
decidedly becoming bad. Jean soon followed his sister’s example. He
waited for pay-day to come round, and then contrived to receive the
money himself. As he was leaving he told one of his friends, who
repeated it to Antoine, that he would no longer keep his lazy father,
and that if the latter should take it into his head to have him brought
back by the gendarmes he would touch neither saw nor plane.

On the morrow, when Antoine, having vainly sought him, found himself
alone and penniless in the house where for twenty years he had been
comfortably kept, he flew into the most frantic rage, kicked the
furniture about, and yelled the vilest imprecations. Then he sank down
exhausted, and began to drag himself about and moan like a convalescent.
The fear of having to earn his bread made him positively ill. When
Silvere came to see him, he complained, with tears, of his children’s
ingratitude. Had he not always been a good father to them? Jean and
Gervaise were monsters, who had made him an evil return for all he had
done for them. Now they abandoned him because he was old, and they could
not get anything more out of him!

“But uncle,” said Silvere, “you are not yet too old to work!”

Macquart, coughing and stooping, shook his head mournfully, as if to say
that he could not bear the least fatigue for any length of time. Just
as his nephew was about to withdraw, he borrowed ten francs of him. Then
for a month he lived by taking his children’s old clothes, one by one,
to a second-hand dealer’s, and in the same way, little by little, he
sold all the small articles in the house. Soon nothing remained but
a table, a chair, his bed, and the clothes on his back. He ended by
exchanging the walnut-wood bedstead for a plain strap one. When he had
exhausted all his resources, he cried with rage; and, with the fierce
pallor of a man who is resigned to suicide, he went to look for the
bundle of osier that he had forgotten in some corner for a quarter of
a century past. As he took it up he seemed to be lifting a mountain.
However, he again began to plait baskets and hampers, while denouncing
the human race for their neglect.

It was particularly at this time that he talked of dividing and sharing
the riches of the wealthy. He showed himself terrible. His speeches
kept up a constant conflagration in the tavern, where his furious looks
secured him unlimited credit. Moreover, he only worked when he had been
unable to get a five-franc piece out of Silvere or a comrade. He was
no longer “Monsieur” Macquart, the clean-shaven workman, who wore his
Sunday clothes every day and played the gentleman; he again became the
big slovenly devil who had once speculated on his rags. Felicite did not
dare to go to market now that he was so often coming there to sell
his baskets. He once had a violent quarrel with her there. His hatred
against the Rougons grew with his wretchedness. He swore, with horrible
threats, that he would wreak justice himself, since the rich were
leagued together to compel him to toil.

In this state of mind, he welcomed the Coup d’Etat with the ardent,
obstreperous delight of a hound scenting the quarry. As the few honest
Liberals in the town had failed to arrive at an understanding amongst
themselves, and therefore kept apart, he became naturally one of
the most prominent agents of the insurrection. The working classes,
notwithstanding the unfavourable opinion which they at last entertained
of this lazy fellow, would, when the time arrived, have to accept him
as a rallying flag. On the first few days, however, the town remained
quiet, and Macquart thought that his plans were frustrated. It was not
until the news arrived of the rising of the rural districts that he
recovered hope. For his own part he would not have left Plassans for all
the world; accordingly he invented some pretext for not following those
workmen who, on the Sunday morning, set off to join the insurrectionary
band of La Palud and Saint-Martin-de-Vaulx.

On the evening of the same day he was sitting in some disreputable
tavern of the old quarter with a few friends, when a comrade came to
inform him that the insurgents were only a few miles from Plassans. This
news had just been brought by an express, who had succeeded in making
his way into the town, and had been charged to get the gates opened
for the column. There was an outburst of triumph. Macquart, especially,
appeared to be delirious with enthusiasm. The unforeseen arrival of the
insurgents seemed to him a delicate attention of Providence for his own
particular benefit. His hands trembled at the idea that he would soon
hold the Rougons by the throat.

He hastily quitted the tavern with his friends. All the Republicans who
had not yet left the town were soon assembled on the Cours Sauvaire. It
was this band that Rougon had perceived as he was hastening to conceal
himself in his mother’s house. When the band had reached the top of
the Rue de la Banne, Macquart, who had stationed himself at the rear,
detained four of his companions, big fellows who were not over-burdened
with brains and whom he swayed by his tavern bluster. He easily
persuaded them that the enemies of the Republic must be arrested
immediately if they wished to prevent the greatest calamities. The truth
was that he feared Pierre might escape him in the midst of the confusion
which the entry of the insurgents would produce. However, the four big
fellows followed him with exemplary docility, and knocked violently
at the door of the Rougons’ abode. In this critical situation Felicite
displayed admirable courage. She went down and opened the street door
herself.

“We want to go upstairs into your rooms,” Macquart said to her brutally.

“Very well, gentlemen, walk up,” she replied with ironical politeness,
pretending that she did not recognise her brother-in-law.

Once upstairs, Macquart ordered her to fetch her husband.

“My husband is not here,” she said with perfect calmness; “he is
travelling on business. He took the diligence for Marseilles at six
o’clock this evening.”

Antoine at this declaration, which Felicite uttered in a clear voice,
made a gesture of rage. He rushed through the drawing-room, and then
into the bedroom, turned the bed up, looked behind the curtains and
under the furniture. The four big fellows assisted him. They searched
the place for a quarter of an hour. Felicite meantime quietly seated
herself on the drawing-room sofa, and began to fasten the strings of her
petticoats, like a person who has been surprised in her sleep and has
not had time to dress properly.

“It’s true then, he’s run away, the coward!” Macquart muttered on
returning to the drawing-room.

Nevertheless, he continued to look about him with a suspicious air. He
felt a presentiment that Pierre could not have given up the game at the
decisive moment. At last he approached Felicite, who was yawning: “Show
us the place where your husband is hidden,” he said to her, “and I
promise no harm shall be done to him.”

“I have told you the truth,” she replied impatiently. “I can’t deliver
my husband to you, as he’s not here. You have searched everywhere,
haven’t you? Then leave me alone now.”

Macquart, exasperated by her composure, was just going to strike her,
when a rumbling noise arose from the street. It was the column of
insurgents entering the Rue de la Banne.

He then had to leave the yellow drawing-room, after shaking his fist
at his sister-in-law, calling her an old jade, and threatening that he
would soon return. At the foot of the staircase, he took one of the men
who accompanied him, a navvy named Cassoute, the most wooden-headed of
the four, and ordered him to sit on the first step, and remain there.

“You must come and inform me,” he said to him, “if you see the scoundrel
from upstairs return.”

The man sat down heavily. When Macquart reached the pavement, he
raised his eyes and observed Felicite leaning out of the window of the
yellow-drawing room, watching the march past of the insurgents, as if
it was nothing but a regiment passing through the town to the strains
of its band. This last sign of perfect composure irritated him to such a
degree that he was almost tempted to go up again and throw the old woman
into the street. However, he followed the column, muttering in a hoarse
voice: “Yes, yes, look at us passing. We’ll see whether you will station
yourself at your balcony to-morrow.”

It was nearly eleven o’clock at night when the insurgents entered the
town by the Porte de Rome. The workmen remaining in Plassans had opened
the gate for them, in spite of the wailings of the keeper, from whom
they could only wrest the keys by force. This man, very jealous of his
office, stood dumbfoundered in the presence of the surging crowd. To
think of it! he, who never allowed more than one person to pass in at
a time, and then only after a prolonged examination of his face! And
he murmured that he was dishonoured. The men of Plassans were still
marching at the head of the column by way of guiding the others; Miette,
who was in the front rank, with Silvere on her left, held up her banner
more proudly than ever now that she could divine behind the closed
blinds the scared looks of well-to-do bourgeois startled out of their
sleep. The insurgents passed along the Rue de Rome and the Rue de la
Banne slowly and warily; at every crossway, although they well knew the
quiet disposition of the inhabitants, they feared they might be received
with bullets. The town seemed lifeless, however; there was scarcely
a stifled exclamation to be heard at the windows. Only five or six
shutters opened. Some old householder then appeared in his night-shirt,
candle in hand, and leant out to obtain a better view; but as soon as he
distinguished the tall red girl who appeared to be drawing that crowd of
black demons behind her, he hastily closed his window again, terrified
by such a diabolical apparition.

The silence of the slumbering town reassured the insurgents, who
ventured to make their way through the lanes of the old quarter, and
thus reached the market-place and the Place de l’Hotel-de-Ville, which
was connected by a short but broad street. These open spaces, planted
with slender trees, were brilliantly illumined by the moon. Against the
clear sky the recently restored town-hall appeared like a large patch of
crude whiteness, the fine black lines of the wrought-iron arabesques of
the first-floor balcony showing in bold relief. Several persons could
be plainly distinguished standing on this balcony, the mayor, Commander
Sicardot, three or four municipal councillors, and other functionaries.
The doors below were closed. The three thousand Republicans, who covered
both open spaces, halted with upraised heads, ready to force the doors
with a single push.

The arrival of the insurrectionary column at such an hour took the
authorities by surprise. Before repairing to the mayor’s, Commander
Sicardot had taken time to don his uniform. He then had to run and rouse
the mayor. When the keeper of the Porte de Rome, who had been left free
by the insurgents, came to announce that the villains were already in
the town, the commander had so far only managed to assemble a score of
the national guards. The gendarmes, though their barracks were close by,
could not even be warned. It was necessary to shut the town-hall
doors in all haste, in order to deliberate. Five minutes later a low
continuous rumbling announced the approach of the column.

Monsieur Garconnet, out of hatred to the Republic, would have greatly
liked to offer resistance. But he was of a prudent nature, and
comprehended the futility of a struggle on finding only a few pale men,
who were scarcely awake, around him. So the deliberations did not last
long. Sicardot alone was obstinate; he wanted to fight, asserting that
twenty men would suffice to bring these three thousand villains to
reason. At this Monsieur Garconnet shrugged his shoulders, and declared
that the only step to take was to make an honourable capitulation. As
the uproar of the mob increased, he went out on the balcony, followed
by all the persons present. Silence was gradually obtained. Below, among
the black, quivering mass of insurgents, the guns and scythes glittered
in the moonlight.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” cried the mayor in a loud voice.

Thereupon a man in a greatcoat, a landowner of La Palud, stepped
forward.

“Open the doors,” he said, without replying to Monsieur Garconnet’s
question. “Avoid a fratricidal conflict.”

“I call upon you to withdraw,” the mayor continued. “I protest in the
name of the law.”

These words provoked deafening shouts from the crowd. When the tumult
had somewhat abated, vehement calls ascended to the balcony. Voices
shouted: “It is in the name of the law that we have come here!”

“Your duty as a functionary is to secure respect for the fundamental
law of the land, the constitution, which has just been outrageously
violated.”

“Long live the constitution! Long live the Republic!”

Then as Monsieur Garconnet endeavoured to make himself heard, and
continued to invoke his official dignity, the land-owner of La
Palud, who was standing under the balcony, interrupted him with
great vehemence: “You are now nothing but the functionary of a fallen
functionary; we have come to dismiss you from your office.”

Hitherto, Commander Sicardot had been ragefully biting his moustache,
and muttering insulting words. The sight of the cudgels and scythes
exasperated him; and he made desperate efforts to restrain himself
from treating these twopenny-halfpenny soldiers, who had not even a
gun apiece, as they deserved. But when he heard a gentleman in a mere
greatcoat speak of deposing a mayor girded with his scarf, he could no
longer contain himself and shouted: “You pack of rascals! If I only had
four men and a corporal, I’d come down and pull your ears for you, and
make you behave yourselves!”

Less than this was needed to raise a serious disturbance. A long shout
rose from the mob as it made a rush for the doors. Monsieur Garconnet,
in consternation, hastily quitted the balcony, entreating Sicardot to be
reasonable unless he wished to have them massacred. But in two minutes
the doors gave way, the people invaded the building and disarmed the
national guards. The mayor and the other functionaries present were
arrested. Sicardot, who declined to surrender his sword, had to
be protected from the fury of some insurgents by the chief of the
contingent from Les Tulettes, a man of great self-possession. When the
town-hall was in the hands of the Republicans, they led their prisoners
to a small cafe in the market-place, and there kept them closely
watched.

The insurrectionary army would have avoided marching through Plassans
if its leaders had not decided that a little food and a few hours’ rest
were absolutely necessary for the men. Instead of pushing forward
direct to the chief town of the department, the column, owing to the
inexcusable weakness and the inexperience of the improvised general who
commanded it, was now diverging to the left, making a detour which was
destined, ultimately, to lead it to destruction. It was bound for the
heights of Sainte-Roure, still about ten leagues distant, and it was
in view of this long march that it had been decided to pass through
Plassans, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour. It was now half-past
eleven.

When Monsieur Garconnet learnt that the band was in quest of provisions,
he offered his services to procure them. This functionary formed, under
very difficult circumstances, a proper estimate of the situation. Those
three thousand starving men would have to be satisfied; it would never
do for Plassans, on waking up, to find them still squatting on the
pavements; if they withdrew before daybreak they would simply have
passed through the slumbering town like an evil dream, like one of those
nightmares which depart with the arrival of dawn. And so, although he
remained a prisoner, Monsieur Garconnet, followed by two guards, went
about knocking at the bakers’ doors, and had all the provisions that he
could find distributed among the insurgents.

Towards one o’clock the three thousand men began to eat, squatting on
the ground, with their weapons between their legs. The market-place
and the neighbourhood of the town-hall were turned into vast open-air
refectories. In spite of the bitter cold, humorous sallies were
exchanged among the swarming multitude, the smallest groups of which
showed forth in the brilliant moonlight. The poor famished fellows
eagerly devoured their portions while breathing on their fingers to warm
them; and, from the depths of adjoining streets, where vague black forms
sat on the white thresholds of the houses, there came sudden bursts
of laughter. At the windows emboldened, inquisitive women, with silk
handkerchiefs tied round their heads, watched the repast of those
terrible insurgents, those blood-suckers who went in turn to the market
pump to drink a little water in the hollows of their hands.

While the town-hall was being invaded, the gendarmes’ barracks, situated
a few steps away, in the Rue Canquoin, which leads to the market, had
also fallen into the hands of the mob. The gendarmes were surprised in
their beds and disarmed in a few minutes. The impetus of the crowd had
carried Miette and Silvere along in this direction. The girl, who still
clasped her flagstaff to her breast, was pushed against the wall of
the barracks, while the young man, carried away by the human wave,
penetrated into the interior, and helped his comrades to wrest from the
gendarmes the carbines which they had hastily caught up. Silvere, waxing
ferocious, intoxicated by the onslaught, attacked a big devil of a
gendarme named Rengade, with whom for a few moments he struggled. At
last, by a sudden jerk, he succeeded in wresting his carbine from him.
But the barrel struck Rengade a violent blow in the face, which put his
right eye out. Blood flowed, and, some of it splashing Silvere’s hands,
quickly brought him to his senses. He looked at his hands, dropped the
carbine, and ran out, in a state of frenzy, shaking his fingers.

“You are wounded!” cried Miette.

“No, no,” he replied in a stifled voice, “I’ve just killed a gendarme.”

“Is he really dead?” asked Miette.

“I don’t know,” replied Silvere, “his face was all covered with blood.
Come quickly.”

Then he hurried the girl away. On reaching the market, he made her sit
down on a stone bench, and told her to wait there for him. He was still
looking at his hands, muttering something at the same time. Miette at
last understood from his disquieted words that he wished to go and kiss
his grandmother before leaving.

“Well, go,” she said; “don’t trouble yourself about me. Wash your
hands.”

But he went quickly away, keeping his fingers apart, without thinking
of washing them at the pump which he passed. Since he had felt Rengade’s
warm blood on his skin, he had been possessed by one idea, that of
running to Aunt Dide’s and dipping his hands in the well-trough at the
back of the little yard. There only, he thought, would he be able
to wash off the stain of that blood. Moreover, all his calm, gentle
childhood seemed to return to him; he felt an irresistible longing
to take refuge in his grandmother’s skirts, if only for a minute.
He arrived quite out of breath. Aunt Dide had not gone to bed, a
circumstance which at any other time would have greatly surprised
Silvere. But on entering he did not even see his uncle Rougon, who was
seated in a corner on the old chest. He did not wait for the poor old
woman’s questions. “Grandmother,” he said quickly, “you must forgive
me; I’m going to leave with the others. You see I’ve got blood on me. I
believe I’ve killed a gendarme.”

“You’ve killed a gendarme?” Aunt Dide repeated in a strange voice.

Her eyes gleamed brightly as she fixed them on the red stains. And
suddenly she turned towards the chimney-piece. “You’ve taken the gun,”
 she said; “where’s the gun?”

Silvere, who had left the weapon with Miette, swore to her that it was
quite safe. And for the very first time, Adelaide made an allusion to
the smuggler Macquart in her grandson’s presence.

“You’ll bring the gun back? You promise me!” she said with singular
energy. “It’s all I have left of him. You’ve killed a gendarme; ah, it
was the gendarmes who killed him!”

She continued gazing fixedly at Silvere with an air of cruel
satisfaction, and apparently without thought of detaining him. She never
asked him for any explanation, nor wept like those good grandmothers who
always imagine, at sight of the least scratch, that their grandchildren
are dying. All her nature was concentrated in one unique thought, to
which she at last gave expression with ardent curiosity: “Did you kill
the gendarme with the gun?”

Either Silvere did not quite catch what she said, or else he
misunderstood her.

“Yes!” he replied. “I’m going to wash my hands.”

It was only on returning from the well that he perceived his uncle.
Pierre had turned pale on hearing the young man’s words. Felicite was
indeed right; his family took a pleasure in compromising him. One of
his nephews had now killed a gendarme! He would never get the post
of receiver of taxes, if he did not prevent this foolish madman from
rejoining the insurgents. So he planted himself in front of the door,
determined to prevent Silvere from going out.

“Listen,” he said to the young fellow, who was greatly surprised to find
him there. “I am the head of the family, and I forbid you to leave this
house. You’re risking both your honour and ours. To-morrow I will try to
get you across the frontier.”

But Silvere shrugged his shoulders. “Let me pass,” he calmly replied.
“I’m not a police-spy; I shall not reveal your hiding-place, never
fear.” And as Rougon continued to speak of the family dignity and the
authority with which his seniority invested him: “Do I belong to your
family?” the young man continued. “You have always disowned me. To-day,
fear has driven you here, because you feel that the day of judgment has
arrived. Come, make way! I don’t hide myself; I have a duty to perform.”

Rougon did not stir. But Aunt Dide, who had listened with a sort of
delight to Silvere’s vehement language, laid her withered hand on her
son’s arm. “Get out of the way, Pierre,” she said; “the lad must go.”

The young man gave his uncle a slight shove, and dashed outside. Then
Rougon, having carefully shut the door again, said to his mother in an
angry, threatening tone: “If any mischief happens to him it will be your
fault. You’re an old mad-woman; you don’t know what you’ve just done.”

Adelaide, however, did not appear to hear him. She went and threw some
vine-branches on the fire, which was going out, and murmured with a
vague smile: “I’m used to it. He would remain away for months together,
and then come back to me in much better health.”

She was no doubt speaking of Macquart.

In the meantime, Silvere hastily regained the market-place. As he
approached the spot where he had left Miette, he heard a loud uproar of
voices and saw a crowd which made him quicken his steps. A cruel scene
had just occurred. Some inquisitive people were walking among the
insurgents, while the latter quietly partook of their meal. Amongst
these onlookers was Justin Rebufat, the son of the farmer of the
Jas-Meiffren, a youth of twenty years old, a sickly, squint-eyed
creature, who harboured implacable hatred against his cousin Miette.
At home he grudged her the bread she ate, and treated her like a beggar
picked up from the gutter out of charity. It is probable that the young
girl had rejected his advances. Lank and pale, with ill-proportioned
limbs and face all awry, he revenged himself upon her for his own
ugliness, and the contempt which the handsome, vigorous girl must have
evinced for him. He ardently longed to induce his father to send her
about her business; and for this reason he was always spying upon her.
For some time past, he had become aware of the meetings with Silvere,
and had only awaited a decisive opportunity to reveal everything to his
father, Rebufat.

On the evening in question, having seen her leave home at about eight
o’clock, Justin’s hatred had overpowered him, and he had been unable
to keep silent any longer. Rebufat, on hearing his story, fell into a
terrible rage, and declared that he would kick the gadabout out of his
house should she have the audacity to return. Justin then went to
bed, relishing beforehand the fine scene which would take place on the
morrow. Then, however, a burning desire came upon him for some immediate
foretaste of his revenge. So he dressed himself again and went out.
Perhaps he might meet Miette. In that case he was resolved to treat
her insolently. This is how he came to witness the arrival of the
insurgents, whom he followed to the town-hall with a vague presentiment
that he would find the lovers there. And, indeed, he at last caught
sight of his cousin on the seat where she was waiting for Silvere.
Seeing her wrapped in her long pelisse, with the red flag at her side,
resting against a market pillar, he began to sneer and deride her in
foul language. The girl, thunderstruck at seeing him, was unable
to speak. She wept beneath his abuse, and whist she was overcome by
sobbing, bowing her head and hiding her face, Justin called her a
convict’s daughter, and shouted that old Rebufat would give her a good
thrashing should she ever dare to return to Jas-Meiffren.

For a quarter of an hour he thus kept her smarting and trembling. Some
people had gathered round, and grinned stupidly at the painful scene.
At last a few insurgents interfered, and threatened the young man with
exemplary chastisement if he did not leave Miette alone. But Justin,
although he retreated, declared that he was not afraid of them. It was
just at this moment that Silvere came up. Young Rebufat, on catching
sight of him, made a sudden bound, as if to take flight; for he was
afraid of him, knowing that he was much stronger than himself. He could
not, however, resist the temptation to cast a parting insult on the girl
in her lover’s presence.

“Ah! I knew very well,” he cried, “that the wheelwright could not be
far off! You left us to run after that crack-brained fellow, eh? You
wretched girl! When’s the baptism to be?”

Then he retreated a few steps further on seeing Silvere clench his
fists.

“And mind,” he continued, with a vile sneer, “don’t come to our house
again. My father will kick you out if you do! Do you hear?”

But he ran away howling, with bruised visage. For Silvere had bounded
upon him and dealt him a blow full in the face. The young man did
not pursue him. When he returned to Miette he found her standing up,
feverishly wiping her tears away with the palm of her hand. And as
he gazed at her tenderly, in order to console her, she made a sudden
energetic gesture. “No,” she said, “I’m not going to cry any more,
you’ll see. I’m very glad of it. I don’t feel any regret now for having
left home. I am free.”

She took up the flag and led Silvere back into the midst of the
insurgents. It was now nearly two o’clock in the morning. The cold was
becoming so intense that the Republicans had risen to their feet and
were marching to and fro in order to warm themselves while they finished
their bread. At last their leaders gave orders for departure. The column
formed again. The prisoners were placed in the middle of it. Besides
Monsieur Garconnet and Commander Sicardot, the insurgents had
arrested Monsieur Peirotte, the receiver of taxes, and several other
functionaries, all of whom they led away.

At this moment Aristide was observed walking about among the groups.
In presence of this formidable rising, the dear fellow had thought it
imprudent not to remain on friendly terms with the Republicans; but as,
on the other hand, he did not desire to compromise himself too much,
he had come to bid them farewell with his arm in a sling, complaining
bitterly of the accursed injury which prevented him from carrying
a weapon. As he walked through the crowd he came across his brother
Pascal, provided with a case of surgical instruments and a little
portable medicine chest. The doctor informed him, in his quiet, way,
that he intended to follow the insurgents. At this Aristide inwardly
pronounced him a great fool. At last he himself slunk away, fearing lest
the others should entrust the care of the town to him, a post which he
deemed exceptionally perilous.

The insurgents could not think of keeping Plassans in their power. The
town was animated by so reactionary a spirit that it seemed impossible
even to establish a democratic municipal commission there, as had
already been done in other places. So they would simply have gone off
without taking any further steps if Macquart, prompted and emboldened by
his own private animosities, had not offered to hold Plassans in awe, on
condition that they left him twenty determined men. These men were given
him, and at their head he marched off triumphantly to take possession
of the town-hall. Meantime the column of insurgents was wending its
way along the Cours Sauvaire, and making its exit by the Grand’-Porte,
leaving the streets, which it had traversed like a tempest, silent
and deserted in its rear. The high road, whitened by the moonshine,
stretched far into the distance. Miette had refused the support of
Silvere’s arm; she marched on bravely, steady and upright, holding the
red flag aloft with both hands, without complaining of the cold which
was turning her fingers blue.



CHAPTER V

The high roads stretched far way, white with moonlight.

The insurrectionary army was continuing its heroic march through the
cold, clear country. It was like a mighty wave of enthusiasm. The thrill
of patriotism, which transported Miette and Silvere, big children that
they were, eager for love and liberty, sped, with generous fervour,
athwart the sordid intrigues of the Macquarts and the Rougons. At
intervals the trumpet-voice of the people rose and drowned the prattle
of the yellow drawing-room and the hateful discourses of uncle Antoine.
And vulgar, ignoble farce was turned into a great historical drama.

On quitting Plassans, the insurgents had taken the road to Orcheres.
They expected to reach that town at about ten o’clock in the morning.
The road skirts the course of the Viorne, following at some height the
windings of the hillocks, below which the torrent flows. On the left,
the plain spreads out like an immense green carpet, dotted here and
there with grey villages. On the right, the chain of the Garrigues rears
its desolate peaks, its plateaux of stones, its huge rusty boulders
that look as though they had been reddened by the sun. The high road,
embanked along the riverside, passes on amidst enormous rocks, between
which glimpses of the valley are caught at every step. Nothing could be
wilder or more strikingly grand than this road out of the hillside. At
night time, especially, it inspires one with a feeling of deep awe. The
insurgents advanced under the pale light, along what seemed the chief
street of some ruined town, bordered on either side with fragments
of temples. The moon turned each rock into a broken column, crumbling
capital, or stretch of wall pierced with mysterious arches. On high
slumbered the mass of the Garrigues, suffused with a milky tinge, and
resembling some immense Cyclopean city whose towers, obelisks, houses
and high terraces hid one half of the heavens; and in the depths below,
on the side of the plain, was a spreading ocean of diffused light,
vague and limitless, over which floated masses of luminous haze. The
insurrectionary force might well have thought they were following some
gigantic causeway, making their rounds along some military road built on
the shore of a phosphorescent sea, and circling some unknown Babel.

On the night in question, the Viorne roared hoarsely at the foot of
the rocks bordering the route. Amidst the continuous rumbling of the
torrent, the insurgents could distinguish the sharp, wailing notes of
the tocsin. The villages scattered about the plain, on the other side of
the river, were rising, sounding alarm-bells, and lighting signal fires.
Till daybreak the marching column, which the persistent tolling of
a mournful knell seemed to pursue in the darkness, thus beheld the
insurrection spreading along the valley, like a train of powder. The
fires showed in the darkness like stains of blood; echoes of distant
songs were wafted to them; the whole vague distance, blurred by the
whitish vapours of the moon, stirred confusedly, and suddenly broke into
a spasm of anger. For leagues and leagues the scene remained the same.

These men, marching on under the blind impetus of the fever with which
the events in Paris had inspired Republican hearts, became elated at
seeing that long stretch of country quivering with revolt. Intoxicated
with enthusiastic belief in the general insurrection of which they
dreamed, they fancied that France was following them; on the other side
of the Viorne, in that vast ocean of diffused light, they imagined there
were endless files of men rushing like themselves to the defence of the
Republic. All simplicity and delusion, as multitudes so often are, they
imagined, in their uncultured minds, that victory was easy and certain.
They would have seized and shot as a traitor any one who had then
asserted that they were the only ones who had the courage of their
duty, and that the rest of the country, overwhelmed with fright, was
pusillanimously allowing itself to be garrotted.

They derived fresh courage, too, from the welcome accorded to them
by the few localities that lay along their route on the slopes of the
Garrigues. The inhabitants rose _en masse_ immediately the little army
drew near; women ran to meet them, wishing them a speedy victory, while
men, half clad, seized the first weapons they could find and rushed to
join their ranks. There was a fresh ovation at every village, shouts of
welcome and farewell many times reiterated.

Towards daybreak the moon disappeared behind the Garrigues and the
insurgents continued their rapid march amidst the dense darkness of
a winter night. They were now unable to distinguish the valley or the
hills; they heard only the hoarse plaints of the bells, sounding through
the deep obscurity like invisible drums, hidden they knew not where, but
ever goading them on with despairing calls.

Miette and Silvere went on, all eagerness like the others. Towards
daybreak, the girl suffered greatly from fatigue; she could only walk
with short hurried steps, and was unable to keep up with the long
strides of the men who surrounded her. Nevertheless she courageously
strove to suppress all complaints; it would have cost her too much
to confess that she was not as strong as a boy. During the first few
leagues of the march Silvere gave her his arm; then, seeing that the
standard was gradually slipping from her benumbed hands, he tried to
take it in order to relieve her; but she grew angry, and would only
allow him to hold it with one hand while she continued to carry it on
her shoulder. She thus maintained her heroic demeanour with childish
stubbornness, smiling at the young man each time he gave her a glance of
loving anxiety. At last, when the moon hid itself, she gave way in the
sheltering darkness. Silvere felt her leaning more heavily on his arm.
He now had to carry the flag, and hold her round the waist to prevent
her from stumbling. Nevertheless she still made no complaint.

“Are you very tired, poor Miette?” Silvere asked her.

“Yea, a little tired,” she replied in a weary tone.

“Would you like to rest a bit?”

She made no reply; but he realised that she was staggering. He thereupon
handed the flag to one of the other insurgents and quitted the ranks,
almost carrying the girl in his arms. She struggled a little, she felt
so distressed at appearing such a child. But he calmed her, telling her
that he knew of a cross-road which shortened the distance by one half.
They would be able to take a good hour’s rest and reach Orcheres at the
same time as the others.

It was then six o’clock. There must have been a slight mist rising from
the Viorne, for the darkness seemed to be growing denser. The young
people groped their way along the slope of the Garrigues, till they came
to a rock on which they sat down. Around them lay an abyss of darkness.
They were stranded, as it were, on some reef above a dense void. And
athwart that void, when the dull tramp of the little army had died away,
they only heard two bells, the one clear toned and ringing doubtless at
their feet, in some village across the road; and the other far-off and
faint, responding, as it were, with distant sobs to the feverish plaints
of the first. One might have thought that these bells were recounting to
each other, through the empty waste, the sinister story of a perishing
world.

Miette and Silvere, warmed by their quick march, did not at first feel
the cold. They remained silent, listening in great dejection to the
sounds of the tocsin, which made the darkness quiver. They could not
even see one another. Miette felt frightened, and, seeking for Silvere’s
hand, clasped it in her own. After the feverish enthusiasm which for
several hours had carried them along with the others, this sudden halt
and the solitude in which they found themselves side by side left them
exhausted and bewildered as though they had suddenly awakened from a
strange dream. They felt as if a wave had cast them beside the highway,
then ebbed back and left them stranded. Irresistible reaction plunged
them into listless stupor; they forgot their enthusiasm; they thought no
more of the men whom they had to rejoin; they surrendered themselves to
the melancholy sweetness of finding themselves alone, hand in hand, in
the midst of the wild darkness.

“You are not angry with me?” the girl at length inquired. “I could
easily walk the whole night with you; but they were running too quickly,
I could hardly breathe.”

“Why should I be angry with you?” the young man said.

“I don’t know. I was afraid you might not love me any longer. I wish I
could have taken long strides like you, and have walked along without
stopping. You will think I am a child.”

Silvere smiled, and Miette, though the darkness prevented her from
seeing him, guessed that he was doing so. Then she continued with
determination: “You must not always treat me like a sister. I want to be
your wife some day.”

Forthwith she clasped Silvere to her bosom, and, still with her arms
about him, murmured: “We shall grow so cold; come close to me that we
may be warm.”

Then they lapsed into silence. Until that troublous hour, they had loved
one another with the affection of brother and sister. In their ignorance
they still mistook their feelings for tender friendship, although
beneath their guileless love their ardent blood surged more wildly
day by day. Given age and experience, a violent passion of southern
intensity would at last spring from this idyll. Every girl who hangs on
a youth’s neck is already a woman, a woman unconsciously, whom a caress
may awaken to conscious womanhood. When lovers kiss on the cheeks, it is
because they are searching, feeling for one another’s lips. Lovers are
made by a kiss. It was on that dark and cold December night, amid the
bitter wailing of the tocsin, that Miette and Silvere exchanged one of
those kisses that bring all the heart’s blood to the lips.

They remained silent, close to one another. A gentle glow soon
penetrated them, languor overcame them, and steeped them in feverish
drowsiness. They were quite warm at last, and lights seemed to flit
before their closed eyelids, while a buzzing mounted to their brains.
This state of painful ecstasy, which lasted some minutes, seemed
endless to them. Then, in a kind of dream, their lips met. The kiss they
exchanged was long and greedy. It seemed to them as if they had never
kissed before. Yet their embrace was fraught with suffering and they
released one another. And the chilliness of the night having cooled
their fever, they remained in great confusion at some distance one from
the other.

Meantime the bells were keeping up their sinister converse in the
dark abyss which surrounded the young people. Miette, trembling and
frightened, did not dare to draw near to Silvere again. She did not even
know if he were still there, for she could no longer hear him move. The
stinging sweetness of their kiss still clung to their lips, to which
passionate phrases surged, and they longed to kiss once more. But shame
restrained them from the expression of any such desire. They felt that
they would rather never taste that bliss again than speak of it aloud.
If their blood had not been lashed by their rapid march, if the darkness
had not offered complicity, they would, for a long time yet, have
continued kissing each other on the cheeks like old playfellows.
Feelings of modesty were coming to Miette. She remembered Justin’s
coarseness. A few hours previously she had listened, without a blush,
to that fellow who called her a shameless girl. She had wept without
understanding his meaning, she had wept simply because she guessed that
what he spoke of must be base. Now that she was becoming a woman, she
wondered in a last innocent transport whether that kiss, whose burning
smart she could still feel, would not perhaps suffice to cover her with
the shame to which her cousin had referred. Thereupon she was seized
with remorse, and burst into sobs.

“What is the matter; why are you crying?” asked Silvere in an anxious
voice.

“Oh, leave me,” she faltered, “I do not know.”

Then in spite of herself, as it were, she continued amidst her tears:
“Ah! what an unfortunate creature I am! When I was ten years old
people used to throw stones at me. To-day I am treated as the vilest of
creatures. Justin did right to despise me before everybody. We have been
doing wrong, Silvere.”

The young man, quite dismayed, clasped her in his arms again, trying
to console her. “I love you,” he whispered, “I am your brother. Why
say that we have been doing wrong? We kissed each other because we were
cold. You know very well that we used to kiss each other every evening
before separating.”

“Oh! not as we did just now,” she whispered. “It must be wrong, for a
strange feeling came over me. The men will laugh at me now as I pass,
and they will be right in doing so. I shall not be able to defend
myself.”

The young fellow remained silent, unable to find a word to calm the
agitation of this big child, trembling at her first kiss of love. He
clasped her gently, imagining that he might calm her by his embrace.
She struggled, however, and continued: “If you like, we will go away; we
will leave the province. I can never return to Plassans; my uncle would
beat me; all the townspeople would point their fingers at me--” And
then, as if seized with sudden irritation, she added: “But no! I am
cursed! I forbid you to leave aunt Dide to follow me. You must leave me
on the highway.”

“Miette, Miette!” Silvere implored; “don’t talk like that.”

“Yes. I want to please you. Be reasonable. They have turned me out like
a vagabond. If I went back with you, you would always be fighting for my
sake, and I don’t want that.”

At this the young man again pressed a kiss upon her lips, murmuring:
“You shall be my wife, and nobody will then dare to hurt you.”

“Oh! please, I entreat you!” she said, with a stifled cry; “don’t kiss
me so. You hurt me.”

Then, after a short silence: “You know quite well that I cannot be your
wife now. We are too young. You would have to wait for me, and meanwhile
I should die of shame. You are wrong in protesting; you will be forced
to leave me in some corner.”

At this Silvere, his fortitude exhausted, began to cry. A man’s sobs
are fraught with distressing hoarseness. Miette, quite frightened as
she felt the poor fellow shaking in her arms, kissed him on the face,
forgetting she was burning her lips. But it was all her fault. She was
a little simpleton to have let a kiss upset her so completely. She
now clasped her lover to her bosom as if to beg forgiveness for having
pained him. These weeping children, so anxiously clasping one another,
made the dark night yet more woeful than before. In the distance, the
bells continued to complain unceasingly in panting accents.

“It is better to die,” repeated Silvere, amidst his sobs; “it is better
to die.”

“Don’t cry; forgive me,” stammered Miette. “I will be brave; I will do
all you wish.”

When the young man had dried his tears: “You are right,” he said; “we
cannot return to Plassans. But the time for cowardice has not yet come.
If we come out of the struggle triumphant, I will go for aunt Dide, and
we will take her ever so far away with us. If we are beaten----”

He stopped.

“If we are beaten?” repeated Miette, softly.

“Then be it as God wills!” continued Silvere, in a softer voice. “I most
likely shall not be there. You will comfort the poor woman. That would
be better.”

“Ah! as you said just now,” the young girl murmured, “it would be better
to die.”

At this longing for death they tightened their embrace. Miette relied
upon dying with Silvere; he had only spoken of himself, but she felt
that he would gladly take her with him into the earth. They would there
be able to love each other more freely than under the sun. Aunt
Dide would die likewise and join them. It was, so to say, a rapid
presentiment, a desire for some strange voluptuousness, to which
Heaven, by the mournful accents of the tocsin, was promising early
gratification. To die! To die! The bells repeated these words with
increasing passion, and the lovers yielded to the calls of the darkness;
they fancied they experienced a foretaste of the last sleep, in the
drowsiness into which they again sank, whilst their lips met once more.

Miette no longer turned away. It was she, now, who pressed her lips to
Silvere’s, who sought with mute ardour for the delight whose stinging
smart she had not at first been able to endure. The thought of
approaching death had excited her; she no longer felt herself blushing,
but hung upon her love, while he in faltering voice repeated: “I love
you! I love you!”

But at this Miette shook her head, as if to say it was not true. With
her free and ardent nature she had a secret instinct of the meaning and
purposes of life, and though she was right willing to die she would fain
have known life first. At last, growing calmer, she gently rested her
head on the young man’s shoulder, without uttering a word. Silvere
kissed her again. She tasted those kisses slowly, seeking their meaning,
their hidden sweetness. As she felt them course through her veins,
she interrogated them, asking if they were all love, all passion. But
languor at last overcame her, and she fell into gentle slumber. Silvere
had enveloped her in her pelisse, drawing the skirt around himself at
the same time. They no longer felt cold. The young man rejoiced to find,
from the regularity of her breathing, that the girl was now asleep;
this repose would enable them to proceed on their way with spirit. He
resolved to let her slumber for an hour. The sky was still black, and
the approach of day was but faintly indicated by a whitish line in the
east. Behind the lovers there must have been a pine wood whose musical
awakening it was that the young man heard amidst the morning breezes.
And meantime the wailing of the bells grew more sonorous in the
quivering atmosphere, lulling Miette’s slumber even as it had
accompanied her passionate fever.

Until that troublous night, these young people had lived through one
of those innocent idylls that blossom among the toiling masses, those
outcasts and folks of simple mind amidst whom one may yet occasionally
find amours as primitive as those of the ancient Greek romances.

Miette had been scarcely nine years old at the time when her father was
sent to the galleys for shooting a gendarme. The trial of Chantegreil
had remained a memorable case in the province. The poacher boldly
confessed that he had killed the gendarme, but he swore that the latter
had been taking aim at him. “I only anticipated him,” he said, “I
defended myself; it was a duel, not a murder.” He never desisted from
this line of argument. The presiding Judge of the Assizes could not make
him understand that, although a gendarme has the right to fire upon a
poacher, a poacher has no right to fire upon a gendarme. Chantegreil
escaped the guillotine, owing to his obviously sincere belief in his own
innocence, and his previous good character. The man wept like a child
when his daughter was brought to him prior to his departure for Toulon.
The little thing, who had lost her mother in her infancy, dwelt at this
time with her grandfather at Chavanoz, a village in the passes of the
Seille. When the poacher was no longer there, the old man and the
girl lived upon alms. The inhabitants of Chavanoz, all sportsmen and
poachers, came to the assistance of the poor creatures whom the convict
had left behind him. After a while, however, the old man died of grief,
and Miette, left alone by herself, would have had to beg on the high
roads, if the neighbours had not remembered that she had an aunt at
Plassans. A charitable soul was kind enough to take her to this aunt,
who did not, however, receive her very kindly.

Eulalie Chantegreil, the spouse of _meger_ Rebufat, was a big, dark,
stubborn creature, who ruled the home. She led her husband by the noise,
said the people of the Faubourg of Plassans. The truth was, Rebufat,
avaricious and eager for work and gain, felt a sort of respect for this
big creature, who combined uncommon vigour with strict sobriety and
economy.

Thanks to her, the household thrived. The _meger_ grumbled one evening
when, on returning home from work, he found Miette installed there. But
his wife closed his mouth by saying in her gruff voice: “Bah, the little
thing’s strongly built, she’ll do for a servant; we’ll keep her and save
wages.”

This calculation pleased Rebufat. He went so far as to feel the little
thing’s arms, and declared with satisfaction that she was sturdy for her
age. Miette was then nine years old. From the very next day he made use
of her. The work of the peasant-woman in the South of France is much
lighter than in the North. One seldom sees them employed in digging the
ground, carrying loads, or doing other kinds of men’s work. They bind
sheaves, gather olives and mulberry leaves; perhaps their most laborious
work is that of weeding. Miette worked away willingly. Open-air life
was her delight, her health. So long as her aunt lived she was always
smiling. The good woman, in spite of her roughness, at last loved her
as her own child; she forbade her doing the hard work which her husband
sometimes tried to force upon her, saying to the latter:

“Ah! you’re a clever fellow! You don’t understand, you fool, that if you
tire her too much to-day, she won’t be able to do anything to-morrow!”

This argument was decisive. Rebufat bowed his head, and carried the load
which he had desired to set on the young girl’s shoulders.

The latter would have lived in perfect happiness under the secret
protection of her aunt Eulalie, but for the teasing of her cousin, who
was then a lad of sixteen, and employed his idle hours in hating and
persecuting her. Justin’s happiest moments were those when by means of
some gross falsehood he succeeded in getting her scolded. Whenever he
could tread on her feet, or push her roughly, pretending not to have
seen her, he laughed and felt the delight of those crafty folks who
rejoice at other people’s misfortunes. Miette, however, would stare at
him with her large black childish eyes gleaming with anger and silent
scorn, which checked the cowardly youngster’s sneers. In reality he was
terribly afraid of his cousin.

The young girl was just attaining her eleventh year when her aunt
Eulalie suddenly died. From that day everything changed in the house.
Rebufat gradually come to treat her like a farm-labourer. He overwhelmed
her with all sorts of rough work, and made use of her as a beast of
burden. She never even complained, however, thinking that she had a debt
of gratitude to repay him. In the evening, when she was worn out with
fatigue, she mourned for her aunt, that terrible woman whose latent
kindliness she now realised. However, it was not the hard work that
distressed her, for she delighted in her strength, and took a pride in
her big arms and broad shoulders. What distressed her was her uncle’s
distrustful surveillance, his continual reproaches, and the irritated
employer-like manner he assumed towards her. She had now become a
stranger in the house. Yet even a stranger would not have been so badly
treated as she was. Rebufat took the most unscrupulous advantage of
this poor little relative, whom he pretended to keep out of charity. She
repaid his harsh hospitality ten times over with her work, and yet never
a day passed but he grudged her the bread she ate. Justin especially
excelled in wounding her. Since his mother had been dead, seeing her
without a protector, he had brought all his evil instincts into play in
trying to make the house intolerable to her. The most ingenious torture
which he invented was to speak to Miette of her father. The poor girl,
living away from the world, under the protection of her aunt, who had
forbidden any one ever to mention the words “galleys” or “convict”
 before her, hardly understood their meaning. It was Justin who explained
it to her by relating, in his own manner, the story of the murder of the
gendarme, and Chantegreil’s conviction. There was no end to the horrible
particulars he supplied: the convicts had a cannonball fastened to one
ankle by a chain, they worked fifteen hours a day, and all died under
their punishment; their prison, too, was a frightful place, the horrors
of which he described minutely. Miette listened to him, stupefied, her
eyes full of tears. Sometimes she was roused to sudden violence, and
Justin quickly retired before her clenched fists. However, he took a
savage delight in thus instructing her as to the nature of prison
life. When his father flew into a passion with the child for any little
negligence, he chimed in, glad to be able to insult her without danger.
And if she attempted to defend herself, he would exclaim: “Bah! bad
blood always shows itself. You’ll end at the galleys like your father.”

At this Miette sobbed, stung to the heart, powerless and overwhelmed
with shame.

She was already growing to womanhood at this period. Of precocious
nature, she endured her martyrdom with extraordinary fortitude. She
rarely gave way, excepting when her natural pride succumbed to her
cousin’s outrages. Soon even, she was able to bear, without a tear, the
incessant insults of this cowardly fellow, who ever watched her while he
spoke, for fear lest she should fly at his face. Then, too, she learnt
to silence him by staring at him fixedly. She had several times felt
inclined to run away from the Jas-Meiffren; but she did not do so,
as her courage could not brook the idea of confessing that she was
vanquished by the persecution she endured. She certainly earned her
bread, she did not steal the Rebufats’ hospitality; and this conviction
satisfied her pride. So she remained there to continue the struggle,
stiffening herself and living on with the one thought of resistance. Her
plan was to do her work in silence, and revenge herself for all harsh
treatment by mute contempt. She knew that her uncle derived too much
advantage from her to listen readily to the insinuations of Justin,
who longed to get her turned out of doors. And in a defiant spirit she
resolved that she would not go away of her own accord.

Her continuous voluntary silence was full of strange fancies. Passing
her days in the enclosure, isolated from all the world, she formed ideas
for herself which would have strangely shocked the good people of the
Faubourg. Her father’s fate particularly occupied her thoughts. All
Justin’s abuse recurred to her; and she ended by accepting the charge
of murder, saying to herself, however, that her father had done well
to kill the gendarme who had tried to kill him. She had learnt the real
story from a labourer who had worked for a time at the Jas-Meiffren.
From that moment, on the few occasions when she went out, she no longer
even turned if the ragamuffins of the Faubourg followed her, crying:
“Hey! La Chantegreil!”

She simply hastened her steps homeward, with lips compressed, and black,
fierce eyes. Then after shutting the gate, she perhaps cast one long
glance at the gang of urchins. She would have become vicious, have
lapsed into fierce pariah savagery, if her childishness had not
sometimes gained the mastery. Her extreme youth brought her little
girlish weaknesses which relieved her. She would then cry with shame for
herself and her father. She would hide herself in a stable so that she
might sob to her heart’s content, for she knew that, if the others saw
her crying, they would torment her all the more. And when she had wept
sufficiently, she would bathe her eyes in the kitchen, and then again
subside into uncomplaining silence. It was not interest alone, however,
which prompted her to hide herself; she carried her pride in her
precocious strength so far that she was unwilling to appear a child. In
time she would have become very unhappy. Fortunately she was saved by
discovering the latent tenderness of her loving nature.

The well in the yard of the house occupied by aunt Dide and Silvere was
a party-well. The wall of the Jas-Meiffren cut it in halves. Formerly,
before the Fouques’ property was united to the neighbouring estate, the
market-gardeners had used this well daily. Since the transfer of the
Fouques’ ground, however, as it was at some distance from the outhouses,
the inmates of the Jas, who had large cisterns at their disposal, did
not draw a pail of water from it in a month. On the other side, one
could hear the grating of the pulley every morning when Silvere drew the
water for aunt Dide.

One day the pulley broke. The young wheelwright made a good strong one
of oak, and put it up in the evening after his day’s work. To do this
he had to climb upon the wall. When he had finished the job he remained
resting astride the coping, and surveyed with curiosity the large
expanse of the Jas-Meiffren. At last a peasant-girl, who was weeding the
ground a few feet from him, attracted his attention. It was in July, and
the air was broiling, although the sun had already sank to the horizon.
The peasant-girl had taken off her jacket. In a white bodice, with a
coloured neckerchief tied over her shoulders, and the sleeves of her
chemise turned up as far as her elbows, she was squatting amid the folds
of her blue cotton skirt, which was secured to a pair of braces crossed
behind her back. She crawled about on her knees as she pulled up the
tares and threw them into a basket. The young man could only see her
bare, sun-tanned arms stretching out right and left to seize some
overlooked weed. He followed this rapid play of her arms complacently,
deriving a singular pleasure from seeing them so firm and quick. The
young person had slightly raised herself on noticing that he was
no longer at work, but had again lowered her head before he could
distinguish her features. This shyness kept him in suspense. Like an
inquisitive lad he wondered who this weeder could be, and while he
lingered there, whistling and beating time with a chisel, the latter
suddenly slipped out of his hand. It fell into the Jas-Meiffren,
striking the curb of the well, and then bounding a few feet from the
wall. Silvere looked at it, leaning forward and hesitating to get over.
But the peasant-girl must have been watching the young man askance, for
she jumped up without saying anything, picked up the chisel, and handed
it to Silvere, who then perceived that she was a mere child. He was
surprised and rather intimidated. The young girl raised herself towards
him in the red glare of the sunset. The wall at this spot was low, but
nevertheless too high for her to reach him. So he bent low over the
coping, while she still raised herself on tiptoes. They did not speak,
but looked at each other with an air of smiling confusion. The young man
would indeed have liked to keep the girl in that position. She turned to
him a charming head, with handsome black eyes, and red lips, which quite
astonished and stirred him. He had never before seen a girl so near;
he had not known that lips and eyes could be so pleasant to look at.
Everything about the girl seemed to possess a strange fascination for
him--her coloured neckerchief, her white bodice, her blue cotton skirt
hanging from braces which stretched with the motion of her shoulders.
Then his glance glided along the arm which was handing him the tool; as
far as the elbow this arm was of a golden brown, as though clothed with
sun-burn; but higher up, in the shadow of the tucked-up sleeve, Silvere
perceived a bare, milk-white roundness. At this he felt confused;
however, he leant further over, and at last managed to grasp the chisel.
The little peasant-girl was becoming embarrassed. Still they remained
there, smiling at each other, the child beneath with upturned face, and
the lad half reclining on the coping of the wall. They could not part
from each other. So far they had not exchanged a word, and Silvere even
forgot to say, “Thank you.”

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Marie,” replied the peasant-girl; “but everybody calls me Miette.”

Again she raised herself slightly, and in a clear voice inquired in her
turn: “And yours?”

“My name is Silvere,” the young workman replied.

A pause ensued, during which they seemed to be listening complacently to
the music of their names.

“I’m fifteen years old,” resumed Silvere. “And you?”

“I!” said Miette; “oh, I shall be eleven on All Saints’ Day.”

The young workman made a gesture of surprise. “Ah! really!” he said,
laughing, “and to think I took you for a woman! You’ve such big arms.”

She also began to laugh, as she lowered her eyes to her arms. Then they
ceased speaking. They remained for another moment gazing and smiling at
each other. And finally, as Silvere seemingly had no more questions to
ask her, Miette quietly withdrew and went on plucking her weeds, without
raising her head. The lad for his part remained on the wall for a while.
The sun was setting; a stream of oblique rays poured over the yellow
soil of the Jas-Meiffren, which seemed to be all ablaze--one would have
said that a fire was running along the ground--and, in the midst of the
flaming expanse, Silvere saw the little stooping peasant-girl, whose
bare arms had resumed their rapid motion. The blue cotton skirt was
now becoming white; and rays of light streamed over the child’s
copper-coloured arms. At last Silvere felt somewhat ashamed of remaining
there, and accordingly got off the wall.

In the evening, preoccupied with his adventure, he endeavoured to
question aunt Dide. Perhaps she would know who this Miette was who had
such black eyes and such red lips. But, since she had lived in the house
in the alley, the old woman had never once given a look behind the wall
of the little yard. It was, to her, like an impassable rampart, which
shut off her past. She did not know--she did not want to know--what
there might now be on the other side of that wall, in that old enclosure
of the Fouques, where she had buried her love, her heart and her flesh.
As soon as Silvere began to question her she looked at him with childish
terror. Was he, then, going to stir up the ashes of those days now dead
and gone, and make her weep like her son Antoine had done?

“I don’t know,” she said in a hasty voice; “I no longer go out, I never
see anybody.”

Silvere waited the morrow with considerable impatience. And as soon
as he got to his master’s workshop, he drew his fellow-workmen into
conversation. He did not say anything about his interview with Miette;
but spoke vaguely of a girl whom he had seen from a distance in the
Jas-Meiffren.

“Oh! that’s La Chantegreil!” cried one of the workmen.

There was no necessity for Silvere to question them further, for they
told him the story of the poacher Chantegreil and his daughter Miette,
with that unreasoning spite which is felt for social outcasts. The girl,
in particular, they treated in a foul manner; and the insulting gibe
of “daughter of a galley-slave” constantly rose to their lips like an
incontestable reason for condemning the poor, dear innocent creature to
eternal disgrace.

However, wheelwright Vian, an honest, worthy fellow, at last silenced
his men.

“Hold your tongues, you foul mouths!” he said, as he let fall the
shaft of a cart that he had been examining. “You ought to be ashamed of
yourselves for being so hard upon the child. I’ve seen her, the little
thing looks a very good girl. Besides, I’m told she doesn’t mind work,
and already does as much as any woman of thirty. There are some lazy
fellows here who aren’t a match for her. I hope, later on, that she’ll
get a good husband who’ll stop this evil talk.”

Silvere, who had been chilled by the workmen’s gross jests and insults,
felt tears rise to his eyes at the last words spoken by Vian. However,
he did not open his lips. He took up his hammer, which he had laid down
near him, and began with all his might to strike the nave of a wheel
which he was binding with iron.

In the evening, as soon as he had returned home from the workshop, he
ran to the wall and climbed upon it. He found Miette engaged upon the
same labour as the day before. He called her. She came to him, with her
smile of embarrassment, and the charming shyness of a child who from
infancy had grown up in tears.

“You’re La Chantegreil, aren’t you?” he asked her, abruptly.

She recoiled, she ceased smiling, and her eyes turned sternly black,
gleaming with defiance. So this lad was going to insult her, like the
others! She was turning her back upon him, without giving an answer,
when Silvere, perplexed by her sudden change of countenance, hastened to
add: “Stay, I beg you--I don’t want to pain you--I’ve got so many things
to tell you!”

She turned round, still distrustful. Silvere, whose heart was full, and
who had resolved to relieve it, remained for a moment speechless, not
knowing how to continue, for he feared lest he should commit a fresh
blunder. At last he put his whole heart in one phrase: “Would you like
me to be your friend?” he said, in a voice full of emotion. And as
Miette, in surprise, raised her eyes, which were again moist and
smiling, he continued with animation: “I know that people try to vex
you. It’s time to put a stop to it. I will be your protector now. Shall
I?”

The child beamed with delight. This proffered friendship roused her from
all her evil dreams of taciturn hatred. Still she shook her head and
answered: “No, I don’t want you to fight on my account. You’d have
too much to do. Besides which, there are persons from whom you cannot
protect me.”

Silvere wished to declare that he would defend her against the whole
world, but she closed his mouth with a coaxing gesture, as she added: “I
am satisfied to have you as a friend.”

They then conversed together for a few minutes, lowering their voices as
much as possible. Miette spoke to Silvere of her uncle and her cousin.
For all the world she would not have liked them to catch him astride
the coping of the wall. Justin would be implacable with such a weapon
against her. She spoke of her misgivings with the fright of a schoolgirl
on meeting a friend with whom her mother has forbidden her to associate.
Silvere merely understood, however, that he would not be able to see
Miette at his pleasure. This made him very sad. Still, he promised that
he would not climb upon the wall any more. They were both endeavouring
to find some expedient for seeing each other again, when Miette suddenly
begged him to go away; she had just caught sight of Justin, who was
crossing the grounds in the direction of the wall. Silvere quickly
descended. When he was in the little yard again, he remained by the wall
to listen, irritated by his flight. After a few minutes he ventured to
climb again and cast a glance into the Jas-Meiffren, but he saw Justin
speaking with Miette, and quickly withdrew his head. On the following
day he could see nothing of his friend, not even in the distance; she
must have finished her work in that part of the Jas. A week passed in
this fashion, and the young people had no opportunity of exchanging a
single word. Silvere was in despair; he thought of boldly going to the
Rebufats to ask for Miette.

The party-well was a large one, but not very deep. On either side of
the wall the curb formed a large semicircle. The water was only ten or
twelve feet down at the utmost. This slumbering water reflected the two
apertures of the well, two half-moons between which the shadow of the
wall cast a black streak. On leaning over, one might have fancied in the
vague light that the half-moons were two mirrors of singular clearness
and brilliance. Under the morning sunshine, when the dripping of the
ropes did not disturb the surface of the water, these mirrors, these
reflections of the heavens, showed like white patches on the green
water, and in them the leaves of the ivy which had spread along the wall
over the well were repeated with marvellous exactness.

One morning, at an early hour, Silvere, as he came to draw water for
aunt Dide, bent over the well mechanically, just as he was taking hold
of the rope. He started, and then stood motionless, still leaning over.
He had fancied that he could distinguish in the well the face of a young
girl who was looking at him with a smile; however, he had shaken the
rope, and the disturbed water was now but a dim mirror that no longer
reflected anything clearly. Silvere, who did not venture to stir, and
whose heart beat rapidly, then waited for the water to settle. As
its ripples gradually widened and died away, he perceived the image
reappearing. It oscillated for a long time, with a swing which lent
a vague, phantom-like grace to its features, but at last it remained
stationary. It was the smiling countenance of Miette, with her head
and shoulders, her coloured neckerchief, her white bodice, and her blue
braces. Silvere next perceived his own image in the other mirror. Then,
knowing that they could see each other, they nodded their heads. For
the first moment, they did not even think of speaking. At last they
exchanged greetings.

“Good morning, Silvere.”

“Good morning, Miette.”

They were surprised by the strange sound of their voices, which became
singularly soft and sweet in that damp hole. The sound seemed, indeed,
to come from a distance, like the soft music of voices heard of an
evening in the country. They understood that it would suffice to speak
in a whisper in order to hear each other. The well echoed the faintest
breath. Leaning over its brink, they conversed while gazing at one
another’s reflection. Miette related how sad she had been the last week.
She was now working at the other end of the Jas, and could only get out
early in the morning. Then she made a pout of annoyance which Silvere
distinguished perfectly, and to which he replied by nodding his head
with an air of vexation. They were exchanging all those gestures and
facial expressions that speech entails. They cared but little for the
wall which separated them now that they could see each other in those
hidden depths.

“I knew,” continued Miette, with a knowing look, “that you came here to
draw water every morning at the same hour. I can hear the grating of the
pulley from the house. So I made an excuse, I pretended that the water
in this well boiled the vegetables better. I thought that I might come
here every morning to draw water at the same time as you, so as to say
good morning to you without anyone suspecting it.”

She smiled innocently, as though well pleased with her device, and
ended by saying: “But I did not imagine we should see each other in the
water.”

It was, in fact, this unhoped-for pleasure which so delighted them. They
only spoke to see their lips move, so greatly did this new frolic amuse
their childish natures. And they resolved to use all means in their
power to meet here every morning. When Miette had said that she must go
away, she told Silvere that he could draw his pail of water. But he did
not dare to shake the rope; Miette was still leaning over--he could see
her smiling face, and it was too painful to him to dispel that smile. As
he slightly stirred his pail, the water murmured, and the smile faded.
Then he stopped, seized with a strange fear; he fancied that he had
vexed her and made her cry. But the child called to him, “Go on! go on!”
 with a laugh which the echo prolonged and rendered more sonorous. She
herself then nosily sent down a pail. There was a perfect tempest.
Everything disappeared under the black water. And Silvere made up his
mind to fill two pitchers, while listening to the retreating steps of
Miette on the other side of the wall.

From that day, the young people never missed their assignations. The
slumbering water, the white mirrors in which they gazed at one another,
imparted to their interviews a charm which long sufficed their playful,
childish imaginations. They had no desire to see each other face to
face: it seemed much more amusing to them to use the well as a mirror,
and confide their morning greetings to its echo. They soon came to look
upon the well as an old friend. They loved to bend over the motionless
water that resembled molten silver. A greenish glimmer hovered below,
in a mysterious half light, and seemed to change the damp hole into some
hiding-place in the depths of a wood. They saw each other in a sort
of greenish nest bedecked with moss, in the midst of fresh water and
foliage. And all the strangeness of the deep spring, the hollow tower
over which they bent, trembling with fascination, added unconfessed and
delightful fear to their merry laughter. The wild idea occurred to them
of going down and seating themselves on a row of large stones which
formed a kind of circular bench at a few inches above the water. They
would dip their feet in the latter, converse there for hours, and no
one would think of coming to look for them in such a spot. But when
they asked each other what there might be down there, their vague fears
returned; they thought it quite sufficient to let their reflected images
descend into the depths amidst those green glimmers which tinged the
stones with strange moire-like reflections, and amidst those mysterious
noises which rose from the dark corners. Those sounds issuing from the
invisible made them particularly uneasy; they often fancied that voices
were replying to their own; and then they would remain silent, detecting
a thousand faint plaints which they could not understand. These came
from the secret travail of the moisture, the sighs of the atmosphere,
the drops that glided over the stones, and fell below with the
sonorousness of sobs. They would nod affectionately to each other
in order to reassure themselves. Thus the attraction which kept them
leaning over the brink had a tinge of secret terror, like all poignant
charms. But the well still remained their old friend. It was such
an excellent pretext for meeting! Justin, who watched Miette’s every
movement, never suspected the cause of her eagerness to go and draw some
water every morning. At times, he saw her from the distance, leaning
over and loitering. “Ah! the lazy thing!” he muttered; “how fond she is
of dawdling about!” How could he suspect that, on the other side of the
wall, there was a wooer contemplating the girl’s smile in the water, and
saying to her: “If that red-haired donkey Justin should illtreat you,
just tell me of it, and he shall hear from me!”

This amusement lasted for more than a month. It was July then; the
mornings were sultry; the sun shone brightly, and it was quite a
pleasure to come to that damp spot. It was delightful to feel the cold
breath of the well on one’s face, and make love amidst this spring water
while the skies were kindling their fires. Miette would arrive out of
breath after crossing the stubble fields; as she ran along, her hair
fell down over her forehead and temples; and it was with flushed face
and dishevelled locks that she would lean over, shaking with laughter,
almost before she had had time to set her pitcher down. Silvere, who
was almost always the first at the well, felt, as he suddenly saw her
smiling face in the water, as keen a joy as he would have experienced
had she suddenly thrown herself into his arms at the bend of a pathway.
Around them the radiant morning hummed with mirth; a wave of warm light,
sonorous with the buzzing of insects, beat against the old wall, the
posts, and the curbstone. They, however, no longer saw the shower of
morning sunshine, nor heard the thousand sounds rising from the ground;
they were in the depths of their green hiding-place, under the earth, in
that mysterious and awesome cavity, and quivered with pleasure as they
lingered there enjoying its fresh coolness and dim light.

On some mornings, Miette, who by nature could not long maintain a
contemplative attitude, began to tease; she would shake the rope, and
make drops of water fall in order to ripple the mirrors and deface the
reflections. Silvere would then entreat her to remain still; he, whose
fervour was deeper than hers, knew no keener pleasure than that of
gazing at his love’s image reflected so distinctly in every feature.
But she would not listen to him; she would joke and feign a rough old
bogey’s voice, to which the echo imparted a raucous melodiousness.

“No, no,” she would say in chiding fashion; “I don’t love you to-day!
I’m making faces at you; see how ugly I am.”

And she laughed at seeing the fantastic forms which their spreading
faces assumed as they danced upon the disturbed water.

One morning she got angry in real earnest. She did not find Silvere at
the trysting-place, and waited for him for nearly a quarter of an hour,
vainly making the pulley grate. She was just about to depart in a rage
when he arrived. As soon as she perceived him she let a perfect tempest
loose in the well, shook her pail in an irritated manner, and made the
blackish water whirl and splash against the stones. In vain did Silvere
try to explain that aunt Dide had detained him. To all his excuses she
replied: “You’ve vexed me; I don’t want to see you.”

The poor lad, in despair, vainly questioned that sombre cavity, now so
full of lamentable sounds, where, on other days, such a bright vision
usually awaited him amid the silence of the stagnant water. He had to go
away without seeing Miette. On the morrow, arriving before the time,
he gazed sadly into the well, hearing nothing, and thinking that the
obstinate girl would not come, when she, who was already on the other
side slyly watching his arrival, bent over suddenly with a burst of
laughter. All was at once forgotten.

In this wise the well was the scene of many a little drama and comedy.
That happy cavity, with its gleaming mirrors and musical echoes, quickly
ripened their love. They endowed it with such strange life, so filled it
with their youthful love, that, long after they had ceased to come and
lean over the brink, Silvere, as he drew water every morning, would
fancy he could see Miette’s smiling face in the dim light that still
quivered with the joy they had set there.

That month of playful love rescued Miette from her mute despair. She
felt a revival of her affections, her happy childish carelessness, which
had been held in check by the hateful loneliness in which she lived.
The certainty that she was loved by somebody, and that she was no longer
alone in the world, enabled her to endure the persecutions of Justin
and the Faubourg urchins. A song of joy, whose glad notes drowned their
hootings, now sounded in her heart. She thought of her father with
tender compassion, and did not now so frequently yield to dreams of
bitter vengeance. Her dawning love cooled her feverish broodings
like the fresh breezes of the dawn. At the same time she acquired the
instinctive cunning of a young girl in love. She felt that she must
maintain her usual silent and rebellious demeanour if she were to escape
Justin’s suspicions. But, in spite of her efforts, her eyes retained a
sweet unruffled expression when the lad bullied her; she was no longer
able to put on her old black look of indignant anger. One morning he
heard her humming to herself at breakfast-time.

“You seem very gay, Chantegreil!” he said to her suspiciously, glancing
keenly at her from his lowering eyes. “I bet you’ve been up to some of
your tricks again!”

She shrugged her shoulders, but she trembled inwardly; and she did all
she could to regain her old appearance of rebellious martyrdom. However,
though Justin suspected some secret happiness, it was long before he was
able to discover how his victim had escaped him.

Silvere, on his side, enjoyed profound happiness. His daily meetings
with Miette made his idle hours pass pleasantly away. During his
long silent companionship with aunt Dide, he recalled one by one his
remembrances of the morning, revelling in their most trifling details.
From that time forward, the fulness of his heart cloistered him yet more
in the lonely existence which he had adopted with his grandmother. He
was naturally fond of hidden spots, of solitary retirement, where he
could give himself up to his thoughts. At this period already he had
eagerly begun to read all the old odd volumes which he could pick up at
brokers’ shops in the Faubourg, and which were destined to lead him to
a strange and generous social religion and morality. His
reading--ill-digested and lacking all solid foundation--gave him
glimpses of the world’s vanities and pleasures, especially with regard
to women, which would have seriously troubled his mind if his heart
had not been contented. When Miette came, he received her at first as
a companion, then as the joy and ambition of his life. In the evening,
when he had retired to the little nook where he slept, and hung his lamp
at the head of his strap-bedstead, he would find Miette on every page of
the dusty old volume which he had taken at random from a shelf above his
head and was reading devoutly. He never came across a young girl, a good
and beautiful creature, in his reading, without immediately identifying
her with his sweetheart. And he would set himself in the narrative as
well. If he were reading a love story, it was he who married Miette at
the end, or died with her. If, on the contrary, he were perusing some
political pamphlet, some grave dissertation on social economy, works
which he preferred to romances, for he had that singular partiality for
difficult subjects which characterises persons of imperfect scholarship,
he still found some means of associating her with the tedious themes
which frequently he could not even understand. For instance, he tried
to persuade himself that he was learning how to be good and kind to her
when they were married. He thus associated her with all his visionary
dreamings. Protected by the purity of his affection against the
obscenity of certain eighteenth-century tales which fell into his hands,
he found particular pleasure in shutting himself up with her in those
humanitarian Utopias which some great minds of our own time, infatuated
by visions of universal happiness have imagined. Miette, in his mind,
became quite essential to the abolition of pauperism and the definitive
triumph of the principles of the Revolution. There were nights of
feverish reading, when his mind could not tear itself from his book,
which he would lay down and take up at least a score of times, nights
of voluptuous weariness which he enjoyed till daybreak like some secret
orgie, cramped up in that tiny room, his eyes troubled by the flickering
yellow light, while he yielded to the fever of insomnia and schemed
out new social schemes of the most absurdly ingenuous nature, in which
woman, always personified by Miette, was worshipped by the nations on
their knees.

He was predisposed to Utopian ideas by certain hereditary influences;
his grandmother’s nervous disorders became in him so much chronic
enthusiasm, striving after everything that was grandiose and impossible.
His lonely childhood, his imperfect education, had developed his natural
tendencies in a singular manner. However, he had not yet reached the age
when the fixed idea plants itself in a man’s mind. In the morning, after
he had dipped his head in a bucket of water, he remembered his thoughts
and visions of the night but vaguely; nothing remained of his dreams
save a childlike innocence, full of trustful confidence and yearning
tenderness. He felt like a child again. He ran to the well, solely
desirous of meeting his sweetheart’s smile, and tasting the delights
of the radiant morning. And during the day, when thoughts of the future
sometimes made him silent and dreamy, he would often, prompted by some
sudden impulse, spring up and kiss aunt Dide on both cheeks, whereat the
old woman would gaze at him anxiously, perturbed at seeing his eyes so
bright, and gleaming with a joy which she thought she could divine.

At last, as time went on, Miette and Silvere began to tire of only
seeing each other’s reflection. The novelty of their play was gone, and
now they began to dream of keener pleasures than the well could afford
them. In this longing for reality which came upon them, there was the
wish to see each other face to face, to run through the open fields, and
return out of breath with their arms around each other’s waist, clinging
closely together in order that they might the better feel each other’s
love. One morning Silvere spoke of climbing over the wall, and walking
in the Jas with Miette. But the child implored him not to perpetrate
such folly, which would place her at Justin’s mercy. He then promised to
seek some other means.

The wall in which the well was set made a sudden bend a few paces
further on, thereby forming a sort of recess, where the lovers would be
free from observation, if they were to take shelter there. The question
was how to reach this recess. Silvere could no longer entertain the idea
of climbing over, as Miette had appeared so afraid. He secretly thought
of another plan. The little door which Macquart and Adelaide had set up
one night long years previously had remained forgotten in this remote
corner. The owner of the Jas-Meiffren had not even thought of blocking
it up. Blackened by damp and green with moss, its lock and hinges eaten
away with rust, it looked like a part of the old wall. Doubtless the
key was lost; the grass growing beside the lower boards, against which
slight mounds had formed, amply proved that no one had passed that way
for many a long year. However, it was the lost key that Silvere hoped to
find. He knew with what devotion his aunt Dide allowed the relics of the
past to lie rotting wherever they might be. He searched the house for a
week without any result, and went stealthily night by night to see if
he had at last put his hand on the right key during the daytime. In this
way he tried more than thirty keys which had doubtless come from the old
property of the Fouques, and which he found all over the place, against
the walls, on the floors, and at the bottom of drawers. He was becoming
disheartened, when all at once he found the precious key. It was simply
tied by a string to the street door latch-key, which always remained in
the lock. It had hung there for nearly forty years. Aunt Dide must every
day have touched it with her hand, without ever making up her mind to
throw it away, although it could now only carry her back sorrowfully
into the past. When Silvere had convinced himself that it really opened
the little door, he awaited the ensuing day, dreaming of the joyful
surprise which he was preparing for Miette. He had not told her for what
he had been searching.

On the morrow, as soon as he heard the girl set her pitcher down, he
gently opened the door, sweeping away with a push the tall weeds which
covered the threshold. Stretching out his head, he saw Miette leaning
over the brink of the well, looking into the water, absorbed in
expectation. Thereupon, in a couple of strides, he reached the recess
formed by the wall, and thence called, “Miette! Miette!” in a soft
voice, which made her tremble. She raised her head, thinking he was on
the coping of the wall. But when she saw him in the Jas, at a few steps
from her, she gave a faint cry of surprise, and ran up to him. They took
each other’s hand, and looked at one another, delighted to be so near,
thinking themselves far handsomer like this, in the warm sunshine. It
was the middle of August, the Feast of the Assumption. In the
distance, the bells were pealing in the limpid atmosphere that so often
accompanies great days of festival, an atmosphere full of bright gaiety.

“Good morning, Silvere!”

“Good morning, Miette!”

The voices in which they exchanged their morning greetings sounded
strange to them. They knew only the muffled accents transmitted by the
echo of the well. And now their voices seemed to them as clear as the
notes of a lark. And ah! how delightful it was in that warm corner, in
that holiday atmosphere! They still held each other’s hands. Silvere
leaning against the wall, Miette with her figure slightly thrown
backwards. They were about to tell each other all the soft things which
they had not dared to confide to the reverberations of the well, when
Silvere, hearing a slight noise, started, and, turning pale, dropped
Miette’s hands. He had just seen aunt Dide standing before him erect and
motionless on the threshold of the doorway.

The grandmother had come to the well by chance. And on perceiving, in
the old black wall, the white gap formed by the doorway which Silvere
had left wide open, she had experienced a violent shock. That open gap
seemed to her like a gulf of light violently illumining her past. She
once more saw herself running to the door amidst the morning brightness,
and crossing the threshold full of the transports of her nervous love.
And Macquart was there awaiting her. She hung upon his neck and pressed
against his bosom, whilst the rising sun, following her through the
doorway, which she had left open in her hurry, enveloped them with
radiance. It was a sudden vision which roused her cruelly from the
slumber of old age, like some supreme chastisement, and awakened a
multitude of bitter memories within her. Had the well, had the entire
wall, disappeared beneath the earth, she would not have been more
stupefied. She had never thought that this door would open again. In her
mind it had been walled up ever since the hour of Macquart’s death. And
amidst her amazement she felt angry, indignant with the sacrilegious
hand that had penetrated this violation, and left that white open space
agape like a yawning tomb. She stepped forward, yielding to a kind of
fascination, and halted erect within the framework of the door.

Then she gazed out before her, with a feeling of dolorous surprise. She
had certainly been told that the old enclosure of the Fouques was
now joined to the Jas-Meiffren; but she would never have thought the
associations of her youth could have vanished so completely. It seemed
as though some tempest had carried off everything that her memory
cherished. The old dwelling, the large kitchen-garden, the beds of green
vegetables, all had disappeared. Not a stone, not a tree of former times
remained. And instead of the scene amidst which she had grown up, and
which in her mind’s eye she had seen but yesterday, there lay a strip
of barren soil, a broad patch of stubbles, bare like a desert.
Henceforward, when, on closing her eyes, she might try to recall the
objects of the past, that stubble would always appear to her like a
shroud of yellowish drugget spread over the soil, in which her youth lay
buried. In the presence of that unfamiliar commonplace scene her heart
died, as it were, a second time. Now all was completely, finally ended.
She was robbed even of her dreams of the past. Then she began to regret
that she had yielded to the attraction of that white opening, of that
doorway gaping upon the days which were now for ever lost.

She was about to retire and close the accursed door, without even
seeking to discover who had opened it, when she suddenly perceived
Miette and Silvere. And the sight of the two young lovers, who, with
hanging heads, nervously awaited her glance, kept her on the threshold,
quivering with yet keener pain. She now understood all. To the very end,
she was destined to picture herself there, clasped in Macquart’s arms
in the bright sunshine. Yet a second time had the door served as an
accomplice. Where love had once passed, there was it passing again.
‘Twas the eternal and endless renewal, with present joys and future
tears. Aunt Dide could only see the tears, and a sudden presentiment
showed her the two children bleeding, with stricken hearts. Overwhelmed
by the recollection of her life’s sorrow, which this spot had just
awakened within her, she grieved for her dear Silvere. She alone was
guilty; if she had not formerly had that door made Silvere would not
now be at a girl’s feet in that lonely nook, intoxicating himself with a
bliss which prompts and angers the jealousy of death.

After a brief pause, she went up to the young man, and, without a
word, took him by the hand. She might, perhaps, have left them there,
chattering under the wall, had she not felt that she herself was, to
some extent, an accomplice in this fatal love. As she came back with
Silvere, she turned on hearing the light footfall of Miette, who, having
quickly taken up her pitcher, was hastening across the stubble. She was
running wildly, glad at having escaped so easily. And aunt Dide smiled
involuntarily as she watched her bound over the ground like a runaway
goat.

“She is very young,” she murmured, “she has plenty of time.”

She meant, no doubt, that Miette had plenty of time before her to suffer
and weep. Then, turning her eyes upon Silvere, who with a glance of
ecstasy had followed the child as she ran off in the bright sunshine,
she simply added: “Take care, my boy; this sort of thing sometimes kills
one.”

These were the only words she spoke with reference to the incident which
had awakened all the sorrows that lay slumbering in the depths of her
being. Silence had become a real religion with her. When Silvere came
in, she double-locked the door, and threw the key down the well. In
this wise she felt certain that the door would no longer make her an
accomplice. She examined it for a moment, glad at seeing it reassume its
usual gloomy, barrier-like aspect. The tomb was closed once more; the
white gap was for ever boarded up with that damp-stained mossy timber
over which the snails had shed silvery tears.

In the evening, aunt Dide had another of those nervous attacks which
came upon her at intervals. At these times she would often talk aloud
and ramble incoherently, as though she was suffering from nightmare.
That evening, while Silvere held her down on her bed, he heard her
stammer in a panting voice such words as “custom-house officer,” “fire,”
 and “murder.” And she struggled, and begged for mercy, and dreamed aloud
of vengeance. At last, as always happened when the attack was drawing to
a close, she fell into a strange fright, her teeth chattering, while her
limbs quivered with abject terror. Finally, after raising herself into
a sitting posture, she cast a haggard look of astonishment at one and
another corner of the room, and then fell back upon the pillow, heaving
deep sighs. She was, doubtless, a prey to some hallucination. However,
she drew Silvere to her bosom, and seemed to some degree to recognise
him, though ever and anon she confused him with someone else.

“There they are!” she stammered. “Do you see? They are going to take
you, they will kill you again. I don’t want them to--Send them away,
tell them I won’t; tell them they are hurting me, staring at me like
that--”

Then she turned to the wall, to avoid seeing the people of whom she was
talking. And after an interval of silence, she continued: “You are near
me, my child, aren’t you? You must not leave me. I thought I was going
to die just now. We did wrong to make an opening in the wall. I have
suffered ever since. I was certain that door would bring us further
misfortune--Oh! the innocent darlings, what sorrow! They will kill them
as well, they will be shot down like dogs.”

Then she relapsed into catalepsy; she was no longer even aware of
Silvere’s presence. Suddenly, however, she sat up, and gazed at the foot
of her bed, with a fearful expression of terror.

“Why didn’t you send them away?” she cried, hiding her white head
against the young man’s breast. “They are still there. The one with the
gun is making signs that he is going to fire.”

Shortly afterwards she fell into the heavy slumber that usually
terminated these attacks. On the next day, she seemed to have forgotten
everything. She never again spoke to Silvere of the morning on which she
had found him with a sweetheart behind the wall.

The young people did not see each other for a couple of days. When
Miette ventured to return to the well, they resolved not to recommence
the pranks which had upset aunt Dide. However, the meeting which had
been so strangely interrupted had filled them with a keen desire to
meet again in some happy solitude. Weary of the delights afforded by the
well, and unwilling to vex aunt Dide by seeing Miette again on the other
side of the wall, Silvere begged the girl to meet him somewhere else.
She required but little pressing; she received the proposal with the
willing smile of a frolicsome lass who has no thought of evil. What
made her smile was the idea of outwitting that spy of a Justin. When the
lovers had come to agreement, they discussed at length the choice of a
favourable spot. Silvere proposed the most impossible trysting-places.
He planned regular journeys, and even suggested meeting the young girl
at midnight in the barns of the Jas-Meiffren. Miette, who was much more
practical, shrugged her shoulders, declaring she would try to think of
some spot. On the morrow, she tarried but a minute at the well, just
time enough to smile at Silvere and tell him to be at the far end of the
Aire Saint-Mittre at about ten o’clock in the evening. One may be
sure that the young man was punctual. All day long Miette’s choice had
puzzled him, and his curiosity increased when he found himself in the
narrow lane formed by the piles of planks at the end of the plot of
ground. “She will come this way,” he said to himself, looking along the
road to Nice. But he suddenly heard a loud shaking of boughs behind
the wall, and saw a laughing head, with tumbled hair, appear above the
coping, whilst a joyous voice called out: “It’s me!”

And it was, in fact, Miette, who had climbed like an urchin up one of
the mulberry-trees, which even nowadays still border the boundary of
the Jas-Meiffren. In a couple of leaps she reached the tombstone, half
buried in the corner at the end of the lane. Silvere watched her descend
with delight and surprise, without even thinking of helping her. As soon
as she had alighted, however, he took both her hands in his, and said:
“How nimble you are!--you climb better than I do.”

It was thus that they met for the first time in that hidden corner where
they were destined to pass such happy hours. From that evening forward
they saw each other there nearly every night. They now only used the
well to warn each other of unforeseen obstacles to their meetings, of
a change of time, and of all the trifling little news that seemed
important in their eyes, and allowed of no delay. It sufficed for the
one who had a communication to make to set the pulley in motion, for its
creaking noise could be heard a long way off. But although, on certain
days, they summoned one another two or three times in succession to
speak of trifles of immense importance, it was only in the evening in
that lonely little passage that they tasted real happiness. Miette was
exceptionally punctual. She fortunately slept over the kitchen, in a
room where the winter provisions had been kept before her arrival, and
which was reached by a little private staircase. She was thus able to go
out at all hours, without being seen by Rebufat or Justin. Moreover, if
the latter should ever see her returning she intended to tell him some
tale or other, staring at him the while with that stern look which
always reduced him to silence.

Ah! how happy those warm evenings were! The lovers had now reached the
first days of September, a month of bright sunshine in Provence. It was
hardly possible for them to join each other before nine o’clock. Miette
arrived from over the wall, in surmounting which she soon acquired such
dexterity that she was almost always on the old tombstone before Silvere
had time to stretch out his arms. She would laugh at her own strength
and agility as, for a moment, with her hair in disorder, she remained
almost breathless, tapping her skirt to make it fall. Her sweetheart
laughingly called her an impudent urchin. In reality he much admired
her pluck. He watched her jump over the wall with the complacency of an
older brother supervising the exercises of a younger one. Indeed,
there was yet much that was childlike in their growing love. On several
occasions they spoke of going on some bird’s-nesting expedition on the
banks of the Viorne.

“You’ll see how I can climb,” said Miette proudly. “When I lived at
Chavanoz, I used to go right up to the top of old Andre’s walnut-trees.
Have you ever taken a magpie’s nest? It’s very difficult!”

Then a discussion arose as to how one ought to climb a poplar. Miette
stated her opinions, with all a boy’s confidence.

However, Silvere, clasping her round the knees, had by this time lifted
her to the ground, and then they would walk on, side by side, their arms
encircling each other’s waist. Though they were but children, fond of
frolicsome play and chatter, and knew not even how to speak of love, yet
they already partook of love’s delight. It sufficed them to press each
other’s hands. Ignorant whither their feelings and their hearts were
drifting, they did not seek to hide the blissful thrills which the
slightest touch awoke. Smiling, often wondering at the delight they
experienced, they yielded unconsciously to the sweetness of new feelings
even while talking, like a couple of schoolboys, of the magpies’ nests
which are so difficult to reach.

And as they talked they went down the silent path, between the piles of
planks and the wall of the Jas-Meiffren. They never went beyond the end
of that narrow blind alley, but invariably retraced their steps. They
were quite at home there. Miette, happy in the knowledge of their
safe concealment, would often pause and congratulate herself on her
discovery.

“Wasn’t I lucky!” she would gleefully exclaim. “We might walk a long way
without finding such a good hiding-place.”

The thick grass muffled the noise of their footsteps. They were steeped
in gloom, shut in between two black walls, and only a strip of dark sky,
spangled with stars, was visible above their heads. And as they stepped
along, pacing this path which resembled a dark stream flowing beneath
the black star-sprent sky, they were often thrilled with undefinable
emotion, and lowered their voices, although there was nobody to hear
them. Surrendering themselves as it were to the silent waves of night,
over which they seemed to drift, they recounted to one another, with
lovers’ rapture, the thousand trifles of the day.

At other times, on bright nights, when the moonlight clearly outlined
the wall and the timber-stacks, Miette and Silvere would romp about with
all the carelessness of children. The path stretched out, alight with
white rays, and retaining no suggestion of secrecy, and the young people
laughed and chased each other like boys at play, at times venturing even
to climb upon the piles of timber. Silvere was occasionally obliged to
frighten Miette by telling her that Justin might be watching her from
over the wall. Then, quite out of breath, they would stroll side
by side, and plan how they might some day go for a scamper in the
Sainte-Claire meadows, to see which of the two would catch the other.

Their growing love thus accommodated itself to dark and clear nights.
Their hearts were ever on the alert, and a little shade sufficed to
sweeten the pleasure of their embrace, and soften their laughter. This
dearly-loved retreat--so gay in the moonshine, so strangely thrilling
in the gloom--seemed an inexhaustible source of both gaiety and silent
emotion. They would remain there until midnight, while the town dropped
off to sleep and the lights in the windows of the Faubourg went out one
by one.

They were never disturbed in their solitude. At that late hour children
were no longer playing at hide-and-seek behind the piles of planks.
Occasionally, when the young couple heard sounds in the distance--the
singing of some workmen as they passed along the road, or conversation
coming from the neighbouring sidewalks--they would cast stealthy glances
over the Aire Saint-Mittre. The timber-yard stretched out, empty of
all, save here and there some falling shadows. On warm evenings they
sometimes caught glimpses of loving couples there, and of old men
sitting on the big beams by the roadside. When the evenings grew colder,
all that they ever saw on the melancholy, deserted spot was some gipsy
fire, before which, perhaps, a few black shadows passed to and fro.
Through the still night air words and sundry faint sounds were wafted to
them, the “good-night” of a townsman shutting his door, the closing of a
window-shutter, the deep striking of a clock, all the parting sounds of
a provincial town retiring to rest. And when Plassans was slumbering,
they might still hear the quarrelling of the gipsies and the crackling
of their fires, amidst which suddenly rose the guttural voices of girls
singing in a strange tongue, full of rugged accents.

But the lovers did not concern themselves much with what went on in the
Aire Saint-Mittre; they hastened back into their own little privacy, and
again walked along their favourite retired path. Little did they care
for others, or for the town itself! The few planks which separated them
from the wicked world seemed to them, after a while, an insurmountable
rampart. They were so secluded, so free in this nook, situated though it
was in the very midst of the Faubourg, at only fifty paces from the Rome
Gate, that they sometimes fancied themselves far away in some hollow of
the Viorne, with the open country around them. Of all the sounds
which reached them, only one made them feel uneasy, that of the clocks
striking slowly in the darkness. At times, when the hour sounded, they
pretended not to hear, at other moments they stopped short as if to
protest. However, they could not go on for ever taking just another
ten minutes, and so the time came when they were at last obliged to say
good-night. Then Miette reluctantly climbed upon the wall again. But all
was not ended yet, they would linger over their leave-taking for a
good quarter of an hour. When the girl had climbed upon the wall, she
remained there with her elbows on the coping, and her feet supported
by the branches of the mulberry-tree, which served her as a ladder.
Silvere, perched on the tombstone, was able to take her hands again, and
renew their whispered conversation. They repeated “till to-morrow!” a
dozen times, and still and ever found something more to say. At last
Silvere began to scold.

“Come, you must get down, it is past midnight.”

But Miette, with a girl’s waywardness, wished him to descend first; she
wanted to see him go away. And as he persisted in remaining, she ended
by saying abruptly, by way of punishment, perhaps: “Look! I am going to
jump down.”

Then she sprang from the mulberry-tree, to the great consternation of
Silvere. He heard the dull thud of her fall, and the burst of laughter
with which she ran off, without choosing to reply to his last adieu. For
some minutes he would remain watching her vague figure as it disappeared
in the darkness, then, slowly descending, he regained the Impasse
Saint-Mittre.

During two years they came to the path every day. At the time of their
first meetings they enjoyed some beautiful warm nights. They might
almost have fancied themselves in the month of May, the month of
seething sap, when a pleasant odour of earth and fresh leaves pervades
the warm air. This _renouveau_, this second spring, was like a gift from
heaven which allowed them to run freely about the path and tighten their
bonds of affection.

At last came rain, and snow, and frost. But the disagreeableness of
winter did not keep them away. Miette put on her long brown pelisse, and
they both made light of the bad weather. When the nights were dry and
clear, and puffs of wind raised the hoar frost beneath their footsteps
and fell on their faces like taps from a switch, they refrained from
sitting down. They walked quickly to and fro, wrapped in the pelisse,
their cheeks blue with cold, and their eyes watering; and they laughed
heartily, quite quivering with mirth, at the rapidity of their
march through the freezing atmosphere. One snowy evening they amused
themselves with making an enormous snowball, which they rolled into
a corner. It remained there fully a month, which caused them fresh
astonishment each time they met in the path. Nor did the rain frighten
them. They came to see each other through the heaviest downpours, though
they got wet to the skin in doing so. Silvere would hasten to the spot,
saying to himself that Miette would never be mad enough to come; and
when Miette arrived, he could not find it in his heart to scold her.
In reality he had been expecting her. At last he sought some shelter
against the inclement weather, knowing quite well that they would
certainly come out, however much they might promise one another not to
do so when it rained. To find a shelter he only had to disturb one of
the timber-stacks; pulling out several pieces of wood and arranging them
so that they would move easily, in such wise that he could displace and
replace them at pleasure.

From that time forward the lovers possessed a sort of low and narrow
sentry-box, a square hole, which was only big enough to hold them
closely squeezed together on a beam which they had left at the bottom
of the little cell. Whenever it rained, the first to arrive would take
shelter here; and on finding themselves together again they would listen
with delight to the rain beating on the piles of planks. Before and
around them, through the inky blackness of the night, came a rush of
water which they could not see, but which resounded continuously like
the roar of a mob. They were nevertheless quite alone, as though they
had been at the end of the world or beneath the sea. They never felt so
happy, so isolated, as when they found themselves in that timber-stack,
in the midst of some such deluge which threatened to carry them away at
every moment. Their bent knees almost reached the opening, and though
they thrust themselves back as far as possible, the spray of the rain
bathed their cheeks and hands. The big drops, falling from the planks,
splashed at regular intervals at their feet. The brown pelisse kept them
warm, and the nook was so small that Miette was compelled to sit almost
on Silvere’s knees. And they would chatter and then lapse into silence,
overcome with languor, lulled by the warmth of their embrace and the
monotonous beating of the shower. For hours and hours they remained
there, with that same enjoyment of the rain which prompts little
children to stroll along solemnly in stormy weather with open umbrellas
in their hands. After a while they came to prefer the rainy evenings,
though their parting became more painful on those occasions. Miette was
obliged to climb the wall in the driving rain, and cross the puddles of
the Jas-Meiffren in perfect darkness. As soon as she had left his arms,
she was lost to Silvere amidst the gloom and the noise of the falling
water. In vain he listened, he was deafened, blinded. However, the
anxiety caused by this brusque separation proved an additional charm,
and, until the morrow, each would be uneasy lest anything should have
befallen the other in such weather, when one would not even have turned
a dog out of doors. Perchance one of them had slipped, or lost the way;
such were the mutual fears which possessed them, and rendered their next
interview yet more loving.

At last the fine days returned, April brought mild nights, and the grass
in the green alley sprouted up wildly. Amidst the stream of life flowing
from heaven and rising from the earth, amidst all the intoxication of
the budding spring-time, the lovers sometimes regretted their winter
solitude, the rainy evenings and the freezing nights, during which they
had been so isolated so far from all human sounds. At present the days
did not draw to a close soon enough, and they grew impatient with the
lagging twilights. When the night had fallen sufficiently for Miette to
climb upon the wall without danger of being seen, and they could at last
glide along their dear path, they no longer found there the solitude
congenial to their shy, childish love. People began to flock to the Aire
Saint-Mittre, the urchins of the Faubourg remained there, romping about
the beams, and shouting, till eleven o’clock at night. It even happened
occasionally that one of them would go and hide behind the piles of
timber, and assail Miette and Silvere with boyish jeers. The fear of
being surprised amidst that general awakening of life as the season
gradually grew warmer, tinged their meetings with anxiety.

Then, too, they began to stifle in the narrow lane. Never had it
throbbed with so ardent a quiver; never had that soil, in which the
last bones left of the former cemetery lay mouldering, sent forth such
oppressive and disturbing odours. They were still too young to relish
the voluptuous charm of that secluded nook which the springtide filled
with fever. The grass grew to their knees, they moved to and fro with
difficulty, and certain plants, when they crushed their young shoots,
sent forth a pungent odour which made them dizzy. Then, seized with
strange drowsiness and staggering with giddiness, their feet as
though entangled in the grass, they would lean against the wall, with
half-closed eyes, unable to move a step. All the soft languor from the
skies seemed to penetrate them.

With the petulance of beginners, impatient and irritated at this sudden
faintness, they began to think their retreat too confined, and decided
to ramble through the open fields. Every evening came fresh frolics.
Miette arrived with her pelisse; they wrapped themselves in it, and
then, gliding past the walls, reached the high-road and the open
country, the broad fields where the wind rolled with full strength,
like the waves at high tide. And here they no longer felt stifled; they
recovered all their youthfulness, free from the giddy intoxication born
of the tall rank weeds of the Aire Saint-Mittre.

During two summers they rambled through the district. Every rock ledge,
every bed of turf soon knew them; there was not a cluster of trees, a
hedge, or a bush, which did not become their friend. They realized their
dreams: they chased each other wildly over the meadows of Sainte-Claire,
and Miette ran so well that Silvere had to put his best foot forward
to catch her. Sometimes, too, they went in search of magpies’ nests.
Headstrong Miette, wishing to show how she had climbed trees at
Chavanoz, would tie up her skirts with a piece of string, and ascend the
highest poplars; while Silvere stood trembling beneath, with his arms
outstretched to catch her should she slip. These frolics so turned them
from thoughts of love that one evening they almost fought like a couple
of lads coming out of school. But there were nooks in the country side
which were not healthful for them. So long as they rambled on they were
continually shouting with laughter, pushing and teasing one another.
They covered miles and miles of ground; sometimes they went as far as
the chain of the Garrigues, following the narrowest paths and cutting
across the fields. The region belonged to them; they lived there as in a
conquered territory, enjoying all that the earth and the sky could give
them. Miette, with a woman’s lack of scruple, did not hesitate to pluck
a bunch of grapes, or a cluster of green almonds, from the vines
and almond-trees whose boughs brushed her as she passed; and at this
Silvere, with his absolute ideas of honesty, felt vexed, although he
did not venture to find fault with the girl, whose occasional sulking
distressed him. “Oh! the bad girl!” thought he, childishly exaggerating
the matter, “she would make a thief of me.” But Miette would thereupon
force his share of the stolen fruit into his mouth. The artifices he
employed, such as holding her round the waist, avoiding the fruit trees,
and making her run after him when they were near the vines, so as
to keep her out of the way of temptation, quickly exhausted his
imagination. At last there was nothing to do but to make her sit
down. And then they again began to experience their former stifling
sensations. The gloomy valley of the Viorne particularly disturbed
them. When weariness brought them to the banks of the torrent, all their
childish gaiety seemed to disappear. A grey shadow floated under the
willows, like the scented crape of a woman’s dress. The children felt
this crape descend warm and balmy from the voluptuous shoulders of the
night, kiss their temples and envelop them with irresistible languor. In
the distance the crickets chirped in the meadows of Sainte-Claire,
and at their feet the ripples of the Viorne sounded like lovers’
whispers--like the soft cooing of humid lips. The stars cast a rain of
sparkles from the slumbering heavens. And, amidst the throbbing of the
sky, the waters and the darkness, the children reposing on the grass
sought each other’s hands and pressed them.

Silvere, who vaguely understood the danger of these ecstasies, would
sometimes jump up and propose to cross over to one of the islets left
by the low water in the middle of the stream. Both ventured forth, with
bare feet. Miette made light of the pebbles, refusing Silvere’s help,
and it once happened that she sat down in the very middle of the stream;
however, there were only a few inches of water, and she escaped with
nothing worse than a wet petticoat. Then, having reached the island,
they threw themselves on the long neck of sand, their eyes on a level
with the surface of the river whose silvery scales they saw quivering
far away in the clear night. Then Miette would declare that they were
in a boat, that the island was certainly floating; she could feel it
carrying her along. The dizziness caused by the rippling of the water
amused them for a moment, and they lingered there, singing in an
undertone, like boatmen as they strike the water with their oars. At
other times, when the island had a low bank, they sat there as on a bed
of verdure, and let their bare feet dangle in the stream. And then for
hours they chatted together, swinging their legs, and splashing the
water, delighted to set a tempest raging in the peaceful pool whose
freshness cooled their fever.

These footbaths suggested a dangerous idea to Miette. Nothing would
satisfy her but a complete bath. A little above the bridge over the
Viorne there was a very convenient spot, she said, barely three or four
feet deep and quite safe; the weather was so warm, it would be so nice
to have the water up to their necks; besides which, she had been dying
to learn to swim for such a long time, and Silvere would be able to
teach her. Silvere raised objections; it was not prudent at night time;
they might be seen; perhaps, too they might catch cold. However, nothing
could turn Miette from her purpose. One evening she came with a bathing
costume which she had made out of an old dress; and Silvere was then
obliged to go back to aunt Dide’s for his bathing drawers. Their
proceedings were characterised by great simplicity. Miette disrobed
herself beneath the shade of a stout willow; and when both were ready,
enveloped in the blackness which fell from the foliage around them, they
gaily entered the cool water, oblivious of all previous scruples, and
knowing in their innocence no sense of shame. They remained in the river
quite an hour, splashing and throwing water into each other’s faces;
Miette now getting cross, now breaking out into laughter, while Silvere
gave her her first lesson, dipping her head under every now and again so
as to accustom her to the water. As long as he held her up she threw her
arms and legs about violently, thinking she was swimming; but directly
he let her go, she cried and struggled, striking the water with her
outstretched hands, clutching at anything she could get hold of, the
young man’s waist or one of his wrists. She leant against him for an
instant, resting, out of breath and dripping with water; and then she
cried: “Once more; but you do it on purpose, you don’t hold me.”

At the end of a fortnight, the girl was able to swim. With her limbs
moving freely, rocked by the stream, playing with it, she yielded form
and spirit alike to its soft motion, to the silence of the heavens,
and the dreaminess of the melancholy banks. As she and Silvere swam
noiselessly along, she seemed to see the foliage of both banks thicken
and hang over them, draping them round as with a huge curtain. When
the moon shone, its rays glided between the trunks of the trees, and
phantoms seemed to flit along the river-side in white robes. Miette felt
no nervousness, however, only an indefinable emotion as she followed
the play of the shadows. As she went onward with slower motion, the calm
water, which the moon converted into a bright mirror, rippled at
her approach like a silver-broidered cloth; eddies widened and lost
themselves amid the shadows of the banks, under the hanging willow
branches, whence issued weird, plashing sounds. At every stroke she
perceived recesses full of sound; dark cavities which she hastened
to pass by; clusters and rows of trees, whose sombre masses were
continually changing form, stretching forward and apparently following
her from the summit of the bank. And when she threw herself on her back,
the depths of the heavens affected her still more. From the fields, from
the distant horizon, which she could no longer see, a solemn lingering
strain, composed of all the sighs of the night, was wafted to her.

She was not of a dreamy nature; it was physically, through the medium of
each of her senses, that she derived enjoyment from the sky, the river,
and the play of light and shadow. The river, in particular, bore her
along with endless caresses. When she swam against the current she was
delighted to feel the stream flow rapidly against her bosom and limbs.
She dipped herself in it yet more deeply, with the water reaching to her
lips, so that it might pass over her shoulders, and envelop her, from
chin to feet, with flying kisses. Then she would float, languid and
quiescent, on the surface, whilst the ripples glided softly between her
costume and her skin. And she would also roll over in the still pools
like a cat on a carpet; and swim from the luminous patches where
the moonbeams were bathing, to the dark water shaded by the foliage,
shivering the while, as though she had quitted a sunny plain and then
felt the cold from the boughs falling on her neck.

She now remained quite silent in the water, and would not allow Silvere
to touch her. Gliding softly by his side, she swam on with the light
rustling of a bird flying across the copse, or else she would circle
round him, a prey to vague disquietude which she did not comprehend.
He himself darted quickly away if he happened to brush against her.
The river was now but a source of enervating intoxication, voluptuous
languor, which disturbed them strangely. When they emerged from their
bath they felt dizzy, weary, and drowsy. Fortunately, the girl declared
one evening that she would bathe no more, as the cold water made the
blood run to her head. And it was in all truth and innocence that she
said this.

Then their long conversations began anew. The dangers to which the
innocence of their love had lately been exposed had left no other trace
in Silvere’s mind than great admiration for Miette’s physical strength.
She had learned to swim in a fortnight, and often, when they raced
together, he had seen her stem the current with a stroke as rapid as his
own. He, who delighted in strength and bodily exercises, felt a
thrill of pleasure at seeing her so strong, so active and adroit. He
entertained at heart a singular admiration for her stout arms. One
evening, after one of the first baths that had left them so playful,
they caught each other round the waist on a strip of sand, and wrestled
for several minutes without Silvere being able to throw Miette. At
last, indeed, it was the young man who lost his balance, while the girl
remained standing. Her sweetheart treated her like a boy, and it was
those long rambles of theirs, those wild races across the meadows, those
birds’ nests filched from the tree crests, those struggles and violent
games of one and another kind that so long shielded them and their love
from all impurity.

Then, too, apart from his youthful admiration for his sweetheart’s
dashing pluck, Silvere felt for her all the compassionate tenderness of
a heart that ever softened towards the unfortunate. He, who could never
see any forsaken creature, a poor man, or a child, walking barefooted
along the dusty roads, without a throb of pity, loved Miette because
nobody else loved her, because she virtually led an outcast’s hard life.
When he saw her smile he was deeply moved by the joy he brought her.
Moreover, the child was a wildling, like himself, and they were of the
same mind in hating all the gossips of the Faubourg. The dreams in which
Silvere indulged in the daytime, while he plied his heavy hammer round
the cartwheels in his master’s shop, were full of generous enthusiasm.
He fancied himself Miette’s redeemer. All his reading rushed to his
head; he meant to marry his sweetheart some day, in order to raise her
in the eyes of the world. It was like a holy mission that he imposed
upon himself, that of redeeming and saving the convict’s daughter. And
his head was so full of certain theories and arguments, that he did not
tell himself these things in simple fashion, but became lost in perfect
social mysticism; imagining rehabilitation in the form of an apotheosis
in which he pictured Miette seated on a throne, at the end of the Cours
Sauvaire, while the whole town prostrated itself before her, entreating
her pardon and singing her praises. Happily he forgot all these fine
things as soon as Miette jumped over the wall, and said to him on the
high road: “Let us have a race! I’m sure you won’t catch me.”

However, if the young man dreamt like this of the glorification of his
sweetheart, he also showed such passion for justice that he often made
her weep on speaking to her about her father. In spite of the softening
effect which Silvere’s friendship had had upon her, she still at times
gave way to angry outbreaks of temper, when all the stubbornness and
rebellion latent in her nature stiffened her with scowling eyes and
tightly-drawn lips. She would then contend that her father had done
quite right to kill the gendarme, that the earth belongs to everybody,
and that one has the right to fire a gun when and where one likes.
Thereupon Silvere, in a grave voice, explained the law to her as he
understood it, with strange commentaries which would have startled the
whole magistracy of Plassans. These discussions took place most often in
some remote corner of the Sainte-Claire meadows. The grassy carpet of a
dusky green hue stretched further than they could see, undotted even by
a single tree, and the sky seemed colossal, spangling the bare horizon
with the stars. It seemed to the young couple as if they were being
rocked on a sea of verdure. Miette argued the point obstinately; she
asked Silvere if her father should have let the gendarme kill him, and
Silvere, after a momentary silence, replied that, in such a case, it
was better to be the victim than the murderer, and that it was a great
misfortune for anyone to kill a fellow man, even in legitimate defence.
The law was something holy to him, and the judges had done right in
sending Chantegreil to the galleys. At this the girl grew angry, and
almost struck her sweetheart, crying out that he was as heartless as the
rest. And as he still firmly defended his ideas of justice, she finished
by bursting into sobs, and stammering that he was doubtless ashamed
of her, since he was always reminding her of her father’s crime. These
discussions ended in tears, in mutual emotion. But although the child
cried, and acknowledged that she was perhaps wrong, she still retained
deep within her a wild resentful temper. She once related, with hearty
laughter, that she had seen a gendarme fall off his horse and break his
leg. Apart from this, Miette only lived for Silvere. When he asked her
about her uncle and cousin, she replied that “She did not know;” and
if he pressed her, fearing that they were making her too unhappy at the
Jas-Meiffren, she simply answered that she worked hard, and that nothing
had changed. She believed, however, that Justin had at last found out
what made her sing in the morning, and filled her eyes with delight. But
she added: “What does it matter? If ever he comes to disturb us we’ll
receive him in such a way that he won’t be in a hurry to meddle with our
affairs any more.”

Now and again the open country, their long rambles in the fresh air,
wearied them somewhat. They then invariably returned to the Aire
Saint-Mittre, to the narrow lane, whence they had been driven by the
noisy summer evenings, the pungent scent of the trodden grass, all the
warm oppressive emanations. On certain nights, however, the path proved
cooler, and the winds freshened it so that they could remain there
without feeling faint. They then enjoyed a feeling of delightful repose.
Seated on the tombstone, deaf to the noise of the children and gipsies,
they felt at home again. Silvere had on various occasions picked
up fragments of bones, even pieces of skulls, and they were fond of
speaking of the ancient burial-ground. It seemed to them, in their
lively fancies, that their love had shot up like some vigorous plant in
this nook of soil which dead men’s bones had fertilised. It had grown,
indeed, like those wild weeds, it had blossomed as blossom the poppies
which sway like bare bleeding hearts at the slightest breeze. And
they ended by fancying that the warm breaths passing over them, the
whisperings heard in the gloom, the long quivering which thrilled the
path, came from the dead folk sighing their departed passions in
their faces, telling them the stories of their bridals, as they turned
restlessly in their graves, full of a fierce longing to live and love
again. Those fragments of bone, they felt convinced of it, were full of
affection for them; the shattered skulls grew warm again by contact with
their own youthful fire, the smallest particles surrounded them with
passionate whispering, anxious solicitude, throbbing jealousy. And when
they departed, the old burial-ground seemed to groan. Those weeds,
in which their entangled feet often stumbled on sultry nights, were
fingers, tapered by tomb life, that sprang up from the earth to detain
them and cast them into each other’s arms. That pungent and penetrating
odour exhaled by the broken stems was the fertilising perfume, the
mighty quintessence of life which is slowly elaborated in the grave,
and intoxicates the lovers who wander in the solitude of the paths.
The dead, the old departed dead, longed for the bridal of Miette and
Silvere.

They were never afraid. The sympathy which seemed to hover around them
thrilled them and made them love the invisible beings whose soft touch
they often imagined they could feel, like a gentle flapping of wings.
Sometimes they were saddened by sweet melancholy, and could not
understand what the dead desired of them. They went on basking in their
innocent love, amidst this flood of sap, this abandoned cemetery, whose
rich soil teemed with life, and imperiously demanded their union. They
still remained ignorant of the meaning of the buzzing voices which they
heard ringing in their ears, the sudden glow which sent the blood flying
to their faces.

They often questioned each other about the remains which they
discovered. Miette, after a woman’s fashion, was partial to lugubrious
subjects. At each new discovery she launched into endless suppositions.
If the bone were small, she spoke of some beautiful girl a prey to
consumption, or carried off by fever on the eve of her marriage; if the
bone were large, she pictured some big old man, a soldier or a judge,
some one who had inspired others with terror. For a long time the
tombstone particularly engaged their attention. One fine moonlight night
Miette distinguished some half-obliterated letters on one side of it,
and thereupon she made Silvere scrape the moss away with his knife. Then
they read the mutilated inscription: “Here lieth . . . Marie . . .
died . . .” And Miette, finding her own name on the stone, was quite
terror-stricken. Silvere called her a “big baby,” but she could not
restrain her tears. She had received a stab in the heart, she said; she
would soon die, and that stone was meant for her. The young man himself
felt alarmed. However, he succeeded in shaming the child out of these
thoughts. What! she so courageous, to dream about such trifles! They
ended by laughing. Then they avoided speaking of it again. But in
melancholy moments, when the cloudy sky saddened the pathway, Miette
could not help thinking of that dead one, that unknown Marie, whose
tomb had so long facilitated their meetings. The poor girl’s bones were
perhaps still lying there. And at this thought Miette one evening had a
strange whim, and asked Silvere to turn the stone over to see what might
be under it. He refused, as though it were sacrilege, and his refusal
strengthened Miette’s fancies with regard to the dear phantom which bore
her name. She positively insisted that the girl had died young, as
she was, and in the very midst of her love. She even began to pity the
stone, that stone which she climbed so nimbly, and on which they had
sat so often, a stone which death had chilled, and which their love had
warmed again.

“You’ll see, this tombstone will bring us misfortune,” she added. “If
you were to die, I should come and lie here, and then I should like to
have this stone set over my body.”

At this, Silvere, choking with emotion, scolded her for thinking of such
mournful things.

And so, for nearly two years, their love grew alike in the narrow
pathway and the open country. Their idyll passed through the chilling
rains of December and the burning solicitations of July, free from all
touch of impurity, ever retaining the sweet charm of some old Greek
love-tale, all the naive hesitancy of youth which desires but knows not.
In vain did the long-departed dead whisper in their ears. They carried
nothing away from the old cemetery but emotional melancholy and a vague
presentiment of a short life. A voice seemed to whisper to them that
they would depart amidst their virginal love, long ere the bridal day
would give them wholly to each other. It was there, on the tombstone and
among the bones that lay hidden beneath the rank grass, that they had
first come to indulge in that longing for death, that eager desire to
sleep together in the earth, that now set them stammering and sighing
beside the Orcheres road, on that December night, while the two bells
repeated their mournful warnings to one another.

Miette was sleeping calmly, with her head resting on Silvere’s chest
while he mused upon their past meeting, their lovely years of unbroken
happiness. At daybreak the girl awoke. The valley now spread out clearly
under the bright sky. The sun was still behind the hills, but a stream
of crystal light, limpid and cold as spring-water, flowed from the
pale horizon. In the distance, the Viorne, like a white satin ribbon,
disappeared among an expanse of red and yellow land. It was a boundless
vista, with grey seas of olive-trees, and vineyards that looked like
huge pieces of striped cloth. The whole country was magnified by the
clearness of the atmosphere and the peaceful cold. However, sharp gusts
of wind chilled the young people’s faces. And thereupon they sprang to
their feet, cheered by the sight of the clear morning. Their melancholy
forebodings had vanished with the darkness, and they gazed with delight
at the immense expanse of the plain, and listened to the tolling of the
two bells that now seemed to be joyfully ringing in a holiday.

“Ah! I’ve had a good sleep!” Miette cried. “I dreamt you were kissing
me. Tell me now, did you kiss me?”

“It’s very possible,” Silvere replied laughing. “I was not very warm. It
is bitterly cold.”

“I only feel cold in the feet,” Miette rejoined.

“Well! let us have a run,” said Silvere. “We have still two good leagues
to go. You will get warm.”

Thereupon they descended the hill and ran until they reached the high
road. When they were below they raised their heads as if to say farewell
to that rock on which they had wept while their kisses burned their
lips. But they did not again speak of that ardent embrace which had
thrilled them so strongly with vague, unknown desire. Under the pretext
of walking more quickly they did not even take each other’s arm. They
experienced some slight confusion when they looked at one another,
though why they could not tell. Meantime the dawn was rising around
them. The young man, who had sometimes been sent to Orcheres by his
master, knew all the shortest cuts. Thus they walked on for more than
two leagues, along dingle paths by the side of interminable ledges and
walls. Now and again Miette accused Silvere of having taken her the
wrong way; for, at times--for a quarter of an hour at a stretch--they
lost all sight of the surrounding country, seeing above the walls and
hedges nothing but long rows of almond-trees whose slender branches
showed sharply against the pale sky.

All at once, however, they came out just in front of Orcheres. Loud
cries of joy, the shouting of a crowd, sounded clearly in the limpid
air. The insurrectionary forces were only now entering the town. Miette
and Silvere went in with the stragglers. Never had they seen such
enthusiasm. To judge from the streets, one would have thought it was a
procession day, when the windows are decked with the finest drapery to
honour the passage of the Canopy. The townsfolk welcomed the insurgents
as though they were deliverers. The men embraced them, while the women
brought them food. Old men were to be seen weeping at the doors. And the
joyousness was of an essentially Southern character, pouring forth in
clamorous fashion, in singing, dancing, and gesticulation. As Miette
passed along she was carried away by a _farandole_[*] which spread
whirling all round the Grand’ Place. Silvere followed her. His thoughts
of death and his discouragement were now far away. He wanted to fight,
to sell his life dearly at least. The idea of a struggle intoxicated
him afresh. He dreamed of victory to be followed by a happy life with
Miette, amidst the peacefulness of the universal Republic.

     [*] The _farandole_ is the popular dance of Provence.

The fraternal reception accorded them by the inhabitants of Orcheres
proved to be the insurgents’ last delight. They spent the day amidst
radiant confidence and boundless hope. The prisoners, Commander
Sicardot, Messieurs Garconnet, Peirotte and the others, who had been
shut up in one of the rooms at the mayor’s, the windows of which
overlooked the Grand’ Place, watched the _farandoles_ and wild outbursts
of enthusiasm with surprise and dismay.

“The villains!” muttered the Commander, leaning upon a window-bar, as
though bending over the velvet-covered hand-rest of a box at a theatre:
“To think that there isn’t a battery or two to make a clean sweep of all
that rabble!”

Then he perceived Miette, and addressing himself to Monsieur Garconnet,
he added: “Do you see, sir, that big girl in red over yonder? How
disgraceful! They’ve even brought their mistresses with them. If this
continues much longer we shall see some fine goings-on.”

Monsieur Garconnet shook his head, saying something about “unbridled
passions,” and “the most evil days of history.” Monsieur Peirotte, as
white as a sheet, remained silent; he only opened his lips once, to say
to Sicardot, who was still bitterly railing: “Not so loud, sir; not so
loud! You will get us all massacred.”

As a matter of fact, the insurgents treated the gentlemen with the
greatest kindness. They even provided them with an excellent dinner in
the evening. Such attentions, however, were terrifying to such a quaker
as the receiver of taxes; the insurgents he thought would not treat them
so well unless they wished to make them fat and tender for the day when
they might wish to devour them.

At dusk that day Silvere came face to face with his cousin, Doctor
Pascal. The latter had followed the band on foot, chatting with the
workmen who held him in the greatest respect. At first he had striven
to dissuade them from the struggle; and then, as if convinced by their
arguments, he had said to them with his kindly smile: “Well, perhaps you
are right, my friends; fight if you like, I shall be here to patch up
your arms and legs.”

Then, in the morning he began to gather pebbles and plants along the
high road. He regretted that he had not brought his geologist’s hammer
and botanical wallet with him. His pockets were now so full of stones
that they were almost bursting, while bundles of long herbs peered forth
from the surgeon’s case which he carried under his arm.

“Hallo! You here, my lad?” he cried, as he perceived Silvere. “I thought
I was the only member of the family here.”

He spoke these last words with a touch of irony, as if deriding the
intrigues of his father and his uncle Antoine. Silvere was very glad
to meet his cousin; the doctor was the only one of the Rougons who
ever shook hands with him in the street, and showed him any sincere
friendship. Seeing him, therefore, still covered with dust from the
march, the young man thought him gained over to the Republican cause,
and was much delighted thereat. He talked to the doctor, with youthful
magniloquence, of the people’s rights, their holy cause, and their
certain triumph. Pascal smiled as he listened, and watched the youth’s
gestures and the ardent play of his features with curiosity, as though
he were studying a patient, or analysing an enthusiasm, to ascertain
what might be at the bottom of it.

“How you run on! How you run on!” he finally exclaimed. “Ah! you are
your grandmother’s true grandson.” And, in a whisper, he added, like
some chemist taking notes: “Hysteria or enthusiasm, shameful madness
or sublime madness. It’s always those terrible nerves!” Then, again
speaking aloud, as if summing up the matter, he said: “The family is
complete now. It will count a hero among its members.”

Silvere did not hear him. He was still talking of his dear Republic.
Miette had dropped a few paces off; she was still wrapped in her large
red pelisse. She and Silvere had traversed the town arm-in-arm.
The sight of this tall red girl at last puzzled Pascal, and again
interrupting his cousin, he asked him: “Who is this child with you?”

“She is my wife,” Silvere gravely answered.

The doctor opened his eyes wide, for he did not understand. He was very
shy with women; however, he raised his hat to Miette as he went away.

The night proved an anxious one. Forebodings of misfortune swept over
the insurgents. The enthusiasm and confidence of the previous evening
seemed to die away in the darkness. In the morning there were gloomy
faces; sad looks were exchanged, followed by discouraging silence.
Terrifying rumours were now circulating. Bad news, which the leaders
had managed to conceal the previous evening, had spread abroad, though
nobody in particular was known to have spoken. It was the work of
that invisible voice, which, with a word, throws a mob into a panic.
According to some reports Paris was subdued, and the provinces had
offered their hands and feet, eager to be bound. And it was added that
a large party of troops, which had left Marseilles under the command of
Colonel Masson and Monsieur de Bleriot, the prefect of the department,
was advancing by forced marches to disperse the insurrectionary bands.
This news came like a thunderbolt, at once awakening rage and despair.
These men, who on the previous evening had been all aglow with patriotic
fever, now shivered with cold, chilled to their hearts by the shameful
submissiveness of prostrate France. They alone, then, had had the
courage to do their duty! And now they were to be left to perish amidst
the general panic, the death-like silence of the country; they had
become mere rebels, who would be hunted down like wild beasts; they,
who had dreamed of a great war, of a whole nation in revolt, and of
the glorious conquest of the people’s rights! Miserably baffled and
betrayed, this handful of men could but weep for their dead faith and
their vanished dreams of justice. There were some who, while taunting
France with her cowardice, flung away their arms, and sat down by the
roadside, declaring that they would there await the bullets of the
troops, and show how Republicans could die.

Although these men had nothing now but death or exile before them,
there were very few desertions from their ranks. A splendid feeling of
solidarity kept them together. Their indignation turned chiefly against
their leaders, who had really proved incapable. Irreparable mistakes
had been committed; and now the insurgents, without order or discipline,
barely protected by a few sentries, and under the command of irresolute
men, found themselves at the mercy of the first soldiers that might
arrive.

They spent two more days at Orcheres, Tuesday and Wednesday, thus losing
time and aggravating the situation. The general, the man with the sabre,
whom Silvere had pointed out to Miette on the Plassans road, vacillated
and hesitated under the terrible responsibility that weighed upon him.
On Thursday he came to the conclusion that the position of Orcheres
was a decidedly dangerous one; so towards one o’clock he gave orders to
march, and led his little army to the heights of Sainte-Roure. That was,
indeed, an impregnable position for any one who knew how to defend it.
The houses of Sainte-Roure rise in tiers along a hill-side; behind the
town all approach is shut off by enormous rocks, so that this kind of
citadel can only be reached by the Nores plain, which spreads out at the
foot of the plateau. An esplanade, converted into a public walk planted
with magnificent elms, overlooks the plain. It was on this esplanade
that the insurgents encamped. The hostages were imprisoned in the Hotel
de la Mule-Blanche, standing half-way along the promenade. The night
passed away heavy and black. The insurgents spoke of treachery. As soon
as it was morning, however, the man with the sabre, who had neglected to
take the simplest precautions, reviewed the troops. The contingents were
drawn up in line with their backs turned to the plain. They presented
a wonderful medley of costume, some wearing brown jackets, others
dark greatcoats, and others again blue blouses girded with red sashes.
Moreover, their arms were an equally odd collection: there were newly
sharpened scythes, large navvies’ spades, and fowling-pieces with
burnished barrels glittering in the sunshine. And at the very moment
when the improvised general was riding past the little army, a sentry,
who had been forgotten in an olive-plantation, ran up gesticulating and
shouting:

“The soldiers! The soldiers!”

There was indescribable emotion. At first, they thought it a false
alarm. Forgetting all discipline, they rushed forward to the end of the
esplanade in order to see the soldiers. The ranks were broken, and as
the dark line of troops appeared, marching in perfect order with a long
glitter of bayonets, on the other side of the greyish curtain of olive
trees, there came a hasty and disorderly retreat, which sent a quiver of
panic to the other end of the plateau. Nevertheless, the contingents
of La Palud and Saint-Martin-de-Vaulx had again formed in line in
the middle of the promenade, and stood there erect and fierce. A
wood-cutter, who was a head taller than any of his companions, shouted,
as he waved his red neckerchief: “To arms, Chavanoz, Graille, Poujols,
Saint-Eutrope! To arms, Les Tulettes! To arms, Plassans!”

Crowds streamed across the esplanade. The man with the sabre, surrounded
by the folks from Faverolles, marched off with several of the country
contingents--Vernoux, Corbiere, Marsanne, and Pruinas--to outflank the
enemy and then attack him. Other contingents, from Valqueyras, Nazere,
Castel-le-Vieux, Les Roches-Noires, and Murdaran, dashed to the left,
scattering themselves in skirmishing parties over the Nores plain.

And meantime the men of the towns and villages that the wood-cutter had
called to his aid mustered together under the elms, there forming a dark
irregular mass, grouped without regard to any of the rules of strategy,
simply placed there like a rock, as it were, to bar the way or die. The
men of Plassans stood in the middle of this heroic battalion. Amid the
grey hues of the blouses and jackets, and the bluish glitter of the
weapons, the pelisse worn by Miette, who was holding the banner with
both hands, looked like a large red splotch--a fresh and bleeding wound.

All at once perfect silence fell. Monsieur Peirotte’s pale face appeared
at a window of the Hotel de la Mule-Blanche. And he began to speak,
gesticulating with his hands.

“Go in, close the shutters,” the insurgents furiously shouted; “you’ll
get yourself killed.”

Thereupon the shutters were quickly closed, and nothing was heard save
the regular, rhythmical tramp of the soldiers who were drawing near.

A minute, that seemed an age, went by. The troops had disappeared,
hidden by an undulation of the ground; but over yonder, on the side of
the Nores plain, the insurgents soon perceived the bayonets shooting
up, one after another, like a field of steel-eared corn under the rising
sun. At that moment Silvere, who was glowing with feverish agitation,
fancied he could see the gendarme whose blood had stained his hands. He
knew, from the accounts of his companions, that Rengade was not dead,
that he had only lost an eye; and he clearly distinguished the unlucky
man with his empty socket bleeding horribly. The keen recollection of
this gendarme, to whom he had not given a thought since his departure
from Plassans, proved unbearable. He was afraid that fear might get the
better of him, and he tightened his hold on his carbine, while a mist
gathered before his eyes. He felt a longing to discharge his gun
and fire at the phantom of that one-eyed man so as to drive it away.
Meantime the bayonets were still and ever slowly ascending.

When the heads of the soldiers appeared on a level with the esplanade,
Silvere instinctively turned to Miette. She stood there with flushed
face, looking taller than ever amidst the folds of the red banner; she
was indeed standing on tiptoes in order to see the troops, and nervous
expectation made her nostrils quiver and her red lips part so as to
show her white, eager, gleaming teeth. Silvere smiled at her. But he had
scarcely turned his head when a fusillade burst out. The soldiers, who
could only be seen from their shoulders upwards, had just fired their
first volley. It seemed to Silvere as though a great gust of wind was
passing over his head, while a shower of leaves, lopped off by the
bullets, fell from the elms. A sharp sound, like the snapping of a dead
branch, made him look to his right. Then, prone on the ground, he saw
the big wood-cutter, he who was a head taller than the others. There was
a little black hole in the middle of his forehead. And thereupon Silvere
fired straight before him, without taking aim, reloaded and fired again
like a madman or an unthinking wild beast, in haste only to kill. He
could not even distinguish the soldiers now; smoke, resembling strips of
grey muslin, was floating under the elms. The leaves still rained upon
the insurgents, for the troops were firing too high. Every now and then,
athwart the fierce crackling of the fusillade, the young man heard a
sigh or a low rattle, and a rush was made among the band as if to make
room for some poor wretch clutching hold of his neighbours as he fell.
The firing lasted ten minutes.

Then, between two volleys some one exclaimed in a voice of terror:
“Every man for himself! _Sauve qui peut!_” This roused shouts and
murmurs of rage, as if to say, “The cowards! Oh! the cowards!” sinister
rumours were spreading--the general had fled; cavalry were sabring the
skirmishers in the Nores plain. However, the irregular firing did not
cease, every now and again sudden bursts of flame sped through the
clouds of smoke. A gruff voice, the voice of terror, shouted yet louder:
“Every man for himself! _Sauve qui peut!_” Some men took to flight,
throwing down their weapons and leaping over the dead. The others closed
their ranks. At last there were only some ten insurgents left. Two more
took to flight, and of the remaining eight three were killed at one
discharge.

The two children had remained there mechanically without understanding
anything. As the battalion diminished in numbers, Miette raised the
banner still higher in the air; she held it in front of her with
clenched fists as if it were a huge taper. It was completely riddled
by bullets. When Silvere had no more cartridges left in his pocket, he
ceased firing, and gazed at the carbine with an air of stupor. It was
then that a shadow passed over his face, as though the flapping wings
of some colossal bird had brushed against his forehead. And raising his
eyes he saw the banner fall from Miette’s grasp. The child, her hands
clasped to her breast, her head thrown back with an expression of
excruciating suffering, was staggering to the ground. She did not utter
a single cry, but sank at last upon the red banner.

“Get up; come quickly,” Silvere said, in despair, as he held out his
hand to her.

But she lay upon the ground without uttering a word, her eyes wide open.
Then he understood, and fell on his knees beside her.

“You are wounded, eh? tell me? Where are you wounded?”

She still spoke no word; she was stifling, and gazing at him out of her
large eyes, while short quivers shook her frame. Then he pulled away her
hands.

“It’s there, isn’t it? it’s there.”

And he tore open her bodice, and laid her bosom bare. He searched, but
saw nothing. His eyes were brimming with tears. At last under the left
breast he perceived a small pink hole; a single drop of blood stained
the wound.

“It’s nothing,” he whispered; “I’ll go and find Pascal, he’ll put you
all right again. If you could only get up. Can’t you move?”

The soldiers were not firing now; they had dashed to the left in pursuit
of the contingents led away by the man with the sabre. And in the centre
of the esplanade there only remained Silvere kneeling beside Miette’s
body. With the stubbornness of despair, he had taken her in his arms. He
wanted to set her on her feet, but such a quiver of pain came upon the
girl that he laid her down again, and said to her entreatingly: “Speak
to me, pray. Why don’t you say something to me?”

She could not; she slowly, gently shook her hand, as if to say that
it was not her fault. Her close-pressed lips were already contracting
beneath the touch of death. With her unbound hair streaming around her,
and her head resting amid the folds of the blood-red banner, all her
life now centred in her eyes, those black eyes glittering in her white
face. Silvere sobbed. The glance of those big sorrowful eyes filled him
with distress. He read in them bitter, immense regret for life. Miette
was telling him that she was going away all alone, and before their
bridal day; that she was leaving him ere she had become his wife. She
was telling him, too, that it was he who had willed that it should
be so, that he should have loved her as other lovers love their
sweethearts. In the hour of her agony, amidst that stern conflict
between death and her vigorous nature, she bewailed her fate in going
like that to the grave. Silvere, as he bent over her, understood how
bitter was the pang. He recalled their caresses, how she had hung round
his neck, and had yearned for his love, but he had not understood, and
now she was departing from him for evermore. Bitterly grieved at the
thought that throughout her eternal rest she would remember him solely
as a companion and playfellow, he kissed her on the bosom while his hot
tears fell upon her lips. Those passionate kisses brought a last gleam
of joy to Miette’s eyes. They loved one another, and their idyll ended
in death.

But Silvere could not believe she was dying. “No, you will see, it will
prove only a trifle,” he declared. “Don’t speak if it hurts you. Wait, I
will raise your head and then warm you; your hands are quite frozen.”

But the fusillade had begun afresh, this time on the left, in the olive
plantations. A dull sound of galloping cavalry rose from the plain.
At times there were loud cries, as of men being slaughtered. And
thick clouds of smoke were wafted along and hung about the elms on the
esplanade. Silvere for his part no longer heard or saw anything. Pascal,
who came running down in the direction of the plain, saw him stretched
upon the ground, and hastened towards him, thinking he was wounded. As
soon as the young man saw him, he clutched hold of him and pointed to
Miette.

“Look,” he said, “she’s wounded, there, under the breast. Ah! how good
of you to come! You will save her.”

At that moment, however, a slight convulsion shook the dying girl. A
pain-fraught shadow passed over her face, and as her contracted lips
suddenly parted, a faint sigh escaped from them. Her eyes, still wide
open, gazed fixedly at the young man.

Then Pascal, who had stooped down, rose again, saying in a low voice:
“She is dead.”

Dead! Silvere reeled at the sound of the word. He had been kneeling
forward, but now he sank back, as though thrown down by Miette’s last
faint sigh.

“Dead! Dead!” he repeated; “it is not true, she is looking at me. See
how she is looking at me!”

Then he caught the doctor by the coat, entreating him to remain there,
assuring him that he was mistaken, that she was not dead, and that he
could save her if he only would. Pascal resisted gently, saying, in his
kindly voice: “I can do nothing for her, others are waiting for me. Let
go, my poor child; she is quite dead.”

At last Silvere released his hold and again fell back. Dead! Dead! Still
that word, which rang like a knell in his dazed brain! When he was alone
he crept up close to the corpse. Miette still seemed to be looking
at him. He threw himself upon her, laid his head upon her bosom, and
watered it with his tears. He was beside himself with grief. He pressed
his lips wildly to her, and breathed out all his passion, all his soul,
in one long kiss, as though in the hope that it might bring her to life
again. But the girl was turning cold in spite of his caresses. He felt
her lifeless and nerveless beneath his touch. Then he was seized with
terror, and with haggard face and listless hanging arms he remained
crouching in a state of stupor, and repeating: “She is dead, yet she is
looking at me; she does not close her eyes, she sees me still.”

This fancy was very sweet to him. He remained there perfectly still,
exchanging a long look with Miette, in whose glance, deepened by death,
he still seemed to read the girl’s lament for her sad fate.

In the meantime, the cavalry were still sabring the fugitives over the
Nores plain; the cries of the wounded and the galloping of the horses
became more distant, softening like music wafted from afar through the
clear air. Silvere was no longer conscious of the fighting. He did
not even see his cousin, who mounted the slope again and crossed the
promenade. Pascal, as he passed along, picked up Macquart’s carbine
which Silvere had thrown down; he knew it, as he had seen it hanging
over aunt Dide’s chimney-piece, and he thought he might as well save it
from the hands of the victors. He had scarcely entered the Hotel de la
Mule-Blanche, whither a large number of the wounded had been taken, when
a band of insurgents, chased by the soldiers like a herd of cattle, once
more rushed into the esplanade. The man with the sabre had fled; it was
the last contingents from the country who were being exterminated. There
was a terrible massacre. In vain did Colonel Masson and the prefect,
Monsieur de Bleriot, overcome by pity, order a retreat. The infuriated
soldiers continued firing upon the mass, and pinning isolated fugitives
to the walls with their bayonets. When they had no more enemies before
them, they riddled the facade of the Mule-Blanche with bullets. The
shutters flew into splinters; one window which had been left half-open
was torn out, and there was a loud rattle of broken glass. Pitiful
voices were crying out from within; “The prisoners! The prisoners!” But
the troops did not hear; they continued firing. All at once Commander
Sicardot, growing exasperated, appeared at the door, waved his arms, and
endeavoured to speak. Monsieur Peirotte, the receiver of taxes, with his
slim figure and scared face, stood by his side. However, another volley
was fired, and Monsieur Peirotte fell face foremost, with a heavy thud,
to the ground.

Silvere and Miette were still looking at each other. Silvere had
remained by the corpse, through all the fusillade and the howls of
agony, without even turning his head. He was only conscious of the
presence of some men around him, and, from a feeling of modesty, he drew
the red banner over Miette’s breast. Then their eyes still continued to
gaze at one another.

The conflict, however, was at an end. The death of the receiver of
taxes had satiated the soldiers. Some of these ran about, scouring every
corner of the esplanade, to prevent the escape of a single insurgent.
A gendarme who perceived Silvere under the trees, ran up to him, and
seeing that it was a lad he had to deal with, called: “What are you
doing there, youngster?”

Silvere, whose eyes were still fixed on those of Miette, made no reply.

“Ah! the bandit, his hands are black with powder,” the gendarme
exclaimed, as he stooped down. “Come, get up, you scoundrel! You know
what you’ve got to expect.”

Then, as Silvere only smiled vaguely and did not move, the other looked
more attentively, and saw that the corpse swathed in the banner was that
of a girl.

“A fine girl; what a pity!” he muttered. “Your mistress, eh? you
rascal!”

Then he made a violent grab at Silvere, and setting him on his feet led
him away like a dog that is dragged by one leg. Silvere submitted in
silence, as quietly as a child. He just turned round to give another
glance at Miette. He felt distressed at thus leaving her alone under the
trees. For the last time he looked at her from afar. She was still lying
there in all her purity, wrapped in the red banner, her head slightly
raised, and her big eyes turned upward towards heaven.



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 Felicite 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. Felicite 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 Recollets, 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 Felicite’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 facade
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
“Independant,” 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 “Ca 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?”

Felicite 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. Felicite 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.”

Felicite 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.”

Felicite 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 Felicite 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 Felicite, 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. Felicite, 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
habitues 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, Felicite, 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 Felicite 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 Felicite 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?” Felicite 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. Felicite, 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 denouement, 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 Felicite, 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.
Felicite 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
denouement 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
Felicite, 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.

Felicite, 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.
Felicite 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 Felicite, 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’Etat. 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 Silvere’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 Recollets, 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. Felicite, 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 Corbiere. 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.

Felicite 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’Etat 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. Felicite 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.

Felicite 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 Felicite 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
Adelaide, 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 Felicite 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.”

Felicite, 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.”

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 Felicite. “He promised me a good article. The
‘Independant’ 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 Felicite 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. Felicite, with her clear intellect, had quickly perceived
this. If they had been able to learn the result of the Coup d’Etat,
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 Eugene 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 Felicite pretended not to have heard. Her husband’s exclamation
had profoundly affected her. Why, indeed, did not Eugene 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 Felicite 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 Felicite.

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 Felicite 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!”

Felicite 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. Felicite 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 abbes 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 Felicite 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, Felicite continued in a covertly threatening
voice: “A letter from Paris, from my son, Eugene; 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. Felicite
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.”

Felicite 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. Eugene briefly
announced the complete success of the Coup d’Etat. 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’Etat?”

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.

Felicite 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, Felicite 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’Etat, 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
Felicite. “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 Felicite 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 Felicite, “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 Felicite 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? Eugene 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, Felicite 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 Silvere. 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.”

Felicite 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,” Felicite
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 Felicite 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 Felicite. ‘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!” Felicite 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. Felicite, 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.”

Felicite 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 Eugene’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
Felicite 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 Eugene’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. Felicite 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,” Felicite 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.”

Felicite 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, Felicite 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 Silvere’s brother, nor
Silvere 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 Felicite 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 Felicite, 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.”

Felicite 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. Felicite, 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,” Felicite 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.”

Felicite 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 Felicite, 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?”

Felicite 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 Felicite 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.
Felicite undertook to pay the remaining eight hundred on the following
day. The Rougons were risking the last sum they had at their disposal.

When Felicite 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,” Felicite 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 Angele 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 Eugene 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 Felicite, 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’Etat,
aren’t you?”

“I!” cried Felicite, 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 Eugene’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 Felicite, 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!” Felicite 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 Felicite 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, Silvere. 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 Silvere’s name.

“Have you seen him?” she asked, opening her lips at last.

“Who? Silvere?” 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 Silvere 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 Felicite’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 Felicite. 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 Felicite; “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, Felicite 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 “Independant,” 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 Felicite 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 Felicite, 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. Felicite, leaning forward at the risk of falling out,
was quite pale with joy. Aristide had just arrived with a number of the
“Independant,” in which he had openly declared himself in favour of the
Coup d’Etat, 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
Felicite 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
Felicite 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 Felicite. “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. Felicite made him kiss Aristide after telling
him of the superb article which the young man had inserted in the
“Independant.” Pierre would have kissed the marquis as well, he was
deeply affected. However, his wife took him aside, and gave him Eugene’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.



CHAPTER VII

It was not until Sunday, the day after the massacre at Sainte-Roure,
that the troops passed through Plassans again. The prefect and the
colonel, whom Monsieur Garconnet had invited to dinner, once more
entered the town alone. The soldiers went round the ramparts and
encamped in the Faubourg, on the Nice road. Night was falling; the sky,
overcast since the morning, had a strange yellow tint, and illumined
the town with a murky light, similar to the copper-coloured glimmer
of stormy weather. The reception of the troops by the inhabitants was
timid; the bloodstained soldiers, who passed by weary and silent, in
the yellow twilight, horrified the cleanly citizens promenading on
the Cours. They stepped out of the way whispering terrible stories of
fusillades and revengeful reprisals which still live in the recollection
of the region. The Coup d’Etat terror was beginning to make itself felt,
an overwhelming terror which kept the South in a state of tremor for
many a long month. Plassans, in its fear and hatred of the insurgents,
had welcomed the troops on their first arrival with enthusiasm; but now,
at the appearance of that gloomy taciturn regiment, whose men were ready
to fire at a word from their officers, the retired merchants and even
the notaries of the new town anxiously examined their consciences,
asking if they had not committed some political peccadilloes which might
be thought deserving of a bullet.

The municipal authorities had returned on the previous evening in a
couple of carts hired at Sainte-Roure. Their unexpected entry was devoid
of all triumphal display. Rougon surrendered the mayor’s arm-chair
without much regret. The game was over; and with feverish longing he now
awaited the recompense for his devotion. On the Sunday--he had not hoped
for it until the following day--he received a letter from Eugene.
Since the previous Thursday Felicite had taken care to send her son
the numbers of the “Gazette” and “Independant” which, in special second
editions had narrated the battle of the night and the arrival of the
prefect at Plassans. Eugene now replied by return of post that the
nomination of a receivership would soon be signed; but added that he
wished to give them some good news immediately. He had obtained the
ribbon of the Legion of Honour for his father. Felicite wept with joy.
Her husband decorated! Her proud dream had never gone as far as that.
Rougon, pale with delight, declared they must give a grand dinner that
very evening. He no longer thought of expense; he would have thrown his
last fifty francs out of the drawing-room windows in order to celebrate
that glorious day.

“Listen,” he said to his wife; “you must invite Sicardot: he has annoyed
me with that rosette of his for a long time! Then Granoux and Roudier;
I shouldn’t be at all sorry to make them feel that it isn’t their purses
that will ever win them the cross. Vuillet is a skinflint, but the
triumph ought to be complete: invite him as well as the small fry. I was
forgetting; you must go and call on the marquis in person; we will seat
him on your right; he’ll look very well at our table. You know that
Monsieur Garconnet is entertaining the colonel and the prefect. That is
to make me understand that I am nobody now. But I can afford to laugh at
his mayoralty; it doesn’t bring him in a sou! He has invited me, but
I shall tell him that I also have some people coming. The others will
laugh on the wrong side of their mouths to-morrow. And let everything
be of the best. Have everything sent from the Hotel de Provence. We must
outdo the mayor’s dinner.”

Felicite set to work. Pierre still felt some vague uneasiness amidst his
rapture. The Coup d’Etat was going to pay his debts, his son Aristide
had repented of his faults, and he was at last freeing himself from
Macquart; but he feared some folly on Pascal’s part, and was especially
anxious about the lot reserved for Silvere. Not that he felt the least
pity for the lad; he was simply afraid the matter of the gendarme might
come before the Assize Court. Ah! if only some discriminating bullet had
managed to rid him of that young scoundrel! As his wife had pointed out
to him in the morning, all obstacles had fallen away before him; the
family which had dishonoured him had, at the last moment, worked for his
elevation; his sons Eugene and Aristide, those spend-thrifts, the cost
of whose college life he had so bitterly regretted, were at last paying
interest on the capital expended for their education. And yet the
thought of that wretched Silvere must come to mar his hour of triumph!

While Felicite was running about to prepare the dinner for the evening,
Pierre heard of the arrival of the troops and determined to go and make
inquiries. Sicardot, whom he had questioned on his return, knew nothing;
Pascal must have remained to look after the wounded; as for Silvere, he
had not even been seen by the commander, who scarcely knew him. Rougon
therefore repaired to the Faubourg, intending to make inquiries there
and at the same time pay Macquart the eight hundred francs which he had
just succeeded in raising with great difficulty. However, when he found
himself in the crowded encampment, and from a distance saw the prisoners
sitting in long files on the beams in the Aire Saint-Mittre, guarded by
soldiers gun in hand, he felt afraid of being compromised, and so slunk
off to his mother’s house, with the intention of sending the old woman
out to pick up some information.

When he entered the hovel it was almost night. At first the only person
he saw there was Macquart smoking and drinking brandy.

“Is that you? I’m glad of it,” muttered Antoine. “I’m growing deuced
cold here. Have you got the money?”

But Pierre did not reply. He had just perceived his son Pascal leaning
over the bed. And thereupon he questioned him eagerly. The doctor,
surprised by his uneasiness, which he attributed to paternal affection,
told him that the soldiers had taken him and would have shot him, had
it not been for the intervention of some honest fellow whom he did not
know. Saved by his profession of surgeon, he had returned to Plassans
with the troops. This greatly relieved Rougon. So there was yet another
who would not compromise him. He was evincing his delight by repeated
hand-shakings, when Pascal concluded in a sorrowful voice: “Oh! don’t
make merry. I have just found my poor grandmother in a very dangerous
state. I brought her back this carbine, which she values very much; I
found her lying here, and she has not moved since.”

Pierre’s eyes were becoming accustomed to the dimness. In the fast
fading light he saw aunt Dide stretched, rigid and seemingly lifeless,
upon her bed. Her wretched frame, attacked by neurosis from the hour of
birth, was at length laid prostrate by a supreme shock. Her nerves had
so to say consumed her blood. Moreover some cruel grief seemed to have
suddenly accelerated her slow wasting-away. Her pale nun-like face,
drawn and pinched by a life of gloom and cloister-like self-denial, was
now stained with red blotches. With convulsed features, eyes that glared
terribly, and hands twisted and clenched, she lay at full length in her
skirts, which failed to hide the sharp outlines of her scrawny limbs.
Extended there with lips closely pressed she imparted to the dim room
all the horror of a mute death-agony.

Rougon made a gesture of vexation. This heart-rending spectacle was very
distasteful to him. He had company coming to dinner in the evening, and
it would be extremely inconvenient for him to have to appear mournful.
His mother was always doing something to bother him. She might just
as well have chosen another day. However, he put on an appearance of
perfect ease, as he said: “Bah! it’s nothing. I’ve seen her like that a
hundred times. You must let her lie still; it’s the only thing that does
her any good.”

Pascal shook his head. “No, this fit isn’t like the others,” he
whispered. “I have often studied her, and have never observed such
symptoms before. Just look at her eyes: there is a peculiar fluidity, a
pale brightness about them which causes me considerable uneasiness. And
her face, how frightfully every muscle of it is distorted!”

Then bending over to observe her features more closely, he continued
in a whisper, as though speaking to himself: “I have never seen such a
face, excepting among people who have been murdered or have died from
fright. She must have experienced some terrible shock.”

“But how did the attack begin?” Rougon impatiently inquired, at a loss
for an excuse to leave the room.

Pascal did not know. Macquart, as he poured himself out another glass
of brandy, explained that he had felt an inclination to drink a little
Cognac, and had sent her to fetch a bottle. She had not been long
absent, and at the very moment when she returned she had fallen rigid on
the floor without uttering a word. Macquart himself had carried her to
the bed.

“What surprises me,” he said, by way of conclusion, “is, that she did
not break the bottle.”

The young doctor reflected. After a short pause he resumed: “I heard two
shots fired as I came here. Perhaps those ruffians have been shooting
some more prisoners. If she passed through the ranks of the soldiers at
that moment, the sight of blood may have thrown her into this fit. She
must have had some dreadful shock.”

Fortunately he had with him the little medicine-case which he had been
carrying about ever since the departure of the insurgents. He tried
to pour a few drops of reddish liquid between aunt Dide’s closely-set
teeth, while Macquart again asked his brother: “Have you got the money?”

“Yes, I’ve brought it; we’ll settle now,” Rougon replied, glad of this
diversion.

Thereupon Macquart, seeing that he was about to be paid, began to moan.
He had only learnt the consequence of his treachery when it was too
late; otherwise he would have demanded twice or thrice as much. And he
complained bitterly. Really now a thousand francs was not enough. His
children had forsaken him, he was all alone in the world, and obliged to
quit France. He almost wept as he spoke of his coming exile.

“Come now, will you take the eight hundred francs?” said Rougon, who was
in haste to be off.

“No, certainly not; double the sum. Your wife cheated me. If she had
told me distinctly what it was she expected of me, I would never have
compromised myself for such a trifle.”

Rougon laid the eight hundred francs upon the table.

“I swear I haven’t got any more,” he resumed. “I will think of you
later. But do, for mercy’s sake, get away this evening.”

Macquart, cursing and muttering protests, thereupon carried the table
to the window, and began to count the gold in the fading twilight. The
coins tickled the tips of his fingers very pleasantly as he let them
fall, and jingled musically in the darkness. At last he paused for a
moment to say: “You promised to get me a berth, remember. I want to
return to France. The post of rural guard in some pleasant neighbourhood
which I could mention, would just suit me.”

“Very well, I’ll see about it,” Rougon replied. “Have you got the eight
hundred francs?”

Macquart resumed his counting. The last coins were just clinking when a
burst of laughter made them turn their heads. Aunt Dide was standing up
in front of the bed, with her bodice unfastened, her white hair hanging
loose, and her face stained with red blotches. Pascal had in vain
endeavoured to hold her down. Trembling all over, and with her arms
outstretched, she shook her head deliriously.

“The blood-money! the blood-money!” she again and again repeated. “I
heard the gold. And it is they, they who sold him. Ah! the murderers!
They are a pack of wolves.”

Then she pushed her hair aback, and passed her hand over her brow, as
though seeking to collect her thoughts. And she continued: “Ah! I have
long seen him with a bullet-hole in his forehead. There were always
people lying in wait for him with guns. They used to sign to me that
they were going to fire. . . . It’s terrible! I feel some one breaking
my bones and battering out my brains. Oh! Mercy! Mercy! I beseech you;
he shall not see her any more--never, never! I will shut him up. I will
prevent him from walking out with her. Mercy! Mercy! Don’t fire. It is
not my fault. If you knew----”

She had almost fallen on her knees, and was weeping and entreating while
she stretched her poor trembling hands towards some horrible vision
which she saw in the darkness. Then she suddenly rose upright, and her
eyes opened still more widely as a terrible cry came from her convulsed
throat, as though some awful sight, visible to her alone, had filled her
with mad terror.

“Oh, the gendarme!” she said, choking and falling backwards on the bed,
where she rolled about, breaking into long bursts of furious, insane
laughter.

Pascal was studying the attack attentively. The two brothers, who felt
very frightened, and only detected snatches of what their mother said,
had taken refuge in a corner of the room. When Rougon heard the word
gendarme, he thought he understood her. Ever since the murder of her
lover, the elder Macquart, on the frontier, aunt Dide had cherished a
bitter hatred against all gendarmes and custom-house officers, whom she
mingled together in one common longing for vengeance.

“Why, it’s the story of the poacher that she’s telling us,” he
whispered.

But Pascal made a sign to him to keep quiet. The stricken woman had
raised herself with difficulty, and was looking round her, with a
stupefied air. She remained silent for a moment, endeavouring to
recognise the various objects in the room, as though she were in some
strange place. Then, with a sudden expression of anxiety, she asked:
“Where is the gun?”

The doctor put the carbine into her hands. At this she raised a light
cry of joy, and gazed at the weapon, saying in a soft, sing-song,
girlish whisper: “That is it. Oh! I recognise it! It is all stained with
blood. The stains are quite fresh to-day. His red hands have left marks
of blood on the butt. Ah! poor, poor aunt Dide!”

Then she became dizzy once more, and lapsed into silent thought.

“The gendarme was dead,” she murmured at last, “but I have seen him
again; he has come back. They never die, those blackguards!”

Again did gloomy passion come over her, and, shaking the carbine, she
advanced towards her two sons who, speechless with fright, retreated to
the very wall. Her loosened skirts trailed along the ground, as she drew
up her twisted frame, which age had reduced to mere bones.

“It’s you who fired!” she cried. “I heard the gold. . . . Wretched woman
that I am! . . . I brought nothing but wolves into the world--a whole
family--a whole litter of wolves! . . . There was only one poor lad,
and him they have devoured; each had a bite at him, and their lips are
covered with blood. . . . Ah! the accursed villains! They have robbed,
they have murdered. . . . And they live like gentlemen. Villains!
Accursed villains!”

She sang, laughed, cried, and repeated “accursed villains!” in strangely
sonorous tones, which suggested a crackling of a fusillade. Pascal, with
tears in his eyes, took her in his arms and laid her on the bed
again. She submitted like a child, but persisted in her wailing cries,
accelerating their rhythm, and beating time on the sheet with her
withered hands.

“That’s just what I was afraid of,” the doctor said; “she is mad. The
blow has been too heavy for a poor creature already subject, as she is,
to acute neurosis. She will die in a lunatic asylum like her father.”

“But what could she have seen?” asked Rougon, at last venturing to quit
the corner where he had hidden himself.

“I have a terrible suspicion,” Pascal replied. “I was going to speak to
you about Silvere when you came in. He is a prisoner. You must endeavour
to obtain his release from the prefect, if there is still time.”

The old oil-dealer turned pale as he looked at his son. Then, rapidly,
he responded: “Listen to me; you stay here and watch her. I’m too busy
this evening. We will see to-morrow about conveying her to the lunatic
asylum at Les Tulettes. As for you, Macquart, you must leave this
very night. Swear to me that you will! I’m going to find Monsieur de
Bleriot.”

He stammered as he spoke, and felt more eager than ever to get out into
the fresh air of the streets. Pascal fixed a penetrating look on the
madwoman, and then on his father and uncle. His professional instinct
was getting the better of him, and he studied the mother and the sons,
with all the keenness of a naturalist observing the metamorphosis of
some insect. He pondered over the growth of that family to which he
belonged, over the different branches growing from one parent stock,
whose sap carried identical germs to the farthest twigs, which bent in
divers ways according to the sunshine or shade in which they lived. And
for a moment, as by the glow of a lightning flash, he thought he could
espy the future of the Rougon-Macquart family, a pack of unbridled,
insatiate appetites amidst a blaze of gold and blood.

Aunt Dide, however, had ceased her wailing chant at the mention of
Silvere’s name. For a moment she listened anxiously. Then she broke out
into terrible shrieks. Night had now completely fallen, and the black
room seemed void and horrible. The shrieks of the madwoman, who was
no longer visible, rang out from the darkness as from a grave. Rougon,
losing his head, took to flight, pursued by those taunting cries, whose
bitterness seemed to increase amidst the gloom.

As he was emerging from the Impasse Saint-Mittre with hesitating steps,
wondering whether it would not be dangerous to solicit Silvere’s pardon
from the prefect, he saw Aristide prowling about the timber-yard. The
latter, recognising his father, ran up to him with an expression of
anxiety and whispered a few words in his ear. Pierre turned pale, and
cast a look of alarm towards the end of the yard, where the darkness was
only relieved by the ruddy glow of a little gipsy fire. Then they both
disappeared down the Rue de Rome, quickening their steps as though they
had committed a murder, and turning up their coat-collars in order that
they might not be recognised.

“That saves me an errand,” Rougon whispered. “Let us go to dinner. They
are waiting for us.”

When they arrived, the yellow drawing-room was resplendent. Felicite
was all over the place. Everybody was there; Sicardot, Granoux, Roudier,
Vuillet, the oil-dealers, the almond-dealers, the whole set. The
marquis, however, had excused himself on the plea of rheumatism;
and, besides, he was about to leave Plassans on a short trip. Those
bloodstained bourgeois offended his feelings of delicacy, and moreover
his relative, the Count de Valqueyras, had begged him to withdraw from
public notice for a little time. Monsieur de Carnavant’s refusal vexed
the Rougons; but Felicite consoled herself by resolving to make a more
profuse display. She hired a pair of candelabra and ordered several
additional dishes as a kind of substitute for the marquis. The table was
laid in the yellow drawing-room, in order to impart more solemnity to
the occasion. The Hotel de Provence had supplied the silver, the china,
and the glass. The cloth had been laid ever since five o’clock in order
that the guests on arriving might feast their eyes upon it. At either
end of the table, on the white cloth, were bouquets of artificial roses,
in porcelain vases gilded and painted with flowers.

When the habitual guests of the yellow drawing-room were assembled
there they could not conceal their admiration of the spectacle. Several
gentlemen smiled with an air of embarrassment while they exchanged
furtive glances, which clearly signified, “These Rougons are mad,
they are throwing their money out of the window.” The truth was that
Felicite, on going round to invite her guests, had been unable to hold
her tongue. So everybody knew that Pierre had been decorated, and that
he was about to be nominated to some post; at which, of course, they
pulled wry faces. Roudier indeed observed that “the little black woman
was puffing herself out too much.” Now that “prize-day” had come this
band of bourgeois, who had rushed upon the expiring Republic--each one
keeping an eye on the other, and glorying in giving a deeper bite than
his neighbour--did not think it fair that their hosts should have all
the laurels of the battle. Even those who had merely howled by instinct,
asking no recompense of the rising Empire, were greatly annoyed to see
that, thanks to them, the poorest and least reputable of them all should
be decorated with the red ribbon. The whole yellow drawing-room ought to
have been decorated!

“Not that I value the decoration,” Roudier said to Granoux, whom he had
dragged into the embrasure of a window. “I refused it in the time of
Louis-Philippe, when I was purveyor to the court. Ah! Louis-Philippe was
a good king. France will never find his equal!”

Roudier was becoming an Orleanist once more. And he added, with the
crafty hypocrisy of an old hosier from the Rue Saint-Honore: “But you,
my dear Granoux; don’t you think the ribbon would look well in your
button-hole? After all, you did as much to save the town as Rougon did.
Yesterday, when I was calling upon some very distinguished persons, they
could scarcely believe it possible that you had made so much noise with
a mere hammer.”

Granoux stammered his thanks, and, blushing like a maiden at her first
confession of love, whispered in Roudier’s ear: “Don’t say anything
about it, but I have reason to believe that Rougon will ask the ribbon
for me. He’s a good fellow at heart, you know.”

The old hosier thereupon became grave, and assumed a very affable
manner. When Vuillet came and spoke to him of the well-deserved reward
that their friend had just received, he replied in a loud voice, so as
to be heard by Felicite, who was sitting a little way off, that “men
like Rougon were an ornament to the Legion of Honour.” The bookseller
joined in the chorus; he had that morning received a formal assurance
that the custom of the college would be restored to him. As for
Sicardot, he at first felt somewhat annoyed to find himself no longer
the only one of the set who was decorated. According to him, none but
soldiers had a right to the ribbon. Pierre’s valour surprised him.
However, being in reality a good-natured fellow, he at last grew warmer,
and ended by saying that the Napoleons always knew how to distinguish
men of spirit and energy.

Rougon and Aristide consequently had an enthusiastic reception; on their
arrival all hands were held out to them. Some of the guests went so
far as to embrace them. Angele sat on the sofa, by the side of her
mother-in-law, feeling very happy, and gazing at the table with the
astonishment of a gourmand who has never seen so many dishes at once.
When Aristide approached, Sicardot complimented his son-in-law upon his
superb article in the “Independant.” He restored his friendship to
him. The young man, in answer to the fatherly questions which Sicardot
addressed to him, replied that he was anxious to take his little family
with him to Paris, where his brother Eugene would push him forward; but
he was in want of five hundred francs. Sicardot thereupon promised
him the money, already foreseeing the day when his daughter would be
received at the Tuileries by Napoleon III.

In the meantime, Felicite had made a sign to her husband. Pierre,
surrounded by everybody and anxiously questioned about his pallor, could
only escape for a minute. He was just able to whisper in his wife’s ear
that he had found Pascal and that Macquart would leave that night. Then
lowering his voice still more he told her of his mother’s insanity, and
placed his finger on his lips, as if to say: “Not a word; that would
spoil the whole evening.” Felicite bit her lips. They exchanged a look
in which they read their common thoughts: so now the old woman would not
trouble them any more: the poacher’s hovel would be razed to the ground,
as the walls of the Fouques’ enclosure had been demolished; and they
would for ever enjoy the respect and esteem of Plassans.

But the guests were looking at the table. Felicite showed the gentlemen
their seats. It was perfect bliss. As each one took his spoon, Sicardot
made a gesture to solicit a moment’s delay. Then he rose and gravely
said: “Gentlemen, on behalf of the company present, I wish to express
to our host how pleased we are at the rewards which his courage and
patriotism have procured for him. I now see that he must have acted upon
a heaven-sent inspiration in remaining here, while those beggars were
dragging myself and others along the high roads. Therefore, I heartily
applaud the decision of the government. . . . Let me finish, you can
then congratulate our friend. . . . Know, then, that our friend, besides
being made a chevalier of the Legion of Honour, is also to be appointed
to a receiver of taxes.”

There was a cry of surprise. They had expected a small post. Some of
them tried to force a smile; but, aided by the sight of the table, the
compliments again poured forth profusely.

Sicardot once more begged for silence. “Wait one moment,” he resumed;
“I have not finished. Just one word. It is probable that our friend will
remain among us, owing to the death of Monsieur Peirotte.”

Whilst the guests burst out into exclamations, Felicite felt a keen pain
in her heart. Sicardot had already told her that the receiver had been
shot; but at the mention of that sudden and shocking death, just as they
were starting on that triumphal dinner, it seemed as if a chilling gust
swept past her face. She remembered her wish; it was she who had killed
that man. However, amidst the tinkling music of the silver, the company
began to do honour to the banquet. In the provinces, people eat
very much and very noisily. By the time the _releve_ was served, the
gentlemen were all talking together; they showered kicks upon the
vanquished, flattered one another, and made disparaging remarks about
the absence of the marquis. It was impossible, they said, to maintain
intercourse with the nobility. Roudier even gave out that the marquis
had begged to be excused because his fear of the insurgents had given
him jaundice. At the second course they all scrambled like hounds at
the quarry. The oil-dealers and almond-dealers were the men who saved
France. They clinked glasses to the glory of the Rougons. Granoux, who
was very red, began to stammer, while Vuillet, very pale, was quite
drunk. Nevertheless Sicardot continued filling his glass. For her part
Angele, who had already eaten too much, prepared herself some sugar and
water. The gentlemen were so delighted at being freed from panic, and
finding themselves together again in that yellow drawing-room, round a
good table, in the bright light radiating from the candelabra and
the chandelier--which they now saw for the first time without its
fly-specked cover--that they gave way to most exuberant folly and
indulged in the coarsest enjoyment. Their voices rose in the warm
atmosphere more huskily and eulogistically at each successive dish till
they could scarcely invent fresh compliments. However, one of them, an
old retired master-tanner, hit upon this fine phrase--that the dinner
was a “perfect feast worthy of Lucullus.”

Pierre was radiant, and his big pale face perspired with triumph.
Felicite, already accustoming herself to her new station in life, said
that they would probably rent poor Monsieur Peirotte’s flat until they
could purchase a house of their own in the new town. She was already
planning how she would place her future furniture in the receiver’s
rooms. She was entering into possession of her Tuileries. At one
moment, however, as the uproar of voices became deafening, she seemed to
recollect something, and quitting her seat she whispered in Aristide’s
ear: “And Silvere?”

The young man started with surprise at the question.

“He is dead,” he replied, likewise in a whisper. “I was there when the
gendarme blew his brains out with a pistol.”

Felicite in her turn shuddered. She opened her mouth to ask her son
why he had not prevented this murder by claiming the lad; but abruptly
hesitating she remained there speechless. Then Aristide, who had read
her question on her quivering lips, whispered: “You understand, I said
nothing--so much the worse for him! I did quite right. It’s a good
riddance.”

This brutal frankness displeased Felicite. So Aristide had his skeleton,
like his father and mother. He would certainly not have confessed so
openly that he had been strolling about the Faubourg and had allowed his
cousin to be shot, had not the wine from the Hotel de Provence and the
dreams he was building upon his approaching arrival in Paris, made
him depart from his habitual cunning. The words once spoken, he
swung himself to and fro on his chair. Pierre, who had watched the
conversation between his wife and son from a distance, understood what
had passed and glanced at them like an accomplice imploring silence. It
was the last blast of terror, as it were, which blew over the Rougons,
amidst the splendour and enthusiastic merriment of the dinner. True,
Felicite, on returning to her seat, espied a taper burning behind a
window on the other side of the road. Some one sat watching Monsieur
Peirotte’s corpse, which had been brought back from Sainte-Roure that
morning. She sat down, feeling as if that taper were heating her back.
But the gaiety was now increasing, and exclamations of rapture rang
through the yellow drawing-room when the dessert appeared.

At that same hour, the Faubourg was still shuddering at the tragedy
which had just stained the Aire Saint-Mittre with blood. The return of
the troops, after the carnage on the Nores plain, had been marked by the
most cruel reprisals. Men were beaten to death behind bits of wall, with
the butt-ends of muskets, others had their brains blown out in ravines
by the pistols of gendarmes. In order that terror might impose silence,
the soldiers strewed their road with corpses. One might have followed
them by the red trail which they left behind.[*] It was a long butchery.
At every halting-place, a few insurgents were massacred. Two were killed
at Sainte-Roure, three at Ocheres, one at Beage. When the troops were
encamped at Plassans, on the Nice road, it was decided that one more
prisoner, the most guilty, should be shot. The victors judged it wise
to leave this fresh corpse behind them in order to inspire the town
with respect for the new-born Empire. But the soldiers were now weary of
killing; none offered himself for the fatal task. The prisoners, thrown
on the beams in the timber-yard as though on a camp bed, and bound
together in pairs by the hands, listened and waited in a state of weary,
resigned stupor.

     [*] Though M. Zola has changed his place in his account of
     the insurrection, that account is strictly accurate in all
     its chief particulars. What he says of the savagery both of
     the soldiers and of their officers is confirmed by all
     impartial historical writers.--EDITOR.

At that moment the gendarme Rengade roughly opened a way for himself
through the crowd of inquisitive idlers. As soon as he heard that the
troops had returned with several hundred insurgents, he had risen
from bed, shivering with fever, and risking his life in the cold, dark
December air. Scarcely was he out of doors when his wound reopened, the
bandage which covered his eyeless socket became stained with blood,
and a red streamlet trickled over his cheek and moustache. He looked
frightful in his dumb fury with his pale face and blood-stained bandage,
as he ran along closely scrutinising each of the prisoners. He followed
the beams, bending down and going to and fro, making the bravest shudder
by his abrupt appearance. And, all of a sudden: “Ah! the bandit, I’ve
got him!” he cried.

He had just laid his hand on Silvere’s shoulder. Silvere, crouching down
on a beam, with lifeless and expressionless face, was looking straight
before him into the pale twilight, with a calm, stupefied air. Ever
since his departure from Sainte-Roure, he had retained that vacant
stare. Along the high road, for many a league, whenever the soldiers
urged on the march of their captives with the butt-ends of their rifles,
he had shown himself as gentle as a child. Covered with dust, thirsty
and weary, he trudged onward without saying a word, like one of those
docile animals that herdsmen drive along. He was thinking of Miette. He
ever saw her lying on the banner, under the trees with her eyes turned
upwards. For three days he had seen none but her; and at this very
moment, amidst the growing darkness, he still saw her.

Rengade turned towards the officer, who had failed to find among the
soldiers the requisite men for an execution.

“This villain put my eye out,” he said, pointing to Silvere. “Hand him
over to me. It’s as good as done for you.”

The officer did not reply in words, but withdrew with an air of
indifference, making a vague gesture. The gendarme understood that the
man was surrendered to him.

“Come, get up!” he resumed, as he shook him.

Silvere, like all the other prisoners, had a companion attached to him.
He was fastened by the arm to a peasant of Poujols named Mourgue, a man
about fifty, who had been brutified by the scorching sun and the
hard labour of tilling the ground. Crooked-backed already, his hands
hardened, his face coarse and heavy, he blinked his eyes in a stupid
manner, with the stubborn, distrustful expression of an animal subject
to the lash. He had set out armed with a pitchfork, because his fellow
villagers had done so; but he could not have explained what had thus
set him adrift on the high roads. Since he had been made a prisoner
he understood it still less. He had some vague idea that he was being
conveyed home. His amazement at finding himself bound, the sight of all
the people staring at him, stupefied him still more. As he only spoke
and understood the dialect of the region, he could not imagine what the
gendarme wanted. He raised his coarse, heavy face towards him with an
effort; then, fancying he was being asked the name of his village, he
said in his hoarse voice:

“I come from Poujols.”

A burst of laughter ran through the crowd, and some voices cried:
“Release the peasant.”

“Bah!” Rengade replied; “the more of this vermin that’s crushed the
better. As they’re together, they can both go.”

There was a murmur.

But the gendarme turned his terrible blood-stained face upon the
onlookers, and they slunk off. One cleanly little citizen went away
declaring that if he remained any longer it would spoil his appetite for
dinner. However some boys who recognised Silvere, began to speak of “the
red girl.” Thereupon the little citizen retraced his steps, in order to
see the lover of the female standard-bearer, that depraved creature who
had been mentioned in the “Gazette.”

Silvere, for his part, neither saw nor heard anything; Rengade had to
seize him by the collar. Thereupon he got up, forcing Mourgue to rise
also.

“Come,” said the gendarme. “It won’t take long.”

Silvere then recognised the one-eyed man. He smiled. He must have
understood. But he turned his head away. The sight of the one-eyed man,
of his moustaches which congealed blood stiffened as with sinister rime,
caused him profound grief. He would have liked to die in perfect peace.
So he avoided the gaze of Rengade’s one eye, which glared from beneath
the white bandage. And of his own accord he proceeded to the end of
the Aire Saint-Mittre, to the narrow lane hidden by the timber stacks.
Mourgue followed him thither.

The Aire stretched out, with an aspect of desolation under the sallow
sky. A murky light fell here and there from the copper-coloured clouds.
Never had a sadder and more lingering twilight cast its melancholy over
this bare expanse--this wood-yard with its slumbering timber, so stiff
and rigid in the cold. The prisoners, the soldiers, and the mob along
the high road disappeared amid the darkness of the trees. The expanse,
the beams, the piles of planks alone grew pale under the fading light,
assuming a muddy tint that vaguely suggested the bed of a dried-up
torrent. The sawyers’ trestles, rearing their meagre framework in a
corner, seemed to form gallows, or the uprights of a guillotine. And
there was no living soul there excepting three gipsies who showed their
frightened faces at the door of their van--an old man and woman, and a
big girl with woolly hair, whose eyes gleamed like those of a wolf.

Before reaching the secluded path, Silvere looked round him. He
bethought himself of a far away Sunday when he had crossed the wood-yard
in the bright moonlight. How calm and soft it had been!--how slowly had
the pale rays passed over the beams! Supreme silence had fallen from the
frozen sky. And amidst this silence, the woolly-haired gipsy girl had
sung in a low key and an unknown tongue. Then Silvere remembered that
the seemingly far-off Sunday was only a week old. But a week ago he had
come to bid Miette farewell! How long past it seemed! He felt as though
he had not set foot in the wood-yard for years. But when he reached the
narrow path his heart failed him. He recognised the odour of the grass,
the shadows of the planks, the holes in the wall. A woeful voice rose
from all those things. The path stretched out sad and lonely; it seemed
longer to him than usual, and he felt a cold wind blowing down it. The
spot had aged cruelly. He saw that the wall was moss-eaten, that the
verdant carpet was dried up by frost, that the piles of timber had been
rotted by rain. It was perfect devastation. The yellow twilight fell
like fine dust upon the ruins of all that had been most dear to him. He
was obliged to close his eyes that he might again behold the lane green,
and live his happy hours afresh. It was warm weather; and he was
racing with Miette in the balmy air. Then the cruel December rains fell
unceasingly, yet they still came there, sheltering themselves beneath
the planks and listening with rapture to the heavy plashing of the
shower. His whole life--all his happiness--passed before him like a
flash of lightning. Miette was climbing over the wall, running to
him, shaking with sonorous laughter. She was there; he could see her,
gleaming white through the darkness, with her living helm of ink-black
hair. She was talking about the magpies’ nests, which are so difficult
to steal, and she dragged him along with her. Then he heard the gentle
murmur of the Viorne in the distance, the chirping of the belated
grasshoppers, and the blowing of the breeze among the poplars in
the meadows of Sainte-Claire. Ah, how they used to run! How well he
remembered it! She had learnt to swim in a fortnight. She was a plucky
girl. She had only had one great fault: she was inclined to pilfering.
But he would have cured her of that. Then the thought of their first
embraces brought him back to the narrow path. They had always ended by
returning to that nook. He fancied he could hear the gipsy girl’s song
dying away, the creaking of the last shutters, the solemn striking of
the clocks. Then the hour of separation came, and Miette climbed the
wall again and threw him a kiss. And he saw her no more. Emotion choked
him at the thought: he would never see her again--never!

“When you’re ready,” jeered the one-eyed man; “come, choose your place.”

Silvere took a few more steps. He was approaching the end of the path,
and could see nothing but a strip of sky in which the rust-coloured
light was fading away. Here had he spent his life for two years past.
The slow approach of death added an ineffable charm to this pathway
which had so long served as a lovers’ walk. He loitered, bidding a long
and lingering farewell to all he loved; the grass, the timber, the stone
of the old wall, all those things into which Miette had breathed life.
And again his thoughts wandered. They were waiting till they should be
old enough to marry: Aunt Dide would remain with them. Ah! if they had
fled far away, very far away, to some unknown village, where the
scamps of the Faubourg would no longer have been able to come and cast
Chantegreil’s crime in his daughter’s face. What peaceful bliss! They
would have opened a wheelwright’s workshop beside some high road. No
doubt, he cared little for his ambitions now; he no longer thought
of coachmaking, of carriages with broad varnished panels as shiny as
mirrors. In the stupor of his despair he could not remember why his
dream of bliss would never come to pass. Why did he not go away with
Miette and aunt Dide? Then as he racked his memory, he heard the sharp
crackling of a fusillade; he saw a standard fall before him, its staff
broken and its folds drooping like the wings of a bird brought down by a
shot. It was the Republic falling asleep with Miette under the red flag.
Ah, what wretchedness! They were both dead, both had bleeding wounds in
their breasts. And it was they--the corpses of his two loves--that now
barred his path of life. He had nothing left him and might well die
himself. These were the thoughts that had made him so gentle, so
listless, so childlike all the way from Sainte-Roure. The soldiers
might have struck him, he would not have felt it. His spirit no longer
inhabited his body. It was far away, prostrate beside the loved ones who
were dead under the trees amidst the pungent smoke of the gunpowder.

But the one-eyed man was growing impatient; giving a push to Mourgue,
who was lagging behind, he growled: “Get along, do; I don’t want to be
here all night.”

Silvere stumbled. He looked at his feet. A fragment of a skull lay
whitening in the grass. He thought he heard a murmur of voices filling
the pathway. The dead were calling him, those long departed ones, whose
warm breath had so strangely perturbed him and his sweetheart during
the sultry July evenings. He recognised their low whispers. They were
rejoicing, they were telling him to come, and promising to restore
Miette to him beneath the earth, in some retreat which would prove
still more sequestered than this old trysting-place. The cemetery, whose
oppressive odours and dark vegetation had breathed eager desire into the
children’s hearts, while alluringly spreading out its couches of rank
grass, without succeeding however in throwing them into one another’s
arms, now longed to imbibe Silvere’s warm blood. For two summers past it
had been expecting the young lovers.

“Is it here?” asked the one-eyed man.

Silvere looked in front of him. He had reached the end of the path. His
eyes fell on the tombstone, and he started. Miette was right, that stone
was for her. _“Here lieth . . . Marie . . . died . . . “_ She was
dead, that slab had fallen over her. His strength failing him, he leant
against the frozen stone. How warm it had been when they sat in that
nook, chatting for many a long evening! She had always come that way,
and the pressure of her foot, as she alighted from the wall, had worn
away the stone’s surface in one corner. The mark seemed instinct with
something of her lissom figure. And to Silvere it appeared as if some
fatalism attached to all these objects--as if the stone were there
precisely in order that he might come to die beside it, there where he
had loved.

The one-eyed man cocked his pistols.

Death! death! the thought fascinated Silvere. It was to this spot,
then, that they had led him, by the long white road which descends from
Sainte-Roure to Plassans. If he had known it, he would have hastened on
yet more quickly in order to die on that stone, at the end of the
narrow path, in the atmosphere where he could still detect the scent of
Miette’s breath! Never had he hoped for such consolation in his grief.
Heaven was merciful. He waited, a vague smile playing on is face.

Mourgue, meantime, had caught sight of the pistols. Hitherto he had
allowed himself to be dragged along stupidly. But fear now overcame him,
and he repeated, in a tone of despair: “I come from Poujols--I come from
Poujols!”

Then he threw himself on the ground, rolling at the gendarme’s feet,
breaking out into prayers for mercy, and imagining that he was being
mistaken for some one else.

“What does it matter to me that you come from Poujols?” Rengade
muttered.

And as the wretched man, shivering and crying with terror, and quite
unable to understand why he was going to die, held out his trembling
hands--his deformed, hard, labourer’s hands--exclaiming in his patois
that he had done nothing and ought to be pardoned, the one-eyed man grew
quite exasperated at being unable to put the pistol to his temple, owing
to his constant movements.

“Will you hold your tongue?” he shouted.

Thereupon Mourgue, mad with fright and unwilling to die, began to howl
like a beast--like a pig that is being slaughtered.

“Hold your tongue, you scoundrel!” the gendarme repeated.

And he blew his brains out. The peasant fell with a thud. His body
rolled to the foot of a timber-stack, where it remained doubled up. The
violence of the shock had severed the rope which fastened him to his
companion. Silvere fell on his knees before the tombstone.

It was to make his vengeance the more terrible that Rengade had killed
Mourgue first. He played with his second pistol, raising it slowly in
order to relish Silvere’s agony. But the latter looked at him quietly.
Then again the sight of this man, with the one fierce, scorching eye,
made him feel uneasy. He averted his glance, fearing that he might die
cowardly if he continued to look at that feverishly quivering gendarme,
with blood-stained bandage and bleeding moustache. However, as he raised
his eyes to avoid him, he perceived Justin’s head just above the wall,
at the very spot where Miette had been wont to leap over.

Justin had been at the Porte de Rome, among the crowd, when the gendarme
had led the prisoners away. He had set off as fast as he could by way of
the Jas-Meiffren, in his eagerness to witness the execution. The thought
that he alone, of all the Faubourg scamps, would view the tragedy at
his ease, as from a balcony, made him run so quickly that he twice fell
down. And in spite of his wild chase, he arrived too late to witness the
first shot. He climbed the mulberry tree in despair; but he smiled when
he saw that Silvere still remained. The soldiers had informed him of
his cousin’s death, and now the murder of the wheelwright brought his
happiness to a climax. He awaited the shot with that delight which the
sufferings of others always afforded him--a delight increased tenfold by
the horror of the scene, and a feeling of exquisite fear.

Silvere, on recognising that vile scamp’s head all by itself above the
wall--that pale grinning face, with hair standing on end--experienced a
feeling of fierce rage, a sudden desire to live. It was the last revolt
of his blood--a momentary mutiny. He again sank down on his knees,
gazing straight before him. A last vision passed before his eyes in
the melancholy twilight. At the end of the path, at the entrance of the
Impasse Saint-Mittre, he fancied he could see aunt Dide standing erect,
white and rigid like the statue of a saint, while she witnessed his
agony from a distance.

At that moment he felt the cold pistol on his temple. There was a smile
on Justin’s pale face. Closing his eyes, Silvere heard the long-departed
dead wildly summoning him. In the darkness, he now saw nothing save
Miette, wrapped in the banner, under the trees, with her eyes turned
towards heaven. Then the one-eyed man fired, and all was over; the lad’s
skull burst open like a ripe pomegranate; his face fell upon the stone,
with his lips pressed to the spot which Miette’s feet had worn--that
warm spot which still retained a trace of his dead love.

And in the evening at dessert, at the Rougons’ abode, bursts of laughter
arose with the fumes from the table, which was still warm with the
remains of the dinner. At last the Rougons were nibbling at the
pleasures of the wealthy! Their appetites, sharpened by thirty years
of restrained desire, now fell to with wolfish teeth. These fierce,
insatiate wild beasts, scarcely entering upon indulgence, exulted at
the birth of the Empire--the dawn of the Rush for the Spoils. The Coup
d’Etat, which retrieved the fortune of the Bonapartes, also laid the
foundation for that of the Rougons.

Pierre stood up, held out his glass, and exclaimed: “I drink to Prince
Louis--to the Emperor!”

The gentlemen, who had drowned their jealousies in champagne, rose in a
body and clinked glasses with deafening shouts. It was a fine spectacle.
The bourgeois of Plassans, Roudier, Granoux, Vuillet, and all the
others, wept and embraced each other over the corpse of the Republic,
which as yet was scarcely cold. But a splendid idea occurred to
Sicardot. He took from Felicite’s hair a pink satin bow, which she had
placed over her right ear in honour of the occasion, cut off a strip
of the satin with his dessert knife, and then solemnly fastened it
to Rougon’s button-hole. The latter feigned modesty, and pretended to
resist. But his face beamed with joy, as he murmured: “No, I beg you, it
is too soon. We must wait until the decree is published.”

“Zounds!” Sicardot exclaimed, “will you please keep that! It’s an old
soldier of Napoleon who decorates you!”

The whole company burst into applause. Felicite almost swooned with
delight. Silent Granoux jumped up on a chair in his enthusiasm, waving
his napkin and making a speech which was lost amid the uproar. The
yellow drawing-room was wild with triumph.

But the strip of pink satin fastened to Pierre’s button-hole was not
the only red spot in that triumph of the Rougons. A shoe, with a
blood-stained heel, still lay forgotten under the bedstead in the
adjoining room. The taper burning at Monsieur Peirotte’s bedside, over
the way, gleamed too with the lurid redness of a gaping wound amidst
the dark night. And yonder, far away, in the depths of the Aire
Saint-Mittre, a pool of blood was congealing upon a tombstone.





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