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 theRougon-Macquart series. Though it was by no means M. Zola's first essayin fiction, it was undoubtedly his first great bid for genuine literaryfame, and the foundation of what must necessarily be regarded as hislife-work. The idea of writing the "natural and social history of afamily under the Second Empire, " extending to a score of volumes, wasdoubtless 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 concludingvolume, "Dr. Pascal, " to the press. He had spent five-and-twenty yearsin working out his scheme, persevering with it doggedly and stubbornly, whatever rebuffs he might encounter, whatever jeers and whatever insultsmight be directed against him by the ignorant, the prejudiced, and thehypocritical. Truth was on the march and nothing could stay it; even as, at the present hour, its march, if slow, none the less continues athwartanother and a different crisis of the illustrious novelist's career. 

It was in the early summer of 1869 that M. Zola first began the actualwriting of "The Fortune of the Rougons. " It was only in the followingyear, however, that the serial publication of the work commenced inthe columns of "Le Siecle, " the Republican journal of most influencein Paris in those days of the Second Empire. The Franco-German warinterrupted this issue of the story, and publication in book form didnot take place until the latter half of 1871, a time when both the warand the Commune had left Paris exhausted, supine, with little or nointerest in anything. No more unfavourable moment for the issue of anambitious work of fiction could have been found. Some two or threeyears went by, as I well remember, before anything like a revival ofliterature and of public interest in literature took place. Thus, M. Zola launched his gigantic scheme under auspices which would have mademany another man recoil. "The Fortune of the Rougons, " and two or threesubsequent volumes of his series, attracted but a moderate degreeof 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 twentyvolumes. The last of these, "Dr. Pascal, " appeared in 1893. Sincethen M. Zola has written "Lourdes, " "Rome, " and "Paris. " Critics haverepeated _ad nauseam_ that these last works constitute a new departureon M. Zola's part, and, so far as they formed a new series, thisis true. But the suggestion that he has in any way repented of theRougon-Macquart novels is ridiculous. As he has often told me of recentyears, it is, as far as possible, his plan to subordinate his style andmethods to his subject. To have written a book like "Rome, " so largelydevoted to the ambitions of the Papal See, in the same way as he hadwritten 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 onthe part of English and American reviewers that Zolaism, as typified bythe Rougon-Macquart series, was altogether a thing of the past. To mythinking this is a profound error. M. Zola has always remained faithfulto himself. The only difference that I perceive between his latestwork, "Paris, " and certain Rougon-Macquart volumes, is that with time, experience and assiduity, his genius has expanded and ripened, and thatthe hesitation, the groping for truth, so to say, which may be found insome of his earlier writings, has disappeared. 

At the time when "The Fortune of the Rougons" was first published, nonebut the author himself can have imagined that the foundation-stone ofone 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 ofthe idyll of Miette and Silvere--is far from being perfect. Such a workwhen 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 interestand importance. This has been so well understood by French readers thatduring the last six or seven years the annual sales of the work haveincreased threefold. Where, over a course of twenty years, 1, 000 copieswere sold, 2, 500 and 3, 000 are sold to-day. How many living Englishnovelists can say the same of their early essays in fiction, issued morethan a quarter of a century ago?

I may here mention that at the last date to which I have authenticfigures, that is, Midsummer 1897 (prior, of course, to what is called"L'Affaire Dreyfus"), there had been sold of the entire Rougon-Macquartseries (which had begun in 1871) 1, 421, 000 copies. These were of theordinary Charpentier editions of the French originals. By adding theretoseveral _editions de luxe_ and the widely-circulated popular illustratededitions of certain volumes, the total amounts roundly to 2, 100, 000. "Rome, " "Lourdes, " "Paris, " and all M. Zola's other works, apart fromthe "Rougon-Macquart" series, together with the translations into adozen different languages--English, German, Italian, Spanish, Dutch, Danish, Portuguese, Bohemian, Hungarian, and others--are not includedin the above figures. Otherwise the latter might well be doubled. Noris account taken of the many serial issues which have brought M. Zola'sviews to the knowledge of the masses of all Europe. 

It is, of course, the celebrity attaching to certain of M. Zola'sliterary efforts that has stimulated the demand for his other writings. Among those which are well worthy of being read for their own sakes, Iwould assign a prominent place to the present volume. Much of the storyelement in it is admirable, and, further, it shows M. Zola as agenuine satirist and humorist. The Rougons' yellow drawing-room andits habitues, and many of the scenes between Pierre Rougon and his wifeFelicite, are worthy of the pen of Douglas Jerrold. The whole account, indeed, of the town of Plassans, its customs and its notabilities, issatire 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 wasthus portraying the life of Provence, his great contemporary, bosomfriend, and rival for literary fame, the late Alphonse Daudet, shouldhave 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 possiblethat M. Zola, while writing his book, may have read the instalments of"Le Don Quichotte Provencal" published in the Paris "Figaro, " and it maybe that this perusal imparted that fillip to his pen to which we owethe many amusing particulars that he gives us of the town of Plassans. Plassans, I may mention, is really the Provencal Aix, which M. Zola'sfather provided with water by means of a canal still bearing his name. M. Zola himself, though born in Paris, spent the greater part of hischildhood there. Tarascon, as is well known, never forgave AlphonseDaudet for his "Tartarin"; and in a like way M. Zola, who doubtlesscounts more enemies than any other literary man of the period, has nonebitterer than the worthy citizens of Aix. They cannot forget or forgivethe rascally Rougon-Macquarts. 

The name Rougon-Macquart has to me always suggested that splendid andamusing type of the cynical rogue, Robert Macaire. But, of course, bothRougon and Macquart are genuine French names and not inventions. Indeed, several years ago I came by chance upon them both, in an old French deedwhich I was examining at the Bibliotheque Nationale in Paris. Ithere found mention of a Rougon family and a Macquart family dwellingvirtually side by side in the same village. This, however, was inChampagne, not in Provence. Both families farmed vineyards for a oncefamous abbey in the vicinity of Epernay, early in the seventeenthcentury. To me, personally, this trivial discovery meant a great deal. It somehow aroused my interest in M. Zola and his works. Of the latter Ihad then only glanced through two or three volumes. With M. Zola himselfI was absolutely unacquainted. However, I took the liberty to inform himof my little discovery; and afterwards I read all the books that he hadpublished. Now, as it is fairly well known, I have given the greaterpart of my time, for several years past, to the task of familiarisingEnglish 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 thetruth of the saying that the most insignificant incidents frequentlyinfluence and even shape our careers. 

But I must come back to "The Fortune of the Rougons. " It has, as I havesaid, its satirical and humorous side; but it also contains a strongelement of pathos. The idyll of Miette and Silvere is a very touchingone, and quite in accord with the conditions of life prevailing inProvence at the period M. Zola selects for his narrative. Miette isa frank child of nature; Silvere, her lover, in certain respectsforeshadows, a quarter of a century in advance, the Abbe Pierre Fromontof "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, AuntDide, Pierre Rougon, his wife, Felicite, and their sons Eugene, Aristideand Pascal, and, on the other, Macquart, his daughter Gervaise of"L'Assommoir, " and his son Jean of "La Terre" and "La Debacle, " togetherwith the members of the Mouret branch of the ravenous, neurotic, duplexfamily--these are analysed or sketched in a way which renders theirsubsequent careers, as related in other volumes of the series, thoroughly consistent with their origin and their up-bringing. I ventureto asset that, although it is possible to read individual volumes ofthe Rougon-Macquart series while neglecting others, nobody can reallyunderstand any one of these books unless he makes himself acquaintedwith the alpha and the omega of the edifice, that is, "The Fortune ofthe Rougons" and "Dr. Pascal. "

With regard to the present English translation, it is based on one madefor my father several years ago. But to convey M. Zola's meaning moreaccurately I have found it necessary to alter, on an average, at leastone sentence out of every three. Thus, though I only claim to edit thevolume, it is, to all intents and purposes, quite a new English versionof 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, conductsitself in a given social system after blossoming forth and giving birthto ten or twenty members, who, though they may appear, at the firstglance, profoundly dissimilar one from the other, are, as analysisdemonstrates, most closely linked together from the point of view ofaffinity. Heredity, like gravity, has its laws. 

By resolving the duplex question of temperament and environment, I shallendeavour to discover and follow the thread of connection which leadsmathematically from one man to another. And when I have possession ofevery thread, and hold a complete social group in my hands, I shallshow this group at work, participating in an historical period; I shalldepict it in action, with all its varied energies, and I shall analyseboth the will power of each member, and the general tendency of thewhole. 

The great characteristic of the Rougon-Macquarts, the group or familywhich I propose to study, is their ravenous appetite, the greatoutburst of our age which rushes upon enjoyment. Physiologically theRougon-Macquarts represent the slow succession of accidents pertainingto the nerves or the blood, which befall a race after the first organiclesion, and, according to environment, determine in each individualmember of the race those feelings, desires and passions--briefly, allthe natural and instinctive manifestations peculiar to humanity--whoseoutcome assumes the conventional name of virtue or vice. Historicallythe Rougon-Macquarts proceed from the masses, radiate throughout thewhole of contemporary society, and ascend to all sorts of positions bythe force of that impulsion of essentially modern origin, which sets thelower classes marching through the social system. And thus the dramas oftheir individual lives recount the story of the Second Empire, from theambuscade of the Coup d'Etat to the treachery of Sedan. 

For three years I had been collecting the necessary documents for thislong work, and the present volume was even written, when the fall of theBonapartes, which I needed artistically, and with, as if by fate, Iever found at the end of the drama, without daring to hope that itwould prove so near at hand, suddenly occurred and furnished me withthe terrible but necessary denouement for my work. My scheme is, atthis date, completed; the circle in which my characters will revolveis perfected; and my work becomes a picture of a departed reign, of astrange period of human madness and shame. 

This work, which will comprise several episodes, is therefore, inmy mind, the natural and social history of a family under the SecondEmpire. 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 waypast the first suburban houses, a plot of land locally known as the AireSaint-Mittre. 

This Aire Saint-Mittre is of oblong shape and on a level with thefootpath of the adjacent road, from which it is separated by a strip oftrodden grass. A narrow blind alley fringed with a row of hovels bordersit on the right; while on the left, and at the further end, it is closedin by bits of wall overgrown with moss, above which can be seen thetop branches of the mulberry-trees of the Jas-Meiffren--an extensiveproperty with an entrance lower down the road. Enclosed upon threesides, the Aire Saint-Mittre leads nowhere, and is only crossed bypeople out for a stroll. 

In former times it was a cemetery under the patronage of Saint-Mittre, agreatly honoured Provencal saint; and in 1851 the old people of Plassanscould still remember having seen the wall of the cemetery standing, although the place itself had been closed for years. The soil had beenso glutted with corpses that it had been found necessary to open a newburial-ground at the other end of town. Then the old abandoned cemeteryhad been gradually purified by the dark thick-set vegetation which hadsprouted over it every spring. The rich soil, in which the gravediggerscould no longer delve without turning up some human remains, waspossessed of wondrous fertility. The tall weeds overtopped the wallsafter the May rains and the June sunshine so as to be visible from thehigh 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 thedamp soil reeked and bubbled with sap. 

Among the curiosities of the place at that time were some largepear-trees, with twisted and knotty boughs; but none of the housewivesof Plassans cared to pluck the large fruit which grew upon them. Indeed, the townspeople spoke of this fruit with grimaces of disgust. No suchdelicacy, however, restrained the suburban urchins, who assembled inbands at twilight and climbed the walls to steal the pears, even beforethey were ripe. 

The trees and the weeds with their vigorous growth had rapidlyassimilated all the decomposing matter in the old cemetery ofSaint-Mittre; the malaria rising from the human remains interredthere had been greedily absorbed by the flowers and the fruit; so thateventually the only odour one could detect in passing by was the strongperfume of wild gillyflowers. This had merely been a question of a fewsummers. 

At last the townspeople determined to utilise this common property, which had long served no purpose. The walls bordering the roadway andthe blind alley were pulled down; the weeds and the pear-trees uprooted;the sepulchral remains were removed; the ground was dug deep, and suchbones as the earth was willing to surrender were heaped up in acorner. For nearly a month the youngsters, who lamented the loss ofthe pear-trees, played at bowls with the skulls; and one nightsome practical jokers even suspended femurs and tibias to all thebell-handles of the town. This scandal, which is still remembered atPlassans, did not cease until the authorities decided to have the bonesshot into a hole which had been dug for the purpose in the new cemetery. All work, however, is usually carried out with discreet dilatorinessin country towns, and so during an entire week the inhabitants saw asolitary cart removing these human remains as if they had been mererubbish. The vehicle had to cross Plassans from end to end, and owing tothe bad condition of the roads fragments of bones and handfuls of richmould were scattered at every jolt. There was not the briefest religiousceremony, nothing but slow and brutish cartage. Never before had a townfelt 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 localauthorities, who had doubtless counted on selling it and seeinghouses built upon it, were evidently unable to find a purchaser. Therecollection of the heaps of bones and the cart persistently joltingthrough the streets may have made people recoil from the spot; orperhaps the indifference that was shown was due to the indolence, therepugnance to pulling down and setting up again, which is characteristicof country people. At all events the authorities still retainedpossession of the ground, and at last forgot their desire to dispose ofit. They did not even erect a fence round it, but left it open to allcomers. Then, as time rolled on, people gradually grew accustomed tothis 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 thetrodden soil had become grey and hard, the old cemetery resembled abadly-levelled public square. As if the more effectually to efface thememory of all objectionable associations, the inhabitants slowly changedthe very appellation of the place, retaining but the name of the saint, which was likewise applied to the blind alley dipping down at one cornerof the field. Thus there was the Aire Saint-Mittre and the ImpasseSaint-Mittre. 

All this dates, however, from some considerable time back. For morethan thirty years now the Aire Saint-Mittre has presented a differentappearance. One day the townspeople, far too inert and indifferent toderive any advantage from it, let it, for a trifling consideration, to some suburban wheelwrights, who turned it into a wood-yard. At thepresent day it is still littered with huge pieces of timber thirty orforty feet long, lying here and there in piles, and looking like loftyoverturned columns. These piles of timber, disposed at intervals fromone end of the yard to the other, are a continual source of delightto the local urchins. In some places the ground is covered with fallenwood, forming a kind of uneven flooring over which it is impossible towalk, unless one balance one's self with marvellous dexterity. Troops ofchildren amuse themselves with this exercise all day long. You will seethem jumping over the big beams, walking in Indian file along the narrowends, or else crawling astride them; various games which generallyterminate in blows and bellowings. Sometimes, too, a dozen of them willsit, closely packed one against the other, on the thin end of a poleraised a few feet from the ground, and will see-saw there for hourstogether. The Aire Saint-Mittre thus serves as a recreation ground, where for more than a quarter of a century all the little suburbanragamuffins have been in the habit of wearing out the seats of theirbreeches. 

The strangeness of the place is increased by the circumstance thatwandering gipsies, by a sort of traditional custom always select thevacant portions of it for their encampments. Whenever any caravanarrives at Plassans it takes up its quarters on the Aire Saint-Mittre. The place is consequently never empty. There is always some strange bandthere, some troop of wild men and withered women, among whom groups ofhealthy-looking children roll about on the grass. These people livein the open air, regardless of everybody, setting their pots boiling, eating nameless things, freely displaying their tattered garments, andsleeping, fighting, kissing, and reeking with mingled filth and misery. 

The field, formerly so still and deserted, save for the buzzing ofhornets around the rich blossoms in the heavy sunshine, has thus becomea very rowdy spot, resounding with the noisy quarrels of the gipsies andthe shrill cries of the urchins of the suburb. In one corner there is aprimitive saw-mill for cutting the timber, the noise from which servesas a dull, continuous bass accompaniment to the sharp voices. The woodis placed on two high tressels, and a couple of sawyers, one of whomstands aloft on the timber itself, while the other underneath is halfblinded by the falling sawdust, work a large saw to and fro forhours together, with rigid machine-like regularity, as if they werewire-pulled puppets. The wood they saw is stacked, plank by plank, alongthe wall at the end, in carefully arranged piles six or eight feet high, which often remain there several seasons, and constitute one of thecharms of the Aire Saint-Mittre. Between these stacks are mysterious, retired little alleys leading to a broader path between the timber andthe wall, a deserted strip of verdure whence only small patches ofsky can be seen. The vigorous vegetation and the quivering, deathlikestillness of the old cemetery still reign in this path. In all thecountry round Plassans there is no spot more instinct with languor, solitude, and love. It is a most delightful place for love-making. Whenthe cemetery was being cleared the bones must have been heaped up inthis corner; for even to-day it frequently happens that one's foot comesacross some fragment of a skull lying concealed in the damp turf. 

Nobody, however, now thinks of the bodies that once slept under thatturf. In the daytime only the children go behind the piles of wood whenplaying at hide and seek. The green path remains virginal, unknown toothers who see nought but the wood-yard crowded with timber and greywith dust. In the morning and afternoon, when the sun is warm, the wholeplace swarms with life. Above all the turmoil, above the ragamuffinsplaying among the timber, and the gipsies kindling fires under theircauldrons, the sharp silhouette of the sawyer mounted on his beam standsout 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 spotonce set apart for eternal slumber. Only the old people who sit on theplanks, basking in the setting sun, speak occasionally among themselvesof the bones which they once saw carted through the streets of Plassansby the legendary tumbrel. 

When night falls the Aire Saint-Mittre loses its animation, and lookslike some great black hole. At the far end one may just espy the dyingembers of the gipsies' fires, and at times shadows slink noiselesslyinto the dense darkness. The place becomes quite sinister, particularlyin winter time. 

One Sunday evening, at about seven o'clock, a young man stepped lightlyfrom the Impasse Saint-Mittre, and, closely skirting the walls, tookhis way among the timber in the wood-yard. It was in the early part ofDecember, 1851. The weather was dry and cold. The full moon shone withthat sharp brilliancy peculiar to winter moons. The wood-yard did nothave the forbidding appearance which it wears on rainy nights; illuminedby stretches of white light, and wrapped in deep and chilly silence, itspread around with a soft, melancholy aspect. 

For a few seconds the young man paused on the edge of the yard and gazedmistrustfully in front of him. He carried a long gun, the butt-end ofwhich was hidden under his jacket, while the barrel, pointed towards theground, glittered in the moonlight. Pressing the weapon to his side, heattentively examined the square shadows cast by the piles of timber. Theground looked like a chess-board, with black and white squares clearlydefined by alternate patches of light and shade. The sawyers' tresselsin the centre of the plot threw long, narrow fantastic shadows, suggesting some huge geometrical figure, upon a strip of bare greyground. The rest of the yard, the flooring of beams, formed a greatcouch on which the light reposed, streaked here and there with theslender black shadows which edged the different pieces of timber. In thefrigid silence under the wintry moon, the motionless, recumbent poles, stiffened, as it were, with sleep and cold, recalled the corpses ofthe old cemetery. The young man cast but a rapid glance round the emptyspace; there was not a creature, not a sound, no danger of being seen orheard. The black patches at the further end caused him more anxiety, butafter a brief examination he plucked up courage and hurriedly crossedthe wood-yard. 

As soon as he felt himself under cover he slackened his pace. He was nowin the green pathway skirting the wall behind the piles of planks. Herehis very footsteps became inaudible; the frozen grass scarcely crackledunder his tread. He must have loved the spot, have feared no danger, sought nothing but what was pleasant there. He no longer concealedhis gun. The path stretched away like a dark trench, except that themoonrays, gliding ever and anon between the piles of timber, thenstreaked the grass with patches of light. All slept, both darkness andlight, with the same deep, soft, sad slumber. No words can describe thecalm 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 anangle. Here he listened as if to ascertain whether any sound might becoming from the adjoining estate. At last, hearing nothing, he stoopeddown, thrust a plank aside, and hid his gun in a timber-stack. 

An old tombstone, which had been overlooked in the clearing of theburial-ground, lay in the corner, resting on its side and forming a highand slightly sloping seat. The rain had worn its edges, and moss wasslowly eating into it. Nevertheless, the following fragment of aninscription, cut on the side which was sinking into the ground, mightstill 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 wallbeing low, he was able to rest his elbows on the coping. He could, however, perceive nothing except a flood of light beyond the row ofmulberry-trees skirting the wall. The flat ground of the Jas-Meiffrenspread out under the moon like an immense sheet of unbleached linen;a hundred yards away the farmhouse and its outbuildings formed a stillwhiter patch. The young man was still gazing anxiously in that directionwhen, suddenly, one of the town clocks slowly and solemnly struck seven. He counted the strokes, and then jumped down, apparently surprised andrelieved. 

He seated himself on the tombstone, like one who is prepared towait some considerable time. And for about half an hour he remainedmotionless and deep in thought, apparently quite unconscious of thecold, while his eyes gazed fixedly at a mass of shadow. He had placedhimself in a dark corner, but the beams of the rising moon had graduallyreached him, and at last his head was in the full light. 

He was a strong, sturdy-looking lad, with a fine mouth, and softdelicate skin that bespoke youthfulness. He looked about seventeen yearsof age, and was handsome in a characteristic way. 

His thin, long face looked like the work of some master sculptor; hishigh forehead, overhanging brows, aquiline nose, broad flat chin, andprotruding cheek bones, gave singularly bold relief to his countenance. Such a face would, with advancing age, become too bony, as fleshless asthat of a knight errant. But at this stage of youth, with chin and cheeklightly covered with soft down, its latent harshness was attenuated bythe charming softness of certain contours which had remained vague andchildlike. His soft black eyes, still full of youth, also lent delicacyto his otherwise vigorous countenance. The young fellow would probablynot have fascinated all women, as he was not what one calls a handsomeman; but his features, as a whole, expressed such ardent and sympatheticlife, such enthusiasm and energy, that they doubtless engaged thethoughts of the girls of his own part--those sunburnt girls of theSouth--as he passed their doors on sultry July evenings. 

He remained seated upon the tombstone, wrapped in thought, andapparently quite unconscious of the moonlight which now fell uponhis chest and legs. He was of middle stature, rather thick-set, withover-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 theupright bearing of his neck and the thoughtful gleams of his eyes, whichseemed to indicate an inner revolt against the brutifying manual labourwhich was beginning to bend him to the ground. He was, no doubt, anintelligent nature buried beneath the oppressive burden of race andclass; one of those delicate refined minds embedded in a rough envelope, from which they in vain struggle to free themselves. Thus, in spite ofhis vigour, he seemed timid and restless, feeling a kind of unconsciousshame at his imperfection. An honest lad he doubtless was, whose veryignorance had generated enthusiasm, whose manly heart was impelled bychildish intellect, and who could show alike the submissiveness ofa woman and the courage of a hero. On the evening in question he wasdressed 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 hisbrow. 

As the neighbouring clock struck the half hour, he suddenly started fromhis reverie. Perceiving that the white moonlight was shining full uponhim, he gazed anxiously ahead. Then he abruptly dived back into theshade, but was unable to recover the thread of his thoughts. He nowrealised that his hands and feet were becoming very cold, and impatienceseized hold of him. So he jumped upon the stone again, and once moreglanced over the Jas-Meiffren, which was still empty and silent. Finally, at a loss how to employ his time, he jumped down, fetchedhis gun from the pile of planks where he had concealed it, and amusedhimself by working the trigger. The weapon was a long, heavy carbine, which had doubtless belonged to some smuggler. The thickness of the buttand the breech of the barrel showed it to be an old flintlock which hadbeen altered into a percussion gun by some local gunsmith. Such firearmsare to be found in farmhouses, hanging against the wall over thechimney-piece. The young man caressed his weapon with affection; twentytimes or more he pulled the trigger, thrust his little finger into thebarrel, and examined the butt attentively. By degrees he grew full ofyouth enthusiasm, combined with childish frolicsomeness, and ended bylevelling his weapon and aiming at space, like a recruit going throughhis drill. 

It was now very nearly eight o'clock, and he had been holding his gunlevelled for over a minute, when all at once a low, panting call, lightas 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 appearedabove the wall. With singular agility the damsel had availed herself ofthe trunk of a mulberry-tree, and climbed aloft like a kitten. The easeand certainty with which she moved showed that she was familiar withthis strange spot. In another moment she was seated on the coping ofthe wall. Then Silvere, taking her in his arms, carried her, though notwithout a struggle, to the seat. 

"Let go, " she laughingly cried; "let go, I can get down alone verywell. " 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 outof breath. "

Silvere made no reply. He seemed in no laughing humour, but gazedsorrowfully into the girl's face. "I wanted to see you, Miette, " hesaid, as he seated himself beside her. "I should have waited all nightfor you. I am going away at daybreak to-morrow morning. "

Miette had just caught sight of the gun lying on the grass, and with athoughtful air, she murmured: "Ah! so it's decided then? There's yourgun!"

"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 feltuneasy about it. I am going to hide it, and shall fetch it just beforestarting. "

Then, as Miette could not remove her eyes from the weapon which he hadso foolishly left on the grass, he jumped up and again hid it among thewoodstacks. 

"We learnt this morning, " he said, as he resumed his seat, "that theinsurgents of La Palud and Saint Martin-de-Vaulx were on the march, andspent last night at Alboise. We have decided to join them. Some of theworkmen of Plassans have already left the town this afternoon; those whostill 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 haveright 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 freshpause 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 desertedcorner of the wood-yard relapsed into melancholy stillness; only themoon chased the shadows of the piles of timber over the grass. The twoyoung people on the tombstone remained silent and motionless in thepale light. Silvere had passed his arm round Miette's waist, and she wasleaning against his shoulder. They exchanged no kisses, naught butan embrace in which love showed the innocent tenderness of fraternalaffection. 

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 lowerclasses in Provence--the peasantry and workpeople--still wear theseample cloaks, which are called pelisses; it is a fashion which must havelasted for ages. Miette had thrown back her hood on arriving. Living inthe open air and born of a hotblooded race, she never wore a cap. Herbare head showed in bold relief against the wall, which the moonlightwhitened. She was still a child, no doubt, but a child ripening intowomanhood. She had reached that adorable, uncertain hour when thefrolicsome girl changes to a young woman. At that stage of life abud-like delicacy, a hesitancy of contour that is exquisitely charming, distinguishes young girls. The outlines of womanhood appear amidstgirlhood's innocent slimness, and woman shoots forth at first allembarrassment, still retaining much of the child, and ever andunconsciously betraying her sex. This period is very unpropitious forsome girls, who suddenly shoot up, become ugly, sallow and frail, likeplants before their due season. For those, however, who, like Miette, are healthy and live in the open air, it is a time of delightfulgracefulness which once passed can never be recalled. 

Miette was thirteen years of age, and although strong and sturdy did notlook any older, so bright and childish was the smile which lit up hercountenance. However, she was nearly as tall as Silvere, plump and fullof life. Like her lover, she had no common beauty. She would not havebeen considered ugly, but she might have appeared peculiar to many youngexquisites. Her rich black hair rose roughly erect above her forehead, streamed back like a rushing wave, and flowed over her head and necklike an inky sea, tossing and bubbling capriciously. It was very thickand inconvenient to arrange. However, she twisted it as tightly aspossible into coils as thick as a child's fist, which she wound togetherat 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 naturallyhelmeted with a mass of frizzy hair which hung about her neck andtemples like a mane, one could readily understand why she always wentbareheaded, heedless alike of rain and frost. 

Under her dark locks appeared her low forehead, curved and golden like acrescent moon. Her large prominent eyes, her short tip-tilted nose withdilated nostrils, and her thick ruddy lips, when regarded apart from oneanother, would have looked ugly; viewed, however, all together, amidstthe delightful roundness and vivacious mobility of her countenance, theyformed an ensemble of strange, surprising beauty. When Miette laughed, throwing back her head and gently resting it on her right shoulder, sheresembled an old-time Bacchante, her throat distending with sonorousgaiety, her cheeks round like those of a child, her teeth large andwhite, 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 achild of thirteen, one had to notice the innocence underlying her fullwomanly laughter, and especially the child-like delicacy of her chin andsoft transparency of her temples. In certain lights Miette's sun-tannedface showed yellow like amber. A little soft black down already shadedher 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 ownanxious thoughts, and, as they pondered upon the unknown terrors of themorrow, they tightened their mutual embrace. Their hearts communed witheach other, they understood how useless and cruel would be any verbalplaint. The girl, however, could at last no longer contain herself, and, choking with emotion, she gave expression, in one phrase, to theirmutual misgivings. 

"You will come back again, won't you?" she whispered, as she hung onSilvere's neck. 

Silvere made no reply, but, half-stifling, and fearing lest he shouldgive way to tears like herself, he kissed her in brotherly fashionon the cheek, at a loss for any other consolation. Then disengagingthemselves they again lapsed into silence. 

After a moment Miette shuddered. Now that she no longer leant againstSilvere's shoulder she was becoming icy cold. Yet she would not haveshuddered thus had she been in this deserted path the previous evening, seated on this tombstone, where for several seasons they had tasted somuch 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 yetnine o'clock; we can take a stroll along the road. "

Miette reflected that for a long time she would probably not have thepleasure of another meeting--another of those evening chats, the joy ofwhich served to sustain her all day long. 

"Yes, let us walk a little, " she eagerly replied. "Let us go as far asthe 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 apile of planks. Here Miette opened her cloak, which had a quiltedlining of red twill, and threw half of it over Silvere's shoulders, thus enveloping him as he stood there close beside her. The same garmentcloaked 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 thepelisse they walked slowly towards the high road, fearlessly crossingthe vacant parts of the wood-yard, which looked white in the moonlight. Miette had thrown the cloak over Silvere, and he had submitted to itquite naturally, as though indeed the garment rendered them a similarservice 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 giganticruins, still full of vigour, which the fastidious town council hasreplaced, some years since, by some little plane-trees. When Silvere andMiette found themselves under the elms, the huge boughs of which castshadows on the moonlit footpath, they met now and again black formswhich silently skirted the house fronts. These, too, were amorouscouples, closely wrapped in one and the same cloak, and strolling in thedarkness. 

This style of promenading has been instituted by the young lovers ofSouthern towns. Those boys and girls among the people who mean to marrysooner or later, but who do not dislike a kiss or two in advance, knowno spot where they can kiss at their ease without exposing themselves torecognition 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 shadynooks--they conceal their identity by wrapping themselves in these longcloaks, which are capacious enough to cover a whole family. The parentstolerate 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 appealso keenly to the Southerner's fanciful imagination. There is a veritablemasquerade, fertile in innocent enjoyments, within the reach of the mosthumble. The girl clasps her sweetheart to her bosom, enveloping him inher own warm cloak; and no doubt it is delightful to be able to kissone's sweetheart within those shrouding folds without danger of beingrecognised. One couple is exactly like another. And to the belatedpedestrian, who sees the vague groups gliding hither and thither, 'tismerely love passing, love guessed and scarce espied. The loversknow they are safely concealed within their cloaks, they converse inundertones and make themselves quite at home; most frequently they donot converse at all, but walk along at random and in silence, contentin their embrace. The climate alone is to blame for having in the firstinstance prompted these young lovers to retire to secluded spots in thesuburbs. On fine summer nights one cannot walk round Plassans withoutcoming across a hooded couple in every patch of shadow falling from thehouse walls. Certain places, the Aire Saint-Mittre, for instance, arefull of these dark "dominoes" brushing past one another, gliding softlyin the warm nocturnal air. One might imagine they were guests invitedto some mysterious ball given by the stars to lowly lovers. When theweather is very warm and the girls do not wear cloaks, they simply turnup their over-skirts. And in the winter the more passionate lovers makelight of the frosts. Thus, Miette and Silvere, as they descended theNice 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 wereheavy; the joy which they felt in being side by side was tinged with thepainful emotion which comes from the thought of approaching severance, and it seemed to them that they could never exhaust the mingledsweetness and bitterness of the silence which slowly lulled theirsteps. But the houses soon grew fewer, and they reached the end of theFaubourg. There stands the entrance to the Jas-Meiffren, an iron gatefixed to two strong pillars; a low row of mulberry-trees being visiblethrough the bars. Silvere and Miette instinctively cast a glance insideas they passed on. 

Beyond the Jas-Meiffren the road descends with a gentle slope to avalley, which serves as the bed of a little rivulet, the Viorne, a brookin summer but a torrent in winter. The rows of elms still extended thewhole way at that time, making the high road a magnificent avenue, whichcast a broad band of gigantic trees across the hill, which was plantedwith corn and stunted vines. On that December night, under the clearcold moonlight, the newly-ploughed fields stretching away on either handresembled vast beds of greyish wadding which deadened every sound in theatmosphere. The dull murmur of the Viorne in the distance alone sent aquivering thrill through the profound silence of the country-side. 

When the young people had begun to descend the avenue, Miette's thoughtsreverted to the Jas-Meiffren which they had just left behind them. 

"I had great difficulty in getting away this evening, " she said. "Myuncle wouldn't let me go. He had shut himself up in a cellar, where hewas hiding his money, I think, for he seemed greatly frightened thismorning at the events that are taking place. "

Silvere clasped her yet more lovingly. "Be brave!" said he. "The timewill come when we shall be able to see each other freely the whole daylong. You must not fret. "

"Oh, " replied the girl, shaking her head, "you are very hopeful. For mypart 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 thetasks he sets me. He was quite right to make me a peasant girl; I shouldperhaps have turned out badly, for, do you know, Silvere, there aremoments when I fancy myself under a curse. . . . I feel, then, that Ishould like to be dead. . . . I think of you know whom. "

As she spoke these last words, her voice broke into a sob. Silvereinterrupted her somewhat harshly. "Be quiet, " he said. "You promised notto think about it. It's no crime of yours. . . . We love each other verymuch, don't we?" he added in a gentler tone. "When we're married you'llhave no more unpleasant hours. "

"I know, " murmured Miette. "You are so kind, you sustain me. But what amI to do? I sometimes have fears and feelings of revolt. I think at timesthat 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 isthrown in my face, I feel my whole body burning. When the urchins cryat me as I pass, 'Eh, La Chantegreil, ' I lose all control of myself, andfeel 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'regoing 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 againstjustice. 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 andhandle a gun. I feel that it would do me good. "

Then, as Silvere remained silent, she perceived that she had displeasedhim. Her feverishness subsided, and she whispered in a supplicatingtone: "You are not angry with me, are you? It's your departure whichgrieves me and awakens such ideas. I know very well you are right--thatI ought to be humble. "

Then she began to cry, and Silvere, moved by her tears, grasped herhands and kissed them. 

"See, now, how you pass from anger to tears, like a child, " he saidlovingly. "You must be reasonable. I'm not scolding you. I only want tosee you happier, and that depends largely upon yourself. "

The remembrance of the drama which Miette had so sadly evoked cast atemporary gloom over the lovers. They continued their walk with bowedheads 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 hadnot taken care of me and educated me, what would have become of me? Withthe exception of my Uncle Antoine, who is an artisan like myself, andwho taught me to love the Republic, all my other relations seem to fearthat I might besmirch them by coming near them. "

He was now speaking with animation, and suddenly stopped, detainingMiette 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 finegentlemen. Uncle Antoine knows all about this matter. You'll see when wereturn. 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. "Doyou love me as much?"

Her smile was not altogether free from a tinge of bitterness. She wasthinking, perhaps, how easily Silvere abandoned her to go and scour thecountry-side. But the lad gravely replied: "You are my wife, to whom Ihave given my whole heart. I love the Republic because I love you. Whenwe are married we shall want plenty of happiness, and it is to procure ashare of that happiness that I'm going way to-morrow morning. You surelydon't want to persuade me to remain at home?"

"Oh, no!" cried the girl eagerly. "A man should be brave! Courageis beautiful! You must forgive my jealousy. I should like to be asstrong-minded as you are. You would love me all the more, wouldn't you?"

After a moment's silence she added, with charming vivacity andingenuousness: "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 ofemotion. 

All around the lovers the country still slumbered amid the deepstillness of the cold. They were now half-way down the hill. On the topof 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, aloneremained. This was the limit which the young people had assigned totheir walk. They had come straight from the Faubourg without casting asingle glance at the fields between which they passed. When Silvere hadkissed 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. Itmust be nearly half-past nine. We must go home. "

But Miette pouted. "Let us walk a little further, " she implored; "only afew steps, just as far as the little cross-road, no farther, really. "

Silvere smiled as he again took her round the waist. Then they continuedto descend the hill, no longer fearing inquisitive glances, for they hadnot met a living soul since passing the last houses. They neverthelessremained enveloped in the long pelisse, which seemed, as it were, anatural nest for their love. It had shrouded them on so many happyevenings! Had they simply walked side by side, they would have feltsmall and isolated in that vast stretch of country, whereas, blendedtogether as they were, they became bolder and seemed less puny. Betweenthe folds of the pelisse they gazed upon the fields stretching on bothsides of the road, without experiencing that crushing feeling with whichfar-stretching callous vistas oppress the human affections. It seemedto them as though they had brought their house with them; they felt apleasure in viewing the country-side as from a window, delighting in thecalm solitude, the sheets of slumbering light, the glimpses of naturevaguely distinguishable beneath the shroud of night and winter, thewhole of that valley indeed, which while charming them could not thrustitself 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 eachother's hands, uttering exclamations at the sight of some particularspot, exchanging words at rare intervals, and then understanding eachother but little, for drowsiness came from the warmth of their embrace. Silvere forgot his Republican enthusiasm; Miette no longer reflectedthat her lover would be leaving her in an hour, for a long time, perhapsfor ever. The transports of their affection lulled them into a feelingof security, as on other days, when no prospect of parting had marredthe tranquility of their meetings. 

They still walked on, and soon reached the little crossroad mentioned byMiette--a bit of a lane which led through the fields to a village on thebanks of the Viorne. But they passed on, pretending not to noticethis path, where they had agreed to stop. And it was only some minutesafterwards that Silvere whispered, "It must be very late; you will gettired. "

"No; I assure you I'm not at all tired, " the girl replied. "I could walkseveral 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 willreally stop and turn back. "

Silvere, whom the girl's rhythmic gait lulled to semi-somnolence, madeno objection, and their rapture began afresh. They now went on moreslowly, fearing the moment when they would have to retrace their steps. So long as they walked onward, they felt as though they were advancingto the eternity of their mutual embrace; the return would meanseparation and bitter leave-taking. 

The declivity of the road was gradually becoming more gentle. In thevalley below there are meadows extending as far as the Viorne, whichruns at the other end, beneath a range of low hills. These meadows, separated from the high-road by thickset hedges, are the meadows ofSainte-Claire. 

"Bah!" exclaimed Silvere this time, as he caught sight of the firstpatches 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 elmsforming the end of the long avenue, two colossal trees larger than anyof the others. The treeless fields stretch out from the high road, likea broad band of green wool, as far as the willows and birches by theriver. The distance from the last elms to the bridge is scarcely threehundred yards. The lovers took a good quarter of an hour to cover thatspace. At last, however slow their gait, they reached the bridge, andthere they stopped. 

The road to Nice ran up in front of them, along the opposite slope ofthe valley. But they could only see a small portion of it, as it takes asudden turn about half a mile from the bridge, and is lost to view amongthe wooded hills. On looking round they caught sight of the other endof the road, that which they had just traversed, and which leads ina direct line from Plassans to the Viorne. In the beautiful wintermoonlight it looked like a long silver ribbon, with dark edgings tracedby the rows of elms. On the right and left the ploughed hill-land showedlike vast, grey, vague seas intersected by this ribbon, this roadwaywhite with frost, and brilliant as with metallic lustre. Up above, on alevel with the horizon, lights shone from a few windows in the Faubourg, resembling glowing sparks. By degrees Miette and Silvere had walkedfully a league. They gazed at the intervening road, full of silentadmiration for the vast amphitheatre which rose to the verge of theheavens, and over which flowed bluish streams of light, as over thesuperposed rocks of a gigantic waterfall. The strange and colossalpicture spread out amid deathlike stillness and silence. Nothing couldhave 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 adull, continuous sound. Up and down stream, despite the darkness whichfilled the hollows, they perceived the black lines of the trees growingon the banks; here and there glided the moonbeams, casting a trail ofmolten metal, as it were, over the water, which glittered and dancedlike rays of light on the scales of some live animal. The gleams dartedwith a mysterious charm along the gray torrent, betwixt the vaguephantom-like foliage. You might have thought this an enchanted valley, some wondrous retreat where a community of shadows and gleams lived afantastic life. 

This part of the river was familiar to the lovers; they had often comehere in search of coolness on warm July nights; they had spent hourshidden among the clusters of willows on the right bank, at the spotwhere the meadows of Sainte-Claire spread their verdant carpet to thewaterside. They remembered every bend of the bank, the stones on whichthey had stepped in order to cross the Viorne, at that season as narrowas a brooklet, and certain little grassy hollows where they had indulgedin their dreams of love. Miette, therefore, now gazed from the bridge atthe right bank of the torrent with longing eyes. 

"If it were warmer, " she sighed, "we might go down and rest awhilebefore going back up the hill. " Then, after a pause, during whichshe kept her eyes fixed on the banks, she resumed: "Look down there, Silvere, at that black mass yonder in front of the lock. Do youremember? 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 onthe cheek. The remembrance just roused by the girl's words brought bothof them a delightful feeling, an emotion in which the joys of thepast mingled with the hopes of the morrow. Before their eyes, with therapidity of lightening, there passed all the delightful evenings theyhad spent together, especially that evening of Corpus Christi Day, withthe 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 fullof a delightful savour, they fancied they could plunge into the unknownfuture, see their dreams realised, and march through life arm inarm--even as they had just been doing on the highway--warmly wrapped inthe same cloak. Then rapture came to them again, and they smiled in eachother'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 lossto understand why he had started so abruptly from her side. 

Confused sounds had for a moment been coming from behind the hillsin the midst of which the Nice road wends its way. They suggested thedistant jolting of a procession of carts; but not distinctly, so loudwas the roaring of the Viorne. Gradually, however, they became morepronounced, and rose at last like the tramping of an army on the march. Then amidst the continuous growing rumble one detected the shouts of acrowd, strange rhythmical blasts as of a hurricane. One could even havefancied they were the thunderclaps of a rapidly approaching storm whichwas already disturbing the slumbering atmosphere. Silvere listenedattentively, unable to tell, however, what were those tempest-likeshouts, 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 theleft of the road was an embankment planted with evergreen oaks, up whichhe clambered with the young girl, to avoid being carried away by thesurging, 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 songhad sufficed to draw Silvere from her embrace. It seemed as if thewhole band had thrust itself between them. They had been so happy a fewminutes before, locked in each other's arms, alone and lost amidst theoverwhelming silence and discreet glimmer of the moon! And now Silvere, whose head was turned away from her, who no longer seemed even consciousof her presence, had eyes only for those strangers whom he called hisbrothers. 

The band descended the slope with a superb, irresistible stride. Therecould have been nothing grander than the irruption of those few thousandmen into that cold, still, deathly scene. The highway became a torrent, rolling with living waves which seemed inexhaustible. At the bend in theroad fresh masses ever appeared, whose songs ever helped to swell theroar of this human tempest. When the last battalions came in sight theuproar was deafening. The "Marseillaise" filled the atmosphere asif blown through enormous trumpets by giant mouths, which cast it, vibrating with a brazen clang, into every corner of the valley. Theslumbering country-side awoke with a start--quivering like a beaten drumresonant to its very entrails, and repeating with each and every echothe passionate notes of the national song. And then the singing wasno longer confined to the men. From the very horizon, from the distantrocks, the ploughed land, the meadows, the copses, the smallest bitsof brushwood, human voices seemed to come. The great amphitheatre, extending from the river to Plassans, the gigantic cascade over whichthe bluish moonlight flowed, was as if filled with innumerable invisiblepeople cheering the insurgents; and in the depths of the Viorne, alongthe waters streaked with mysterious metallic reflections, there was nota dark nook but seemed to conceal human beings, who took up each refrainwith yet greater passion. With air and earth alike quivering, the wholecountry-side cried for vengeance and liberty. So long as the little armywas descending the slope, the roar of the populace thus rolled on insonorous waves broken by abrupt outbursts which shook the very stones inthe roadway. 

Silvere, pale with emotion, still listened and looked on. The insurgentswho led the van of that swarming, roaring stream, so vague and monstrousin the darkness, were rapidly approaching the bridge. 

"I thought, " murmured Miette, "that you would not pass throughPlassans?"

"They must have altered the plan of operations, " Silvere replied; "wewere, in fact, to have marched to the chief town by the Toulon road, passing to the left of Plassans and Orcheres. They must have leftAlboise 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 aband of undisciplined men. The contingents from the various towns andvillages formed separate battalions, each separated by a distance of afew paces. These battalions were apparently under the orders of certainchiefs. For the nonce the pace at which they were descending thehillside made them a compact mass of invincible strength. There wereprobably about three thousand men, all united and carried away by thesame storm of indignation. The strange details of the scene were notdiscernible amidst the shadows cast over the highway by the loftyslopes. At five or six feet from the brushwood, however, where Mietteand Silvere were sheltered, the left-hand embankment gave place toa 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 weresuddenly illumined by a sharp white glow which revealed, with singulardistinctness, every outline of visage or costume. And as the variouscontingents swept on, the young people thus saw them emerge, fiercelyand without cessation, from the surrounding darkness. 

As the first men passed through the light Miette instinctively clungto Silvere, although she knew she was safe, even from observation. Shepassed her arm round the young fellow's neck, resting her head againsthis shoulder. And with the hood of her pelisse encircling her paleface she gazed fixedly at that square patch of light as it was rapidlytraversed by those strange faces, transfigured by enthusiasm, with darkopen mouths full of the furious cry of the "Marseillaise. " Silvere, whom she felt quivering at her side, then bent towards her and named thevarious 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 andnaïve confidence of giants. They would doubtless prove blind, intrepiddefenders 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 theirleaders they would march as far as Paris, battering down the gates ofthe towns with their axes, just as they cut down the old cork-trees onthe mountain. "

The young man spoke with pride of the heavy fists of his brethren. Andon seeing a band of labourers and rough-bearded men, tanned by thesun, coming along behind the woodcutters, he continued: "That is thecontingent from La Palud. That was the first place to rise. The men inblouses are labourers who cut up the cork-trees; the others in velveteenjackets must be sportsmen, poachers, and charcoal-burners living in thepasses of the Seille. The poachers knew your father, Miette. They havegood firearms, which they handle skilfully. Ah! if all were armed in thesame manner! We are short of muskets. See, the labourers have only gotcudgels!"

Miette, still speechless, looked on and listened. As Silvere spoke toher of her father, the blood surged to her cheeks. Her face burnt as shescrutinised the sportsmen with a strange air of mingled indignation andsympathy. From this moment she grew animated, yielding to the feverishquiver which the insurgents' songs awakened. 

The column, which had just begun the "Marseillaise" afresh, was stillmarching down as though lashed on by the sharp blasts of the "Mistral. "The men of La Palud were followed by another troop of workmen, amongwhom a goodly number of middle class folks in great-coats were to beseen. 

"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 theworkmen. There are some rich men there, Miette; men whose wealth wouldenable them to live peacefully at home, but who prefer to risk theirlives in defence of liberty. One can but admire them. Weapons are veryscarce, however; they've scarcely got a few fowling-pieces. But do yousee those men yonder, Miette, with red bands round their left elbows?They are the leaders. "

The contingents descended the hill more rapidly than Silvere couldspeak. While he was naming the men from Saint-Martin-de-Vaulx, twobattalions had already crossed the ray of light which blanched theroadway. 

"Did you see the insurgents from Alboise and Les Tulettes pass by justnow?" he asked. "I recognised Burgat the blacksmith. They must havejoined the band to-day. How they do run!"

Miette was now leaning forward, in order to see more of the little bandsdescribed to her by the young man. The quiver she felt rose from herbosom to her throat. Then a battalion larger and better disciplined thanthe others appeared. The insurgents composing it were nearly all dressedin blue blouses, with red sashes round their waists. One would havethought they were arrayed in uniform. A man on horseback, with a sabreat his side, was in the midst of them. And most of these improvisedsoldiers carried guns, probably carbines and old muskets of the NationalGuard. 

"I don't know those, " said Silvere. "The man on horseback must be thechief I've heard spoken of. He brought with him the contingents fromFaverolles and the neighbouring villages. The whole column ought to beequipped 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 behindthe men of Faverolles. They all wore the short jacket of the Southernpeasantry, and as they sang they brandished pitchforks and scythes. Someof 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 infeverish tones. "The contingent from Chavanoz!" said he. "There areonly eight men, but they are strong; Uncle Antoine knows them. Here'sNazeres! Here's Poujols! They're all here; not one has failed to answerthe summons. Valqueyras! Hold, there's the parson amongst them; I'veheard about him, he's a staunch Republican. "

He was becoming intoxicated with the spectacle. Now that each battalionconsisted 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 gotscythes, but they'll mow down the troops as close as the grass in theirmeadows--Saint-Eutrope! Mazet! Les Gardes, Marsanne! The whole northside of the Seille! Ah, we shall be victorious! The whole country iswith 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 lastare smugglers: they are carrying carbines. Still more scythes andpitchforks, 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, whoseemed to be borne away by a whirlwind as fast as he enumerated them. Erect, with glowing countenance, he pointed out the several contingentswith a nervous gesture. Miette followed his movements. The road belowattracted her like the depths of a precipice. To avoid slipping downthe incline she clung to the young man's neck. A strange intoxicationemanated from those men, who themselves were inebriated with clamour, courage, and confidence. Those beings, seen athwart a moonbeam, thoseyouths and those men in their prime, those old people brandishingstrange weapons and dressed in the most diverse costumes, from workingsmock to middle class overcoat, those endless rows of heads, whichthe hour and the circumstances endowed with an expression of fanaticalenergy and enthusiasm, gradually appeared to the girl like a whirling, impetuous torrent. At certain moments she fancied they were not ofthemselves moving, that they were really being carried away by the forceof the "Marseillaise, " by that hoarse, sonorous chant. She could notdistinguish any conversation, she heard but a continuous volume ofsound, alternating from bass to shrill notes, as piercing as nailsdriven into one's flesh. This roar of revolt, this call to combat, to death, with its outbursts of indignation, its burning thirst forliberty, its remarkable blending of bloodthirsty and sublime impulses, unceasingly smote her heart, penetrating more deeply at each fierceoutburst, and filling her with the voluptuous pangs of a virgin martyrwho stands erect and smiles under the lash. And the crowd flowed on everamidst the same sonorous wave of sound. The march past, which did notreally last more than a few minutes, seemed to the young people to beinterminable. 

Truly, Miette was but a child. She had turned pale at the approach ofthe 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 emotionshad gradually got possession of her, and she became as courageous asa youth. She would willingly have seized a weapon and followed theinsurgents. As the muskets and scythes filed past, her white teethglistened longer and sharper between her red lips, like the fangs ofa young wolf eager to bite and tear. And as she listened to Silvereenumerating the contingents from the country-side with ever-increasinghaste, 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 hottears were rolling down her cheeks. 

Silvere's eyelashes were also moist. "I don't see the men who leftPlassans this afternoon, " he murmured. 

He tried to distinguish the end of the column, which was still hidden bythe darkness. Suddenly he cried with joyous exultation: "Ah, here theyare! 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 ranalong the column, the "Marseillaise" died out in a final rumble, andone could only hear the confused murmuring of the still surging crowd. Silvere, as he listened, caught the orders which were passed on from onecontingent to another; they called the men of Plassans to the van. Then, as each battalion ranged itself alongside the road to make way for thebanner, the young man reascended the embankment, dragging Miette withhim. 

"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 amill whose lock bars the river. Then they crossed the Viorne on aplank placed there by the millers, and cut across the meadows ofSainte-Claire, running hand-in-hand, without exchanging a word. Thecolumn threw a dark line over the highway, which they followed alongsidethe hedges. There were some gaps in the hawthorns, and at last Silvereand Miette sprang on to the road through one of them. 

In spite of the circuitous way they had come, they arrived at the sametime as the men of Plassans. Silvere shook hands with some of them. Theymust have thought he had heard of the new route they had chosen, and hadcome 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 Faubourgof 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 distresswhich his sweetheart would feel at the jeers of the workmen. Miette, allconfusion, looked at him as if to implore his aid. But before hecould even open his lips another voice rose from the crowd, brutallyexclaiming:

"Her father's at the galleys; we don't want the daughter of a thief andmurderer amongst us. "

At this Miette turned dreadfully pale. 

"You lie!" she muttered. "If my father did kill anybody, he neverthieved!"

And as Silvere, pale and trembling more than she, began to clench hisfists: "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 doyou insult him when he can't be here?"

She drew herself up, superb with indignation. With her ardent, half-wildnature she seemed to accept the charge of murder composedly enough, butthat 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 repeatingwhat he had heard said for many years. The girl's defiant attitudeonly incited the workmen to jeer the more. Silvere still had his fistsclenched, and matters might have become serious if a poacher fromthe Seille, who had been sitting on a heap of stones at the roadsideawaiting 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 knewhim. Nobody knows the real facts of his little matter. I always believedin the truth of his deposition before the judge. The gendarme whom hebrought down with a bullet, while he was out shooting, was no doubttaking aim at him at the time. A man must defend himself! At all eventsChantegreil was a decent fellow; he committed no robbery. "

As often happens in such cases, the testimony of this poacher sufficedto bring other defenders to Miette's aid. Several workmen also professedto have known Chantegreil. 

"Yes, yes, it's true!" they all said. "He wasn't a thief. There aresome 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 wasgenerally referred to as a beggar, a villain, and now she found goodfellows who had forgiving words for him, and declared him to be anhonest man. She burst into tears, again full of the emotion awakened inher by the "Marseillaise;" and she bethought herself how she might thankthese men for their kindness to her in misfortune. For a moment sheconceived the idea of shaking them all by the hand like a man. But herheart suggested something better. By her side stood the insurgentwho carried the banner. She touched the staff, and, to express hergratitude, said in an entreating tone, "Give it to me; I will carry it. "

The simple-minded workmen understood the ingenuous sublimity of thisform of gratitude. 

"Yes, " they all cried, "Chantegreil shall carry the banner. "

However, a woodcutter remarked that she would soon get tired, and wouldnot be able to go far. 

"Oh! I'm quite strong, " she retorted proudly, tucking up her sleeves andshowing a pair of arms as big as those of a grown woman. Then as theyhanded her the flag she resumed, "Wait just a moment. "

Forthwith she pulled off her cloak, and put it on again after turningthe red lining outside. In the clear moonlight she appeared to bearrayed in a purple mantle reaching to her feet. The hood resting on theedge 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 foldsof that blood-coloured banner which waved behind her. Enthusiastic childthat she was, her countenance, with its curly hair, large eyes moistwith tears, and lips parted in a smile, seemed to rise with energeticpride as she turned it towards the sky. At that moment she was thevirgin Liberty. 

The insurgents burst into applause. The vivid imagination of thoseSoutherners was fired with enthusiasm at the sudden apparition of thisgirl so nervously clasping their banner to her bosom. Shouts rose fromthe 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 toresume the march arrived. Whilst the column moved on, Miette pressedSilvere's hand and whispered in his ear: "You hear! I shall remain withyou. Are you glad?"

Silvere, without replying, returned the pressure. He consented. In fact, he was deeply affected, unable to resist the enthusiasm which fired hiscompanions. Miette seemed to him so lovely, so grand, so saintly! Duringthe whole climb up the hill he still saw her before him, radiant, amidsta purple glory. She was now blended with his other adored mistress--theRepublic. He would have liked to be in action already, with his gun onhis shoulder. But the insurgents moved slowly. They had orders to makeas little noise as possible. Thus the column advanced between therows of elms like some gigantic serpent whose every ring had a strangequivering. The frosty December night had again sunk into silence, andthe Viorne alone seemed to roar more loudly. 

On reaching the first houses of the Faubourg, Silvere ran on in front tofetch his gun from the Aire Saint-Mittre, which he found slumbering inthe moonlight. When he again joined the insurgents they had reachedthe Porte de Rome. Miette bent towards him, and with her childish smileobserved: "I feel as if I were at the procession on Corpus Christi Daycarrying the banner of the Virgin. "

CHAPTER II

Plassans is a sub-prefecture with about ten thousand inhabitants. Builton a plateau overlooking the Viorne, and resting on the north sideagainst the Garrigues hills, one of the last spurs of the Alps, thetown is situated, as it were, in the depths of a cul-de-sac. In 1851it communicated with the adjoining country by two roads only, the Niceroad, which runs down to the east, and the Lyons road, which rises tothe west, the one continuing the other on almost parallel lines. Sincethat time a railway has been built which passes to the south of thetown, below the hill which descends steeply from the old ramparts tothe river. At the present day, on coming out of the station on the rightbank of the little torrent, one can see, by raising one's head, thefirst houses of Plassans, with their gardens disposed in terracefashion. It is, however, only after an uphill walk lasting a fullquarter of an hour that one reaches these houses. 

About twenty years ago, owing, no doubt, to deficient means ofcommunication, there was no town that had more completely retained thepious and aristocratic character of the old Provencal cities. Plassansthen had, and has even now, a whole district of large mansions builtin the reigns of Louis XIV. And Louis XV. , a dozen churches, Jesuitand Capuchin houses, and a considerable number of convents. Classdistinctions were long perpetuated by the town's division into variousdistricts. There were three of them, each forming, as it were, aseparate and complete locality, with its own churches, promenades, customs, and landscapes. 

The district of the nobility, called Saint-Marc, after the name of oneof its parish churches, is a sort of miniature Versailles, with straightstreets overgrown with grass, and large square houses which concealextensive gardens. It extends to the south along the edge of theplateau. Some of the mansions built on the declivity itself have adouble row of terraces whence one can see the whole valley of theViorne, 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. TheTown-Hall, the Civil Court, the Market, and the Gendarmerie barracksare situated here. This, the most populous part of the Plassans, isinhabited by working-men and shop-keepers, all the wretched, toiling, common folk. The new town forms a sort of parallelogram to thenorth-east; the well-to-do, those who have slowly amassed a fortune, andthose engaged in the liberal professions, here occupy houses set outin straight lines and coloured a light yellow. This district, which isembellished by the Sub-Prefecture, an ugly plaster building decoratedwith rose-mouldings, numbered scarcely five or six streets in 1851; itis of quite recent formation, and it is only since the construction ofthe railway that it has been growing in extent. 

One circumstance which even at the present time tends to dividePlassans into three distinct independent parts is that the limits of thedistricts are clearly defined by the principal thoroughfares. The CoursSauvaire and the Rue de Rome, which is, as it were, a narrow extensionof the former, run from west to east, from the Grand'-Porte to thePorte de Rome, thus cutting the town into two portions, and dividingthe quarter of the nobility from the others. The latter are themselvesparted 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 thelight-yellow houses of the new town on its right. It is here, abouthalf-way along the street, that stands the Sub-Prefecture, in the rearof a small square planted with sickly trees; the people of Plassans arevery proud of this edifice. 

As if to keep more isolated and shut up within itself, the town isbelted with old ramparts, which only serve to increase its gloom andrender it more confined. These ridiculous fortifications, preyed upon byivy and crowned with wild gillyflowers, are about as high and as thickas the walls of a convent, and could be demolished by gunshot. Theyhave several openings, the principal of which, the Porte de Rome and theGrand'-Porte, afford access to the Nice road and the Lyons road, at theother end of town. Until 1853 these openings were furnished with hugewooden two-leaved gates, arched at the top, and strengthened with barsof iron. These gates were double-locked at eleven o'clock in summer, andten o'clock in winter. The town having thus shot its bolts like a timidgirl, went quietly to sleep. A keeper, who lived in a little cell in oneof the inner corners of each gateway, was authorised to admit belatedpersons. But it was necessary to stand parleying a long time. The keeperwould not let people in until, by the light of his lantern, he hadcarefully scrutinised their faces through a peep-hole. If their looksdispleased him they had to sleep outside. This custom of locking thegates 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 shutitself up, would say to itself, "I am at home, " with the satisfactionof some pious bourgeois, who, assured of the safety of his cash-box, and certain that no noise will disturb him, duly says his prayers andretires gladly to bed. No other town, I believe, has so long persistedin thus incarcerating itself like a nun. 

The population of Plassans is divided into three groups, correspondingwith the same number of districts. Putting aside the functionaries--thesub-prefect, the receiver of taxes, the mortgage commissioner, andthe postmaster, who are all strangers to the locality, where they areobjects of envy rather than of esteem, and who live after their ownfashion--the real inhabitants, those who were born there and haveevery intention of ending their days there, feel too much respect fortraditional usages and established boundaries not to pen themselves oftheir 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 returnto their large dismal mansions, and walk along furtively as though theywere in a hostile country. They do not visit anyone, nor do they evenreceive each other. Their drawing-rooms are frequented by a few priestsonly. They spend the summer in the chateaux which they possess in theenvirons; in the winter, they sit round their firesides. They are, asit were, dead people weary of life. And thus the gloomy silence of acemetery hangs over their quarter of the town. The doors and windowsare carefully barricaded; one would think their mansions were so manyconvents shut off from all the tumult of the world. At rare intervalsan abbe, whose measured tread adds to the gloomy silence of these sealedhouses, passes by and glides like a shadow through some half-openeddoorway. 

The well-to-do people, the retired tradesmen, the lawyers and notaries, all those of the little easy-going, ambitious world that inhabits thenew town, endeavour to infuse some liveliness into Plassans. They goto the parties given by the sub-prefect, and dream of giving similarentertainments. They eagerly seek popularity, call a workman "my goodfellow, " chat with the peasants about the harvest, read the papers, andwalk out with their wives on Sundays. Theirs are the enlightenedminds of the district, they are the only persons who venture to speakdisparagingly of the ramparts; in fact, they have several times demandedof the authorities the demolition of those old walls, relics of a formerage. At the same time, the most sceptical among them experience a shockof delight whenever a marquis or a count deigns to honour them with astiff salutation. Indeed, the dream of every citizen of the new town isto be admitted to a drawing-room of the Saint-Marc quarter. They knowvery well that their ambition is not attainable, and it is this whichmakes them proclaim all the louder that they are freethinkers. But theyare freethinkers in words only; firm friends of the authorities, theyare ready to rush into the arms of the first deliverer at the slightestindication of popular discontent. 

The group which toils and vegetates in the old quarter is not so clearlydefined as the others. The labouring classes are here in a majority; butretail dealers and even a few wholesale traders are to be found amongthem. As a matter of fact, Plassans is far from being a commercialcentre; there is only just sufficient trade to dispose of the productsof the country--oil, wine, and almonds. As for industrial labour, it isrepresented almost entirely by three or four evil-smelling tanyards, a felt hat manufactory, and some soap-boiling works, which last arerelegated to a corner of the Faubourg. This little commercial andindustrial world, though it may on high days and holidays visit thepeople of the new district, generally takes up its quarters among theoperatives of the old town. Merchants, retail traders, and artisans havecommon interests which unite them together. On Sundays only, the mastersmake themselves spruce and foregather apart. On the other hand, thelabouring 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 threedistricts of Plassans come together face to face. The whole town repairsto the Cours Sauvaire on Sunday after vespers; even the nobility venturethither. Three distinct currents flow along this sort of boulevardplanted with rows of plane-trees. The well-to-do citizens of the newquarter merely pass along before quitting the town by the Grand'-Porteand taking the Avenue du Mail on the right, where they walk up and downtill nightfall. Meantime, the nobility and the lower classes share theCours Sauvaire between them. For more than a century past the nobilityhave selected the walk on the south side, which is bordered with largemansions, and is the first to escape the heat of the sun; the lowerclasses have to rest content with the walk on the north, where thecafes, inns, and tobacconists' shops are located. The people and thenobility promenade the whole afternoon, walking up and down the Courswithout anyone of either party thinking of changing sides. They are onlyseparated by a distance of some seven or eight yards, yet it is as ifthey were a thousand leagues away from each other, for they scrupulouslyfollow those two parallel lines, as though they must not come in contacthere below. Even during the revolutionary periods each party kept toits own side. This regulation walk on Sunday and the locking of the towngates in the evening are analogous instances which suffice to indicatethe character of the ten thousand people inhabiting the town. 

Here, amidst these surroundings, until the year 1848, there vegetatedan obscure family that enjoyed little esteem, but whose head, PierreRougon, subsequently played an important part in life owing to certaincircumstances. 

Pierre Rougon was the son of a peasant. His mother's family, theFouques, owned, towards the end of the last century, a large plot ofground in the Faubourg, behind the old cemetery of Saint-Mittre; thisground was subsequently joined to the Jas-Meiffren. The Fouques were therichest market-gardeners in that part of the country; they supplied anentire district of Plassans with vegetables. However, their namedied 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, palecreature, with a scared look and strange ways which one might have takenfor shyness so long as she was a little girl. As she grew up, however, she became still stranger; she did certain things which wereinexplicable even to the cleverest folk of the Faubourg, and from thattime it was rumoured that she was cracked like her father. 

She had scarcely been an orphan six months, in possession of a fortunewhich rendered her an eagerly sought heiress, when it transpired thatshe had married a young gardener named Rougon, a rough-hewn peasant fromthe Basses-Alpes. This Rougon, after the death of the last of the maleFouques, who had engaged him for a term, had remained in the serviceof the deceased's daughter. From the situation of salaried servant heascended rapidly to the enviable position of husband. This marriage wasa first shock to public opinion. No one could comprehend why Adelaidepreferred this poor fellow, coarse, heavy, vulgar, scarce able to speakFrench, to those other young men, sons of well-to-do farmers, who hadbeen seen hovering round her for some time. And, as provincial people donot allow anything to remain unexplained, they made sure there was somemystery at the bottom of this affair, alleging even that the marriage ofthe two young people had become an absolute necessity. But events provedthe falsity of the accusation. More than a year went by before Adelaidehad a son. The Faubourg was annoyed; it could not admit that it waswrong, and determined to penetrate the supposed mystery; accordingly allthe gossips kept a watch upon the Rougons. They soon found ample matterfor tittle-tattle. Rougon died almost suddenly, fifteen months after hismarriage, from a sunstroke received one afternoon while he was weeding abed of carrots. 

Scarcely a year then elapsed before the young widow caused unheard-ofscandal. It became known, as an indisputable fact, that she had a lover. She did not appear to make any secret of it; several persons assertedthat they had heard her use endearing terms in public to poor Rougon'ssuccessor. Scarcely a year of widowhood and a lover already! Such adisregard of propriety seemed monstrous out of all reason. And thescandal was heightened by Adelaide's strange choice. At that time theredwelt at the end of the Impasse Saint-Mittre, in a hovel the backof which abutted on the Fouques' land, a man of bad repute, who wasgenerally referred to as "that scoundrel Macquart. " This man wouldvanish for weeks and then turn up some fine evening, sauntering aboutwith his hands in his pockets and whistling as though he had justcome from a short walk. And the women sitting at their doorsteps as hepassed: "There's that scoundrel Macquart! He has hidden his bales andhis gun in some hollow of the Viorne. " The truth was, Macquart hadno means, and yet ate and drank like a happy drone during his shortsojourns in the town. He drank copiously and with fierce obstinacy. Seating himself alone at a table in some tavern, he would linger thereevening after evening, with his eyes stupidly fixed on his glass, neither seeing nor hearing anything around him. When the landlord closedhis establishment, he would retire with a firm step, with his headraised, as if he were kept yet more erect by inebriation. "Macquartwalks so straight, he's surely dead drunk, " people used to say, as theysaw him going home. Usually, when he had had no drink, he walked witha slight stoop and shunned the gaze of curious people with a kind ofsavage shyness. 

Since the death of his father, a journeyman tanner who had left him assole heritage the hovel in the Impasse Saint-Mittre, he had neverbeen known to have either relatives or friends. The proximity of thefrontiers and the neighbouring forests of the Seille had turned thissingular, lazy fellow into a combination of smuggler and poacher, oneof those suspicious-looking characters of whom passers-by observe: "Ishouldn't care to meet that man at midnight in a dark wood. " Tall, witha formidable beard and lean face, Macquart was the terror of thegood women of the Faubourg of Plassans; they actually accused him ofdevouring little children raw. Though he was hardly thirty years old, he looked fifty. Amidst his bushy beard and the locks of hair which hungover his face in poodle fashion, one could only distinguish the gleamof his brown eyes, the furtive sorrowful glance of a man of vagrantinstincts, rendered vicious by wine and a pariah life. Although nocrimes had actually been brought home to him, no theft or murder wasever perpetrated in the district without suspicion at once falling uponhim. 

And it was this ogre, this brigand, this scoundrel Macquart, whomAdelaide had chosen! In twenty months she had two children by him, firsta boy and then a girl. There was no question of marriage betweenthem. Never had the Faubourg beheld such audacious impropriety. Thestupefaction was so great, the idea of Macquart having found a young andwealthy mistress so completely upset the gossips, that they even spokegently of Adelaide. "Poor thing! She's gone quite mad, " they would say. "If she had any relatives she would have been placed in confinement longago. " And as they never knew anything of the history of those strangeamours, they accused that rogue Macquart of having taken advantage ofAdelaide's weak mind to rob her of her money. 

The legitimate son, little Pierre Rougon, grew up with his mother'sother offspring. The latter, Antoine and Ursule, the young wolves asthey were called in the district, were kept at home by Adelaide, whotreated them as affectionately as her first child. She did not appear toentertain a very clear idea of the position in life reserved for thesetwo poor creatures. To her they were the same in every respect as herfirst-born. She would sometimes go out holding Pierre with one hand andAntoine with the other, never noticing how differently the two littlefellows were already regarded. 

It was a strange home. For nearly twenty years everyone lived thereafter his or her fancy, the children like the mother. Everything wenton free from control. In growing to womanhood, Adelaide had retained thestrangeness which had been taken for shyness when she was fifteen. Itwas 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 ofthe ordinary, different from that of the rest of the world. She wascertainly very natural, very consistent with herself; but in the eyes ofthe neighbours her consistency became pure insanity. She seemeddesirous of making herself conspicuous, it was thought she was wickedlydetermined to turn things at home from bad to worse, whereas with greatnaivete she simply acted according to the impulses of her nature. 

Ever since giving birth to her first child she had been subject tonervous fits which brought on terrible convulsions. These fits recurredperiodically, every two or three months. The doctors whom she consulteddeclared they could do nothing for her, that age would weaken theseverity of the attacks. They simply prescribed a dietary regimen ofunderdone meat and quinine wine. However, these repeated shocks led tocerebral disorder. She lived on from day to day like a child, likea fawning animal yielding to its instincts. When Macquart was on hisrounds, she passed her time in lazy, pensive idleness. All she did forher children was to kiss and play with them. Then as soon as her loverreturned she would disappear. 

Behind Macquart's hovel there was a little yard, separated from theFouques' property by a wall. One morning the neighbours were muchastonished to find in this wall a door which had not been there theprevious evening. Before an hour had elapsed, the entire Faubourg hadflocked to the neighbouring windows. The lovers must have worked thewhole night to pierce the opening and place the door there. They couldnow go freely from one house to the other. The scandal was revived, everyone felt less pity for Adelaide, who was certainly the disgraceof the suburb; she was reproached more wrathfully for that door, thattacit, brutal admission of her union, than even for her two illegitimatechildren. "People should at least study appearances, " the most tolerantwomen would say. But Adelaide did not understand what was meant bystudying appearances. She was very happy, very proud of her door; shehad assisted Macquart to knock the stones from the wall and had evenmixed the mortar so that the work might proceed the quicker; and shecame with childish delight to inspect the work by daylight on themorrow--an act which was deemed a climax of shamelessness by threegossips who observed her contemplating the masonry. From that date, whenever Macquart reappeared, it was thought, as no one then eversaw the young woman, that she was living with him in the hovel of theImpasse Saint-Mittre. 

The smuggler would come very irregularly, almost always unexpectedly, to Plassans. Nobody ever knew what life the lovers led during the twoor three days he spent there at distant intervals. They used to shutthemselves up; the little dwelling seemed uninhabited. Then, as thegossips had declared that Macquart had simply seduced Adelaide in orderto spend her money, they were astonished, after a time, to see him stilllead his wonted life, ever up hill and down dale and as badly equippedas previously. Perhaps the young woman loved him all the more forseeing him at rare intervals, perhaps he had disregarded her entreaties, feeling an irresistible desire for a life of adventure. The gossipsinvented a thousand fables, without succeeding in giving any reasonableexplanation of a connection which had originated and continued in sostrange a manner. The hovel in the Impasse Saint-Mittre remained closedand preserved its secrets. It was merely guessed that Macquart hadprobably acquired the habit of beating Adelaide, although the sound ofa quarrel never issued from the house. However, on several occasions shewas seen with her face black and blue, and her hair torn away. At thesame time, she did not display the least dejection or grief, nor did sheseek in any way to hide her bruises. She smiled, and seemed happy. Nodoubt she allowed herself to be beaten without breathing a word. Thisexistence lasted for more than fifteen years. 

At times when Adelaide returned home she would find her house upsidedown, but would not take the least notice of it. She was utterlyignorant of the practical meaning of life, of the proper value of thingsand the necessity for order. She let her children grow up like thoseplum-trees which sprout along the highways at the pleasure of the rainand sun. They bore their natural fruits like wild stock which has neverknown grafting or pruning. Never was nature allowed such complete sway, never did such mischievous creatures grow up more freely under the soleinfluence of instinct. They rolled among the vegetables, passed theirdays in the open air playing and fighting like good-for-nothing urchins. They stole provisions from the house and pillaged the few fruit-trees inthe enclosure; they were the plundering, squalling, familiar demons ofthis strange abode of lucid insanity. When their mother was absentfor days together, they would make such an uproar, and hit upon suchdiabolical devices for annoying people, that the neighbours had tothreaten them with a whipping. Moreover, Adelaide did not inspire themwith much fear; if they were less obnoxious to other people when she wasat home, it was because they made her their victim, shirking schoolfive or six times a week and doing everything they could to receive somepunishment which would allow them to squall to their hearts' content. But she never beat them, nor even lost her temper; she lived on verywell, placidly, indolently, in a state of mental abstraction amidst allthe uproar. At last, indeed, this uproar became indispensable to her, to fill the void in her brain. She smiled complacently when she heardanyone say, "Her children will beat her some day, and it will serve herright. " To all remarks, her utter indifference seemed to reply, "Whatdoes it matter?" She troubled even less about her property than abouther children. The Fouques' enclosure, during the many years that thissingular existence lasted would have become a piece of waste groundif the young woman had not luckily entrusted the cultivation of hervegetables to a clever market-gardener. This man, who was to share theprofits with her, robbed her impudently, though she never noticed it. This circumstance had its advantages, however; for, in order to stealthe more, the gardener drew as much as possible from the land, which inthe result almost doubled in value. 

Pierre, the legitimate son, either from secret instinct or from hisknowledge of the different manner in which he and the others wereregarded by the neighbours, domineered over his brother and sisterfrom an early age. In their quarrels, although he was much weaker thanAntoine, he always got the better of the contest, beating the other withall the authority of a master. With regard to Ursule, a poor, puny, wanlittle creature, she was handled with equal roughness by both theboys. Indeed, until they were fifteen or sixteen, the three childrenfraternally beat each other without understanding their vague, mutualhatred, without realising how foreign they were to one another. It wasonly 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 andAdelaide's failings. Macquart, however, predominated in him, with hislove of vagrancy, his tendency to drunkenness, and his brutish savagery. At the same time, under the influence of Adelaide's nervous nature, thevices which in the father assumed a kind of sanguinary frankness werein the son tinged with an artfulness full of hypocrisy and cowardice. Antoine resembled his mother by his total want of dignified will, by hiseffeminate voluptuous egotism, which disposed him to accept any bed ofinfamy provided he could lounge upon it at his ease and sleep warmly init. People said of him: "Ah! the brigand! He hasn't even the courage ofhis villainy like Macquart; if ever he commits a murder, it will be withpin pricks. " Physically, Antoine inherited Adelaide's thick lips only;his other features resembled those of the smuggler, but they were softerand more prone to change of expression. 

In Ursule, on the other hand, physical and moral resemblance to themother predominated. There was a mixture of certain characteristics inher also; but born the last, at a time when Adelaide's love was warmerthan Macquart's, the poor little thing seemed to have received with hersex a deeper impress of her mother's temperament. Moreover, hers was nota fusion of the two natures, but rather a juxtaposition, a remarkablyclose soldering. Ursule was whimsical, and displayed at times theshyness, the melancholy, and the transports of a pariah; then she wouldoften break out into nervous fits of laughter, and muse lazily, likea woman unsound both in head and heart. Her eyes, which at times hada 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 haveappeared profoundly dissimilar. Never did child's nature show a moreequal balance of the characteristics of its parents. He was the exactmean between the peasant Rougon and the nervous Adelaide. Paternalgrossness was attenuated by the maternal influence. One found in him thefirst phase of that evolution of temperaments which ultimately bringsabout the amelioration or deterioration of a race. Although he was stilla peasant, his skin was less coarse, his face less heavy, his intellectmore capacious and more supple. In him the defects of his father and hismother had advantageously reacted upon each other. If Adelaide's nature, rendered exquisitely sensitive by her rebellious nerves, had combatedand lessened Rougon's full-bodied ponderosity, the latter hadsuccessfully prevented the young woman's tendency to cerebral disorderfrom being implanted in the child. Pierre knew neither the passions northe sickly ravings of Macquart's young whelps. Very badly brought up, unruly and noisy, like all children who are not restrained during theirinfancy, he nevertheless possessed at bottom such sense and intelligenceas would always preserve him from perpetrating any unproductive folly. His vices, his laziness, his appetite for indulgence, lacked theinstinctiveness which characterised Antoine's; he meant to cultivateand gratify them honourably and openly. In his plump person of mediumheight, in his long pale face, in which the features derived from hisfather had acquired some of the maternal refinement, one could alreadydetect signs of sly and crafty ambition and insatiable desire, withthe hardness of heart and envious hatred of a peasant's son whom hismother's means and nervous temperament had turned into a member of themiddle classes. 

When, at the age of seventeen, Pierre observed and was able tounderstand Adelaide's disorders and the singular position of Antoine andUrsule, he seemed neither sorry nor indignant, but simply worried as tothe course which would best serve his own interests. He was the onlyone of the three children who had pursued his studies with any industry. When a peasant begins to feel the need of instruction he most frequentlybecomes a fierce calculator. At school Pierre's playmates roused hisfirst suspicions by the manner in which they treated and hooted hisbrother. Later on he came to understand the significance of many looksand words. And at last he clearly saw that the house was being pillaged. From that time forward he regarded Antoine and Ursule as shamelessparasites, mouths that were devouring his own substance. Like the peopleof the Faubourg, he thought that his mother was a fit subject for alunatic asylum, and feared she would end by squandering all her money, if he did not take steps to prevent it. What gave him the finishingstroke 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 strangeimprovident life which he could no longer bear to see around him withouta feeling of anguish. Those vegetables, from the sale of which themarket-gardener derived the largest profits, really belonged to him;the wine which his mother's offspring drank, the bread they ate, alsobelonged to him. The whole house, the entire fortune, was his by right;according to his boorish logic, he alone, the legitimate son, wasthe heir. And as his riches were in danger, as everybody was greedilygnawing at his future fortune, he sought a means of turning them allout--mother, brother, sister, servants--and of succeeding immediately tohis inheritance. 

The conflict was a cruel one; the lad knew that he must first strike hismother. Step by step, with patient tenacity, he executed a plan whoseevery detail he had long previously thought out. His tactics were toappear before Adelaide like a living reproach--not that he flew intoa passion, or upbraided her for her misconduct; but he had acquired acertain manner of looking at her, without saying a word, which terrifiedher. Whenever she returned from a short sojourn in Macquart's hovel shecould not turn her eyes on her son without a shudder. She felt his coldglances, as sharp as steel blades pierce her deeply and pitilessly. Thesevere, taciturn demeanour of the child of the man whom she had so soonforgotten strangely troubled her poor disordered brain. She would fancyat times that Rougon had risen from the dead to punish her for herdissoluteness. Every week she fell into one of those nervous fits whichwere shattering her constitution. She was left to struggle until sherecovered consciousness, after which she would creep about more feeblythan ever. She would also often sob the whole night long, holding herhead in her hands, and accepting the wounds that Pierre dealt her withresignation, as if they had been the strokes of an avenging deity. Atother times she repudiated him; she would not acknowledge her ownflesh and blood in that heavy-faced lad, whose calmness chilled her ownfeverishness so painfully. She would a thousand times rather have beenbeaten than glared at like that. Those implacable looks, which followedher everywhere, threw her at last into such unbearable torments thaton 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 shecame back home. At the end of a few months she fell completely under hissway. She stood before him like a child doubtful of her behaviour andfearing that she deserves a whipping. Pierre had skilfully bound herhand and foot, and made a very submissive servant of her, withoutopening his lips, without once entering into difficult and compromisingexplanations. 

When the young man felt that his mother was in his power, that he couldtreat her like a slave, he began, in his own interest, to turn hercerebral weakness and the foolish terror with which his glances inspiredher to his own advantage. His first care, as soon as he was master athome, was to dismiss the market-gardener and replace him by one of hisown creatures. Then he took upon himself the supreme direction of thehousehold, selling, buying, and holding the cash-box. On the other hand, he made no attempt to regulate Adelaide's actions, or to correct Antoineand Ursule for their laziness. That mattered little to him, for hecounted upon getting rid of these people as soon as an opportunitypresented itself. He contented himself with portioning out their breadand 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 hepleased. 

Circumstances proved singularly favourable. He escaped the conscriptionon the ground of being a widow's eldest son. But two years later Antoinewas called out. His bad luck did not affect him much; he counted on hismother purchasing a substitute for him. Adelaide, in fact, wished tosave him from serving; Pierre, however, who held the money, turned adeaf ear to her. His brother's compulsory departure would be a luckyevent for him, and greatly assist the accomplishment of his plans. Whenhis mother mentioned the matter to him, he gave her such a look thatshe did not venture to pursue it. His glance plainly signified, "Do youwish, then, to ruin me for the sake of your illegitimate offspring?"Forthwith she selfishly abandoned Antoine, for before everything elseshe sought her own peace and quietness. Pierre, who did not like violentmeasures, and who rejoiced at being able to eject his brother without adisturbance, then played the part of a man in despair: the year had beena bad one, money was scarce, and to raise any he would be compelled tosell 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 outthe following year, though he meant to do nothing of the kind. Antoinethen went off, duped, and half satisfied. 

Pierre got rid of Ursule in a still more unexpected manner. A journeymanhatter of the Faubourg, named Mouret, conceived a real affection for thegirl, whom he thought as white and delicate as any young lady from theSaint-Marc quarter. He married her. On his part it was a love match, free from all sordid motives. As for Ursule, she accepted the marriagein order to escape a home where her eldest brother rendered lifeintolerable. Her mother, absorbed in her own courses, and using herremaining energy to defend her own particular interests, regardedthe matter with absolute indifference. She was even glad of Ursule'sdeparture from the house, hoping that Pierre, now that he had no furthercause for dissatisfaction, would let her live in peace after herown fashion. No sooner had the young people been married than Mouretperceived that he would have to quit Plassans, if he did not wish tohear endless disparaging remarks about his wife and his mother-in-law. Taking Ursule with him, he accordingly repaired to Marseilles, where heworked at his trade. It should be mentioned that he had not askedfor one sou of dowry. When Pierre, somewhat surprised by thisdisinterestedness, commenced to stammer out some explanations, Mouretclosed his mouth by saying that he preferred to earn his wife's bread. Nevertheless the worthy son of the peasant remained uneasy; Mouret'sindifference seemed to him to conceal some trap. 

Adelaide now remained to be disposed of. Nothing in the world would haveinduced 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 foundhimself between two very embarrassing alternatives: to keep her, andthus, in a measure, share her disgrace, and bind a fetter to his feetwhich would arrest him in his ambitious flight; or to turn her out, withthe certainty of being pointed at as a bad son, which would have robbedhim of the reputation for good nature which he desired. Knowing that hewould be in want of everybody, he desired to secure an untarnishedname throughout Plassans. There was but one method to adopt, namely, toinduce Adelaide to leave of her own accord. Pierre neglected nothing toaccomplish this end. He considered his mother's misconduct a sufficientexcuse for his own hard-heartedness. He punished her as one wouldchastise a child. The tables were turned. The poor woman cowered underthe stick which, figuratively, was constantly held over her. She wasscarcely forty-two years old, and already had the stammerings ofterror, and vague, pitiful looks of an old woman in her dotage. Her soncontinued to stab her with his piercing glances, hoping that she wouldrun away when her courage was exhausted. The unfortunate woman sufferedterribly from shame, restrained desire and enforced cowardice, receivingthe blows dealt her with passive resignation, and nevertheless returningto Macquart with the determination to die on the spot rather thansubmit. There were nights when she would have got out of bed, and thrownherself into the Viorne, if with her weak, nervous, nature she had notfelt the greatest fear of death. On several occasions she thought ofrunning away and joining her lover on the frontier. It was onlybecause 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 arefuge. He was waiting an opportunity to take a little apartment for hersomewhere, when a fortuitous occurrence, which he had not venturedto anticipate, abruptly brought about the realisation of his desires. Information reached the Faubourg that Macquart had just been killed onthe frontier by a shot from a custom-house officer, at the moment whenhe was endeavouring to smuggle a load of Geneva watches into France. Thestory was true. The smuggler's body was not even brought home, but wasinterred in the cemetery of a little mountain village. Adelaide's griefplunged her into stupor. Her son, who watched her curiously, did not seeher shed a tear. Macquart had made her sole legatee. She inheritedhis hovel in the Impasse Saint-Mittre, and his carbine, which afellow-smuggler, braving the balls of the custom-house officers, loyallybrought back to her. On the following day she retired to the littlehouse, hung the carbine above the mantelpiece, and lived there estrangedfrom all the world, solitary and silent. 

Pierre was at last sole master of the house. The Fouques' land belongedto him in fact, if not in law. He never thought of establishing himselfon it. It was too narrow a field for his ambition. To till the groundand cultivate vegetables seemed to him boorish, unworthy of hisfaculties. He was in a hurry to divest himself of everythingrecalling the peasant. With his nature refined by his mother's nervoustemperament, he felt an irresistible longing for the enjoyments of themiddle classes. In all his calculations, therefore, he had regarded thesale of the Fouques' property as the final consummation. This sale, byplacing a round sum of money in his hands, would enable him to marry thedaughter of some merchant who would take him into partnership. At thisperiod the wars of the First Empire were greatly thinning the ranks ofeligible young men. Parents were not so fastidious as previously in thechoice of a son-in-law. Pierre persuaded himself that money wouldsmooth all difficulties, and that the gossip of the Faubourg would beoverlooked; he intended to pose as a victim, as an honest man sufferingfrom a family disgrace, which he deplored, without being soiled by it orexcusing it. 

For several months already he had cast his eyes on a certain FelicitePuech, the daughter of an oil-dealer. The firm of Puech & Lacamp, whosewarehouses were in one of the darkest lanes of the old quarter, wasfar from prosperous. It enjoyed but doubtful credit in the market, andpeople talked vaguely of bankruptcy. It was precisely in consequence ofthese evil reports that Pierre turned his batteries in this direction. No well-to-do trader would have given him his daughter. He meant toappear on the scene at the very moment when old Puech should no longerknow which way to turn; he would then purchase Felicite of him, andre-establish the credit of the house by his own energy and intelligence. It was a clever expedient for ascending the first rung of the socialladder, for raising himself above his station. Above all things, hewished to escape from that frightful Faubourg where everybody reviledhis family, and to obliterate all these foul legends, by effacing eventhe very name of the Fouques' enclosure. For that reason the filthystreets 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 Puechand Lacamp seemed to be at the last gasp. The young man then negotiatedthe match with prudent skill. He was received, if not as a deliverer, atleast as a necessary and acceptable expedient. The marriage agreed upon, he turned his attention to the sale of the ground. The owner of theJas-Meiffren, desiring to enlarge his estate, had made him repeatedoffers. A low, thin, party-wall alone separated the two estates. Pierrespeculated on the eagerness of his wealthy neighbour, who, to gratifyhis caprice, offered as much as fifty thousand francs for the land. Itwas 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 hismother would never consent to get rid of the property where the Fouqueshad lived from father to son for nearly two centuries. But all the timethat he was seemingly holding back he was really making preparations forthe sale. Certain doubts had arisen in his mind. According to his ownbrutal logic, the property belonged to him; he had the right to disposeof it as he chose. Beneath this assurance, however, he had vaguepresentiments of legal complications. So he indirectly consulted alawyer of the Faubourg. 

He learnt some fine things from him. According to the lawyer, his handswere completely tied. His mother alone could alienate the property, andhe doubted whether she would. But what he did not know, what came as aheavy blow to him, was that Ursule and Antoine, those young wolves, had claims on the estate. What! they would despoil him, rob him, thelegitimate child! The lawyer's explanations were clear and precise, however; Adelaide, it is true, had married Rougon under the commonproperty system; but as the whole fortune consisted of land, the youngwoman, according to law, again came into possession of everything at herhusband's death. Moreover, Macquart and Adelaide had duly acknowledgedtheir children when declaring their birth for registration, and thusthese children were entitled to inherit from their mother. Forsole consolation, Pierre learnt that the law reduced the share ofillegitimate children in favour of the others. This, however, did notconsole him at all. He wanted to have everything. He would not haveshared ten sous with Ursule and Antoine. 

This vista of the intricacies of the Code opened up a new horizon, whichhe scanned with a singularly thoughtful air. He soon recognised thata shrewd man must always keep the law on his side. And this is what hedevised without consulting anyone, even the lawyer, whose suspicions hewas 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 ofsale. Provided she were left the hovel in the Impasse Saint-Mittre, Adelaide would have sold all Plassans. Besides, Pierre assured her anannual income of six hundred francs, and made the most solemn promisesto watch over his brother and sister. This oath satisfied the goodwoman. She recited, before the notary, the lesson which it had pleasedher son to teach her. On the following day the young man made her placeher name at the foot of a document in which she acknowledged havingreceived fifty thousand francs as the price of the property. This washis stroke of genius, the act of a rogue. He contented himself withtelling his mother, who was a little surprised at signing such a receiptwhen she had not seen a centime of the fifty thousand francs, that itwas a pure formality of no consequence whatever. As he slipped the paperinto his pocket, he thought to himself, "Now, let the young wolves askme to render an account. I will tell them the old woman has squanderedeverything. They will never dare to go to law with me about it. " A weekafterwards, the party-wall no longer existed: a plough had turned upthe vegetable beds; the Fouques' enclosure, in accordance with youngRougon's wish, was about to become a thing of the past. A few monthslater, the owner of the Jas-Meiffren even had the old market-gardener'shouse, which was falling to pieces, pulled down. 

When Pierre had secured the fifty thousand francs he married FelicitePuech with as little delay as possible. Felicite was a short, darkwoman, such as one often meets in Provence. She looked like one ofthose brown, lean, noisy grasshoppers, which in their sudden leaps oftenstrike their heads against the almond-trees. Thin, flat-breasted, withpointed shoulders and a face like that of a pole-cat, her featuressingularly sunken and attenuated, it was not easy to tell her age;she looked as near fifteen as thirty, although she was in reality onlynineteen, four years younger than her husband. There was much felineslyness in the depths of her little black eyes, which suggested gimletholes. Her low, bumpy forehead, her slightly depressed nose withdelicate quivering nostrils, her thin red lips and prominent chin, parted from her cheeks by strange hollows, all suggested the countenanceof an artful dwarf, a living mask of intrigue, an active, enviousambition. With all her ugliness, however, Felicite possessed a sort ofgracefulness which rendered her seductive. People said of her that shecould be pretty or ugly as she pleased. It would depend on the fashionin which she tied her magnificent hair; but it depended still more onthe triumphant smile which illumined her golden complexion when shethought she had got the better of somebody. Born under an evil star, and believing herself ill-used by fortune, she was generally contentto appear an ugly creature. She did not, however, intend to abandon thestruggle, for she had vowed that she would some day make the whole townburst with envy, by an insolent display of happiness and luxury. Hadshe been able to act her part on a more spacious stage, where full playwould have been allowed her ready wit, she would have quickly broughther dream to pass. Her intelligence was far superior to that of thegirls of her own station and education. Evil tongues asserted that hermother, who had died a few years after she was born, had, during theearly period of her married life, been familiar with the Marquis deCarnavant, a young nobleman of the Saint-Marc quarter. In fact, Felicitehad the hands and feet of a marchioness, and, in this respect, did notappear to belong to that class of workers from which she was descended. 

Her marriage with Pierre Rougon, that semi-peasant, that man of theFaubourg, whose family was in such bad odour, kept the old quarter ina state of astonishment for more than a month. She let people gossip, however, receiving the stiff congratulations of her friends with strangesmiles. Her calculations had been made; she had chosen Rougon for ahusband as one would choose an accomplice. Her father, in accepting theyoung man, had merely had eyes for the fifty thousand francs which wereto save him from bankruptcy. Felicite, however, was more keen-sighted. She looked into the future, and felt that she would be in want of arobust man, even if he were somewhat rustic, behind whom she mightconceal herself, and whose limbs she would move at will. She entertaineda deliberate hatred for the insignificant little exquisites ofprovincial towns, the lean herd of notaries' clerks and prospectivebarristers, 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 academicalsuperiority, and drag her about all her life in search of hollowvanities. She was of opinion that the woman ought to make the man. Shebelieved herself capable of carving a minister out of a cow-herd. Thatwhich had attracted her in Rougon was his broad chest, his heavy frame, which was not altogether wanting in elegance. A man thus built wouldbear with ease and sprightliness the mass of intrigues which shedreamt of placing on his shoulders. However, while she appreciated herhusband's strength and vigour, she also perceived that he was farfrom being a fool; under his coarse flesh she had divined the cunningsuppleness of his mind. Still she was a long way from really knowing herRougon; she thought him far stupider than he was. A few days after hermarriage, as she was by chance fumbling in the drawer of a secretaire, she came across the receipt for fifty thousand francs which Adelaidehad signed. At sight of it she understood things, and felt ratherfrightened; her own natural average honesty rendered her hostile to suchexpedients. Her terror, however, was not unmixed with admiration; Rougonbecame 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. Itsliabilities were small, it was merely in want of ready-money. In theprovinces, traders adopt prudent courses to save them from seriousdisasters. Puech & Lacamp were prudent to an excessive degree; theynever risked a thousand crowns without the greatest fear, and thus theirhouse, a veritable hole, was an unimportant one. The fifty thousandfrancs that Pierre brought into it sufficed to pay the debts and extendthe business. The beginnings were good. During three successive yearsthe olive harvest was an abundant one. Felicite, by a bold stroke whichabsolutely frightened both Pierre and old Puech, made them purchasea considerable quantity of oil, which they stored in their warehouse. During the following years, as the young woman had foreseen, the cropsfailed, and a considerable rise in prices having set in, they realisedlarge 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 livingon their incomes. 

The young couple now had sole control of the business, and thoughtthat they had at last laid the foundation of their fortune. "You havevanquished my ill-luck, " Felicite would sometimes say to her husband. 

One of the rare weaknesses of her energetic nature was to believeherself stricken by misfortune. Hitherto, so she asserted, nothing hadbeen successful with either herself or her father, in spite of all theirefforts. Goaded by her southern superstition, she prepared to strugglewith fate as one struggles with somebody who is endeavouring to strangleone. Circumstances soon justified her apprehensions in a singularmanner. Ill-luck returned inexorably. Every year some fresh disastershook Rougon's business. A bankruptcy resulted in the loss of a fewthousand francs; his estimates of crops proved incorrect, throughthe most incredible circumstances; the safest speculations collapsedmiserably. It was a truceless, merciless combat. 

"You see I was born under an unlucky star!" Felicite would bitterlyexclaim. 

And yet she still struggled furiously, not understanding how it was thatshe, who had shown such keen scent in a first speculation, could nowonly give her husband the most deplorable advice. 

Pierre, dejected and less tenacious than herself, would have goneinto liquidation a score of times had it not been for his wife's firmobstinacy. She longed to be rich. She perceived that her ambition couldonly be attained by fortune. As soon as they possessed a few hundredthousand francs they would be masters of the town. She would get herhusband appointed to an important post, and she would govern. It wasnot the attainment of honours which troubled her; she felt herselfmarvellously well armed for such a combat. But she could do nothing toget together the first few bags of money which were needed. Though theruling of men caused her no apprehensions, she felt a sort of impotentrage at the thought of those inert, white, cold, five-franc pieces overwhich her intriguing spirit had no power, and which obstinately resistedher. 

The battle lasted for more than thirty years. The death of Puech provedanother heavy blow. Felicite, who had counted upon an inheritance ofabout forty thousand francs, found that the selfish old man, in orderto indulge himself in his old age, had sunk all his money in a lifeannuity. The discovery made her quite ill. She was gradually becomingsoured, she was growing more lean and harsh. To see her, from morningtill night, whirling round the jars of oil, one would have thought shebelieved that she could stimulate the sales by continually flittingabout like a restless fly. Her husband, on the contrary, became heavier;misfortune fattened him, making him duller and more indolent. Thesethirty years of combat did not, however, bring him to ruin. At eachannual stock-taking they managed to make both ends meet fairly well; ifthey suffered any loss during one season, they recouped themselves thenext. However, it was precisely this living from hand to mouth whichexasperated 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, workingthemselves to death to gain the bare necessaries of life. During onethird of a century they did not save fifty thousand francs. 

It should be mentioned that, from the very first years of their marriedlife, they had a numerous family, which in the long run became a heavyburden to them. In the course of five years, from 1811 to 1815, Felicitegave birth to three boys. Then during the four ensuing years shepresented her husband with two girls. These had but an indifferentwelcome; daughters are a terrible embarrassment when one has no dowry togive them. 

However, the young woman did not regard this troop of children as thecause of their ruin. On the contrary, she based on her sons' heads thebuilding of the fortune which was crumbling in her own hands. They werehardly ten years old before she discounted their future careers in herdreams. Doubting whether she would ever succeed herself, she centredin them all her hopes of overcoming the animosity of fate. They wouldprovide satisfaction for her disappointed vanity, they would give herthat 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 herdomineering instincts. It seemed to her impossible that, amongst herthree sons, there should not be a man of superior intellect, who wouldenrich them all. She felt it, she said. Accordingly, she nursed thechildren with a fervour in which maternal severity was blended with anusurer's solicitude. She amused herself by fattening them as though theyconstituted 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 wasa useless luxury, it would be quite sufficient if they went throughthe classes of a little neighbouring school The young woman, however, persisted in her design. She possessed certain elevated instincts whichmade her take a great pride in surrounding herself with accomplishedchildren; moreover, she felt that her sons must never remain asilliterate as her husband, if she wished to see them become prominentmen. She fancied them all three in Paris in high positions, which shedid not clearly define. When Rougon consented, and the three youngstershad entered the eighth class, Felicite felt the most lively satisfactionshe had ever experienced. She listened with delight as they talked oftheir professors and their studies. When she heard her eldest son makeone of his brothers decline _Rosa, a rose_, it sounded like deliciousmusic to her. It is only fair to add that her delight was not tarnishedby any sordid calculations. Even Rougon felt the satisfaction which anilliterate man experiences on perceiving his sons grow more learned thanhimself. Then the fellowship which grew up between their sons andthose of the local big-wigs completed the parents' gratification. Theyoungsters were soon on familiar terms with the sons of the Mayor andthe Sub-Prefect, and even with two or three young noblemen whom theSaint-Marc quarter had deigned to send to the Plassans College. Felicitewas at a loss how to repay such an honour. The education of the threelads weighed seriously on the budget of the Rougon household. 

Until the boys had taken their degrees, their parents, who kept them atcollege at enormous sacrifices, lived in hopes of their success. Whenthey had obtained their diplomas Felicite wished to continue her work, and even persuaded her husband to send the three to Paris. Two of themdevoted themselves to the study of law, and the third passed throughthe School of Medicine. Then, when they were men, and had exhausted theresources of the Rougon family and were obliged to return and establishthemselves in the provinces, their parents' disenchantment began. Theyidled about and grew fat. And Felicite again felt all the bitterness ofher ill-luck. Her sons were failing her. They had ruined her, and didnot return any interest on the capital which they represented. Thislast blow of fate was the heaviest, as it fell on her ambition and hermaternal 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 largeamount of money expended on his education, he said to her with equalbitterness, "I will repay you later on if I can. But as you had nomeans, you should have brought us up to a trade. We are out of ourelement, we are suffering more than you. "

Felicite understood the wisdom of these words. From that time she ceasedto accuse her children, and turned her anger against fate, which neverwearied of striking her. She started her old complaints afresh, andbemoaned more and more the want of means which made her strand, as itwere, 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 hadmore money to give them; if they do vegetate, poor fellows, it's becausethey haven't got a sou to bless themselves with. "

At the beginning of the year 1848, on the eve of the Revolution ofFebruary, the three young Rougons held very precarious positionsat Plassans. They presented most curious and profoundly dissimilarcharacteristics, though they came of the same stock. They were inreality superior to their parents. The race of the Rougons was destinedto become refined through its female side. Adelaide had made Pierrea man of moderate enterprise, disposed to low ambitions; Felicitehad inspired her sons with a higher intelligence, with a capacity forgreater vices and greater virtues. 

At the period now referred to the eldest, Eugene, was nearly forty yearsold. He was a man of middle height, slightly bald, and already disposedto 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 flabbyroundness of his features, and his yellowish, waxy complexion. Thoughhis massive square head still recalled the peasant, his physiognomy wastransfigured, lit up from within as it were, when his drooping eyelidswere raised and his eyes awoke to life. In the son's case, the father'sponderousness had turned to gravity. This big fellow, Eugene, usuallypreserved a heavy somnolent demeanour. At the same time, certain of hisheavy, languid movements suggested those of a giant stretching his limbspending the time for action. By one of those alleged freaks of nature, of which, however, science is now commencing to discover the laws, ifphysical resemblance to Pierre was perfect in Eugene, Felicite onher side seemed to have furnished him with his brains. He offered aninstance of certain moral and intellectual qualities of maternal originbeing embedded in the coarse flesh he had derived from his father. Hecherished lofty ambitions, possessed domineering instincts, and showedsingular contempt for trifling expedients and petty fortunes. 

He was a proof that Plassans was perhaps not mistaken in suspecting thatFelicite had some blue blood in her veins. The passion for indulgence, which became formidably developed in the Rougons, and was, in fact, thefamily characteristic, attained in his case its highest pitch; he longedfor self-gratification, but in the form of mental enjoyment such aswould gratify his burning desire for domination. A man such as this wasnever intended to succeed in a provincial town. He vegetated therefor fifteen years, his eyes turned towards Paris, watching hisopportunities. On his return home he had entered his name on the rolls, in order to be independent of his parents. After that he pleaded fromtime to time, earning a bare livelihood, without appearing to rise aboveaverage mediocrity. At Plassans his voice was considered thick, hismovements 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 tostray into a political disquisition, to such a point that the presidingjudge interfered, whereupon he immediately sat down with a strangesmile. His client was condemned to pay a considerable sum of money, a circumstance which did not, however, seem to cause Eugene the leastregret for his irrelevant digression. He appeared to regard his speechesas mere exercises which would be of use to him later on. It was thisthat puzzled and disheartened Felicite. She would have liked to see herson dictating the law to the Civil Court of Plassans. At last she cameto entertain a very unfavourable opinion of her first-born. To hermind this lazy fellow would never be the one to shed any lustre on thefamily. Pierre, on the contrary, felt absolute confidence in him, not that he had more intuition than his wife, but because externalappearances sufficed him, and he flattered himself by believing inthe genius of a son who was his living image. A month prior to theRevolution of February, 1848, Eugene became restless; some specialinspiration made him anticipate the crisis. From that time forward heseemed to feel out of his element at Plassans. He would wander about thestreets 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 opposedto Eugene. He had his mother's face, and a covetousness and slyness ofcharacter prone to trivial intrigues, in which his father's instinctspredominated. Nature has need of symmetry. Short, with a pitifulcountenance suggesting the knob of a stick carved into a Punch's head, Aristide ferretted and fumbled everywhere, without any scruples, eageronly to gratify himself. He loved money as his eldest brother lovedpower. While Eugene dreamed of bending a people to his will, andintoxicated himself with visions of future omnipotence, the otherfancied himself ten times a millionaire, installed in a princelymansion, eating and drinking to his heart's content, and enjoying lifeto the fullest possible extent. Above all things, he longed to make arapid fortune. When he was building his castles in the air, they wouldrise in his mind as if by magic; he would become possessed of tons ofgold in one night. These visions agreed with his indolence, as he nevertroubled himself about the means, considering those the best which werethe most expeditious. In his case the race of the Rougons, of thosecoarse, greedy peasants with brutish appetites, had matured too rapidly;every desire for material indulgence was found in him, augmentedthreefold by hasty education, and rendered the more insatiable anddangerous by the deliberate way in which the young man had come toregard their realisation as his set purpose. In spite of her keenfeminine intuition, Felicite preferred this son; she did not perceivethe greater affinity between herself and Eugene; she excused the folliesand indolence of her youngest son under the pretext that he wouldsome day be the superior genius of the family, and that such a manwas entitled to live a disorderly life until his intellectual strengthshould 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 thetaverns of the Quartier Latin. He did not remain there, however, morethan two years; his father, growing apprehensive, and seeing that he hadnot yet passed a single examination, kept him at Plassans and spoke offinding a wife for him, hoping that domestic responsibility would makehim more steady. Aristide let himself be married. He had no veryclear idea of his own ambitions at this time; provincial life did notdisplease him; he was battening in his little town--eating, sleeping, and sauntering about. Felicite pleaded his cause so earnestly thatPierre consented to board and lodge the newly-married couple, oncondition that the young man should turn his attention to the business. From that time, however, Aristide led a life of ease and idleness. Hespent his days and the best part of his nights at the club, again andagain slipping out of his father's office like a schoolboy to go andgamble away the few louis that his mother gave him clandestinely. 

It is necessary to have lived in the depths of the French provinces toform an idea of the four brutifying years which the young fellow spentin this fashion. In every little town there is a group of individualswho thus live on their parents, pretending at times to work, but inreality cultivating idleness with a sort of religious zeal. Aristide wastypical of these incorrigible drones. For four years he did littlebut play ecarte. While he passed his time at the club, his wife, afair-complexioned nerveless woman, helped to ruin the Rougon businessby 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 aretired captain who was called Commander Sicardot, a good-hearted oldgentleman, who had given her a dowry of ten thousand francs--all hissavings. Pierre, in selecting Angele for his son had considered thathe 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 alreadya cunning rogue, deposited the ten thousand francs with his father, with whom he entered into partnership, declining, with the most sincereprofessions of devotion, to keep a single copper. 

"We have no need of anything, " he said; "you will keep my wife andmyself, 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 lattercalculated that it would be years before his father would have tenthousand francs in ready money to repay him, so that he and his wifewould live at the paternal expense so long as the partnership could notbe dissolved. It was an admirable investment for his few bank-notes. When the oil-dealer understood what a foolish bargain he had made hewas not in a position to rid himself of Aristide; Angele's dowry wasinvolved in speculations which were turning out unfavourably. Hewas exasperated, stung to the heart, at having to provide for hisdaughter-in-law's voracious appetite and keep his son in idleness. Hadhe been able to buy them out of the business he would twenty times haveshut his doors on those bloodsuckers, as he emphatically expressed it. Felicite secretly defended them; the young man, who had divined herdreams of ambition, would every evening describe to her the elaborateplans by which he would shortly make a fortune. By a rare chance shehad remained on excellent terms with her daughter-in-law. It must beconfessed that Angele had no will of her own--she could be moved anddisposed of like a piece of furniture. 

Meantime Pierre became enraged whenever his wife spoke to him of thesuccess their youngest son would ultimately achieve; he declared thathe would really bring them to ruin. During the four years that the youngcouple lived with him he stormed in this manner, wasting his impotentrage in quarrels, without in the least disturbing the equanimity ofAristide and Angele. They were located there, and there they intendedto remain like blocks of wood. At last Pierre met with a stroke of luckwhich enabled him to return the ten thousand francs to his son. When, however, he wanted to reckon up accounts with him, Aristide interposedso much chicanery that he had to let the couple go without deductinga copper for their board and lodging. They installed themselves buta short distance off, in a part of the old quarter called the PlaceSaint-Louis. The ten thousand francs were soon consumed. They hadeverything to get for their new home. Moreover Aristide made no changein his mode of living as long as any money was left in the house. Whenhe had reached the last hundred-franc note he felt rather nervous. Hewas seen prowling about the town in a suspicious manner. He no longertook his customary cup of coffee at the club; he watched feverishlywhilst play was going on, without touching a card. Poverty made him morespiteful than he would otherwise have been. He bore the blow for a longtime, obstinately refusing to do anything in the way of work. 

In 1840 he had a son, little Maxime, whom his grandmother Felicitefortunately sent to college, paying his fees clandestinely. That madeone mouth less at home; but poor Angele was dying of hunger, and herhusband was at last compelled to seek a situation. He secured one at theSub-Prefecture. He remained there nearly ten years, and only attained asalary of eighteen hundred francs per annum. From that time forward itwas with ever increasing malevolence and rancour that he hungered forthe enjoyments of which he was deprived. His lowly position exasperatedhim; the paltry hundred and fifty francs which he received every monthseemed to him an irony of fate. Never did man burn with such desire forself-gratification. Felicite, to whom he imparted his sufferings, wasby no means grieved to see him so eager. She thought his misery wouldstimulate his energies. At last, crouching in ambush as it were, withhis ears wide open, he began to look about him like a thief seeking hisopportunity. 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 hewaited, scenting a catastrophe, and ready to fall on the first prey thatmight come within his reach. 

The other son, Pascal, born between Eugene and Aristide, did not appearto belong to the family. He was one of those frequent cases which givethe lie to the laws of heredity. During the evolution of a race natureoften produces some one being whose every element she derives from herown creative powers. Nothing in the moral or physical constitution ofPascal recalled the Rougons. Tall, with a grave and gentle face, hehad an uprightness of mind, a love of study, a retiring modesty whichcontrasted strangely with the feverish ambitions and unscrupulousintrigues of his relatives. After acquitting himself admirably of hismedical studies in Paris, he had retired, by preference, to Plassans, notwithstanding the offers he received from his professors. He loved aquiet provincial life; he maintained that for a studious man such a lifewas preferable to the excitement of Paris. Even at Plassans he didnot exert himself to extend his practice. Very steady, and despisingfortune, 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 studyof natural history. He was particularly fond of physiology. It was knownin the town that he frequently purchased dead bodies from the hospitalgrave-digger, a circumstance which rendered him an object of horror todelicate ladies and certain timid gentlemen. Fortunately, they did notactually look upon him as a sorcerer; but his practice diminished, and he was regarded as an eccentric character, to whom people of goodsociety ought not to entrust even a finger-tip, for fear of beingcompromised. The mayor's wife was one day heard to say: "I would soonerdie than be attended by that gentleman. He smells of death. "

From that time, Pascal was condemned. He seemed to rejoice at the muteterror which he inspired. The fewer patients he had, the more time hecould devote to his favourite sciences. As his fees were very moderate, the poorer people remained faithful to him; he earned just enough tolive, and lived contentedly, a thousand leagues away from the restof the country, absorbed in the pure delight of his researches anddiscoveries. From time to time he sent a memoir to the Academie desSciences at Paris. Plassans did not know that this eccentric character, this gentleman who smelt of death was well-known and highly-esteemedin the world of science. When people saw him starting on Sundays for anexcursion among the Garrigues hills, with a botanist's bag hung roundhis neck and a geologist's hammer in his hand, they would shrug theirshoulders and institute a comparison between him and some other doctorof the town who was noted for his smart cravat, his affability to theladies, and the delicious odour of violets which his garments alwaysdiffused. Pascal's parents did not understand him any better than otherpeople. When Felicite saw him adopting such a strange, unpretentiousmode of life she was stupefied, and reproached him for disappointingher hopes. She, who tolerated Aristide's idleness because she thought itwould prove fertile, could not view without regret the slow progressof Pascal, his partiality for obscurity and contempt for riches, hisdetermined resolve to lead a life of retirement. He was certainly notthe child who would ever gratify her vanities. 

"But where do you spring from?" she would sometimes say to him. "Youare 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 wasteyour time on follies and trifles. You make a very poor return to us, whohave ruined ourselves for your education. No, you are certainly not oneof us. "

Pascal, who preferred to laugh whenever he was called upon to feelannoyed, replied cheerfully, but not without a sting of irony: "Oh, you need not be frightened, I shall never drive you to the verge ofbankruptcy; 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, Pascalhad frequently come to his assistance. For his part he had remained abachelor. He had not the least suspicion of the grave events that werepreparing. For two or three years he had been studying the great problemof heredity, comparing the human and animal races together, and becomingabsorbed in the strange results which he obtained. Certain observationswhich he had made with respect to himself and his relatives had been, soto say, the starting-point of his studies. The common people, with theirnatural intuition, so well understood that he was quite different fromthe 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 retiredfrom business. Old age was coming on apace; they were both past fiftyand were weary enough of the struggle. In face of their ill fortune, they were afraid of being ultimately ruined if they obstinatelypersisted in the fight. Their sons, by disappointing their expectations, had dealt them the final blow. Now that they despaired of ever beingenriched by them, they were anxious to make some little provision forold age. They retired with forty thousand francs at the utmost. Thissum provided an annual income of two thousand francs, just sufficientto live in a small way in the provinces. Fortunately, they were bythemselves, having succeeded in marrying their daughters Marthe andSidonie, the former of whom resided at Marseilles and the latter inParis. 

After they had settled their affairs they would much have liked to takeup their abode in the new town, the quarter of the retired traders, butthey dared not do so. Their income was too small; they were afraid thatthey 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 separatesthe old quarter from the new one. As their abode was one of the rowof houses bordering the old quarter, they still lived among the commonpeople; nevertheless, they could see the town of the richer classes fromtheir windows, so that they were just on the threshold of the promisedland. 

Their apartments, situated on the second floor, consisted of threelarge rooms--dining-room, drawing-room, and bedroom. The first floor wasoccupied by the owner of the house, a stick and umbrella manufacturer, who had a shop on the ground floor. The house, which was narrow andby no means deep, had only two storeys. Felicite moved into it with abitter pang. In the provinces, to live in another person's house is anavowal of poverty. Every family of position at Plassans has a houseof its own, landed property being very cheap there. Pierre kept thepurse-strings well tied; he would not hear of any embellishments. Theold furniture, faded, worn, damaged though it was, had to suffice, without even being repaired. Felicite, however, who keenly felt thenecessity for this parsimony, exerted herself to give fresh polish toall the wreckage; she herself knocked nails into some of the furniturewhich was more dilapidated than the rest, and darned the frayed velvetof 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 ofthis large apartment, whose window faced the grey wall of a neighbouringbuilding. As no strangers ever went into the bedroom, Felicite hadstowed all her useless furniture there; thus, besides a bedstead, wardrobe, secretaire, and wash-stand, it contained two cradles, oneperched atop of the other, a sideboard whose doors were missing, and anempty bookcase, venerable ruins which the old woman could not make upher mind to part with. All her cares, however, were bestowed upon thedrawing-room, and she almost succeeded in making it comfortable anddecent. The furniture was covered with yellowish velvet with satinflowers; in the middle stood a round table with a marble top, while acouple of pier tables, surmounted by mirrors, leant against the walls ateither end of the room. There was even a carpet, which just covered themiddle of the floor, and a chandelier in a white muslin cover which theflies had spotted with black specks. On the walls hung six lithographsrepresenting the great battles of Napoleon I. Moreover, the furnituredated from the first years of the Empire. The only embellishment thatFelicite could obtain was to have the walls hung with orange-hued papercovered with large flowers. Thus the drawing room had a strange yellowglow, which filled it with an artificial dazzling light. The furniture, the paper, and the window curtains were yellow; the carpet and even themarble table-tops showed touches of yellow. However, when the curtainswere drawn the colours harmonised fairly well and the drawing-roomlooked almost decent. 

But Felicite had dreamed of quite a different kind of luxury. Sheregarded with mute despair this ill-concealed misery. She usuallyoccupied the drawing-room, the best apartment in the house, and thesweetest and bitterest of her pastimes was to sit at one of the windowswhich overlooked the Rue de la Banne and gave her a side view of thesquare in front of the Sub-Prefecture. That was the paradise of herdreams. That little, neat, tidy square, with its bright houses, seemedto her a Garden of Eden. She would have given ten years of her life topossess one of those habitations. The house at the left-hand corner, in which the receiver of taxes resided, particularly tempted her. Shecontemplated it with eager longing. Sometimes, when the windows ofthis abode were open, she could catch a glimpse of rich furniture andtasteful elegance which made her burn with envy. 

At this period the Rougons passed through a curious crisis of vanityand unsatiated appetite. The few proper feelings which they had onceentertained had become embittered. They posed as victims of evilfortune, not with resignation, however, for they seemed still morekeenly determined that they would not die before they had satisfiedtheir ambitions. In reality, they did not abandon any of their hopes, notwithstanding their advanced age. Felicite professed to feel apresentiment that she would die rich. However, each day of povertyweighed them down the more. When they recapitulated their vainattempts--when they recalled their thirty years' struggle, and thedefection of their children--when they saw their airy castles end inthis yellow drawing-room, whose shabbiness they could only conceal bydrawing the curtains, they were overcome with bitter rage. Then, as aconsolation, they would think of plans for making a colossal fortune, seeking all sorts of devices. Felicite would fancy herself the winnerof the grand prize of a hundred thousand francs in some lottery, whilePierre pictured himself carrying out some wonderful speculation. Theylived with one sole thought--that of making a fortune immediately, in afew hours--of becoming rich and enjoying themselves, if only for a year. Their whole beings tended to this, stubbornly, without a pause. And theystill cherished some faint hopes with regard to their sons, with thatpeculiar egotism of parents who cannot bear to think that they have senttheir children to college without deriving some personal advantage fromit. 

Felicite did not appear to have aged; she was still the same dark littlewoman, ever on the move, buzzing about like a grasshopper. Any personwalking behind her on the pavement would have thought her a girl offifteen, from the lightness of her step and the angularity of hershoulders and waist. Even her face had scarcely undergone any change; itwas simply rather more sunken, rather more suggestive of the snout of apole-cat. 

As for Pierre Rougon, he had grown corpulent, and had become a highlyrespectable looking citizen, who only lacked a decent income to make hima very dignified individual. His pale, flabby face, his heaviness, his languid manner, seemed redolent of wealth. He had one day heard apeasant who did not know him say: "Ah! he's some rich fellow, that fatold gentleman there. He's no cause to worry about his dinner!" Thiswas a remark which stung him to the heart, for he considered it cruelmockery to be only a poor devil while possessing the bulk and contentedgravity of a millionaire. When he shaved on Sundays in front of a smallfive-sou looking-glass hanging from the fastening of a window, he wouldoften think that in a dress coat and white tie he would cut a far betterfigure at the Sub-Prefect's than such or such a functionary of Plassans. This peasant's son, who had grown sallow from business worries, andcorpulent from a sedentary life, whose hateful passions were hiddenbeneath naturally placid features, really had that air of solemnimbecility which gives a man a position in an official salon. Peopleimagined that his wife held a rod over him, but they were mistaken. Hewas as self-willed as a brute. Any determined expression of extraneouswill would drive him into a violent rage. Felicite was far too supple tothwart him openly; with her light fluttering nature she did not attackobstacles in front. When she wished to obtain something from herhusband, or drive him the way she thought best, she would buzz round himin her grasshopper fashion, stinging him on all sides, and returningto the charge a hundred times until he yielded almost unconsciously. Hefelt, moreover, that she was shrewder than he, and tolerated her advicefairly patiently. Felicite, more useful than the coach fly, wouldsometimes do all the work while she was thus buzzing round Pierre'sears. Strange to say, the husband and wife never accused each otherof their ill-success. The only bone of contention between them was theeducation lavished on their children. 

The Revolution of 1848 found all the Rougons on the lookout, exasperatedby their bad luck, and disposed to lay violent hands on fortune if everthey should meet her in a byway. They were a family of bandits lying inwait, ready to rifle and plunder. Eugene kept an eye on Paris; Aristidedreamed of strangling Plassans; the mother and father, perhaps the mosteager of the lot, intended to work on their own account, and reapsome additional advantage from their sons' doings. Pascal alone, thatdiscreet wooer of science, led the happy, indifferent life of a lover inhis bright little house in the new town. 

CHAPTER III

In that closed, sequestered town of Plassans, where class distinctionwas so clearly marked in 1848, the commotion caused by political eventswas very slight. Even at the present day the popular voice sounds veryfaintly there; the middle classes bring their prudence to bear in thematter, the nobility their mute despair, and the clergy their shrewdcunning. Kings may usurp thrones, or republics may be established, without scarcely any stir in the town. Plassans sleeps while Parisfights. But though on the surface the town may appear calm andindifferent, in the depths hidden work goes on which it is curiousto study. If shots are rare in the streets, intrigues consume thedrawing-rooms of both the new town and the Saint-Marc quarter. Until theyear 1830 the masses were reckoned of no account. Even at the presenttime they are similarly ignored. Everything is settled between theclergy, the nobility, and the bourgeoisie. The priests, who are verynumerous, give the cue to the local politics; they lay subterraneanmines, as it were, and deal blows in the dark, following a prudenttactical system, which hardly allows of a step in advance or retreateven in the course of ten years. The secret intrigues of men who desireabove all things to avoid noise requires special shrewdness, a specialaptitude for dealing with small matters, and a patient endurance suchas one only finds in persons callous to all passions. It is thus thatprovincial dilatoriness, which is so freely ridiculed in Paris, is fullof treachery, secret stabs, hidden victories and defeats. These worthymen, particularly when their interests are at stake, kill at home witha snap of the fingers, as we, the Parisians, kill with cannon in thepublic thoroughfares. 

The political history of Plassans, like that of all little towns inProvence, is singularly characteristic. Until 1830, the inhabitantsremained observant Catholics and fervent royalists; even the lowerclasses only swore by God and their legitimate sovereigns. Then therecame a sudden change; faith departed, the working and middle classesdeserted the cause of legitimacy, and gradually espoused the greatdemocratic movement of our time. When the Revolution of 1848 broke out, the nobility and the clergy were left alone to labour for the triumphof Henri V. For a long time they had regarded the accession of theOrleanists as a ridiculous experiment, which sooner or later would bringback the Bourbons; although their hopes were singularly shaken, theynevertheless continued the struggle, scandalised by the defection oftheir former allies, whom they strove to win back to their cause. TheSaint-Marc quarter, assisted by all the parish priests, set towork. Among the middle classes, and especially among the people, theenthusiasm was very great on the morrow of the events of February; theseapprentice republicans were in haste to display their revolutionaryfervour. As regards the gentry of the new town, however, theconflagration, bright though it was, lasted no longer than a fire ofstraw. The small houseowners and retired tradespeople who had had theirgood days, or had made snug little fortunes under the monarchy, weresoon seized with panic; the Republic, with its constant shocks andconvulsions, made them tremble for their money and their life ofselfishness. 

Consequently, when the Clerical reaction of 1849 declared itself, nearlyall the middle classes passed over to the Conservative party. They werereceived with open arms. The new town had never before had such closerelations with the Saint-Marc quarter: some of the nobility even wentso far as to shake hands with lawyers and retired oil-dealers. Thisunexpected familiarity kindled the enthusiasm of the new quarter, whichhenceforward waged bitter warfare against the republican government. Tobring about such a coalition, the clergy had to display marvellous skilland endurance. The nobility of Plassans for the most part lay prostrate, as if half dead. They retained their faith, but lethargy had fallen onthem, and they preferred to remain inactive, allowing the heavens towork their will. They would gladly have contented themselves with silentprotest, feeling, perhaps, a vague presentiment that their divinitieswere dead, and that there was nothing left for them to do but rejointhem. Even at this period of confusion, when the catastrophe of 1848 wascalculated to give them a momentary hope of the return of the Bourbons, they showed themselves spiritless and indifferent, speaking of rushinginto the melee, yet never quitting their hearths without a pang ofregret. 

The clergy battled indefatigably against this feeling of impotence andresignation. They infused a kind of passion into their work: a priest, when he despairs, struggles all the more fiercely. The fundamentalpolicy of the Church is to march straight forward; even though shemay have to postpone the accomplishment of her projects for severalcenturies, she never wastes a single hour, but is always pushing forwardwith increasing energy. So it was the clergy who led the reaction ofPlassans; the nobility only lent them their name, nothing more. Thepriests hid themselves behind the nobles, restrained them, directedthem, and even succeeded in endowing them with a semblance of life. Whenthey had induced them to overcome their repugnance so far as to makecommon cause with the middle classes, they believed themselves certainof victory. The ground was marvellously well prepared. This ancientroyalist town, with its population of peaceful householders and timoroustradespeople, was destined to range itself, sooner or later, on the sideof law and order. The clergy, by their tactics, hastened the conversion. After gaining the landlords of the new town to their side, they evensucceeded in convincing the little retail-dealers of the old quarter. From that time the reactionary movement obtained complete possession ofthe town. All opinions were represented in this reaction; such a mixtureof embittered Liberals, Legitimists, Orleanists, Bonapartists, andClericals had never before been seen. It mattered little, however, atthat time. The sole object was to kill the Republic; and the Republicwas at the point of death. Only a fraction of the people--a thousandworkmen at most, out of the ten thousand souls in the town--stillsaluted the tree of liberty planted in the middle of the square in frontof the Sub-Prefecture. 

The shrewdest politicians of Plassans, those who led the reactionarymovement, did not scent the approach of the Empire until very muchlater. Prince Louis Napoleon's popularity seemed to them a mere passingfancy of the multitude. His person inspired them with but littleadmiration. They reckoned him a nonentity, a dreamer, incapable oflaying 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 clearthe way for them, and whom they would turn out as soon as the hourarrived for the rightful Pretender to show himself. [*] However, monthswent by, and they became uneasy. It was only then that they vaguelyperceived they were being duped: they had no time, however, to take anysteps; the Coup d'Etat burst over their heads, and they were compelledto applaud. That great abomination, the Republic, had been assassinated;that, at least, was some sort of triumph. So the clergy and the nobilityaccepted accomplished facts with resignation; postponing, untillater, the realisation of their hopes, and making amends for theirmiscalculations by uniting with the Bonapartists for the purpose ofcrushing 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 toeminence on the ruins of liberty. These bandits had been lying in waitto rob the Republic; as soon as it had been strangled, they helped toplunder it. 

After the events of February 1848, Felicite, who had the keenest scentof all the members of the family, perceived that they were at last onthe right track. So she began to flutter round her husband, goadinghim on to bestir himself. The first rumours of the Revolution that hadoverturned King Louis Philippe had terrified Pierre. When his wife, however, made him understand that they had little to lose and much togain 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 seemsto me that there's plenty to be done. Did not Monsieur de Carnavant sayto us one day that he would be rich if ever Henri V. Should return, andthat this sovereign would magnificently recompense those who had workedfor his restoration? Perhaps our fortune lies in that direction. We mayyet be lucky. "

The Marquis de Carnavant, the nobleman who, according to the scandaloustalk of the town, had been on very familiar terms with Felicite'smother, used occasionally to visit the Rougons. Evil tongues assertedthat Madame Rougon resembled him. He was a little, lean, active man, seventy-five years old at that time, and Felicite certainly appeared tobe taking his features and manner as she grew older. It was said thatthe wreck of his fortune, which had already been greatly diminished byhis father at the time of the Emigration, had been squandered on women. Indeed, he cheerfully acknowledged his poverty. Brought up by one ofhis relatives, the Count de Valqueyras, he lived the life of a parasite, eating at the count's table and occupying a small apartment just underhis roof. 

"Little one, " he would often say to Felicite, as he patted her onthe cheek, "if ever Henri V. Gives me a fortune, I will make you myheiress!"

He still called Felicite "little one, " even when she was fifty yearsold. It was of these friendly pats, of these repeated promises of aninheritance, that Madame Rougon was thinking when she endeavouredto drive her husband into politics. Monsieur de Carnavant had oftenbitterly lamented his inability to render her any assistance. Nodoubt he would treat her like a father if ever he should acquire someinfluence. Pierre, to whom his wife half explained the situation inveiled terms, declared his readiness to move in any direction indicated. 

The marquis's peculiar position qualified him to act as an energeticagent of the reactionary movement at Plassans from the first days of theRepublic. This bustling little man, who had everything to gain from thereturn of his legitimate sovereigns, worked assiduously for their cause. While the wealthy nobility of the Saint-Marc quarter were slumbering inmute despair, fearing, perhaps that they might compromise themselves andagain be condemned to exile, he multiplied himself, as it were, spreadthe propaganda and rallied faithful ones together. He was a weapon whosehilt was held by an invisible hand. From that time forward he paid dailyvisits to the Rougons. He required a centre of operations. His relative, Monsieur de Valqueyras, had forbidden him to bring any of his associatesinto his house, so he had chosen Felicite's yellow drawing-room. Moreover, he very soon found Pierre a valuable assistant. He could notgo himself and preach the cause of Legitimacy to the petty traders andworkmen of the old quarter; they would have hooted him. Pierre, on theother hand, who had lived among these people, spoke their language andknew their wants, was able to catechise them in a friendly way. He thusbecame an indispensable man. In less than a fortnight the Rougons weremore determined royalists than the king himself. The marquis, perceivingPierre's zeal, shrewdly sheltered himself behind him. What was the useof making himself conspicuous, when a man with such broad shoulders waswilling to bear on them the burden of all the follies of a party? Heallowed Pierre to reign, puff himself out with importance and speakwith authority, content to restrain or urge him on, according tothe necessities of the cause. Thus, the old oil-dealer soon became apersonage of mark. In the evening, when they were alone, Felicite usedto say to him: "Go on, don't be frightened. We're on the right track. Ifthis continues we shall be rich; we shall have a drawing-room like thetax-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-roomto declaim against the Republic. 

Among those who came were three or four retired merchants who trembledfor their money, and clamoured with all their might for a wise andstrong government. An old almond-dealer, a member of the MunicipalCouncil, Monsieur Isidore Granoux, was the head of this group. Hishare-lipped mouth was cloven a little way from the nose; his round eyes, his air of mingled satisfaction and astonishment, made him resemble afat goose whose digestion is attended by wholesome terror of the cook. He spoke little, having no command of words; and he only pricked uphis ears when anyone accused the Republicans of wishing to pillage thehouses of the rich; whereupon he would colour up to such a degree asto make one fear an approaching apoplectic fit, and mutter lowimprecations, 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 aplump, insinuating face, used to discourse there for hours altogether, with all the passion of an Orleanist whose calculations had been upsetby 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 hadmade his son a magistrate, relying on the Orleanist party to promote himto the highest dignities. The revolution having ruined all his hopes, hehad rushed wildly into the reaction. His fortune, his former commercialrelations with the Tuileries, which he transformed into friendlyintercourse, that prestige which is enjoyed by every man in theprovinces who has made his money in Paris and deigns to come and spendit 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 wascertainly Commander Sicardot, Aristide's father-in-law. Of Herculeanframe, with a brick-red face, scarred and planted with tufts of greyhair, he was one of the most glorious old dolts of the Grande Armee. During the February Revolution he had been exasperated with thestreet warfare and never wearied of referring to it, proclaiming withindignation that this kind of fighting was shameful: whereupon herecalled with pride the grand reign of Napoleon. 

Another person seen at the Rougons' house was an individual with clammyhands and equivocal look, one Monsieur Vuillet, a bookseller, whosupplied all the devout ladies of the town with holy images androsaries. Vuillet dealt in both classical and religious works; he wasa strict Catholic, a circumstance which insured him the custom of thenumerous convents and parish churches. Further, by a stroke of genius hehad added to his business the publication of a little bi-weeklyjournal, the "Gazette de Plassans, " which was devoted exclusively tothe interests of the clergy. This paper involved an annual loss of athousand francs, but it made him the champion of the Church, and enabledhim to dispose of his sacred unsaleable stock. Though he was virtuallyilliterate and could not even spell correctly, he himself wrote thearticles of the "Gazette" with a humility and rancour that compensatedfor his lack of talent. The marquis, in entering on the campaign, hadperceived immediately the advantage that might be derived from theco-operation of this insipid sacristan with the coarse, mercenary pen. After the February Revolution the articles in the "Gazette" containedfewer mistakes; the marquis revised them. 

One can now imagine what a singular spectacle the Rougons' yellowdrawing-room presented every evening. All opinions met there to bark atthe Republic. Their hatred of that institution made them agree together. The marquis, who never missed a meeting, appeased by his presence thelittle squabbles which occasionally arose between the commander andthe other adherents. These plebeians were inwardly flattered by thehandshakes which he distributed on his arrival and departure. Roudier, however, like a free-thinker of the Rue Saint-Honore, asserted that themarquis had not a copper to bless himself with, and was disposed to makelight of him. M. De Carnavant on his side preserved the amiable smile ofa nobleman lowering himself to the level of these middle class people, without making any of those contemptuous grimaces which any otherresident of the Saint-Marc quarter would have thought fit under suchcircumstances. The parasite life he had led had rendered him supple. Hewas the life and soul of the group, commanding in the name of unknownpersonages whom he never revealed. "They want this, they don't wantthat, " he would say. The concealed divinities who thus watched overthe destinies of Plassans from behind some cloud, without appearing tointerfere directly in public matters, must have been certain priests, the great political agents of the country. When the marquis pronouncedthat mysterious word "they, " which inspired the assembly with suchmarvellous 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 peoplecoming to her drawing-room. It was true she felt a little ashamed of herold yellow velvet furniture. She consoled herself, however, thinkingof the rich things she would purchase when the good cause should havetriumphed. The Rougons had, in the end, regarded their royalism as veryserious. 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 inthe monarchy of July. This was her mode of giving a political tinge totheir poverty. She had a friendly word for everybody, even for Granoux, inventing each evening some new polite method of waking him up when itwas time for departure. 

The drawing-room, that little band of Conservatives belonging toall parties, and daily increasing in numbers, soon wielded powerfulinfluence. Owing to the diversified characters of its members, andespecially to the secret impulse which each one received from theclergy, it became the centre of the reactionary movement and spread itsinfluence throughout Plassans. The policy of the marquis, who sank hisown personality, transformed Rougon into the leader of the party. Themeetings were held at his house, and this circumstance sufficed in theeyes of most people to make him the head of the group, and draw publicattention to him. The whole work was attributed to him; he was believedto be the chief artisan of the movement which was gradually bringingover to the Conservative party those who had lately been enthusiasticRepublicans. There are some situations which benefit only persons of badrepute. These lay the foundations of their fortune where men of betterposition and more influence would never dare to risk theirs. Roudier, Granoux, and the others, all men of means and respectability, certainlyseemed a thousand times preferable to Pierre as the acting leaders ofthe Conservative party. But none of them would have consented to turnhis drawing-room into a political centre. Their convictions did not goso far as to induce them to compromise themselves openly; in fact, theywere only so many provincial babblers, who liked to inveigh against theRepublic at a neighbour's house as long as the neighbour was willing tobear the responsibility of their chatter. The game was too risky. Therewas no one among the middle classes of Plassans who cared to play itexcept the Rougons, whose ungratified longings urged them on to extrememeasures. 

In the month of April, 1849, Eugene suddenly left Paris, and came tostay with his father for a fortnight. Nobody ever knew the purpose ofthis journey. It is probable that Eugene wanted to sound his nativetown, to ascertain whether he might successfully stand as a candidatefor the legislature which was about to replace the Constituent Assembly. He was too shrewd to risk a failure. No doubt public opinion appeared tohim little in his favour, for he abstained from any attempt. It was notknown at Plassans what had become of him in Paris, what he was doingthere. On his return to his native place, folks found him less heavy andsomnolent than formerly. They surrounded him and endeavoured to make himspeak out concerning the political situation. But he feigned ignoranceand compelled them to talk. A little perspicacity would have detectedthat beneath his apparent unconcern there was great anxiety with regardto the political opinions of the town. However, he seemed to be soundingthe ground more on behalf of a party than on his own account. 

Although he had renounced all hope for himself, he remained at Plassansuntil the end of the month, assiduously attending the meetings in theyellow drawing-room. As soon as the bell rang, announcing the firstvisitor, he would take up his position in one of the window recesses asfar as possible from the lamp. And he remained there the wholeevening, resting his chin on the palm of his right hand, and listeningreligiously. The greatest absurdities did not disturb his equanimity. He nodded approval even to the wild grunts of Granoux. When anyone askedhim his own opinion, he politely repeated that of the majority. Nothingseemed to tire his patience, neither the hollow dreams of the marquis, who spoke of the Bourbons as if 1815 were a recent date, nor theeffusions of citizen Roudier, who grew quite pathetic when he recountedhow many pairs of socks he had supplied to the citizen king, LouisPhilippe. On the contrary, he seemed quite at his ease in this Tower ofBabel. Sometimes, when these grotesque personages were storming againstthe Republic, his eyes would smile, while his lips retained theirexpression of gravity. His meditative manner of listening, and hisinvariable complacency, had earned him the sympathy of everyone. He wasconsidered a nonentity, but a very decent fellow. Whenever an old oil oralmond dealer failed to get a hearing, amidst the clamour, for some planby which he could save France if he were only a master, he took himselfoff to Eugene and shouted his marvellous suggestions in his ear. AndEugene gently nodded his head, as though delighted with the grandprojects he was listening to. Vuillet, alone, regarded him with asuspicious eye. This bookseller, half-sacristan and half-journalist, spoke less than the others, but was more observant. He had noticedthat Eugene occasionally conversed at times in a corner with CommanderSicardot. So he determined to watch them, but never succeeded inoverhearing a word. Eugene silenced the commander by a wink wheneverVuillet approached them. From that time, Sicardot never spoke of theNapoleons without a mysterious smile. 

Two days before his return to Paris, Eugene met his brother Aristide, onthe Cours Sauvaire, and the latter accompanied him for a short distancewith the importunity of a man in search of advice. As a matter of fact, Aristide was in great perplexity. Ever since the proclamation of theRepublic, he had manifested the most lively enthusiasm for the newgovernment. His intelligence, sharpened by two years' stay at Paris, enabled him to see farther than the thick heads of Plassans. He divinedthe powerlessness of the Legitimists and Orleanists, without clearlydistinguishing, however, what third thief would come and juggle theRepublic away. At all hazard he had ranged himself on the side of thevictors, and he had severed his connection with his father, whom hepublicly denounced as an old fool, an old dolt whom the nobility hadbamboozled. 

"Yet my mother is an intelligent woman, " he would add. "I should neverhave thought her capable of inducing her husband to join a party whosehopes are simply chimerical. They are taking the right course to endtheir lives in poverty. But then women know nothing about politics. "

For his part he wanted to sell himself as dearly as possible. His greatanxiety as to the direction in which the wind was blowing, so that hemight invariably range himself on the side of that party, which, inthe hour of triumph, would be able to reward him munificently. Unfortunately, he was groping in the dark. Shut up in his far awayprovince, without a guide, without any precise information, he feltquite lost. While waiting for events to trace out a sure and certainpath, he preserved the enthusiastic republican attitude which he hadassumed from the very first day. Thanks to this demeanour, he remainedat 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 whichhe became one of the most energetic contributors. Under his impulse the"Independant" waged merciless warfare against the reactionaries. But thecurrent gradually carried him further than he wished to go; he ended bywriting inflammatory articles, which made him shudder when he re-perusedthem. It was remarked at Plassans that he directed a series of attacksagainst all whom his father was in the habit of receiving of an eveningin his famous yellow drawing-room. The fact is that the wealth ofRoudier and Granoux exasperated Aristide to such a degree as to make himforget 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 greatconsternation. He confessed to himself that his brother was a skilfulman. According to him, that big, drowsy fellow always slept with oneeye open, like a cat lying in wait before a mouse-hole. And now here wasEugene spending entire evenings in the yellow drawing-room, and devotinghimself to those same grotesque personages whom he, Aristide, had somercilessly ridiculed. When he discovered from the gossip of the townthat his brother shook hands with Granoux and the marquis, he askedhimself, with considerable anxiety, what was the meaning of it? Could hehimself have been deceived? Had the Legitimists or the Orleanistsreally any chance of success? The thought terrified him. He lost hisequilibrium, and, as frequently happens, he fell upon the Conservativeswith increased rancour, as if to avenge his own blindness. 

On the evening prior to the day when he stopped Eugene on the CoursSauvaire, he had published, in the "Independant, " a terrible articleon the intrigues of the clergy, in response to a short paragraph fromVuillet, who had accused the Republicans of desiring to demolish thechurches. Vuillet was Aristide's bugbear. Never a week passed but thesetwo journalists exchanged the greatest insults. In the provinces, where a periphrastic style is still cultivated, polemics are clothed inhigh-sounding phrases. Aristide called his adversary "brother Judas, "or "slave of Saint-Anthony. " Vuillet gallantly retorted by terming theRepublican "a monster glutted with blood whose ignoble purveyor was theguillotine. "

In order to sound his brother, Aristide, who did not dare to appearopenly uneasy, contented himself with asking: "Did you read my articleyesterday? 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; "youbelieve 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 towardshim, he experienced sudden mistrust. "Vuillet has his good points, " hecalmly replied. 

On parting from his brother, Aristide felt more perplexed than before. Eugene must certainly have been making game of him, for Vuillet wasreally the most abominable person imaginable. However, he determined tobe prudent and not tie himself down any more; for he wished to have hishands free should he ever be called upon to help any party in stranglingthe Republic. 

Eugene, on the morning of his departure, an hour before getting into thediligence, took his father into the bedroom and had a long conversationwith him. Felicite, who remained in the drawing-room, vainly tried tocatch what they were saying. They spoke in whispers, as if they fearedlest a single word should be heard outside. When at last they quittedthe bedroom they seemed in high spirits. After kissing his father andmother, Eugene, who usually spoke in a drawling tone, exclaimed withvivacity: "You have understood me, father? There lies our fortune. Wemust work with all our energy in that direction. Trust in me. "

"I'll follow your instructions faithfully, " Rougon replied. "Only don'tforget 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 directionwhich events may take. Mind, no panic or excitement. You must obey meimplicitly. "

"What have you been plotting there?" Felicite asked inquisitively. 

"My dear mother, " Eugene replied with a smile, "you have had toolittle faith in me thitherto to induce me to confide in you my hopes, particularly as at present they are only based on probabilities. Tobe able to understand me you would require faith. However, father willinform you when the right time comes. "

Then, as Felicite assumed the demeanour of a woman who feels somewhatpiqued, he added in her ear, as he kissed her once more: "I take afteryou, although you disowned me. Too much intelligence would be dangerousat the present moment. When the crisis comes, it is you who will have tomanage the business. "

He then quitted the room, but, suddenly re-opening the door, exclaimedin an imperious tone: "Above all things, do not trust Aristide; he is amar-all, who would spoil everything. I have studied him sufficiently tofeel certain that he will always fall on his feet. Don't have anypity; if we make a fortune, he'll know well enough how to rob us of hisshare. "

When Eugene had gone, Felicite endeavoured to ferret out the secret thatwas being hidden from her. She knew her husband too well to interrogatehim openly. He would have angrily replied that it was no business ofhers. In spite, however, of the clever tactics she pursued, she learntabsolutely nothing. Eugene had chosen a good confidant for thosetroubled times, when the greatest discretion was necessary. Pierre, flattered by his son's confidence, exaggerated that passive ponderositywhich made him so impenetrable. When Felicite saw she would not learnanything from him, she ceased to flutter round him. On one point onlydid she remain inquisitive, but in this respect her curiosity wasintense. The two men had mentioned a price stipulated by Pierre himself. What could that price be? This after all was the sole point of interestfor Felicite, who did not care a rap for political matters. She knewthat her husband must have sold himself dearly, but she was burning toknow the nature of the bargain. One evening, when they had gone to bed, finding Pierre in a good humour, she brought the conversation round tothe discomforts of their poverty. 

"It's quite time to put an end to this, " she said. "We have been ruiningourselves 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 hiswife's eyes and added: "Would you be glad to be the wife of a receiverof taxes?"

Felicite's face flushed with a joyous glow. She sat up in bed andclapped her old withered little hands like a child. 

"Really?" she stammered. "At Plassans?"

Pierre, without replying, gave a long affirmative nod. He enjoyed hisconsort's astonishment and emotion. 

"But, " she at last resumed, half sitting, "you would have to depositan enormous sum as security. I have heard that our neighbour, MonsieurPeirotte, had to deposit eighty thousand francs with the Treasury. "

"Eh!" said the retired oil-dealer, "that's nothing to do with me; Eugenewill 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 atfirst made a wry face, saying one must be rich to occupy such posts, towhich influential men were usually nominated. I persisted, however, andhe yielded. To be a receiver of taxes one need not know either Greekor Latin. I shall have a representative, like Monsieur Peirotte, and hewill do all the work. "

Felicite listened to him with rapture. 

"I guessed, however, " he continued, "what it was that worried our dearson. We're not much liked here. People know that we have no means, andwill make themselves obnoxious. But all sorts of things occur in atime 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 havesuffered here, and here we must triumph. Ah! I'll crush them all, thosefine ladies on the Mail, who scornfully eye my woollen dresses! I didn'tthink of the appointment of receiver of taxes at all; I thought youwanted to become mayor. "

"Mayor! Nonsense. That appointment is honorary. Eugene also mentionedthe mayoralty to me. I replied: 'I'll accept, if you give me an incomeof fifteen thousand francs. '"

This conversation, in which high figures flew about like rockets, quiteexcited Felicite. She felt delightfully buoyant. But at last she put ona devout air, and gravely said: "Come, let us reckon it out. How muchwill you earn?"

"Well, " said Pierre, "the fixed salary, I believe, is three thousandfrancs. "

"Three thousand, " Felicite counted. 

"Then there is so much per cent on the receipts, which at Plassans, mayproduce the sum of twelve thousand francs. "

"That makes fifteen thousand. "

"Yes, about fifteen thousand francs. That's what Peirotte earns. That'snot 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 feelluck 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 manyof those gentlemen. Are the marquis and the others going to share thecake with you?"

"No, no; it will be all for us, " he replied. 

Then, as she continued to importune him with her questions, Pierrefrowned, thinking that she wanted to wrest his secret from him. "We'vetalked enough, " he said, abruptly. "It's late, let us go to sleep. Itwill bring us bad luck to count our chickens beforehand. I haven't gotthe place yet. Above all things, be prudent. "

When the lamp was extinguished, Felicite could not sleep. With her eyesclosed she built the most marvellous castles in the air. Those twentythousand francs a year danced a diabolical dance before her in thedarkness. She occupied splendid apartments in the new town, enjoyed thesame luxuries as Monsieur Peirotte, gave parties, and bespattered thewhole place with her wealth. That, however, which tickled her vanitymost was the high position that her husband would then occupy. He wouldpay their state dividends to Granoux, Roudier, and all those people whonow came to her house as they might come to a cafe, to swagger and learnthe latest news. She had noticed the free-and-easy manner in which thesepeople entered her drawing-room, and it had made her take a dislike tothem. Even the marquis, with his ironical politeness, was beginningto displease her. To triumph alone, therefore, to keep the cakefor themselves, as she expressed it, was a revenge which she fondlycherished. Later on, when all those ill-bred persons presentedthemselves, hats off, before Monsieur Rougon the receiver of taxes, she would crush them in her turn. She was busy with these thoughts allnight; and on the morrow, as she opened the shutters, she instinctivelycast her first glance across the street towards Monsieur Peirotte'shouse, and smiled as she contemplated the broad damask curtains hangingin the windows. 

Felicite's hopes, in becoming modified, had grown yet more intense. Likeall women, she did not object to a tinge of mystery. The secret objectthat her husband was pursuing excited her far more than the Legitimistintrigues of Monsieur de Carnavant had ever done. She abandoned, withoutmuch regret, the calculations she had based on the marquis's successnow that her husband declared he would be able to make large profitsby other means. She displayed, moreover, remarkable prudence anddiscretion. 

In reality, she was still tortured by anxious curiosity; she studiedPierre's slightest actions, endeavouring to discover their meaning. What if by chance he were following the wrong track? What if Eugene weredragging them in his train into some break-neck pit, whence they wouldemerge yet more hungry and impoverished? However, faith was dawningon her. Eugene had commanded with such an air of authority that sheultimately came to believe in him. In this case again some unknown powerwas at work. Pierre would speak mysteriously of the high personages whomtheir eldest son visited in Paris. For her part she did not know whathe could have to do with them, but on the other hand she was unable toclose her eyes to Aristide's ill-advised acts at Plassans. Thevisitors to her drawing-room did not scruple to denounce the democraticjournalist with extreme severity. Granoux muttered that he was abrigand, and Roudier would three or four times a week repeat toFelicite: "Your son is writing some fine articles. Only yesterday heattacked our friend Vuillet with revolting scurrility. "

The whole room joined in the chorus, and Commander Sicardot spoke ofboxing his son-in-law's ears, while Pierre flatly disowned him. The poormother hung her head, restraining her tears. For an instant she feltan 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 puttogether. But she was tied down, and did not wish to compromise theposition they had so laboriously attained. Seeing the whole town sobitter against Aristide, she despaired of his future, thinking he washopelessly ruining himself. On two occasions she spoke to him insecret, imploring him to return to them, and not to irritate the yellowdrawing-room any further. Aristide replied that she did not understandsuch matters; that she was the one who had committed a great blunder inplacing her husband at the service of the marquis. So she had to abandonher son to his own courses, resolving, however that if Eugene succeededshe would compel him to share the spoils with the poor fellow who washer favourite child. 

After the departure of his eldest son, Pierre Rougon pursued hisreactionary intrigues. Nothing seemed to have changed in the opinions ofthe famous yellow drawing-room. Every evening the same men came to joinin the same propaganda in favour of the establishment of a monarchy, while the master of the house approved and aided them with as much zealas 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 theletter of the President of the Republic to General Oudinot, in whichthe siege of Rome had been decided upon. This letter was regarded as abrilliant victory, due to the firm demeanour of the reactionary party. Since 1848 the Chambers had been discussing the Roman question; but ithad been reserved for a Bonaparte to stifle a rising Republic by an actof intervention which France, if free, would never have countenanced. The marquis declared, however, that one could not better promote thecause of legitimacy, and Vuillet wrote a superb article on the matter. The enthusiasm became unbounded when, a month later, Commander Sicardotentered the Rougons' house one evening and announced to the companythat the French army was fighting under the walls of Rome. Then, whileeverybody was raising exclamations at this news, he went up to Pierre, and shook hands with him in a significant manner. And when he had takena 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 themarquis, "and let him then understand his duty by restoring it to itslegitimate masters. "

Pierre seemed to approve this fine retort, and having thus givenproof of his ardent royalism, he ventured to remark that Prince LouisBonaparte had his entire sympathy in the matter. He thereupon exchangeda few short sentences with the commander, commending the excellentintentions of the President, which sentences one might have thoughtprepared and learnt beforehand. Bonapartism now, for the first time, made its entry into the yellow drawing-room. It is true that since theelection of December 10 the Prince had been treated there with a certainamount of consideration. He was preferred a thousand times to Cavaignac, and the whole reactionary party had voted for him. But they regardedhim rather as an accomplice than a friend; and, as such, they distrustedhim, and even began to accuse him of a desire to keep for himselfthe chestnuts which he had pulled out of the fire. On that particularevening, however, owing to the fighting at Rome, they listened withfavour to the praises of Pierre and the commander. 

The group led by Granoux and Roudier already demanded that the Presidentshould order all republican rascals to be shot; while the marquis, leaning against the mantelpiece, gazed meditatively at a faded rose onthe carpet. When he at last lifted his head, Pierre, who had furtivelywatched his countenance as if to see the effect of his words, suddenlyceased speaking. However, Monsieur de Carnavant merely smiled andglanced at Felicite with a knowing look. This rapid by-play was notobserved by the other people. Vuillet alone remarked in a sharp tone:

"I would rather see your Bonaparte at London than at Paris. Our affairswould get along better then. "

At this the old oil-dealer turned slightly pale, fearing that he hadgone too far. "I'm not anxious to retain 'my' Bonaparte, " he said, withsome 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 itas the basis of secret study. The marquis's smile, the significance ofwhich escaped her, set her thinking. 

From that day forward, Rougon, at distant intervals, whenever theoccasion offered, slipped in a good word for the President of theRepublic. On such evenings, Commander Sicardot acted the part of awilling accomplice. At the same time, Clerical opinions still reignedsupreme in the yellow drawing-room. It was more particularly inthe following year that this group of reactionaries gained decisiveinfluence in the town, thanks to the retrograde movement which was goingon at Paris. All those anti-Liberal laws which the country called "theRoman expedition at home" definitively secured the triumph of the Rougonfaction. The last enthusiastic bourgeois saw the Republic tottering, andhastened to rally round the Conservatives. Thus the Rougons' hour hadarrived; the new town almost gave them an ovation on the day when thetree of Liberty, planted on the square before the Sub-Prefecture, wassawed down. This tree, a young poplar brought from the banks of theViorne, had gradually withered, much to the despair of the republicanworking-men, who would come every Sunday to observe the progress ofthe decay without being able to comprehend the cause of it. A hatter'sapprentice at last asserted that he had seen a woman leave Rougon'shouse and pour a pail of poisoned water at the foot of the tree. Itthenceforward became a matter of history that Felicite herself got upevery night to sprinkle the poplar with vitriol. When the tree was deadthe Municipal Council declared that the dignity of the Republic requiredits removal. For this, as they feared the displeasure of the workingclasses, they selected an advanced hour of the night. However, theconservative householders of the new town got wind of the littleceremony, and all came down to the square before the Sub-Prefecture inorder to see how the tree of Liberty would fall. The frequenters of theyellow drawing-room stationed themselves at the windows there. When thepoplar cracked and fell with a thud in the darkness, as tragically rigidas some mortally stricken hero, Felicite felt bound to wave a whitehandkerchief. This induced the crowd to applaud, and many responded tothe salute by waving their handkerchiefs likewise. A group of peopleeven came under the window shouting: "We'll bury it, we'll bury it. "

They meant the Republic, no doubt. Such was Felicite's emotion, thatshe almost had a nervous attack. It was a fine evening for the yellowdrawing-room. 

However, the marquis still looked at Felicite with the same mysterioussmile. This little old man was far too shrewd to be ignorant of whitherFrance was tending. He was among the first to scent the coming of theEmpire. When the Legislative Assembly, later on, exhausted its energiesin useless squabbling, when the Orleanists and the Legitimists tacitlyaccepted the idea of the Coup d'Etat, he said to himself that thegame was definitely lost. In fact, he was the only one who saw thingsclearly. Vuillet certainly felt that the cause of Henry V. , which hispaper defended, was becoming detestable; but it mattered little to him;he was content to be the obedient creature of the clergy; his entirepolicy was framed so as to enable him to dispose of as many rosaries andsacred images as possible. As for Roudier and Granoux, they lived ina state of blind scare; it was not certain whether they really had anyopinions; all that they desired was to eat and sleep in peace; theirpolitical aspirations went no further. The marquis, though he had biddenfarewell to his hopes, continued to come to the Rougons' as regularly asever. He enjoyed himself there. The clash of rival ambitions amongthe middle classes, and the display of their follies, had become anextremely amusing spectacle to him. He shuddered at the thought of againshutting himself in the little room which he owed to the beneficence ofthe Count de Valqueyras. With a kind of malicious delight, he kept tohimself the conviction that the Bourbons' hour had not yet arrived. Hefeigned blindness, working as hitherto for the triumph of Legitimacy, and still remaining at the orders of the clergy and nobility, thoughfrom 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 alonein the drawing-room. "Well! little one, " he asked, with his smilingfamiliarity, "are your affairs going on all right? Why the deuce do youmake such mysteries with me?"

"I'm not hiding anything from you, " Felicite replied, somewhatperplexed. 

"Come, do you think you can deceive an old fox like me, eh? My dearchild, treat me as a friend. I'm quite ready to help you secretly. Comenow, be frank!"

A bright idea struck Felicite. She had nothing to tell; but perhaps shemight find out something if she kept quiet. 

"Why do you smile?" Monsieur de Carnavant resumed. "That's the beginningof a confession, you know. I suspected that you must be behind yourhusband. Pierre is too stupid to invent the pretty treason you arehatching. I sincerely hope the Bonapartists will give you what I shouldhave asked for you from the Bourbons. "

This single sentence confirmed the suspicions which the old woman hadentertained 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 marquislaughingly replied. "I've donned my mourning over it, little one. I'msimply 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 tofind the right track without me, I shall feel some consolation in seeingyou triumph amidst my own defeat. Above all things, don't make any moremysteries. 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 anundertone. "You see, little one, the great art of politics consists inhaving a pair of good eyes when other people are blind. You hold all thebest cards in the pack. "

On the following day, Felicite, incited by this conversation, desiredto make sure on the matter. They were then in the first days of the year1851. For more than eighteen months, Rougon had been in the habit ofreceiving a letter from his son Eugene regularly every fortnight. Hewould shut himself in the bedroom to read these letters, which he thenhid at the bottom of an old secretaire, the key of which he carefullykept in his waistcoat pocket. Whenever his wife questioned him abouttheir son he would simply answer: "Eugene writes that he is going onall right. " Felicite had long since thought of laying hands on her son'sletters. So early on the morning after her chat with the marquis, whilePierre was still asleep, she got up on tiptoes, took the key of thesecretaire from her husband's waistcoat and substituted in its placethat of the chest of drawers, which was of the same size. Then, as soonas 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 wereconfirmed. There were about forty letters, which enabled her to followthe course of that great Bonapartist movement which was to terminate inthe second Empire. The letters constituted a sort of concise journal, narrating events as they occurred, and drawing hopes and suggestionsfrom each of them. Eugene was full of faith. He described Prince LouisBonaparte to his father as the predestined necessary man who alone couldunravel the situation. He had believed in him prior even to his returnto France, at a time when Bonapartism was treated as a ridiculouschimera. Felicite understood that her son had been a very active secretagent since 1848. Although he did not clearly explain his position inParis, it was evident that he was working for the Empire, underthe orders of personages whose names he mentioned with a sort offamiliarity. Each of his letters gave information as to the progress ofthe cause, to which an early denouement was foreshadowed; and usuallyconcluded by pointing out the line of action that Pierre should pursueat Plassans. Felicite could now comprehend certain words and acts ofher husband, whose significance had previously escaped her; Pierre wasobeying his son, and blindly following his recommendations. 

When the old woman had finished reading, she was convinced. Eugene'sentire thoughts were clearly revealed to her. He reckoned upon makinghis political fortune in the squabble, and repaying his parents the debthe owed them for his education, by throwing them a scrap of the prey assoon as the quarry was secured. However small the assistance his fathermight render to him and to the cause, it would not be difficult to gethim appointed receiver of taxes. Nothing would be refused to one wholike Eugene had steeped his hands in the most secret machinations. Hisletters were simply a kind attention on his part, a device to preventthe Rougons from committing any act of imprudence, for which Felicitefelt deeply grateful. She read certain passages of the letters twiceover, notably those in which Eugene spoke, in vague terms, of "a finalcatastrophe. " This catastrophe, the nature or bearings of which shecould not well conceive became a sort of end of the world for her. Godwould range the chosen ones on His right hand and the damned on Hisleft, and she placed herself among the former. 

When she succeeded in replacing the key in her husband's waistcoatpocket on the following night, she made up her mind to employ the sameexpedient 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 appearedto render it unconsciously. When Pierre thought he was working aloneit was she who brought the conversation round to the desired topic, recruiting partisans for the decisive moment. She felt hurt at Eugene'sdistrust 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 thevictory. " Never did an accomplice make less noise or work harder. Themarquis, 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 ofthe "Independant" alarmed her all the more. She longed to convert theunfortunate republican to Napoleonist ideas; but she did not know howto accomplish this in a discreet manner. She recalled the emphasis withwhich Eugene had told them to be on their guard against Aristide. Atlast she submitted the matter to Monsieur de Carnavant, who was entirelyof the same opinion. 

"Little one, " he said to her, "in politics one must know how to lookafter 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 partya rude blow. The 'Independant' has already been condemned, its titlealone suffices to enrage the middle classes of Plassans. Let dearAristide flounder about; this only moulds young people. He does notappear to me to be cut out for carrying on the role of a martyr for anylength 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 evensought to convert her son Pascal. The doctor, with the egotism of ascientist immersed in his researches, gave little heed to politics. Empires might fall while he was making an experiment, yet he would nothave deigned to turn his head. He at last yielded, however, to certainimportunities of his mother, who accused him more than ever of livinglike an unsociable churl. 

"If you were to go into society, " she said to him, "you would get somewell-to-do patients. Come, at least, and spend some evenings in ourdrawing-room. You will make the acquaintance of Messieurs Roudier, Granoux, and Sicardot, all gentlemen in good circumstances, who will payyou 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 tofortune, had become a form of monomania with Felicite. Pascal, in orderto be agreeable to her, came and spent a few evenings in the yellowdrawing-room. He was much less bored there than he had apprehended. Atfirst he was rather stupefied at the degree of imbecility to whichsane men can sink. The old oil and almond dealers, the marquis and thecommander even, appeared to him so many curious animals, which hehad not hitherto had an opportunity of studying. He looked with anaturalist's interest at their grimacing faces, in which he discernedtraces of their occupations and appetites; he listened also to theirinane chatter, just as he might have tried to catch the meaning ofa cat's mew or a dog's bark. At this period he was occupied withcomparative natural history, applying to the human race the observationswhich he had made upon animals with regard to the working of heredity. While he was in the yellow drawing-room, therefore, he amused himselfwith the belief that he had fallen in with a menagerie. He establishedcomparisons between the grotesque creatures he found there and certainanimals of his acquaintance. The marquis, with his leanness and smallcrafty-looking head, reminded him exactly of a long green grasshopper. Vuillet impressed him as a pale, slimy toad. He was more considerate forRoudier, 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 heheard him mutter indistinct imprecations against those blood-suckersthe Republicans, he always expected to hear him moan like a calf; andhe could never see him rise from his chair without imagining that he wasabout to leave the room on all fours. 

"Talk to them, " his mother used to say in an undertone; "try and make apractice 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 catechisehim. She was glad to see him come to her house rather assiduously. She thought him reconciled to Society, not suspecting for a moment thesingular amusement that he derived from ridiculing these rich people. She cherished the secret project of making him the fashionable doctorof Plassans. It would be sufficient if men like Granoux and Roudierconsented to give him a start. She wished, above all, to impart tohim the political views of the family, considering that a doctor hadeverything to gain by constituting himself a warm partisan of the regimewhich 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 aRepublican, because you are foolish enough to attend all the beggarsof the town without making any charge. Be frank, what are your realopinions?"

Pascal looked at his mother with naïve astonishment, then with a smilereplied: "My real opinions? I don't quite know--I am accused of being aRepublican, did you say? Very well! I don't feel at all offended. Iam undoubtedly a Republican, if you understand by that word a man whowishes the welfare of everybody. "

"But you will never attain to any position, " Felicite quicklyinterrupted. "You will be crushed. Look at your brothers, they aretrying to make their way. "

Pascal then comprehended that he was not called upon to defend hisphilosophic egotism. His mother simply accused him of not speculatingon the political situation. He began to laugh somewhat sadly, and thenturned the conversation into another channel. Felicite could neverinduce him to consider the chances of the various parties, nor to enlistin that one of them which seemed likely to carry the day. However, hestill 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 anxietyand apprehension for the politicians of Plassans, and the cause whichthe Rougons served derived advantage from this circumstance. The mostcontradictory news arrived from Paris; sometimes the Republicans werein the ascendant, sometimes the Conservative party was crushing theRepublic. The echoes of the squabbles which were rending the LegislativeAssembly reached the depths of the provinces, now in an exaggerated, nowin an attenuated form, varying so greatly as to obscure the vision ofthe most clear-sighted. The only general feeling was that a denouementwas approaching. The prevailing ignorance as to the nature of thisdenouement kept timid middle class people in a terrible state ofanxiety. Everybody wished to see the end. They were sick of uncertainty, and would have flung themselves into the arms of the Grand Turk, if hewould have deigned to save France from anarchy. 

The marquis's smile became more acute. Of an evening, in the yellowdrawing-room, when Granoux's growl was rendered indistinct by fright, hewould 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 thata decisive crisis might any day occur, had already often felt thenecessity of making herself useful, and reflected as to the manner inwhich the Rougons should employ themselves. At last she consulted themarquis. 

"It all depends upon circumstances, " the little old man replied. "If thedepartment remains quiet, if no insurrection occurs to terrify Plassans, it will be difficult for you to make yourselves conspicuous and renderany services to the new government. I advise you, in that case, toremain at home, and peacefully await the bounties of your son Eugene. But if the people rise, and our brave bourgeois think themselves indanger, there will be a fine part to play. Your husband is somewhatheavy--"

"Oh!" said Felicite, "I'll undertake to make him supple. Do you thinkthe department will revolt?"

"To my mind it's a certainty. Plassans, perhaps, will not make astir; the reaction has secured too firm a hold here for that. But theneighbouring towns, especially the small ones and the villages, havelong been worked by certain secret societies, and belong to the advancedRepublican party. If a Coup d'Etat should burst forth, the tocsin willbe heard throughout the entire country, from the forests of the Seilleto the plateau of Sainte-Roure. "

Felicite reflected. "You think, then, " she resumed, "that aninsurrection is necessary to ensure our fortune!"

"That's my opinion, " replied Monsieur de Carnavant. And he added, with aslightly ironical smile: "A new dynasty is never founded excepting uponan affray. Blood is good manure. It will be a fine thing for the Rougonsto date from a massacre, like certain illustrious families. "

These words, accompanied by a sneer, sent a cold chill throughFelicite's bones. But she was a strong-minded woman, and the sight ofMonsieur Peirotte's beautiful curtains, which she religiously viewedevery morning, sustained her courage. Whenever she felt herselfgiving way, she planted herself at the window and contemplated thetax-receiver's house. For her it was the Tuileries. She had determinedupon the most extreme measures in order to secure an entree into the newtown, that promised land, on the threshold of which she had stood withburning longing for so many years. 

The conversation which she had held with the marquis had at last clearlyrevealed the situation to her. A few days afterwards, she succeeded inreading one of Eugene's letters, in which he, who was working for theCoup d'Etat, seemed also to rely upon an insurrection as the means ofendowing his father with some importance. Eugene knew his departmentwell. All his suggestions had been framed with the object of placingas much influence as possible in the hands of the yellow drawing-roomreactionaries, so that the Rougons might be able to hold the town at thecritical moment. In accordance with his desires, the yellow drawing-roomwas master of Plassans in November, 1851. Roudier represented the richcitizens there, and his attitude would certainly decide that of theentire new town. Granoux was still more valuable; he had the MunicipalCouncil behind him: he was its most powerful member, a fact whichwill give some idea of its other members. Finally, through CommanderSicardot, whom the marquis had succeeded in getting appointed as chiefof the National Guard, the yellow drawing-room had the armed forces attheir disposal. 

The Rougons, those poor disreputable devils, had thus succeededin rallying round themselves the instruments of their own fortune. Everyone, from cowardice or stupidity, would have to obey them and workin the dark for their aggrandisement. They simply had to fear thoseother influences which might be working with the same object asthemselves, and might partially rob them of the merit of victory. Thatwas their great fear, for they wanted to reserve to themselves the roleof deliverers. They knew beforehand that they would be aided rather thanhindered by the clergy and the nobility. But if the sub-prefect, themayor, and the other functionaries were to take a step in advance and atonce stifle the insurrection they would find themselves thrown into theshade, and even arrested in their exploits; they would have neither timenor means to make themselves useful. What they longed for was completeabstention, general panic among the functionaries. If only all regularadministration should disappear, and they could dispose of the destiniesof Plassans for a single day, their fortune would be firmly established. 

Happily for them, there was not a man in the government service whoseconvictions were so firm or whose circumstances were so needy as tomake him disposed to risk the game. The sub-prefect was a man of liberalspirit whom the executive had forgetfully left at Plassans, owing, nodoubt, to the good repute of the town. Of timid character and incapableof exceeding his authority, he would no doubt be greatly embarrassed inthe presence of an insurrection. The Rougons, who knew that he was infavour of the democratic cause, and who consequently never dreaded hiszeal, were simply curious to know what attitude he would assume. As forthe municipality, this did not cause them much apprehension. The mayor, Monsieur Garconnet, was a Legitimist whose nomination had been procuredby the influence of the Saint-Marc quarter in 1849. He detested theRepublicans and treated them with undisguised disdain; but he was tooclosely united by bonds of friendship with certain members of thechurch to lend any active hand in a Bonapartist Coup d'Etat. The otherfunctionaries were in exactly the same position. The justices of thepeace, the post-master, the tax-collector, as well as Monsieur Peirotte, the chief receiver of taxes, were all indebted for their posts tothe Clerical reaction, and could not accept the Empire with any greatenthusiasm. The Rougons, though they did not quite see how they mightget rid of these people and clear the way for themselves, neverthelessindulged in sanguine hopes on finding there was little likelihood ofanybody disputing their role as deliverers. 

The denouement was drawing near. In the last few days of November, asthe rumour of a Coup d'Etat was circulating, the prince-president wasaccused of seeking the position of emperor. 

"Eh! we'll call him whatever he likes, " Granoux exclaimed, "provided hehas those Republican rascals shot!"

This exclamation from Granoux, who was believed to be asleep, causedgreat commotion. The marquis pretended not to have heard it; but allthe bourgeois nodded approval. Roudier, who, being rich, did not fear toapplaud the sentiment aloud, went so far as to declare, while glancingaskance at Monsieur de Carnavant, that the position was no longertenable, and that France must be chastised as soon as possible, nevermind by what hand. 

The marquis still maintained a silence which was interpreted asacquiescence. And thereupon the Conservative clan, abandoning the causeof Legitimacy, ventured to offer up prayers in favour of the Empire. 

"My friends, " said Commander Sicardot, rising from his seat, "only aNapoleon 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, hadconcealed, in a kind of cart-house near the ramparts, both a supply ofcartridges and a considerable number of muskets; he had also taken stepsto secure the co-operation of the National Guard, on which he believedhe could rely. His words produced a very favourable impression. On separating for the evening, the peaceful citizens of the yellowdrawing-room spoke of massacring the "Reds" if they should dare to stir. 

On December 1, Pierre Rougon received a letter from Eugene which he wentto read in his bedroom, in accordance with his prudent habit. Feliciteobserved, however, that he was very agitated when he came out again. She fluttered round the secretaire all day. When night came, she couldrestrain her impatience no longer. Her husband had scarcely fallenasleep, when she quietly got up, took the key of the secretaire fromthe waistcoat pocket, and gained possession of the letter with as littlenoise as possible. Eugene, in ten lines, warned his father that thecrisis was at hand, and advised him to acquaint his mother with thesituation of affairs. The hour for informing her had arrived; he mightstand in need of her advice. 

Felicite awaited, on the morrow, a disclosure which did not come. Shedid 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, withthat marital pride which inspires a man with the belief in his ownsuperiority at home, had ended by attributing all their past ill-luck tohis wife. From the time that he fancied he had been conducting mattersalone everything seemed to him to have gone as he desired. He haddecided, 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 wholeaffair had she not desired the triumph as ardently as Pierre. So shecontinued to work energetically for victory, while endeavouring to takeher revenge. 

"Ah! if he could only have some great fright, " thought she; "if he wouldonly commit some act of imprudence! Then I should see him come to me andhumbly ask for advice; it would be my turn to lay down the law. "

She felt somewhat uneasy at the imperious attitude Pierre wouldcertainly assume if he were to triumph without her aid. On marrying thispeasant's son, in preference to some notary's clerk, she had intended tomake use of him as a strongly made puppet, whose strings she would pullin her own way; and now, at the decisive moment, the puppet, in hisblind stupidity, wanted to work alone! All the cunning, all the feverishactivity within the old woman protested against this. She knew Pierrewas quite capable of some brutal resolve such as that which he had takenwhen he compelled his mother to sign the receipt for fifty thousandfrancs; the tool was indeed a useful and unscrupulous one; but she feltthe 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 theafternoon of December 3--a Thursday. Already, at seven o'clock in theevening, there was a full meeting in the yellow drawing-room. Althoughthe crisis had been eagerly desired, vague uneasiness appeared on thefaces of the majority. They discussed events amid endless chatter. Pierre, who like the others was slightly pale, thought it right, as anextreme measure of prudence, to excuse Prince Louis's decisive act tothe Legitimists and Orleanists who were present. 

"There is talk of an appeal to the people, " he said; "the nation willthen be free to choose whatever government it likes. The president is aman to retire before our legitimate masters. "

The marquis, who had retained his aristocratic coolness, was the onlyone who greeted these words with a smile. The others, in the enthusiasmof the moment, concerned themselves very little about what might follow. All their opinions foundered. Roudier, forgetting the esteem which as aformer shopkeeper he had entertained for the Orleanists, stopped Pierrerather abruptly. And everybody exclaimed: "Don't argue the matter. Letus 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 ofthe events in Paris. People had collected in front of the notices postedon the door of the Sub-Prefecture; it was also rumoured that a fewhundred workmen had left their work and were endeavouring to organiseresistance. That was all. No serious disturbance seemed likely to occur. The course which the neighbouring towns and rural districts might takeseemed more likely to occasion anxiety; however, it was not yet knownhow they had received the news of the Coup d'Etat. 

Granoux arrived at about nine o'clock, quite out of breath. He had justleft a sitting of the Municipal Council which had been hastily summonedtogether. Choking with emotion, he announced that the mayor, MonsieurGarconnet, had declared, while making due reserves, that he wasdetermined to preserve order by the most stringent measures. However, the intelligence which caused the noisiest chattering in the yellowdrawing-room was that of the resignation of the sub-prefect. Thisfunctionary had absolutely refused to communicate the despatches of theMinister of the Interior to the inhabitants of Plassans; he had justleft the town, so Granoux asserted, and it was thanks to the mayor thatthe messages had been posted. This was perhaps the only sub-prefect inFrance who ever had the courage of his democratic opinions. 

Although Monsieur Garconnet's firm demeanour caused the Rougonssome secret anxiety, they rubbed their hands at the flight of thesub-prefect, which left the post vacant for them. It was decided on thismemorable evening that the yellow drawing-room party should accept theCoup d'Etat and openly declare that it was in favour of accomplishedfacts. Vuillet was commissioned to write an article to that effect, andpublish it on the morrow in the "Gazette. " Neither he nor the marquisraised any objection. They had, no doubt, received instructions from themysterious individuals to whom they sometimes made pious allusions. Theclergy and the nobility were already resigned to the course of lendinga strong hand to the victors, in order to crush their common enemy, theRepublic. 

While the yellow drawing-room was deliberating on the evening inquestion, Aristide was perspiring with anxiety. Never had gambler, staking his last louis on a card, felt such anguish. During the day theresignation of his chief, the sub-prefect, had given him much matter forreflection. He had heard him repeat several times that the Coup d'Etatmust prove a failure. This functionary, endowed with a limited amount ofhonesty, believed in the final triumph of the democracy, though hehad not the courage to work for that triumph by offering resistance. Aristide was in the habit of listening at the doors of theSub-Prefecture, in order to get precise information, for he felt that hewas groping in the dark, and clung to the intelligence which he gleanedfrom the officials. The sub-prefect's opinion struck him forcibly; buthe remained perplexed. He thought to himself: "Why does the fellow goaway if he is so certain that the prince-president will meet with acheck?" However, as he was compelled to espouse one side or the other, he resolved to continue his opposition. He wrote a very hostile articleon the Coup d'Etat, and took it to the "Independant" the same eveningfor the following morning's issue. He had corrected the proofs of thisarticle, and was returning home somewhat calmed, when, as he passedalong the Rue de la Banne, he instinctively raised his head and glancedat the Rougons' windows. Their windows were brightly lighted up. 

"What can they be plotting up there?" the journalist asked himself, withanxious curiosity. 

A fierce desire to know the opinion of the yellow drawing-room withregard to recent events then assailed him. He credited this group ofreactionaries with little intelligence; but his doubts recurred, he wasin that frame of mind when one might seek advice from a child. Hecould not think of entering his father's home at that moment, after thecampaign he had waged against Granoux and the others. Nevertheless, hewent upstairs, reflecting what a singular figure he would cut if he weresurprised on the way by anyone. On reaching the Rougons' door, he couldonly catch a confused echo of voices. 

"What a child I am, " said he, "fear makes me stupid. " And he was goingto descend again, when he heard the approach of his mother, who wasabout to show somebody out. He had barely time to hide in a dark cornerformed by a little staircase leading to the garrets of the house. TheRougons' door opened, and the marquis appeared, followed by Felicite. Monsieur de Carnavant usually left before the gentlemen of the new towndid, in order no doubt to avoid having to shake hands with them in thestreet. 

"Eh! little one, " he said on the landing, in a low voice, "these men aregreater cowards than I should have thought. With such men France willalways be at the mercy of whoever dares to lay his hands upon her!"And he added, with some bitterness, as though speaking to himself: "Themonarchy is decidedly becoming too honest for modern times. Its day isover. "

"Eugene announced the crisis to his father, " replied Felicite. "PrinceLouis's triumph seems to him certain. "

"Oh, you can proceed without fear, " the marquis replied, as he descendedthe first steps. "In two or three days the country will be well boundand gagged. Good-bye till to-morrow, little one. "

Felicite closed the door again. Aristide had received quite a shock inhis dark corner. However, without waiting for the marquis to reach thestreet, he bounded down the staircase, four steps at a time, rushedoutside like a madman, and turned his steps towards the printing-officeof the "Independant. " A flood of thoughts surged through his mind. Hewas enraged, and accused his family of having duped him. What! Eugenekept his parents informed of the situation, and yet his mother had nevergiven him any of his eldest brother's letters to read, in order that hemight follow the advice given therein! And it was only now he learnt bychance that his eldest brother regarded the success of the Coup d'Etatas certain! This circumstance, moreover, confirmed certain presentimentswhich that idiot of a sub-prefect had prevented him from obeying. He wasespecially exasperated against his father, whom he had thought stupidenough to be a Legitimist, but who revealed himself as a Bonapartist atthe right moment. 

"What a lot of folly they have allowed me to perpetrate, " he muttered ashe ran along. "I'm a fine fellow now. Ah! what a lesson! Granoux is morecapable than I. "

He entered the office of the "Independant" like a hurricane, andasked for his article in a choking voice. The article had already beenimposed. He had the forme unlocked and would not rest until he hadhimself destroyed the setting, mixing the type in a furious manner, likea set of dominoes. The bookseller who managed the paper looked at himin amazement. He was, in reality, rather glad of the incident, as thearticle had seemed to him somewhat dangerous. But he was absolutelyobliged 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 theRepublic; but he had hardly written a page before he stopped and seemedat 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 againgiving way to indecision. Why should he veer round so quickly? Eugenewas an intelligent fellow, but his mother had perhaps exaggerated thesignificance of some sentence in his letter. In any case, it would bebetter 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 hisfour 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 publishto-morrow. "

On the following day the "Independant, " made up almost entirely ofmiscellaneous items of news, appeared with these few lines at the headof the first column:

"A deplorable accident which has occurred to our eminent contributorMonsieur Aristide Rougon will deprive us of his articles for sometime. He will suffer at having to remain silent in the present gravecircumstances. None of our readers will doubt, however, the good wisheswhich he offers up with patriotic feelings for the welfare of France. "

This burlesque note had been maturely studied. The last sentence mightbe interpreted in favour of all parties. By this expedient, Aristidedevised a glorious return for himself on the morrow of battle, in theshape of a laudatory article on the victors. On the following day heshowed himself to the whole town, with his arm in a sling. His mother, frightened by the notice in the paper, hastily called upon him, buthe refused to show her his hand, and spoke with a bitterness whichenlightened the old woman. 

"It won't be anything, " she said in a reassuring and somewhat sarcastictone, as she was leaving. "You only want a little rest. "

It was no doubt owing to this pretended accident, and the sub-prefect'sdeparture, that the "Independant" was not interfered with, like most ofthe democratic papers of the departments. 

The 4th day of the month proved comparatively quiet at Plassans. In theevening there was a public demonstration which the mere appearanceof the gendarmes sufficed to disperse. A band of working-men came torequest Monsieur Garconnet to communicate the despatches he had receivedfrom Paris, which the latter haughtily refused to do; as it retiredthe band shouted: "Long live the Republic! Long live the Constitution!"After this, order was restored. The yellow drawing-room, aftercommenting at some length on this innocent parade, concluded thataffairs were going on excellently. 

The 5th and 6th were, however, more disquieting. Intelligence wasreceived of successive risings in small neighbouring towns; thewhole southern part of the department had taken up arms; La Palud andSaint-Martin-de-Vaulx had been the first to rise, drawing after themthe villages of Chavanos, Nazeres, Poujols, Valqueyras and Vernoux. Theyellow drawing-room party was now becoming seriously alarmed. It feltparticularly uneasy at seeing Plassans isolated in the very midst of therevolt. Bands of insurgents would certainly scour the country and cutoff all communications. Granoux announced, with a terrified look, thatthe mayor was without any news. Some people even asserted that blood hadbeen shed at Marseilles, and that a formidable revolution had broken outin 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'clockthe yellow drawing-room, where a sort of reactionary committee sat _enpermanence_, was crowded with pale, trembling men, who conversed inundertones, as though they were in a chamber of death. It had beenascertained during the day that a column of insurgents, about threethousand strong, had assembled at Alboise, a big village not more thanthree leagues away. It was true that this column had been ordered tomake for the chief town of the department, leaving Plassans on its left;but the plan of campaign might at any time be altered; moreover, itsufficed for these cowardly cits to know that there were insurgents afew miles off, to make them feel the horny hands of the toilers alreadytightened round their throats. They had had a foretaste of the revolt inthe morning; the few Republicans at Plassans, seeing that they wouldbe unable to make any determined move in the town, had resolved to jointheir brethren of La Palud and Saint-Martin-de-Vaulx; the first grouphad 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. Thecommander had sent his servant to obtain some information as to theexact movements of the insurgents, and the others awaited this man'sreturn, making the most astonishing surmises. They had a full meeting. Roudier and Granoux, sinking back in their arm-chairs, exchanged themost pitiable glances, whilst behind them moaned a terror-stricken groupof retired tradesmen. Vuillet, without appearing over scared, reflectedupon what precautions he should take to protect his shop and person; hewas in doubt whether he should hide himself in his garret or cellar, and inclined towards the latter. For their part Pierre and the commanderwalked up and down, exchanging a word ever and anon. The old oil-dealerclung to this friend Sicardot as if to borrow a little courage fromhim. He, who had been awaiting the crisis for such a long time, nowendeavoured to keep his countenance, in spite of the emotion which wasstifling him. As for the marquis, more spruce and smiling than usual, heconversed in a corner with Felicite, who seemed very gay. 

At last a ring came. The gentlemen started as if they had heard agun-shot. Dead silence reigned in the drawing-room when Felicite went toopen the door, towards which their pale, anxious faces were turned. Thenthe commander's servant appeared on the threshold, quite out of breath, and said abruptly to his master: "Sir, the insurgents will be here in anhour. "

This was a thunderbolt. They all started up, vociferating, and raisingtheir arms towards the ceiling. For several minutes it was impossibleto 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. Becalm, or I won't answer for anything. "

Everyone sank back in his chair again, heaving long-drawn sighs. Theythen obtained a few particulars. The messenger had met the column at LesTulettes, and had hastened to return. 

"There are at least three thousand of them, " said he. "They are marchingin battalions, like soldiers. I thought I caught sight of some prisonersin their midst. "

"Prisoners!" cried the terrified bourgeois. 

"No doubt, " the marquis interrupted in his shrill voice. "I'veheard that the insurgents arrest all persons who are known to haveconservative leanings. "

This information gave a finishing touch to the consternation of theyellow drawing-room. A few bourgeois got up and stealthily made for thedoor, reflecting that they had not too much time before them to gain aplace of safety. 

The announcement of the arrests made by the Republicans appeared tostrike Felicite. She took the marquis aside and asked him: "What dothese men do with the people they arrest?"

"Why, they carry them off in their train, " Monsieur de Carnavantreplied. "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 aroundher. The bourgeois gradually disappeared; soon there only remainedVuillet and Roudier, whom the approaching danger inspired with somecourage. As for Granoux, he likewise remained in his corner, his legsrefusing to perform their office. 

"Well, I like this better, " Sicardot remarked, as he observed the flightof the other adherents. "Those cowards were exasperating me at last. For more than two years they've been speaking of shooting all theRepublicans in the province, and to-day they wouldn't even fire ahalfpenny 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 placedherself between the door and her husband, who, for that matter, was notparticularly eager to follow the formidable Sicardot. 

"I won't have you go out, " she cried, feigning sudden despair. "I won'tlet 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--Comealong, Rougon!'

"No, no, " continued the old woman, affecting increase of terror, "hesha'n't follow you. I will hang on to his clothes and prevent him. "

The marquis, very much surprised at the scene, looked inquiringly atFelicite. Was this really the woman who had just now been conversing somerrily? What comedy was she playing? Pierre, meantime, seeing that hiswife 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 clungto one of his arms. And turning towards the commander, she said to him:"How can you think of offering any resistance? They are three thousandstrong, 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 ifwe allow the insurgents to enter the town unmolested. I believe thatbefore an hour has elapsed the mayor and all the functionaries will beprisoners, to say nothing of your husband and the frequenters of thisdrawing-room. "

The marquis thought he saw a vague smile play about Felicite's lips asshe answered, with a look of dismay: "Do you really think so?"

"Of course!" replied Sicardot; "the Republicans are not so stupid asto leave enemies behind them. To-morrow Plassans will be emptied of itsfunctionaries and good citizens. "

At these words, which she had so cleverly provoked, Felicite releasedher husband's arms. Pierre no longer looked as if he wanted to go out. Thanks to his wife, whose skilful tactics escaped him, however, andwhose secret complicity he never for a moment suspected, he had justlighted on a whole plan of campaign. 

"We must deliberate before taking any decision, " he said to thecommander. "My wife is perhaps not wrong in accusing us of forgettingthe true interests of our families. "

"No, indeed, madame is not wrong, " cried Granoux, who had been listeningto Felicite's terrified cries with the rapture of a coward. 

Thereupon the commander energetically clapped his hat on his head, andsaid in a clear voice: "Right or wrong, it matters little to me. I amcommander of the National Guard. I ought to have been at the mayor'sbefore now. Confess that you are afraid, that you leaven me to actalone. . . . Well, good-night. "

He was just turning the handle of the door, when Rougon forciblydetained him. 

"Listen, Sicardot, " he said. 

He drew him into a corner, on seeing Vuillet prick up his big ears. Andthere he explained to him, in an undertone, that it would be a good planto leave a few energetic men behind the insurgents, so as to restoreorder in the town. And as the fierce commander obstinately refused todesert his post, Pierre offered to place himself at the head of such areserve corps. 

"Give me the key of the cart-shed in which the arms and ammunition arekept, " he said to him, "and order some fifty of our men not to stiruntil I call for them. "

Sicardot ended by consenting to these prudent measures. He entrustedPierre with the key of the cart-shed, convinced as he was of theinexpediency of present resistance, but still desirous of sacrificinghimself. 

During this conversation, the marquis had whispered a few words inFelicite's ear with a knowing look. He complimented her, no doubt, onher theatrical display. The old woman could not repress a faint smile. But, as Sicardot shook hands with Rougon and prepared to go, she againasked him with an air of fright: "Are you really determined to leaveus?"

"It is not for one of Napoleon's old soldiers to let himself beintimidated 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 hometo my wife to reassure her. "

Then Felicite bent towards the marquis's ear, and whispered withdiscreet gaiety: "Upon my word, it is best that devil of a commandershould go and get himself arrested. He's far too zealous. "

However, Rougon brought Granoux back to the drawing-room. Roudier, whohad quietly followed the scene from his corner, making signs in supportof the proposed measures of prudence, got up and joined them. When themarquis and Vuillet had likewise risen, Pierre began:

"Now that we are alone, among peaceable men, I propose that we shouldconceal ourselves so as to avoid certain arrest, and be at liberty assoon as ours again becomes the stronger party. "

Granoux was ready to embrace him. Roudier and Vuillet breathed moreeasily. 

"I shall want you shortly, gentlemen, " the oil-dealer continued, withan important air. "It is to us that the honour of restoring order inPlassans is reserved. "

"You may rely upon us!" cried Vuillet, with an enthusiasm whichdisturbed Felicite. 

Time was pressing. These singular defenders of Plassans, who hidthemselves the better to protect the town, hastened away, to burythemselves in some hole or other. Pierre, on being left alone withhis wife, advised her not to make the mistake of barricading herselfindoors, 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 repliedabruptly: "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 dela Banne. On reaching the Cours Sauvaire, he saw a band of armed workmencoming out of the old quarter and singing the "Marseillaise. "

"The devil!" he thought. "It was quite time, indeed; here's the townitself in revolt now!"

He quickened his steps in the direction of the Porte de Rome. Coldperspiration came over him while he waited there for the dilatory keeperto open the gate. Almost as soon as he set foot on the high road, heperceived in the moonlight at the other end of the Faubourg the columnof insurgents, whose gun barrels gleamed like white flames. So it wasat a run that he dived into the Impasse Saint-Mittre, and reached hismother'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 firstNapoleon. He had had the incredible good fortune to escape all thefinal murderous campaigns of the Empire. He had moved from barracksto barracks, dragging on his brutifying military life. This mode ofexistence brought his natural vices to full development. His idlenessbecame deliberate; his intemperance, which brought him countlesspunishments, became, to his mind, a veritable religious duty. But thatwhich above all made him the worst of scapegraces was the superciliousdisdain which he entertained for the poor devils who had to earn theirbread. 

"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 fromrising even to the grade of corporal. 

Since his departure he had never spent a day's furlough at Plassans, hisbrother having invented a thousand pretexts to keep him at a distance. He was therefore completely ignorant of the adroit manner in whichPierre had got possession of their mother's fortune. Adelaide, with herprofound indifference, did not even write to him three times to tell himhow she was going on. The silence which generally greeted his numerousrequests for money did not awaken the least suspicion in him; Pierre'sstinginess sufficed to explain the difficulty he experienced in securingfrom time to time a paltry twenty-franc piece. This, however, onlyincreased his animosity towards his brother, who left him to languishin military service in spite of his formal promise to purchase hisdischarge. He vowed to himself that on his return home he would nolonger submit like a child, but would flatly demand his share of thefortune to enable him to live as he pleased. In the diligence whichconveyed him home he dreamed of a delightful life of idleness. Theshattering of his castles in the air was terrible. When he reachedthe Faubourg, and could no longer even recognise the Fouques' plot ofground, he was stupefied. He was compelled to ask for his mother's newaddress. There a terrible scene occurred. Adelaide calmly informed himof the sale of the property. He flew into a rage, and even raised hishand against her. 

The poor woman kept repeating: "Your brother has taken everything; it isunderstood that he will take care of you. "

At last he left her and ran off to see Pierre, whom he had previouslyinformed of his return, and who was prepared to receive him in such away 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'trouse my anger, or I'll turn you out. As a matter of fact, I don't knowyou. We don't bear the same name. It's quite misfortune enough for methat my mother misconducted herself, without having her offspring cominghere and insulting me. I was well disposed towards you, but since youare 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, orshall 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. "Mymother disposed of her fortune as she thought proper. I am certainly notgoing to poke my nose into her business. I willingly renounced all hopeof inheritance. I am quite safe from your foul accusations. "

And as his brother, exasperated by this composure, and not knowing whatto think, muttered something, Pierre thrust Adelaide's receipt under hisnose. 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 hitupon any immediate expedient for obtaining his share of the money andsatisfying his desire of revenge increased his fury. He went back tohis mother and subjected her to a disgraceful cross-examination. Thewretched 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 thehoard. You've already squandered it, perhaps?"

And making an allusion to her former misconduct he asked her if therewere still not some low fellow to whom she gave her last sous? He didnot 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 hischildren in poverty. The poor woman listened with a stupefied air; bigtears rolled down her cheeks. She defended herself with the terror ofa child, replying to her son's questions as though he were a judge; sheswore that she was living respectably, and reiterated with emphasis thatshe 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 mydischarge. "

He had to sleep at his mother's house, on a straw mattress flung ina corner. He had returned with his pockets perfectly empty, and wasexasperated at finding himself destitute of resources, abandoned likea dog in the streets, without hearth or home, while his brother, as hethought, was in a good way of business, and living on the fat ofthe land. As he had no money to buy clothes with, he went out on thefollowing day in his regimental cap and trousers. He had the goodfortune to find, at the bottom of a cupboard, an old yellowish velveteenjacket, threadbare and patched, which had belonged to Macquart. In thisstrange 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 whichmade him shed tears of rage. Provincial folks are inexorable towardsfallen families. In the general opinion it was only natural that theRougon-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 hisearly stains. People laughed at his roguery; some even went so far as tosay that he had done quite right, if he really had taken possession ofthe money, and that it would be a good lesson to the dissolute folks ofthe town. 

Antoine returned home discouraged. A lawyer had advised him, in ascornful manner, to wash his dirty linen at home, though not until hehad skilfully ascertained whether Antoine possessed the requisitemeans to carry on a lawsuit. According to this man, the case was veryinvolved, 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 knowingon whom else to wreak his vengeance, he repeated his accusation of theprevious day; he kept the wretched woman up till midnight, tremblingwith shame and fright. Adelaide having informed him that Pierre madeher an allowance, he now felt certain that his brother had pocketedthe fifty thousand francs. But, in his irritation, he still affected todoubt it, and did not cease to question the poor woman, again and againreproaching her with misconduct. 

Antoine soon found out that, alone and without resources, he could notsuccessfully carry on a contest with his brother. He then endeavouredto gain Adelaide to his cause; an accusation lodged by her might haveserious consequences. But, at Antoine's first suggestion of it, thepoor, lazy, lethargic creature firmly refused to bring trouble on hereldest son. 

"I am an unhappy woman, " she stammered; "it is quite right of you to getangry. But I should feel too much remorse if I caused one of my sons tobe sent to prison. No; I'd rather let you beat me. "

He saw that he would get nothing but tears out of her, and contentedhimself with saying that she was justly punished, and that he had nopity for her. In the evening, upset by the continual quarrels which herson had sought with her, Adelaide had one of those nervous attacks whichkept her as rigid as if she had been dead. The young man threw her onher bed, and then began to rummage the house to see if the wretchedwoman had any savings hidden away. He found about forty francs. He tookpossession of them, and, while his mother still lay there, rigid andscarce able to breathe, he quietly took the diligence to Marseilles. 

He had just bethought himself that Mouret, the journeyman hatter who hadmarried his sister Ursule, must be indignant at Pierre's roguery, andwould no doubt be willing to defend his wife's interests. But he didnot find in him the man he expected. Mouret plainly told him that he hadbecome accustomed to look upon Ursule as an orphan, and would have nocontentions with her family at any price. Their affairs were prospering. Antoine was received so coldly that he hastened to take the diligencehome again. But, before leaving, he was anxious to revenge himself forthe secret contempt which he read in the workman's eyes; and, observingthat his sister appeared rather pale and dejected, he said to herhusband, 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 hadtouched a sore wound. But then those work-people made too great adisplay of their happiness. 

When he was back again in Plassans, Antoine became the more menacingfrom the conviction that his hands were tied. During a whole month hewas seen all over the place. He paraded the streets, recounting hisstory to all who would listen to him. Whenever he succeeded in extortinga franc from his mother, he would drink it away at some tavern, where hewould revile his brother, declaring that the rascal should shortly hearfrom him. In places like these, the good-natured fraternity which reignsamong drunkards procured him a sympathetic audience; all the scum of thetown espoused his cause, and poured forth bitter imprecations againstthat rascal Rougon, who left a brave soldier to starve; the discussiongenerally terminating with an indiscriminate condemnation of the rich. Antoine, the better to revenge himself, continued to march about in hisregimental cap and trousers and his old yellow velvet jacket, althoughhis 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 onSundays in the most frequented parts of the Cours Sauvaire. 

One of his most exquisite pleasures was to pass Pierre's shop tentimes 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, soas to remain longer in the street. On these occasions, too, he wouldbring one of his drunken friends and gossip to him; telling him aboutthe theft of the fifty thousand francs, accompanying his narrativewith loud insults and menaces, which could be heard by everyone inthe street, and taking particular care that his abuse should reach thefurthest end of the shop. 

"He'll finish by coming to beg in front of our house, " Felicite used tosay in despair. 

The vain little woman suffered terribly from this scandal. She even atthis time felt some regret at ever having married Rougon; his familyconnections were so objectionable. She would have given all she had inthe world to prevent Antoine from parading his rags. But Pierre, whowas maddened by his brother's conduct, would not allow his name to bementioned. When his wife tried to convince him that it would perhapsbe better to free himself from all annoyance by giving Antoine a littlemoney: "No, nothing; not a sou, " he cried with rage. "Let him starve!"

He confessed, however, at last that Antoine's demeanour was becomingintolerable. 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. "Thatman" was in the act of calling her a foul name in the middle of thestreet, where he stood with one of his friends, even more ragged thanhimself. They were both drunk. 

"Come, they want us in there, " said Antoine to his companion in ajeering 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'tmind him hearing. He'll be my witness. "

The witness sank heavily on a chair. He did not take off his hat, butbegan to stare around him, with the maudlin, stupid grin of drunkardsand coarse people who know that they are insolent. Felicite was soashamed that she stood in front of the shop door in order thatpeople outside might not see what strange company she was receiving. Fortunately her husband came to the rescue. A violent quarrel ensuedbetween him and his brother. The latter, after stammering insults, reiterated his old grievances twenty times over. At last he even beganto cry, and his companion was near following his example. Pierre haddefended 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 arechildren of the same mother. If I give you anything, however, you mustunderstand I give it you out of kindness, and not from fear. Would youlike a hundred francs to help you out of your difficulties?"

This abrupt offer of a hundred francs dazzled Antoine's companion. Helooked at the other with an air of delight, which clearly signified: "Asthe gentleman offers a hundred francs, it is time to leave offabusing him. " But Antoine was determined to speculate on his brother'sfavourable disposition. He asked him whether he took him for a fool; itwas 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 turnthem both out, Antoine lowered his demands and contented himself withclaiming one thousand francs. They quarrelled for another quarter ofan hour over this amount. Finally, Felicite interfered. A crowd wasgathering round the shop. 

"Listen, " she said, excitedly; "my husband will give you two hundredfrancs. I'll undertake to buy you a suit of clothes, and hire a room fora year for you. "

Rougon got angry at this. But Antoine's comrade cried, with transportsof 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 themoney and clothes should be sent to him on the following day, and that afew days later, as soon as Felicite should have found a room for him, hewould take up his quarters there. As they were leaving, the youngman's sottish companion became as respectful as he had previously beeninsolent. He bowed to the company more than a dozen times, in an awkwardand 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 whichFelicite, exceeding her promises, had placed a bed, a table, and somechairs, on the young man formally undertaking not to molest them infuture. Adelaide felt no regret at her son leaving her; the short stayhe had made with her had condemned her to bread and water for more thanthree months. However, Antoine had soon eaten and drunk the two hundredfrancs he received from Pierre. He never for a moment thought ofinvesting them in some little business which would have helped him tolive. 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 failedto intimidate them. Pierre even took advantage of this opportunity toturn 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. Thetownspeople, who were acquainted with his brother's munificence fromthe publicity which Felicite had given to it, declared him to be inthe wrong, and called him a lazy, idle fellow. Meantime his hunger waspressing. He threatened to turn smuggler like his father, and perpetratesome crime which would dishonour his family. At this the Rougonsshrugged their shoulders; they knew he was too much of a coward to riskhis neck. At last, blindly enraged against his relatives in particularand 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-makerwho worked at home. He offered to help him. In a short time he learnt toplait baskets and hampers--a coarse and poorly-paid kind of labour whichfinds 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 stillindulge his idleness, and that was what he chiefly cared for. He wouldonly take to his work when he could no longer do otherwise; then hewould hurriedly plait a dozen baskets and go and sell them in themarket. As long as the money lasted he lounged about, visiting allthe taverns and digesting his drink in the sunshine. Then, when he hadfasted a whole day, he would once more take up his osier with a lowgrowl and revile the wealthy who lived in idleness. The trade of abasket-maker, when followed in such a manner, is a thankless one. Antoine's work would not have sufficed to pay for his drinking boutsif he had not contrived a means of procuring his osier at low cost. Henever bought any at Plassans, but used to say that he went each month topurchase a stock at a neighbouring town, where he pretended it wassold cheaper. The truth, however, was that he supplied himself fromthe osier-grounds of the Viorne on dark nights. A rural policeman evencaught him once in the very act, and Antoine underwent a few days'imprisonment in consequence. It was from that time forward that he posedin the town as a fierce Republican. He declared that he had been quietlysmoking 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 theyknow what my opinions are. But I'm not afraid of them, those richscoundrels. "

At last, at the end of ten years of idleness, Antoine considered thathe had been working too hard. His constant dream was to devise someexpedient by which he might live at his ease without having to doanything. His idleness would never have rested content with bread andwater; he was not like certain lazy persons who are willing to put upwith hunger provided they can keep their hands in their pockets. Heliked good feeding and nothing to do. He talked at one time of taking asituation as servant in some nobleman's house in the Saint-Marc quarter. But one of his friends, a groom, frightened him by describing theexacting ways of his masters. Finally Macquart, sick of his baskets, and seeing the time approach when he would be compelled to purchasethe requisite osier, was on the point of selling himself as an armysubstitute and resuming his military life, which he preferred a thousandtimes 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 familiardiminutive of Fine, was a tall, strapping wench of about thirty. Witha square face of masculine proportions, and a few terribly long hairsabout her chin and lips, she was cited as a doughty woman, one who couldmake the weight of her fist felt. Her broad shoulders and huge armsconsequently inspired the town urchins with marvellous respect; and theydid 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 whowere acquainted with her asserted that she was as gentle as a lamb, inspite of her formidable appearance. As she was very hard-working, shemight have put some money aside if she had not had a partiality forliqueurs. She adored aniseed, and very often had to be carried home onSunday evenings. 

On week days she would toil with the stubbornness of an animal. She hadthree or four different occupations; she sold fruit or boiled chestnutsin the market, according to the season; went out charring for a fewwell-to-do people; washed up plates and dishes at houses when partieswere given, and employed her spare time in mending old chairs. She wasmore particularly known in the town as a chair-mender. In the Southlarge numbers of straw-bottomed chairs are used. 

Antoine Macquart formed an acquaintance with Fine at the market. When hewent to sell his baskets in the winter he would stand beside the stoveon which she cooled her chestnuts and warm himself. He was astonishedat her courage, he who was frightened of the least work. By degrees hediscerned, beneath the apparent roughness of this strapping creature, signs of timidity and kindliness. He frequently saw her give handfuls ofchestnuts to the ragged urchins who stood in ecstasy round her smokingpot. At other times, when the market inspector hustled her, she verynearly began to cry, apparently forgetting all about her heavy fists. Antoine at last decided that she was exactly the woman he wanted. Shewould work for both and he would lay down the law at home. She wouldbe his beast of burden, an obedient, indefatigable animal. As for herpartiality for liqueurs, he regarded this as quite natural. After wellweighing the advantages of such an union, he declared himself to Fine, who was delighted with his proposal. No man had ever yet ventured topropose to her. Though she was told that Antoine was the most worthlessof vagabonds, she lacked the courage to refuse matrimony. The veryevening of the nuptials the young man took up his abode in his wife'slodgings in the Rue Civadiere, near the market. These lodgings, consisting of three rooms, were much more comfortably furnished than hisown, and he gave a sigh of satisfaction as he stretched himself out onthe two excellent mattresses which covered the bedstead. 

Everything went on very well for the first few days. Fine attended toher various occupations as in the past; Antoine, seized with a sort ofmarital self-pride which astonished even himself, plaited in one weekmore baskets than he had ever before done in a month. On the firstSunday, however, war broke out. The couple had a goodly sum of money inthe house, and they spent it freely. During the night, when they wereboth drunk, they beat each other outrageously, without being able toremember on the morrow how it was that the quarrel had commenced. Theyhad remained on most affectionate terms until about ten o'clock, whenAntoine had begun to beat Fine brutally, whereupon the latter, growingexasperated and forgetting her meekness, had given him back as much asshe received. She went to work again bravely on the following day, asthough nothing had happened. But her husband, with sullen rancour, rose late and passed the remainder of the day smoking his pipe in thesunshine. 

From that time forward the Macquarts adopted the kind of life whichthey were destined to lead in the future. It became, as it were, tacitlyunderstood between them that the wife should toil and moil to keep herhusband. Fine, who had an instinctive liking for work, did not objectto 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 evenstrove to spare him the most trifling labour. Her little weakness, aniseed, did not make her vicious, but just. On the evenings whenshe had forgotten herself in the company of a bottle of her favouriteliqueur, if Antoine tried to pick a quarrel with her, she would setupon him with might and main, reproaching him with his idleness andingratitude. The neighbours grew accustomed to the disturbances whichperiodically broke out in the couple's room. The two battered each otherconscientiously; the wife slapped like a mother chastising a naughtychild; but the husband, treacherous and spiteful as he was, measured hisblows, and, on several occasions, very nearly crippled the unfortunatewoman. 

"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 modeof existence quite endurable. He was well clothed, and ate and drank hisfill. He had laid aside the basket work altogether; sometimes, when hewas feeling over-bored, he would resolve to plait a dozen baskets forthe next market day; but very often he did not even finish the firstone. He kept, under a couch, a bundle of osier which he did not use upin twenty years. 

The Macquarts had three children, two girls and a boy. Lisa, [*] bornthe first, in 1827, one year after the marriage, remained but littleat home. She was a fine, big, healthy, full-blooded child, greatlyresembling her mother. She did not, however, inherit the latter's animaldevotion and endurance. Macquart had implanted in her a most decidedlonging for ease and comfort. While she was a child she would consent towork for a whole day in return for a cake. When she was scarcely sevenyears old, the wife of the postmaster, who was a neighbour of theMacquarts, took a liking to her. She made a little maid of her. And whenshe lost her husband in 1839, and went to live in Paris, she took Lisawith 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 cripplefrom birth. Her right thigh was smaller than the left and showed signsof curvature, a curious hereditary result of the brutality which hermother 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 requiredsomething to strengthen her. But the poor child became still moreemaciated. She was a tall, lank girl, whose frocks, invariably toolarge, hung round her as if they had nothing under them. Above adeformed and puny body she had a sweet little doll-like head, a tinyround face, pale and exquisitely delicate. Her infirmity almost becamegraceful. Her body swayed gently at every step with a sort of rhythmicalswing. 

 [*] The chief female character in _L'Assommoir_ (_The Dramshop_). 

The Macquarts' son, Jean, [*] was born three years later. He was a robustchild, in no respect recalling Gervaise. Like the eldest girl, he tookafter his mother, without having any physical resemblance to her. Hewas the first to import into the Rougon-Macquart stock a fat face withregular features, which showed all the coldness of a grave yet notover-intelligent nature. This boy grew up with the determination ofsome day making an independent position for himself. He attended schooldiligently, and tortured his dull brain to force a little arithmetic andspelling into it. After that he became an apprentice, repeating muchthe same efforts with a perseverance that was the more meritorious as ittook 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, thosegreedy creatures who bring their parents to penury. It was something tohear him bemoan his lot when they sat five at table, and the mother gavethe 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 wouldsulk for days together. Ah! if he had only known, he would never had hadthat 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 stewedpotatoes for dinner, a dish which he heartily detested. 

Later on, however, as soon as Jean and Gervaise earned their firstfrancs, he found some good in children after all. Lisa was no longerthere. He lived upon the earnings of the two others without compunction, as he had already lived upon their mother. It was a well-plannedspeculation on his part. As soon as little Gervaise was eight years old, she went to a neighbouring dealer's to crack almonds; she there earnedten sous a day, which her father pocketed right royally, without evena question from Fine as to what became of the money. The young girl wasnext apprenticed to a laundress, and as soon as she received two francsa day for her work, the two francs strayed in a similar manner intoMacquart's hands. Jean, who had learnt the trade of a carpenter, waslikewise despoiled on pay-days, whenever Macquart succeeded in catchinghim before he had handed the money to his mother. If the money escapedMacquart, which sometimes happened, he became frightfully surly. Hewould glare at his wife and children for a whole week, picking a quarrelfor nothing, although he was, as yet, ashamed to confess the real causeof his irritations. On the next pay-day, however, he would stationhimself on the watch, and as soon as he had succeeded in pilfering theyoungster's earnings, he disappeared for days together. 

Gervaise, beaten and brought up in the streets among all the lads of theneighbourhood, became a mother when she was fourteen years of age. Thefather of her child was not eighteen years old. He was a journeymantanner named Lantier. At first Macquart was furious, but he calmeddown somewhat when he learnt that Lantier's mother, a worthy woman, waswilling to take charge of the child. He kept Gervaise, however; she wasthen already earning twenty-five sous a day, and he therefore avoidedall question of marriage. Four years later she had a second child, whichwas likewise taken in by Lantier's mother. This time Macquart shut hiseyes altogether. And when Fine timidly suggested that it was time tocome to some understanding with the tanner, in order to end a state ofthings which made people chatter, he flatly declared that his daughtershould 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, andalmost fat, he was no longer the emaciated ragged vagabond who had beenwont to frequent the taverns. He dropped into cafes, read the papers, and strolled on the Cours Sauvaire. He played the gentleman as long ashe had any money in his pocket. At times of impecuniosity he remained athome, exasperated at being kept in his hovel and prevented from takinghis customary cup of coffee. On such occasions he would reproach thewhole human race with his poverty, making himself ill with rage andenvy, until Fine, out of pity, would often give him the last silver coinin the house so that he might spend his evening at the cafe. This dearfellow was fiercely selfish. Gervaise, who brought home as much as sixtyfrancs a month, wore only thin cotton frocks, while he had black satinwaistcoats made for him by one of the best tailors in Plassans. 

Jean, the big lad who earned three or four francs a day, was perhapsrobbed even more impudently. The cafe where his father passed entiredays was just opposite his master's workshop, and while he had plane orsaw in hand he could see "Monsieur" Macquart on the other side of theway, 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 payfor a drink. Antoine treated him like a little girl, never leaving him acentime, and always demanding an exact account of the manner in which hehad employed his time. If the unfortunate lad, led away by some ofhis mates, wasted a day somewhere in the country, on the banks of theViorne, or on the slopes of Garrigues, his father would storm and raisehis hand, and long bear him a grudge on account of the four francs lessthat he received at the end of the fortnight. He thus held his son ina state of dependence, sometimes even looking upon the sweethearts whomthe young carpenter courted as his own. Several of Gervaise's friendsused to come to the Macquarts' house, work-girls from sixteen toeighteen years of age, bold and boisterous girls who, on certainevenings, filled the room with youth and gaiety. Poor Jean, deprived ofall pleasure, ever kept at home by the lack of money, looked at thesegirls with longing eyes; but the childish life which he was compelledto lead had implanted invincible shyness in him; in playing with hissister's friends, he was hardly bold enough to touch them with the tipsof his fingers. Macquart used to shrug his shoulders with pity. 

"What a simpleton!" he would mutter, with an air of ironicalsuperiority. 

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 Jeanpursued rather more earnestly than the others. One fine evening he stoleher almost from his arms. The old rogue prided himself on his gallantry. 

There are some men who live upon their mistresses. Antoine Macquartlived on his wife and children with as much shamelessness and impudence. He did not feel the least compunction in pillaging the home and goingout to enjoy himself when the house was bare. He still assumed asupercilious air, returning from the cafe only to rail against thepoverty and wretchedness that awaited him at home. He found the dinnerdetestable, he called Gervaise a blockhead, and declared that Jean wouldnever be a man. Immersed in his own selfish indulgence, he rubbed hishands whenever he had eaten the best piece in the dish; and then hesmoked his pipe, puffing slowly, while the two poor children, overcomewith fatigue, went to sleep with their heads resting on the table. Thus Macquart passed his days in lazy enjoyment. It seemed to him quitenatural that he should be kept in idleness like a girl, to sprawl abouton the benches of some tavern, or stroll in the cool of the day alongthe Cours or the Mail. At last he went so far as to relate his amorousescapades in the presence of his son, who listened with glisteningeyes. The children never protested, accustomed as they were to see theirmother humble herself before her husband. 

Fine, that strapping woman who drubbed him soundly when they were bothintoxicated, always trembled before him when she was sober, and allowedhim to rule despotically at home. He robbed her in the night of thecoppers which she had earned during the day at the market, but shenever dared to protest, except by veiled rebukes. Sometimes, when he hadsquandered the week's money in advance, he accused her, poor thing, whoworked herself to death, of being stupid and not knowing how to manage. Fine, as gentle as a lamb, replied, in her soft, clear voice, whichcontrasted so strangely with her big figure, that she was no longertwenty years old, and that money was becoming hard to earn. In orderto console herself, she would buy a pint of aniseed, and drink littleglassfuls of it with her daughter of an evening, after Antoine had goneback to the cafe. That was their dissipation. Jean went to bed, whilethe two women remained at the table, listening attentively in order toremove 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 otherwith vague smiles, this mother and daughter would end by stuttering. Red patches appeared on Gervaise's cheeks; her delicate doll-like faceassumed a look of maudlin beatitude. Nothing could be more heart-rendingthan to see this wretched, pale child, aglow with drink and wearing theidiotic smile of a confirmed sot about her moist lips. Fine, huddledup on her chair, became heavy and drowsy. They sometimes forgot to keepwatch, or even lacked the strength to remove the bottle and glasses whenAntoine's footsteps were heard on the stairs. On these occasionsblows were freely exchanged among the Macquarts. Jean had to get upto separate his father and mother and make his sister go to bed, asotherwise she would have slept on the floor. 

Every political party numbers its grotesques and its villains. AntoineMacquart, devoured by envy and hatred, and meditating revenge againstsociety in general, welcomed the Republic as a happy era when he wouldbe allowed to fill his pockets from his neighbour's cash-box, and evenstrangle the neighbour if the latter manifested any displeasure. His cafe life and all the newspaper articles he had read withoutunderstanding them had made him a terrible ranter who enunciated thestrangest of political theories. It is necessary to have heard one ofthose malcontents who ill digest what they read, haranguing the companyin some provincial taproom, in order to conceive the degree of hatefulfolly at which Macquart had arrived. As he talked a good deal, hadseen active service, and was naturally regarded as a man of energy andspirit, he was much sought after and listened to by simpletons. Althoughhe was not the chief of any party, he had succeeded in collectinground him a small group of working-men who took his jealous ravings forexpressions of honest and conscientious indignation. 

Directly after the Revolution of February '48, he persuaded himself thatPlassans was his own, and, as he strolled along the streets, thejeering manner in which he regarded the little retail traders who stoodterrified at their shop doors clearly signified: "Our day has come, my little lambs; we are going to lead you a fine dance!" He had growninsolent beyond belief; he acted the part of a victorious despot tosuch a degree that he ceased to pay for his drinks at the cafe, and thelandlord, a simpleton who trembled whenever Antoine rolled his eyes, dared not present his bill. The number of cups of coffee he consumedduring this period was incalculable; sometimes he invited his friends, and shouted for hours together that the people were dying of hunger, andthat the rich ought to share their wealth with them. He himself wouldnever have given a sou to a beggar. 

That which chiefly converted him into a fierce Republican was the hopeof at last being able to revenge himself on the Rougons, who had openlyranged themselves on the side of the reactionary party. Ah, what atriumph if he could only hold Pierre and Felicite at his mercy! Althoughthe latter had not succeeded over well in business, they had atlast become gentlefolks, while he, Macquart, had still remained aworking-man. That exasperated him. Perhaps he was still more mortifiedbecause one of their sons was a barrister, another a doctor, and thethird a clerk, while his son Jean merely worked at a carpenter's shop, and his daughter Gervaise at a washerwoman's. When he compared theMacquarts with the Rougons, he was still more ashamed to see his wifeselling chestnuts in the market, and mending the greasy old straw-seatedchairs of the neighbourhood in the evening. Pierre, after all, was buthis brother, and had no more right than himself to live fatly on hisincome. Moreover, this brother was actually playing the gentleman withmoney stolen from him. Whenever Macquart touched upon this subject, hebecame fiercely enraged; he clamoured for hours together, incessantlyrepeating his old accusations, and never wearying of exclaiming: "Ifmy brother was where he ought to be, I should be the moneyed man at thepresent 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 theConservatives round them, and thus acquired a certain influence inPlassans. The famous yellow drawing-room became, in his hare-brainedchatter at the cafe, a cave of bandits, an assembly of villains whoevery evening swore on their daggers that they would murder the people. In order to incite the starvelings against Pierre, Macquart went so faras to circulate a report that the retired oil-dealer was not so poor ashe pretended, but that he concealed his treasures through avarice andfear of robbery. His tactics thus tended to rouse the poor people by arepetition of absurdly ridiculous tales, which he often came to believein himself. His personal animosity and his desire for revenge were illconcealed beneath his professions of patriotism; but he was heard sofrequently, and he had such a loud voice, that no one would have daredto 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 weresimply the fruit of restrained rage and embittered envy, would much haveliked to purchase his silence. Unfortunately, she was short of money, and did not dare to interest him in the dangerous game which her husbandwas playing. Antoine now injured them very much among the well-to-dopeople of the new town. It sufficed that he was a relation of theirs. Granoux and Roudier often scornfully reproached them for having such aman in their family. Felicite consequently asked herself with anguishhow they could manage to cleanse themselves of such a stain. 

It seemed to her monstrous and indecent that Monsieur Rougon should havea brother whose wife sold chestnuts, and who himself lived in crapulousidleness. She at last even trembled for the success of their secretintrigues, so long as Antoine seemingly took pleasure in compromisingthem. When the diatribes which he levelled at the yellow drawing-roomwere reported to her, she shuddered at the thought that he was capableof 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 hefrom day to day affected fiercer opinions. At the cafe he frequentedhe used to speak of "my brother Pierre" in a voice which made everybodyturn round; and if he happened to meet some reactionary from the yellowdrawing-room in the street, he would mutter some low abuse which theworthy citizen, amazed at such audacity, would repeat to the Rougonsin the evening, as though to make them responsible for his disagreeableencounter. 

One day Granoux arrived in a state of fury. 

"Really, " he exclaimed, when scarcely across the threshold, "it'sintolerable; 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 theSub-Prefecture, when that rascal passed me muttering something in whichI could clearly distinguish the words 'old rogue. '"

Felicite turned pale, and felt it necessary to apologise to Granoux, buthe 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 havecalled you an old rogue. Are you sure that he intended the insult foryou?"

Granoux was perplexed; he admitted at last, however, that Antoine mighthave muttered: "So you are again going to that old rogue's?"

At this Monsieur de Carnavant stroked his chin to conceal the smilewhich 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 thismisunderstanding is now cleared up. Gentlemen, pray avoid the man inquestion, whom I formally repudiate. "

Felicite, however, did not take matters so coolly; every fresh scandalcaused by Macquart made her more and more uneasy; she would sometimespass the whole night wondering what those gentlemen must think of thematter. 

A few months before the Coup d'Etat, the Rougons received an anonymousletter, three pages of foul insults, in which they were warned thatif their party should ever triumph, the scandalous story of Adelaide'samours would be published in some newspaper, together with an accountof the robbery perpetrated by Pierre, when he had compelled his mother, driven out of her senses by debauchery, to sign a receipt for fiftythousand francs. This letter was a heavy blow for Rougon himself. Felicite could not refrain from reproaching her husband with hisdisreputable family; for the husband and wife never for a moment doubtedthat this letter was Antoine's work. 

"We shall have to get rid of the blackguard at any price, " said Pierrein a gloomy tone. "He's becoming too troublesome by far. "

In the meantime, Macquart, resorting to his former tactics, looked roundamong his own relatives for accomplices who would join him against theRougons. He had counted upon Aristide at first, on reading his terriblearticles in the "Independant. " But the young man, in spite of all hisjealous rage, was not so foolish as to make common cause with sucha fellow as his uncle. He never even minced matters with him, butinvariably kept him at a distance, a circumstance which induced Antoineto regard him suspiciously. In the taverns, where Macquart reignedsupreme, people went so far as to say the journalist was paid to provokedisturbances. 

Baffled on this side, Macquart had no alternative but to sound hissister Ursule's children. Ursule had died in 1839, thus fulfilling herbrother's evil prophecy. The nervous affection which she had inheritedfrom her mother had turned into slow consumption, which gradually killedher. She left three children; a daughter, eighteen years of age, namedHelene, who married a clerk, and two boys, the elder, Francois, a youngman of twenty-three, and the younger, a sickly little fellow scarcelysix years old, named Silvere. The death of his wife, whom he adored, proved a thunderbolt to Mouret. He dragged on his existence for anotheryear, neglecting his business and losing all the money he had saved. Then, one morning, he was found hanging in a cupboard where Ursule'sdresses were still suspended. His elder son, who had received a goodcommercial 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, gladlywelcomed this nephew, whom he knew to be industrious and sober. Hewas in want of a youth whom he could trust, and who would help him toretrieve 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 hethought he was making Francois some compensation by taking him into hisbusiness; having robbed the mother, he would shield himself from remorseby giving employment to the son; even rogues make honest calculationssometimes. It was, however, a good thing for him. If the house of Rougondid not make a fortune at this time, it was certainly through no faultof that quiet, punctilious youth, Francois, who seemed born to pass hislife behind a grocer's counter, between a jar of oil and a bundleof dried cod-fish. Although he physically resembled his mother, heinherited from his father a just if narrow mind, with an instinctiveliking for a methodical life and the safe speculations of a smallbusiness. 

Three months after his arrival, Pierre, pursuing his system ofcompensation, married him to his young daughter Marthe, [*] whom he didnot know how to dispose of. The two young people fell in love witheach other quite suddenly, in a few days. A peculiar circumstance haddoubtless determined and enhanced their mutual affection. There was aremarkably close resemblance between them, suggesting that of brotherand sister. Francois inherited, through Ursule, the face of hisgrandmother Adelaide. Marthe's case was still more curious; she was anequally exact portrait of Adelaide, although Pierre Rougon had none ofhis mother's features distinctly marked; the physical resemblancehad, as it were, passed over Pierre, to reappear in his daughter. Thesimilarity between husband and wife went, however, no further thantheir faces; if the worthy son of a steady matter-of-fact hatter wasdistinguishable in Francois, Marthe showed the nervousness and mentalweakness of her grandmother. Perhaps it was this combination of physicalresemblance and moral dissimilarity which threw the young people intoeach other's arms. From 1840 to 1844 they had three children. Francoisremained in his uncle's employ until the latter retired. Pierre haddesired to sell him the business, but the young man knew what smallchance there was of making a fortune in trade at Plassans; so hedeclined the offer and repaired to Marseilles, where he establishedhimself 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 industriousfellow into his campaign against the Rougons; whereupon, with all thespite of a lazybones, he regarded him as a cunning miser. He fancied, however, that he had discovered the accomplice he was seeking inMouret's second son, a lad of fifteen years of age. Young Silvere hadnever even been to school at the time when Mouret was found hangingamong his wife's skirts. His elder brother, not knowing what to dowith him, took him also to his uncle's. The latter made a wry face onbeholding the child; he had no intention of carrying his compensation sofar as to feed a useless mouth. Thus Silvere, to whom Felicite also tooka dislike, was growing up in tears, like an unfortunate little outcast, when his grandmother Adelaide, during one of the rare visits she paidthe Rougons, took pity on him, and expressed a wish to have him withher. Pierre was delighted; he let the child go, without even suggestingan increase of the paltry allowance that he made Adelaide, and whichhenceforward would have to suffice for two. 

Adelaide was then nearly seventy-five years of age. Grown old whileleading a cloistered existence, she was no longer the lanky ardent girlwho formerly ran to embrace the smuggler Macquart. She had stiffened andhardened in her hovel in the Impasse Saint-Mittre, that dismal silenthole where she lived entirely alone on potatoes and dry vegetables, andwhich she did not leave once in the course of a month. On seeing herpass, you might have thought her to be one of those delicately white oldnuns with automatic gait, whom the cloister has kept apart from all theconcerns of this world. Her pale face, always scrupulously girt with awhite cap, looked like that of a dying woman; a vague, calm countenanceit was, wearing an air of supreme indifference. Prolonged taciturnityhad made her dumb; the darkness of her dwelling and the continualsight of the same objects had dulled her glance and given her eyes thelimpidity of spring water. Absolute renunciation, slow physical andmoral death, had little by little converted this crazy _amorosa_ into agrave matron. When, as often happened, a blank stare came into hereyes, and she gazed before her without seeing anything, one could detectutter, internal void through those deep bright cavities. 

Nothing now remained of her former voluptuous ardour but weariness ofthe flesh and a senile tremor of the hands. She had once loved likea she-wolf, but was now wasted, already sufficiently worn out for thegrave. There had been strange workings of her nerves during her longyears of chastity. A dissolute life would perhaps have wrecked her lessthan the slow hidden ravages of unsatisfied fever which had modified herorganism. 

Sometimes, even now, this moribund, pale old woman, who seemed to haveno blood left in her, was seized with nervous fits like electric shocks, which galvanised her, and for an hour brought her atrocious intensity oflife. She would lie on her bed rigid, with her eyes open; then hiccoughswould come upon her and she would writhe and struggle, acquiring thefrightful strength of those hysterical madwomen whom one has to tie downin order to prevent them from breaking their heads against a wall. This return to former vigour, these sudden attacks, gave her a terribleshock. When she came to again, she would stagger about with such ascared, 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 whichbrought some warmth to her frozen limbs. Weary of solitude, andfrightened at the thought of dying alone in one of her fits, she hadasked to have the child. With the little fellow running about nearher, she felt secure against death. Without relinquishing her habits oftaciturnity, or seeking to render her automatic movements more supple, she conceived inexpressible affection for him. Stiff and speechless, shewould watch him playing for hours together, listening with delight tothe intolerable noise with which he filled the old hovel. That tombhad resounded with uproar ever since Silvere had been running about it, bestriding broomsticks, knocking up against the doors, and shouting andcrying. He brought Adelaide back to the world, as it were; she lookedafter him with the most adorable awkwardness; she who, in her youth, had neglected the duties of a mother, now felt the divine pleasuresof maternity in washing his face, dressing him, and watching over hissickly life. It was a reawakening of love, a last soothing passion whichheaven had granted to this woman who had been so ravaged by the want ofsome one to love; the touching agony of a heart that had lived amidstthe most acute desires, and which was now dying full of love for achild. 

She was already too far gone to pour forth the babble of good plumpgrandmothers; she adored the child in secret with the bashfulness of ayoung girl, without knowing how to fondle him. Sometimes she took him onher knees, and gazed at him for a long time with her pale eyes. Whenthe little one, frightened by her mute white visage, began to cry, sheseemed perplexed by what she had done, and quickly put him down upon thefloor without even kissing him. Perhaps she recognised in him a faintresemblance to Macquart the poacher. 

Silvere grew up, ever tete-a-tete with Adelaide. With childish cajoleryhe used to call her aunt Dide, a name which ultimately clung to theold woman; the word "aunt" employed in this way is simply a term ofendearment in Provence. The child entertained singular affection, notunmixed with respectful terror, for his grandmother. During her nervousfits, when he was quite a little boy, he ran away from her, crying, terrified by her disfigured countenance; and he came back very timidlyafter the attack, ready to run away again, as though the old woman weredisposed 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 hurtherself by falling off the bed. He stood for hours holding her tightlyin his arms to subdue the rude shocks which distorted her. Duringintervals of calmness he would gaze with pity on her convulsed featuresand withered frame, over which her skirts lay like a shroud. Thesehidden dramas, which recurred every month, this old woman as rigid asa corpse, this child bent over her, silently watching for the returnof consciousness, made up amidst the darkness of the hovel a strangepicture of mournful horror and broken-hearted tenderness. 

When aunt Dide came round, she would get up with difficulty, and setabout her work in the hovel without even questioning Silvere. Sheremembered nothing, and the child, from a sort of instinctive prudence, avoided the least allusion to what had taken place. These recurringfits, more than anything else, strengthened Silvere's deep attachmentfor his grandmother. In the same manner as she adored him without anygarrulous effusiveness, he felt a secret, almost bashful, affection forher. While he was really very grateful to her for having taken him inand brought him up, he could not help regarding her as an extraordinarycreature, a prey to some strange malady, whom he ought to pity andrespect. No doubt there was not sufficient life left in Adelaide; shewas too white and too stiff for Silvere to throw himself on her neck. Thus they lived together amidst melancholy silence, in the depths ofwhich they felt the tremor of boundless love. 

The sad, solemn atmosphere, which he had breathed from childhood, gaveSilvere a strong heart, in which gathered every form of enthusiasm. Heearly became a serious, thoughtful little man, seeking instruction witha kind of stubbornness. He only learnt a little spelling and arithmeticat the school of the Christian Brothers, which he was compelled to leavewhen he was but twelve years old, on account of his apprenticeship. Henever acquired the first rudiments of knowledge. However, he read allthe odd volumes which fell into his hands, and thus provided himselfwith strange equipment; he had some notions of a multitude of subjects, ill-digested notions, which he could never classify distinctly in hishead. When he was quite young, he had been in the habit of playing inthe workshop of a master wheelwright, a worthy man named Vian, who livedat the entrance of the blind-alley in front of the Aire Saint-Mittrewhere he stored his timber. Silvere used to jump up on the wheels of thetilted carts undergoing repair, and amuse himself by dragging aboutthe heavy tools which his tiny hands could scarcely lift. One of hisgreatest pleasures, too, was to assist the workmen by holding some pieceof wood for them, or bringing them the iron-work which they required. When he had grown older he naturally became apprenticed to Vian. Thelatter had taken a liking to the little fellow who was always kickingabout his heels, and asked Adelaide to let him come, refusing to takeanything for his board and lodging. Silvere eagerly accepted, alreadyforeseeing the time when he would be able to make his poor aunt Didesome 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 atPlassans, a fine new carriage, shining with varnish, he vowed that hewould one day build carriages himself. He remembered this carriage asa rare and unique work of art, an ideal towards which his aspirationsshould tend. The tilted carts at which he worked in Vian's shop, thosecarts which he had lovingly cherished, now seemed unworthy of hisaffections. He began to attend the local drawing-school, where he formeda connection with a youngster who had left college, and who lent him anold treatise on geometry. He plunged into this study without a guide, racking his brains for weeks together in order to grasp the simplestproblem in the world. In this matter he gradually became one of thoselearned workmen who can hardly sign their name and yet talk aboutalgebra 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 knowledgeconvey an absolutely false idea of the highest truths, and renderpersons of limited intellect insufferably stupid. In Silvere's case, however, his scraps of stolen knowledge only augmented his liberalaspirations. He was conscious of horizons which at present remainedclosed to him. He formed for himself divine conceptions of things beyondhis reach, and lived on, regarding in a deep, innocent, religious waythe noble thoughts and grand conceptions towards which he was raisinghimself, but which he could not as yet comprehend. He was one of thesimple-minded, one whose simplicity was divine, and who had remainedon the threshold of the temple, kneeling before the tapers which from adistance 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 offurniture in this room, which had a stone floor, and served both as akitchen and a dining-room, were some straw-seated chairs, a table ontrestles, and an old coffer which Adelaide had converted into a sofa, byspreading a piece of woollen stuff over the lid. In the left handcorner of the large fireplace stood a plaster image of the Holy Virgin, surrounded by artificial flowers; she is the traditional good mother ofall old Provencal women, however irreligious they may be. A passage ledfrom the room into a yard situated at the rear of the house; in thisyard there was a well. Aunt Dide's bedroom was on the left side of thepassage; it was a little apartment containing an iron bedstead and onechair; Silvere slept in a still smaller room on the right hand side, just large enough for a trestle bedstead; and he had been obliged toplan a set of shelves, reaching up to the ceiling, to keep by himall those dear odd volumes which he saved his sous to purchase from aneighbouring general dealer. When he read at night-time, he would hanghis lamp on a nail at the head of the bed. If his grandmother had anattack, he merely had to leap out at the first gasp to be at her side ina moment. 

The young man led the life of a child. He passed his existence in thislonely spot. Like his father, he felt a dislike for taverns and Sundaystrolling. His mates wounded his delicate susceptibilities by theircoarse jokes. He preferred to read, to rack his rain over some simplegeometrical problem. Since aunt Dide had entrusted him with thelittle household commissions she did not go out at all, but ceased allintercourse even with her family. The young man sometimes thought of herforlornness; he reflected that the poor old woman lived but a few stepsfrom 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 beexpiating some former transgressions, he would say to himself: "I wasborn to pardon her. "

A nature such as Silvere's, ardent yet self-restrained, naturallycherished the most exalted republican ideas. At night, in his littlehovel, Silvere would again and again read a work of Rousseau's which hehad 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 dreamof universal happiness so dear to the poor, the words liberty, equality, fraternity, rang in his ears like those sonorous sacred calls of thebells, at the sound of which the faithful fall upon their knees. When, therefore, he learnt that the Republic had just been proclaimed inFrance he fancied that the whole world would enjoy a life of celestialbeatitude. His knowledge, though imperfect, made him see farther thanother workmen; his aspirations did not stop at daily bread; but hisextreme ingenuousness, his complete ignorance of mankind, kept himin the dreamland of theory, a Garden of Eden where universal justicereigned. His paradise was for a long time a delightful spot in which heforgot himself. 

When he came to perceive that things did not go on quite satisfactorilyin the best of republics he was sorely grieved, and indulged in anotherdream, that of compelling men to be happy even by force. Every act whichseemed to him prejudicial to the interest of the people roused him torevengeful indignation. Though he was as gentle as a child, he cherishedthe fiercest political animosity. He would not have killed a fly, andyet he was for ever talking of a call to arms. Liberty was his passion, an unreasoning, absolute passion, to which he gave all the feverishardour of his blood. Blinded by enthusiasm, he was both too ignorant andtoo learned to be tolerant, and would not allow for men's weaknesses; herequired an ideal government of perfect justice and perfect liberty. Itwas at this period that Antoine Macquart thought of setting him againstthe Rougons. He fancied that this young enthusiast would work terriblehavoc if he were only exasperated to the proper pitch. This calculationwas not altogether devoid of shrewdness. 

Such being Antoine's scheme, he tried to induce Silvere to visit him, byprofessing inordinate admiration for the young man's ideas. But hevery nearly compromised the whole matter at the outset. He had a wayof regarding the triumph of the Republic as a question of personalinterest, as an era of happy idleness and endless junketing, whichchilled his nephew's purely moral aspirations. However, he perceivedthat he was on the wrong track, and plunged into strange bathos, astring of empty but high-sounding words, which Silvere accepted as asatisfactory proof of his civism. Before long the uncle and the nephewsaw each other two or three times a week. During their long discussions, in which the fate of the country was flatly settled, Antoine endeavouredto persuade the young man that the Rougons' drawing-room was the chiefobstacle to the welfare of France. But he again made a false move bycalling his mother "old jade" in Silvere's presence. He even repeated tohim the early scandals about the poor woman. The young man blushed forshame, but listened without interruption. He had not asked his unclefor this information; he felt heart-broken by such confidences, whichwounded his feeling of respectful affection for aunt Dide. From thattime 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 takeadvantage of Silvere's affection for Adelaide by charging the Rougonswith her forlornness and poverty. According to him, he had always beenthe best of sons, whereas his brother had behaved disgracefully; Pierrehad robbed his mother, and now, when she was penniless, he was ashamedof her. He never ceased descanting on this subject. Silvere thereuponbecame indignant with his uncle Pierre, much to the satisfaction of hisuncle Antoine. 

The scene was much the same every time the young man called. He usedto come in the evening, while the Macquarts were at dinner. The fatherwould be swallowing some potato stew with a growl, picking out thepieces of bacon, and watching the dish when it passed into the hands ofJean and Gervaise. 

"You see, Silvere, " he would say with a sullen rage which wasill-concealed beneath his air of cynical indifference, "more potatoes, always potatoes! We never eat anything else now. Meat is only forrich people. It's getting quite impossible to make both ends meet withchildren who have the devil's appetite and their own too. "

Gervaise and Jean bent over their plates, no longer even daring to cutsome bread. Silvere, who in his dream lived in heaven, did not grasp thesituation. 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. Ishould earn probably twenty sous a day, and ruin my constitution. It'sworth while, isn't it?"

"Everyone earns what he can, " the young man replied. "Twenty sous aretwenty 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 soonrepented. 

"That's what I'm always telling him, " said she. "The market inspectorwants an assistant; I mentioned my husband to him, and he seems welldisposed towards us. "

But Macquart interrupted her with a fulminating glance. "Eh! holdyour tongue, " he growled with suppressed anger. "Women never knowwhat they're talking about! Nobody would have me; my opinions are toowell-known. "

Every time he was offered employment he displayed similar irritation. Hedid not cease, however, to ask for situations, though he always refusedsuch 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 onceexclaim: "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 cominghome with eight francs short last week! However, I've requested hismaster 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 butlittle sympathy with Silvere; politics bored him, and he thought hiscousin "cracked. " When only the women remained, if they unfortunatelystarted some whispered converse after clearing the table, Macquart wouldcry: "Now, you idlers! Is there nothing that requires mending? we'reall in rags. Look here, Gervaise, I was at your mistress's to-day, and Ilearnt some fine things. You're a good-for-nothing, a gad-about. "

Gervaise, now a grown girl of more than twenty, coloured up atthus being scolded in the presence of Silvere, who himself feltuncomfortable. One evening, having come rather late, when his uncle wasnot at home, he had found the mother and daughter intoxicated beforean empty bottle. From that time he could never see his cousin withoutrecalling the disgraceful spectacle she had presented, with the maudlingrin and large red patches on her poor, pale, puny face. He was notless shocked by the nasty stories that circulated with regard to her. He sometimes looked at her stealthily, with the timid surprise of aschoolboy in the presence of a disreputable character. 

When the two women had taken up their needles, and were ruining theireyesight in order to mend his old shirts, Macquart, taking the bestseat, would throw himself back with an air of delicious comfort, and sipand smoke like a man who relishes his laziness. This was the time whenthe old rogue generally railed against the wealthy for living onthe sweat of the poor man's brow. He was superbly indignant with thegentlemen of the new town, who lived so idly, and compelled the poorto keep them in luxury. The fragments of communistic notions which heculled from the newspapers in the morning became grotesque and monstrouson falling from his lips. He would talk of a time near at hand whenno one would be obliged to work. He always, however, kept his fiercestanimosity for the Rougons. He never could digest the potatoes he hadeaten. 

"I saw that vile creature Felicite buying a chicken in the market thismorning, " he would say. "Those robbers of inheritances must eat chicken, forsooth!"

"Aunt Dide, " interposed Silvere, "says that uncle Pierre was very kindto you when you left the army. Didn't he spend a large sum of money inlodging and clothing you?"

"A large sum of money!" roared Macquart in exasperation; "yourgrandmother is mad. It was those thieves who spread those reportsthemselves, so as to close my mouth. I never had anything. "

Fine again foolishly interfered, reminding him that he had received twohundred francs, besides a suit of clothes and a year's rent. Antoinethereupon shouted to her to hold her tongue, and continued, withincreasing fury: "Two hundred francs! A fine thing! I want my due, tenthousand francs. Ah! yes, talk of the hole they shoved me into like adog, and the old frock-coat which Pierre gave me because he was ashamedto 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 yourmother, who, good woman, would be alive now if she had had the means oftaking care of herself. "

"Oh! you're not just, uncle, " the young man said; "my mother did notdie for want of attention, and I'm certain my father would never haveaccepted a sou from his wife's family!"

"Pooh! don't talk to me! your father would have taken the money justlike anybody else. We were disgracefully plundered, and it's high timewe had our rights. "

Then Macquart, for the hundredth time, began to recount the story ofthe fifty thousand francs. His nephew, who knew it by heart, and allthe variations with which he embellished it, listened to him ratherimpatiently. 

"If you were a man, " Antoine would say in conclusion, "you would comesome day with me, and we would kick up a nice row at the Rougons. Wewould not leave without having some money given us. "

Silvere, however, grew serious, and frankly replied: "If those wretchesrobbed us, so much the worse for them. I don't want their money. Yousee, uncle, it's not for us to fall on our relatives. If they've donewrong, 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 theupper hand, you'll see whether I sha'n't settle my own little affairsmyself. 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 wouldthrow me a dry crust. "

Whenever Macquart touched upon this subject, he proved inexhaustible. Hebared all his bleeding wounds of envy and covetousness. He grew madwith rage when he came to think that he was the only unlucky one in thefamily, and was forced to eat potatoes, while the others had meat totheir heart's content. He would pass all his relations in review, evenhis grand-nephews, and find some grievance and reason for threateningevery 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, wouldsometimes say timidly: "Still, father, cousin Pascal was very kind tous, last year, when you were ill. "

"He attended you without charging a sou, " continued Fine, coming to herdaughter's aid, "and he often slipped a five-franc piece into my hand tomake 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 yourselvesbe twisted about like children. They'd all like to see me dead. When I'mill again, I beg you not to go and fetch my nephew, for I didn't feel atall comfortable in his hands. He's only a twopenny-halfpenny doctor, andhasn't got a decent patient in all his practice. "

When once Macquart was fully launched, he could not stop. "It's likethat little viper, Aristide, " he would say, "a false brother, a traitor. Are you taken in by his articles in the 'Independant, ' Silvere? Youwould be a fine fool if you were. They're not even written in goodFrench; I've always maintained that this contraband Republican is inleague with his worthy father to humbug us. You'll see how he'll turnhis coat. And his brother, the illustrious Eugene, that big blockheadof whom the Rougons make such a fuss! Why, they've got the impudence toassert that he occupies a good position in Paris! I know something abouthis 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, whoseupright 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 apolice spy. You'll be shorn like a lamb one of these days, with yourbenevolence. You're not manly enough. I don't want to say anythingagainst your brother Francois; but, if I were in your place, I shouldn'tlike the scurvy manner in which he treats you. He earns a heap of moneyat Marseilles, and yet he never sends you a paltry twenty-franc piercefor pocket money. If ever you become poor, I shouldn't advise you tolook to him for anything. "

"I've no need of anybody, " the young man replied in a proud and slightlyinjured 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 littleMaxime, Aristide's son, that little nine-year-old brat, pokes histongue out at me when me meets me. That child will some day beat hisown mother, and a good job too! Say what you like, all those folks don'tdeserve their luck; but it's always like this in families, the good onessuffer while the bad ones make their fortunes. "

All this dirty linen, which Macquart washed with such complacency beforehis nephew, profoundly disgusted the young man. He would have liked tosoar back into his dream. As soon as he began to show unmistakable signsof impatience, Antoine would employ strong expedients to exasperate himagainst 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 onlymention the matter out of pity for my poor mother, whom all that gangtreat in a most revolting manner. "

"They are wretches!" Silvere murmured. 

"Oh! you don't know, you don't understand. These Rougons pour all sortsof insults and abuse on the good woman. Aristide has forbidden his soneven to recognise her. Felicite talks of having her placed in a lunaticasylum. "

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 willhave 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 thatyou ought not to be ignorant of, unless you want to play the part of afool. "

Macquart, while exerting himself to set Silvere against the Rougons, experienced the keenest pleasure on drawing tears of anguish from theyoung 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 broughtall his instincts of refined cruelty into play, in order to inventatrocious falsehoods which should sting the poor lad to the heart; thenhe revelled in his pallor, his trembling hands and his heart-rendinglooks, with the delight of some evil spirit who measures his stabs andfinds that he has struck his victim in the right place. When he thoughtthat he had wounded and exasperated Silvere sufficiently, he would atlast touch upon politics. 

"I've been assured, " he would say, lowering his voice, "that the Rougonsare preparing some treachery. "

"Treachery?" Silvere asked, becoming attentive. 

"Yes, one of these nights they are going to seize all the good citizensof the town and throw them into prison. "

The young man was at first disposed to doubt it, but his uncle gaveprecise details; he spoke of lists that had been drawn up, he mentionedthe persons whose names were on these lists, he indicated in whatmanner, at what hour, and under what circumstances the plot would becarried into effect. Silvere gradually allowed himself to be taken inby this old woman's tale, and was soon raving against the enemies of theRepublic. 

"It's they that we shall have to reduce to impotence if they persist inbetraying the country!" he cried. "And what do they intend to do withthe citizens whom they arrest?"

"What do they intend to do with them? Why, they will shoot them in thelowest dungeons of the prison, of course, " replied Macquart, with ahoarse laugh. And as the young man, stupefied with horror, looked athim without knowing what to say: "This will not be the first lot to beassassinated there, " he continued. "You need only go and prowl about thePalais 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 andGervaise, on finding them hotly debating things, quietly went to bedwithout attracting their attention. Then the two men remained togethertill midnight, commenting on the news from Paris and discussing theapproaching and inevitable struggle. Macquart bitterly denounced the menof his own party, Silvere dreamed his dream of ideal liberty aloud, andfor himself only. Strange conversations these were, during which theuncle poured out many a little nip for himself, and from which thenephew emerged quite intoxicated with enthusiasm. Antoine, however, never succeeded in obtaining from the young Republican any perfidioussuggestion or play of warfare against the Rougons. In vain he tried togoad him on; he seldom heard him suggest aught but an appeal to eternaljustice, which sooner or later would punish the evil-doers. 

The ingenuous youth did indeed speak warmly of taking up arms andmassacring the enemies of the Republic; but, as soon as these enemiesstrayed out of his dream or became personified in his uncle Pierre orany other person of his acquaintance, he relied upon heaven to sparehim the horror of shedding blood. It is very probable that he would haveceased visiting Macquart, whose jealous fury made him so uncomfortable, if he had not tasted the pleasure of being able to speak freely of hisdear Republic there. In the end, however, his uncle exercised decisiveinfluence over his destiny; he irritated his nerves by his everlastingdiatribes, and succeeded in making him eager for an armed struggle, theconquest of universal happiness by violence. 

When Silvere reached his sixteenth year, Macquart had him admitted intothe secret society of the Montagnards, a powerful association whoseinfluence extended throughout Southern France. From that moment theyoung Republican gazed with longing eyes at the smuggler's carbine, which Adelaide had hung over her chimney-piece. Once night, while hisgrandmother was asleep, he cleaned and put it in proper condition. Thenhe 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 bythe whole world. 

Macquart meantime was not discouraged. He said to himself that he wouldbe able to strangle the Rougons alone if he could ever get them into acorner. His envious rage and slothful greed were increased by certainsuccessive accidents which compelled him to resume work. In the earlypart of 1850 Fine died, almost suddenly, from inflammation of the lungs, which she had caught by going one evening to wash the family linen inthe Viorne, and carrying it home wet on her back. She returned soakedwith water and perspiration, bowed down by her load, which was terriblyheavy, and she never recovered. 

Her death filled Macquart with consternation. His most reliable sourceof income was gone. When, a few days later, he sold the caldron in whichhis wife had boiled her chestnuts, and the wooden horse which she usedin reseating old chairs, he foully accused the Divinity of having robbedhim of that strong strapping woman of whom he had often felt ashamed, but whose real worth he now appreciated. He now also fell upon thechildren's earnings with greater avidity than ever. But, a month later, Gervaise, tired of his continual exactions, ran away with her twochildren and Lantier, whose mother was dead. The lovers took refuge inParis. Antoine, overwhelmed, vented his rage against his daughter byexpressing the hope that she might die in hospital like most of herkind. This abuse did not, however, improve the situation, which wasdecidedly becoming bad. Jean soon followed his sister's example. Hewaited for pay-day to come round, and then contrived to receive themoney himself. As he was leaving he told one of his friends, whorepeated 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 broughtback by the gendarmes he would touch neither saw nor plane. 

On the morrow, when Antoine, having vainly sought him, found himselfalone and penniless in the house where for twenty years he had beencomfortably kept, he flew into the most frantic rage, kicked thefurniture about, and yelled the vilest imprecations. Then he sank downexhausted, and began to drag himself about and moan like a convalescent. The fear of having to earn his bread made him positively ill. WhenSilvere came to see him, he complained, with tears, of his children'singratitude. Had he not always been a good father to them? Jean andGervaise were monsters, who had made him an evil return for all he haddone for them. Now they abandoned him because he was old, and they couldnot 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 saythat he could not bear the least fatigue for any length of time. Justas his nephew was about to withdraw, he borrowed ten francs of him. Thenfor 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, hesold all the small articles in the house. Soon nothing remained buta table, a chair, his bed, and the clothes on his back. He ended byexchanging the walnut-wood bedstead for a plain strap one. When he hadexhausted all his resources, he cried with rage; and, with the fiercepallor of a man who is resigned to suicide, he went to look for thebundle of osier that he had forgotten in some corner for a quarter ofa century past. As he took it up he seemed to be lifting a mountain. However, he again began to plait baskets and hampers, while denouncingthe human race for their neglect. 

It was particularly at this time that he talked of dividing and sharingthe riches of the wealthy. He showed himself terrible. His speecheskept up a constant conflagration in the tavern, where his furious lookssecured him unlimited credit. Moreover, he only worked when he had beenunable to get a five-franc piece out of Silvere or a comrade. He wasno longer "Monsieur" Macquart, the clean-shaven workman, who wore hisSunday clothes every day and played the gentleman; he again became thebig slovenly devil who had once speculated on his rags. Felicite did notdare to go to market now that he was so often coming there to sellhis baskets. He once had a violent quarrel with her there. His hatredagainst the Rougons grew with his wretchedness. He swore, with horriblethreats, that he would wreak justice himself, since the rich wereleagued 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 honestLiberals in the town had failed to arrive at an understanding amongstthemselves, and therefore kept apart, he became naturally one ofthe most prominent agents of the insurrection. The working classes, notwithstanding the unfavourable opinion which they at last entertainedof this lazy fellow, would, when the time arrived, have to accept himas a rallying flag. On the first few days, however, the town remainedquiet, and Macquart thought that his plans were frustrated. It was notuntil the news arrived of the rising of the rural districts that herecovered hope. For his own part he would not have left Plassans for allthe world; accordingly he invented some pretext for not following thoseworkmen who, on the Sunday morning, set off to join the insurrectionaryband of La Palud and Saint-Martin-de-Vaulx. 

On the evening of the same day he was sitting in some disreputabletavern of the old quarter with a few friends, when a comrade came toinform him that the insurgents were only a few miles from Plassans. Thisnews had just been brought by an express, who had succeeded in makinghis way into the town, and had been charged to get the gates openedfor the column. There was an outburst of triumph. Macquart, especially, appeared to be delirious with enthusiasm. The unforeseen arrival of theinsurgents seemed to him a delicate attention of Providence for his ownparticular benefit. His hands trembled at the idea that he would soonhold the Rougons by the throat. 

He hastily quitted the tavern with his friends. All the Republicans whohad not yet left the town were soon assembled on the Cours Sauvaire. Itwas this band that Rougon had perceived as he was hastening to concealhimself in his mother's house. When the band had reached the top ofthe Rue de la Banne, Macquart, who had stationed himself at the rear, detained four of his companions, big fellows who were not over-burdenedwith brains and whom he swayed by his tavern bluster. He easilypersuaded them that the enemies of the Republic must be arrestedimmediately if they wished to prevent the greatest calamities. The truthwas that he feared Pierre might escape him in the midst of the confusionwhich the entry of the insurgents would produce. However, the four bigfellows followed him with exemplary docility, and knocked violentlyat the door of the Rougons' abode. In this critical situation Felicitedisplayed admirable courage. She went down and opened the street doorherself. 

"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 istravelling on business. He took the diligence for Marseilles at sixo'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 theninto the bedroom, turned the bed up, looked behind the curtains andunder the furniture. The four big fellows assisted him. They searchedthe place for a quarter of an hour. Felicite meantime quietly seatedherself on the drawing-room sofa, and began to fasten the strings of herpetticoats, like a person who has been surprised in her sleep and hasnot had time to dress properly. 

"It's true then, he's run away, the coward!" Macquart muttered onreturning to the drawing-room. 

Nevertheless, he continued to look about him with a suspicious air. Hefelt a presentiment that Pierre could not have given up the game at thedecisive moment. At last he approached Felicite, who was yawning: "Showus the place where your husband is hidden, " he said to her, "and Ipromise no harm shall be done to him. "

"I have told you the truth, " she replied impatiently. "I can't delivermy 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 ofinsurgents entering the Rue de la Banne. 

He then had to leave the yellow drawing-room, after shaking his fistat his sister-in-law, calling her an old jade, and threatening that hewould soon return. At the foot of the staircase, he took one of the menwho accompanied him, a navvy named Cassoute, the most wooden-headed ofthe 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 scoundrelfrom upstairs return. "

The man sat down heavily. When Macquart reached the pavement, heraised his eyes and observed Felicite leaning out of the window of theyellow-drawing room, watching the march past of the insurgents, as ifit was nothing but a regiment passing through the town to the strainsof its band. This last sign of perfect composure irritated him to such adegree that he was almost tempted to go up again and throw the old womaninto the street. However, he followed the column, muttering in a hoarsevoice: "Yes, yes, look at us passing. We'll see whether you will stationyourself at your balcony to-morrow. "

It was nearly eleven o'clock at night when the insurgents entered thetown by the Porte de Rome. The workmen remaining in Plassans had openedthe gate for them, in spite of the wailings of the keeper, from whomthey could only wrest the keys by force. This man, very jealous of hisoffice, stood dumbfoundered in the presence of the surging crowd. Tothink of it! he, who never allowed more than one person to pass in ata time, and then only after a prolonged examination of his face! Andhe murmured that he was dishonoured. The men of Plassans were stillmarching 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 bannermore proudly than ever now that she could divine behind the closedblinds the scared looks of well-to-do bourgeois startled out of theirsleep. The insurgents passed along the Rue de Rome and the Rue de laBanne slowly and warily; at every crossway, although they well knew thequiet disposition of the inhabitants, they feared they might be receivedwith bullets. The town seemed lifeless, however; there was scarcelya stifled exclamation to be heard at the windows. Only five or sixshutters 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 hedistinguished the tall red girl who appeared to be drawing that crowd ofblack demons behind her, he hastily closed his window again, terrifiedby such a diabolical apparition. 

The silence of the slumbering town reassured the insurgents, whoventured to make their way through the lanes of the old quarter, andthus reached the market-place and the Place de l'Hotel-de-Ville, whichwas connected by a short but broad street. These open spaces, plantedwith slender trees, were brilliantly illumined by the moon. Against theclear sky the recently restored town-hall appeared like a large patch ofcrude whiteness, the fine black lines of the wrought-iron arabesques ofthe first-floor balcony showing in bold relief. Several persons couldbe plainly distinguished standing on this balcony, the mayor, CommanderSicardot, three or four municipal councillors, and other functionaries. The doors below were closed. The three thousand Republicans, who coveredboth open spaces, halted with upraised heads, ready to force the doorswith a single push. 

The arrival of the insurrectionary column at such an hour took theauthorities by surprise. Before repairing to the mayor's, CommanderSicardot had taken time to don his uniform. He then had to run and rousethe mayor. When the keeper of the Porte de Rome, who had been left freeby the insurgents, came to announce that the villains were already inthe town, the commander had so far only managed to assemble a score ofthe national guards. The gendarmes, though their barracks were close by, could not even be warned. It was necessary to shut the town-halldoors in all haste, in order to deliberate. Five minutes later a lowcontinuous rumbling announced the approach of the column. 

Monsieur Garconnet, out of hatred to the Republic, would have greatlyliked to offer resistance. But he was of a prudent nature, andcomprehended the futility of a struggle on finding only a few pale men, who were scarcely awake, around him. So the deliberations did not lastlong. Sicardot alone was obstinate; he wanted to fight, asserting thattwenty men would suffice to bring these three thousand villains toreason. At this Monsieur Garconnet shrugged his shoulders, and declaredthat the only step to take was to make an honourable capitulation. Asthe uproar of the mob increased, he went out on the balcony, followedby all the persons present. Silence was gradually obtained. Below, amongthe black, quivering mass of insurgents, the guns and scythes glitteredin 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, steppedforward. 

"Open the doors, " he said, without replying to Monsieur Garconnet'squestion. "Avoid a fratricidal conflict. "

"I call upon you to withdraw, " the mayor continued. "I protest in thename of the law. "

These words provoked deafening shouts from the crowd. When the tumulthad somewhat abated, vehement calls ascended to the balcony. Voicesshouted: "It is in the name of the law that we have come here!"

"Your duty as a functionary is to secure respect for the fundamentallaw of the land, the constitution, which has just been outrageouslyviolated. "

"Long live the constitution! Long live the Republic!"

Then as Monsieur Garconnet endeavoured to make himself heard, andcontinued to invoke his official dignity, the land-owner of LaPalud, who was standing under the balcony, interrupted him withgreat vehemence: "You are now nothing but the functionary of a fallenfunctionary; 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 scythesexasperated him; and he made desperate efforts to restrain himselffrom treating these twopenny-halfpenny soldiers, who had not even agun apiece, as they deserved. But when he heard a gentleman in a meregreatcoat speak of deposing a mayor girded with his scarf, he could nolonger contain himself and shouted: "You pack of rascals! If I only hadfour men and a corporal, I'd come down and pull your ears for you, andmake you behave yourselves!"

Less than this was needed to raise a serious disturbance. A long shoutrose from the mob as it made a rush for the doors. Monsieur Garconnet, in consternation, hastily quitted the balcony, entreating Sicardot to bereasonable unless he wished to have them massacred. But in two minutesthe doors gave way, the people invaded the building and disarmed thenational guards. The mayor and the other functionaries present werearrested. Sicardot, who declined to surrender his sword, had tobe protected from the fury of some insurgents by the chief of thecontingent from Les Tulettes, a man of great self-possession. When thetown-hall was in the hands of the Republicans, they led their prisonersto a small cafe in the market-place, and there kept them closelywatched. 

The insurrectionary army would have avoided marching through Plassansif its leaders had not decided that a little food and a few hours' restwere absolutely necessary for the men. Instead of pushing forwarddirect to the chief town of the department, the column, owing to theinexcusable weakness and the inexperience of the improvised general whocommanded it, was now diverging to the left, making a detour which wasdestined, ultimately, to lead it to destruction. It was bound for theheights of Sainte-Roure, still about ten leagues distant, and it wasin view of this long march that it had been decided to pass throughPlassans, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour. It was now half-pasteleven. 

When Monsieur Garconnet learnt that the band was in quest of provisions, he offered his services to procure them. This functionary formed, undervery difficult circumstances, a proper estimate of the situation. Thosethree thousand starving men would have to be satisfied; it would neverdo for Plassans, on waking up, to find them still squatting on thepavements; if they withdrew before daybreak they would simply havepassed through the slumbering town like an evil dream, like one of thosenightmares which depart with the arrival of dawn. And so, although heremained a prisoner, Monsieur Garconnet, followed by two guards, wentabout knocking at the bakers' doors, and had all the provisions that hecould find distributed among the insurgents. 

Towards one o'clock the three thousand men began to eat, squatting onthe ground, with their weapons between their legs. The market-placeand the neighbourhood of the town-hall were turned into vast open-airrefectories. In spite of the bitter cold, humorous sallies wereexchanged among the swarming multitude, the smallest groups of whichshowed forth in the brilliant moonlight. The poor famished fellowseagerly devoured their portions while breathing on their fingers to warmthem; and, from the depths of adjoining streets, where vague black formssat on the white thresholds of the houses, there came sudden burstsof laughter. At the windows emboldened, inquisitive women, with silkhandkerchiefs tied round their heads, watched the repast of thoseterrible insurgents, those blood-suckers who went in turn to the marketpump to drink a little water in the hollows of their hands. 

While the town-hall was being invaded, the gendarmes' barracks, situateda few steps away, in the Rue Canquoin, which leads to the market, hadalso fallen into the hands of the mob. The gendarmes were surprised intheir beds and disarmed in a few minutes. The impetus of the crowd hadcarried Miette and Silvere along in this direction. The girl, who stillclasped her flagstaff to her breast, was pushed against the wall ofthe barracks, while the young man, carried away by the human wave, penetrated into the interior, and helped his comrades to wrest from thegendarmes the carbines which they had hastily caught up. Silvere, waxingferocious, intoxicated by the onslaught, attacked a big devil of agendarme named Rengade, with whom for a few moments he struggled. Atlast, 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 hisright eye out. Blood flowed, and, some of it splashing Silvere's hands, quickly brought him to his senses. He looked at his hands, dropped thecarbine, 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 sitdown on a stone bench, and told her to wait there for him. He was stilllooking at his hands, muttering something at the same time. Miette atlast understood from his disquieted words that he wished to go and kisshis grandmother before leaving. 

"Well, go, " she said; "don't trouble yourself about me. Wash yourhands. "

But he went quickly away, keeping his fingers apart, without thinkingof washing them at the pump which he passed. Since he had felt Rengade'swarm blood on his skin, he had been possessed by one idea, that ofrunning to Aunt Dide's and dipping his hands in the well-trough at theback of the little yard. There only, he thought, would he be ableto wash off the stain of that blood. Moreover, all his calm, gentlechildhood seemed to return to him; he felt an irresistible longingto 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, acircumstance which at any other time would have greatly surprisedSilvere. But on entering he did not even see his uncle Rougon, who wasseated in a corner on the old chest. He did not wait for the poor oldwoman's questions. "Grandmother, " he said quickly, "you must forgiveme; I'm going to leave with the others. You see I've got blood on me. Ibelieve 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. Andsuddenly 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 wasquite safe. And for the very first time, Adelaide made an allusion tothe smuggler Macquart in her grandson's presence. 

"You'll bring the gun back? You promise me!" she said with singularenergy. "It's all I have left of him. You've killed a gendarme; ah, itwas the gendarmes who killed him!"

She continued gazing fixedly at Silvere with an air of cruelsatisfaction, and apparently without thought of detaining him. She neverasked him for any explanation, nor wept like those good grandmothers whoalways imagine, at sight of the least scratch, that their grandchildrenare dying. All her nature was concentrated in one unique thought, towhich she at last gave expression with ardent curiosity: "Did you killthe gendarme with the gun?"

Either Silvere did not quite catch what she said, or else hemisunderstood 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 wasindeed right; his family took a pleasure in compromising him. One ofhis nephews had now killed a gendarme! He would never get the postof receiver of taxes, if he did not prevent this foolish madman fromrejoining 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 findhim there. "I am the head of the family, and I forbid you to leave thishouse. You're risking both your honour and ours. To-morrow I will try toget 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, neverfear. " And as Rougon continued to speak of the family dignity and theauthority with which his seniority invested him: "Do I belong to yourfamily?" the young man continued. "You have always disowned me. To-day, fear has driven you here, because you feel that the day of judgment hasarrived. 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 ofdelight to Silvere's vehement language, laid her withered hand on herson'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. ThenRougon, having carefully shut the door again, said to his mother in anangry, threatening tone: "If any mischief happens to him it will be yourfault. 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 somevine-branches on the fire, which was going out, and murmured with avague 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 heapproached the spot where he had left Miette, he heard a loud uproar ofvoices and saw a crowd which made him quicken his steps. A cruel scenehad just occurred. Some inquisitive people were walking among theinsurgents, while the latter quietly partook of their meal. Amongstthese onlookers was Justin Rebufat, the son of the farmer of theJas-Meiffren, a youth of twenty years old, a sickly, squint-eyedcreature, who harboured implacable hatred against his cousin Miette. At home he grudged her the bread she ate, and treated her like a beggarpicked up from the gutter out of charity. It is probable that the younggirl had rejected his advances. Lank and pale, with ill-proportionedlimbs and face all awry, he revenged himself upon her for his ownugliness, and the contempt which the handsome, vigorous girl must haveevinced for him. He ardently longed to induce his father to send herabout 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 hisfather, Rebufat. 

On the evening in question, having seen her leave home at about eighto'clock, Justin's hatred had overpowered him, and he had been unableto keep silent any longer. Rebufat, on hearing his story, fell into aterrible rage, and declared that he would kick the gadabout out of hishouse should she have the audacity to return. Justin then went tobed, relishing beforehand the fine scene which would take place on themorrow. Then, however, a burning desire came upon him for some immediateforetaste of his revenge. So he dressed himself again and went out. Perhaps he might meet Miette. In that case he was resolved to treather insolently. This is how he came to witness the arrival of theinsurgents, whom he followed to the town-hall with a vague presentimentthat he would find the lovers there. And, indeed, he at last caughtsight 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 infoul language. The girl, thunderstruck at seeing him, was unableto speak. She wept beneath his abuse, and whist she was overcome bysobbing, bowing her head and hiding her face, Justin called her aconvict's daughter, and shouted that old Rebufat would give her a goodthrashing should she ever dare to return to Jas-Meiffren. 

For a quarter of an hour he thus kept her smarting and trembling. Somepeople had gathered round, and grinned stupidly at the painful scene. At last a few insurgents interfered, and threatened the young man withexemplary chastisement if he did not leave Miette alone. But Justin, although he retreated, declared that he was not afraid of them. It wasjust at this moment that Silvere came up. Young Rebufat, on catchingsight of him, made a sudden bound, as if to take flight; for he wasafraid of him, knowing that he was much stronger than himself. He couldnot, however, resist the temptation to cast a parting insult on the girlin her lover's presence. 

"Ah! I knew very well, " he cried, "that the wheelwright could not befar off! You left us to run after that crack-brained fellow, eh? Youwretched girl! When's the baptism to be?"

Then he retreated a few steps further on seeing Silvere clench hisfists. 

"And mind, " he continued, with a vile sneer, "don't come to our houseagain. My father will kick you out if you do! Do you hear?"

But he ran away howling, with bruised visage. For Silvere had boundedupon him and dealt him a blow full in the face. The young man didnot pursue him. When he returned to Miette he found her standing up, feverishly wiping her tears away with the palm of her hand. And ashe gazed at her tenderly, in order to console her, she made a suddenenergetic 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 havingleft home. I am free. "

She took up the flag and led Silvere back into the midst of theinsurgents. It was now nearly two o'clock in the morning. The cold wasbecoming so intense that the Republicans had risen to their feet andwere marching to and fro in order to warm themselves while they finishedtheir bread. At last their leaders gave orders for departure. The columnformed again. The prisoners were placed in the middle of it. BesidesMonsieur Garconnet and Commander Sicardot, the insurgents hadarrested Monsieur Peirotte, the receiver of taxes, and several otherfunctionaries, 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 itimprudent 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, complainingbitterly of the accursed injury which prevented him from carryinga weapon. As he walked through the crowd he came across his brotherPascal, provided with a case of surgical instruments and a littleportable medicine chest. The doctor informed him, in his quiet, way, that he intended to follow the insurgents. At this Aristide inwardlypronounced him a great fool. At last he himself slunk away, fearing lestthe others should entrust the care of the town to him, a post which hedeemed exceptionally perilous. 

The insurgents could not think of keeping Plassans in their power. Thetown was animated by so reactionary a spirit that it seemed impossibleeven to establish a democratic municipal commission there, as hadalready been done in other places. So they would simply have gone offwithout taking any further steps if Macquart, prompted and emboldened byhis own private animosities, had not offered to hold Plassans in awe, oncondition that they left him twenty determined men. These men were givenhim, and at their head he marched off triumphantly to take possessionof the town-hall. Meantime the column of insurgents was wending itsway along the Cours Sauvaire, and making its exit by the Grand'-Porte, leaving the streets, which it had traversed like a tempest, silentand deserted in its rear. The high road, whitened by the moonshine, stretched far into the distance. Miette had refused the support ofSilvere's arm; she marched on bravely, steady and upright, holding thered flag aloft with both hands, without complaining of the cold whichwas turning her fingers blue. 

CHAPTER V

The high roads stretched far way, white with moonlight. 

The insurrectionary army was continuing its heroic march through thecold, clear country. It was like a mighty wave of enthusiasm. The thrillof patriotism, which transported Miette and Silvere, big children thatthey were, eager for love and liberty, sped, with generous fervour, athwart the sordid intrigues of the Macquarts and the Rougons. Atintervals the trumpet-voice of the people rose and drowned the prattleof 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 thewindings of the hillocks, below which the torrent flows. On the left, the plain spreads out like an immense green carpet, dotted here andthere with grey villages. On the right, the chain of the Garrigues rearsits desolate peaks, its plateaux of stones, its huge rusty bouldersthat look as though they had been reddened by the sun. The high road, embanked along the riverside, passes on amidst enormous rocks, betweenwhich glimpses of the valley are caught at every step. Nothing could bewilder or more strikingly grand than this road out of the hillside. Atnight time, especially, it inspires one with a feeling of deep awe. Theinsurgents advanced under the pale light, along what seemed the chiefstreet of some ruined town, bordered on either side with fragmentsof temples. The moon turned each rock into a broken column, crumblingcapital, or stretch of wall pierced with mysterious arches. On highslumbered the mass of the Garrigues, suffused with a milky tinge, andresembling some immense Cyclopean city whose towers, obelisks, housesand 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. Theinsurrectionary force might well have thought they were following somegigantic causeway, making their rounds along some military road built onthe shore of a phosphorescent sea, and circling some unknown Babel. 

On the night in question, the Viorne roared hoarsely at the foot ofthe rocks bordering the route. Amidst the continuous rumbling of thetorrent, the insurgents could distinguish the sharp, wailing notes ofthe tocsin. The villages scattered about the plain, on the other side ofthe river, were rising, sounding alarm-bells, and lighting signal fires. Till daybreak the marching column, which the persistent tolling ofa mournful knell seemed to pursue in the darkness, thus beheld theinsurrection spreading along the valley, like a train of powder. Thefires showed in the darkness like stains of blood; echoes of distantsongs were wafted to them; the whole vague distance, blurred by thewhitish vapours of the moon, stirred confusedly, and suddenly broke intoa spasm of anger. For leagues and leagues the scene remained the same. 

These men, marching on under the blind impetus of the fever with whichthe events in Paris had inspired Republican hearts, became elated atseeing that long stretch of country quivering with revolt. Intoxicatedwith enthusiastic belief in the general insurrection of which theydreamed, they fancied that France was following them; on the other sideof the Viorne, in that vast ocean of diffused light, they imagined therewere endless files of men rushing like themselves to the defence of theRepublic. All simplicity and delusion, as multitudes so often are, theyimagined, in their uncultured minds, that victory was easy and certain. They would have seized and shot as a traitor any one who had thenasserted that they were the only ones who had the courage of theirduty, and that the rest of the country, overwhelmed with fright, waspusillanimously allowing itself to be garrotted. 

They derived fresh courage, too, from the welcome accorded to themby the few localities that lay along their route on the slopes of theGarrigues. The inhabitants rose _en masse_ immediately the little armydrew near; women ran to meet them, wishing them a speedy victory, whilemen, half clad, seized the first weapons they could find and rushed tojoin their ranks. There was a fresh ovation at every village, shouts ofwelcome and farewell many times reiterated. 

Towards daybreak the moon disappeared behind the Garrigues and theinsurgents continued their rapid march amidst the dense darkness ofa winter night. They were now unable to distinguish the valley or thehills; they heard only the hoarse plaints of the bells, sounding throughthe deep obscurity like invisible drums, hidden they knew not where, butever goading them on with despairing calls. 

Miette and Silvere went on, all eagerness like the others. Towardsdaybreak, the girl suffered greatly from fatigue; she could only walkwith short hurried steps, and was unable to keep up with the longstrides of the men who surrounded her. Nevertheless she courageouslystrove to suppress all complaints; it would have cost her too muchto confess that she was not as strong as a boy. During the first fewleagues of the march Silvere gave her his arm; then, seeing that thestandard was gradually slipping from her benumbed hands, he tried totake it in order to relieve her; but she grew angry, and would onlyallow him to hold it with one hand while she continued to carry it onher shoulder. She thus maintained her heroic demeanour with childishstubbornness, smiling at the young man each time he gave her a glance ofloving anxiety. At last, when the moon hid itself, she gave way in thesheltering darkness. Silvere felt her leaning more heavily on his arm. He now had to carry the flag, and hold her round the waist to preventher 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 thereuponhanded the flag to one of the other insurgents and quitted the ranks, almost carrying the girl in his arms. She struggled a little, she feltso distressed at appearing such a child. But he calmed her, telling herthat 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 thesame time as the others. 

It was then six o'clock. There must have been a slight mist rising fromthe Viorne, for the darkness seemed to be growing denser. The youngpeople groped their way along the slope of the Garrigues, till they cameto 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. Andathwart 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 attheir feet, in some village across the road; and the other far-off andfaint, responding, as it were, with distant sobs to the feverish plaintsof the first. One might have thought that these bells were recounting toeach other, through the empty waste, the sinister story of a perishingworld. 

Miette and Silvere, warmed by their quick march, did not at first feelthe cold. They remained silent, listening in great dejection to thesounds of the tocsin, which made the darkness quiver. They could noteven see one another. Miette felt frightened, and, seeking for Silvere'shand, clasped it in her own. After the feverish enthusiasm which forseveral hours had carried them along with the others, this sudden haltand the solitude in which they found themselves side by side left themexhausted and bewildered as though they had suddenly awakened from astrange dream. They felt as if a wave had cast them beside the highway, then ebbed back and left them stranded. Irresistible reaction plungedthem into listless stupor; they forgot their enthusiasm; they thought nomore of the men whom they had to rejoin; they surrendered themselves tothe melancholy sweetness of finding themselves alone, hand in hand, inthe midst of the wild darkness. 

"You are not angry with me?" the girl at length inquired. "I couldeasily 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 Icould have taken long strides like you, and have walked along withoutstopping. You will think I am a child. "

Silvere smiled, and Miette, though the darkness prevented her fromseeing him, guessed that he was doing so. Then she continued withdetermination: "You must not always treat me like a sister. I want to beyour wife some day. "

Forthwith she clasped Silvere to her bosom, and, still with her armsabout him, murmured: "We shall grow so cold; come close to me that wemay be warm. "

Then they lapsed into silence. Until that troublous hour, they had lovedone another with the affection of brother and sister. In their ignorancethey still mistook their feelings for tender friendship, althoughbeneath their guileless love their ardent blood surged more wildlyday by day. Given age and experience, a violent passion of southernintensity would at last spring from this idyll. Every girl who hangs ona youth's neck is already a woman, a woman unconsciously, whom a caressmay awaken to conscious womanhood. When lovers kiss on the cheeks, it isbecause they are searching, feeling for one another's lips. Lovers aremade by a kiss. It was on that dark and cold December night, amid thebitter wailing of the tocsin, that Miette and Silvere exchanged one ofthose kisses that bring all the heart's blood to the lips. 

They remained silent, close to one another. A gentle glow soonpenetrated them, languor overcame them, and steeped them in feverishdrowsiness. They were quite warm at last, and lights seemed to flitbefore their closed eyelids, while a buzzing mounted to their brains. This state of painful ecstasy, which lasted some minutes, seemedendless to them. Then, in a kind of dream, their lips met. The kiss theyexchanged was long and greedy. It seemed to them as if they had neverkissed before. Yet their embrace was fraught with suffering and theyreleased one another. And the chilliness of the night having cooledtheir fever, they remained in great confusion at some distance one fromthe other. 

Meantime the bells were keeping up their sinister converse in thedark abyss which surrounded the young people. Miette, trembling andfrightened, did not dare to draw near to Silvere again. She did not evenknow if he were still there, for she could no longer hear him move. Thestinging sweetness of their kiss still clung to their lips, to whichpassionate phrases surged, and they longed to kiss once more. But shamerestrained them from the expression of any such desire. They felt thatthey 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 darknesshad not offered complicity, they would, for a long time yet, havecontinued kissing each other on the cheeks like old playfellows. Feelings of modesty were coming to Miette. She remembered Justin'scoarseness. A few hours previously she had listened, without a blush, to that fellow who called her a shameless girl. She had wept withoutunderstanding his meaning, she had wept simply because she guessed thatwhat he spoke of must be base. Now that she was becoming a woman, shewondered in a last innocent transport whether that kiss, whose burningsmart she could still feel, would not perhaps suffice to cover her withthe shame to which her cousin had referred. Thereupon she was seizedwith remorse, and burst into sobs. 

"What is the matter; why are you crying?" asked Silvere in an anxiousvoice. 

"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 oldpeople used to throw stones at me. To-day I am treated as the vilest ofcreatures. Justin did right to despise me before everybody. We have beendoing wrong, Silvere. "

The young man, quite dismayed, clasped her in his arms again, tryingto console her. "I love you, " he whispered, "I am your brother. Whysay that we have been doing wrong? We kissed each other because we werecold. You know very well that we used to kiss each other every eveningbefore separating. "

"Oh! not as we did just now, " she whispered. "It must be wrong, for astrange 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 defendmyself. "

The young fellow remained silent, unable to find a word to calm theagitation of this big child, trembling at her first kiss of love. Heclasped her gently, imagining that he might calm her by his embrace. She struggled, however, and continued: "If you like, we will go away; wewill leave the province. I can never return to Plassans; my uncle wouldbeat me; all the townspeople would point their fingers at me--" Andthen, as if seized with sudden irritation, she added: "But no! I amcursed! I forbid you to leave aunt Dide to follow me. You must leave meon the highway. "

"Miette, Miette!" Silvere implored; "don't talk like that. "

"Yes. I want to please you. Be reasonable. They have turned me out likea vagabond. If I went back with you, you would always be fighting for mysake, 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 kissme so. You hurt me. "

Then, after a short silence: "You know quite well that I cannot be yourwife now. We are too young. You would have to wait for me, and meanwhileI should die of shame. You are wrong in protesting; you will be forcedto leave me in some corner. "

At this Silvere, his fortitude exhausted, began to cry. A man's sobsare fraught with distressing hoarseness. Miette, quite frightened asshe 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 wasa little simpleton to have let a kiss upset her so completely. Shenow clasped her lover to her bosom as if to beg forgiveness for havingpained him. These weeping children, so anxiously clasping one another, made the dark night yet more woeful than before. In the distance, thebells continued to complain unceasingly in panting accents. 

"It is better to die, " repeated Silvere, amidst his sobs; "it is betterto die. "

"Don't cry; forgive me, " stammered Miette. "I will be brave; I will doall you wish. "

When the young man had dried his tears: "You are right, " he said; "wecannot 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, andwe 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 mostlikely shall not be there. You will comfort the poor woman. That wouldbe better. "

"Ah! as you said just now, " the young girl murmured, "it would be betterto die. "

At this longing for death they tightened their embrace. Miette reliedupon dying with Silvere; he had only spoken of himself, but she feltthat he would gladly take her with him into the earth. They would therebe able to love each other more freely than under the sun. AuntDide would die likewise and join them. It was, so to say, a rapidpresentiment, a desire for some strange voluptuousness, to whichHeaven, by the mournful accents of the tocsin, was promising earlygratification. To die! To die! The bells repeated these words withincreasing passion, and the lovers yielded to the calls of the darkness;they fancied they experienced a foretaste of the last sleep, in thedrowsiness into which they again sank, whilst their lips met once more. 

Miette no longer turned away. It was she, now, who pressed her lips toSilvere's, who sought with mute ardour for the delight whose stingingsmart she had not at first been able to endure. The thought ofapproaching death had excited her; she no longer felt herself blushing, but hung upon her love, while he in faltering voice repeated: "I loveyou! I love you!"

But at this Miette shook her head, as if to say it was not true. Withher free and ardent nature she had a secret instinct of the meaning andpurposes of life, and though she was right willing to die she would fainhave known life first. At last, growing calmer, she gently rested herhead on the young man's shoulder, without uttering a word. Silverekissed 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. Butlanguor at last overcame her, and she fell into gentle slumber. Silverehad enveloped her in her pelisse, drawing the skirt around himself atthe 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. Heresolved to let her slumber for an hour. The sky was still black, andthe approach of day was but faintly indicated by a whitish line in theeast. Behind the lovers there must have been a pine wood whose musicalawakening it was that the young man heard amidst the morning breezes. And meantime the wailing of the bells grew more sonorous in thequivering atmosphere, lulling Miette's slumber even as it hadaccompanied her passionate fever. 

Until that troublous night, these young people had lived through oneof those innocent idylls that blossom among the toiling masses, thoseoutcasts and folks of simple mind amidst whom one may yet occasionallyfind amours as primitive as those of the ancient Greek romances. 

Miette had been scarcely nine years old at the time when her father wassent to the galleys for shooting a gendarme. The trial of Chantegreilhad remained a memorable case in the province. The poacher boldlyconfessed that he had killed the gendarme, but he swore that the latterhad been taking aim at him. "I only anticipated him, " he said, "Idefended myself; it was a duel, not a murder. " He never desisted fromthis line of argument. The presiding Judge of the Assizes could not makehim understand that, although a gendarme has the right to fire upon apoacher, a poacher has no right to fire upon a gendarme. Chantegreilescaped the guillotine, owing to his obviously sincere belief in his owninnocence, and his previous good character. The man wept like a childwhen 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 thistime with her grandfather at Chavanoz, a village in the passes of theSeille. When the poacher was no longer there, the old man and thegirl lived upon alms. The inhabitants of Chavanoz, all sportsmen andpoachers, came to the assistance of the poor creatures whom the convicthad 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 highroads, if the neighbours had not remembered that she had an aunt atPlassans. 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 thisbig creature, who combined uncommon vigour with strict sobriety andeconomy. 

Thanks to her, the household thrived. The _meger_ grumbled one eveningwhen, on returning home from work, he found Miette installed there. Buthis wife closed his mouth by saying in her gruff voice: "Bah, the littlething's strongly built, she'll do for a servant; we'll keep her and savewages. "

This calculation pleased Rebufat. He went so far as to feel the littlething's arms, and declared with satisfaction that she was sturdy for herage. Miette was then nine years old. From the very next day he made useof her. The work of the peasant-woman in the South of France is muchlighter than in the North. One seldom sees them employed in digging theground, carrying loads, or doing other kinds of men's work. They bindsheaves, gather olives and mulberry leaves; perhaps their most laboriouswork is that of weeding. Miette worked away willingly. Open-air lifewas her delight, her health. So long as her aunt lived she was alwayssmiling. The good woman, in spite of her roughness, at last loved heras her own child; she forbade her doing the hard work which her husbandsometimes tried to force upon her, saying to the latter:

"Ah! you're a clever fellow! You don't understand, you fool, that if youtire 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 loadwhich he had desired to set on the young girl's shoulders. 

The latter would have lived in perfect happiness under the secretprotection of her aunt Eulalie, but for the teasing of her cousin, whowas then a lad of sixteen, and employed his idle hours in hating andpersecuting her. Justin's happiest moments were those when by means ofsome gross falsehood he succeeded in getting her scolded. Whenever hecould tread on her feet, or push her roughly, pretending not to haveseen her, he laughed and felt the delight of those crafty folks whorejoice at other people's misfortunes. Miette, however, would stare athim with her large black childish eyes gleaming with anger and silentscorn, which checked the cowardly youngster's sneers. In reality he wasterribly afraid of his cousin. 

The young girl was just attaining her eleventh year when her auntEulalie suddenly died. From that day everything changed in the house. Rebufat gradually come to treat her like a farm-labourer. He overwhelmedher with all sorts of rough work, and made use of her as a beast ofburden. She never even complained, however, thinking that she had a debtof gratitude to repay him. In the evening, when she was worn out withfatigue, she mourned for her aunt, that terrible woman whose latentkindliness she now realised. However, it was not the hard work thatdistressed her, for she delighted in her strength, and took a pride inher big arms and broad shoulders. What distressed her was her uncle'sdistrustful surveillance, his continual reproaches, and the irritatedemployer-like manner he assumed towards her. She had now become astranger in the house. Yet even a stranger would not have been so badlytreated as she was. Rebufat took the most unscrupulous advantage ofthis poor little relative, whom he pretended to keep out of charity. Sherepaid his harsh hospitality ten times over with her work, and yet nevera day passed but he grudged her the bread she ate. Justin especiallyexcelled in wounding her. Since his mother had been dead, seeing herwithout a protector, he had brought all his evil instincts into play intrying to make the house intolerable to her. The most ingenious torturewhich 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 hadforbidden any one ever to mention the words "galleys" or "convict"before her, hardly understood their meaning. It was Justin who explainedit to her by relating, in his own manner, the story of the murder of thegendarme, and Chantegreil's conviction. There was no end to the horribleparticulars he supplied: the convicts had a cannonball fastened to oneankle by a chain, they worked fifteen hours a day, and all died undertheir punishment; their prison, too, was a frightful place, the horrorsof which he described minutely. Miette listened to him, stupefied, hereyes full of tears. Sometimes she was roused to sudden violence, andJustin quickly retired before her clenched fists. However, he took asavage delight in thus instructing her as to the nature of prisonlife. When his father flew into a passion with the child for any littlenegligence, he chimed in, glad to be able to insult her without danger. And if she attempted to defend herself, he would exclaim: "Bah! badblood always shows itself. You'll end at the galleys like your father. "

At this Miette sobbed, stung to the heart, powerless and overwhelmedwith shame. 

She was already growing to womanhood at this period. Of precociousnature, she endured her martyrdom with extraordinary fortitude. Sherarely gave way, excepting when her natural pride succumbed to hercousin's outrages. Soon even, she was able to bear, without a tear, theincessant insults of this cowardly fellow, who ever watched her while hespoke, for fear lest she should fly at his face. Then, too, she learntto silence him by staring at him fixedly. She had several times feltinclined 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 wasvanquished by the persecution she endured. She certainly earned herbread, she did not steal the Rebufats' hospitality; and this convictionsatisfied her pride. So she remained there to continue the struggle, stiffening herself and living on with the one thought of resistance. Herplan was to do her work in silence, and revenge herself for all harshtreatment by mute contempt. She knew that her uncle derived too muchadvantage from her to listen readily to the insinuations of Justin, who longed to get her turned out of doors. And in a defiant spirit sheresolved that she would not go away of her own accord. 

Her continuous voluntary silence was full of strange fancies. Passingher days in the enclosure, isolated from all the world, she formed ideasfor herself which would have strangely shocked the good people of theFaubourg. Her father's fate particularly occupied her thoughts. AllJustin's abuse recurred to her; and she ended by accepting the chargeof murder, saying to herself, however, that her father had done wellto kill the gendarme who had tried to kill him. She had learnt the realstory 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 longereven 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 longglance at the gang of urchins. She would have become vicious, havelapsed into fierce pariah savagery, if her childishness had notsometimes gained the mastery. Her extreme youth brought her littlegirlish weaknesses which relieved her. She would then cry with shame forherself and her father. She would hide herself in a stable so that shemight sob to her heart's content, for she knew that, if the others sawher crying, they would torment her all the more. And when she had weptsufficiently, she would bathe her eyes in the kitchen, and then againsubside into uncomplaining silence. It was not interest alone, however, which prompted her to hide herself; she carried her pride in herprecocious strength so far that she was unwilling to appear a child. Intime she would have become very unhappy. Fortunately she was saved bydiscovering the latent tenderness of her loving nature. 

The well in the yard of the house occupied by aunt Dide and Silvere wasa party-well. The wall of the Jas-Meiffren cut it in halves. Formerly, before the Fouques' property was united to the neighbouring estate, themarket-gardeners had used this well daily. Since the transfer of theFouques' ground, however, as it was at some distance from the outhouses, the inmates of the Jas, who had large cisterns at their disposal, didnot draw a pail of water from it in a month. On the other side, onecould hear the grating of the pulley every morning when Silvere drew thewater for aunt Dide. 

One day the pulley broke. The young wheelwright made a good strong oneof oak, and put it up in the evening after his day's work. To do thishe had to climb upon the wall. When he had finished the job he remainedresting astride the coping, and surveyed with curiosity the largeexpanse of the Jas-Meiffren. At last a peasant-girl, who was weeding theground a few feet from him, attracted his attention. It was in July, andthe 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 acoloured neckerchief tied over her shoulders, and the sleeves of herchemise turned up as far as her elbows, she was squatting amid the foldsof her blue cotton skirt, which was secured to a pair of braces crossedbehind her back. She crawled about on her knees as she pulled up thetares and threw them into a basket. The young man could only see herbare, sun-tanned arms stretching out right and left to seize someoverlooked weed. He followed this rapid play of her arms complacently, deriving a singular pleasure from seeing them so firm and quick. Theyoung person had slightly raised herself on noticing that he wasno longer at work, but had again lowered her head before he coulddistinguish her features. This shyness kept him in suspense. Like aninquisitive lad he wondered who this weeder could be, and while helingered there, whistling and beating time with a chisel, the lattersuddenly slipped out of his hand. It fell into the Jas-Meiffren, striking the curb of the well, and then bounding a few feet from thewall. Silvere looked at it, leaning forward and hesitating to get over. But the peasant-girl must have been watching the young man askance, forshe jumped up without saying anything, picked up the chisel, and handedit to Silvere, who then perceived that she was a mere child. He wassurprised and rather intimidated. The young girl raised herself towardshim in the red glare of the sunset. The wall at this spot was low, butnevertheless too high for her to reach him. So he bent low over thecoping, while she still raised herself on tiptoes. They did not speak, but looked at each other with an air of smiling confusion. The young manwould indeed have liked to keep the girl in that position. She turned tohim a charming head, with handsome black eyes, and red lips, which quiteastonished 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 forhim--her coloured neckerchief, her white bodice, her blue cotton skirthanging from braces which stretched with the motion of her shoulders. Then his glance glided along the arm which was handing him the tool; asfar as the elbow this arm was of a golden brown, as though clothed withsun-burn; but higher up, in the shadow of the tucked-up sleeve, Silvereperceived 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 remainedthere, smiling at each other, the child beneath with upturned face, andthe lad half reclining on the coping of the wall. They could not partfrom each other. So far they had not exchanged a word, and Silvere evenforgot 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 herturn: "And yours?"

"My name is Silvere, " the young workman replied. 

A pause ensued, during which they seemed to be listening complacently tothe 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 theyceased speaking. They remained for another moment gazing and smiling ateach other. And finally, as Silvere seemingly had no more questions toask her, Miette quietly withdrew and went on plucking her weeds, withoutraising 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 yellowsoil of the Jas-Meiffren, which seemed to be all ablaze--one would havesaid that a fire was running along the ground--and, in the midst of theflaming expanse, Silvere saw the little stooping peasant-girl, whosebare arms had resumed their rapid motion. The blue cotton skirt wasnow becoming white; and rays of light streamed over the child'scopper-coloured arms. At last Silvere felt somewhat ashamed of remainingthere, and accordingly got off the wall. 

In the evening, preoccupied with his adventure, he endeavoured toquestion aunt Dide. Perhaps she would know who this Miette was who hadsuch black eyes and such red lips. But, since she had lived in the housein the alley, the old woman had never once given a look behind the wallof the little yard. It was, to her, like an impassable rampart, whichshut off her past. She did not know--she did not want to know--whatthere might now be on the other side of that wall, in that old enclosureof 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 childishterror. Was he, then, going to stir up the ashes of those days now deadand 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 neversee anybody. "

Silvere waited the morrow with considerable impatience. And as soonas he got to his master's workshop, he drew his fellow-workmen intoconversation. He did not say anything about his interview with Miette;but spoke vaguely of a girl whom he had seen from a distance in theJas-Meiffren. 

"Oh! that's La Chantegreil!" cried one of the workmen. 

There was no necessity for Silvere to question them further, for theytold 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 gibeof "daughter of a galley-slave" constantly rose to their lips like anincontestable reason for condemning the poor, dear innocent creature toeternal disgrace. 

However, wheelwright Vian, an honest, worthy fellow, at last silencedhis men. 

"Hold your tongues, you foul mouths!" he said, as he let fall theshaft of a cart that he had been examining. "You ought to be ashamed ofyourselves for being so hard upon the child. I've seen her, the littlething 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 lazyfellows here who aren't a match for her. I hope, later on, that she'llget 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 downnear him, and began with all his might to strike the nave of a wheelwhich he was binding with iron. 

In the evening, as soon as he had returned home from the workshop, heran to the wall and climbed upon it. He found Miette engaged upon thesame labour as the day before. He called her. She came to him, with hersmile of embarrassment, and the charming shyness of a child who frominfancy 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 theothers! She was turning her back upon him, without giving an answer, when Silvere, perplexed by her sudden change of countenance, hastened toadd: "Stay, I beg you--I don't want to pain you--I've got so many thingsto tell you!"

She turned round, still distrustful. Silvere, whose heart was full, andwho had resolved to relieve it, remained for a moment speechless, notknowing how to continue, for he feared lest he should commit a freshblunder. At last he put his whole heart in one phrase: "Would you likeme to be your friend?" he said, in a voice full of emotion. And asMiette, in surprise, raised her eyes, which were again moist andsmiling, he continued with animation: "I know that people try to vexyou. It's time to put a stop to it. I will be your protector now. ShallI?"

The child beamed with delight. This proffered friendship roused her fromall her evil dreams of taciturn hatred. Still she shook her head andanswered: "No, I don't want you to fight on my account. You'd havetoo much to do. Besides which, there are persons from whom you cannotprotect me. "

Silvere wished to declare that he would defend her against the wholeworld, but she closed his mouth with a coaxing gesture, as she added: "Iam satisfied to have you as a friend. "

They then conversed together for a few minutes, lowering their voices asmuch 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 astridethe coping of the wall. Justin would be implacable with such a weaponagainst her. She spoke of her misgivings with the fright of a schoolgirlon meeting a friend with whom her mother has forbidden her to associate. Silvere merely understood, however, that he would not be able to seeMiette at his pleasure. This made him very sad. Still, he promised thathe would not climb upon the wall any more. They were both endeavouringto find some expedient for seeing each other again, when Miette suddenlybegged him to go away; she had just caught sight of Justin, who wascrossing the grounds in the direction of the wall. Silvere quicklydescended. When he was in the little yard again, he remained by the wallto listen, irritated by his flight. After a few minutes he ventured toclimb again and cast a glance into the Jas-Meiffren, but he saw Justinspeaking with Miette, and quickly withdrew his head. On the followingday he could see nothing of his friend, not even in the distance; shemust have finished her work in that part of the Jas. A week passed inthis fashion, and the young people had no opportunity of exchanging asingle word. Silvere was in despair; he thought of boldly going to theRebufats to ask for Miette. 

The party-well was a large one, but not very deep. On either side ofthe wall the curb formed a large semicircle. The water was only ten ortwelve feet down at the utmost. This slumbering water reflected the twoapertures of the well, two half-moons between which the shadow of thewall cast a black streak. On leaning over, one might have fancied in thevague light that the half-moons were two mirrors of singular clearnessand brilliance. Under the morning sunshine, when the dripping of theropes did not disturb the surface of the water, these mirrors, thesereflections of the heavens, showed like white patches on the greenwater, and in them the leaves of the ivy which had spread along the wallover the well were repeated with marvellous exactness. 

One morning, at an early hour, Silvere, as he came to draw water foraunt Dide, bent over the well mechanically, just as he was taking holdof 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 younggirl who was looking at him with a smile; however, he had shaken therope, and the disturbed water was now but a dim mirror that no longerreflected anything clearly. Silvere, who did not venture to stir, andwhose heart beat rapidly, then waited for the water to settle. Asits ripples gradually widened and died away, he perceived the imagereappearing. It oscillated for a long time, with a swing which lenta vague, phantom-like grace to its features, but at last it remainedstationary. It was the smiling countenance of Miette, with her headand shoulders, her coloured neckerchief, her white bodice, and her bluebraces. Silvere next perceived his own image in the other mirror. Then, knowing that they could see each other, they nodded their heads. Forthe first moment, they did not even think of speaking. At last theyexchanged greetings. 

"Good morning, Silvere. "

"Good morning, Miette. "

They were surprised by the strange sound of their voices, which becamesingularly soft and sweet in that damp hole. The sound seemed, indeed, to come from a distance, like the soft music of voices heard of anevening in the country. They understood that it would suffice to speakin a whisper in order to hear each other. The well echoed the faintestbreath. Leaning over its brink, they conversed while gazing at oneanother'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 outearly in the morning. Then she made a pout of annoyance which Silveredistinguished perfectly, and to which he replied by nodding his headwith an air of vexation. They were exchanging all those gestures andfacial expressions that speech entails. They cared but little for thewall which separated them now that they could see each other in thosehidden depths. 

"I knew, " continued Miette, with a knowing look, "that you came here todraw water every morning at the same hour. I can hear the grating of thepulley from the house. So I made an excuse, I pretended that the waterin this well boiled the vegetables better. I thought that I might comehere every morning to draw water at the same time as you, so as to saygood morning to you without anyone suspecting it. "

She smiled innocently, as though well pleased with her device, andended by saying: "But I did not imagine we should see each other in thewater. "

It was, in fact, this unhoped-for pleasure which so delighted them. Theyonly spoke to see their lips move, so greatly did this new frolic amusetheir childish natures. And they resolved to use all means in theirpower to meet here every morning. When Miette had said that she must goaway, she told Silvere that he could draw his pail of water. But he didnot dare to shake the rope; Miette was still leaning over--he could seeher smiling face, and it was too painful to him to dispel that smile. Ashe slightly stirred his pail, the water murmured, and the smile faded. Then he stopped, seized with a strange fear; he fancied that he hadvexed 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. Sheherself then nosily sent down a pail. There was a perfect tempest. Everything disappeared under the black water. And Silvere made up hismind to fill two pitchers, while listening to the retreating steps ofMiette on the other side of the wall. 

From that day, the young people never missed their assignations. Theslumbering 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 toface: 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 lookupon the well as an old friend. They loved to bend over the motionlesswater that resembled molten silver. A greenish glimmer hovered below, in a mysterious half light, and seemed to change the damp hole into somehiding-place in the depths of a wood. They saw each other in a sortof greenish nest bedecked with moss, in the midst of fresh water andfoliage. And all the strangeness of the deep spring, the hollow towerover which they bent, trembling with fascination, added unconfessed anddelightful fear to their merry laughter. The wild idea occurred to themof going down and seating themselves on a row of large stones whichformed a kind of circular bench at a few inches above the water. Theywould dip their feet in the latter, converse there for hours, and noone would think of coming to look for them in such a spot. But whenthey asked each other what there might be down there, their vague fearsreturned; they thought it quite sufficient to let their reflected imagesdescend into the depths amidst those green glimmers which tinged thestones with strange moire-like reflections, and amidst those mysteriousnoises which rose from the dark corners. Those sounds issuing from theinvisible made them particularly uneasy; they often fancied that voiceswere replying to their own; and then they would remain silent, detectinga thousand faint plaints which they could not understand. These camefrom the secret travail of the moisture, the sighs of the atmosphere, the drops that glided over the stones, and fell below with thesonorousness of sobs. They would nod affectionately to each otherin order to reassure themselves. Thus the attraction which kept themleaning over the brink had a tinge of secret terror, like all poignantcharms. But the well still remained their old friend. It was suchan excellent pretext for meeting! Justin, who watched Miette's everymovement, never suspected the cause of her eagerness to go and draw somewater every morning. At times, he saw her from the distance, leaningover and loitering. "Ah! the lazy thing!" he muttered; "how fond she isof dawdling about!" How could he suspect that, on the other side of thewall, there was a wooer contemplating the girl's smile in the water, andsaying 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; themornings were sultry; the sun shone brightly, and it was quite apleasure to come to that damp spot. It was delightful to feel the coldbreath of the well on one's face, and make love amidst this spring waterwhile the skies were kindling their fires. Miette would arrive out ofbreath after crossing the stubble fields; as she ran along, her hairfell down over her forehead and temples; and it was with flushed faceand dishevelled locks that she would lean over, shaking with laughter, almost before she had had time to set her pitcher down. Silvere, whowas almost always the first at the well, felt, as he suddenly saw hersmiling face in the water, as keen a joy as he would have experiencedhad 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, theposts, and the curbstone. They, however, no longer saw the shower ofmorning sunshine, nor heard the thousand sounds rising from the ground;they were in the depths of their green hiding-place, under the earth, inthat mysterious and awesome cavity, and quivered with pleasure as theylingered there enjoying its fresh coolness and dim light. 

On some mornings, Miette, who by nature could not long maintain acontemplative attitude, began to tease; she would shake the rope, andmake drops of water fall in order to ripple the mirrors and deface thereflections. Silvere would then entreat her to remain still; he, whosefervour was deeper than hers, knew no keener pleasure than that ofgazing 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 oldbogey'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 spreadingfaces assumed as they danced upon the disturbed water. 

One morning she got angry in real earnest. She did not find Silvere atthe 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 ragewhen he arrived. As soon as she perceived him she let a perfect tempestloose in the well, shook her pail in an irritated manner, and made theblackish water whirl and splash against the stones. In vain did Silveretry to explain that aunt Dide had detained him. To all his excuses shereplied: "You've vexed me; I don't want to see you. "

The poor lad, in despair, vainly questioned that sombre cavity, now sofull of lamentable sounds, where, on other days, such a bright visionusually awaited him amid the silence of the stagnant water. He had to goaway without seeing Miette. On the morrow, arriving before the time, he gazed sadly into the well, hearing nothing, and thinking that theobstinate girl would not come, when she, who was already on the otherside slyly watching his arrival, bent over suddenly with a burst oflaughter. 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, quicklyripened their love. They endowed it with such strange life, so filled itwith their youthful love, that, long after they had ceased to come andlean over the brink, Silvere, as he drew water every morning, wouldfancy he could see Miette's smiling face in the dim light that stillquivered with the joy they had set there. 

That month of playful love rescued Miette from her mute despair. Shefelt a revival of her affections, her happy childish carelessness, whichhad 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 longeralone in the world, enabled her to endure the persecutions of Justinand the Faubourg urchins. A song of joy, whose glad notes drowned theirhootings, now sounded in her heart. She thought of her father withtender compassion, and did not now so frequently yield to dreams ofbitter vengeance. Her dawning love cooled her feverish broodingslike the fresh breezes of the dawn. At the same time she acquired theinstinctive cunning of a young girl in love. She felt that she mustmaintain her usual silent and rebellious demeanour if she were to escapeJustin's suspicions. But, in spite of her efforts, her eyes retained asweet unruffled expression when the lad bullied her; she was no longerable to put on her old black look of indignant anger. One morning heheard her humming to herself at breakfast-time. 

"You seem very gay, Chantegreil!" he said to her suspiciously, glancingkeenly at her from his lowering eyes. "I bet you've been up to some ofyour tricks again!"

She shrugged her shoulders, but she trembled inwardly; and she did allshe could to regain her old appearance of rebellious martyrdom. However, though Justin suspected some secret happiness, it was long before he wasable to discover how his victim had escaped him. 

Silvere, on his side, enjoyed profound happiness. His daily meetingswith Miette made his idle hours pass pleasantly away. During hislong silent companionship with aunt Dide, he recalled one by one hisremembrances of the morning, revelling in their most trifling details. From that time forward, the fulness of his heart cloistered him yet morein the lonely existence which he had adopted with his grandmother. Hewas naturally fond of hidden spots, of solitary retirement, where hecould give himself up to his thoughts. At this period already he hadeagerly begun to read all the old odd volumes which he could pick up atbrokers' shops in the Faubourg, and which were destined to lead him toa strange and generous social religion and morality. Hisreading--ill-digested and lacking all solid foundation--gave himglimpses of the world's vanities and pleasures, especially with regardto women, which would have seriously troubled his mind if his hearthad not been contented. When Miette came, he received her at first asa 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 lampat the head of his strap-bedstead, he would find Miette on every page ofthe dusty old volume which he had taken at random from a shelf above hishead and was reading devoutly. He never came across a young girl, a goodand beautiful creature, in his reading, without immediately identifyingher with his sweetheart. And he would set himself in the narrative aswell. If he were reading a love story, it was he who married Miette atthe end, or died with her. If, on the contrary, he were perusing somepolitical pamphlet, some grave dissertation on social economy, workswhich he preferred to romances, for he had that singular partiality fordifficult subjects which characterises persons of imperfect scholarship, he still found some means of associating her with the tedious themeswhich frequently he could not even understand. For instance, he triedto persuade himself that he was learning how to be good and kind to herwhen they were married. He thus associated her with all his visionarydreamings. Protected by the purity of his affection against theobscenity of certain eighteenth-century tales which fell into his hands, he found particular pleasure in shutting himself up with her in thosehumanitarian Utopias which some great minds of our own time, infatuatedby visions of universal happiness have imagined. Miette, in his mind, became quite essential to the abolition of pauperism and the definitivetriumph of the principles of the Revolution. There were nights offeverish 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, nightsof voluptuous weariness which he enjoyed till daybreak like some secretorgie, cramped up in that tiny room, his eyes troubled by the flickeringyellow light, while he yielded to the fever of insomnia and schemedout new social schemes of the most absurdly ingenuous nature, in whichwoman, always personified by Miette, was worshipped by the nations ontheir knees. 

He was predisposed to Utopian ideas by certain hereditary influences;his grandmother's nervous disorders became in him so much chronicenthusiasm, striving after everything that was grandiose and impossible. His lonely childhood, his imperfect education, had developed his naturaltendencies in a singular manner. However, he had not yet reached the agewhen the fixed idea plants itself in a man's mind. In the morning, afterhe had dipped his head in a bucket of water, he remembered his thoughtsand visions of the night but vaguely; nothing remained of his dreamssave a childlike innocence, full of trustful confidence and yearningtenderness. He felt like a child again. He ran to the well, solelydesirous of meeting his sweetheart's smile, and tasting the delightsof the radiant morning. And during the day, when thoughts of the futuresometimes made him silent and dreamy, he would often, prompted by somesudden impulse, spring up and kiss aunt Dide on both cheeks, whereat theold woman would gaze at him anxiously, perturbed at seeing his eyes sobright, and gleaming with a joy which she thought she could divine. 

At last, as time went on, Miette and Silvere began to tire of onlyseeing each other's reflection. The novelty of their play was gone, andnow they began to dream of keener pleasures than the well could affordthem. In this longing for reality which came upon them, there was thewish to see each other face to face, to run through the open fields, andreturn out of breath with their arms around each other's waist, clingingclosely together in order that they might the better feel each other'slove. One morning Silvere spoke of climbing over the wall, and walkingin the Jas with Miette. But the child implored him not to perpetratesuch folly, which would place her at Justin's mercy. He then promised toseek some other means. 

The wall in which the well was set made a sudden bend a few pacesfurther on, thereby forming a sort of recess, where the lovers would befree from observation, if they were to take shelter there. The questionwas how to reach this recess. Silvere could no longer entertain the ideaof climbing over, as Miette had appeared so afraid. He secretly thoughtof another plan. The little door which Macquart and Adelaide had set upone night long years previously had remained forgotten in this remotecorner. The owner of the Jas-Meiffren had not even thought of blockingit up. Blackened by damp and green with moss, its lock and hinges eatenaway with rust, it looked like a part of the old wall. Doubtless thekey was lost; the grass growing beside the lower boards, against whichslight mounds had formed, amply proved that no one had passed that wayfor many a long year. However, it was the lost key that Silvere hoped tofind. He knew with what devotion his aunt Dide allowed the relics of thepast to lie rotting wherever they might be. He searched the house for aweek without any result, and went stealthily night by night to see ifhe had at last put his hand on the right key during the daytime. In thisway he tried more than thirty keys which had doubtless come from the oldproperty of the Fouques, and which he found all over the place, againstthe walls, on the floors, and at the bottom of drawers. He was becomingdisheartened, when all at once he found the precious key. It was simplytied by a string to the street door latch-key, which always remained inthe lock. It had hung there for nearly forty years. Aunt Dide must everyday have touched it with her hand, without ever making up her mind tothrow it away, although it could now only carry her back sorrowfullyinto the past. When Silvere had convinced himself that it really openedthe little door, he awaited the ensuing day, dreaming of the joyfulsurprise which he was preparing for Miette. He had not told her for whathe had been searching. 

On the morrow, as soon as he heard the girl set her pitcher down, hegently opened the door, sweeping away with a push the tall weeds whichcovered the threshold. Stretching out his head, he saw Miette leaningover the brink of the well, looking into the water, absorbed inexpectation. Thereupon, in a couple of strides, he reached the recessformed by the wall, and thence called, "Miette! Miette!" in a softvoice, which made her tremble. She raised her head, thinking he was onthe coping of the wall. But when she saw him in the Jas, at a few stepsfrom her, she gave a faint cry of surprise, and ran up to him. They tookeach other's hand, and looked at one another, delighted to be so near, thinking themselves far handsomer like this, in the warm sunshine. Itwas the middle of August, the Feast of the Assumption. In thedistance, the bells were pealing in the limpid atmosphere that so oftenaccompanies 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 soundedstrange to them. They knew only the muffled accents transmitted by theecho of the well. And now their voices seemed to them as clear as thenotes of a lark. And ah! how delightful it was in that warm corner, inthat holiday atmosphere! They still held each other's hands. Silvereleaning against the wall, Miette with her figure slightly thrownbackwards. They were about to tell each other all the soft things whichthey had not dared to confide to the reverberations of the well, whenSilvere, hearing a slight noise, started, and, turning pale, droppedMiette's hands. He had just seen aunt Dide standing before him erect andmotionless on the threshold of the doorway. 

The grandmother had come to the well by chance. And on perceiving, inthe old black wall, the white gap formed by the doorway which Silverehad left wide open, she had experienced a violent shock. That open gapseemed to her like a gulf of light violently illumining her past. Sheonce 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 pressedagainst his bosom, whilst the rising sun, following her through thedoorway, which she had left open in her hurry, enveloped them withradiance. It was a sudden vision which roused her cruelly from theslumber of old age, like some supreme chastisement, and awakened amultitude of bitter memories within her. Had the well, had the entirewall, disappeared beneath the earth, she would not have been morestupefied. She had never thought that this door would open again. In hermind it had been walled up ever since the hour of Macquart's death. Andamidst her amazement she felt angry, indignant with the sacrilegioushand that had penetrated this violation, and left that white open spaceagape like a yawning tomb. She stepped forward, yielding to a kind offascination, and halted erect within the framework of the door. 

Then she gazed out before her, with a feeling of dolorous surprise. Shehad certainly been told that the old enclosure of the Fouques wasnow joined to the Jas-Meiffren; but she would never have thought theassociations of her youth could have vanished so completely. It seemedas though some tempest had carried off everything that her memorycherished. The old dwelling, the large kitchen-garden, the beds of greenvegetables, all had disappeared. Not a stone, not a tree of former timesremained. And instead of the scene amidst which she had grown up, andwhich in her mind's eye she had seen but yesterday, there lay a stripof barren soil, a broad patch of stubbles, bare like a desert. Henceforward, when, on closing her eyes, she might try to recall theobjects of the past, that stubble would always appear to her like ashroud of yellowish drugget spread over the soil, in which her youth layburied. In the presence of that unfamiliar commonplace scene her heartdied, 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 regretthat she had yielded to the attraction of that white opening, of thatdoorway gaping upon the days which were now for ever lost. 

She was about to retire and close the accursed door, without evenseeking to discover who had opened it, when she suddenly perceivedMiette and Silvere. And the sight of the two young lovers, who, withhanging 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 armsin the bright sunshine. Yet a second time had the door served as anaccomplice. Where love had once passed, there was it passing again. 'Twas the eternal and endless renewal, with present joys and futuretears. Aunt Dide could only see the tears, and a sudden presentimentshowed her the two children bleeding, with stricken hearts. Overwhelmedby the recollection of her life's sorrow, which this spot had justawakened within her, she grieved for her dear Silvere. She alone wasguilty; if she had not formerly had that door made Silvere would notnow be at a girl's feet in that lonely nook, intoxicating himself with abliss which prompts and angers the jealousy of death. 

After a brief pause, she went up to the young man, and, without aword, took him by the hand. She might, perhaps, have left them there, chattering under the wall, had she not felt that she herself was, tosome extent, an accomplice in this fatal love. As she came back withSilvere, she turned on hearing the light footfall of Miette, who, havingquickly taken up her pitcher, was hastening across the stubble. She wasrunning wildly, glad at having escaped so easily. And aunt Dide smiledinvoluntarily as she watched her bound over the ground like a runawaygoat. 

"She is very young, " she murmured, "she has plenty of time. "

She meant, no doubt, that Miette had plenty of time before her to sufferand weep. Then, turning her eyes upon Silvere, who with a glance ofecstasy had followed the child as she ran off in the bright sunshine, she simply added: "Take care, my boy; this sort of thing sometimes killsone. "

These were the only words she spoke with reference to the incident whichhad awakened all the sorrows that lay slumbering in the depths of herbeing. Silence had become a real religion with her. When Silvere camein, she double-locked the door, and threw the key down the well. Inthis wise she felt certain that the door would no longer make her anaccomplice. She examined it for a moment, glad at seeing it reassume itsusual gloomy, barrier-like aspect. The tomb was closed once more; thewhite gap was for ever boarded up with that damp-stained mossy timberover which the snails had shed silvery tears. 

In the evening, aunt Dide had another of those nervous attacks whichcame upon her at intervals. At these times she would often talk aloudand ramble incoherently, as though she was suffering from nightmare. That evening, while Silvere held her down on her bed, he heard herstammer in a panting voice such words as "custom-house officer, " "fire, "and "murder. " And she struggled, and begged for mercy, and dreamed aloudof vengeance. At last, as always happened when the attack was drawing toa close, she fell into a strange fright, her teeth chattering, while herlimbs quivered with abject terror. Finally, after raising herself intoa sitting posture, she cast a haggard look of astonishment at one andanother corner of the room, and then fell back upon the pillow, heavingdeep sighs. She was, doubtless, a prey to some hallucination. However, she drew Silvere to her bosom, and seemed to some degree to recognisehim, though ever and anon she confused him with someone else. 

"There they are!" she stammered. "Do you see? They are going to takeyou, 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 likethat--"

Then she turned to the wall, to avoid seeing the people of whom she wastalking. And after an interval of silence, she continued: "You are nearme, my child, aren't you? You must not leave me. I thought I was goingto die just now. We did wrong to make an opening in the wall. I havesuffered ever since. I was certain that door would bring us furthermisfortune--Oh! the innocent darlings, what sorrow! They will kill themas well, they will be shot down like dogs. "

Then she relapsed into catalepsy; she was no longer even aware ofSilvere's presence. Suddenly, however, she sat up, and gazed at the footof her bed, with a fearful expression of terror. 

"Why didn't you send them away?" she cried, hiding her white headagainst the young man's breast. "They are still there. The one with thegun is making signs that he is going to fire. "

Shortly afterwards she fell into the heavy slumber that usuallyterminated these attacks. On the next day, she seemed to have forgotteneverything. She never again spoke to Silvere of the morning on which shehad found him with a sweetheart behind the wall. 

The young people did not see each other for a couple of days. WhenMiette ventured to return to the well, they resolved not to recommencethe pranks which had upset aunt Dide. However, the meeting which hadbeen so strangely interrupted had filled them with a keen desire tomeet again in some happy solitude. Weary of the delights afforded by thewell, and unwilling to vex aunt Dide by seeing Miette again on the otherside of the wall, Silvere begged the girl to meet him somewhere else. She required but little pressing; she received the proposal with thewilling smile of a frolicsome lass who has no thought of evil. Whatmade her smile was the idea of outwitting that spy of a Justin. When thelovers had come to agreement, they discussed at length the choice of afavourable spot. Silvere proposed the most impossible trysting-places. He planned regular journeys, and even suggested meeting the young girlat midnight in the barns of the Jas-Meiffren. Miette, who was much morepractical, shrugged her shoulders, declaring she would try to think ofsome spot. On the morrow, she tarried but a minute at the well, justtime enough to smile at Silvere and tell him to be at the far end of theAire Saint-Mittre at about ten o'clock in the evening. One may besure that the young man was punctual. All day long Miette's choice hadpuzzled him, and his curiosity increased when he found himself in thenarrow lane formed by the piles of planks at the end of the plot ofground. "She will come this way, " he said to himself, looking along theroad to Nice. But he suddenly heard a loud shaking of boughs behindthe wall, and saw a laughing head, with tumbled hair, appear above thecoping, whilst a joyous voice called out: "It's me!"

And it was, in fact, Miette, who had climbed like an urchin up one ofthe mulberry-trees, which even nowadays still border the boundary ofthe Jas-Meiffren. In a couple of leaps she reached the tombstone, halfburied in the corner at the end of the lane. Silvere watched her descendwith delight and surprise, without even thinking of helping her. As soonas 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 wherethey were destined to pass such happy hours. From that evening forwardthey saw each other there nearly every night. They now only used thewell to warn each other of unforeseen obstacles to their meetings, ofa change of time, and of all the trifling little news that seemedimportant in their eyes, and allowed of no delay. It sufficed for theone who had a communication to make to set the pulley in motion, for itscreaking noise could be heard a long way off. But although, on certaindays, they summoned one another two or three times in succession tospeak of trifles of immense importance, it was only in the evening inthat lonely little passage that they tasted real happiness. Miette wasexceptionally punctual. She fortunately slept over the kitchen, in aroom where the winter provisions had been kept before her arrival, andwhich was reached by a little private staircase. She was thus able to goout at all hours, without being seen by Rebufat or Justin. Moreover, ifthe latter should ever see her returning she intended to tell him sometale or other, staring at him the while with that stern look whichalways reduced him to silence. 

Ah! how happy those warm evenings were! The lovers had now reached thefirst days of September, a month of bright sunshine in Provence. It washardly possible for them to join each other before nine o'clock. Miettearrived from over the wall, in surmounting which she soon acquired suchdexterity that she was almost always on the old tombstone before Silverehad time to stretch out his arms. She would laugh at her own strengthand agility as, for a moment, with her hair in disorder, she remainedalmost breathless, tapping her skirt to make it fall. Her sweetheartlaughingly called her an impudent urchin. In reality he much admiredher pluck. He watched her jump over the wall with the complacency of anolder brother supervising the exercises of a younger one. Indeed, there was yet much that was childlike in their growing love. On severaloccasions they spoke of going on some bird's-nesting expedition on thebanks of the Viorne. 

"You'll see how I can climb, " said Miette proudly. "When I lived atChavanoz, 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. Miettestated her opinions, with all a boy's confidence. 

However, Silvere, clasping her round the knees, had by this time liftedher to the ground, and then they would walk on, side by side, their armsencircling each other's waist. Though they were but children, fond offrolicsome play and chatter, and knew not even how to speak of love, yetthey already partook of love's delight. It sufficed them to press eachother's hands. Ignorant whither their feelings and their hearts weredrifting, they did not seek to hide the blissful thrills which theslightest touch awoke. Smiling, often wondering at the delight theyexperienced, they yielded unconsciously to the sweetness of new feelingseven while talking, like a couple of schoolboys, of the magpies' nestswhich are so difficult to reach. 

And as they talked they went down the silent path, between the piles ofplanks and the wall of the Jas-Meiffren. They never went beyond the endof that narrow blind alley, but invariably retraced their steps. Theywere quite at home there. Miette, happy in the knowledge of theirsafe concealment, would often pause and congratulate herself on herdiscovery. 

"Wasn't I lucky!" she would gleefully exclaim. "We might walk a long waywithout finding such a good hiding-place. "

The thick grass muffled the noise of their footsteps. They were steepedin 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 steppedalong, pacing this path which resembled a dark stream flowing beneaththe black star-sprent sky, they were often thrilled with undefinableemotion, and lowered their voices, although there was nobody to hearthem. Surrendering themselves as it were to the silent waves of night, over which they seemed to drift, they recounted to one another, withlovers' rapture, the thousand trifles of the day. 

At other times, on bright nights, when the moonlight clearly outlinedthe wall and the timber-stacks, Miette and Silvere would romp about withall the carelessness of children. The path stretched out, alight withwhite rays, and retaining no suggestion of secrecy, and the young peoplelaughed and chased each other like boys at play, at times venturing evento climb upon the piles of timber. Silvere was occasionally obliged tofrighten Miette by telling her that Justin might be watching her fromover the wall. Then, quite out of breath, they would stroll sideby side, and plan how they might some day go for a scamper in theSainte-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 tosweeten the pleasure of their embrace, and soften their laughter. Thisdearly-loved retreat--so gay in the moonshine, so strangely thrillingin the gloom--seemed an inexhaustible source of both gaiety and silentemotion. They would remain there until midnight, while the town droppedoff to sleep and the lights in the windows of the Faubourg went out oneby one. 

They were never disturbed in their solitude. At that late hour childrenwere no longer playing at hide-and-seek behind the piles of planks. Occasionally, when the young couple heard sounds in the distance--thesinging of some workmen as they passed along the road, or conversationcoming from the neighbouring sidewalks--they would cast stealthy glancesover the Aire Saint-Mittre. The timber-yard stretched out, empty ofall, save here and there some falling shadows. On warm evenings theysometimes caught glimpses of loving couples there, and of old mensitting on the big beams by the roadside. When the evenings grew colder, all that they ever saw on the melancholy, deserted spot was some gipsyfire, before which, perhaps, a few black shadows passed to and fro. Through the still night air words and sundry faint sounds were wafted tothem, the "good-night" of a townsman shutting his door, the closing of awindow-shutter, the deep striking of a clock, all the parting sounds ofa provincial town retiring to rest. And when Plassans was slumbering, they might still hear the quarrelling of the gipsies and the cracklingof their fires, amidst which suddenly rose the guttural voices of girlssinging in a strange tongue, full of rugged accents. 

But the lovers did not concern themselves much with what went on in theAire Saint-Mittre; they hastened back into their own little privacy, andagain walked along their favourite retired path. Little did they carefor others, or for the town itself! The few planks which separated themfrom the wicked world seemed to them, after a while, an insurmountablerampart. They were so secluded, so free in this nook, situated though itwas in the very midst of the Faubourg, at only fifty paces from the RomeGate, that they sometimes fancied themselves far away in some hollow ofthe Viorne, with the open country around them. Of all the soundswhich reached them, only one made them feel uneasy, that of the clocksstriking slowly in the darkness. At times, when the hour sounded, theypretended not to hear, at other moments they stopped short as if toprotest. However, they could not go on for ever taking just anotherten minutes, and so the time came when they were at last obliged to saygood-night. Then Miette reluctantly climbed upon the wall again. But allwas not ended yet, they would linger over their leave-taking for agood quarter of an hour. When the girl had climbed upon the wall, sheremained there with her elbows on the coping, and her feet supportedby the branches of the mulberry-tree, which served her as a ladder. Silvere, perched on the tombstone, was able to take her hands again, andrenew their whispered conversation. They repeated "till to-morrow!" adozen times, and still and ever found something more to say. At lastSilvere began to scold. 

"Come, you must get down, it is past midnight. "

But Miette, with a girl's waywardness, wished him to descend first; shewanted to see him go away. And as he persisted in remaining, she endedby saying abruptly, by way of punishment, perhaps: "Look! I am going tojump down. "

Then she sprang from the mulberry-tree, to the great consternation ofSilvere. He heard the dull thud of her fall, and the burst of laughterwith which she ran off, without choosing to reply to his last adieu. Forsome minutes he would remain watching her vague figure as it disappearedin the darkness, then, slowly descending, he regained the ImpasseSaint-Mittre. 

During two years they came to the path every day. At the time of theirfirst meetings they enjoyed some beautiful warm nights. They mightalmost have fancied themselves in the month of May, the month ofseething sap, when a pleasant odour of earth and fresh leaves pervadesthe warm air. This _renouveau_, this second spring, was like a gift fromheaven which allowed them to run freely about the path and tighten theirbonds of affection. 

At last came rain, and snow, and frost. But the disagreeableness ofwinter did not keep them away. Miette put on her long brown pelisse, andthey both made light of the bad weather. When the nights were dry andclear, and puffs of wind raised the hoar frost beneath their footstepsand fell on their faces like taps from a switch, they refrained fromsitting down. They walked quickly to and fro, wrapped in the pelisse, their cheeks blue with cold, and their eyes watering; and they laughedheartily, quite quivering with mirth, at the rapidity of theirmarch through the freezing atmosphere. One snowy evening they amusedthemselves with making an enormous snowball, which they rolled intoa corner. It remained there fully a month, which caused them freshastonishment each time they met in the path. Nor did the rain frightenthem. They came to see each other through the heaviest downpours, thoughthey 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; andwhen 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 shelteragainst the inclement weather, knowing quite well that they wouldcertainly come out, however much they might promise one another not todo so when it rained. To find a shelter he only had to disturb one ofthe timber-stacks; pulling out several pieces of wood and arranging themso that they would move easily, in such wise that he could displace andreplace them at pleasure. 

From that time forward the lovers possessed a sort of low and narrowsentry-box, a square hole, which was only big enough to hold themclosely squeezed together on a beam which they had left at the bottomof the little cell. Whenever it rained, the first to arrive would takeshelter here; and on finding themselves together again they would listenwith delight to the rain beating on the piles of planks. Before andaround them, through the inky blackness of the night, came a rush ofwater which they could not see, but which resounded continuously likethe roar of a mob. They were nevertheless quite alone, as though theyhad been at the end of the world or beneath the sea. They never felt sohappy, so isolated, as when they found themselves in that timber-stack, in the midst of some such deluge which threatened to carry them away atevery moment. Their bent knees almost reached the opening, and thoughthey thrust themselves back as far as possible, the spray of the rainbathed their cheeks and hands. The big drops, falling from the planks, splashed at regular intervals at their feet. The brown pelisse kept themwarm, and the nook was so small that Miette was compelled to sit almoston Silvere's knees. And they would chatter and then lapse into silence, overcome with languor, lulled by the warmth of their embrace and themonotonous beating of the shower. For hours and hours they remainedthere, with that same enjoyment of the rain which prompts littlechildren to stroll along solemnly in stormy weather with open umbrellasin their hands. After a while they came to prefer the rainy evenings, though their parting became more painful on those occasions. Miette wasobliged to climb the wall in the driving rain, and cross the puddles ofthe 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 fallingwater. In vain he listened, he was deafened, blinded. However, theanxiety caused by this brusque separation proved an additional charm, and, until the morrow, each would be uneasy lest anything should havebefallen the other in such weather, when one would not even have turneda 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 nextinterview yet more loving. 

At last the fine days returned, April brought mild nights, and the grassin the green alley sprouted up wildly. Amidst the stream of life flowingfrom heaven and rising from the earth, amidst all the intoxication ofthe budding spring-time, the lovers sometimes regretted their wintersolitude, the rainy evenings and the freezing nights, during which theyhad been so isolated so far from all human sounds. At present the daysdid not draw to a close soon enough, and they grew impatient with thelagging twilights. When the night had fallen sufficiently for Miette toclimb upon the wall without danger of being seen, and they could at lastglide along their dear path, they no longer found there the solitudecongenial to their shy, childish love. People began to flock to the AireSaint-Mittre, the urchins of the Faubourg remained there, romping aboutthe beams, and shouting, till eleven o'clock at night. It even happenedoccasionally that one of them would go and hide behind the piles oftimber, and assail Miette and Silvere with boyish jeers. The fear ofbeing surprised amidst that general awakening of life as the seasongradually grew warmer, tinged their meetings with anxiety. 

Then, too, they began to stifle in the narrow lane. Never had itthrobbed with so ardent a quiver; never had that soil, in which thelast bones left of the former cemetery lay mouldering, sent forth suchoppressive and disturbing odours. They were still too young to relishthe voluptuous charm of that secluded nook which the springtide filledwith fever. The grass grew to their knees, they moved to and fro withdifficulty, and certain plants, when they crushed their young shoots, sent forth a pungent odour which made them dizzy. Then, seized withstrange drowsiness and staggering with giddiness, their feet asthough entangled in the grass, they would lean against the wall, withhalf-closed eyes, unable to move a step. All the soft languor from theskies seemed to penetrate them. 

With the petulance of beginners, impatient and irritated at this suddenfaintness, they began to think their retreat too confined, and decidedto ramble through the open fields. Every evening came fresh frolics. Miette arrived with her pelisse; they wrapped themselves in it, andthen, gliding past the walls, reached the high-road and the opencountry, the broad fields where the wind rolled with full strength, like the waves at high tide. And here they no longer felt stifled; theyrecovered all their youthfulness, free from the giddy intoxication bornof 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, ahedge, or a bush, which did not become their friend. They realized theirdreams: they chased each other wildly over the meadows of Sainte-Claire, and Miette ran so well that Silvere had to put his best foot forwardto catch her. Sometimes, too, they went in search of magpies' nests. Headstrong Miette, wishing to show how she had climbed trees atChavanoz, would tie up her skirts with a piece of string, and ascend thehighest poplars; while Silvere stood trembling beneath, with his armsoutstretched to catch her should she slip. These frolics so turned themfrom thoughts of love that one evening they almost fought like a coupleof lads coming out of school. But there were nooks in the country sidewhich were not healthful for them. So long as they rambled on they werecontinually shouting with laughter, pushing and teasing one another. They covered miles and miles of ground; sometimes they went as far asthe chain of the Garrigues, following the narrowest paths and cuttingacross the fields. The region belonged to them; they lived there as in aconquered territory, enjoying all that the earth and the sky could givethem. Miette, with a woman's lack of scruple, did not hesitate to plucka bunch of grapes, or a cluster of green almonds, from the vinesand almond-trees whose boughs brushed her as she passed; and at thisSilvere, with his absolute ideas of honesty, felt vexed, although hedid not venture to find fault with the girl, whose occasional sulkingdistressed him. "Oh! the bad girl!" thought he, childishly exaggeratingthe matter, "she would make a thief of me. " But Miette would thereuponforce his share of the stolen fruit into his mouth. The artifices heemployed, such as holding her round the waist, avoiding the fruit trees, and making her run after him when they were near the vines, so asto keep her out of the way of temptation, quickly exhausted hisimagination. At last there was nothing to do but to make her sitdown. And then they again began to experience their former stiflingsensations. The gloomy valley of the Viorne particularly disturbedthem. When weariness brought them to the banks of the torrent, all theirchildish gaiety seemed to disappear. A grey shadow floated under thewillows, like the scented crape of a woman's dress. The children feltthis crape descend warm and balmy from the voluptuous shoulders of thenight, kiss their temples and envelop them with irresistible languor. Inthe 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 ofsparkles from the slumbering heavens. And, amidst the throbbing of thesky, the waters and the darkness, the children reposing on the grasssought each other's hands and pressed them. 

Silvere, who vaguely understood the danger of these ecstasies, wouldsometimes jump up and propose to cross over to one of the islets leftby the low water in the middle of the stream. Both ventured forth, withbare 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 withnothing worse than a wet petticoat. Then, having reached the island, they threw themselves on the long neck of sand, their eyes on a levelwith the surface of the river whose silvery scales they saw quiveringfar away in the clear night. Then Miette would declare that they werein a boat, that the island was certainly floating; she could feel itcarrying her along. The dizziness caused by the rippling of the wateramused them for a moment, and they lingered there, singing in anundertone, like boatmen as they strike the water with their oars. Atother times, when the island had a low bank, they sat there as on a bedof verdure, and let their bare feet dangle in the stream. And then forhours they chatted together, swinging their legs, and splashing thewater, delighted to set a tempest raging in the peaceful pool whosefreshness cooled their fever. 

These footbaths suggested a dangerous idea to Miette. Nothing wouldsatisfy her but a complete bath. A little above the bridge over theViorne there was a very convenient spot, she said, barely three or fourfeet deep and quite safe; the weather was so warm, it would be so niceto have the water up to their necks; besides which, she had been dyingto learn to swim for such a long time, and Silvere would be able toteach her. Silvere raised objections; it was not prudent at night time;they might be seen; perhaps, too they might catch cold. However, nothingcould turn Miette from her purpose. One evening she came with a bathingcostume which she had made out of an old dress; and Silvere was thenobliged to go back to aunt Dide's for his bathing drawers. Theirproceedings were characterised by great simplicity. Miette disrobedherself beneath the shade of a stout willow; and when both were ready, enveloped in the blackness which fell from the foliage around them, theygaily entered the cool water, oblivious of all previous scruples, andknowing in their innocence no sense of shame. They remained in the riverquite an hour, splashing and throwing water into each other's faces;Miette now getting cross, now breaking out into laughter, while Silveregave her her first lesson, dipping her head under every now and again soas to accustom her to the water. As long as he held her up she threw herarms and legs about violently, thinking she was swimming; but directlyhe let her go, she cried and struggled, striking the water with heroutstretched hands, clutching at anything she could get hold of, theyoung man's waist or one of his wrists. She leant against him for aninstant, resting, out of breath and dripping with water; and then shecried: "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 limbsmoving freely, rocked by the stream, playing with it, she yielded formand spirit alike to its soft motion, to the silence of the heavens, and the dreaminess of the melancholy banks. As she and Silvere swamnoiselessly along, she seemed to see the foliage of both banks thickenand hang over them, draping them round as with a huge curtain. Whenthe moon shone, its rays glided between the trunks of the trees, andphantoms seemed to flit along the river-side in white robes. Miette feltno nervousness, however, only an indefinable emotion as she followedthe play of the shadows. As she went onward with slower motion, the calmwater, which the moon converted into a bright mirror, rippled ather approach like a silver-broidered cloth; eddies widened and lostthemselves amid the shadows of the banks, under the hanging willowbranches, whence issued weird, plashing sounds. At every stroke sheperceived recesses full of sound; dark cavities which she hastenedto pass by; clusters and rows of trees, whose sombre masses werecontinually changing form, stretching forward and apparently followingher 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, fromthe distant horizon, which she could no longer see, a solemn lingeringstrain, 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 ofeach of her senses, that she derived enjoyment from the sky, the river, and the play of light and shadow. The river, in particular, bore heralong with endless caresses. When she swam against the current she wasdelighted to feel the stream flow rapidly against her bosom and limbs. She dipped herself in it yet more deeply, with the water reaching to herlips, so that it might pass over her shoulders, and envelop her, fromchin to feet, with flying kisses. Then she would float, languid andquiescent, on the surface, whilst the ripples glided softly between hercostume and her skin. And she would also roll over in the still poolslike a cat on a carpet; and swim from the luminous patches wherethe moonbeams were bathing, to the dark water shaded by the foliage, shivering the while, as though she had quitted a sunny plain and thenfelt the cold from the boughs falling on her neck. 

She now remained quite silent in the water, and would not allow Silvereto touch her. Gliding softly by his side, she swam on with the lightrustling of a bird flying across the copse, or else she would circleround 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, voluptuouslanguor, which disturbed them strangely. When they emerged from theirbath they felt dizzy, weary, and drowsy. Fortunately, the girl declaredone evening that she would bathe no more, as the cold water made theblood run to her head. And it was in all truth and innocence that shesaid this. 

Then their long conversations began anew. The dangers to which theinnocence of their love had lately been exposed had left no other tracein Silvere's mind than great admiration for Miette's physical strength. She had learned to swim in a fortnight, and often, when they racedtogether, he had seen her stem the current with a stroke as rapid as hisown. He, who delighted in strength and bodily exercises, felt athrill of pleasure at seeing her so strong, so active and adroit. Heentertained at heart a singular admiration for her stout arms. Oneevening, 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 wrestledfor several minutes without Silvere being able to throw Miette. Atlast, indeed, it was the young man who lost his balance, while the girlremained standing. Her sweetheart treated her like a boy, and it wasthose long rambles of theirs, those wild races across the meadows, thosebirds' nests filched from the tree crests, those struggles and violentgames of one and another kind that so long shielded them and their lovefrom all impurity. 

Then, too, apart from his youthful admiration for his sweetheart'sdashing pluck, Silvere felt for her all the compassionate tenderness ofa heart that ever softened towards the unfortunate. He, who could neversee any forsaken creature, a poor man, or a child, walking barefootedalong the dusty roads, without a throb of pity, loved Miette becausenobody 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 thesame mind in hating all the gossips of the Faubourg. The dreams in whichSilvere indulged in the daytime, while he plied his heavy hammer roundthe cartwheels in his master's shop, were full of generous enthusiasm. He fancied himself Miette's redeemer. All his reading rushed to hishead; he meant to marry his sweetheart some day, in order to raise herin the eyes of the world. It was like a holy mission that he imposedupon himself, that of redeeming and saving the convict's daughter. Andhis head was so full of certain theories and arguments, that he did nottell himself these things in simple fashion, but became lost in perfectsocial mysticism; imagining rehabilitation in the form of an apotheosisin which he pictured Miette seated on a throne, at the end of the CoursSauvaire, while the whole town prostrated itself before her, entreatingher pardon and singing her praises. Happily he forgot all these finethings as soon as Miette jumped over the wall, and said to him on thehigh 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 hissweetheart, he also showed such passion for justice that he often madeher weep on speaking to her about her father. In spite of the softeningeffect which Silvere's friendship had had upon her, she still at timesgave way to angry outbreaks of temper, when all the stubbornness andrebellion latent in her nature stiffened her with scowling eyes andtightly-drawn lips. She would then contend that her father had donequite 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 heunderstood it, with strange commentaries which would have startled thewhole magistracy of Plassans. These discussions took place most often insome remote corner of the Sainte-Claire meadows. The grassy carpet of adusky green hue stretched further than they could see, undotted even bya single tree, and the sky seemed colossal, spangling the bare horizonwith the stars. It seemed to the young couple as if they were beingrocked on a sea of verdure. Miette argued the point obstinately; sheasked Silvere if her father should have let the gendarme kill him, andSilvere, after a momentary silence, replied that, in such a case, itwas better to be the victim than the murderer, and that it was a greatmisfortune for anyone to kill a fellow man, even in legitimate defence. The law was something holy to him, and the judges had done right insending Chantegreil to the galleys. At this the girl grew angry, andalmost struck her sweetheart, crying out that he was as heartless as therest. And as he still firmly defended his ideas of justice, she finishedby bursting into sobs, and stammering that he was doubtless ashamedof her, since he was always reminding her of her father's crime. Thesediscussions ended in tears, in mutual emotion. But although the childcried, and acknowledged that she was perhaps wrong, she still retaineddeep within her a wild resentful temper. She once related, with heartylaughter, that she had seen a gendarme fall off his horse and break hisleg. Apart from this, Miette only lived for Silvere. When he asked herabout her uncle and cousin, she replied that "She did not know;" andif he pressed her, fearing that they were making her too unhappy at theJas-Meiffren, she simply answered that she worked hard, and that nothinghad changed. She believed, however, that Justin had at last found outwhat made her sing in the morning, and filled her eyes with delight. Butshe added: "What does it matter? If ever he comes to disturb us we'llreceive him in such a way that he won't be in a hurry to meddle with ouraffairs any more. "

Now and again the open country, their long rambles in the fresh air, wearied them somewhat. They then invariably returned to the AireSaint-Mittre, to the narrow lane, whence they had been driven by thenoisy summer evenings, the pungent scent of the trodden grass, all thewarm oppressive emanations. On certain nights, however, the path provedcooler, and the winds freshened it so that they could remain therewithout 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 pickedup fragments of bones, even pieces of skulls, and they were fond ofspeaking of the ancient burial-ground. It seemed to them, in theirlively fancies, that their love had shot up like some vigorous plant inthis nook of soil which dead men's bones had fertilised. It had grown, indeed, like those wild weeds, it had blossomed as blossom the poppieswhich sway like bare bleeding hearts at the slightest breeze. Andthey ended by fancying that the warm breaths passing over them, thewhisperings heard in the gloom, the long quivering which thrilled thepath, came from the dead folk sighing their departed passions intheir faces, telling them the stories of their bridals, as they turnedrestlessly in their graves, full of a fierce longing to live and loveagain. Those fragments of bone, they felt convinced of it, were full ofaffection for them; the shattered skulls grew warm again by contact withtheir own youthful fire, the smallest particles surrounded them withpassionate whispering, anxious solicitude, throbbing jealousy. And whenthey departed, the old burial-ground seemed to groan. Those weeds, in which their entangled feet often stumbled on sultry nights, werefingers, tapered by tomb life, that sprang up from the earth to detainthem and cast them into each other's arms. That pungent and penetratingodour exhaled by the broken stems was the fertilising perfume, themighty 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 andSilvere. 

They were never afraid. The sympathy which seemed to hover around themthrilled them and made them love the invisible beings whose soft touchthey often imagined they could feel, like a gentle flapping of wings. Sometimes they were saddened by sweet melancholy, and could notunderstand what the dead desired of them. They went on basking in theirinnocent love, amidst this flood of sap, this abandoned cemetery, whoserich soil teemed with life, and imperiously demanded their union. Theystill remained ignorant of the meaning of the buzzing voices which theyheard ringing in their ears, the sudden glow which sent the blood flyingto their faces. 

They often questioned each other about the remains which theydiscovered. Miette, after a woman's fashion, was partial to lugubrioussubjects. At each new discovery she launched into endless suppositions. If the bone were small, she spoke of some beautiful girl a prey toconsumption, or carried off by fever on the eve of her marriage; if thebone 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 thetombstone particularly engaged their attention. One fine moonlight nightMiette distinguished some half-obliterated letters on one side of it, and thereupon she made Silvere scrape the moss away with his knife. Thenthey read the mutilated inscription: "Here lieth . . . Marie . . . Died . . . " And Miette, finding her own name on the stone, was quiteterror-stricken. Silvere called her a "big baby, " but she could notrestrain her tears. She had received a stab in the heart, she said; shewould soon die, and that stone was meant for her. The young man himselffelt alarmed. However, he succeeded in shaming the child out of thesethoughts. What! she so courageous, to dream about such trifles! Theyended by laughing. Then they avoided speaking of it again. But inmelancholy moments, when the cloudy sky saddened the pathway, Miettecould not help thinking of that dead one, that unknown Marie, whosetomb had so long facilitated their meetings. The poor girl's bones wereperhaps still lying there. And at this thought Miette one evening had astrange whim, and asked Silvere to turn the stone over to see what mightbe under it. He refused, as though it were sacrilege, and his refusalstrengthened Miette's fancies with regard to the dear phantom which boreher name. She positively insisted that the girl had died young, asshe was, and in the very midst of her love. She even began to pity thestone, that stone which she climbed so nimbly, and on which they hadsat so often, a stone which death had chilled, and which their love hadwarmed again. 

"You'll see, this tombstone will bring us misfortune, " she added. "Ifyou were to die, I should come and lie here, and then I should like tohave this stone set over my body. "

At this, Silvere, choking with emotion, scolded her for thinking of suchmournful things. 

And so, for nearly two years, their love grew alike in the narrowpathway and the open country. Their idyll passed through the chillingrains of December and the burning solicitations of July, free from alltouch of impurity, ever retaining the sweet charm of some old Greeklove-tale, all the naive hesitancy of youth which desires but knows not. In vain did the long-departed dead whisper in their ears. They carriednothing away from the old cemetery but emotional melancholy and a vaguepresentiment of a short life. A voice seemed to whisper to them thatthey would depart amidst their virginal love, long ere the bridal daywould give them wholly to each other. It was there, on the tombstone andamong the bones that lay hidden beneath the rank grass, that they hadfirst come to indulge in that longing for death, that eager desire tosleep together in the earth, that now set them stammering and sighingbeside the Orcheres road, on that December night, while the two bellsrepeated their mournful warnings to one another. 

Miette was sleeping calmly, with her head resting on Silvere's chestwhile he mused upon their past meeting, their lovely years of unbrokenhappiness. At daybreak the girl awoke. The valley now spread out clearlyunder the bright sky. The sun was still behind the hills, but a streamof crystal light, limpid and cold as spring-water, flowed from thepale horizon. In the distance, the Viorne, like a white satin ribbon, disappeared among an expanse of red and yellow land. It was a boundlessvista, with grey seas of olive-trees, and vineyards that looked likehuge pieces of striped cloth. The whole country was magnified by theclearness of the atmosphere and the peaceful cold. However, sharp gustsof wind chilled the young people's faces. And thereupon they sprang totheir feet, cheered by the sight of the clear morning. Their melancholyforebodings had vanished with the darkness, and they gazed with delightat the immense expanse of the plain, and listened to the tolling of thetwo bells that now seemed to be joyfully ringing in a holiday. 

"Ah! I've had a good sleep!" Miette cried. "I dreamt you were kissingme. Tell me now, did you kiss me?"

"It's very possible, " Silvere replied laughing. "I was not very warm. Itis bitterly cold. "

"I only feel cold in the feet, " Miette rejoined. 

"Well! let us have a run, " said Silvere. "We have still two good leaguesto go. You will get warm. "

Thereupon they descended the hill and ran until they reached the highroad. When they were below they raised their heads as if to say farewellto that rock on which they had wept while their kisses burned theirlips. But they did not again speak of that ardent embrace which hadthrilled them so strongly with vague, unknown desire. Under the pretextof walking more quickly they did not even take each other's arm. Theyexperienced some slight confusion when they looked at one another, though why they could not tell. Meantime the dawn was rising aroundthem. The young man, who had sometimes been sent to Orcheres by hismaster, knew all the shortest cuts. Thus they walked on for more thantwo leagues, along dingle paths by the side of interminable ledges andwalls. Now and again Miette accused Silvere of having taken her thewrong way; for, at times--for a quarter of an hour at a stretch--theylost all sight of the surrounding country, seeing above the walls andhedges nothing but long rows of almond-trees whose slender branchesshowed sharply against the pale sky. 

All at once, however, they came out just in front of Orcheres. Loudcries of joy, the shouting of a crowd, sounded clearly in the limpidair. The insurrectionary forces were only now entering the town. Mietteand Silvere went in with the stragglers. Never had they seen suchenthusiasm. To judge from the streets, one would have thought it was aprocession day, when the windows are decked with the finest drapery tohonour the passage of the Canopy. The townsfolk welcomed the insurgentsas though they were deliverers. The men embraced them, while the womenbrought them food. Old men were to be seen weeping at the doors. And thejoyousness was of an essentially Southern character, pouring forth inclamorous fashion, in singing, dancing, and gesticulation. As Miettepassed along she was carried away by a _farandole_[*] which spreadwhirling all round the Grand' Place. Silvere followed her. His thoughtsof death and his discouragement were now far away. He wanted to fight, to sell his life dearly at least. The idea of a struggle intoxicatedhim afresh. He dreamed of victory to be followed by a happy life withMiette, amidst the peacefulness of the universal Republic. 

 [*] The _farandole_ is the popular dance of Provence. 

The fraternal reception accorded them by the inhabitants of Orcheresproved to be the insurgents' last delight. They spent the day amidstradiant confidence and boundless hope. The prisoners, CommanderSicardot, Messieurs Garconnet, Peirotte and the others, who had beenshut up in one of the rooms at the mayor's, the windows of whichoverlooked the Grand' Place, watched the _farandoles_ and wild outburstsof enthusiasm with surprise and dismay. 

"The villains!" muttered the Commander, leaning upon a window-bar, asthough 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 allthat rabble!"

Then he perceived Miette, and addressing himself to Monsieur Garconnet, he added: "Do you see, sir, that big girl in red over yonder? Howdisgraceful! They've even brought their mistresses with them. If thiscontinues much longer we shall see some fine goings-on. "

Monsieur Garconnet shook his head, saying something about "unbridledpassions, " and "the most evil days of history. " Monsieur Peirotte, aswhite as a sheet, remained silent; he only opened his lips once, to sayto Sicardot, who was still bitterly railing: "Not so loud, sir; not soloud! You will get us all massacred. "

As a matter of fact, the insurgents treated the gentlemen with thegreatest kindness. They even provided them with an excellent dinner inthe evening. Such attentions, however, were terrifying to such a quakeras the receiver of taxes; the insurgents he thought would not treat themso well unless they wished to make them fat and tender for the day whenthey might wish to devour them. 

At dusk that day Silvere came face to face with his cousin, DoctorPascal. The latter had followed the band on foot, chatting with theworkmen who held him in the greatest respect. At first he had strivento dissuade them from the struggle; and then, as if convinced by theirarguments, he had said to them with his kindly smile: "Well, perhaps youare right, my friends; fight if you like, I shall be here to patch upyour arms and legs. "

Then, in the morning he began to gather pebbles and plants along thehigh road. He regretted that he had not brought his geologist's hammerand botanical wallet with him. His pockets were now so full of stonesthat they were almost bursting, while bundles of long herbs peered forthfrom the surgeon's case which he carried under his arm. 

"Hallo! You here, my lad?" he cried, as he perceived Silvere. "I thoughtI was the only member of the family here. "

He spoke these last words with a touch of irony, as if deriding theintrigues of his father and his uncle Antoine. Silvere was very gladto meet his cousin; the doctor was the only one of the Rougons whoever shook hands with him in the street, and showed him any sincerefriendship. Seeing him, therefore, still covered with dust from themarch, the young man thought him gained over to the Republican cause, and was much delighted thereat. He talked to the doctor, with youthfulmagniloquence, of the people's rights, their holy cause, and theircertain triumph. Pascal smiled as he listened, and watched the youth'sgestures and the ardent play of his features with curiosity, as thoughhe were studying a patient, or analysing an enthusiasm, to ascertainwhat might be at the bottom of it. 

"How you run on! How you run on!" he finally exclaimed. "Ah! you areyour grandmother's true grandson. " And, in a whisper, he added, likesome chemist taking notes: "Hysteria or enthusiasm, shameful madnessor sublime madness. It's always those terrible nerves!" Then, againspeaking aloud, as if summing up the matter, he said: "The family iscomplete 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 largered pelisse. She and Silvere had traversed the town arm-in-arm. The sight of this tall red girl at last puzzled Pascal, and againinterrupting 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 veryshy with women; however, he raised his hat to Miette as he went away. 

The night proved an anxious one. Forebodings of misfortune swept overthe insurgents. The enthusiasm and confidence of the previous eveningseemed to die away in the darkness. In the morning there were gloomyfaces; sad looks were exchanged, followed by discouraging silence. Terrifying rumours were now circulating. Bad news, which the leadershad managed to conceal the previous evening, had spread abroad, thoughnobody in particular was known to have spoken. It was the work ofthat invisible voice, which, with a word, throws a mob into a panic. According to some reports Paris was subdued, and the provinces hadoffered their hands and feet, eager to be bound. And it was added thata large party of troops, which had left Marseilles under the command ofColonel 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 patrioticfever, now shivered with cold, chilled to their hearts by the shamefulsubmissiveness of prostrate France. They alone, then, had had thecourage to do their duty! And now they were to be left to perish amidstthe general panic, the death-like silence of the country; they hadbecome 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 ofthe glorious conquest of the people's rights! Miserably baffled andbetrayed, this handful of men could but weep for their dead faith andtheir vanished dreams of justice. There were some who, while tauntingFrance with her cowardice, flung away their arms, and sat down by theroadside, declaring that they would there await the bullets of thetroops, 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 ofsolidarity kept them together. Their indignation turned chiefly againsttheir leaders, who had really proved incapable. Irreparable mistakeshad been committed; and now the insurgents, without order or discipline, barely protected by a few sentries, and under the command of irresolutemen, found themselves at the mercy of the first soldiers that mightarrive. 

They spent two more days at Orcheres, Tuesday and Wednesday, thus losingtime and aggravating the situation. The general, the man with the sabre, whom Silvere had pointed out to Miette on the Plassans road, vacillatedand hesitated under the terrible responsibility that weighed upon him. On Thursday he came to the conclusion that the position of Orchereswas a decidedly dangerous one; so towards one o'clock he gave orders tomarch, 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 thetown all approach is shut off by enormous rocks, so that this kind ofcitadel can only be reached by the Nores plain, which spreads out at thefoot of the plateau. An esplanade, converted into a public walk plantedwith magnificent elms, overlooks the plain. It was on this esplanadethat the insurgents encamped. The hostages were imprisoned in the Hotelde la Mule-Blanche, standing half-way along the promenade. The nightpassed away heavy and black. The insurgents spoke of treachery. As soonas it was morning, however, the man with the sabre, who had neglected totake the simplest precautions, reviewed the troops. The contingents weredrawn up in line with their backs turned to the plain. They presenteda wonderful medley of costume, some wearing brown jackets, othersdark greatcoats, and others again blue blouses girded with red sashes. Moreover, their arms were an equally odd collection: there were newlysharpened scythes, large navvies' spades, and fowling-pieces withburnished barrels glittering in the sunshine. And at the very momentwhen the improvised general was riding past the little army, a sentry, who had been forgotten in an olive-plantation, ran up gesticulating andshouting:

"The soldiers! The soldiers!"

There was indescribable emotion. At first, they thought it a falsealarm. Forgetting all discipline, they rushed forward to the end of theesplanade in order to see the soldiers. The ranks were broken, and asthe dark line of troops appeared, marching in perfect order with a longglitter of bayonets, on the other side of the greyish curtain of olivetrees, there came a hasty and disorderly retreat, which sent a quiver ofpanic to the other end of the plateau. Nevertheless, the contingentsof La Palud and Saint-Martin-de-Vaulx had again formed in line inthe middle of the promenade, and stood there erect and fierce. Awood-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, surroundedby the folks from Faverolles, marched off with several of the countrycontingents--Vernoux, Corbiere, Marsanne, and Pruinas--to outflank theenemy 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 hadcalled to his aid mustered together under the elms, there forming a darkirregular 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. Themen of Plassans stood in the middle of this heroic battalion. Amid thegrey hues of the blouses and jackets, and the bluish glitter of theweapons, the pelisse worn by Miette, who was holding the banner withboth hands, looked like a large red splotch--a fresh and bleeding wound. 

All at once perfect silence fell. Monsieur Peirotte's pale face appearedat 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'llget yourself killed. "

Thereupon the shutters were quickly closed, and nothing was heard savethe 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 ofthe Nores plain, the insurgents soon perceived the bayonets shootingup, one after another, like a field of steel-eared corn under the risingsun. At that moment Silvere, who was glowing with feverish agitation, fancied he could see the gendarme whose blood had stained his hands. Heknew, from the accounts of his companions, that Rengade was not dead, that he had only lost an eye; and he clearly distinguished the unluckyman with his empty socket bleeding horribly. The keen recollection ofthis gendarme, to whom he had not given a thought since his departurefrom Plassans, proved unbearable. He was afraid that fear might get thebetter of him, and he tightened his hold on his carbine, while a mistgathered before his eyes. He felt a longing to discharge his gunand 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 flushedface, looking taller than ever amidst the folds of the red banner; shewas indeed standing on tiptoes in order to see the troops, and nervousexpectation made her nostrils quiver and her red lips part so as toshow her white, eager, gleaming teeth. Silvere smiled at her. But he hadscarcely turned his head when a fusillade burst out. The soldiers, whocould only be seen from their shoulders upwards, had just fired theirfirst volley. It seemed to Silvere as though a great gust of wind waspassing over his head, while a shower of leaves, lopped off by thebullets, fell from the elms. A sharp sound, like the snapping of a deadbranch, made him look to his right. Then, prone on the ground, he sawthe big wood-cutter, he who was a head taller than the others. There wasa little black hole in the middle of his forehead. And thereupon Silverefired straight before him, without taking aim, reloaded and fired againlike a madman or an unthinking wild beast, in haste only to kill. Hecould not even distinguish the soldiers now; smoke, resembling strips ofgrey muslin, was floating under the elms. The leaves still rained uponthe insurgents, for the troops were firing too high. Every now and then, athwart the fierce crackling of the fusillade, the young man heard asigh or a low rattle, and a rush was made among the band as if to makeroom 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 andmurmurs of rage, as if to say, "The cowards! Oh! the cowards!" sinisterrumours were spreading--the general had fled; cavalry were sabring theskirmishers in the Nores plain. However, the irregular firing did notcease, every now and again sudden bursts of flame sped through theclouds 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 closedtheir ranks. At last there were only some ten insurgents left. Two moretook to flight, and of the remaining eight three were killed at onedischarge. 

The two children had remained there mechanically without understandinganything. As the battalion diminished in numbers, Miette raised thebanner still higher in the air; she held it in front of her withclenched fists as if it were a huge taper. It was completely riddledby bullets. When Silvere had no more cartridges left in his pocket, heceased firing, and gazed at the carbine with an air of stupor. It wasthen that a shadow passed over his face, as though the flapping wingsof some colossal bird had brushed against his forehead. And raising hiseyes he saw the banner fall from Miette's grasp. The child, her handsclasped to her breast, her head thrown back with an expression ofexcruciating suffering, was staggering to the ground. She did not uttera single cry, but sank at last upon the red banner. 

"Get up; come quickly, " Silvere said, in despair, as he held out hishand 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 herlarge eyes, while short quivers shook her frame. Then he pulled away herhands. 

"It's there, isn't it? it's there. "

And he tore open her bodice, and laid her bosom bare. He searched, butsaw nothing. His eyes were brimming with tears. At last under the leftbreast he perceived a small pink hole; a single drop of blood stainedthe wound. 

"It's nothing, " he whispered; "I'll go and find Pascal, he'll put youall 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 pursuitof the contingents led away by the man with the sabre. And in the centreof the esplanade there only remained Silvere kneeling beside Miette'sbody. With the stubbornness of despair, he had taken her in his arms. Hewanted to set her on her feet, but such a quiver of pain came upon thegirl that he laid her down again, and said to her entreatingly: "Speakto me, pray. Why don't you say something to me?"

She could not; she slowly, gently shook her hand, as if to say thatit was not her fault. Her close-pressed lips were already contractingbeneath the touch of death. With her unbound hair streaming around her, and her head resting amid the folds of the blood-red banner, all herlife now centred in her eyes, those black eyes glittering in her whiteface. Silvere sobbed. The glance of those big sorrowful eyes filled himwith distress. He read in them bitter, immense regret for life. Miettewas telling him that she was going away all alone, and before theirbridal day; that she was leaving him ere she had become his wife. Shewas telling him, too, that it was he who had willed that it shouldbe so, that he should have loved her as other lovers love theirsweethearts. In the hour of her agony, amidst that stern conflictbetween death and her vigorous nature, she bewailed her fate in goinglike that to the grave. Silvere, as he bent over her, understood howbitter was the pang. He recalled their caresses, how she had hung roundhis neck, and had yearned for his love, but he had not understood, andnow she was departing from him for evermore. Bitterly grieved at thethought that throughout her eternal rest she would remember him solelyas a companion and playfellow, he kissed her on the bosom while his hottears fell upon her lips. Those passionate kisses brought a last gleamof joy to Miette's eyes. They loved one another, and their idyll endedin death. 

But Silvere could not believe she was dying. "No, you will see, it willprove only a trifle, " he declared. "Don't speak if it hurts you. Wait, Iwill 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 oliveplantations. A dull sound of galloping cavalry rose from the plain. At times there were loud cries, as of men being slaughtered. Andthick clouds of smoke were wafted along and hung about the elms on theesplanade. Silvere for his part no longer heard or saw anything. Pascal, who came running down in the direction of the plain, saw him stretchedupon the ground, and hastened towards him, thinking he was wounded. Assoon as the young man saw him, he clutched hold of him and pointed toMiette. 

"Look, " he said, "she's wounded, there, under the breast. Ah! how goodof you to come! You will save her. "

At that moment, however, a slight convulsion shook the dying girl. Apain-fraught shadow passed over her face, and as her contracted lipssuddenly parted, a faint sigh escaped from them. Her eyes, still wideopen, 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 kneelingforward, but now he sank back, as though thrown down by Miette's lastfaint sigh. 

"Dead! Dead!" he repeated; "it is not true, she is looking at me. Seehow 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 hecould save her if he only would. Pascal resisted gently, saying, in hiskindly voice: "I can do nothing for her, others are waiting for me. Letgo, my poor child; she is quite dead. "

At last Silvere released his hold and again fell back. Dead! Dead! Stillthat word, which rang like a knell in his dazed brain! When he was alonehe crept up close to the corpse. Miette still seemed to be lookingat him. He threw himself upon her, laid his head upon her bosom, andwatered it with his tears. He was beside himself with grief. He pressedhis 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 lifeagain. But the girl was turning cold in spite of his caresses. He felther lifeless and nerveless beneath his touch. Then he was seized withterror, and with haggard face and listless hanging arms he remainedcrouching in a state of stupor, and repeating: "She is dead, yet she islooking 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 theNores plain; the cries of the wounded and the galloping of the horsesbecame more distant, softening like music wafted from afar through theclear air. Silvere was no longer conscious of the fighting. He didnot even see his cousin, who mounted the slope again and crossed thepromenade. Pascal, as he passed along, picked up Macquart's carbinewhich Silvere had thrown down; he knew it, as he had seen it hangingover aunt Dide's chimney-piece, and he thought he might as well save itfrom the hands of the victors. He had scarcely entered the Hotel de laMule-Blanche, whither a large number of the wounded had been taken, whena band of insurgents, chased by the soldiers like a herd of cattle, oncemore rushed into the esplanade. The man with the sabre had fled; it wasthe last contingents from the country who were being exterminated. Therewas a terrible massacre. In vain did Colonel Masson and the prefect, Monsieur de Bleriot, overcome by pity, order a retreat. The infuriatedsoldiers continued firing upon the mass, and pinning isolated fugitivesto the walls with their bayonets. When they had no more enemies beforethem, they riddled the facade of the Mule-Blanche with bullets. Theshutters flew into splinters; one window which had been left half-openwas torn out, and there was a loud rattle of broken glass. Pitifulvoices were crying out from within; "The prisoners! The prisoners!" Butthe troops did not hear; they continued firing. All at once CommanderSicardot, growing exasperated, appeared at the door, waved his arms, andendeavoured to speak. Monsieur Peirotte, the receiver of taxes, with hisslim figure and scared face, stood by his side. However, another volleywas fired, and Monsieur Peirotte fell face foremost, with a heavy thud, to the ground. 

Silvere and Miette were still looking at each other. Silvere hadremained by the corpse, through all the fusillade and the howls ofagony, without even turning his head. He was only conscious of thepresence of some men around him, and, from a feeling of modesty, he drewthe red banner over Miette's breast. Then their eyes still continued togaze at one another. 

The conflict, however, was at an end. The death of the receiver oftaxes had satiated the soldiers. Some of these ran about, scouring everycorner of the esplanade, to prevent the escape of a single insurgent. A gendarme who perceived Silvere under the trees, ran up to him, andseeing that it was a lad he had to deal with, called: "What are youdoing 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 gendarmeexclaimed, as he stooped down. "Come, get up, you scoundrel! You knowwhat you've got to expect. "

Then, as Silvere only smiled vaguely and did not move, the other lookedmore attentively, and saw that the corpse swathed in the banner was thatof a girl. 

"A fine girl; what a pity!" he muttered. "Your mistress, eh? yourascal!"

Then he made a violent grab at Silvere, and setting him on his feet ledhim away like a dog that is dragged by one leg. Silvere submitted insilence, as quietly as a child. He just turned round to give anotherglance at Miette. He felt distressed at thus leaving her alone under thetrees. For the last time he looked at her from afar. She was still lyingthere in all her purity, wrapped in the red banner, her head slightlyraised, and her big eyes turned upward towards heaven. 

CHAPTER VI

It was about five o'clock in the morning when Rougon at last ventured toleave his mother's house. The old woman had gone to sleep on a chair. Hecrept stealthily to the end of the Impasse Saint-Mittre. There was not asound, not a shadow. He pushed on as far as the Porte de Rome. The gatesstood 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 wayinto the Rue de Nice. He scanned from a distance the corners of eachsuccessive lane; and trembled at every door, fearing lest he should seea band of insurgents rush out upon him. However, he reached the CoursSauvaire without any mishap. The insurgents seemed to have vanished inthe darkness like a nightmare. 

Pierre then paused for a moment on the deserted pavement, heaving adeep sigh of relief and triumph. So those rascals had really abandonedPlassans to him. The town belonged to him now; it slept like the foolishthing it was; there it lay, dark and tranquil, silent and confident, andhe had only to stretch out his hand to take possession of it. Thatbrief halt, the supercilious glance which he cast over the drowsy place, thrilled him with unspeakable delight. He remained there, alone in thedarkness, and crossed his arms, in the attitude of a great general onthe eve of a victory. He could hear nothing in the distance but themurmur of the fountains of the Cours Sauvaire, whose jets of water fellinto the basins with a musical plashing. 

Then he began to feel a little uneasy. What if the Empire shouldunhappily have been established without his aid? What if Sicardot, Garconnet, and Peirotte, instead of being arrested and led away bythe insurrectionary band, had shut the rebels up in prison? A coldperspiration broke out over him, and he went on his way again, hopingthat Felicite would give him some accurate information. He now pushed onmore rapidly, and was skirting the houses of the Rue de la Banne, when astrange spectacle, which caught his eyes as he raised his head, rivetedhim to the ground. One of the windows of the yellow drawing-room wasbrilliantly illuminated, and, in the glare, he saw a dark form, which herecognized as that of his wife, bending forward, and shaking its arms ina violent manner. He asked himself what this could mean, but, unable tothink of any explanation, was beginning to feel seriously alarmed, whensome hard object bounded over the pavement at his feet. Felicite hadthrown him the key of the cart-house, where he had concealed a supplyof muskets. This key clearly signified that he must take up arms. So heturned away again, unable to comprehend why his wife had prevented himfrom going upstairs, and imagining the most horrible things. 

He now went straight to Roudier, whom he found dressed and ready tomarch, but completely ignorant of the events of the night. Roudier livedat the far end of the new town, as in a desert, whither no tidings ofthe insurgents' movements had penetrated. Pierre, however, proposedto him that they should go to Granoux, whose house stood on one ofthe corners of the Place des Recollets, and under whose windows theinsurgent contingents must have passed. The municipal councillor'sservant remained for a long time parleying before consenting to admitthem, and they heard poor Granoux calling from the first floor in atrembling 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 faithfulfriends 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 thatthe town was still full of insurgents. Lying back on an arm-chair nearthe 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, butthey were making such a disturbance! At last I lay down in my arm-chairhere. I've seen it all, everything. Such awful-looking men; a band ofescaped convicts! Then they passed by again, dragging brave CommanderSicardot, worthy Monsieur Garconnet, the postmaster, and others awaywith them, and howling the while like cannibals!"

Rougon felt a thrill of joy. He made Granoux repeat to him how he hadseen 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 hepassed under my window: 'Gentlemen, don't hurt me!' They were certainlymaltreating 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 ardourwhen Pierre informed him that he had come to recruit his services forthe purpose of saving Plassans. These three saviours then took counciltogether. They each resolved to go and rouse their friends, and appointa meeting at the cart-shed, the secret arsenal of the reactionaryparty. Meantime Rougon constantly bethought himself of Felicite's wildgestures, which seemed to betoken danger somewhere. Granoux, assuredlythe most foolish of the three, was the first to suggest that there mustbe some Republicans left in the town. This proved a flash of light, and Rougon, with a feeling of conviction, reflected: "There must besomething of Macquart's doing under all this. "

An hour or so later the friends met again in the cart-shed, which wassituated in a very lonely spot. They had glided stealthily from door todoor, knocking and ringing as quietly as possible, and picking up allthe men they could. However, they had only succeeded in collecting someforty, who arrived one after the other, creeping along in the dark, withthe pale and drowsy countenances of men who had been violently startledfrom their sleep. The cart-shed, let to a cooper, was littered with oldhoops and broken casks, of which there were piles in every corner. Theguns were stored in the middle, in three long boxes. A taper, stuck ona piece of wood, illumined the strange scene with a flickering glimmer. When Rougon had removed the covers of the three boxes, the spectaclebecame weirdly grotesque. Above the fire-arms, whose barrels shown witha bluish, phosphorescent glitter, were outstretched necks and heads thatbent with a sort of secret fear, while the yellow light of the tapercast shadows of huge noses and locks of stiffened hair upon the walls. 

However, the reactionary forces counted their numbers, and the smallnessof the total filled them with hesitation. They were only thirty-nine alltold, and this adventure would mean certain death for them. A fatherof a family spoke of his children; others, without troubling themselvesabout excuses, turned towards the door. Then, however, two freshconspirators arrived, who lived in the neighbourhood of the TownHall, and knew for certain that there were not more than about twentyRepublicans still at the mayor's. The band thereupon deliberated afresh. Forty-one against twenty--these seemed practicable conditions. So thearms were distributed amid a little trembling. It was Rougon who tookthem from the boxes, and each man present, as he received his gun, thebarrel of which on that December night was icy cold, felt a sudden chillfreeze him to his bones. The shadows on the walls assumed the clumsypostures of bewildered conscripts stretching out their fingers. Pierreclosed the boxes regretfully; he left there a hundred and nine gunswhich he would willingly have distributed; however, he now had to dividethe cartridges. Of these, there were two large barrels full in thefurthest corner of the cart-shed, sufficient to defend Plassans againstan army. And as this corner was dark, one of the gentlemen brought thetaper near, whereupon another conspirator--a burly pork-butcher, withimmense fists--grew angry, declaring that it was most imprudent to bringa light so close. They strongly approved his words, so the cartridgeswere distributed in the dark. They completely filled their pockets withthem. Then, after they had loaded their guns, with endless precautions, they lingered there for another moment, looking at each other withsuspicious eyes, or exchanging glances in which cowardly ferocity wasmingled with an expression of stupidity. 

In the streets they kept close to the houses, marching silently andin single file, like savages on the war-path. Rougon had insisted uponhaving the honour of marching at their head; the time had come when hemust 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 Granouxwere immediately behind him. Upon two occasions the column came to anabrupt halt. They fancied they had heard some distant sound of fighting;but it was only the jingle of the little brass shaving-dishes hangingfrom chains, which are used as signs by the barbers of Southern France. These dishes were gently shaking to and fro in the breeze. After eachhalt, the saviours of Plassans continued their stealthy march in thedark, retaining the while the mien of terrified heroes. In this mannerthey reached the square in front of the Town Hall. There they formed agroup round Rougon, and took counsel together once more. In the facadeof the building in front of them only one window was lighted. It was nownearly seven o'clock and the dawn was approaching. 

After a good ten minutes' discussion, it was decided to advance asfar as the door, so as to ascertain what might be the meaning of thisdisquieting darkness and silence. The door proved to be half open. Oneof the conspirators thereupon popped his head in, but quickly withdrewit, announcing that there was a man under the porch, sitting against thewall fast asleep, with a gun between his legs. Rougon, seeing a chanceof commencing with a deed of valour, thereupon entered first, and, seizing the man, held him down while Roudier gagged him. This firsttriumph, gained in silence, singularly emboldened the little troop, whohad dreamed of a murderous fusillade. And Rougon had to make imperioussigns to restrain his soldiers from indulging in over-boisterousdelight. 

They continued their advance on tip-toes. Then, on the left, in thepolice guard-room, which was situated there, they perceived some fifteenmen lying on camp-beds and snoring, amid the dim glimmer of a lanternhanging from the wall. Rougon, who was decidedly becoming a greatgeneral, left half of his men in front of the guard-room with orders notto rouse the sleepers, but to watch them and make them prisoners if theystirred. He was personally uneasy about the lighted window which theyhad seen from the square. He still scented Macquart's hand in thebusiness, and, as he felt that he would first have to make prisoners ofthose who were watching upstairs, he was not sorry to be able to adoptsurprise tactics before the noise of a conflict should impel them tobarricade themselves in the first-floor rooms. So he went up quietly, followed by the twenty heroes whom he still had at his disposal. Roudiercommanded the detachment remaining in the courtyard. 

As Rougon had surmised, it was Macquart who was comfortably installedupstairs in the mayor's office. He sat in the mayor's arm-chair, with his elbows on the mayor's writing-table. With the characteristicconfidence of a man of coarse intellect, who is absorbed by a fixed ideaand bent upon his own triumph, he had imagined after the departure ofthe insurgents that Plassans was now at his complete disposal, and thathe would be able to act there like a conqueror. In his opinion thatbody of three thousand men who had just passed through the town wasan invincible army, whose mere proximity would suffice to keep thebourgeois humble and docile in his hands. The insurgents had imprisonedthe gendarmes in their barracks, the National Guard was alreadydismembered, the nobility must be quaking with terror, and the retiredcitizens of the new town had certainly never handled a gun in theirlives. 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, whilehe calmly awaited the dawn which he fancied would attract and rally allthe Republicans of the district round him. 

He was already meditating important revolutionary measures; thenomination of a Commune of which he would be the chief, the imprisonmentof all bad patriots, and particularly of all such persons as hadincurred his displeasure. The thought of the baffled Rougons and theiryellow drawing-room, of all that clique entreating him for mercy, thrilled him with exquisite pleasure. In order to while away the time heresolved to issue a proclamation to the inhabitants of Plassans. Fourof his party set to work to draw up this proclamation, and when it wasfinished 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 wascommencing, in an emphatic voice, "Inhabitants of Plassans, the hourof independence has struck, the reign of justice has begun----" when anoise 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 athome?"

Then, all at once both leaves of the door were violently thrown backand slammed against the walls, and a crowd of armed men, in the midst ofwhom marched Rougon, with his face very red and his eyes starting outof their sockets, swarmed into the office, brandishing their guns likecudgels. 

"Ah! the blackguards, they're armed!" shouted Macquart. 

He was about to seize a pair of pistols which were lying on thewriting-table, when five men caught hold of him by the throat and heldhim in check. The four authors of the proclamation struggled for aninstant. There was a good deal of scuffling and stamping, and a noiseof persons falling. The combatants were greatly hampered by their guns, which they would not lay aside, although they could not use them. In thestruggle, Rougon's weapon, which an insurgent had tried to wrest fromhim, went off of itself with a frightful report, and filled the roomwith smoke. The bullet shattered a magnificent mirror that reached fromthe mantelpiece to the ceiling, and was reputed to be one of thefinest mirrors in the town. This shot, fired no one knew why, deafenedeverybody, and put an end to the battle. 

Then, while the gentlemen were panting and puffing, three other reportswere heard in the courtyard. Granoux immediately rushed to one of thewindows. And as he and the others anxiously leaned out, their faceslengthened perceptibly, for they were in nowise eager for a strugglewith the men in the guard-room, whom they had forgotten amidst theirtriumph. However, Roudier cried out from below that all was right. AndGranoux then shut the window again, beaming with joy. The fact ofthe matter was, that Rougon's shot had aroused the sleepers, who hadpromptly surrendered, seeing that resistance was impossible. Then, however, three of Roudier's men, in their blind haste to get thebusiness over, had discharged their firearms in the air, as a sort ofanswer 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 arein the hands of cowards. 

And now, in the room upstairs, Rougon ordered Macquart's hands to bebound with the bands of the large green curtains which hung at thewindows. At this, Macquart, wild with rage, broke into scornful jeers. "All right; go on, " he muttered. "This evening or to-morrow, when theothers return, we'll settle accounts!"

This allusion to the insurrectionary forces sent a shudder to thevictors' very marrow; Rougon for his part almost choked. His brother, who was exasperated at having been surprised like a child by theseterrified bourgeois, who, old soldier that he was, he disdainfullylooked upon as good-for-nothing civilians, defied him with a glance ofthe bitterest hatred. 

"Ah! I can tell some pretty stories about you, very pretty ones!"the rascal exclaimed, without removing his eyes from the retired oilmerchant. "Just send me before the Assize Court, so that I may tell thejudge a few tales that will make them laugh. "

At this Rougon turned pale. He was terribly afraid lest Macquart shouldblab then and there, and ruin him in the esteem of the gentlemen who hadjust been assisting him to save Plassans. These gentlemen, astounded bythe dramatic encounter between the two brothers, and, foreseeing somestormy passages, had retired to a corner of the room. Rougon, however, formed a heroic resolution. He advanced towards the group, and in a veryproud tone exclaimed: "We will keep this man here. When he has reflectedon 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 myduty, gentlemen. I have sworn to save the town from anarchy, and Iwill save it, even should I have to be the executioner of my nearestrelative. "

One might have thought him some old Roman sacrificing his family on thealtar of his country. Granoux, who felt deeply moved, came to press hishand with a tearful countenance, which seemed to say: "I understand you;you are sublime!" And then he did him the kindness to take everybodyaway, under the pretext of conducting the four other prisoners into thecourtyard. 

When Pierre was alone with his brother, he felt all his self-possessionreturn to him. "You hardly expected me, did you?" he resumed. "Iunderstand things now; you have been laying plots against me. Youwretched fellow; see what your vices and disorderly life have broughtyou to!"

Macquart shrugged his shoulders. "Shut up, " he replied; "go to thedevil. 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 torest sometimes. This room lighted from above, had no other means ofexit than the doorway by which one entered. It was furnished with a fewarm-chairs, a sofa, and a marble wash-stand. Pierre double-locked thedoor, after partially unbinding his brother's hands. Macquart was thenheard to throw himself on the sofa, and start singing the "Ca Ira" in aloud voice, as though he were trying to sing himself to sleep. 

Rougon, who at last found himself alone, now in his turn sat down inthe 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 theend at last. He felt the soft seat of the arm-chair yield beneath him, while with a mechanical movement he caressed the mahogany writing-tablewith his hands, finding it apparently quite silky and delicate, like theskin of a beautiful woman. Then he spread himself out, and assumedthe dignified attitude which Macquart had previously affected whilelistening to the proclamation. The silence of the room seemed fraughtwith 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 dilatednostrils. This room, with its faded hangings redolent of pettytransactions, 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 shoutfrom Macquart. The words aristocrat and lamp-post, the threats ofhanging that form the refrain of the famous revolutionary song, the "CaIra, " reached him in angry bursts, interrupting his triumphant dream inthe most disagreeable manner. Always that man! And his dream, in whichhe saw Plassans at his feet, ended with a sudden vision of the AssizeCourt, of the judges, the jury, and the public listening to Macquart'sdisgraceful revelations; the story of the fifty thousand francs, andmany other unpleasant matters; or else, while enjoying the softness ofMonsieur Garconnet's arm-chair, he suddenly pictured himself suspendedfrom a lamp-post in the Rue de la Banne. Who would rid him of thatwretched fellow? At last Antoine fell asleep, and then Pierre enjoyedten 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 theinsurgents. 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 tothe inhabitants. Pierre was, at that moment, reading the one which theinsurgents had left upon the table. 

"Why, " cried he, "this will suit us admirably! There are only a fewwords 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 ofPlassans--The hour of resistance has struck, the reign of order hasreturned----"

It was decided that the proclamation should be printed at the office ofthe "Gazette, " and posted at all the street corners. 

"Now listen, " said Rougon; "we'll go to my house; and in the meantimeMonsieur Granoux will assemble here the members of the municipal councilwho had not been arrested and acquaint them with the terrible events ofthe night. " Then he added, majestically: "I am quite prepared to acceptthe responsibility of my actions. If what I have already done appears asatisfactory pledge of my desire for order, I am willing to place myselfat the head of a municipal commission, until such time as the regularauthorities can be reinstated. But, in order, that nobody may accuse meof ambitious designs, I shall not re-enter the Town Hall unless calledupon to do so by my fellow-citizens. "

At this Granoux and Roudier protested that Plassans would not beungrateful. Their friend had indeed saved the town. And they recalledall that he had done for the cause of order: the yellow drawing-roomalways open to the friends of authority, his services as spokesman inthe three quarters of the town, the store of arms which had been hisidea, and especially that memorable night--that night of prudence andheroism--in which he had rendered himself forever illustrious. Granouxadded that he felt sure of the admiration and gratitude of the municipalcouncillors. 

"Don't stir from your house, " he concluded; "I will come and fetch youto lead you back in triumph. "

Then Roudier said that he quite understood the tact and modesty of theirfriend, and approved it. Nobody would think of accusing him of ambition, but all would appreciate the delicacy which prompted him to take nooffice save with the consent of his fellow-citizens. That was verydignified, 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 exquisitepleasure. Each sentence that fell from the retired hosier and the oldalmond-merchant, who stood on his right and left respectively, fellsweetly on his ears; and, leaning back in the mayor's arm-chair, steepedin the odour of officiality which pervaded the room, he bowed to theright and to the left, like a royal pretender whom a _coup d'etat_ isabout to convert into an emperor. 

When they were tired of belauding each other, they all three wentdownstairs. Granoux started off to call the municipal council together, while Roudier told Rougon to go on in front, saying that he would joinhim at his house, after giving the necessary orders for guarding theTown Hall. The dawn was now fast rising, and Pierre proceeded to the Ruede la Banne, tapping his heels in a martial manner on the still desertedpavement. 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. Thenavvy had not stirred, for he had seen nobody enter. He sat there, onthe first step, resting his big head in his hands, and gazing fixedly infront of him, with the vacant stare and mute stubbornness of a faithfuldog. 

"You were waiting for me, weren't you?" Pierre said to him, taking inthe situation at a glance. "Well, go and tell Monsieur Macquart thatI've come home. Go and ask for him at the Town Hall. "

Cassoute rose and took himself off, with an awkward bow. He was goingto get himself arrested like a lamb, to the great delight of Pierre, who laughed as he went upstairs, asking himself, with a feeling of vaguesurprise: "I have certainly plenty of courage; shall I turn out as gooda diplomatist?"

Felicite had not gone to bed last night. He found her dressed in herSunday clothes, wearing a cap with lemon-coloured ribbons, like a ladyexpecting visitors. She had sat at the window in vain; she had heardnothing, 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 sankinto an arm-chair, and, in a gasping voice, faltered: "It's done; weshall get the receivership. "

At this she fell on his neck and kissed him. 

"Really? Really?" she cried. "But I haven't heard anything. Oh, mydarling husband, do tell me; tell me all!"

She felt fifteen years old again, and began to coax him and whirl roundhim 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 notomit a single detail. He even explained his future projects, forgettingthat, according to his theories, wives were good for nothing, and thathis must be kept in complete ignorance of what went on if he wished toremain master. Felicite leant over him and drank in his words. She madehim repeat certain parts of his story, declaring she had not heard; infact, her delight bewildered her so much that at times she seemed quitedeaf. When Pierre related the events at the Town Hall, she burst into afit of laughter, changed her chair three times, and moved the furnitureabout, quite unable to sit still. After forty years of continuousstruggle, fortune had at last yielded to them. Eventually she became somad 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 bythe 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 girlishsmile: "Well, the Republic for ever! It has made our path clear. "

But Pierre had turned cross. "That's just like you!" he muttered; "youalways fancy that you've foreseen everything. It was I who had the ideaof hiding myself. As though women understood anything about politics!Bah, my poor girl, if you were to steer the bark we should very soon beshipwrecked. "

Felicite bit her lip. She had gone too far and forgotten herself-assigned part of good, silent fairy. Then she was seized with oneof those fits of covert exasperation, which she generally experiencedwhen her husband tried to crush her with his superiority. And she againpromised herself, when the right time should arrive, some exquisiterevenge, which would deliver this man into her power, bound hand andfoot. 

"Ah! I was forgetting!" resumed Rougon, "Monsieur Peirotte is amongstthem. Granoux saw him struggling in the hands of the insurgents. "

Felicite gave a start. She was just at that moment standing at thewindow, gazing with longing eyes at the house where the receiver oftaxes lived. She had felt a desire to do so, for in her mind the idea oftriumph was always associated with envy of that fine house. 

"So Monsieur Peirotte is arrested!" she exclaimed in a strange tone asshe turned round. 

For an instant she smiled complacently; then a crimson blush rushedto her face. A murderous wish had just ascended from the depths of herbeing. "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 wouldbe settled. There would be no necessity to supercede him, eh? and itwould be no fault of ours. "

But Felicite shuddered. She felt that she had just condemned a man todeath. If Monsieur Peirotte should now be killed, she would alwayssee his ghost at night time. He would come and haunt her. So she onlyventured to cast furtive glances, full of fearful delight, at theunhappy man's windows. Henceforward all her enjoyment would be fraughtwith a touch of guilty terror. 

Moreover, Pierre, having now poured out his soul, began to perceive theother side of the situation. He mentioned Macquart. How could theyget 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, anddusting 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 haveeverybody coming to call upon us!"

"Bah!" replied Pierre, with supreme indifference, "we'll alter allthat. "

He who, the night before, had entertained almost religious venerationfor the arm-chairs and the sofa, would now have willingly stamped onthem. Felicite, who felt the same contempt, even went so far as toupset an arm-chair which was short of a castor and did not yield to herquickly enough. 

It was at this moment that Roudier entered. It at once occurred tothe old woman that he had become much more polite. His "Monsieur" and"Madame" rolled forth in delightfully musical fashion. But the otherhabitues were now arriving one after the other; and the drawing-room wasfast getting full. Nobody yet knew the full particulars of the eventsof the night, and all had come in haste, with wondering eyes and smilinglips, urged on by the rumours which were beginning to circulate throughthe town. These gentlemen who, on the previous evening, had left thedrawing-room with such precipitation at the news of the insurgents'approach, came back, inquisitive and importunate, like a swarm ofbuzzing flies which a puff of wind would have dispersed. Some ofthem had not even taken time to put on their braces. They were veryimpatient, but it was evident that Rougon was waiting for some one elsebefore speaking out. He constantly turned an anxious look towardsthe door. For an hour there was only significant hand-shaking, vaguecongratulation, 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 hisfrock-coat; his broad pale face was beaming; in vain he strove toconceal his emotion beneath an expression of dignity. All the othersbecame silent on perceiving him; they felt that something extraordinarywas about to take place. Granoux walked straight up to Rougon, throughtwo 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 arepassing we want men who, like yourself, unite intelligence with courage. Come--"

At this point Granoux, who was reciting a little speech which he hadtaken great trouble to prepare on his way from the Town Hall to theRue de la Banne felt his memory fail him. But Rougon, overwhelmed withemotion, broke in, shaking his hand and repeating: "Thank you, my dearGranoux; I thank you very much. "

He could find nothing else to say. However, a loud burst of voicesfollowed. Every one rushed upon him, tried to shake hands, poured forthpraises and compliments, and eagerly questioned him. But he, alreadyputting on official dignity, begged for a few minutes' delay in orderthat he might confer with Messieurs Granoux and Roudier. Business beforeeverything. The town was in such a critical situation! Then the threeaccomplices retired to a corner of the drawing-room, where, in anundertone, they divided power amongst themselves; the rest of thevisitors, who remained a few paces away, trying meanwhile to lookextremely wise and furtively glancing at them with mingled admirationand curiosity. It was decided that Rougon should take the title ofpresident of the Municipal Commission; Granoux was to be secretary;whilst, as for Roudier, he became commander-in-chief of the reorganisedNational Guard. They also swore to support each other against allopposition. 

However, Felicite, who had drawn near, abruptly inquired: "And Vuillet?"

At this they looked at each other. Nobody had seen Vuillet. Rougonseemed somewhat uneasy. 

"Perhaps they've taken him away with the others, " he said, to ease hismind. 

But Felicite shook her head. Vuillet was not the man to let himself bearrested. Since nobody had seen or heard him, it was certain he had beendoing something wrong. 

Suddenly the door opened and Vuillet entered, bowing humbly, withblinking glance and stiff sacristan's smile. Then he held out his moisthand to Rougon and the two others. 

Vuillet had settled his little affairs alone. He had cut his own sliceout of the cake, as Felicite would have said. While peeping throughthe ventilator of his cellar he had seen the insurgents arrestthe postmaster, whose offices were near his bookshop. At daybreak, therefore, at the moment when Rougon was comfortably seated in themayor's arm-chair, he had quietly installed himself in the postmaster'soffice. He knew the clerks; so he received them on their arrival, told them that he would replace their chief until his return, and thatmeantime they need be in nowise uneasy. Then he ransacked the morningmail with ill-concealed curiosity. He examined the letters, and seemedto be seeking a particular one. His new berth doubtless suited hissecret plans, for his satisfaction became so great that he actually gaveone of the clerks a copy of the "Oeuvres Badines de Piron. " Vuillet, itshould be mentioned, did business in objectionable literature, which hekept concealed in a large drawer, under the stock of heads andreligious images. It is probable that he felt some slight qualms atthe free-and-easy manner in which he had taken possession of the postoffice, and recognised the desirability of getting his usurpationconfirmed as far as possible. At all events, he had thought it well tocall 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 tohis own account he had saved the post-office from pillage. 

"All right then! That's settled! Stay on there!" said Pierre, after amoment's reflection. "Make yourself useful. "

This last sentence revealed the one great fear that possessed theRougons. They were afraid that some one might prove too useful, anddo more than themselves to save the town. Still, Pierre saw no seriousdanger in leaving Vuillet as provisional postmaster; it was even aconvenient means of getting rid of him. Felicite, however, made a sharpgesture of annoyance. 

The consultation having ended, the three accomplices mingled with thevarious groups that filled the drawing-room. They were at last obligedto satisfy the general curiosity by giving detailed accounts of recentevents. Rougon proved magnificent. He exaggerated, embellished, anddramatised the story which he had related to his wife. The distributionof the guns and cartridges made everybody hold their breath. But it wasthe march through the deserted streets and the seizure of the town-hallthat most amazed these worthy bourgeois. At each fresh detail there wasan 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 hisadmiration of his own achievements, became as nimble as a schoolboy; hebegan afresh, repeated himself, amidst the exclamations of surprise andindividual discussions which suddenly arose about some trifling detail. And thus he continued blowing his trumpet, making himself more andmore important as if some irresistible force impelled him to turn hisnarrative into a genuine epic. Moreover Granoux and Roudier stood byhis side prompting him, reminding him of such trifling matters as heomitted. They also were burning to put in a word, and occasionallythey could not restrain themselves, so that all three went on talkingtogether. When, in order to keep the episode of the broken mirror forthe denouement, like some crowning glory, Rougon began to describe whathad taken place downstairs in the courtyard, after the arrest of theguard, Roudier accused him of spoiling the narrative by changingthe sequence of events. For a moment they wrangled about it somewhatsharply. Then Roudier, seeing a good opportunity for himself, suddenlyexclaimed: "Very well, let it be so. But you weren't there. So let metell it. "

He thereupon explained at great length how the insurgents had awoke, andhow the muskets of the town's deliverers had been levelled at them toreduce them to impotence. He added, however, that no blood, fortunately, had been shed. This last sentence disappointed his audience, who hadcounted upon one corpse at least. 

"But I thought you fired, " interrupted Felicite, recognising that thestory was wretchedly deficient in dramatic interest. 

"Yes, yes, three shots, " resumed the old hosier. "The pork-butcherDubruel, Monsieur Lievin, and Monsieur Massicot discharged their gunswith really culpable alacrity. " And as there were some murmurs at thisremark; "Culpable, I repeat the word, " he continued. "There are quiteenough cruel necessities in warfare without any useless shedding ofblood. Besides, these gentlemen swore to me that it was not their fault;they can't understand how it was their guns went off. Nevertheless, aspent ball after ricocheting grazed the cheek of one of the insurgentsand 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 spentone, even, could strike a cheek without piercing it? These pointssupplied material for some long discussions. 

"Meantime, " continued Rougon at the top of his voice, without givingtime for the excitement to abate; "meantime we had plenty to doupstairs. The struggle was quite desperate. "

Then he described, at length, the arrival of his brother and the fourother insurgents, without naming Macquart, whom he simply called "theleader. " The words, "the mayor's office, " "the mayor's arm-chair, ""the mayor's writing table, " recurred to him every instant, and in theopinion of his audience imparted marvellous grandeur to the terriblescene. It was not at the porter's lodge that the fight was now beingwaged, 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 tothe 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'sarm-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 letit drop; a man always sticks to his gun. I held it, like this, under theleft arm. All of a sudden, it went off--"

The whole audience hung on Rougon's lips. But Granoux, who was openinghis 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, myfriend; you were fighting like a lion. But I saw everything, while I washelping to bind one of the prisoners. The man tried to murder you; itwas he who fired the gun; I saw him distinctly slip his black fingersunder your arm. "

"Really?" said Rougon, turning quite pale. 

He did not know he had been in such danger, and the old almondmerchant's account of the incident chilled him with fright. Granoux, asa rule, did not lie; but, on a day of battle, it is surely allowable toview 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 bulletwhiz past my ear!"

At this, violent emotion came upon the audience. Everybody gazed atthe 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 upthe emotion to boiling point. But Rougon immediately freed himself, and concluded his narrative with this heroic sentence, which has becomefamous at Plassans: "The shot goes off; I hear the bullet whiz past myear; 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 almostout-balanced Rougon's heroism, in the estimation of the company. Theglass became an object of absorbing interest, and they talked aboutit for a quarter of an hour, with many exclamations and expressions ofregret, as though it had been some dear friend that had been stricken tothe heart. This was the culminating point that Rougon had aimed at, thedenouement of his wonderful Odyssey. A loud hubbub of voices filledthe yellow drawing-room. The visitors were repeating what they had justheard, and every now and then one of them would leave a group to ask thethree heroes the exact truth with regard to some contested incident. Theheroes set the matter right with scrupulous minuteness, for they feltthat they were speaking for history!

At last Rougon and his two lieutenants announced that they were expectedat the town-hall. Respectful silence was then restored, and the companysmiled at each other discreetly. Granoux was swelling with importance. He was the only one who had seen the insurgent pull the trigger andsmash the mirror; this sufficed to exalt him, and almost made him bursthis skin. On leaving the drawing-room, he took Roudier's arm with theair of a great general who is broken down with fatigue. "I've been upfor thirty-six hours, " he murmured, "and heaven alone knows when I shallget to bed!"

Rougon, as he withdrew, took Vuillet aside and told him that the partyof order relied more than ever on him and the "Gazette. " He would haveto publish an effective article to reassure the inhabitants and treatthe 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 veryevening. "

When the leaders had left, the rest of the visitors remained in theyellow drawing-room for another moment, chattering like so manyold women, whom the escape of a canary has gathered together on thepavement. These retired tradesmen, oil dealers, and wholesale hatters, felt as if they were in a sort of fairyland. Never had they experiencedsuch thrilling excitement before. They could not get over their surpriseat discovering such heroes as Rougon, Granoux, and Roudier in theirmidst. At last, half stifled by the stuffy atmosphere, and tired of evertelling each other the same things, they decided to go off and spreadthe momentous news abroad. They glided away one by one, each anxiousto have the glory of being the first to know and relate everything, andFelicite, as she leaned out of the window, on being left alone, sawthem dispersing in the Rue de la Banne, waving their arms in an excitedmanner, eager as they were to diffuse emotion to the four corners of thetown. 

It was ten o'clock, and Plassans, now wide awake, was running about thestreets, wildly excited by the reports which were circulating. Those whohad seen or heard the insurrectionary forces, related the most foolishstories, contradicting each other, and indulging in the wildestsuppositions. The majority, however, knew nothing at all about thematter; they lived at the further end of the town, and listened withgaping mouths, like children to a nursery tale, to the stories of howseveral thousand bandits had invaded the streets during the night andvanished before daybreak like an army of phantoms. A few of the mostsceptical said: "Nonsense!" Yet some of the details were very precise;and Plassans at last felt convinced that some frightful danger hadpassed over it while it slept. The darkness which had shrouded thisdanger, the various contradictory reports that spread, all invested thematter with mystery and vague horror, which made the bravest shudder. Whose hand had diverted the thunderbolt from them? There seemed tobe something quite miraculous about it. There were rumours of unknowndeliverers, 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 wholestory appeared scarcely credible, until the company from the yellowdrawing-room spread through the streets, scattering tidings, everrepeating the same narrative at each door they came to. 

It was like a train of powder. In a few minutes the story had spreadfrom one end of the town to the other. Rougon's name flew from mouth tomouth, with exclamations of surprise in the new town, and of praise inthe old quarter. The idea of being without a sub-prefect, a mayor, apostmaster, a receiver of taxes, or authorities of any kind, at firstthrew the inhabitants into consternation. They were stupefied at havingbeen able to sleep through the night and get up as usual, in theabsence of any settled government. Their first stupor over, theythrew themselves recklessly into the arms of their liberators. The fewRepublicans shrugged their shoulders, but the petty shopkeepers, thesmall householders, the Conservatives of all shades, invoked blessingson those modest heroes whose achievements had been shrouded by thenight. When it was known that Rougon had arrested his own brother, thepopular admiration knew no bounds. People talked of Brutus, and thus theindiscretion which had made Pierre rather anxious, really redoundedto his glory. At this moment when terror still hovered over them, the townsfolk were virtually unanimous in their gratitude. Rougon wasaccepted as their saviour without the slightest show of opposition. 

"Just think of it!" the poltroons exclaimed, "there were only forty-oneof them!"

That number of forty-one amazed the whole town, and this was theorigin of the Plassans legend of how forty-one bourgeois had made threethousand insurgents bite the dust. There were only a few envious spiritsof the new town, lawyers without work and retired military men ashamedof having slept ingloriously through that memorable night, who raisedany doubts. The insurgents, these sceptics hinted, had no doubt leftthe town of their own accord. There were no indications of a combat, no corpses, no blood-stains. So the deliverers had certainly had a veryeasy task. 

"But the mirror, the mirror!" repeated the enthusiasts. "You can't denythat 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 doorof which Rougon left wide open. The visitors planted themselves in frontof the mirror, which the bullet had pierced and starred, and they allgave vent to the same exclamation: "By Jove; that ball must have hadterrible force!"

Then they departed quite convinced. 

Felicite, at her window, listened with delight to all the rumours andlaudatory and grateful remarks which arose from the town. At that momentall Plassans was talking of her husband. She felt that the two districtsbelow her were quivering, wafting her the hope of approaching triumph. Ah! how she would crush that town which she had been so long in gettingbeneath her feet! All her grievances crowded back to her memory, and herpast 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 outtheir hands to her husband and herself. He and she had conquered; thecitizens were at their feet. The yellow drawing-room seemed to her aholy place. The dilapidated furniture, the frayed velvet, the chandeliersoiled with fly-marks, all those poor wrecks now seemed to her likethe glorious bullet-riddled debris of a battle-field. The plain ofAusterlitz would not have stirred her to deeper emotion. 

When she returned to the window, she perceived Aristide wandering aboutthe place of the Sub-Prefecture, with his nose in the air. She beckonedto him to come up, which he immediately did. It seemed as if he had onlybeen waiting for this invitation. 

"Come in, " his mother said to him on the landing, seeing that hehesitated. "Your father is not here. "

Aristide evinced all the shyness of a prodigal son returning home. Hehad not been inside the yellow drawing-room for nearly four years. Hestill 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 gettingbetter; 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 aboutyour father's noble conduct?" she resumed. 

He replied that the whole town was talking of it. And then, as heregained his self-possession, he paid his mother back for her railleryin her own coin. Looking her full in the face he added: "I came to seeif father was wounded. "

"Come, don't play the fool!" cried Felicite, petulantly. "If I were youI would act boldly and decisively. Confess now that you made a falsemove in joining those good-for-nothing Republicans. You would be veryglad, I'm sure, to be well rid of them, and to return to us, who are thestronger party. Well, the house is open to you!"

But Aristide protested. The Republic was a grand idea. Moreover, theinsurgents might still carry the day. 

"Don't talk nonsense to me!" retorted the old woman, with someirritation. "You're afraid that your father won't have a very warmwelcome for you. But I'll see to that. Listen to me: go back to yournewspaper, and, between now and to-morrow, prepare a number stronglyfavouring the Coup d'Etat. To-morrow evening, when this number hasappeared, come back here and you will be received with open arms. "

Then seeing that the young man remained silent: "Do you hear?" sheadded, 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 anymore nonsense and folly. You've already compromised yourself enough inthat way. "

The young man made a gesture--the gesture of a Caesar crossing theRubicon--and by doing so escaped entering into any verbal engagement. Ashe 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 gettinga 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 hismother he exclaimed: "Till to-morrow then!"

In the meanwhile, Rougon was taking official possession of the mayor'soffices. There were only eight municipal councillors left; the otherswere in the hands of the insurgents, as well as the mayor and his twoassessors. The eight remaining gentlemen, who were all on a par withGranoux, perspired with fright when the latter explained to them thecritical situation of the town. It requires an intimate knowledge of thekind of men who compose the municipal councils of some of the smallertowns, in order to form an idea of the terror with which these timidfolk threw themselves into Rougon's arms. At Plassans, the mayor hadthe most incredible blockheads under him, men without any ideas of theirown, and accustomed to passive obedience. Consequently, as MonsieurGarconnet was no longer there, the municipal machine was bound to getout of order, and fall completely under the control of the man who mightknow how to set it working. Moreover, as the sub-prefect had left thedistrict, Rougon naturally became sole and absolute master of the town;and thus, strange to relate, the chief administrative authority fellinto the hands of a man of indifferent repute, to whom, on the previousevening, not one of his fellow-citizens would have lent a hundredfrancs. 

Pierre's first act was to declare the Provisional Commission "enpermanence. " Then he gave his attention to the organisation of thenational guard, and succeeded in raising three hundred men. Thehundred and nine muskets left in the cart-shed were also distributedto volunteers, thereby bringing up the number of men armed by thereactionary party to one hundred and fifty; the remaining one hundredand fifty guards consisted of well-affected citizens and some ofSicardot's soldiers. When Commander Roudier reviewed the little army infront of the town-hall, he was annoyed to see the market-people smilingin 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 thetown-hall and the rest of the forces were sent in detachments to thevarious town gates. Roudier reserved to himself the command of the guardstationed at the Grand'-Porte, which seemed to be more liable to attackthan the others. 

Rougon, who now felt very conscious of his power, repaired to the RueCanquoin to beg the gendarmes to remain in their barracks and interferewith nothing. He certainly had the doors of the gendarmerie opened--thekeys having been carried off by the insurgents--but he wanted to triumphalone, and had no intention of letting the gendarmes rob him of any partof his glory. If he should really have need of them he could alwayssend for them. So he explained to them that their presence might tend toirritate the working-men and thus aggravate the situation. The sergeantin command thereupon complimented him on his prudence. When Rougon wasinformed that there was a wounded man in the barracks, he asked to seehim, by way of rendering himself popular. He found Rengade in bed, withhis eye bandaged, and his big moustaches just peeping out from under thelinen. With some high-sounding words about duty, Rougon endeavoured tocomfort the unfortunate fellow who, having lost an eye, was swearingwith exasperation at the thought that his injury would compel him toquit the service. At last Rougon promised to send the doctor to him. 

"I'm much obliged to you, sir, " Rengade replied; "but, you know, whatwould do me more good than any quantity of doctor's stuff would be towring the neck of the villain who put my eye out. Oh! I shall know himagain; he's a little thin, palish fellow, quite young. "

Thereupon Pierre bethought himself of the blood he had seen on Silvere'shand. He stepped back a little, as though he was afraid that Rengadewould 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 hisdisreputable family, he solemnly declared that if the guilty person werefound 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 intaking various measures. The proclamation posted up about one o'clockproduced an excellent impression. It ended by an appeal to the goodsense of the citizens, and gave a firm assurance that order would notagain be disturbed. Until dusk, in fact, the streets presented a pictureof general relief and perfect confidence. On the pavements, the groupswho were reading the proclamation exclaimed:

"It's all finished now; we shall soon see the troops who have been sentin pursuit of the insurgents. "

This belief that some soldiers were approaching was so general that theidles of the Cours Sauvaire repaired to the Nice road, in order tomeet and hear the regimental band. But they returned at nightfalldisappointed, having seen nothing; and then a feeling of vague alarmbegan to disturb the townspeople. 

At the town-hall, the Provisional Commission had talked so much, withoutcoming to any decision, that the members, whose stomachs were quiteempty, began to feel alarmed again. Rougon dismissed them to dine, saying that they would meet afresh at nine o'clock in the evening. Hewas just about to leave the room himself, when Macquart awoke and beganto pommel the door of his prison. He declared he was hungry, then askedwhat 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 theywere very slow in coming to deliver him. Rougon, having orderedsome food to be taken to him, went downstairs, quite worried by theearnestness with which the rascal spoke of the return of the insurgents. 

When he reached the street, his disquietude increased. The town seemedto him quite altered. It was assuming a strange aspect; shadows weregliding along the footpaths, which were growing deserted and silent, while gloomy fear seemed, like fine rain, to be slowly, persistentlyfalling with the dusk over the mournful-looking houses. The babblingconfidence of the daytime was fatally terminating in groundless panic, in growing alarm as the night drew nearer; the inhabitants were so wearyand so satiated with their triumph that they had no strength left but todream of some terrible retaliation on the part of the insurgents. Rougonshuddered as he passed through this current of terror. He hastened hissteps, feeling as if he would choke. As he passed a cafe on the Placedes Recollets, where the lamps had just been lit, and where the pettycits of the new town were assembled, he heard a few words of terrifyingconversation. 

"Well! Monsieur Picou, " said one man in a thick voice, "you've heard thenews? The regiment that was expected has not arrived. "

"But nobody expected any regiment, Monsieur Touche, " a shrill voicereplied. 

"I beg your pardon. You haven't read the proclamation, then?"

"Oh yes, it's true the placards declare that order will be maintained byforce, if necessary. "

"You see, then, there's force mentioned; that means armed forces, ofcourse. "

"What do people say then?"

"Well, you know, folks are beginning to feel rather frightened; they saythat this delay on the part of the soldiers isn't natural, and that theinsurgents may well have slaughtered them. "

A cry of horror resounded through the cafe. Rougon was inclined to go inand tell those bourgeois that the proclamation had never announced thearrival of a regiment, that they had no right to strain its meaningto such a degree, nor to spread such foolish theories abroad. But hehimself, amidst the disquietude which was coming over him, was not quitesure 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, stillpetulant and full of courage, became quite angry at seeing him upset bysuch silly trifles. Over the dessert she comforted him. 

"Well, you great simpleton, " she said, "so much the better, if theprefect does forget us! We shall save the town by ourselves. For mypart, I should like to see the insurgents return, so that we mightreceive them with bullets and cover ourselves with glory. Listen tome, go and have the gates closed, and don't go to bed; bustle about allnight; it will all be taken into account later on. "

Pierre returned to the town-hall in rather more cheerful spirits. Herequired some courage to remain firm amidst the woeful maunderings ofhis colleagues. The members of the Provisional Commission seemed to reekwith panic, just as they might with damp in the rainy season. They allprofessed to have counted upon the despatch of a regiment, and began toexclaim that brave citizens ought not to be abandoned in such a mannerto the fury of the rabble. Pierre, to preserve peace, almost promisedthey should have a regiment on the morrow. Then he announced, in asolemn manner, that he was going to have the gates closed. This came asa relief. Detachments of the national guards had to repair immediatelyto each gate and double-lock it. When they had returned, several membersconfessed that they really felt more comfortable; and when Pierreremarked that the critical situation of the town imposed upon them theduty of remaining at their posts, some of them made arrangements withthe view of spending the night in an arm-chair. Granoux put on a blacksilk skull cap which he had brought with him by way of precaution. Towards eleven o'clock, half of the gentlemen were sleeping roundMonsieur Garconnet's writing table. Those who still managed to keeptheir eyes open fancied, as they listened to the measured tramp ofthe national guards in the courtyard, that they were heroes and werereceiving decorations. A large lamp, placed on the writing-table, illumined this strange vigil. All at once, however, Rougon, who hadseemed to be slumbering, jumped up, and sent for Vuillet. He had justremembered 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 articleyou 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 murderedto-morrow, should the insurgents come back. "

Rougon tried to smile as he declared that, thank heaven, nobody would bemurdered at all. It was precisely because false and disquieting rumourswere running about that the article in question would have renderedgreat service to the good cause. 

"Possibly, " Vuillet resumed; "but the best of causes at the presenttime is to keep one's head on one's shoulders. " And he added, withmaliciousness, "And I was under the impression you had killed all theinsurgents! 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 partof a man who was usually so meek and mild. Vuillet's conduct seemedto him suspicious. But he had no time to seek an explanation; he hadscarcely stretched himself out afresh in his arm-chair, when Roudierentered, with a big sabre, which he had attached to his belt, clatteringnoisily against his legs. The sleepers awoke in a fright. Granouxthought it was a call to arms. 

"Eh? what! What's the matter?" he asked, as he hastily put his blacksilk cap into his pocket. 

"Gentlemen, " said Roudier, breathlessly, without thinking of takingany oratorical precautions, "I believe that a band of insurgents isapproaching the town. "

These words were received with the silence of terror. Rougon alone hadthe strength to ask, "Have you seen them?"

"No, " the retired hosier replied; "but we hear strange noises out in thecountry; one of my men assured me that he had seen fires along the slopeof 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 hadbetter take precautions. "

Rougon would have followed him, to obtain further particulars, but hewas already too far away. After this the Commission was by no meansinclined to go to sleep again. Strange noises! Fires! An attack! Andin the middle of the night too! It was very easy to talk of takingprecautions, but what were they to do? Granoux was very near advisingthe course which had proved so successful the previous evening: thatis of hiding themselves, waiting till the insurgents has passed throughPlassans, and then triumphing in the deserted streets. Pierre, however, fortunately remembering his wife's advice, said that Roudier mighthave made a mistake, and that the best thing would be to go and see forthemselves. Some of the members made a wry face at this suggestion;but when it had been agreed that an armed escort should accompany theCommission, they all descended very courageously. They only left a fewmen downstairs; they surrounded themselves with about thirty of thenational guards, and then they ventured into the slumbering town, wherethe moon, creeping over the house roofs, slowly cast lengthened shadows. They went along the ramparts, from one gate to the other, seeing nothingand hearing nothing. The national guards at the various posts certainlytold them that peculiar sounds occasionally reached them from thecountry through the closed gates. When they strained their ears, however, they detected nothing but a distant murmur, which Granoux saidwas merely the noise of the Viorne. 

Nevertheless they remained doubtful. And they were about to return tothe town-hall in a state of alarm, though they made a show of shruggingtheir shoulders and of treating Roudier as a poltroon and a dreamer, when Rougon, anxious to reassure them, thought of enabling them toview the plain over a distance of several leagues. Thereupon he led thelittle company to the Saint-Marc quarter and knocked at the door of theValqueyras mansion. 

At the very outset of the disturbances Count de Valqueyras had left forhis chateau at Corbiere. There was no one but the Marquis de Carnavantat the Plassans house. He, since the previous evening, had prudentlykept aloof; not that he was afraid, but because he did not care to beseen plotting with the Rougons at the critical moment. As a matterof fact, he was burning with curiosity. He had been compelled to shuthimself up in order to resist the temptation of hastening to the yellowdrawing-room. When the footman came to tell him, in the middle of thenight, that there were some gentlemen below asking for him, he could nothold back any longer. He got up and went downstairs in all haste. 

"My dear Marquis, " said Rougon, as he introduced to him the membersof the Municipal Commission, "we want to ask a favour of you. Will youallow us to go into the garden of the mansion?"

"By all means, " replied the astonished marquis, "I will conduct youthere myself. "

On the way thither he ascertained what their object was. At the end ofthe garden rose a terrace which overlooked the plain. A large portion ofthe ramparts had there tumbled in, leaving a boundless prospect to theview. It had occurred to Rougon that this would serve as an excellentpost of observation. While conversing together the members of theCommission leaned over the parapet. The strange spectacle that spreadout before them soon made them silent. In the distance, in the valley ofthe Viorne, across the vast hollow which stretched westward between thechain of the Garrigues and the mountains of the Seille, the rays of themoon were streaming like a river of pale light. The clumps of trees, thegloomy rocks, looked, here and there, like islets and tongues of land, emerging from a luminous sea; and, according to the bends of the Viorneone could now and again distinguish detached portions of the river, glittering like armour amidst the fine silvery dust falling from thefirmament. It all looked like an ocean, a world, magnified by thedarkness, the cold, and their own secret fears. At first the gentlemencould neither hear nor see anything. The quiver of light and of distantsound blinded their eyes and confused their ears. Granoux, though hewas not naturally poetic, was struck by the calm serenity of that winternight, 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!" heobserved in his clear voice, "I hear the tocsin. "

At this they all leant over the parapet, holding their breath. And lightand pure as crystal the distant tolling of a bell rose from the plain. The gentlemen could not deny it. It was indeed the tocsin. Rougonpretended that he recognised the bell of Beage, a village fully a leaguefrom Plassans. This he said in order to reassure his colleagues. 

But the marquis interrupted him. "Listen, listen: this time it is thebell of Saint-Maur. " And he indicated another point of the horizon tothem. There was, in fact, a second bell wailing through the clear night. And very soon there were ten bells, twenty bells, whose despairingtollings were detected by their ears, which had by this time grownaccustomed to the quivering of the darkness. Ominous calls rose from allsides, like the faint rattles of dying men. Soon the whole plain seemedto be wailing. The gentlemen no longer jeered at Roudier; particularlyas the marquis, who took a malicious delight in terrifying them, waskind enough to explain the cause of all this bell-ringing. 

"It is the neighbouring villages, " he said to Rougon, "banding togetherto attack Plassans at daybreak. "

At this Granoux opened his eyes wide. "Didn't you see something justthis moment over there?" he asked all of a sudden. 

Nobody had looked; the gentlemen had been keeping their eyes closed inorder 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 ofthe first one, then a third, and a fourth. In this wise red splotchesappeared at nearly equal distances throughout the whole length of thevalley, resembling the lamps of some gigantic avenue. The moonlight, which dimmed their radiance, made them look like pools of blood. Thismelancholy illumination gave a finishing touch to the consternation ofthe Municipal Commission. 

"Of course!" the marquis muttered, with his bitterest sneer, "thosebrigands are signalling to each other. " And he counted the firescomplacently, to get some idea, he said, as to how many men "the bravenational guard of Plassans" would have to deal with. Rougon endeavouredto raise doubts by saying the villages were taking up arms in order tojoin the army of the insurgents, and not for the purpose of attackingthe town. But the gentlemen, by their silent consternation, madeit clear that they had formed their own opinion, and were not to beconsoled. 

"I can hear the 'Marseillaise' now, " remarked Granoux in a hushed voice. 

It was indeed true. A detachment must have been following the course ofthe Viorne, passing, at that moment, just under the town. The cry, "Toarms, citizens! Form your battalions!" reached the on-lookers in suddenbursts with vibrating distinctness. Ah! what an awful night it was! Thegentlemen spent it leaning over the parapet of the terrace, numbed bythe terrible cold, and yet quite unable to tear themselves away fromthe sight of that plain which resounded with the tocsin and the"Marseillaise, " and was all ablaze with signal-fires. They feasted theireyes upon that sea of light, flecked with blood-red flames; and theystrained their ears in order to listen to the confused clamour, till atlast their senses began to deceive them, and they saw and heard the mostfrightful things. Nothing in the world would have induced them to leavethe spot. If they had turned their backs, they would have fancied thata whole army was at their heels. After the manner of a certain classof cowards, they wished to witness the approach of the danger, in orderthat they might take flight at the right moment. Towards morning, whenthe moon had set and they could see nothing in front of them but adark void, they fell into a terrible fright. They fancied they weresurrounded by invisible enemies, who were crawling along in thedarkness, ready to fly at their throats. At the slightest noise theyimagined there were enemies deliberating beneath the terrace, prior toscaling it. Yet there was nothing, nothing but darkness upon which theyfixed their eyes distractedly. The marquis, as if to console them, saidin his ironical way: "Don't be uneasy! They will certainly wait tilldaybreak. "

Meanwhile Rougon cursed and swore. He felt himself again giving way tofear. As for Granoux, his hair turned completely white. At last the dawnappeared with weary slowness. This again was a terribly anxious moment. The gentlemen, at the first ray of light, expected to see an army drawnup in line before the town. It so happened that day that the dawn waslazy and lingered awhile on the edge of the horizon. With outstretchednecks and fixed gaze, the party on the terrace peered anxiously into themisty expanse. In the uncertain light they fancied they caught glimpsesof colossal profiles, the plain seemed to be transformed into a lake ofblood, the rocks looked like corpses floating on its surface, and theclusters of trees took the forms of battalions drawn up and threateningattack. When the growing light had at last dispersed these phantoms, the morning broke so pale, so mournful, so melancholy, that even themarquis's spirits sank. Not a single insurgent was to be seen, and thehigh roads were free; but the grey valley wore a gruesomely sad anddeserted aspect. The fires had now gone out, but the bells still rangon. Towards eight o'clock, Rougon observed a small party of men who weremoving off along the Viorne. 

By this time the gentlemen were half dead with cold and fatigue. Seeingno immediate danger, they determined to take a few hours' rest. Anational guard was left on the terrace as a sentinel, with orders torun and inform Roudier if he should perceive any band approaching in thedistance. Then Granoux and Rougon, quite worn out by the emotions of thenight, repaired to their homes, which were close together, and supportedeach other on the way. 

Felicite put her husband to bed with every care. She called him "poordear, " and repeatedly told him that he ought not to give way to evilfancies, and that all would end well. But he shook his head; he feltgrave apprehensions. She let him sleep till eleven o'clock. Then, afterhe had had something to eat, she gently turned him out of doors, makinghim understand that he must go through with the matter to the end. At the town-hall, Rougon found only four members of the Commission inattendance; the others had sent excuses, they were really ill. Panichad been sweeping through the town with growing violence all through themorning. The gentlemen had not been able to keep quiet respecting thememorable night they had spent on the terrace of the Valqueyras mansion. Their servants had hastened to spread the news, embellishing it withvarious dramatic details. By this time it had already become a matter ofhistory that from the heights of Plassans troops of cannibals had beenseen dancing and devouring their prisoners. Yes, bands of witches hadcircled hand in hand round their caldrons in which they were boilingchildren, while on and on marched endless files of bandits, whoseweapons glittered in the moonlight. People spoke too of bells that oftheir own accord, sent the tocsin ringing through the desolate air, and it was even asserted that the insurgents had fired the neighbouringforests, so that the whole country side was in flames. 

It was Tuesday, the market-day at Plassans, and Roudier had thought itnecessary to have the gates opened in order to admit the few peasantswho had brought vegetables, butter, and eggs. As soon as it hadassembled, 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 seennothing, the town ought to have been kept closed. Then Rougon decidedthat the public crier, accompanied by a drummer, should go through thestreets, proclaim a state of siege, and announce to the inhabitantsthat whoever might go out would not be allowed to return. The gates wereofficially closed in broad daylight. This measure, adopted in order toreassure the inhabitants, raised the scare to its highest pitch. Andthere could scarcely have been a more curious sight than that of thislittle city, thus padlocking and bolting itself up beneath the brightsunshine, in the middle of the nineteenth century. 

When Plassans had buckled and tightened its belt of dilapidatedramparts, when it had bolted itself in like a besieged fortress atthe approach of an assault, the most terrible anguish passed over themournful houses. At every moment, in the centre of the town, peoplefancied they could hear a discharge of musketry in the Faubourgs. Theyno longer received any news; they were, so to say, at the bottom ofa cellar, in a walled hole, where they were anxiously awaitingeither deliverance or the finishing stroke. For the last two daysthe insurgents, who were scouring the country, had cut off allcommunication. Plassans found itself isolated from the rest of France. It felt that it was surrounded by a region in open rebellion, where thetocsin was ever ringing and the "Marseillaise" was ever roaring likea river that has overflowed its banks. Abandoned to its fate andshuddering with alarm the town lay there like some prey which wouldprove the reward of the victorious party. The strollers on the CoursSauvaire were ever swaying between fear and hope according as theyfancied that they could see the blouses of insurgents or the uniformsof soldiers at the Grand'-Porte. Never had sub-prefecture, pent withintumble-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 Pariswas in the hands of the most advanced demagogues. It was reported alsothat Marseilles, Toulon, Draguignan, the entire South, belonged to thevictorious insurrectionary army. The insurgents would arrive in theevening and put Plassans to the sword. 

Thereupon a deputation repaired to the town-hall to expostulate withthe Municipal Commission for closing the gates, whereby they would onlyirritate the insurgents. Rougon, who was losing his head, defended hisorder with all his remaining strength. This locking of the gates seemedto him one of the most ingenious acts of his administration; he advancedthe most convincing arguments in its justification. But the othersembarrassed him by their questions, asking him where were the soldiers, the regiment that he had promised. Then he began to lie, and told themflatly that he had promised nothing at all. The non-appearance of thislegendary regiment, which the inhabitants longed for with such eagernessthat they had actually dreamt of its arrival, was the chief cause of thepanic. Well-informed people even named the exact spot on the high roadwhere the soldiers had been butchered. 

At four o'clock Rougon, followed by Granoux, again repaired to theValqueyras mansion. Small bands, on their way to join the insurgents atOrcheres, still passed along in the distance, through the valley of theViorne. Throughout the day urchins climbed the ramparts, and bourgeoiscame to peep through the loopholes. These volunteer sentinels kept upthe terror by counting the various bands, which were taken for so manystrong battalions. The timorous population fancied it could see from thebattlements the preparations for some universal massacre. At dusk, as onthe previous evening, the panic became yet more chilling. 

On returning to the municipal offices Rougon and his inseparablecompanion, Granoux, recognised that the situation was growingintolerable. During their absence another member of the Commission haddisappeared. They were only four now, and they felt they were makingthemselves ridiculous by staying there for hours, looking at eachother's pale countenances, and never saying a word. Moreover, they wereterribly afraid of having to spend a second night on the terrace of theValqueyras 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 carryingon of the administration. Poor Roudier, who remembered that he hadserved as a national guard in Paris under Louis-Philippe, was meantimeconscientiously keeping watch at the Grand'-Porte. 

Rougon went home looking very downcast, and creeping along under theshadows of the houses. He felt that Plassans was becoming hostileto him. He heard his name bandied about amongst the groups, withexpressions of anger and contempt. He walked upstairs, reeling andperspiring. Felicite received him with speechless consternation. She, also, was beginning to despair. Their dreams were being completelyshattered. They stood silent, face to face, in the yellow drawing-room. The day was drawing to a close, a murky winter day which imparted amuddy tint to the orange-coloured wall-paper with its large flowerpattern; never had the room looked more faded, more mean, more shabby. And at this hour they were alone; they no longer had a crowd ofcourtiers congratulating them, as on the previous evening. A singleday had sufficed to topple them over, at the very moment when they weresinging victory. If the situation did not change on the morrow theirgame would be lost. 

Felicite who, when gazing on the previous evening at the ruins ofthe yellow drawing-room, had thought of the plains of Austerlitz, nowrecalled the accursed field of Waterloo as she observed how mournfuland deserted the place was. Then, as her husband said nothing, shemechanically went to the window--that window where she had inhaled withdelight the incense of the entire town. She perceived numerous groupsbelow on the square, but she closed the blinds upon seeing some headsturn towards their house, for she feared that she might be hooted. Shefelt quite sure that those people were speaking about them. 

Indeed, voices rose through the twilight. A lawyer was clamouring in thetone of a triumphant pleader. "That's just what I said; the insurgentsleft of their own accord, and they won't ask the permission of theforty-one to come back. The forty-one indeed! a fine farce! Why, Ibelieve 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 weshould have seen some blood in the morning. I went to the town-hallmyself to look; the courtyard was as clean as my hand. "

Then a workman, who stepped timidly up to the group, added: "There wasno need of any violence to seize the building; the door wasn't evenshut. "

This remark was received with laughter, and the workman, thusencouraged, continued: "As for those Rougons, everybody knows that theyare a bad lot. "

This insult pierced Felicite to the heart. The ingratitude of thepeople was heartrending to her, for she herself was at last beginning tobelieve in the mission of the Rougons. She called for her husband. Shewanted him to learn how fickle was the multitude. 

"It's all a piece with their mirror, " continued the lawyer. "What a fussthey made about that broken glass! You know that Rougon is quite capableof having fired his gun at it just to make believe there had been abattle. "

Pierre restrained a cry of pain. What! they did not even believe in hismirror now! They would soon assert that he had not heard a bullet whizpast his ear. The legend of the Rougons would be blotted out; nothingwould remain of their glory. But his torture was not at an end yet. The groups manifested their hostility as heartily as they had displayedtheir approval on the previous evening. A retired hatter, an old manseventy years of age, whose factory had formerly been in the Faubourg, ferreted out the Rougons' past history. He spoke vaguely, with thehesitation of a wandering memory, about the Fouques' property, andAdelaide, and her amours with a smuggler. He said just enough to givea fresh start to the gossip. The tattlers drew closer together and suchwords as "rogues, " "thieves, " and "shameless intriguers, " ascended tothe shutter behind which Pierre and Felicite were perspiring with fearand indignation. The people on the square even went so far as to pityMacquart. This was the final blow. On the previous day Rougon had been aBrutus, a stoic soul sacrificing his own affections to his country; nowhe was nothing but an ambitious villain, who felled his brother to theground and made use of him as a stepping-stone to fortune. 

"You hear, you hear them?" Pierre murmured in a stifled voice. "Ah! thescoundrels, they are killing us; we shall never retrieve ourselves. "

Felicite, enraged, was beating a tattoo on the shutter with herimpatient fingers. 

"Let them talk, " she answered. "If we get the upper hand again theyshall see what stuff I'm made of. I know where the blow comes from. Thenew town hates us. "

She guessed rightly. The sudden unpopularity of the Rougons was thework of a group of lawyers who were very much annoyed at the importanceacquired by an old illiterate oil-dealer, whose house had been on theverge of bankruptcy. The Saint-Marc quarter had shown no sign of lifefor the last two days. The inhabitants of the old quarter and the newtown alone remained in presence, and the latter had taken advantageof the panic to injure the yellow drawing-room in the minds of thetradespeople and working-classes. Roudier and Granoux were said tobe excellent men, honourable citizens, who had been led away by theRougons' intrigues. Their eyes ought to be opened to it. Ought notMonsieur Isidore Granoux to be seated in the mayor's arm-chair, in theplace of that big portly beggar who had not a copper to bless himselfwith? Thus launched, the envious folks began to reproach Rougon forall the acts of his administration, which only dated from the previousevening. He had no right to retain the services of the former MunicipalCouncil; he had been guilty of grave folly in ordering the gates to beclosed; it was through his stupidity that five members of the Commissionhad contracted inflammation of the lungs on the terrace of theValqueyras mansion. There was no end to his faults. The Republicanslikewise raised their heads. They talked of the possibility of a suddenattack upon the town-hall by the workmen of the Faubourg. The reactionwas at its last gasp. 

Pierre, at this overthrow of all his hopes, began to wonder what supporthe might still rely on if occasion should require any. 

"Wasn't Aristide to come here this evening, " he asked, "to make it upwith 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 justcoming out of the Sub-Prefecture?"

The old woman glanced in that direction. "He's got his arm in a slingagain!" 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. Hecrossed the square stealthily, without raising his head. Then doubtlesshearing some dangerous and compromising remarks among the groups ofbystanders, 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 hearanything more. When she had lit the lamp, she and her husband sat downto dinner, disheartened and without appetite, leaving most of their foodon their plates. They only had a few hours left them to take a decisivestep. It was absolutely indispensable that before daybreak Plassansshould be at their feet beseeching forgiveness, or else they mustentirely renounce the fortune which they had dreamed of. The totalabsence of any reliable news was the sole cause of their anxiousindecision. Felicite, with her clear intellect, had quickly perceivedthis. 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 ofdeliverers, or else have done what they could to efface all recollectionof their unlucky campaign. But they had no precise information; theywere losing their heads; the thought that they were thus risking theirfortune on a throw, in complete ignorance of what was happening, broughta 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 secretof his correspondence to his wife. 

But Felicite pretended not to have heard. Her husband's exclamationhad profoundly affected her. Why, indeed, did not Eugene write to hisfather? After keeping him so accurately informed of the progress of theBonapartist cause, he ought at least to have announced the triumph ordefeat of Prince Louis. Mere prudence would have counselled thedespatch of such information. If he remained silent, it must be that thevictorious Republic had sent him to join the pretender in the dungeonsof Vincennes. At this thought Felicite felt chilled to the marrow; herson's silence destroyed her last hopes. 

At that moment somebody brought up the "Gazette, " which had only justappeared. 

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

Thereupon he tore off the wrapper, read the leading article, andfinished 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 ofviolence. Never had so much stinging bitterness, so many falsehoods, such bigoted abuse flowed from pen before. Vuillet commenced bynarrating the entry of the insurgents into Plassans. The descriptionwas a perfect masterpiece. He spoke of "those bandits, thosevillainous-looking countenances, that scum of the galleys, " invading thetown, "intoxicated with brandy, lust, and pillage. " Then he exhibitedthem "parading their cynicism in the streets, terrifying the inhabitantswith their savage cries and seeking only violence and murder. " Furtheron, the scene at the town-hall and the arrest of the authorities becamea most horrible drama. "Then they seized the most respectable people bythe throat; and the mayor, the brave commander of the nationalguard, the postmaster, that kindly functionary, were--even like theDivinity--crowned with thorns by those wretches, who spat in theirfaces. " The passage devoted to Miette and her red pelisse was quite aflight of imagination. Vuillet had seen ten, twenty girls steeped inblood: "and who, " he wrote, "did not behold among those monsters someinfamous creatures clothed in red, who must have bathed themselves inthe blood of the martyrs murdered by the brigands along the high roads?They were brandishing banners, and openly receiving the vile caresses ofthe entire horde. " And Vuillet added, with Biblical magniloquence, "TheRepublic ever marches on amidst debauchery and murder. "

That, however, was only the first part of the article; the narrativebeing ended, the editor asked if the country would any longer tolerate"the shamelessness of those wild beasts, who respected neither propertynor persons. " He made an appeal to all valorous citizens, declaring thatto tolerate such things any longer would be to encourage them, andthat the insurgents would then come and snatch "the daughter from hermother's arms, the wife from her husband's embraces. " And at last, after a pious sentence in which he declared that Heaven willed theextermination of the wicked, he concluded with this trumpet blast: "Itis asserted that these wretches are once more at our gates; well thenlet each one of us take a gun and shoot them down like dogs. I for mypart shall be seen in the front rank, happy to rid the earth of suchvermin. "

This article, in which periphrastic abuse was strung together with allthe 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; peoplewill believe that I inspired this diatribe. "

"But, " his wife remarked, pensively, "did you not this morning tell methat he absolutely refused to write against the Republicans? The newsthat circulated had terrified him, and he was as pale as death, yousaid. "

"Yes! yes! I can't understand it at all. When I insisted, he went sofar as to reproach me for not having killed all the insurgents. It wasyesterday that he ought to have written that article; to-day he'll getus all butchered!"

Felicite was lost in amazement. What could have prompted Vuillet'schange of front? The idea of that wretched semi-sacristan carrying amusket and firing on the ramparts of Plassans seemed to her one of themost ridiculous things imaginable. There was certainly some determiningcause underlying all this which escaped her. Only one thing seemedcertain. Vuillet was too impudent in his abuse and too ready with hisvalour, for the insurrectionary band to be really so near the town assome people asserted. 

"He's a spiteful fellow, I always said so, " Rougon resumed, afterreading the article again. "He has only been waiting for an opportunityto do us this injury. What a fool I was to leave him in charge of thepost-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 ashawl over her shoulders. 

"Where are you going, pray?" her husband asked her with surprise. "It'spast nine o'clock. "

"You go to bed, " she replied rather brusquely, "you're not well; go andrest 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, andabruptly entered the room where Vuillet was still at work. On seeing herhe made a hasty gesture of vexation. 

Never in his life had Vuillet felt so happy. Since he had been ableto slip his little fingers into the mail-bag he had enjoyed the mostexquisite pleasure, the pleasure of an inquisitive priest about torelish the confessions of his penitents. All the sly blabbing, all thevague chatter of sacristies resounded in his ears. He poked his long, pale nose into the letters, gazed amorously at the superscriptions withhis suspicious eyes, sounded the envelopes just like little abbes soundthe souls of maidens. He experienced endless enjoyment, was titillatedby the most enticing temptation. The thousand secrets of Plassans laythere. 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 thecathedral who was the confidant of all the better people of the town. Vuillet was one of those terribly bitter, frigid gossips, who worm outeverything, but never repeat what they hear, except by way of dealingsomebody a mortal blow. He had, consequently, often longed to dip hisarms into the public letter-box. Since the previous evening the privateroom at the post-office had become a big confessional full of darknessand mystery, in which he tasted exquisite rapture while sniffing at theletters which exhaled veiled longings and quivering avowals. Moreover, he carried on his work with consummate impudence. The crisis throughwhich the country was passing secured him perfect impunity. If someletters should be delayed, or others should miscarry altogether, itwould be the fault of those villainous Republicans who were scouringthe country and interrupting all communication. The closing of the towngates had for a moment vexed him, but he had come to an understandingwith Roudier, whereby the couriers were allowed to enter and bring themails direct to him without passing by the town-hall. 

As a matter of fact he had only opened a few letters, the importantones, those in which his keen scent divined some information which itwould be useful for him to know before anybody else. Then he contentedhimself by locking up in a drawer, for delivery subsequently, suchletters as might give information and rob him of the merit of hisvalour at a time when the whole town was trembling with fear. This piouspersonage, in selecting the management of the post-office as his ownshare of the spoils, had given proof of singular insight into thesituation. 

When Madame Rougon entered, he was taking his choice of a heap ofletters and papers, under the pretext, no doubt, of classifying them. He rose, with his humble smile, and offered her a seat; his reddenedeyelids blinking rather uneasily. But Felicite did not sit down; sheroughly exclaimed: "I want the letter. "

At this Vuillet's eyes opened widely, with an expression of perfectinnocence. 

"What letter, madame?" he asked. 

"The letter you received this morning for my husband. Come, MonsieurVuillet, 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 threateningvoice: "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 variouspackets which littered the writing table. But he at once bestirredhimself, and said he would go and see. The service was necessarily ingreat confusion! Perhaps, indeed, there might be a letter. In that casethey would find it. But, as far as he was concerned, he swore he had notseen any. While he was speaking he moved about the office turning overall the papers. Then he opened the drawers and the portfolios. Felicitewaited, 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, apparentlyquite regardless of the fact that such scrutiny might wound Vuillet'ssusceptibilities. She clearly perceived that the envelope must have beenopened; the bookseller, in his unskilful way, had used some sealingwax of a darker colour to secure it again. She took care to open theenvelope in such a manner as to preserve the seal intact, so that itmight serve as proof of this. Then she read the note. Eugene brieflyannounced the complete success of the Coup d'Etat. Paris was subdued, the provinces generally speaking remained quiet, and he counselledhis parents to maintain a very firm attitude in face of the partialinsurrection which was disturbing the South. In conclusion he told themthat the foundation of their fortune was laid, if they did not weaken. 

Madame Rougon put the letter in her pocket, and sat down slowly, lookinginto Vuillet's face. The latter had resumed his sorting in a feverishmanner, as though he were very busy. 

"Listen to me, Monsieur Vuillet, " she said to him. And when he raisedhis head: "let us play our cards openly; you do wrong to betray us; somemisfortune may befall you. If, instead of unsealing our letters--"

At this he protested, and feigned great indignation. But she calmlycontinued: "I know, I know your school, you never confess. Come, don'tlet us waste any more words, what interest have you in favouring theCoup d'Etat?"

And, as he continued to assert his perfect honesty, she at last lostpatience. "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 wishedto have the custom of the college. Formerly it was he who had suppliedthat establishment with school books. But it had become known that hesold objectionable literature clandestinely to the pupils; for whichreason, indeed, he had almost been prosecuted at the Correctional PoliceCourt. Since then he had jealously longed to be received back into thegood 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 fewdictionaries and grammars!

"Eh!" he exclaimed in a shrill voice, "it's an assured sale of four orfive thousand francs a year. I don't aspire to impossibilities like somepeople. "

She did not take any notice of his last taunting words. No more was saidabout his opening the letters. A treaty of alliance was concluded, bywhich Vuillet engaged that he would not circulate any news or take anystep in advance, on condition that the Rougons should secure him thecustom of the college. As she was leaving, Felicite advised him not tocompromise himself any further. It would be sufficient for him to detainthe letters and distribute them only on the second day. 

"What a knave, " she muttered, when she reached the street, forgettingthat she herself had just laid an interdict upon the mail. 

She went home slowly, wrapped in thought. She even went out of herway, passing along the Cours Sauvaire, as if to gain time and ease forreflection before going in. Under the trees of the promenade she metMonsieur de Carnavant, who was taking advantage of the darkness toferret about the town without compromising himself. The clergy ofPlassans, to whom all energetic action was distasteful, had, since theannouncement of the Coup d'Etat, preserved absolute neutrality. In thepriests' opinion the Empire was virtually established, and they awaitedan opportunity to resume in some new direction their secular intrigues. The marquis, who had now become a useless agent, remained onlyinquisitive on one point--he wished to know how the turmoil wouldfinish, 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 recognizedFelicite. "I wanted to see you; your affairs are getting muddled!"

"Oh, no; everything is going on all right, " she replied, in anabsent-minded way. 

"So much the better. You'll tell me all about it, won't you? Ah! I mustconfess that I gave your husband and his colleagues a terrible frightthe other night. You should have seen how comical they looked on theterrace, while I was pointing out a band of insurgents in every clusterof trees in the valley! You forgive me?"

"I'm much obliged to you, " said Felicite quickly. "You should have madethem die of fright. My husband is a big sly-boots. Come and see me somemorning, when I am alone. "

Then she turned away, as though this meeting with the marquis haddetermined her. From head to foot the whole of her little personbetokened implacable resolution. At last she was going to revengeherself on Pierre for his petty mysteries, have him under her heel, andsecure, once for all, her omnipotence at home. There would be a finescene, quite a comedy, indeed, the points of which she was alreadyenjoying in anticipation, while she worked out her plan with all thespitefulness of an injured woman. 

She found Pierre in bed, sleeping heavily; she brought the candle nearhim for an instant, and gazed with an air of compassion, at his bigface, across which slight twitches occasionally passed; then she satdown 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 mutedespair. "Where have you been? Have you seen the insurgents?"

She shook her head; then, in a faint voice, she said: "I've just comefrom the Valqueyras mansion. I wanted to ask Monsieur de Carnavant'sadvice. Ah! my dear, all is lost. "

Pierre sat up in bed, very pale. His bull neck, which his unbuttonednight-shirt exposed to view, all his soft, flabby flesh seemed to swellwith terror. At last he sank back, pale and tearful, looking like somegrotesque Chinese figure in the middle of the untidy bed. 

"The marquis, " continued Felicite, "thinks that Prince Louis hassuccumbed. We are ruined; we shall never get a sou. "

Thereupon, as often happens with cowards, Pierre flew into a passion. Itwas the marquis's fault, it was his wife's fault, the fault of allhis family. Had he ever thought of politics at all, until Monsieur deCarnavant and Felicite had driven him to that tomfoolery?

"I wash my hands of it altogether, " he cried. "It's you two who areresponsible for the blunder. Wasn't it better to go on living onour little savings in peace and quietness? But then, you were alwaysdetermined 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 himselfas eager as his wife. However, his only desire now was to vent hisanger, by laying the blame of his ruin upon others. 

"And, moreover, " he continued, "could we ever have succeeded withchildren like ours? Eugene abandons us just at the critical moment;Aristide has dragged us through the mire, and even that big simpletonPascal is compromising us by his philanthropic practising among theinsurgents. And to think that we brought ourselves to poverty simply togive them a university education!"

Then, as he drew breath, Felicite said to him softly: "You areforgetting 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! Butthat's not all; you know little Silvere. Well, I saw him at my mother'sthe other evening with his hands covered with blood. He has put somegendarme's eye out. I did not tell you of it, as I didn't want tofrighten 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 thatI felt inclined to break his head for him the other day when I had a gunin my hand. Yes, I had a mind to do it. "

Felicite let the storm pass over. She had received her husband'sreproaches with angelic sweetness, bowing her head like a culprit, whereby she was able to smile in her sleeve. Her demeanour provoked andmaddened 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 earsin debt. "

"It's your fault!" Pierre cried, with all his remaining strength. 

The Rougons, in fact, owed money on every side. The hope of approachingsuccess had made them forget all prudence. Since the beginning of 1851they had gone so far as to entertain the frequenters of the yellowdrawing-room every evening with syrup and punch, and cakes--providing, in fact, complete collations, at which they one and all drank to thedeath of the Republic. Besides this, Pierre had placed a quarter ofhis capital at the disposal of the reactionary party, as a contributiontowards the purchase of guns and cartridges. 

"The pastry-cook's bill amounts to at least a thousand francs, " Feliciteresumed, in her sweetest tone, "and we probably owe twice as much tothe liqueur-dealer. Then there's the butcher, the baker, thegreengrocer----"

Pierre was in agony. And Felicite struck him a final blow by adding: "Isay nothing of the ten thousand francs you gave for the guns. "

"I, I!" he faltered, "but I was deceived, I was robbed! It was thatidiot Sicardot who let me in for that by swearing that the Napoleonistswould be triumphant. I thought I was only making an advance. But the olddolt will have to repay me my money. "

"Ah! you won't get anything back, " said his wife, shrugging hershoulders. "We shall suffer the fate of war. When we have paid offeverything, we sha'n't even have enough to buy dry bread with. Ah! it'sbeen a fine campaign. We can now go and live in some hovel in the oldquarter. "

This last phrase had a most lugubrious sound. It seemed like the knellof their existence. Pierre pictured the hovel in the old quarter, whichhad just been mentioned by Felicite. 'Twas there, then, that he woulddie on a pallet, after striving all his life for the enjoyment of easeand luxury. In vain had he robbed his mother, steeped his hands in thefoulest intrigues, and lied and lied for many a long year. The Empirewould not pay his debts--that Empire which alone could save him. Hejumped out of bed in his night-shirt, crying: "No; I'll take my gun; Iwould rather let the insurgents kill me. "

"Well!" Felicite rejoined, with great composure, "you can have that doneto-morrow or the day after; the Republicans are not far off. And thatway will do as well as another to make an end of matters. "

Pierre shuddered. It seemed as if some one had suddenly poured a largepail of cold water over his shoulders. He slowly got into bed again, andwhen he was warmly wrapped up in the sheets, he began to cry. Thisfat fellow easily burst into tears--gently flowing, inexhaustibletears--which streamed from his eyes without an effort. A terriblereaction was now going on within him. After his wrath he became asweak as a child. Felicite, who had been waiting for this crisis, wasdelighted to see him so spiritless, so resourceless, and so humbledbefore her. She still preserved silence, and an appearance of distressedhumility. After a long pause, her seeming resignation, her mutedejection, irritated Pierre's nerves. 

"But do say something!" he implored; "let us think matters overtogether. Is there really no hope left us?"

"None, you know very well, " she replied; "you explained the situationyourself just now; we have no help to expect from anyone; even ourchildren 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 tothe utmost in seeking for some solution; at last, as though he feltvanquished, he murmured, in supplicating tones: "I beseech you, do tryto think of something; you haven't said anything yet. "

Felicite raised her head, feigning surprise; and with a gesture ofcomplete powerlessness she said: "I am a fool in these matters. I don'tunderstand anything about politics, you've told me so a hundred times. "

And then, as her embarrassed husband held his tongue and lowered hiseyes, she continued slowly, but not reproachfully: "You have not kept meinformed of your affairs, have you? I know nothing at all about them, Ican't even give you any advice. It was quite right of you, though; womenchatter sometimes, and it is a thousand times better for the men tosteer the ship alone. "

She said this with such refined irony that her husband did not detectthat she was deriding him. He simply felt profound remorse. And, all ofa 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 whois relieving his conscience and imploring a saviour. At every momenthe broke off to ask: "What would you have done in my place?" or elsehe cried, "Isn't that so? I was right, I could not act otherwise. " ButFelicite did not even deign to make a sign. She listened with all thefrigid reserve of a judge. In reality she was tasting the most exquisitepleasure; she had got that sly-boots fast at last; she played with himlike a cat playing with a ball of paper; and he virtually held out hishands to be manacled by her. 

"But wait, " he said hastily, jumping out of bed. "I'll give you Eugene'scorrespondence to read. You can judge the situation better then. "

She vainly tried to hold him back by his night-shirt. He spread out theletters on the table by the bed-side, and then got into bed again, andread 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 knoweverything. 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, ifyou had enough courage----" And as he looked at her eagerly, she brokeoff and said, with a smile: "But you promise not to distrust me anymore? You will tell me everything, eh? You will do nothing withoutconsulting me?"

He swore, and accepted the most rigid conditions. Felicite then got intobed; and in a whisper, as if she feared somebody might hear them, sheexplained at length her plan of campaign. In her opinion the townmust be allowed to fall into still greater panic, while Pierre was tomaintain an heroic demeanour in the midst of the terrified inhabitants. A secret presentiment, she said, warned her that the insurgents werestill at a distance. Moreover, the party of order would sooner or latercarry the day, and the Rougons would be rewarded. After the role ofdeliverer, that of martyr was not to be despised. And she argued sowell, and spoke with so much conviction, that her husband, surprised atfirst by the simplicity of her plan, which consisted in facing it out, at last detected in it a marvellous tactical scheme, and promised toconform to it with the greatest possible courage. 

"And don't forget that it is I who am saving you, " the old womanmurmured 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 atthe round reflection of the night-lamp on the ceiling, turned, and in afaint whisper told his wife of an idea that had just occurred to him. 

"Oh! no, no, " Felicite murmured, with a shudder. "That would be toocruel. "

"Well, " he resumed, "but you want to spread consternation among theinhabitants! They would take me seriously, if what I told you shouldoccur. " 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 tohesitate, and then, in a distressful tone faltered: "Perhaps you areright. We must see. After all we should be very stupid if we wereover-scrupulous, for it's a matter of life and death to us. Let me doit. I'll see Macquart to-morrow, and ascertain if we can come toan 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 theceiling now seemed to be assuming the shape of a terrified eye, thatstared wildly and fixedly upon the pale, slumbering couple who reekedwith crime beneath their very sheets, and dreamt they could see a rainof blood falling in big drops which turned into golden coins as theyplashed 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 acloth. There were only a few men fast asleep in the guard-house. Thedoorkeeper, who was entrusted with the duty of supplying Macquart withfood, 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. Hehad had time to indulge in lengthy reflections. After his sleep, hisfirst hours had been given up to outbursts of impotent rage. Goaded bythe idea that his brother was lording it in the adjoining room, he hadfelt a great longing to break the door open. At all events he wouldstrangle Rougon with his own hands, as soon as the insurgents shouldreturn and release him. But, in the evening, at twilight, he calmeddown, and gave over striding furiously round the little room. He inhaleda sweet odour there; a feeling of comfort relaxed his nerves. MonsieurGarconnet, who was very rich, refined, and vain, had caused this littleroom to be arranged in a very elegant fashion; the sofa was soft andwarm; scents, pomades, and soaps adorned the marble washstand, and thepale light fell from the ceiling with a soft glow, like the gleams ofa lamp suspended in an alcove. Macquart, amidst this perfumed soporificatmosphere fell asleep, thinking that those scoundrels, the rich, "werevery fortunate, all the same. " He had covered himself with a blanketwhich had been given to him, and with his head and back and armsreposing on the cushions, he stretched himself out on the couch untilmorning. When he opened his eyes, a ray of sunshine was gliding throughthe opening above. Still he did not leave the sofa. He felt warm, andlay thinking as he gazed around him. He bethought himself that he wouldnever again have such a place to wash in. The washstand particularlyinterested him. It was by no means hard, he thought, to keep oneselfspruce 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 ideaoccurred to him that perhaps he had been on the wrong track. Thereis nothing to be gained by associating with beggars. He ought to haveplayed the scamp; he should have acted in concert with the Rougons. 

Then, however, he rejected this idea. The Rougons were villains who hadrobbed him. But the warmth and softness of the sofa, continued to workupon his feelings, and fill him with vague regrets. After all, theinsurgents were abandoning him, and allowing themselves to be beatenlike idiots. Eventually he came to the conclusion that the Republic wasmere dupery. Those Rougons were lucky! And he recalled his own bootlesswickedness and underhand intrigues. Not one member of the family hadever been on his side; neither Aristide, nor Silvere's brother, norSilvere himself, who was a fool to grow so enthusiastic about theRepublic and would never do any good for himself. Then Macquartreflected that his wife was dead, that his children had left him, andthat he would die alone, like a dog in some wretched corner, without acopper to bless himself with. Decidedly, he ought to have sold himselfto the reactionary party. Pondering in this fashion, he eyed thewashstand, feeling a strong inclination to go and wash his hands with acertain powder soap which he saw in a glass jar. Like all lazy fellowswho live upon their wives or children, he had foppish tastes. Althoughhe wore patched trousers, he liked to inundate himself with aromaticoil. He spent hours with his barber, who talked politics, and brushedhis hair for him between their discussions. So, at last, the temptationbecame too strong, and Macquart installed himself before the washstand. He washed his hands and face, dressed his hair, perfumed himself, infact went through a complete toilet. He made use in turn of all thebottles, all the various soaps and powders; but his greatest pleasurewas to dry his hands with the mayor's towels, which were so soft andthick. He buried his wet face in them, and inhaled, with delight, allthe odour of wealth. Then, having pomaded himself, and smelling sweetlyfrom head to foot, he once more stretched himself on the sofa, feelingquite youthful again, and disposed to the most conciliatory thoughts. Hefelt yet greater contempt for the Republic since he had dipped his noseinto Monsieur Garconnet's phials. The idea occurred to him that therewas, perhaps, still time for him to make peace with his brother. Hewondered what he might well ask in return for playing the traitor. Hisrancour against the Rougons still gnawed at his heart; but he was in oneof those moods when, lying on one's back in silence, one is apt to admitstern facts, and scold oneself for neglecting to feather a comfortablenest in which one may wallow in slothful ease, even at the cost ofrelinquishing one's most cherished animosities. Towards evening Antoinedetermined to send for his brother on the following day. But when, inthe morning, he saw Felicite enter the room he understood that his aidwas wanted, so he remained on his guard. 

The negotiations were long and full of pitfalls, being conducted oneither side with infinite skill. At first they both indulged in vaguecomplaints, then Felicite, who was surprised to find Macquart almostpolite, after the violent manner in which he had behaved at her house onthe Sunday evening, assumed a tone of gentle reproach. She deploredthe hatred which severed their families. But, in truth, he had socalumniated his brother, and manifested such bitter animosity towardshim, 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 meany assistance? He would have let me die in my hovel! When he behaveddifferently towards me--you remember, at the time he gave me two hundredfrancs--I am sure no one can reproach me with having said a singleunpleasant word about him. I said everywhere that he was a verygood-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 havebought me. "

Felicite understood this so well that she replied: "I know you haveaccused us of being hard upon you, because you imagine we are incomfortable circumstances; but you are mistaken, my dear brother; we arepoor people; we have never been able to act towards you as our heartswould have desired. " She hesitated a moment, and then continued: "If itwere absolutely necessary in some serious contingency, we might perhapsbe able to make a sacrifice; but, truly, we are very poor, very poor!"

Macquart pricked up his ears. "I have them!" he thought. Then, withoutappearing to understand his sister-in-law's indirect offer, he detailedthe wretchedness of his life in a doleful manner, and spoke of hiswife's death and his children's flight. Felicite, on her side, referredto the crisis through which the country was passing, and declared thatthe Republic had completely ruined them. Then from word to word shebegan to bemoan the exigencies of a situation which compelled onebrother to imprison another. How their hearts would bleed if justicerefused 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 thefamily with my own blood. I tell you all this to show you that we shallnot abandon you. I have come to give you the means of effecting yourescape, 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 determinedvoice: "And even, before crossing the frontier, if you want to earn athousand-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 yourunderhand dealings. "

"But there are no underhand dealings about it, " Felicite resumed, smiling at the old rascal's scruples. "Nothing can be more simple: youwill presently leave this room, and go and conceal yourself in yourmother's house, and this evening you can assemble your friends and comeand seize the town-hall again. "

Macquart did not conceal his extreme surprise. He did not understand itat all. 

"I thought, " he said, "that you were victorious. "

"Oh! I haven't got time now to tell you all about it, " the old womanreplied, somewhat impatiently. "Do you accept or not?"

"Well, no; I don't accept--I want to think it over. It would be verystupid of me to risk a possible fortune for a thousand francs. "

Felicite rose. "Just as you like my dear fellow, " she said, coldly. "Youdon't seem to realise the position you are in. You came to my house andtreated me as though I were a mere outcast; and then, when I am kindenough to hold out a hand to you in the hole into which you havestupidly let yourself fall, you stand on ceremony, and refuse to berescued. Well, then, stay here, wait till the authorities come back. Asfor 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 bargainwith you in perfect ignorance of everything. For two days past I havebeen quite in the dark as to what's going on. How do I know that you arenot cheating me?"

"Bah! you're a simpleton, " replied Felicite, who had retraced her stepsat Antoine's doleful appeal. "You are very foolish not to trust yourselfimplicitly to us. A thousand francs! That's a fine sum, a sum that onewould 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 enterquietly?"

"Ah! I don't know, " she said, with a smile. "There will perhaps be ashot or two fired. "

He looked at her fixedly. 

"Well, but I say, little woman, " he resumed in a hoarse voice, "youdon't intend, do you, to have a bullet lodged in my head?"

Felicite blushed. She was, in fact, just thinking that they would berendered a great service, if, during the attack on the town-hall, abullet should rid them of Antoine. It would be a gain of a thousandfrancs, besides all the rest. So she muttered with irritation: "What anidea! 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 wereproposing to him. He did not perceive the reasons or the consequencesof it, and this was what induced him to haggle. After speaking of theRepublic as though it were a mistress whom, to his great grief, he couldno longer love, he recapitulated the risks which he would have to run, and finished by asking for two thousand francs. But Felicite abidedby her original offer. They debated the matter until she promised toprocure him, on his return to France, some post in which he wouldhave nothing to do, and which would pay him well. The bargain was thenconcluded. She made him don the uniform she had brought with her. Hewas to betake himself quietly to aunt Dide's, and afterwards, towardsmidnight, assemble all the Republicans he could in the neighbourhood ofthe 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 followingday. The Rougons were risking the last sum they had at their disposal. 

When Felicite had gone downstairs, she remained on the square for amoment to watch Macquart go out. He passed the guard-house, quietlyblowing his nose. He had previously broken the skylight in thedressing-room, to make it appear that he had escaped that way. 

"It's all arranged, " Felicite said to her husband, when she returnedhome. "It will be at midnight. It doesn't matter to me at all now. Ishould like to see them all shot. How they slandered us yesterday in thestreet!"

"It was rather silly of you to hesitate, " replied Pierre, who wasshaving. "Every one would do the same in our place. "

That morning--it was a Wednesday--he was particularly careful about histoilet. His wife combed his hair and tied his cravat, turning him aboutlike 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 wouldmake a very good figure in the midst of the serious events that werepreparing. His big pale face wore an expression of grave dignity andheroic determination. She accompanied him to the first landing, givinghim her last advice: he was not to depart in any way from his courageousdemeanour, however great the panic might be; he was to have the gatesclosed more hermetically than ever, and leave the town in agonies ofterror within its ramparts; it would be all the better if he were toappear 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 anddecisive battle. Pierre went straight to the town-hall, heedless of thelooks or words that greeted him on his way. He installed himself therein 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 advisehim that he was resuming authority. 

"Keep watch at the gates, " he added, knowing that these lines mightbecome public: "I myself will watch over the town and ensure thesecurity of life and property. It is at the moment when evil passionsreappear and threaten to prevail that good citizens should endeavour tostifle them, even at the peril of their lives. " The style, and the veryerrors in spelling, made this note--the brevity of which suggested thelaconic style of the ancients--appear all the more heroic. Not one ofthe gentlemen of the Provisional Commission put in an appearance. Thelast two who had hitherto remained faithful, and Granoux himself, even, prudently stopped at home. Thus Rougon was the only member of theCommission who remained at his post, in his presidential arm-chair, allthe others having vanished as the panic increased. He did not evendeign to issue an order summoning them to attend. He was there, and thatsufficed, a sublime spectacle, which a local journal depicted later onin a sentence: "Courage giving the hand to duty. "

During the whole morning Pierre was seen animating the town-hall withhis goings and comings. He was absolutely alone in the large, emptybuilding, whose lofty halls reechoed with the noise of his heels. Allthe doors were left open. He made an ostentatious show of his presidencyover a non-existent council in the midst of this desert, and appearedso deeply impressed with the responsibility of his mission that thedoorkeeper, meeting him two or three times in the passages, bowed to himwith an air of mingled surprise and respect. He was seen, too, at everywindow, and, in spite of the bitter cold, he appeared several timeson the balcony with bundles of papers in his hand, like a busy manattending to important despatches. 

Then, towards noon, he passed through the town and visited theguard-houses, speaking of a possible attack, and letting it beunderstood, that the insurgents were not far off; but he relied, hesaid, on the courage of the brave national guards. If necessary theymust 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 mannerof a hero who has set the affairs of his country in order, and now onlyawaits death, he observed signs of perfect stupor along his path; thepeople promenading in the Cours, the incorrigible little householders, whom no catastrophe would have prevented from coming at certain hoursto bask in the sun, looked at him in amazement, as if they did notrecognize him, and could not believe that one of their own set, a formeroil-dealer, should have the boldness to face a whole army. 

In the town the anxiety was at its height. The insurrectionists wereexpected every moment. The rumour of Macquart's escape was commentedupon in a most alarming manner. It was asserted that he had been rescuedby his friends, the Reds, and that he was only waiting for nighttime inorder to fall upon the inhabitants and set fire to the four corners ofthe town. Plassans, closed in and terror-stricken, gnawing at its ownvitals within its prison-like walls, no longer knew what to imagine inorder to frighten itself. The Republicans, in the face of Rougon'sbold demeanour, felt for a moment distrustful. As for the newtown--the lawyers and retired tradespeople who had denounced the yellowdrawing-room on the previous evening--they were so surprised thatthey dared not again openly attack such a valiant man. They contentedthemselves with saying "It was madness to brave victorious insurgentslike that, and such useless heroism would bring the greatest misfortunesupon Plassans. " Then, at about three o'clock, they organised adeputation. Pierre, though he was burning with desire to make a displayof his devotion before his fellow-citizens, had not ventured to reckonupon such a fine opportunity. 

He spoke sublimely. It was in the mayor's private room that thepresident of the Provisional Commission received the deputation from thenew town. The gentlemen of the deputation, after paying homage to hispatriotism, besought him to forego all resistance. But he, in a loudvoice, talked of duty, of his country, of order, of liberty, and variousother things. Moreover, he did not wish to compel any one to imitatehim; he was simply discharging a duty which his conscience and his heartdictated to him. 

"You see, gentlemen, I am alone, " he said in conclusion. "I will takeall the responsibility, so that nobody but myself may be compromised. And if a victim is required I willingly offer myself; I wish tosacrifice my own life for the safety of the inhabitants. "

A notary, the wiseacre of the party, remarked that he was running tocertain death. 

"I know it, " he resumed solemnly. "I am prepared!"

The gentlemen looked at each other. Those words "I am prepared!" filledthem with admiration. Decidedly this man was a brave fellow. The notaryimplored him to call in the aid of the gendarmes; but he replied thatthe blood of those brave soldiers was precious, and he would not haveit shed, except in the last extremity. The deputation slowly withdrew, feeling deeply moved. An hour afterwards, Plassans was speaking ofRougon as of a hero; the most cowardly called him "an old fool. "

Towards evening, Rougon was much surprised to see Granoux hasten tohim. The old almond-dealer threw himself in his arms, calling him"great man, " and declaring that he would die with him. The words "I amprepared!" 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, timorousold man. Pierre kept him with him, thinking that he would not be ofmuch consequence. He was even touched by the poor fellow's devotion, andresolved to have him publicly complimented by the prefect, in order torouse 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 uneasymanner. Vuillet's article had astonished him. His father's demeanourstupefied him. He had just caught sight of him at the window, in a whitecravat and black frock-coat, so calm at the approach of danger that allhis ideas were upset. Yet the insurgents were coming back triumphant, that was the belief of the whole town. But Aristide felt some doubtson the point; he had suspicions of some lugubrious farce. As he did notdare to present himself at his parents' house, he sent his wife thither. And when Angele returned, she said to him, in her drawling voice: "Yourmother expects you; she is not angry at all, she seems rather to bemaking fun of you. She told me several times that you could just putyour 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 contentto 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. "Onmy word of honour, I am becoming a fool here. No news, and everybodyshivering! 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. Mybrother kept you informed of what was going on, and you have never givenme the faintest hint that might have been useful to me. "

"You know that, do you?" exclaimed Felicite, becoming serious anddistrustful. "Well, you're not so foolish as I thought, then. Do youopen 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 smileagain, and asked more softly: "Well, then, you blockhead, how is it youdidn'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: myfather-in-law, Granoux, and the others!--And then, I didn't want to gotoo 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 ofanything. "

"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 theflowers of the orange-coloured wall-paper. And his mother felt suddenimpatience as she saw him hesitating thus. 

"Ah! well, " she said, "I've come back again to my former opinion; you'renot very shrewd. And you think you ought to have had Eugene's lettersto read? Why, my poor fellow you would have spoilt everything, withyour perpetual vacillation. You never can make up your mind. You arehesitating 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 itwere necessary, and I wanted to warm my feet. But, understand me, I'veno desire to take the wrong road! I'm tired of eating hard bread, and Ihope 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 onhim! He reminded me of Leonidas at Thermopylae. Is it you, mother, whohave made him cut this figure?"

And he added cheerfully, with a gesture of determination: "Well, so muchthe worse! I'm a Bonapartist! Father is not the man to risk the chanceof being killed unless it pays him well. "

"You're quite right, " his mother replied; "I mustn't say anything; butto-morrow you'll see. "

He did not press her, but swore that she would soon have reason to beproud of him; and then he took his departure, while Felicite, feelingher old preference reviving, said to herself at the window, as shewatched him going off, that he had the devil's own wit, that she wouldnever have had sufficient courage to let him leave without setting himin 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 hastenedhome and barricaded their doors with a great clattering of iron boltsand bars. The general feeling seemed to be that, by the morrow, Plassanswould no longer exist, that it would either be swallowed up by the earthor would evaporate in the atmosphere. When Rougon went home to dine, hefound the streets completely deserted. This desolation made him sad andmelancholy. As a result of this, when he had finished his meal, hefelt some slight misgivings, and asked his wife if it were necessary tofollow up the insurrection that Macquart was preparing. 

"Nobody will run us down now, " said he. "You should have seen thosegentlemen of the new town, how they bowed to me! It seems to me quiteunnecessary now to kill anybody--eh? What do you think? We shall featherour nest without that. "

"Ah! what a nerveless fellow you are!" Felicite cried angrily. "It wasyour own idea to do it, and now you back out! I tell you that you'llnever do anything without me! Go then, go your own way. Do you think theRepublicans would spare you if they got hold of you?"

Rougon went back to the town-hall, and prepared for the ambush. Granouxwas very useful to him. He despatched him with orders to the differentposts guarding the ramparts. The national guards were to repair to thetown-hall in small detachments, as secretly as possible. Roudier, thatbourgeois who was quite out of his element in the provinces, and whowould have spoilt the whole affair with his humanitarian preaching, wasnot even informed of it. Towards eleven o'clock, the court-yard of thetown-hall was full of national guards. Then Rougon frightened them; hetold them that the Republicans still remaining in Plassans were aboutto attempt a desperate _coup de main_, and plumed himself on having beenwarned in time by his secret police. When he had pictured the bloodymassacre which would overtake the town, should these wretches get theupper hand, he ordered his men to cease speaking, and extinguish alllights. He took a gun himself. Ever since the morning he had been livingas 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 hewould have allowed himself to be hanged, thinking: "It does not matter, my wife will come and cut me down. " To augment the tumult, and prolongthe terror of the slumbering town, he begged Granoux to repair to thecathedral and have the tocsin rung at the first shots he might hear. Themarquis's name would open the beadle's door. And then, in darkness anddismal silence, the national guards waited in the yard, in a terriblestate of anxiety, their eyes fixed on the porch, eager to fire, asthough 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 MonsieurGarconnet's sofa, he had several times felt a mad inclination to breakinto his two hundred francs at some neighbouring cafe. This money wasburning a hole in his waistcoat pocket; however, he whiled away his timeby spending it in imagination. His mother moved about, in her stiff, automatic way, as if she were not even aware of his presence. During thelast few days her children had been coming to her rather frequently, in a state of pallor and desperation, but she departed neither from hertaciturnity, nor her stiff, lifeless expression. She knew nothing ofthe fears which were throwing the pent-up town topsy-turvy, she was athousand leagues away from Plassans, soaring into the one constantfixed idea which imparted such a blank stare to her eyes. Now and again, however, at this particular moment, some feeling of uneasiness, somehuman anxiety, occasionally made her blink. Antoine, unable to resistthe temptation of having something nice to eat, sent her to get a roastchicken from an eating-house in the Faubourg. When it was set on thetable: "Hey!" he said to her, "you don't often eat fowl, do you? It'sonly for those who work, and know how to manage their affairs. As foryou, you always squandered everything. I bet you're giving all yoursavings to that little hypocrite, Silvere. He's got a mistress, the slyfellow. If you've a hoard of money hidden in some corner, he'll ease youof it nicely some day. "

Macquart was in a jesting mood, glowing with wild exultation. The moneyhe had in his pocket, the treachery he was preparing, the convictionthat he had sold himself at a good price--all filled him with theself-satisfaction characteristic of vicious people who naturallybecame 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 theinsurgents with a tall red girl on his arm. It will serve him right ifhe 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 somewhatembarrassed. "People don't risk their necks for the sake of ideas. I'vesettled my own little business. I'm no fool. "

But aunt Dide was no longer listening to him. She was murmuring: "He hadhis hands covered with blood. They'll kill him like the other one. Hisuncles will send the gendarmes after him. "

"What are you muttering there?" asked her son, as he finished pickingthe bones of the chicken. "You know I like people to accuse me tomy face. If I have sometimes talked to the little fellow about theRepublic, it was only to bring him round to a more reasonable way ofthinking. He was dotty. I love liberty myself, but it mustn't degenerateinto license. And as for Rougon, I esteem him. He's a man of courage andcommon-sense. "

"He had the gun, hadn't he?" interrupted aunt Dide, whose wandering mindseemed to be following Silvere far away along the high road. 

"The gun? Ah! yes; Macquart's carbine, " continued Antoine, after castinga glance at the mantel-shelf, where the fire-arm was usually hung. "Ifancy I saw it in his hands. A fine instrument to scour the countrywith, 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. AuntDide 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, andpulling 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, byrelating some nonsensical story to the national guards who were on dutyat the Rome Gate. Then he made his way to the old quarter, where hecrept from house to house in a mysterious manner. All the Republicans ofadvanced views, all the members of the brotherhood who had not followedthe insurrectionary army, met in an obscure inn, where Macquart had madean appointment with them. When about fifty men were assembled, he made aspeech, 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 bethrown off. And he ended by undertaking to deliver the town-hall overto 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 sodesired. The workmen deliberated. At that moment the reaction seemed tobe in its death throes. The insurgents were virtually at the gates ofthe town. It would therefore be more honourable to make an effort toregain power without awaiting their return, so as to be able to receivethem as brothers, with the gates wide open, and the streets and squaresadorned 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 ofthem who was a sportsman and had a gun at home should fetch it, andthat the band should assemble at midnight in the neighbourhood ofthe town-hall. A question of detail very nearly put an end to theirplans--they had no bullets; however, they decided to load their weaponswith small shot: and even that seemed unnecessary, as they were toldthat they would meet with no resistance. 

Once more Plassans beheld a band of armed men filing along close to thehouses, in the quiet moonlight. When the band was assembled in front ofthe town-hall, Macquart, while keeping a sharp look-out, boldly advancedto the building. He knocked, and when the door-keeper, who had learnthis lesson, asked what was wanted, he uttered such terrible threats, that the man, feigning fright, made haste to open the door. Both leavesof it swung back slowly, and the porch then lay open and empty beforethem, while Macquart shouted in a loud voice: "Come on, my friends!"

That was the signal. He himself quickly jumped aside, and as theRepublicans rushed in, there came, from the darkness of the yard, astream of fire and a hail of bullets, which swept through the gapingporch with a roar as of thunder. The doorway vomited death. Thenational guards, exasperated by their long wait, eager to shake off thediscomfort weighing upon them in that dismal court-yard, had fired avolley with feverish haste. The flash of the firing was so bright, that, through the yellow gleams Macquart distinctly saw Rougon taking aim. Hefancied that his brother's gun was deliberately levelled at himself, and he recalled Felicite's blush, and made his escape, muttering: "Notricks! The rascal would kill me. He owes me eight hundred francs. "

In the meantime a loud howl had arisen amid the darkness. The surprisedRepublicans shouted treachery, and fired in their turn. A national guardfell under the porch. But the Republicans, on their side, had threedead. They took to flight, stumbling over the corpses, stricken withpanic, and shouting through the quiet lanes: "Our brothers are beingmurdered!" in despairing voices which found no echo. Thereupon thedefenders of order, having had time to reload their weapons, rushed intothe empty square, firing at every street corner, wherever the darknessof a door, the shadow of a lamp-post, or the jutting of a stone madethem fancy they saw an insurgent. In this wise they remained there tenminutes, firing into space. 

The affray had burst over the slumbering town like a thunderclap. Theinhabitants in the neighbouring streets, roused from sleep by thisterrible fusillade, sat up in bed, their teeth chattering with fright. Nothing in the world would have induced them to poke their noses out ofthe window. And slowly, athwart the air, in which the shots had suddenlyresounded, one of the cathedral bells began to ring the tocsin with soirregular, so strange a rhythm, that one might have thought the noise tobe the hammering of an anvil or the echoes of a colossal kettle struckby a child in a fit of passion. This howling bell, whose sound thecitizens did not recognise, terrified them yet more than the reports ofthe fire-arms had done; and there were some who thought they heard anendless train of artillery rumbling over the paving-stones. They laydown again and buried themselves beneath their blankets, as if theywould have incurred some danger by still sitting up in bed in theirclosely-fastened rooms. With their sheets drawn up to their chins, theyheld their breath, and made themselves as small as possible, while theirwives, by their side, almost fainted with terror as they buried theirheads among the pillows. 

The national guards who had remained at the ramparts had also heard theshots, and thinking that the insurgents had entered by means of somesubterranean passage, they ran up helter-skelter, in groups of fiveor six, disturbing the silence of the streets with the tumult of theirexcited rush. Roudier was one of the first to arrive. However, Rougonsent them all back to their posts, after reprimanding them severelyfor abandoning the gates of the town. Thrown into consternation bythis reproach--for in their panic, they had, in fact, left the gatesabsolutely defenceless--they again set off at a gallop, hurrying throughthe streets with still more frightful uproar. Plassans might well havethought that an infuriated army was crossing it in all directions. Thefusillade, the tocsin, the marches and countermarches of the nationalguards, the weapons which were being dragged along like clubs, theterrified cries in the darkness, all produced a deafening tumult, such as might break forth in a town taken by assault and given overto plunder. It was the final blow of the unfortunate inhabitants, whoreally believed that the insurgents had arrived. They had, indeed, saidthat it would be their last night--that Plassans would be swallowed upin the earth, or would evaporate into smoke before daybreak; and now, lying in their beds, they awaited the catastrophe in the most abjectterror, fancying at times that their houses were already tottering. 

Meantime Granoux still rang the tocsin. When, in other respects, silencehad again fallen upon the town, the mournfulness of that ringing becameintolerable. Rougon, who was in a high fever, felt exasperated by itsdistant 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 thinkthere was some one crying; it's quite unbearable. "

"But it isn't me, sir, " replied the beadle in a distressed manner. "It'sMonsieur Granoux, he's gone up into the steeple. I must tell you that Iremoved the clapper of the bell, by his Reverence's order, preciselyto prevent the tocsin from being sounded. But Monsieur Granoux wouldn'tlisten to reason. He climbed up, and I've no idea what he can be makingthat 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 lightof the moon which glided through an embrasure; the ex almond dealer wasstanding there hatless, and dealing furious blows with a heavy hammer. He did so with a right good will. He first threw himself back, then tooka spring, and finally fell upon the sonorous bronze as if he wantedto crack it. One might have thought he was a blacksmith striking hotiron--but a frock-coated blacksmith, short and bald, working in a wildand awkward way. 

Surprise kept Rougon motionless for a moment at the sight of thisfrantic bourgeois thus belabouring the bell in the moonlight. Thenhe understood the kettle-like clang which this strange ringer haddisseminated over the town. He shouted to him to stop, but Granoux didnot hear. Rougon was obliged to take hold of his frock-coat, and thenthe other recognising him, exclaimed in a triumphant voice: "Ah! you'veheard it. At first I tried to knock the bell with my fists, but thathurt me. Fortunately I found this hammer. Just a few more blows, eh?"

However, Rougon dragged him away. Granoux was radiant. He wiped hisforehead, and made his companion promise to let everybody know in themorning that he had produced all that noise with a mere hammer. Whatan achievement, and what a position of importance that furious ringingwould confer upon him!

Towards morning, Rougon bethought himself of reassuring Felicite. Inaccordance with his orders, the national guards had shut themselves upin the town-hall. He had forbidden them to remove the corpses, under thepretext that it was necessary to give the populace of the old quarter alesson. And as, while hastening to the Rue de la Banne, he passed overthe square, on which the moon was no longer shining, he inadvertentlystepped on the clenched hand of a corpse that lay beside the footpath. At this he almost fell. That soft hand, which yielded beneath hisheel, brought him an indefinable sensation of disgust and horror. Andthereupon he hastened at full speed along the deserted streets, fancyingthat a bloody fist was pursuing him. 

"There are four of them on the ground, " he said, as he entered hishouse. 

He and his wife looked at one another as though they were astonished attheir 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. Istepped on something soft----"

Then he looked at his boot; its heel was covered with blood. While hewas putting on a pair of shoes, Felicite resumed:

"Well! so much the better! It's over now. People won't be inclined torepeat that you only fire at mirrors. "

The fusillade which the Rougons had planned in order that they mightbe finally recognised as the saviours of Plassans, brought the wholeterrified and grateful town to their feet. The day broke mournfullywith the grey melancholy of a winter-morning. The inhabitants, hearingnothing further, ventured forth, weary of trembling beneath theirsheets. At first some ten or fifteen appeared. Later on, when a rumourspread that the insurgents had taken flight, leaving their dead inevery gutter, Plassans rose in a body and descended upon the town-hall. Throughout the morning people strolled inquisitively round the fourcorpses. They were horribly mutilated, particularly one, which had threebullets in the head. But the most horrible to look upon was the bodyof a national guard, who had fallen under the porch; he had received acharge 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 forrevolting spectacles which is so characteristic of cowards. The nationalguard was freely recognised; he was the pork-butcher Dubruel, the manwhom Roudier had accused on the Monday morning of having fired withculpable eagerness. Of the three other corpses, two were journeymenhatters; the third was not identified. For a long while gaping groupsremained shuddering in front of the red pools which stained thepavement, often looking behind them with an air of mistrust, as thoughthat summary justice which had restored order during the night by forceof arms, were, even now, watching and listening to them, ready to shootthem down in their turn, unless they kissed with enthusiasm the handthat had just rescued them from the demagogy. 

The panic of the night further augmented the terrible effect producedin the morning by the sight of the four corpses. The true history ofthe fusillade was never known. The firing of the combatants, Granoux'shammering, the helter-skelter rush of the national guards through thestreets, had filled people's ears with such terrifying sounds that mostof them dreamed of a gigantic battle waged against countless enemies. When the victors, magnifying the number of their adversaries withinstinctive braggardism, spoke of about five hundred men, everybodyprotested against such a low estimate. Some citizens asserted that theyhad looked out of their windows and seen an immense stream of fugitivespassing by for more than an hour. Moreover everybody had heard thebandits running about. Five hundred men would never have been able torouse 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, " firstused by Rougon, struck people as being singularly appropriate, for theguards who were charged with the defence of the ramparts swore by allthat was holy that not a single man had entered or quitted the town, a circumstance which tinged what had happened with mystery, evensuggesting the idea of horned demons who had vanished amidst flames, andthus fairly upsetting the minds of the multitude. It is true the guardsavoided all mention of their mad gallops; and so the more rationalcitizens were inclined to believe that a band of insurgents had reallyentered the town either by a breach in the wall or some other channel. Later on, rumours of treachery were spread abroad, and people talked ofan ambush. The cruel truth could no longer be concealed by the men whomMacquart had led to slaughter, but so much terror still prevailed, and the sight of blood had thrown so many cowards into the arms of thereactionary party, that these rumours were attributed to the rage ofthe vanquished Republicans. It was asserted, on the other hand, thatMacquart had been made prisoner by Rougon, who kept him in a damp cell, where he was letting him slowly die of starvation. This horrible talemade 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, whomnobody dared to ridicule any more. He had steeped his foot in blood. The inhabitants of the old quarter stood dumb with fright before thecorpses. But towards ten o'clock, when the respectable people of the newtown arrived, the whole square hummed with subdued chatter. People spokeof the other attack, of the seizure of the mayor's office, in which amirror only had been wounded; but this time they no longer pooh-poohedRougon, they spoke of him with respectful dismay; he was indeed a hero, a deliverer. The corpses, with open eyes, stared at those gentlemen, thelawyers and householders, who shuddered as they murmured that civil warhad many cruel necessities. The notary, the chief of the deputationsent to the town-hall on the previous evening, went from group to group, recalling the proud words "I am prepared!" then used by the energeticman to whom the town owed its safety. There was a general feeling ofhumiliation. Those who had railed most cruelly against the forty-one, those, especially, who had referred to the Rougons as intriguers andcowards who merely fired shots in the air, were the first to speak ofgranting a crown of laurels "to the noble citizen of whom Plassans wouldbe 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 ofdisorder, pillage, and murder had gone, and what an iron hand had beenrequired to put down the insurrection. 

Moreover, the whole crowd was eager to congratulate Granoux, and shakehands with him. The story of the hammer had become known. By an innocentfalsehood, however, of which he himself soon became unconscious, heasserted that, having been the first to see the insurgents, he had setabout striking the bell, in order to sound the alarm, so that, but forhim, the national guards would have been massacred. This doubled hisimportance. His achievement was declared prodigious. People spoke of himnow as "Monsieur Isidore, don't you know? the gentleman who soundedthe tocsin with a hammer!" Although the sentence was somewhat lengthy, Granoux would willingly have accepted it as a title of nobility; andfrom that day forward he never heard the word "hammer" pronouncedwithout imagining it to be some delicate flattery. 

While the corpses were being removed, Aristide came to look at them. Heexamined them on all sides, sniffing and looking inquisitively attheir faces. His eyes were bright, and he had a sharp expression ofcountenance. In order to see some wound the better he even lifted up theblouse of one corpse with the very hand which on the previous day hadbeen suspended in a sling. This examination seemed to convince him andremove all doubt from his mind. He bit his lips, remained there for amoment in silence, and then went off for the purpose of hastening theissue of the "Independant, " for which he had written a most importantarticle. And as he hurried along beside the houses he recalled hismother's words: "You will see to-morrow!" Well, he had seen now; it wasvery clever; it even frightened him somewhat. 

In the meantime, Rougon's triumph was beginning to embarrass him. Alonein Monsieur Garconnet's office, hearing the buzzing of the crowd, hebecame conscious of a strange feeling, which prevented him from showinghimself on the balcony. That blood, in which he had stepped, seemed tohave numbed his legs. He wondered what he should do until the evening. His poor empty brain, upset by the events of the night, soughtdesperately for some occupation, some order to give, or some measure tobe taken, which might afford him some distraction. But he could thinkabout nothing clearly. Whither was Felicite leading him? Was it reallyall finished now, or would he still have to kill somebody else? Thenfear again assailed him, terrible doubts arose in his mind, and healready saw the ramparts broken down on all sides by an avenging armyof 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 stateof terror. What a thunderbolt! In less than a second he pictured himselfruined, plundered, and murdered; he cursed his wife, he cursed the wholetown. Then, as he looked behind him in a suspicious manner, seekingsome means of escape, he heard the mob break out into applause, utteringshouts of joy, making the very glass rattle with their wilddelight. Then he returned to the window; the women were waving theirhandkerchiefs, and the men were embracing each other. There were someamong them who joined hands and began to dance. Rougon stood therestupefied, unable to comprehend it all, and feeling his head swimming. The big, deserted, silent building, in which he was alone, quitefrightened him. 

When he afterwards confessed his feelings to Felicite, he was unable tosay how long his torture had lasted. He only remembered that a noise offootsteps, re-echoing through the vast halls, had roused him from hisstupor. He expected to be attacked by men in blouses, armed with scythesand clubs, whereas it was the Municipal Commission which entered, quiteorderly and in evening dress, each member with a beaming countenance. Not one of them was absent. A piece of good news had simultaneouslycured all these gentlemen. Granoux rushed into the arms of his dearpresident. 

"The soldiers!" he stammered, "the soldiers!"

A regiment had, in fact, just arrived, under the command of ColonelMasson and Monsieur de Bleriot, prefect of the department. Thegunbarrels which had been observed from the ramparts, far away in theplain, had at first suggested the approach of the insurgents. Rougon wasso deeply moved on learning the truth, that two big tears rolled downhis cheeks. He was weeping, the great citizen! The Municipal Commissionwatched those big tears with most respectful admiration. But Granouxagain threw himself on his friend's neck, crying:

"Ah! how glad I am! You know I'm a straightforward man. Well, we wereall 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 tomy wife: 'Rougon is a great man; he deserves to be decorated. '"

Then the gentlemen proposed to go and meet the prefect. For a momentRougon felt both stunned and suffocated; he was unable to believein this sudden triumph, and stammered like a child. However, he drewbreath, and went downstairs with the quiet dignity suited to thesolemnity of the occasion. But the enthusiasm which greeted thecommission and its president outside the town-hall almost upset hismagisterial gravity afresh. His name sped through the crowd, accompaniedthis time by the warmest eulogies. He heard everyone repeat Granoux'savowal, and treat him as a hero who had stood firm and resolute amidstuniversal panic. And, as far as the Sub-Prefecture, where the commissionmet 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 lostconsiderable time through a misunderstanding as to the direction takenby the insurgents. Now, however, they knew the latter were at Orcheres;and it would only be necessary to stop an hour at Plassans, justsufficient time to reassure the population and publish the cruelordinances which decreed the sequestration of the insurgents' property, and death to every individual who might be taken with arms in hishands. Colonel Masson smiled when, in accordance with the orders of thecommander of the national guards, the bolts of the Rome Gate were drawnback with a great rattling of rusty old iron. The detachment on dutythere accompanied the prefect and the colonel as a guard of honour. As they traversed the Cours Sauvaire, Roudier related Rougon's epicachievements to the gentlemen--the three days of panic that hadterminated with the brilliant victory of the previous night. When thetwo processions came face to face therefore, Monsieur de Bleriot quicklyadvanced towards the president of the Commission, shook hands with him, congratulated him, and begged him to continue to watch over the townuntil the return of the authorities. Rougon bowed, while the prefect, having reached the door of the Sub-Prefecture, where he wished to takea brief rest, proclaimed in a loud voice that he would not forget tomention his brave and noble conduct in his report. 

In the meantime, in spite of the bitter cold, everybody had come totheir 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 theCoup d'Etat, which he welcomed "as the aurora of liberty in order andof order in liberty. " He had also made a delicate allusion to theyellow drawing-room, acknowledging his errors, declaring that "youth ispresumptuous, " and that "great citizens say nothing, reflect in silence, and let insults pass by, in order to rise heroically when the day ofstruggle comes. " He was particularly pleased with this sentence. Hismother thought his article extremely well written. She kissed her dearchild, and placed him on her right hand. The Marquis de Carnavant, wearyof incarcerating himself, and full of eager curiosity, had likewise cometo see her, and stood on her left, leaning on the window rail. 

When Monsieur de Bleriot offered his hand to Rougon on the square belowFelicite began to weep. "Oh! see, see, " she said to Aristide. "He hasshaken hands with him. Look! he is doing it again!" And casting a glanceat the windows, where groups of people were congregated, she added: "Howwild they must be! Look at Monsieur Peirotte's wife, she's bitingher handkerchief. And over there, the notary's daughter, and MadameMassicot, 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-Prefecturewith thrills of delight, which shook her ardent, grasshopper-like figurefrom head to foot. She interpreted the slightest gesture, invented wordswhich she was unable to catch, and declared that Pierre bowed very wellindeed. She was a little vexed when the prefect deigned to speak to poorGranoux, who was hovering about him fishing for a word of praise. Nodoubt Monsieur de Bleriot already knew the story of the hammer, for theretired almond-dealer turned as red as a young girl, and seemed tobe saying that he had only done his duty. However, that which angeredFelicite still more was her husband's excessive amiability in presentingVuillet to the authorities. Vuillet, it is true, pushed himself forwardamongst them, and Rougon was compelled to mention him. 

"What a schemer!" muttered Felicite. "He creeps in everywhere. Howconfused my poor dear husband must be! See, there's the colonel speakingto him. What can he be saying to him?"

"Ah! little one, " the marquis replied with a touch of irony, "he iscomplimenting him for having closed the gates so carefully. "

"My father has saved the town, " Aristide retorted curtly. "Have you seenthe corpses, sir?"

Monsieur de Carnavant did not answer. He withdrew from the window, andsat down in an arm-chair, shaking his head with an air of some disgust. At that moment, the prefect having taken his departure, Rougon cameupstairs 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 tellinghim of the superb article which the young man had inserted in the"Independant. " Pierre would have kissed the marquis as well, he wasdeeply affected. However, his wife took him aside, and gave him Eugene'sletter which she had sealed up in an envelope again. She pretended thatit had just been delivered. Pierre read it and then triumphantly held itout 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 littleaffairs together now. Kiss me: you're a good woman. "

He clasped her in his arms, while she discreetly exchanged a knowingsmile 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 thecolonel, whom Monsieur Garconnet had invited to dinner, once moreentered the town alone. The soldiers went round the ramparts andencamped in the Faubourg, on the Nice road. Night was falling; the sky, overcast since the morning, had a strange yellow tint, and illuminedthe town with a murky light, similar to the copper-coloured glimmerof stormy weather. The reception of the troops by the inhabitants wastimid; the bloodstained soldiers, who passed by weary and silent, inthe yellow twilight, horrified the cleanly citizens promenading onthe Cours. They stepped out of the way whispering terrible stories offusillades and revengeful reprisals which still live in the recollectionof 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 formany 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 readyto fire at a word from their officers, the retired merchants and eventhe notaries of the new town anxiously examined their consciences, asking if they had not committed some political peccadilloes which mightbe thought deserving of a bullet. 

The municipal authorities had returned on the previous evening in acouple of carts hired at Sainte-Roure. Their unexpected entry was devoidof all triumphal display. Rougon surrendered the mayor's arm-chairwithout much regret. The game was over; and with feverish longing he nowawaited the recompense for his devotion. On the Sunday--he had not hopedfor it until the following day--he received a letter from Eugene. Since the previous Thursday Felicite had taken care to send her sonthe numbers of the "Gazette" and "Independant" which, in special secondeditions had narrated the battle of the night and the arrival of theprefect at Plassans. Eugene now replied by return of post that thenomination of a receivership would soon be signed; but added that hewished to give them some good news immediately. He had obtained theribbon 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 thatvery evening. He no longer thought of expense; he would have thrown hislast fifty francs out of the drawing-room windows in order to celebratethat glorious day. 

"Listen, " he said to his wife; "you must invite Sicardot: he has annoyedme 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 pursesthat will ever win them the cross. Vuillet is a skinflint, but thetriumph ought to be complete: invite him as well as the small fry. I wasforgetting; you must go and call on the marquis in person; we will seathim on your right; he'll look very well at our table. You know thatMonsieur Garconnet is entertaining the colonel and the prefect. That isto make me understand that I am nobody now. But I can afford to laugh athis mayoralty; it doesn't bring him in a sou! He has invited me, butI shall tell him that I also have some people coming. The others willlaugh on the wrong side of their mouths to-morrow. And let everythingbe of the best. Have everything sent from the Hotel de Provence. We mustoutdo the mayor's dinner. "

Felicite set to work. Pierre still felt some vague uneasiness amidst hisrapture. The Coup d'Etat was going to pay his debts, his son Aristidehad repented of his faults, and he was at last freeing himself fromMacquart; but he feared some folly on Pascal's part, and was especiallyanxious about the lot reserved for Silvere. Not that he felt the leastpity for the lad; he was simply afraid the matter of the gendarme mightcome before the Assize Court. Ah! if only some discriminating bullet hadmanaged to rid him of that young scoundrel! As his wife had pointed outto him in the morning, all obstacles had fallen away before him; thefamily which had dishonoured him had, at the last moment, worked for hiselevation; his sons Eugene and Aristide, those spend-thrifts, the costof whose college life he had so bitterly regretted, were at last payinginterest on the capital expended for their education. And yet thethought 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 makeinquiries. Sicardot, whom he had questioned on his return, knew nothing;Pascal must have remained to look after the wounded; as for Silvere, hehad not even been seen by the commander, who scarcely knew him. Rougontherefore repaired to the Faubourg, intending to make inquiries thereand at the same time pay Macquart the eight hundred francs which he hadjust succeeded in raising with great difficulty. However, when he foundhimself in the crowded encampment, and from a distance saw the prisonerssitting in long files on the beams in the Aire Saint-Mittre, guarded bysoldiers gun in hand, he felt afraid of being compromised, and so slunkoff to his mother's house, with the intention of sending the old womanout to pick up some information. 

When he entered the hovel it was almost night. At first the only personhe saw there was Macquart smoking and drinking brandy. 

"Is that you? I'm glad of it, " muttered Antoine. "I'm growing deucedcold here. Have you got the money?"

But Pierre did not reply. He had just perceived his son Pascal leaningover 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, hadit not been for the intervention of some honest fellow whom he did notknow. Saved by his profession of surgeon, he had returned to Plassanswith the troops. This greatly relieved Rougon. So there was yet anotherwho would not compromise him. He was evincing his delight by repeatedhand-shakings, when Pascal concluded in a sorrowful voice: "Oh! don'tmake merry. I have just found my poor grandmother in a very dangerousstate. I brought her back this carbine, which she values very much; Ifound her lying here, and she has not moved since. "

Pierre's eyes were becoming accustomed to the dimness. In the fastfading light he saw aunt Dide stretched, rigid and seemingly lifeless, upon her bed. Her wretched frame, attacked by neurosis from the hour ofbirth, was at length laid prostrate by a supreme shock. Her nerves hadso to say consumed her blood. Moreover some cruel grief seemed to havesuddenly accelerated her slow wasting-away. Her pale nun-like face, drawn and pinched by a life of gloom and cloister-like self-denial, wasnow stained with red blotches. With convulsed features, eyes that glaredterribly, and hands twisted and clenched, she lay at full length in herskirts, which failed to hide the sharp outlines of her scrawny limbs. Extended there with lips closely pressed she imparted to the dim roomall the horror of a mute death-agony. 

Rougon made a gesture of vexation. This heart-rending spectacle was verydistasteful to him. He had company coming to dinner in the evening, andit would be extremely inconvenient for him to have to appear mournful. His mother was always doing something to bother him. She might justas well have chosen another day. However, he put on an appearance ofperfect ease, as he said: "Bah! it's nothing. I've seen her like that ahundred times. You must let her lie still; it's the only thing that doesher any good. "

Pascal shook his head. "No, this fit isn't like the others, " hewhispered. "I have often studied her, and have never observed suchsymptoms before. Just look at her eyes: there is a peculiar fluidity, apale brightness about them which causes me considerable uneasiness. Andher face, how frightfully every muscle of it is distorted!"

Then bending over to observe her features more closely, he continuedin a whisper, as though speaking to himself: "I have never seen such aface, excepting among people who have been murdered or have died fromfright. She must have experienced some terrible shock. "

"But how did the attack begin?" Rougon impatiently inquired, at a lossfor an excuse to leave the room. 

Pascal did not know. Macquart, as he poured himself out another glassof brandy, explained that he had felt an inclination to drink a littleCognac, and had sent her to fetch a bottle. She had not been longabsent, and at the very moment when she returned she had fallen rigid onthe floor without uttering a word. Macquart himself had carried her tothe bed. 

"What surprises me, " he said, by way of conclusion, "is, that she didnot break the bottle. "

The young doctor reflected. After a short pause he resumed: "I heard twoshots fired as I came here. Perhaps those ruffians have been shootingsome more prisoners. If she passed through the ranks of the soldiers atthat moment, the sight of blood may have thrown her into this fit. Shemust have had some dreadful shock. "

Fortunately he had with him the little medicine-case which he had beencarrying about ever since the departure of the insurgents. He triedto pour a few drops of reddish liquid between aunt Dide's closely-setteeth, while Macquart again asked his brother: "Have you got the money?"

"Yes, I've brought it; we'll settle now, " Rougon replied, glad of thisdiversion. 

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 toolate; otherwise he would have demanded twice or thrice as much. And hecomplained bitterly. Really now a thousand francs was not enough. Hischildren had forsaken him, he was all alone in the world, and obliged toquit France. He almost wept as he spoke of his coming exile. 

"Come now, will you take the eight hundred francs?" said Rougon, who wasin haste to be off. 

"No, certainly not; double the sum. Your wife cheated me. If she hadtold me distinctly what it was she expected of me, I would never havecompromised 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 youlater. But do, for mercy's sake, get away this evening. "

Macquart, cursing and muttering protests, thereupon carried the tableto the window, and began to count the gold in the fading twilight. Thecoins tickled the tips of his fingers very pleasantly as he let themfall, and jingled musically in the darkness. At last he paused for amoment to say: "You promised to get me a berth, remember. I want toreturn to France. The post of rural guard in some pleasant neighbourhoodwhich I could mention, would just suit me. "

"Very well, I'll see about it, " Rougon replied. "Have you got the eighthundred francs?"

Macquart resumed his counting. The last coins were just clinking when aburst of laughter made them turn their heads. Aunt Dide was standing upin front of the bed, with her bodice unfastened, her white hair hangingloose, and her face stained with red blotches. Pascal had in vainendeavoured to hold her down. Trembling all over, and with her armsoutstretched, she shook her head deliriously. 

"The blood-money! the blood-money!" she again and again repeated. "Iheard 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, asthough seeking to collect her thoughts. And she continued: "Ah! I havelong seen him with a bullet-hole in his forehead. There were alwayspeople lying in wait for him with guns. They used to sign to me thatthey were going to fire. . . . It's terrible! I feel some one breakingmy 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 willprevent him from walking out with her. Mercy! Mercy! Don't fire. It isnot my fault. If you knew----"

She had almost fallen on her knees, and was weeping and entreating whileshe stretched her poor trembling hands towards some horrible visionwhich she saw in the darkness. Then she suddenly rose upright, and hereyes opened still more widely as a terrible cry came from her convulsedthroat, as though some awful sight, visible to her alone, had filled herwith mad terror. 

"Oh, the gendarme!" she said, choking and falling backwards on the bed, where she rolled about, breaking into long bursts of furious, insanelaughter. 

Pascal was studying the attack attentively. The two brothers, who feltvery frightened, and only detected snatches of what their mother said, had taken refuge in a corner of the room. When Rougon heard the wordgendarme, he thought he understood her. Ever since the murder of herlover, the elder Macquart, on the frontier, aunt Dide had cherished abitter hatred against all gendarmes and custom-house officers, whom shemingled together in one common longing for vengeance. 

"Why, it's the story of the poacher that she's telling us, " hewhispered. 

But Pascal made a sign to him to keep quiet. The stricken woman hadraised herself with difficulty, and was looking round her, with astupefied air. She remained silent for a moment, endeavouring torecognise the various objects in the room, as though she were in somestrange 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 lightcry 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 withblood. The stains are quite fresh to-day. His red hands have left marksof 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 himagain; he has come back. They never die, those blackguards!"

Again did gloomy passion come over her, and, shaking the carbine, sheadvanced towards her two sons who, speechless with fright, retreated tothe very wall. Her loosened skirts trailed along the ground, as she drewup her twisted frame, which age had reduced to mere bones. 

"It's you who fired!" she cried. "I heard the gold. . . . Wretched womanthat I am! . . . I brought nothing but wolves into the world--a wholefamily--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 arecovered 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 strangelysonorous tones, which suggested a crackling of a fusillade. Pascal, withtears in his eyes, took her in his arms and laid her on the bedagain. She submitted like a child, but persisted in her wailing cries, accelerating their rhythm, and beating time on the sheet with herwithered hands. 

"That's just what I was afraid of, " the doctor said; "she is mad. Theblow 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 quitthe corner where he had hidden himself. 

"I have a terrible suspicion, " Pascal replied. "I was going to speak toyou about Silvere when you came in. He is a prisoner. You must endeavourto 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 busythis evening. We will see to-morrow about conveying her to the lunaticasylum at Les Tulettes. As for you, Macquart, you must leave thisvery night. Swear to me that you will! I'm going to find Monsieur deBleriot. "

He stammered as he spoke, and felt more eager than ever to get out intothe fresh air of the streets. Pascal fixed a penetrating look on themadwoman, and then on his father and uncle. His professional instinctwas getting the better of him, and he studied the mother and the sons, with all the keenness of a naturalist observing the metamorphosis ofsome insect. He pondered over the growth of that family to which hebelonged, over the different branches growing from one parent stock, whose sap carried identical germs to the farthest twigs, which bent indivers ways according to the sunshine or shade in which they lived. Andfor a moment, as by the glow of a lightning flash, he thought he couldespy 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 ofSilvere's name. For a moment she listened anxiously. Then she broke outinto terrible shrieks. Night had now completely fallen, and the blackroom seemed void and horrible. The shrieks of the madwoman, who wasno longer visible, rang out from the darkness as from a grave. Rougon, losing his head, took to flight, pursued by those taunting cries, whosebitterness 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 pardonfrom the prefect, he saw Aristide prowling about the timber-yard. Thelatter, recognising his father, ran up to him with an expression ofanxiety and whispered a few words in his ear. Pierre turned pale, andcast a look of alarm towards the end of the yard, where the darkness wasonly relieved by the ruddy glow of a little gipsy fire. Then they bothdisappeared down the Rue de Rome, quickening their steps as though theyhad committed a murder, and turning up their coat-collars in order thatthey might not be recognised. 

"That saves me an errand, " Rougon whispered. "Let us go to dinner. Theyare waiting for us. "

When they arrived, the yellow drawing-room was resplendent. Felicitewas all over the place. Everybody was there; Sicardot, Granoux, Roudier, Vuillet, the oil-dealers, the almond-dealers, the whole set. Themarquis, however, had excused himself on the plea of rheumatism;and, besides, he was about to leave Plassans on a short trip. Thosebloodstained bourgeois offended his feelings of delicacy, and moreoverhis relative, the Count de Valqueyras, had begged him to withdraw frompublic notice for a little time. Monsieur de Carnavant's refusal vexedthe Rougons; but Felicite consoled herself by resolving to make a moreprofuse display. She hired a pair of candelabra and ordered severaladditional dishes as a kind of substitute for the marquis. The table waslaid in the yellow drawing-room, in order to impart more solemnity tothe 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 orderthat the guests on arriving might feast their eyes upon it. At eitherend 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 assembledthere they could not conceal their admiration of the spectacle. Severalgentlemen smiled with an air of embarrassment while they exchangedfurtive glances, which clearly signified, "These Rougons are mad, they are throwing their money out of the window. " The truth was thatFelicite, on going round to invite her guests, had been unable to holdher tongue. So everybody knew that Pierre had been decorated, and thathe was about to be nominated to some post; at which, of course, theypulled wry faces. Roudier indeed observed that "the little black womanwas puffing herself out too much. " Now that "prize-day" had come thisband of bourgeois, who had rushed upon the expiring Republic--each onekeeping an eye on the other, and glorying in giving a deeper bite thanhis neighbour--did not think it fair that their hosts should have allthe laurels of the battle. Even those who had merely howled by instinct, asking no recompense of the rising Empire, were greatly annoyed to seethat, thanks to them, the poorest and least reputable of them all shouldbe decorated with the red ribbon. The whole yellow drawing-room ought tohave been decorated!

"Not that I value the decoration, " Roudier said to Granoux, whom he haddragged into the embrasure of a window. "I refused it in the time ofLouis-Philippe, when I was purveyor to the court. Ah! Louis-Philippe wasa good king. France will never find his equal!"

Roudier was becoming an Orleanist once more. And he added, with thecrafty 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 yourbutton-hole? After all, you did as much to save the town as Rougon did. Yesterday, when I was calling upon some very distinguished persons, theycould scarcely believe it possible that you had made so much noise witha mere hammer. "

Granoux stammered his thanks, and, blushing like a maiden at her firstconfession of love, whispered in Roudier's ear: "Don't say anythingabout it, but I have reason to believe that Rougon will ask the ribbonfor me. He's a good fellow at heart, you know. "

The old hosier thereupon became grave, and assumed a very affablemanner. When Vuillet came and spoke to him of the well-deserved rewardthat their friend had just received, he replied in a loud voice, so asto be heard by Felicite, who was sitting a little way off, that "menlike Rougon were an ornament to the Legion of Honour. " The booksellerjoined in the chorus; he had that morning received a formal assurancethat the custom of the college would be restored to him. As forSicardot, he at first felt somewhat annoyed to find himself no longerthe only one of the set who was decorated. According to him, none butsoldiers 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 distinguishmen of spirit and energy. 

Rougon and Aristide consequently had an enthusiastic reception; on theirarrival all hands were held out to them. Some of the guests went sofar as to embrace them. Angele sat on the sofa, by the side of hermother-in-law, feeling very happy, and gazing at the table with theastonishment of a gourmand who has never seen so many dishes at once. When Aristide approached, Sicardot complimented his son-in-law upon hissuperb article in the "Independant. " He restored his friendship tohim. The young man, in answer to the fatherly questions which Sicardotaddressed to him, replied that he was anxious to take his little familywith him to Paris, where his brother Eugene would push him forward; buthe was in want of five hundred francs. Sicardot thereupon promisedhim the money, already foreseeing the day when his daughter would bereceived 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, couldonly escape for a minute. He was just able to whisper in his wife's earthat he had found Pascal and that Macquart would leave that night. Thenlowering his voice still more he told her of his mother's insanity, andplaced his finger on his lips, as if to say: "Not a word; that wouldspoil the whole evening. " Felicite bit her lips. They exchanged a lookin which they read their common thoughts: so now the old woman would nottrouble them any more: the poacher's hovel would be razed to the ground, as the walls of the Fouques' enclosure had been demolished; and theywould for ever enjoy the respect and esteem of Plassans. 

But the guests were looking at the table. Felicite showed the gentlementheir seats. It was perfect bliss. As each one took his spoon, Sicardotmade a gesture to solicit a moment's delay. Then he rose and gravelysaid: "Gentlemen, on behalf of the company present, I wish to expressto our host how pleased we are at the rewards which his courage andpatriotism have procured for him. I now see that he must have acted upona heaven-sent inspiration in remaining here, while those beggars weredragging myself and others along the high roads. Therefore, I heartilyapplaud the decision of the government. . . . Let me finish, you canthen congratulate our friend. . . . Know, then, that our friend, besidesbeing made a chevalier of the Legion of Honour, is also to be appointedto a receiver of taxes. "

There was a cry of surprise. They had expected a small post. Some ofthem tried to force a smile; but, aided by the sight of the table, thecompliments 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 willremain among us, owing to the death of Monsieur Peirotte. "

Whilst the guests burst out into exclamations, Felicite felt a keen painin her heart. Sicardot had already told her that the receiver had beenshot; but at the mention of that sudden and shocking death, just as theywere starting on that triumphal dinner, it seemed as if a chilling gustswept past her face. She remembered her wish; it was she who had killedthat man. However, amidst the tinkling music of the silver, the companybegan to do honour to the banquet. In the provinces, people eatvery much and very noisily. By the time the _releve_ was served, thegentlemen were all talking together; they showered kicks upon thevanquished, flattered one another, and made disparaging remarks aboutthe absence of the marquis. It was impossible, they said, to maintainintercourse with the nobility. Roudier even gave out that the marquishad begged to be excused because his fear of the insurgents had givenhim jaundice. At the second course they all scrambled like hounds atthe quarry. The oil-dealers and almond-dealers were the men who savedFrance. They clinked glasses to the glory of the Rougons. Granoux, whowas very red, began to stammer, while Vuillet, very pale, was quitedrunk. Nevertheless Sicardot continued filling his glass. For her partAngele, who had already eaten too much, prepared herself some sugar andwater. The gentlemen were so delighted at being freed from panic, andfinding themselves together again in that yellow drawing-room, round agood table, in the bright light radiating from the candelabra andthe chandelier--which they now saw for the first time without itsfly-specked cover--that they gave way to most exuberant folly andindulged in the coarsest enjoyment. Their voices rose in the warmatmosphere more huskily and eulogistically at each successive dish tillthey could scarcely invent fresh compliments. However, one of them, anold retired master-tanner, hit upon this fine phrase--that the dinnerwas 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, saidthat they would probably rent poor Monsieur Peirotte's flat until theycould purchase a house of their own in the new town. She was alreadyplanning how she would place her future furniture in the receiver'srooms. She was entering into possession of her Tuileries. At onemoment, however, as the uproar of voices became deafening, she seemed torecollect something, and quitting her seat she whispered in Aristide'sear: "And Silvere?"

The young man started with surprise at the question. 

"He is dead, " he replied, likewise in a whisper. "I was there when thegendarme blew his brains out with a pistol. "

Felicite in her turn shuddered. She opened her mouth to ask her sonwhy he had not prevented this murder by claiming the lad; but abruptlyhesitating she remained there speechless. Then Aristide, who had readher question on her quivering lips, whispered: "You understand, I saidnothing--so much the worse for him! I did quite right. It's a goodriddance. "

This brutal frankness displeased Felicite. So Aristide had his skeleton, like his father and mother. He would certainly not have confessed soopenly that he had been strolling about the Faubourg and had allowed hiscousin to be shot, had not the wine from the Hotel de Provence and thedreams he was building upon his approaching arrival in Paris, madehim depart from his habitual cunning. The words once spoken, heswung himself to and fro on his chair. Pierre, who had watched theconversation between his wife and son from a distance, understood whathad passed and glanced at them like an accomplice imploring silence. Itwas 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 awindow on the other side of the road. Some one sat watching MonsieurPeirotte's corpse, which had been brought back from Sainte-Roure thatmorning. She sat down, feeling as if that taper were heating her back. But the gaiety was now increasing, and exclamations of rapture rangthrough the yellow drawing-room when the dessert appeared. 

At that same hour, the Faubourg was still shuddering at the tragedywhich had just stained the Aire Saint-Mittre with blood. The return ofthe troops, after the carnage on the Nores plain, had been marked by themost cruel reprisals. Men were beaten to death behind bits of wall, withthe butt-ends of muskets, others had their brains blown out in ravinesby the pistols of gendarmes. In order that terror might impose silence, the soldiers strewed their road with corpses. One might have followedthem by the red trail which they left behind. [*] It was a long butchery. At every halting-place, a few insurgents were massacred. Two were killedat Sainte-Roure, three at Ocheres, one at Beage. When the troops wereencamped at Plassans, on the Nice road, it was decided that one moreprisoner, the most guilty, should be shot. The victors judged it wiseto leave this fresh corpse behind them in order to inspire the townwith respect for the new-born Empire. But the soldiers were now weary ofkilling; none offered himself for the fatal task. The prisoners, thrownon the beams in the timber-yard as though on a camp bed, and boundtogether 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 himselfthrough the crowd of inquisitive idlers. As soon as he heard that thetroops had returned with several hundred insurgents, he had risenfrom bed, shivering with fever, and risking his life in the cold, darkDecember air. Scarcely was he out of doors when his wound reopened, thebandage which covered his eyeless socket became stained with blood, and a red streamlet trickled over his cheek and moustache. He lookedfrightful in his dumb fury with his pale face and blood-stained bandage, as he ran along closely scrutinising each of the prisoners. He followedthe beams, bending down and going to and fro, making the bravest shudderby his abrupt appearance. And, all of a sudden: "Ah! the bandit, I'vegot him!" he cried. 

He had just laid his hand on Silvere's shoulder. Silvere, crouching downon a beam, with lifeless and expressionless face, was looking straightbefore him into the pale twilight, with a calm, stupefied air. Eversince his departure from Sainte-Roure, he had retained that vacantstare. Along the high road, for many a league, whenever the soldiersurged 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, thirstyand weary, he trudged onward without saying a word, like one of thosedocile animals that herdsmen drive along. He was thinking of Miette. Heever saw her lying on the banner, under the trees with her eyes turnedupwards. For three days he had seen none but her; and at this verymoment, amidst the growing darkness, he still saw her. 

Rengade turned towards the officer, who had failed to find among thesoldiers the requisite men for an execution. 

"This villain put my eye out, " he said, pointing to Silvere. "Hand himover to me. It's as good as done for you. "

The officer did not reply in words, but withdrew with an air ofindifference, making a vague gesture. The gendarme understood that theman 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 manabout fifty, who had been brutified by the scorching sun and thehard labour of tilling the ground. Crooked-backed already, his handshardened, his face coarse and heavy, he blinked his eyes in a stupidmanner, with the stubborn, distrustful expression of an animal subjectto the lash. He had set out armed with a pitchfork, because his fellowvillagers had done so; but he could not have explained what had thusset him adrift on the high roads. Since he had been made a prisonerhe understood it still less. He had some vague idea that he was beingconveyed home. His amazement at finding himself bound, the sight of allthe people staring at him, stupefied him still more. As he only spokeand understood the dialect of the region, he could not imagine what thegendarme wanted. He raised his coarse, heavy face towards him with aneffort; then, fancying he was being asked the name of his village, hesaid 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 thebetter. As they're together, they can both go. "

There was a murmur. 

But the gendarme turned his terrible blood-stained face upon theonlookers, and they slunk off. One cleanly little citizen went awaydeclaring that if he remained any longer it would spoil his appetite fordinner. However some boys who recognised Silvere, began to speak of "thered girl. " Thereupon the little citizen retraced his steps, in order tosee the lover of the female standard-bearer, that depraved creature whohad been mentioned in the "Gazette. "

Silvere, for his part, neither saw nor heard anything; Rengade had toseize him by the collar. Thereupon he got up, forcing Mourgue to risealso. 

"Come, " said the gendarme. "It won't take long. "

Silvere then recognised the one-eyed man. He smiled. He must haveunderstood. 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 beneaththe white bandage. And of his own accord he proceeded to the end ofthe 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 sallowsky. A murky light fell here and there from the copper-coloured clouds. Never had a sadder and more lingering twilight cast its melancholy overthis bare expanse--this wood-yard with its slumbering timber, so stiffand rigid in the cold. The prisoners, the soldiers, and the mob alongthe 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-uptorrent. The sawyers' trestles, rearing their meagre framework in acorner, seemed to form gallows, or the uprights of a guillotine. Andthere was no living soul there excepting three gipsies who showed theirfrightened faces at the door of their van--an old man and woman, and abig girl with woolly hair, whose eyes gleamed like those of a wolf. 

Before reaching the secluded path, Silvere looked round him. Hebethought himself of a far away Sunday when he had crossed the wood-yardin the bright moonlight. How calm and soft it had been!--how slowly hadthe pale rays passed over the beams! Supreme silence had fallen from thefrozen sky. And amidst this silence, the woolly-haired gipsy girl hadsung in a low key and an unknown tongue. Then Silvere remembered thatthe seemingly far-off Sunday was only a week old. But a week ago he hadcome to bid Miette farewell! How long past it seemed! He felt as thoughhe had not set foot in the wood-yard for years. But when he reached thenarrow 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 rosefrom all those things. The path stretched out sad and lonely; it seemedlonger to him than usual, and he felt a cold wind blowing down it. Thespot had aged cruelly. He saw that the wall was moss-eaten, that theverdant carpet was dried up by frost, that the piles of timber had beenrotted by rain. It was perfect devastation. The yellow twilight felllike fine dust upon the ruins of all that had been most dear to him. Hewas 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 wasracing with Miette in the balmy air. Then the cruel December rains fellunceasingly, yet they still came there, sheltering themselves beneaththe planks and listening with rapture to the heavy plashing of theshower. His whole life--all his happiness--passed before him like aflash of lightning. Miette was climbing over the wall, running tohim, shaking with sonorous laughter. She was there; he could see her, gleaming white through the darkness, with her living helm of ink-blackhair. She was talking about the magpies' nests, which are so difficultto steal, and she dragged him along with her. Then he heard the gentlemurmur of the Viorne in the distance, the chirping of the belatedgrasshoppers, and the blowing of the breeze among the poplars inthe meadows of Sainte-Claire. Ah, how they used to run! How well heremembered it! She had learnt to swim in a fortnight. She was a pluckygirl. 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 firstembraces brought him back to the narrow path. They had always ended byreturning to that nook. He fancied he could hear the gipsy girl's songdying away, the creaking of the last shutters, the solemn striking ofthe clocks. Then the hour of separation came, and Miette climbed thewall again and threw him a kiss. And he saw her no more. Emotion chokedhim 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-colouredlight was fading away. Here had he spent his life for two years past. The slow approach of death added an ineffable charm to this pathwaywhich had so long served as a lovers' walk. He loitered, bidding a longand lingering farewell to all he loved; the grass, the timber, the stoneof the old wall, all those things into which Miette had breathed life. And again his thoughts wandered. They were waiting till they should beold enough to marry: Aunt Dide would remain with them. Ah! if they hadfled far away, very far away, to some unknown village, where thescamps of the Faubourg would no longer have been able to come and castChantegreil's crime in his daughter's face. What peaceful bliss! Theywould have opened a wheelwright's workshop beside some high road. Nodoubt, he cared little for his ambitions now; he no longer thoughtof coachmaking, of carriages with broad varnished panels as shiny asmirrors. In the stupor of his despair he could not remember why hisdream of bliss would never come to pass. Why did he not go away withMiette and aunt Dide? Then as he racked his memory, he heard the sharpcrackling of a fusillade; he saw a standard fall before him, its staffbroken and its folds drooping like the wings of a bird brought down by ashot. It was the Republic falling asleep with Miette under the red flag. Ah, what wretchedness! They were both dead, both had bleeding wounds intheir breasts. And it was they--the corpses of his two loves--that nowbarred his path of life. He had nothing left him and might well diehimself. These were the thoughts that had made him so gentle, solistless, so childlike all the way from Sainte-Roure. The soldiersmight have struck him, he would not have felt it. His spirit no longerinhabited his body. It was far away, prostrate beside the loved ones whowere 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 behere all night. "

Silvere stumbled. He looked at his feet. A fragment of a skull laywhitening in the grass. He thought he heard a murmur of voices fillingthe pathway. The dead were calling him, those long departed ones, whosewarm breath had so strangely perturbed him and his sweetheart duringthe sultry July evenings. He recognised their low whispers. They wererejoicing, they were telling him to come, and promising to restoreMiette to him beneath the earth, in some retreat which would provestill more sequestered than this old trysting-place. The cemetery, whoseoppressive odours and dark vegetation had breathed eager desire into thechildren's hearts, while alluringly spreading out its couches of rankgrass, without succeeding however in throwing them into one another'sarms, now longed to imbibe Silvere's warm blood. For two summers past ithad 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. Hiseyes fell on the tombstone, and he started. Miette was right, that stonewas for her. _"Here lieth . . . Marie . . . Died . . . "_ She wasdead, that slab had fallen over her. His strength failing him, he leantagainst the frozen stone. How warm it had been when they sat in thatnook, 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 wornaway the stone's surface in one corner. The mark seemed instinct withsomething of her lissom figure. And to Silvere it appeared as if somefatalism attached to all these objects--as if the stone were thereprecisely in order that he might come to die beside it, there where hehad 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 fromSainte-Roure to Plassans. If he had known it, he would have hastened onyet more quickly in order to die on that stone, at the end of thenarrow path, in the atmosphere where he could still detect the scent ofMiette'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 hadallowed 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 fromPoujols!"

Then he threw himself on the ground, rolling at the gendarme's feet, breaking out into prayers for mercy, and imagining that he was beingmistaken for some one else. 

"What does it matter to me that you come from Poujols?" Rengademuttered. 

And as the wretched man, shivering and crying with terror, and quiteunable to understand why he was going to die, held out his tremblinghands--his deformed, hard, labourer's hands--exclaiming in his patoisthat he had done nothing and ought to be pardoned, the one-eyed man grewquite exasperated at being unable to put the pistol to his temple, owingto his constant movements. 

"Will you hold your tongue?" he shouted. 

Thereupon Mourgue, mad with fright and unwilling to die, began to howllike 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 bodyrolled to the foot of a timber-stack, where it remained doubled up. Theviolence of the shock had severed the rope which fastened him to hiscompanion. Silvere fell on his knees before the tombstone. 

It was to make his vengeance the more terrible that Rengade had killedMourgue first. He played with his second pistol, raising it slowly inorder 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 diecowardly if he continued to look at that feverishly quivering gendarme, with blood-stained bandage and bleeding moustache. However, as he raisedhis 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 gendarmehad led the prisoners away. He had set off as fast as he could by way ofthe Jas-Meiffren, in his eagerness to witness the execution. The thoughtthat he alone, of all the Faubourg scamps, would view the tragedy athis ease, as from a balcony, made him run so quickly that he twice felldown. And in spite of his wild chase, he arrived too late to witness thefirst shot. He climbed the mulberry tree in despair; but he smiled whenhe saw that Silvere still remained. The soldiers had informed him ofhis cousin's death, and now the murder of the wheelwright brought hishappiness to a climax. He awaited the shot with that delight which thesufferings of others always afforded him--a delight increased tenfold bythe horror of the scene, and a feeling of exquisite fear. 

Silvere, on recognising that vile scamp's head all by itself above thewall--that pale grinning face, with hair standing on end--experienced afeeling of fierce rage, a sudden desire to live. It was the last revoltof his blood--a momentary mutiny. He again sank down on his knees, gazing straight before him. A last vision passed before his eyes inthe melancholy twilight. At the end of the path, at the entrance of theImpasse Saint-Mittre, he fancied he could see aunt Dide standing erect, white and rigid like the statue of a saint, while she witnessed hisagony from a distance. 

At that moment he felt the cold pistol on his temple. There was a smileon Justin's pale face. Closing his eyes, Silvere heard the long-departeddead wildly summoning him. In the darkness, he now saw nothing saveMiette, wrapped in the banner, under the trees, with her eyes turnedtowards heaven. Then the one-eyed man fired, and all was over; the lad'sskull 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--thatwarm spot which still retained a trace of his dead love. 

And in the evening at dessert, at the Rougons' abode, bursts of laughterarose with the fumes from the table, which was still warm with theremains of the dinner. At last the Rougons were nibbling at thepleasures of the wealthy! Their appetites, sharpened by thirty yearsof restrained desire, now fell to with wolfish teeth. These fierce, insatiate wild beasts, scarcely entering upon indulgence, exulted atthe birth of the Empire--the dawn of the Rush for the Spoils. The Coupd'Etat, which retrieved the fortune of the Bonapartes, also laid thefoundation for that of the Rougons. 

Pierre stood up, held out his glass, and exclaimed: "I drink to PrinceLouis--to the Emperor!"

The gentlemen, who had drowned their jealousies in champagne, rose in abody and clinked glasses with deafening shouts. It was a fine spectacle. The bourgeois of Plassans, Roudier, Granoux, Vuillet, and all theothers, wept and embraced each other over the corpse of the Republic, which as yet was scarcely cold. But a splendid idea occurred toSicardot. He took from Felicite's hair a pink satin bow, which she hadplaced over her right ear in honour of the occasion, cut off a stripof the satin with his dessert knife, and then solemnly fastened itto Rougon's button-hole. The latter feigned modesty, and pretended toresist. But his face beamed with joy, as he murmured: "No, I beg you, itis too soon. We must wait until the decree is published. "

"Zounds!" Sicardot exclaimed, "will you please keep that! It's an oldsoldier of Napoleon who decorates you!"

The whole company burst into applause. Felicite almost swooned withdelight. Silent Granoux jumped up on a chair in his enthusiasm, wavinghis napkin and making a speech which was lost amid the uproar. Theyellow drawing-room was wild with triumph. 

But the strip of pink satin fastened to Pierre's button-hole was notthe only red spot in that triumph of the Rougons. A shoe, with ablood-stained heel, still lay forgotten under the bedstead in theadjoining room. The taper burning at Monsieur Peirotte's bedside, overthe way, gleamed too with the lurid redness of a gaping wound amidstthe dark night. And yonder, far away, in the depths of the AireSaint-Mittre, a pool of blood was congealing upon a tombstone.