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+The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Fortune of the Rougons, by Émile Zola
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
+of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
+www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
+will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
+using this eBook.
+
+Title: The Fortune of the Rougons
+
+Author: Émile Zola
+
+Release Date: May 11, 2002 [eBook #5135]
+[Most recently updated: April 20, 2023]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+Produced by: Dagny, John Bickers and David Widger
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGONS ***
+
+
+
+
+The Fortune of the Rougons
+
+by Émile Zola
+
+Edited With Introduction By Ernest Alfred Vizetelly
+
+
+Contents
+
+ INTRODUCTION
+ AUTHOR’S PREFACE
+ THE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGONS
+ CHAPTER I
+ CHAPTER II
+ CHAPTER III
+ CHAPTER IV
+ CHAPTER V
+ CHAPTER VI
+ CHAPTER VII
+
+
+
+
+INTRODUCTION
+
+
+“The Fortune of the Rougons” is the initial volume of the
+Rougon-Macquart series. Though it was by no means M. Zola’s first essay
+in fiction, it was undoubtedly his first great bid for genuine literary
+fame, and the foundation of what must necessarily be regarded as his
+life-work. The idea of writing the “natural and social history of a
+family under the Second Empire,” extending to a score of volumes, was
+doubtless suggested to M. Zola by Balzac’s immortal “Comedie Humaine.”
+He was twenty-eight years of age when this idea first occurred to him;
+he was fifty-three when he at last sent the manuscript of his
+concluding volume, “Dr. Pascal,” to the press. He had spent
+five-and-twenty years in working out his scheme, persevering with it
+doggedly and stubbornly, whatever rebuffs he might encounter, whatever
+jeers and whatever insults might be directed against him by the
+ignorant, the prejudiced, and the hypocritical. Truth was on the march
+and nothing could stay it; even as, at the present hour, its march, if
+slow, none the less continues athwart another and a different crisis of
+the illustrious novelist’s career.
+
+It was in the early summer of 1869 that M. Zola first began the actual
+writing of “The Fortune of the Rougons.” It was only in the following
+year, however, that the serial publication of the work commenced in the
+columns of “Le Siècle,” the Republican journal of most influence in
+Paris in those days of the Second Empire. The Franco-German war
+interrupted this issue of the story, and publication in book form did
+not take place until the latter half of 1871, a time when both the war
+and the Commune had left Paris exhausted, supine, with little or no
+interest in anything. No more unfavourable moment for the issue of an
+ambitious work of fiction could have been found. Some two or three
+years went by, as I well remember, before anything like a revival of
+literature and of public interest in literature took place. Thus, M.
+Zola launched his gigantic scheme under auspices which would have made
+many another man recoil. “The Fortune of the Rougons,” and two or three
+subsequent volumes of his series, attracted but a moderate degree of
+attention, and it was only on the morrow of the publication of
+“L’Assommoir” that he awoke, like Byron, to find himself famous.
+
+As previously mentioned, the Rougon-Macquart series forms twenty
+volumes. The last of these, “Dr. Pascal,” appeared in 1893. Since then
+M. Zola has written “Lourdes,” “Rome,” and “Paris.” Critics have
+repeated _ad nauseam_ that these last works constitute a new departure
+on M. Zola’s part, and, so far as they formed a new series, this is
+true. But the suggestion that he has in any way repented of the
+Rougon-Macquart novels is ridiculous. As he has often told me of recent
+years, it is, as far as possible, his plan to subordinate his style and
+methods to his subject. To have written a book like “Rome,” so largely
+devoted to the ambitions of the Papal See, in the same way as he had
+written books dealing with the drunkenness or other vices of Paris,
+would have been the climax of absurdity.
+
+Yet the publication of “Rome,” was the signal for a general outcry on
+the part of English and American reviewers that Zolaism, as typified by
+the Rougon-Macquart series, was altogether a thing of the past. To my
+thinking this is a profound error. M. Zola has always remained faithful
+to himself. The only difference that I perceive between his latest
+work, “Paris,” and certain Rougon-Macquart volumes, is that with time,
+experience and assiduity, his genius has expanded and ripened, and that
+the hesitation, the groping for truth, so to say, which may be found in
+some of his earlier writings, has disappeared.
+
+At the time when “The Fortune of the Rougons” was first published, none
+but the author himself can have imagined that the foundation-stone of
+one of the great literary monuments of the century had just been laid.
+From the “story” point of view the book is one of M. Zola’s very best,
+although its construction—particularly as regards the long interlude of
+the idyll of Miette and Silvère—is far from being perfect. Such a work
+when first issued might well bring its author a measure of popularity,
+but it could hardly confer fame. Nowadays, however, looking backward,
+and bearing in mind that one here has the genius of M. Zola’s lifework,
+“The Fortune of the Rougons” becomes a book of exceptional interest and
+importance. This has been so well understood by French readers that
+during the last six or seven years the annual sales of the work have
+increased threefold. Where, over a course of twenty years, 1,000 copies
+were sold, 2,500 and 3,000 are sold to-day. How many living English
+novelists can say the same of their early essays in fiction, issued
+more than a quarter of a century ago?
+
+I may here mention that at the last date to which I have authentic
+figures, that is, Midsummer 1897 (prior, of course, to what is called
+“L’Affaire Dreyfus”), there had been sold of the entire Rougon-Macquart
+series (which had begun in 1871) 1,421,000 copies. These were of the
+ordinary Charpentier editions of the French originals. By adding
+thereto several _éditions de luxe_ and the widely-circulated popular
+illustrated editions of certain volumes, the total amounts roundly to
+2,100,000. “Rome,” “Lourdes,” “Paris,” and all M. Zola’s other works,
+apart from the “Rougon-Macquart” series, together with the translations
+into a dozen different languages—English, German, Italian, Spanish,
+Dutch, Danish, Portuguese, Bohemian, Hungarian, and others—are not
+included in the above figures. Otherwise the latter might well be
+doubled. Nor is account taken of the many serial issues which have
+brought M. Zola’s views to the knowledge of the masses of all Europe.
+
+It is, of course, the celebrity attaching to certain of M. Zola’s
+literary efforts that has stimulated the demand for his other writings.
+Among those which are well worthy of being read for their own sakes, I
+would assign a prominent place to the present volume. Much of the story
+element in it is admirable, and, further, it shows M. Zola as a genuine
+satirist and humorist. The Rougons’ yellow drawing-room and its
+_habitués_, and many of the scenes between Pierre Rougon and his wife
+Félicité, are worthy of the pen of Douglas Jerrold. The whole account,
+indeed, of the town of Plassans, its customs and its notabilities, is
+satire of the most effective kind, because it is satire true to life,
+and never degenerates into mere caricature.
+
+It is a rather curious coincidence that, at the time when M. Zola was
+thus portraying the life of Provence, his great contemporary, bosom
+friend, and rival for literary fame, the late Alphonse Daudet, should
+have been producing, under the title of “The Provencal Don Quixote,”
+that unrivalled presentment of the foibles of the French Southerner,
+with everyone nowadays knows as “Tartarin of Tarascon.” It is possible
+that M. Zola, while writing his book, may have read the instalments of
+“Le Don Quichotte Provencal” published in the Paris “Figaro,” and it
+may be that this perusal imparted that fillip to his pen to which we
+owe the many amusing particulars that he gives us of the town of
+Plassans. Plassans, I may mention, is really the Provencal Aix, which
+M. Zola’s father provided with water by means of a canal still bearing
+his name. M. Zola himself, though born in Paris, spent the greater part
+of his childhood there. Tarascon, as is well known, never forgave
+Alphonse Daudet for his “Tartarin”; and in a like way M. Zola, who
+doubtless counts more enemies than any other literary man of the
+period, has none bitterer than the worthy citizens of Aix. They cannot
+forget or forgive the rascally Rougon-Macquarts.
+
+The name Rougon-Macquart has to me always suggested that splendid and
+amusing type of the cynical rogue, Robert Macaire. But, of course, both
+Rougon and Macquart are genuine French names and not inventions.
+Indeed, several years ago I came by chance upon them both, in an old
+French deed which I was examining at the Bibliothèque Nationale in
+Paris. I there found mention of a Rougon family and a Macquart family
+dwelling virtually side by side in the same village. This, however, was
+in Champagne, not in Provence. Both families farmed vineyards for a
+once famous abbey in the vicinity of Epernay, early in the seventeenth
+century. To me, personally, this trivial discovery meant a great deal.
+It somehow aroused my interest in M. Zola and his works. Of the latter
+I had then only glanced through two or three volumes. With M. Zola
+himself I was absolutely unacquainted. However, I took the liberty to
+inform him of my little discovery; and afterwards I read all the books
+that he had published. Now, as it is fairly well known, I have given
+the greater part of my time, for several years past, to the task of
+familiarising English readers with his writings. An old deed, a chance
+glance, followed by the great friendship of my life and years of
+patient labour. If I mention this matter, it is solely with the object
+of endorsing the truth of the saying that the most insignificant
+incidents frequently influence and even shape our careers.
+
+But I must come back to “The Fortune of the Rougons.” It has, as I have
+said, its satirical and humorous side; but it also contains a strong
+element of pathos. The idyll of Miette and Silvère is a very touching
+one, and quite in accord with the conditions of life prevailing in
+Provence at the period M. Zola selects for his narrative. Miette is a
+frank child of nature; Silvère, her lover, in certain respects
+foreshadows, a quarter of a century in advance, the Abbé Pierre Fromont
+of “Lourdes,” “Rome,” and “Paris.” The environment differs, of course,
+but germs of the same nature may readily be detected in both
+characters. As for the other personages of M. Zola’s book—on the one
+hand, Aunt Dide, Pierre Rougon, his wife, Félicité, and their sons
+Eugène, Aristide and Pascal, and, on the other, Macquart, his daughter
+Gervaise of “L’Assommoir,” and his son Jean of “La Terre” and “La
+Debacle,” together with the members of the Mouret branch of the
+ravenous, neurotic, duplex family—these are analysed or sketched in a
+way which renders their subsequent careers, as related in other volumes
+of the series, thoroughly consistent with their origin and their
+up-bringing. I venture to asset that, although it is possible to read
+individual volumes of the Rougon-Macquart series while neglecting
+others, nobody can really understand any one of these books unless he
+makes himself acquainted with the alpha and the omega of the edifice,
+that is, “The Fortune of the Rougons” and “Dr. Pascal.”
+
+With regard to the present English translation, it is based on one made
+for my father several years ago. But to convey M. Zola’s meaning more
+accurately I have found it necessary to alter, on an average, at least
+one sentence out of every three. Thus, though I only claim to edit the
+volume, it is, to all intents and purposes, quite a new English version
+of M. Zola’s work.
+
+E. A. V. MERTON, SURREY: August, 1898.
+
+
+
+
+AUTHOR’S PREFACE
+
+
+I wish to explain how a family, a small group of human beings, conducts
+itself in a given social system after blossoming forth and giving birth
+to ten or twenty members, who, though they may appear, at the first
+glance, profoundly dissimilar one from the other, are, as analysis
+demonstrates, most closely linked together from the point of view of
+affinity. Heredity, like gravity, has its laws.
+
+By resolving the duplex question of temperament and environment, I
+shall endeavour to discover and follow the thread of connection which
+leads mathematically from one man to another. And when I have
+possession of every thread, and hold a complete social group in my
+hands, I shall show this group at work, participating in an historical
+period; I shall depict it in action, with all its varied energies, and
+I shall analyse both the will power of each member, and the general
+tendency of the whole.
+
+The great characteristic of the Rougon-Macquarts, the group or family
+which I propose to study, is their ravenous appetite, the great
+outburst of our age which rushes upon enjoyment. Physiologically the
+Rougon-Macquarts represent the slow succession of accidents pertaining
+to the nerves or the blood, which befall a race after the first organic
+lesion, and, according to environment, determine in each individual
+member of the race those feelings, desires and passions—briefly, all
+the natural and instinctive manifestations peculiar to humanity—whose
+outcome assumes the conventional name of virtue or vice. Historically
+the Rougon-Macquarts proceed from the masses, radiate throughout the
+whole of contemporary society, and ascend to all sorts of positions by
+the force of that impulsion of essentially modern origin, which sets
+the lower classes marching through the social system. And thus the
+dramas of their individual lives recount the story of the Second
+Empire, from the ambuscade of the Coup d’État to the treachery of
+Sedan.
+
+For three years I had been collecting the necessary documents for this
+long work, and the present volume was even written, when the fall of
+the Bonapartes, which I needed artistically, and with, as if by fate, I
+ever found at the end of the drama, without daring to hope that it
+would prove so near at hand, suddenly occurred and furnished me with
+the terrible but necessary _dénouement_ for my work. My scheme is, at
+this date, completed; the circle in which my characters will revolve is
+perfected; and my work becomes a picture of a departed reign, of a
+strange period of human madness and shame.
+
+This work, which will comprise several episodes, is therefore, in my
+mind, the natural and social history of a family under the Second
+Empire. And the first episode, here called “The Fortune of the
+Rougons,” should scientifically be entitled “The Origin.”
+
+ ÉMILE ZOLA
+
+ PARIS, _July_ 1, 1871.
+
+
+
+
+THE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGONS
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+
+On quitting Plassans by the Rome Gate, on the southern side of the
+town, you will find, on the right side of the road to Nice, and a
+little way past the first suburban houses, a plot of land locally known
+as the Aire Saint-Mittre.
+
+This Aire Saint-Mittre is of oblong shape and on a level with the
+footpath of the adjacent road, from which it is separated by a strip of
+trodden grass. A narrow blind alley fringed with a row of hovels
+borders it on the right; while on the left, and at the further end, it
+is closed in by bits of wall overgrown with moss, above which can be
+seen the top branches of the mulberry-trees of the Jas-Meiffren—an
+extensive property with an entrance lower down the road. Enclosed upon
+three sides, the Aire Saint-Mittre leads nowhere, and is only crossed
+by people out for a stroll.
+
+In former times it was a cemetery under the patronage of Saint-Mittre,
+a greatly honoured Provencal saint; and in 1851 the old people of
+Plassans could still remember having seen the wall of the cemetery
+standing, although the place itself had been closed for years. The soil
+had been so glutted with corpses that it had been found necessary to
+open a new burial-ground at the other end of town. Then the old
+abandoned cemetery had been gradually purified by the dark thick-set
+vegetation which had sprouted over it every spring. The rich soil, in
+which the gravediggers could no longer delve without turning up some
+human remains, was possessed of wondrous fertility. The tall weeds
+overtopped the walls after the May rains and the June sunshine so as to
+be visible from the high road; while inside, the place presented the
+appearance of a deep, dark green sea studded with large blossoms of
+singular brilliancy. Beneath one’s feet amidst the close-set stalks one
+could feel that the damp soil reeked and bubbled with sap.
+
+Among the curiosities of the place at that time were some large
+pear-trees, with twisted and knotty boughs; but none of the housewives
+of Plassans cared to pluck the large fruit which grew upon them.
+Indeed, the townspeople spoke of this fruit with grimaces of disgust.
+No such delicacy, however, restrained the suburban urchins, who
+assembled in bands at twilight and climbed the walls to steal the
+pears, even before they were ripe.
+
+The trees and the weeds with their vigorous growth had rapidly
+assimilated all the decomposing matter in the old cemetery of
+Saint-Mittre; the malaria rising from the human remains interred there
+had been greedily absorbed by the flowers and the fruit; so that
+eventually the only odour one could detect in passing by was the strong
+perfume of wild gillyflowers. This had merely been a question of a few
+summers.
+
+At last the townspeople determined to utilise this common property,
+which had long served no purpose. The walls bordering the roadway and
+the blind alley were pulled down; the weeds and the pear-trees
+uprooted; the sepulchral remains were removed; the ground was dug deep,
+and such bones as the earth was willing to surrender were heaped up in
+a corner. For nearly a month the youngsters, who lamented the loss of
+the pear-trees, played at bowls with the skulls; and one night some
+practical jokers even suspended femurs and tibias to all the
+bell-handles of the town. This scandal, which is still remembered at
+Plassans, did not cease until the authorities decided to have the bones
+shot into a hole which had been dug for the purpose in the new
+cemetery. All work, however, is usually carried out with discreet
+dilatoriness in country towns, and so during an entire week the
+inhabitants saw a solitary cart removing these human remains as if they
+had been mere rubbish. The vehicle had to cross Plassans from end to
+end, and owing to the bad condition of the roads fragments of bones and
+handfuls of rich mould were scattered at every jolt. There was not the
+briefest religious ceremony, nothing but slow and brutish cartage.
+Never before had a town felt so disgusted.
+
+For several years the old cemetery remained an object of terror.
+Although it adjoined the main thoroughfare and was open to all comers,
+it was left quite deserted, a prey to fresh vegetable growth. The local
+authorities, who had doubtless counted on selling it and seeing houses
+built upon it, were evidently unable to find a purchaser. The
+recollection of the heaps of bones and the cart persistently jolting
+through the streets may have made people recoil from the spot; or
+perhaps the indifference that was shown was due to the indolence, the
+repugnance to pulling down and setting up again, which is
+characteristic of country people. At all events the authorities still
+retained possession of the ground, and at last forgot their desire to
+dispose of it. They did not even erect a fence round it, but left it
+open to all comers. Then, as time rolled on, people gradually grew
+accustomed to this barren spot; they would sit on the grass at the
+edges, walk about, or gather in groups. When the grass had been worn
+away and the trodden soil had become grey and hard, the old cemetery
+resembled a badly-levelled public square. As if the more effectually to
+efface the memory of all objectionable associations, the inhabitants
+slowly changed the very appellation of the place, retaining but the
+name of the saint, which was likewise applied to the blind alley
+dipping down at one corner of the field. Thus there was the Aire
+Saint-Mittre and the Impasse Saint-Mittre.
+
+All this dates, however, from some considerable time back. For more
+than thirty years now the Aire Saint-Mittre has presented a different
+appearance. One day the townspeople, far too inert and indifferent to
+derive any advantage from it, let it, for a trifling consideration, to
+some suburban wheelwrights, who turned it into a wood-yard. At the
+present day it is still littered with huge pieces of timber thirty or
+forty feet long, lying here and there in piles, and looking like lofty
+overturned columns. These piles of timber, disposed at intervals from
+one end of the yard to the other, are a continual source of delight to
+the local urchins. In some places the ground is covered with fallen
+wood, forming a kind of uneven flooring over which it is impossible to
+walk, unless one balance one’s self with marvellous dexterity. Troops
+of children amuse themselves with this exercise all day long. You will
+see them jumping over the big beams, walking in Indian file along the
+narrow ends, or else crawling astride them; various games which
+generally terminate in blows and bellowings. Sometimes, too, a dozen of
+them will sit, closely packed one against the other, on the thin end of
+a pole raised a few feet from the ground, and will see-saw there for
+hours together. The Aire Saint-Mittre thus serves as a recreation
+ground, where for more than a quarter of a century all the little
+suburban ragamuffins have been in the habit of wearing out the seats of
+their breeches.
+
+The strangeness of the place is increased by the circumstance that
+wandering gipsies, by a sort of traditional custom always select the
+vacant portions of it for their encampments. Whenever any caravan
+arrives at Plassans it takes up its quarters on the Aire Saint-Mittre.
+The place is consequently never empty. There is always some strange
+band there, some troop of wild men and withered women, among whom
+groups of healthy-looking children roll about on the grass. These
+people live in the open air, regardless of everybody, setting their
+pots boiling, eating nameless things, freely displaying their tattered
+garments, and sleeping, fighting, kissing, and reeking with mingled
+filth and misery.
+
+The field, formerly so still and deserted, save for the buzzing of
+hornets around the rich blossoms in the heavy sunshine, has thus become
+a very rowdy spot, resounding with the noisy quarrels of the gipsies
+and the shrill cries of the urchins of the suburb. In one corner there
+is a primitive saw-mill for cutting the timber, the noise from which
+serves as a dull, continuous bass accompaniment to the sharp voices.
+The wood is placed on two high tressels, and a couple of sawyers, one
+of whom stands aloft on the timber itself, while the other underneath
+is half blinded by the falling sawdust, work a large saw to and fro for
+hours together, with rigid machine-like regularity, as if they were
+wire-pulled puppets. The wood they saw is stacked, plank by plank,
+along the wall at the end, in carefully arranged piles six or eight
+feet high, which often remain there several seasons, and constitute one
+of the charms of the Aire Saint-Mittre. Between these stacks are
+mysterious, retired little alleys leading to a broader path between the
+timber and the wall, a deserted strip of verdure whence only small
+patches of sky can be seen. The vigorous vegetation and the quivering,
+deathlike stillness of the old cemetery still reign in this path. In
+all the country round Plassans there is no spot more instinct with
+languor, solitude, and love. It is a most delightful place for
+love-making. When the cemetery was being cleared the bones must have
+been heaped up in this corner; for even to-day it frequently happens
+that one’s foot comes across some fragment of a skull lying concealed
+in the damp turf.
+
+Nobody, however, now thinks of the bodies that once slept under that
+turf. In the daytime only the children go behind the piles of wood when
+playing at hide and seek. The green path remains virginal, unknown to
+others who see nought but the wood-yard crowded with timber and grey
+with dust. In the morning and afternoon, when the sun is warm, the
+whole place swarms with life. Above all the turmoil, above the
+ragamuffins playing among the timber, and the gipsies kindling fires
+under their cauldrons, the sharp silhouette of the sawyer mounted on
+his beam stands out against the sky, moving to and fro with the
+precision of clockwork, as if to regulate the busy activity that has
+sprung up in this spot once set apart for eternal slumber. Only the old
+people who sit on the planks, basking in the setting sun, speak
+occasionally among themselves of the bones which they once saw carted
+through the streets of Plassans by the legendary tumbrel.
+
+When night falls the Aire Saint-Mittre loses its animation, and looks
+like some great black hole. At the far end one may just espy the dying
+embers of the gipsies’ fires, and at times shadows slink noiselessly
+into the dense darkness. The place becomes quite sinister, particularly
+in winter time.
+
+One Sunday evening, at about seven o’clock, a young man stepped lightly
+from the Impasse Saint-Mittre, and, closely skirting the walls, took
+his way among the timber in the wood-yard. It was in the early part of
+December, 1851. The weather was dry and cold. The full moon shone with
+that sharp brilliancy peculiar to winter moons. The wood-yard did not
+have the forbidding appearance which it wears on rainy nights;
+illumined by stretches of white light, and wrapped in deep and chilly
+silence, it spread around with a soft, melancholy aspect.
+
+For a few seconds the young man paused on the edge of the yard and
+gazed mistrustfully in front of him. He carried a long gun, the
+butt-end of which was hidden under his jacket, while the barrel,
+pointed towards the ground, glittered in the moonlight. Pressing the
+weapon to his side, he attentively examined the square shadows cast by
+the piles of timber. The ground looked like a chess-board, with black
+and white squares clearly defined by alternate patches of light and
+shade. The sawyers’ tressels in the centre of the plot threw long,
+narrow fantastic shadows, suggesting some huge geometrical figure, upon
+a strip of bare grey ground. The rest of the yard, the flooring of
+beams, formed a great couch on which the light reposed, streaked here
+and there with the slender black shadows which edged the different
+pieces of timber. In the frigid silence under the wintry moon, the
+motionless, recumbent poles, stiffened, as it were, with sleep and
+cold, recalled the corpses of the old cemetery. The young man cast but
+a rapid glance round the empty space; there was not a creature, not a
+sound, no danger of being seen or heard. The black patches at the
+further end caused him more anxiety, but after a brief examination he
+plucked up courage and hurriedly crossed the wood-yard.
+
+As soon as he felt himself under cover he slackened his pace. He was
+now in the green pathway skirting the wall behind the piles of planks.
+Here his very footsteps became inaudible; the frozen grass scarcely
+crackled under his tread. He must have loved the spot, have feared no
+danger, sought nothing but what was pleasant there. He no longer
+concealed his gun. The path stretched away like a dark trench, except
+that the moonrays, gliding ever and anon between the piles of timber,
+then streaked the grass with patches of light. All slept, both darkness
+and light, with the same deep, soft, sad slumber. No words can describe
+the calm peacefulness of the place. The young man went right down the
+path, and stopped at the end where the walls of the Jas-Meiffren form
+an angle. Here he listened as if to ascertain whether any sound might
+be coming from the adjoining estate. At last, hearing nothing, he
+stooped down, thrust a plank aside, and hid his gun in a timber-stack.
+
+An old tombstone, which had been overlooked in the clearing of the
+burial-ground, lay in the corner, resting on its side and forming a
+high and slightly sloping seat. The rain had worn its edges, and moss
+was slowly eating into it. Nevertheless, the following fragment of an
+inscription, cut on the side which was sinking into the ground, might
+still have been distinguished in the moonlight: “_Here lieth . . .
+Marie . . . died . . ._” The finger of time had effaced the rest.
+
+When the young man had concealed his gun he again listened attentively,
+and still hearing nothing, resolved to climb upon the stone. The wall
+being low, he was able to rest his elbows on the coping. He could,
+however, perceive nothing except a flood of light beyond the row of
+mulberry-trees skirting the wall. The flat ground of the Jas-Meiffren
+spread out under the moon like an immense sheet of unbleached linen; a
+hundred yards away the farmhouse and its outbuildings formed a still
+whiter patch. The young man was still gazing anxiously in that
+direction when, suddenly, one of the town clocks slowly and solemnly
+struck seven. He counted the strokes, and then jumped down, apparently
+surprised and relieved.
+
+He seated himself on the tombstone, like one who is prepared to wait
+some considerable time. And for about half an hour he remained
+motionless and deep in thought, apparently quite unconscious of the
+cold, while his eyes gazed fixedly at a mass of shadow. He had placed
+himself in a dark corner, but the beams of the rising moon had
+gradually reached him, and at last his head was in the full light.
+
+He was a strong, sturdy-looking lad, with a fine mouth, and soft
+delicate skin that bespoke youthfulness. He looked about seventeen
+years of age, and was handsome in a characteristic way.
+
+His thin, long face looked like the work of some master sculptor; his
+high forehead, overhanging brows, aquiline nose, broad flat chin, and
+protruding cheek bones, gave singularly bold relief to his countenance.
+Such a face would, with advancing age, become too bony, as fleshless as
+that of a knight errant. But at this stage of youth, with chin and
+cheek lightly covered with soft down, its latent harshness was
+attenuated by the charming softness of certain contours which had
+remained vague and childlike. His soft black eyes, still full of youth,
+also lent delicacy to his otherwise vigorous countenance. The young
+fellow would probably not have fascinated all women, as he was not what
+one calls a handsome man; but his features, as a whole, expressed such
+ardent and sympathetic life, such enthusiasm and energy, that they
+doubtless engaged the thoughts of the girls of his own part—those
+sunburnt girls of the South—as he passed their doors on sultry July
+evenings.
+
+He remained seated upon the tombstone, wrapped in thought, and
+apparently quite unconscious of the moonlight which now fell upon his
+chest and legs. He was of middle stature, rather thick-set, with
+over-developed arms and a labourer’s hands, already hardened by toil;
+his feet, shod with heavy laced boots, looked large and square-toed.
+His general appearance, more particularly the heaviness of his limbs,
+bespoke lowly origin. There was, however, something in him, in the
+upright bearing of his neck and the thoughtful gleams of his eyes,
+which seemed to indicate an inner revolt against the brutifying manual
+labour which was beginning to bend him to the ground. He was, no doubt,
+an intelligent nature buried beneath the oppressive burden of race and
+class; one of those delicate refined minds embedded in a rough
+envelope, from which they in vain struggle to free themselves. Thus, in
+spite of his vigour, he seemed timid and restless, feeling a kind of
+unconscious shame at his imperfection. An honest lad he doubtless was,
+whose very ignorance had generated enthusiasm, whose manly heart was
+impelled by childish intellect, and who could show alike the
+submissiveness of a woman and the courage of a hero. On the evening in
+question he was dressed in a coat and trousers of greenish corduroy. A
+soft felt hat, placed lightly on the back of his head, cast a streak of
+shadow over his brow.
+
+As the neighbouring clock struck the half hour, he suddenly started
+from his reverie. Perceiving that the white moonlight was shining full
+upon him, he gazed anxiously ahead. Then he abruptly dived back into
+the shade, but was unable to recover the thread of his thoughts. He now
+realised that his hands and feet were becoming very cold, and
+impatience seized hold of him. So he jumped upon the stone again, and
+once more glanced over the Jas-Meiffren, which was still empty and
+silent. Finally, at a loss how to employ his time, he jumped down,
+fetched his gun from the pile of planks where he had concealed it, and
+amused himself by working the trigger. The weapon was a long, heavy
+carbine, which had doubtless belonged to some smuggler. The thickness
+of the butt and the breech of the barrel showed it to be an old
+flintlock which had been altered into a percussion gun by some local
+gunsmith. Such firearms are to be found in farmhouses, hanging against
+the wall over the chimney-piece. The young man caressed his weapon with
+affection; twenty times or more he pulled the trigger, thrust his
+little finger into the barrel, and examined the butt attentively. By
+degrees he grew full of youth enthusiasm, combined with childish
+frolicsomeness, and ended by levelling his weapon and aiming at space,
+like a recruit going through his drill.
+
+It was now very nearly eight o’clock, and he had been holding his gun
+levelled for over a minute, when all at once a low, panting call, light
+as a breath, came from the direction of the Jas-Meiffren.
+
+“Are you there, Silvère?” the voice asked.
+
+Silvère dropped his gun and bounded on to the tombstone.
+
+“Yes, yes,” he replied, also in a hushed voice. “Wait, I’ll help you.”
+
+Before he could stretch out his arms, however, a girl’s head appeared
+above the wall. With singular agility the damsel had availed herself of
+the trunk of a mulberry-tree, and climbed aloft like a kitten. The ease
+and certainty with which she moved showed that she was familiar with
+this strange spot. In another moment she was seated on the coping of
+the wall. Then Silvère, taking her in his arms, carried her, though not
+without a struggle, to the seat.
+
+“Let go,” she laughingly cried; “let go, I can get down alone very
+well.” And when she was seated on the stone slab she added:
+
+“Have you been waiting for me long? I’ve been running, and am quite out
+of breath.”
+
+Silvère made no reply. He seemed in no laughing humour, but gazed
+sorrowfully into the girl’s face. “I wanted to see you, Miette,” he
+said, as he seated himself beside her. “I should have waited all night
+for you. I am going away at daybreak to-morrow morning.”
+
+Miette had just caught sight of the gun lying on the grass, and with a
+thoughtful air, she murmured: “Ah! so it’s decided then? There’s your
+gun!”
+
+“Yes,” replied Silvère, after a brief pause, his voice still faltering,
+“it’s my gun. I thought it best to remove it from the house to-night;
+to-morrow morning aunt Dide might have seen me take it, and have felt
+uneasy about it. I am going to hide it, and shall fetch it just before
+starting.”
+
+Then, as Miette could not remove her eyes from the weapon which he had
+so foolishly left on the grass, he jumped up and again hid it among the
+woodstacks.
+
+“We learnt this morning,” he said, as he resumed his seat, “that the
+insurgents of La Palud and Saint Martin-de-Vaulx were on the march, and
+spent last night at Alboise. We have decided to join them. Some of the
+workmen of Plassans have already left the town this afternoon; those
+who still remain will join their brothers to-morrow.”
+
+He spoke the word brothers with youthful emphasis.
+
+“A contest is becoming inevitable,” he added; “but, at any rate, we
+have right on our side, and we shall triumph.”
+
+Miette listened to Silvère, her eyes meantime gazing in front of her,
+without observing anything.
+
+“‘Tis well,” she said, when he had finished speaking. And after a fresh
+pause she continued: “You warned me, yet I still hoped. . . . However,
+it is decided.”
+
+Neither of them knew what else to say. The green path in the deserted
+corner of the wood-yard relapsed into melancholy stillness; only the
+moon chased the shadows of the piles of timber over the grass. The two
+young people on the tombstone remained silent and motionless in the
+pale light. Silvère had passed his arm round Miette’s waist, and she
+was leaning against his shoulder. They exchanged no kisses, naught but
+an embrace in which love showed the innocent tenderness of fraternal
+affection.
+
+Miette was enveloped in a long brown hooded cloak reaching to her feet,
+and leaving only her head and hands visible. The women of the lower
+classes in Provence—the peasantry and workpeople—still wear these ample
+cloaks, which are called pelisses; it is a fashion which must have
+lasted for ages. Miette had thrown back her hood on arriving. Living in
+the open air and born of a hotblooded race, she never wore a cap. Her
+bare head showed in bold relief against the wall, which the moonlight
+whitened. She was still a child, no doubt, but a child ripening into
+womanhood. She had reached that adorable, uncertain hour when the
+frolicsome girl changes to a young woman. At that stage of life a
+bud-like delicacy, a hesitancy of contour that is exquisitely charming,
+distinguishes young girls. The outlines of womanhood appear amidst
+girlhood’s innocent slimness, and woman shoots forth at first all
+embarrassment, still retaining much of the child, and ever and
+unconsciously betraying her sex. This period is very unpropitious for
+some girls, who suddenly shoot up, become ugly, sallow and frail, like
+plants before their due season. For those, however, who, like Miette,
+are healthy and live in the open air, it is a time of delightful
+gracefulness which once passed can never be recalled.
+
+Miette was thirteen years of age, and although strong and sturdy did
+not look any older, so bright and childish was the smile which lit up
+her countenance. However, she was nearly as tall as Silvère, plump and
+full of life. Like her lover, she had no common beauty. She would not
+have been considered ugly, but she might have appeared peculiar to many
+young exquisites. Her rich black hair rose roughly erect above her
+forehead, streamed back like a rushing wave, and flowed over her head
+and neck like an inky sea, tossing and bubbling capriciously. It was
+very thick and inconvenient to arrange. However, she twisted it as
+tightly as possible into coils as thick as a child’s fist, which she
+wound together at the back of her head. She had little time to devote
+to her toilette, but this huge chignon, hastily contrived without the
+aid of any mirror, was often instinct with vigorous grace. On seeing
+her thus naturally helmeted with a mass of frizzy hair which hung about
+her neck and temples like a mane, one could readily understand why she
+always went bareheaded, heedless alike of rain and frost.
+
+Under her dark locks appeared her low forehead, curved and golden like
+a crescent moon. Her large prominent eyes, her short tip-tilted nose
+with dilated nostrils, and her thick ruddy lips, when regarded apart
+from one another, would have looked ugly; viewed, however, all
+together, amidst the delightful roundness and vivacious mobility of her
+countenance, they formed an ensemble of strange, surprising beauty.
+When Miette laughed, throwing back her head and gently resting it on
+her right shoulder, she resembled an old-time Bacchante, her throat
+distending with sonorous gaiety, her cheeks round like those of a
+child, her teeth large and white, her twists of woolly hair tossed by
+every outburst of merriment, and waving like a crown of vine leaves. To
+realise that she was only a child of thirteen, one had to notice the
+innocence underlying her full womanly laughter, and especially the
+child-like delicacy of her chin and soft transparency of her temples.
+In certain lights Miette’s sun-tanned face showed yellow like amber. A
+little soft black down already shaded her upper lip. Toil too was
+beginning to disfigure her small hands, which, if left idle, would have
+become charmingly plump and delicate.
+
+Miette and Silvère long remained silent. They were reading their own
+anxious thoughts, and, as they pondered upon the unknown terrors of the
+morrow, they tightened their mutual embrace. Their hearts communed with
+each other, they understood how useless and cruel would be any verbal
+plaint. The girl, however, could at last no longer contain herself,
+and, choking with emotion, she gave expression, in one phrase, to their
+mutual misgivings.
+
+“You will come back again, won’t you?” she whispered, as she hung on
+Silvère’s neck.
+
+Silvère made no reply, but, half-stifling, and fearing lest he should
+give way to tears like herself, he kissed her in brotherly fashion on
+the cheek, at a loss for any other consolation. Then disengaging
+themselves they again lapsed into silence.
+
+After a moment Miette shuddered. Now that she no longer leant against
+Silvère’s shoulder she was becoming icy cold. Yet she would not have
+shuddered thus had she been in this deserted path the previous evening,
+seated on this tombstone, where for several seasons they had tasted so
+much happiness.
+
+“I’m very cold,” she said, as she pulled her hood over her head.
+
+“Shall we walk about a little?” the young man asked her. “It’s not yet
+nine o’clock; we can take a stroll along the road.”
+
+Miette reflected that for a long time she would probably not have the
+pleasure of another meeting—another of those evening chats, the joy of
+which served to sustain her all day long.
+
+“Yes, let us walk a little,” she eagerly replied. “Let us go as far as
+the mill. I could pass the whole night like this if you wanted to.”
+
+They rose from the tombstone, and were soon hidden in the shadow of a
+pile of planks. Here Miette opened her cloak, which had a quilted
+lining of red twill, and threw half of it over Silvère’s shoulders,
+thus enveloping him as he stood there close beside her. The same
+garment cloaked them both, and they passed their arms round each
+other’s waist, and became as it were but one being. When they were thus
+shrouded in the pelisse they walked slowly towards the high road,
+fearlessly crossing the vacant parts of the wood-yard, which looked
+white in the moonlight. Miette had thrown the cloak over Silvère, and
+he had submitted to it quite naturally, as though indeed the garment
+rendered them a similar service every evening.
+
+The road to Nice, on either side of which the suburban houses are
+built, was, in the year 1851, lined with ancient elm-trees, grand and
+gigantic ruins, still full of vigour, which the fastidious town council
+has replaced, some years since, by some little plane-trees. When
+Silvère and Miette found themselves under the elms, the huge boughs of
+which cast shadows on the moonlit footpath, they met now and again
+black forms which silently skirted the house fronts. These, too, were
+amorous couples, closely wrapped in one and the same cloak, and
+strolling in the darkness.
+
+This style of promenading has been instituted by the young lovers of
+Southern towns. Those boys and girls among the people who mean to marry
+sooner or later, but who do not dislike a kiss or two in advance, know
+no spot where they can kiss at their ease without exposing themselves
+to recognition and gossip. Accordingly, while strolling about the
+suburbs, the plots of waste land, the footpaths of the high road—in
+fact, all these places where there are few passers-by and numerous
+shady nooks—they conceal their identity by wrapping themselves in these
+long cloaks, which are capacious enough to cover a whole family. The
+parents tolerate these proceedings; however stiff may be provincial
+propriety, no apprehensions, seemingly, are entertained. And, on the
+other hand, nothing could be more charming than these lovers’ rambles,
+which appeal so keenly to the Southerner’s fanciful imagination. There
+is a veritable masquerade, fertile in innocent enjoyments, within the
+reach of the most humble. The girl clasps her sweetheart to her bosom,
+enveloping him in her own warm cloak; and no doubt it is delightful to
+be able to kiss one’s sweetheart within those shrouding folds without
+danger of being recognised. One couple is exactly like another. And to
+the belated pedestrian, who sees the vague groups gliding hither and
+thither, ‘tis merely love passing, love guessed and scarce espied. The
+lovers know they are safely concealed within their cloaks, they
+converse in undertones and make themselves quite at home; most
+frequently they do not converse at all, but walk along at random and in
+silence, content in their embrace. The climate alone is to blame for
+having in the first instance prompted these young lovers to retire to
+secluded spots in the suburbs. On fine summer nights one cannot walk
+round Plassans without coming across a hooded couple in every patch of
+shadow falling from the house walls. Certain places, the Aire
+Saint-Mittre, for instance, are full of these dark “dominoes” brushing
+past one another, gliding softly in the warm nocturnal air. One might
+imagine they were guests invited to some mysterious ball given by the
+stars to lowly lovers. When the weather is very warm and the girls do
+not wear cloaks, they simply turn up their over-skirts. And in the
+winter the more passionate lovers make light of the frosts. Thus,
+Miette and Silvère, as they descended the Nice road, thought little of
+the chill December night.
+
+They passed through the slumbering suburb without exchanging a word,
+but enjoying the mute delight of their warm embrace. Their hearts were
+heavy; the joy which they felt in being side by side was tinged with
+the painful emotion which comes from the thought of approaching
+severance, and it seemed to them that they could never exhaust the
+mingled sweetness and bitterness of the silence which slowly lulled
+their steps. But the houses soon grew fewer, and they reached the end
+of the Faubourg. There stands the entrance to the Jas-Meiffren, an iron
+gate fixed to two strong pillars; a low row of mulberry-trees being
+visible through the bars. Silvère and Miette instinctively cast a
+glance inside as they passed on.
+
+Beyond the Jas-Meiffren the road descends with a gentle slope to a
+valley, which serves as the bed of a little rivulet, the Viorne, a
+brook in summer but a torrent in winter. The rows of elms still
+extended the whole way at that time, making the high road a magnificent
+avenue, which cast a broad band of gigantic trees across the hill,
+which was planted with corn and stunted vines. On that December night,
+under the clear cold moonlight, the newly-ploughed fields stretching
+away on either hand resembled vast beds of greyish wadding which
+deadened every sound in the atmosphere. The dull murmur of the Viorne
+in the distance alone sent a quivering thrill through the profound
+silence of the country-side.
+
+When the young people had begun to descend the avenue, Miette’s
+thoughts reverted to the Jas-Meiffren which they had just left behind
+them.
+
+“I had great difficulty in getting away this evening,” she said. “My
+uncle wouldn’t let me go. He had shut himself up in a cellar, where he
+was hiding his money, I think, for he seemed greatly frightened this
+morning at the events that are taking place.”
+
+Silvère clasped her yet more lovingly. “Be brave!” said he. “The time
+will come when we shall be able to see each other freely the whole day
+long. You must not fret.”
+
+“Oh,” replied the girl, shaking her head, “you are very hopeful. For my
+part I sometimes feel very sad. It isn’t the hard work which grieves
+me; on the contrary, I am often very glad of my uncle’s severity, and
+the tasks he sets me. He was quite right to make me a peasant girl; I
+should perhaps have turned out badly, for, do you know, Silvère, there
+are moments when I fancy myself under a curse. . . . I feel, then, that
+I should like to be dead. . . . I think of you know whom.”
+
+As she spoke these last words, her voice broke into a sob. Silvère
+interrupted her somewhat harshly. “Be quiet,” he said. “You promised
+not to think about it. It’s no crime of yours. . . . We love each other
+very much, don’t we?” he added in a gentler tone. “When we’re married
+you’ll have no more unpleasant hours.”
+
+“I know,” murmured Miette. “You are so kind, you sustain me. But what
+am I to do? I sometimes have fears and feelings of revolt. I think at
+times that I have been wronged, and then I should like to do something
+wicked. You see I pour forth my heart to you. Whenever my father’s name
+is thrown in my face, I feel my whole body burning. When the urchins
+cry at me as I pass, ‘Eh, La Chantegreil,’ I lose all control of
+myself, and feel that I should like to lay hold of them and whip them.”
+
+After a savage pause she resumed: “As for you, you’re a man; you’re
+going to fight; you’re very lucky.”
+
+Silvère had let her speak on. After a few steps he observed
+sorrowfully: “You are wrong, Miette; yours is bad anger. You shouldn’t
+rebel against justice. As for me, I’m going to fight in defence of our
+common rights, not to gratify any personal animosity.”
+
+“All the same,” the young girl continued, “I should like to be a man
+and handle a gun. I feel that it would do me good.”
+
+Then, as Silvère remained silent, she perceived that she had displeased
+him. Her feverishness subsided, and she whispered in a supplicating
+tone: “You are not angry with me, are you? It’s your departure which
+grieves me and awakens such ideas. I know very well you are right—that
+I ought to be humble.”
+
+Then she began to cry, and Silvère, moved by her tears, grasped her
+hands and kissed them.
+
+“See, now, how you pass from anger to tears, like a child,” he said
+lovingly. “You must be reasonable. I’m not scolding you. I only want to
+see you happier, and that depends largely upon yourself.”
+
+The remembrance of the drama which Miette had so sadly evoked cast a
+temporary gloom over the lovers. They continued their walk with bowed
+heads and troubled thoughts.
+
+“Do you think I’m much happier than you?” Silvère at last inquired,
+resuming the conversation in spite of himself. “If my grandmother had
+not taken care of me and educated me, what would have become of me?
+With the exception of my Uncle Antoine, who is an artisan like myself,
+and who taught me to love the Republic, all my other relations seem to
+fear that I might besmirch them by coming near them.”
+
+He was now speaking with animation, and suddenly stopped, detaining
+Miette in the middle of the road.
+
+“God is my witness,” he continued, “that I do not envy or hate anybody.
+But if we triumph, I shall have to tell the truth to those fine
+gentlemen. Uncle Antoine knows all about this matter. You’ll see when
+we return. We shall all live free and happy.”
+
+Then Miette gently led him on, and they resumed their walk.
+
+“You dearly love your Republic?” the girl asked, essaying a joke. “Do
+you love me as much?”
+
+Her smile was not altogether free from a tinge of bitterness. She was
+thinking, perhaps, how easily Silvère abandoned her to go and scour the
+country-side. But the lad gravely replied: “You are my wife, to whom I
+have given my whole heart. I love the Republic because I love you. When
+we are married we shall want plenty of happiness, and it is to procure
+a share of that happiness that I’m going way to-morrow morning. You
+surely don’t want to persuade me to remain at home?”
+
+“Oh, no!” cried the girl eagerly. “A man should be brave! Courage is
+beautiful! You must forgive my jealousy. I should like to be as
+strong-minded as you are. You would love me all the more, wouldn’t
+you?”
+
+After a moment’s silence she added, with charming vivacity and
+ingenuousness: “Ah, how willingly I shall kiss you when you come back!”
+
+This outburst of a loving and courageous heart deeply affected Silvère.
+He clasped Miette in his arms and printed several kisses on her cheek.
+As she laughingly struggled to escape him, her eyes filled with tears
+of emotion.
+
+All around the lovers the country still slumbered amid the deep
+stillness of the cold. They were now half-way down the hill. On the top
+of a rather lofty hillock to the left stood the ruins of a windmill,
+blanched by the moon; the tower, which had fallen in on one side, alone
+remained. This was the limit which the young people had assigned to
+their walk. They had come straight from the Faubourg without casting a
+single glance at the fields between which they passed. When Silvère had
+kissed Miette’s cheek, he raised his head and observed the mill.
+
+“What a long walk we’ve had!” he exclaimed. “See—here is the mill. It
+must be nearly half-past nine. We must go home.”
+
+But Miette pouted. “Let us walk a little further,” she implored; “only
+a few steps, just as far as the little cross-road, no farther, really.”
+
+Silvère smiled as he again took her round the waist. Then they
+continued to descend the hill, no longer fearing inquisitive glances,
+for they had not met a living soul since passing the last houses. They
+nevertheless remained enveloped in the long pelisse, which seemed, as
+it were, a natural nest for their love. It had shrouded them on so many
+happy evenings! Had they simply walked side by side, they would have
+felt small and isolated in that vast stretch of country, whereas,
+blended together as they were, they became bolder and seemed less puny.
+Between the folds of the pelisse they gazed upon the fields stretching
+on both sides of the road, without experiencing that crushing feeling
+with which far-stretching callous vistas oppress the human affections.
+It seemed to them as though they had brought their house with them;
+they felt a pleasure in viewing the country-side as from a window,
+delighting in the calm solitude, the sheets of slumbering light, the
+glimpses of nature vaguely distinguishable beneath the shroud of night
+and winter, the whole of that valley indeed, which while charming them
+could not thrust itself between their close-pressed hearts.
+
+All continuity of conversation had ceased; they spoke no more of
+others, nor even of themselves. They were absorbed by the present,
+pressing each other’s hands, uttering exclamations at the sight of some
+particular spot, exchanging words at rare intervals, and then
+understanding each other but little, for drowsiness came from the
+warmth of their embrace. Silvère forgot his Republican enthusiasm;
+Miette no longer reflected that her lover would be leaving her in an
+hour, for a long time, perhaps for ever. The transports of their
+affection lulled them into a feeling of security, as on other days,
+when no prospect of parting had marred the tranquility of their
+meetings.
+
+They still walked on, and soon reached the little crossroad mentioned
+by Miette—a bit of a lane which led through the fields to a village on
+the banks of the Viorne. But they passed on, pretending not to notice
+this path, where they had agreed to stop. And it was only some minutes
+afterwards that Silvère whispered, “It must be very late; you will get
+tired.”
+
+“No; I assure you I’m not at all tired,” the girl replied. “I could
+walk several leagues like this easily.” Then, in a coaxing tone, she
+added: “Let us go down as far as the meadows of Sainte-Claire. There we
+will really stop and turn back.”
+
+Silvère, whom the girl’s rhythmic gait lulled to semi-somnolence, made
+no objection, and their rapture began afresh. They now went on more
+slowly, fearing the moment when they would have to retrace their steps.
+So long as they walked onward, they felt as though they were advancing
+to the eternity of their mutual embrace; the return would mean
+separation and bitter leave-taking.
+
+The declivity of the road was gradually becoming more gentle. In the
+valley below there are meadows extending as far as the Viorne, which
+runs at the other end, beneath a range of low hills. These meadows,
+separated from the high-road by thickset hedges, are the meadows of
+Sainte-Claire.
+
+“Bah!” exclaimed Silvère this time, as he caught sight of the first
+patches of grass: “we may as well go as far as the bridge.”
+
+At this Miette burst out laughing, clasped the young man round the
+neck, and kissed him noisily.
+
+At the spot where the hedges begin, there were in those days two elms
+forming the end of the long avenue, two colossal trees larger than any
+of the others. The treeless fields stretch out from the high road, like
+a broad band of green wool, as far as the willows and birches by the
+river. The distance from the last elms to the bridge is scarcely three
+hundred yards. The lovers took a good quarter of an hour to cover that
+space. At last, however slow their gait, they reached the bridge, and
+there they stopped.
+
+The road to Nice ran up in front of them, along the opposite slope of
+the valley. But they could only see a small portion of it, as it takes
+a sudden turn about half a mile from the bridge, and is lost to view
+among the wooded hills. On looking round they caught sight of the other
+end of the road, that which they had just traversed, and which leads in
+a direct line from Plassans to the Viorne. In the beautiful winter
+moonlight it looked like a long silver ribbon, with dark edgings traced
+by the rows of elms. On the right and left the ploughed hill-land
+showed like vast, grey, vague seas intersected by this ribbon, this
+roadway white with frost, and brilliant as with metallic lustre. Up
+above, on a level with the horizon, lights shone from a few windows in
+the Faubourg, resembling glowing sparks. By degrees Miette and Silvère
+had walked fully a league. They gazed at the intervening road, full of
+silent admiration for the vast amphitheatre which rose to the verge of
+the heavens, and over which flowed bluish streams of light, as over the
+superposed rocks of a gigantic waterfall. The strange and colossal
+picture spread out amid deathlike stillness and silence. Nothing could
+have been of more sovereign grandeur.
+
+Then the young people, having leant against the parapet of the bridge,
+gazed beneath them. The Viorne, swollen by the rains, flowed on with a
+dull, continuous sound. Up and down stream, despite the darkness which
+filled the hollows, they perceived the black lines of the trees growing
+on the banks; here and there glided the moonbeams, casting a trail of
+molten metal, as it were, over the water, which glittered and danced
+like rays of light on the scales of some live animal. The gleams darted
+with a mysterious charm along the gray torrent, betwixt the vague
+phantom-like foliage. You might have thought this an enchanted valley,
+some wondrous retreat where a community of shadows and gleams lived a
+fantastic life.
+
+This part of the river was familiar to the lovers; they had often come
+here in search of coolness on warm July nights; they had spent hours
+hidden among the clusters of willows on the right bank, at the spot
+where the meadows of Sainte-Claire spread their verdant carpet to the
+waterside. They remembered every bend of the bank, the stones on which
+they had stepped in order to cross the Viorne, at that season as narrow
+as a brooklet, and certain little grassy hollows where they had
+indulged in their dreams of love. Miette, therefore, now gazed from the
+bridge at the right bank of the torrent with longing eyes.
+
+“If it were warmer,” she sighed, “we might go down and rest awhile
+before going back up the hill.” Then, after a pause, during which she
+kept her eyes fixed on the banks, she resumed: “Look down there,
+Silvère, at that black mass yonder in front of the lock. Do you
+remember? That’s the brushwood where we sat last Corpus Christi Day.”
+
+“Yes, so it is,” replied Silvère, softly.
+
+This was the spot where they had first ventured to kiss each other on
+the cheek. The remembrance just roused by the girl’s words brought both
+of them a delightful feeling, an emotion in which the joys of the past
+mingled with the hopes of the morrow. Before their eyes, with the
+rapidity of lightening, there passed all the delightful evenings they
+had spent together, especially that evening of Corpus Christi Day, with
+the warm sky, the cool willows of the Viorne, and their own loving
+talk. And at the same time, whilst the past came back to their hearts
+full of a delightful savour, they fancied they could plunge into the
+unknown future, see their dreams realised, and march through life arm
+in arm—even as they had just been doing on the highway—warmly wrapped
+in the same cloak. Then rapture came to them again, and they smiled in
+each other’s eyes, alone amidst all the silent radiance.
+
+Suddenly, however, Silvère raised his head and, throwing off the cloak,
+listened attentively. Miette, in her surprise, imitated him, at a loss
+to understand why he had started so abruptly from her side.
+
+Confused sounds had for a moment been coming from behind the hills in
+the midst of which the Nice road wends its way. They suggested the
+distant jolting of a procession of carts; but not distinctly, so loud
+was the roaring of the Viorne. Gradually, however, they became more
+pronounced, and rose at last like the tramping of an army on the march.
+Then amidst the continuous growing rumble one detected the shouts of a
+crowd, strange rhythmical blasts as of a hurricane. One could even have
+fancied they were the thunderclaps of a rapidly approaching storm which
+was already disturbing the slumbering atmosphere. Silvère listened
+attentively, unable to tell, however, what were those tempest-like
+shouts, for the hills prevented them from reaching him distinctly.
+Suddenly a dark mass appeared at the turn of the road, and then the
+“Marseillaise” burst forth, formidable, sung as with avenging fury.
+
+“Ah, here they are!” cried Silvère, with a burst of joyous enthusiasm.
+
+Forthwith he began to run up the hill, dragging Miette with him. On the
+left of the road was an embankment planted with evergreen oaks, up
+which he clambered with the young girl, to avoid being carried away by
+the surging, howling multitude.
+
+When he had reached the top of the bank and the shadow of the
+brushwood, Miette, rather pale, gazed sorrowfully at those men whose
+distant song had sufficed to draw Silvère from her embrace. It seemed
+as if the whole band had thrust itself between them. They had been so
+happy a few minutes before, locked in each other’s arms, alone and lost
+amidst the overwhelming silence and discreet glimmer of the moon! And
+now Silvère, whose head was turned away from her, who no longer seemed
+even conscious of her presence, had eyes only for those strangers whom
+he called his brothers.
+
+The band descended the slope with a superb, irresistible stride. There
+could have been nothing grander than the irruption of those few
+thousand men into that cold, still, deathly scene. The highway became a
+torrent, rolling with living waves which seemed inexhaustible. At the
+bend in the road fresh masses ever appeared, whose songs ever helped to
+swell the roar of this human tempest. When the last battalions came in
+sight the uproar was deafening. The “Marseillaise” filled the
+atmosphere as if blown through enormous trumpets by giant mouths, which
+cast it, vibrating with a brazen clang, into every corner of the
+valley. The slumbering country-side awoke with a start—quivering like a
+beaten drum resonant to its very entrails, and repeating with each and
+every echo the passionate notes of the national song. And then the
+singing was no longer confined to the men. From the very horizon, from
+the distant rocks, the ploughed land, the meadows, the copses, the
+smallest bits of brushwood, human voices seemed to come. The great
+amphitheatre, extending from the river to Plassans, the gigantic
+cascade over which the bluish moonlight flowed, was as if filled with
+innumerable invisible people cheering the insurgents; and in the depths
+of the Viorne, along the waters streaked with mysterious metallic
+reflections, there was not a dark nook but seemed to conceal human
+beings, who took up each refrain with yet greater passion. With air and
+earth alike quivering, the whole country-side cried for vengeance and
+liberty. So long as the little army was descending the slope, the roar
+of the populace thus rolled on in sonorous waves broken by abrupt
+outbursts which shook the very stones in the roadway.
+
+Silvère, pale with emotion, still listened and looked on. The
+insurgents who led the van of that swarming, roaring stream, so vague
+and monstrous in the darkness, were rapidly approaching the bridge.
+
+“I thought,” murmured Miette, “that you would not pass through
+Plassans?”
+
+“They must have altered the plan of operations,” Silvère replied; “we
+were, in fact, to have marched to the chief town by the Toulon road,
+passing to the left of Plassans and Orcheres. They must have left
+Alboise this afternoon and passed Les Tulettes this evening.”
+
+The head of the column had already arrived in front of the young
+people. The little army was more orderly than one would have expected
+from a band of undisciplined men. The contingents from the various
+towns and villages formed separate battalions, each separated by a
+distance of a few paces. These battalions were apparently under the
+orders of certain chiefs. For the nonce the pace at which they were
+descending the hillside made them a compact mass of invincible
+strength. There were probably about three thousand men, all united and
+carried away by the same storm of indignation. The strange details of
+the scene were not discernible amidst the shadows cast over the highway
+by the lofty slopes. At five or six feet from the brushwood, however,
+where Miette and Silvère were sheltered, the left-hand embankment gave
+place to a little pathway which ran alongside the Viorne; and the
+moonlight, flowing through this gap, cast a broad band of radiance
+across the road. When the first insurgents reached this patch of light
+they were suddenly illumined by a sharp white glow which revealed, with
+singular distinctness, every outline of visage or costume. And as the
+various contingents swept on, the young people thus saw them emerge,
+fiercely and without cessation, from the surrounding darkness.
+
+As the first men passed through the light Miette instinctively clung to
+Silvère, although she knew she was safe, even from observation. She
+passed her arm round the young fellow’s neck, resting her head against
+his shoulder. And with the hood of her pelisse encircling her pale face
+she gazed fixedly at that square patch of light as it was rapidly
+traversed by those strange faces, transfigured by enthusiasm, with dark
+open mouths full of the furious cry of the “Marseillaise.” Silvère,
+whom she felt quivering at her side, then bent towards her and named
+the various contingents as they passed.
+
+The column marched along eight abreast. In the van were a number of
+big, square-headed fellows, who seemed to possess the herculean
+strength and naïve confidence of giants. They would doubtless prove
+blind, intrepid defenders of the Republic. On their shoulders they
+carried large axes, whose edges, freshly sharpened, glittered in the
+moonlight.
+
+“Those are the woodcutters of the forests of the Seille,” said Silvère.
+“They have been formed into a corps of sappers. At a signal from their
+leaders they would march as far as Paris, battering down the gates of
+the towns with their axes, just as they cut down the old cork-trees on
+the mountain.”
+
+The young man spoke with pride of the heavy fists of his brethren. And
+on seeing a band of labourers and rough-bearded men, tanned by the sun,
+coming along behind the woodcutters, he continued: “That is the
+contingent from La Palud. That was the first place to rise. The men in
+blouses are labourers who cut up the cork-trees; the others in
+velveteen jackets must be sportsmen, poachers, and charcoal-burners
+living in the passes of the Seille. The poachers knew your father,
+Miette. They have good firearms, which they handle skilfully. Ah! if
+all were armed in the same manner! We are short of muskets. See, the
+labourers have only got cudgels!”
+
+Miette, still speechless, looked on and listened. As Silvère spoke to
+her of her father, the blood surged to her cheeks. Her face burnt as
+she scrutinised the sportsmen with a strange air of mingled indignation
+and sympathy. From this moment she grew animated, yielding to the
+feverish quiver which the insurgents’ songs awakened.
+
+The column, which had just begun the “Marseillaise” afresh, was still
+marching down as though lashed on by the sharp blasts of the “Mistral.”
+The men of La Palud were followed by another troop of workmen, among
+whom a goodly number of middle class folks in great-coats were to be
+seen.
+
+“Those are the men of Saint-Martin-de-Vaulx,” Silvère resumed. “That
+_bourg_ rose almost at the same time as La Palud. The masters joined
+the workmen. There are some rich men there, Miette; men whose wealth
+would enable them to live peacefully at home, but who prefer to risk
+their lives in defence of liberty. One can but admire them. Weapons are
+very scarce, however; they’ve scarcely got a few fowling-pieces. But do
+you see those men yonder, Miette, with red bands round their left
+elbows? They are the leaders.”
+
+The contingents descended the hill more rapidly than Silvère could
+speak. While he was naming the men from Saint-Martin-de-Vaulx, two
+battalions had already crossed the ray of light which blanched the
+roadway.
+
+“Did you see the insurgents from Alboise and Les Tulettes pass by just
+now?” he asked. “I recognised Burgat the blacksmith. They must have
+joined the band to-day. How they do run!”
+
+Miette was now leaning forward, in order to see more of the little
+bands described to her by the young man. The quiver she felt rose from
+her bosom to her throat. Then a battalion larger and better disciplined
+than the others appeared. The insurgents composing it were nearly all
+dressed in blue blouses, with red sashes round their waists. One would
+have thought they were arrayed in uniform. A man on horseback, with a
+sabre at his side, was in the midst of them. And most of these
+improvised soldiers carried guns, probably carbines and old muskets of
+the National Guard.
+
+“I don’t know those,” said Silvère. “The man on horseback must be the
+chief I’ve heard spoken of. He brought with him the contingents from
+Faverolles and the neighbouring villages. The whole column ought to be
+equipped in the same manner.”
+
+He had no time to take breath. “Ah! see, here are the country people!”
+he suddenly cried.
+
+Small groups of ten or twenty men at the most were now advancing behind
+the men of Faverolles. They all wore the short jacket of the Southern
+peasantry, and as they sang they brandished pitchforks and scythes.
+Some of them even only carried large navvies’ shovels. Every hamlet,
+however, had sent its able-bodied men.
+
+Silvère, who recognised the parties by their leaders, enumerated them
+in feverish tones. “The contingent from Chavanoz!” said he. “There are
+only eight men, but they are strong; Uncle Antoine knows them. Here’s
+Nazeres! Here’s Poujols! They’re all here; not one has failed to answer
+the summons. Valqueyras! Hold, there’s the parson amongst them; I’ve
+heard about him, he’s a staunch Republican.”
+
+He was becoming intoxicated with the spectacle. Now that each battalion
+consisted of only a few insurgents he had to name them yet more
+hastily, and his precipitancy gave him the appearance of one in a
+frenzy.
+
+“Ah! Miette,” he continued, “what a fine march past! Rozan! Vernoux!
+Corbière! And there are more still, you’ll see. These have only got
+scythes, but they’ll mow down the troops as close as the grass in their
+meadows—Saint-Eutrope! Mazet! Les Gardes, Marsanne! The whole north
+side of the Seille! Ah, we shall be victorious! The whole country is
+with us. Look at those men’s arms, they are hard and black as iron.
+There’s no end to them. There’s Pruinas! Roches Noires! Those last are
+smugglers: they are carrying carbines. Still more scythes and
+pitchforks, the contingents of country folk are still passing.
+Castel-le-Vieux! Sainte-Anne! Graille! Estourmel! Murdaran!”
+
+His voice was husky with emotion as he finished naming these men, who
+seemed to be borne away by a whirlwind as fast as he enumerated them.
+Erect, with glowing countenance, he pointed out the several contingents
+with a nervous gesture. Miette followed his movements. The road below
+attracted her like the depths of a precipice. To avoid slipping down
+the incline she clung to the young man’s neck. A strange intoxication
+emanated from those men, who themselves were inebriated with clamour,
+courage, and confidence. Those beings, seen athwart a moonbeam, those
+youths and those men in their prime, those old people brandishing
+strange weapons and dressed in the most diverse costumes, from working
+smock to middle class overcoat, those endless rows of heads, which the
+hour and the circumstances endowed with an expression of fanatical
+energy and enthusiasm, gradually appeared to the girl like a whirling,
+impetuous torrent. At certain moments she fancied they were not of
+themselves moving, that they were really being carried away by the
+force of the “Marseillaise,” by that hoarse, sonorous chant. She could
+not distinguish any conversation, she heard but a continuous volume of
+sound, alternating from bass to shrill notes, as piercing as nails
+driven into one’s flesh. This roar of revolt, this call to combat, to
+death, with its outbursts of indignation, its burning thirst for
+liberty, its remarkable blending of bloodthirsty and sublime impulses,
+unceasingly smote her heart, penetrating more deeply at each fierce
+outburst, and filling her with the voluptuous pangs of a virgin martyr
+who stands erect and smiles under the lash. And the crowd flowed on
+ever amidst the same sonorous wave of sound. The march past, which did
+not really last more than a few minutes, seemed to the young people to
+be interminable.
+
+Truly, Miette was but a child. She had turned pale at the approach of
+the band, she had wept for the loss of love, but she was a brave child,
+whose ardent nature was easily fired by enthusiasm. Thus ardent
+emotions had gradually got possession of her, and she became as
+courageous as a youth. She would willingly have seized a weapon and
+followed the insurgents. As the muskets and scythes filed past, her
+white teeth glistened longer and sharper between her red lips, like the
+fangs of a young wolf eager to bite and tear. And as she listened to
+Silvère enumerating the contingents from the country-side with
+ever-increasing haste, the pace of the column seemed to her to
+accelerate still more. She soon fancied it all a cloud of human dust
+swept along by a tempest. Everything began to whirl before her. Then
+she closed her eyes; big hot tears were rolling down her cheeks.
+
+Silvère’s eyelashes were also moist. “I don’t see the men who left
+Plassans this afternoon,” he murmured.
+
+He tried to distinguish the end of the column, which was still hidden
+by the darkness. Suddenly he cried with joyous exultation: “Ah, here
+they are! They’ve got the banner—the banner has been entrusted to
+them!”
+
+Then he wanted to leap from the slope in order to join his companions.
+At this moment, however, the insurgents halted. Words of command ran
+along the column, the “Marseillaise” died out in a final rumble, and
+one could only hear the confused murmuring of the still surging crowd.
+Silvère, as he listened, caught the orders which were passed on from
+one contingent to another; they called the men of Plassans to the van.
+Then, as each battalion ranged itself alongside the road to make way
+for the banner, the young man reascended the embankment, dragging
+Miette with him.
+
+“Come,” he said; “we can get across the river before they do.”
+
+When they were on the top, among the ploughed land, they ran along to a
+mill whose lock bars the river. Then they crossed the Viorne on a plank
+placed there by the millers, and cut across the meadows of
+Sainte-Claire, running hand-in-hand, without exchanging a word. The
+column threw a dark line over the highway, which they followed
+alongside the hedges. There were some gaps in the hawthorns, and at
+last Silvère and Miette sprang on to the road through one of them.
+
+In spite of the circuitous way they had come, they arrived at the same
+time as the men of Plassans. Silvère shook hands with some of them.
+They must have thought he had heard of the new route they had chosen,
+and had come to meet them. Miette, whose face was half-concealed by her
+hood, was scrutinised rather inquisitively.
+
+“Why, it’s Chantegreil,” at last said one of the men from the Faubourg
+of Plassans, “the niece of Rebufat, the _méger_[*] of the
+Jas-Meiffren.”
+
+[*] A _méger_ 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.
+
+Silvère, intoxicated with enthusiasm, had not thought of the distress
+which his sweetheart would feel at the jeers of the workmen. Miette,
+all confusion, looked at him as if to implore his aid. But before he
+could even open his lips another voice rose from the crowd, brutally
+exclaiming:
+
+“Her father’s at the galleys; we don’t want the daughter of a thief and
+murderer amongst us.”
+
+At this Miette turned dreadfully pale.
+
+“You lie!” she muttered. “If my father did kill anybody, he never
+thieved!”
+
+And as Silvère, pale and trembling more than she, began to clench his
+fists: “Stop!” she continued; “this is my affair.”
+
+Then, turning to the men, she repeated with a shout: “You lie! You lie!
+He never stole a copper from anybody. You know it well enough. Why do
+you insult him when he can’t be here?”
+
+She drew herself up, superb with indignation. With her ardent,
+half-wild nature she seemed to accept the charge of murder composedly
+enough, but that of theft exasperated her. They knew it, and that was
+why folks, from stupid malice, often cast the accusation in her face.
+
+The man who had just called her father a thief was merely repeating
+what he had heard said for many years. The girl’s defiant attitude only
+incited the workmen to jeer the more. Silvère still had his fists
+clenched, and matters might have become serious if a poacher from the
+Seille, who had been sitting on a heap of stones at the roadside
+awaiting the order to march, had not come to the girl’s assistance.
+
+“The little one’s right,” he said. “Chantegreil was one of us. I knew
+him. Nobody knows the real facts of his little matter. I always
+believed in the truth of his deposition before the judge. The gendarme
+whom he brought down with a bullet, while he was out shooting, was no
+doubt taking aim at him at the time. A man must defend himself! At all
+events Chantegreil was a decent fellow; he committed no robbery.”
+
+As often happens in such cases, the testimony of this poacher sufficed
+to bring other defenders to Miette’s aid. Several workmen also
+professed to have known Chantegreil.
+
+“Yes, yes, it’s true!” they all said. “He wasn’t a thief. There are
+some scoundrels at Plassans who ought to be sent to prison in his
+place. Chantegreil was our brother. Come, now, be calm, little one.”
+
+Miette had never before heard anyone speak well of her father. He was
+generally referred to as a beggar, a villain, and now she found good
+fellows who had forgiving words for him, and declared him to be an
+honest man. She burst into tears, again full of the emotion awakened in
+her by the “Marseillaise;” and she bethought herself how she might
+thank these men for their kindness to her in misfortune. For a moment
+she conceived the idea of shaking them all by the hand like a man. But
+her heart suggested something better. By her side stood the insurgent
+who carried the banner. She touched the staff, and, to express her
+gratitude, said in an entreating tone, “Give it to me; I will carry
+it.”
+
+The simple-minded workmen understood the ingenuous sublimity of this
+form of gratitude.
+
+“Yes,” they all cried, “Chantegreil shall carry the banner.”
+
+However, a woodcutter remarked that she would soon get tired, and would
+not be able to go far.
+
+“Oh! I’m quite strong,” she retorted proudly, tucking up her sleeves
+and showing a pair of arms as big as those of a grown woman. Then as
+they handed her the flag she resumed, “Wait just a moment.”
+
+Forthwith she pulled off her cloak, and put it on again after turning
+the red lining outside. In the clear moonlight she appeared to be
+arrayed in a purple mantle reaching to her feet. The hood resting on
+the edge of her chignon formed a kind of Phrygian cap. She took the
+flag, pressed the staff to her bosom, and held herself upright amid the
+folds of that blood-coloured banner which waved behind her.
+Enthusiastic child that she was, her countenance, with its curly hair,
+large eyes moist with tears, and lips parted in a smile, seemed to rise
+with energetic pride as she turned it towards the sky. At that moment
+she was the virgin Liberty.
+
+The insurgents burst into applause. The vivid imagination of those
+Southerners was fired with enthusiasm at the sudden apparition of this
+girl so nervously clasping their banner to her bosom. Shouts rose from
+the nearest group:
+
+“Bravo, Chantegreil! Chantegreil for ever! She shall remain with us;
+she’ll bring us luck!”
+
+They would have cheered her for a long time yet had not the order to
+resume the march arrived. Whilst the column moved on, Miette pressed
+Silvère’s hand and whispered in his ear: “You hear! I shall remain with
+you. Are you glad?”
+
+Silvère, without replying, returned the pressure. He consented. In
+fact, he was deeply affected, unable to resist the enthusiasm which
+fired his companions. Miette seemed to him so lovely, so grand, so
+saintly! During the whole climb up the hill he still saw her before
+him, radiant, amidst a purple glory. She was now blended with his other
+adored mistress—the Republic. He would have liked to be in action
+already, with his gun on his shoulder. But the insurgents moved slowly.
+They had orders to make as little noise as possible. Thus the column
+advanced between the rows of elms like some gigantic serpent whose
+every ring had a strange quivering. The frosty December night had again
+sunk into silence, and the Viorne alone seemed to roar more loudly.
+
+On reaching the first houses of the Faubourg, Silvère ran on in front
+to fetch his gun from the Aire Saint-Mittre, which he found slumbering
+in the moonlight. When he again joined the insurgents they had reached
+the Porte de Rome. Miette bent towards him, and with her childish smile
+observed: “I feel as if I were at the procession on Corpus Christi Day
+carrying the banner of the Virgin.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+
+Plassans is a sub-prefecture with about ten thousand inhabitants. Built
+on a plateau overlooking the Viorne, and resting on the north side
+against the Garrigues hills, one of the last spurs of the Alps, the
+town is situated, as it were, in the depths of a cul-de-sac. In 1851 it
+communicated with the adjoining country by two roads only, the Nice
+road, which runs down to the east, and the Lyons road, which rises to
+the west, the one continuing the other on almost parallel lines. Since
+that time a railway has been built which passes to the south of the
+town, below the hill which descends steeply from the old ramparts to
+the river. At the present day, on coming out of the station on the
+right bank of the little torrent, one can see, by raising one’s head,
+the first houses of Plassans, with their gardens disposed in terrace
+fashion. It is, however, only after an uphill walk lasting a full
+quarter of an hour that one reaches these houses.
+
+About twenty years ago, owing, no doubt, to deficient means of
+communication, there was no town that had more completely retained the
+pious and aristocratic character of the old Provencal cities. Plassans
+then had, and has even now, a whole district of large mansions built in
+the reigns of Louis XIV. and Louis XV., a dozen churches, Jesuit and
+Capuchin houses, and a considerable number of convents. Class
+distinctions were long perpetuated by the town’s division into various
+districts. There were three of them, each forming, as it were, a
+separate and complete locality, with its own churches, promenades,
+customs, and landscapes.
+
+The district of the nobility, called Saint-Marc, after the name of one
+of its parish churches, is a sort of miniature Versailles, with
+straight streets overgrown with grass, and large square houses which
+conceal extensive gardens. It extends to the south along the edge of
+the plateau. Some of the mansions built on the declivity itself have a
+double row of terraces whence one can see the whole valley of the
+Viorne, a most charming vista much vaunted in that part of the country.
+Then on the north-west, the old quarter, formed of the original town,
+rears its narrow, tortuous lanes bordered with tottering hovels. The
+Town-Hall, the Civil Court, the Market, and the Gendarmerie barracks
+are situated here. This, the most populous part of the Plassans, is
+inhabited by working-men and shop-keepers, all the wretched, toiling,
+common folk. The new town forms a sort of parallelogram to the
+north-east; the well-to-do, those who have slowly amassed a fortune,
+and those engaged in the liberal professions, here occupy houses set
+out in straight lines and coloured a light yellow. This district, which
+is embellished by the Sub-Prefecture, an ugly plaster building
+decorated with rose-mouldings, numbered scarcely five or six streets in
+1851; it is of quite recent formation, and it is only since the
+construction of the railway that it has been growing in extent.
+
+One circumstance which even at the present time tends to divide
+Plassans into three distinct independent parts is that the limits of
+the districts are clearly defined by the principal thoroughfares. The
+Cours Sauvaire and the Rue de Rome, which is, as it were, a narrow
+extension of the former, run from west to east, from the Grand’-Porte
+to the Porte de Rome, thus cutting the town into two portions, and
+dividing the quarter of the nobility from the others. The latter are
+themselves parted by the Rue de la Banne. This street, the finest in
+the locality, starts from the extremity of the Cours Sauvaire, and
+ascends northwards, leaving the black masses of the old quarter on its
+left, and the light-yellow houses of the new town on its right. It is
+here, about half-way along the street, that stands the Sub-Prefecture,
+in the rear of a small square planted with sickly trees; the people of
+Plassans are very proud of this edifice.
+
+As if to keep more isolated and shut up within itself, the town is
+belted with old ramparts, which only serve to increase its gloom and
+render it more confined. These ridiculous fortifications, preyed upon
+by ivy and crowned with wild gillyflowers, are about as high and as
+thick as the walls of a convent, and could be demolished by gunshot.
+They have several openings, the principal of which, the Porte de Rome
+and the Grand’-Porte, afford access to the Nice road and the Lyons
+road, at the other end of town. Until 1853 these openings were
+furnished with huge wooden two-leaved gates, arched at the top, and
+strengthened with bars of iron. These gates were double-locked at
+eleven o’clock in summer, and ten o’clock in winter. The town having
+thus shot its bolts like a timid girl, went quietly to sleep. A keeper,
+who lived in a little cell in one of the inner corners of each gateway,
+was authorised to admit belated persons. But it was necessary to stand
+parleying a long time. The keeper would not let people in until, by the
+light of his lantern, he had carefully scrutinised their faces through
+a peep-hole. If their looks displeased him they had to sleep outside.
+This custom of locking the gates every evening was highly
+characteristic of the spirit of the town, which was a commingling of
+cowardice, egotism, routine, exclusiveness, and devout longing for a
+cloistered life. Plassans, when it had shut itself up, would say to
+itself, “I am at home,” with the satisfaction of some pious bourgeois,
+who, assured of the safety of his cash-box, and certain that no noise
+will disturb him, duly says his prayers and retires gladly to bed. No
+other town, I believe, has so long persisted in thus incarcerating
+itself like a nun.
+
+The population of Plassans is divided into three groups, corresponding
+with the same number of districts. Putting aside the functionaries—the
+sub-prefect, the receiver of taxes, the mortgage commissioner, and the
+postmaster, who are all strangers to the locality, where they are
+objects of envy rather than of esteem, and who live after their own
+fashion—the real inhabitants, those who were born there and have every
+intention of ending their days there, feel too much respect for
+traditional usages and established boundaries not to pen themselves of
+their own accord in one or other of the town’s social divisions.
+
+The nobility virtually cloister themselves. Since the fall of Charles
+X. they scarcely ever go out, and when they do they are eager to return
+to their large dismal mansions, and walk along furtively as though they
+were in a hostile country. They do not visit anyone, nor do they even
+receive each other. Their drawing-rooms are frequented by a few priests
+only. They spend the summer in the chateaux which they possess in the
+environs; in the winter, they sit round their firesides. They are, as
+it were, dead people weary of life. And thus the gloomy silence of a
+cemetery hangs over their quarter of the town. The doors and windows
+are carefully barricaded; one would think their mansions were so many
+convents shut off from all the tumult of the world. At rare intervals
+an abbé, whose measured tread adds to the gloomy silence of these
+sealed houses, passes by and glides like a shadow through some
+half-opened doorway.
+
+The well-to-do people, the retired tradesmen, the lawyers and notaries,
+all those of the little easy-going, ambitious world that inhabits the
+new town, endeavour to infuse some liveliness into Plassans. They go to
+the parties given by the sub-prefect, and dream of giving similar
+entertainments. They eagerly seek popularity, call a workman “my good
+fellow,” chat with the peasants about the harvest, read the papers, and
+walk out with their wives on Sundays. Theirs are the enlightened minds
+of the district, they are the only persons who venture to speak
+disparagingly of the ramparts; in fact, they have several times
+demanded of the authorities the demolition of those old walls, relics
+of a former age. At the same time, the most sceptical among them
+experience a shock of delight whenever a marquis or a count deigns to
+honour them with a stiff salutation. Indeed, the dream of every citizen
+of the new town is to be admitted to a drawing-room of the Saint-Marc
+quarter. They know very well that their ambition is not attainable, and
+it is this which makes them proclaim all the louder that they are
+freethinkers. But they are freethinkers in words only; firm friends of
+the authorities, they are ready to rush into the arms of the first
+deliverer at the slightest indication of popular discontent.
+
+The group which toils and vegetates in the old quarter is not so
+clearly defined as the others. The labouring classes are here in a
+majority; but retail dealers and even a few wholesale traders are to be
+found among them. As a matter of fact, Plassans is far from being a
+commercial centre; there is only just sufficient trade to dispose of
+the products of the country—oil, wine, and almonds. As for industrial
+labour, it is represented almost entirely by three or four
+evil-smelling tanyards, a felt hat manufactory, and some soap-boiling
+works, which last are relegated to a corner of the Faubourg. This
+little commercial and industrial world, though it may on high days and
+holidays visit the people of the new district, generally takes up its
+quarters among the operatives of the old town. Merchants, retail
+traders, and artisans have common interests which unite them together.
+On Sundays only, the masters make themselves spruce and foregather
+apart. On the other hand, the labouring classes, which constitute
+scarcely a fifth of the population, mingle with the idlers of the
+district.
+
+It is only once a week, and during the fine weather, that the three
+districts of Plassans come together face to face. The whole town
+repairs to the Cours Sauvaire on Sunday after vespers; even the
+nobility venture thither. Three distinct currents flow along this sort
+of boulevard planted with rows of plane-trees. The well-to-do citizens
+of the new quarter merely pass along before quitting the town by the
+Grand’-Porte and taking the Avenue du Mail on the right, where they
+walk up and down till nightfall. Meantime, the nobility and the lower
+classes share the Cours Sauvaire between them. For more than a century
+past the nobility have selected the walk on the south side, which is
+bordered with large mansions, and is the first to escape the heat of
+the sun; the lower classes have to rest content with the walk on the
+north, where the cafes, inns, and tobacconists’ shops are located. The
+people and the nobility promenade the whole afternoon, walking up and
+down the Cours without anyone of either party thinking of changing
+sides. They are only separated by a distance of some seven or eight
+yards, yet it is as if they were a thousand leagues away from each
+other, for they scrupulously follow those two parallel lines, as though
+they must not come in contact here below. Even during the revolutionary
+periods each party kept to its own side. This regulation walk on Sunday
+and the locking of the town gates in the evening are analogous
+instances which suffice to indicate the character of the ten thousand
+people inhabiting the town.
+
+Here, amidst these surroundings, until the year 1848, there vegetated
+an obscure family that enjoyed little esteem, but whose head, Pierre
+Rougon, subsequently played an important part in life owing to certain
+circumstances.
+
+Pierre Rougon was the son of a peasant. His mother’s family, the
+Fouques, owned, towards the end of the last century, a large plot of
+ground in the Faubourg, behind the old cemetery of Saint-Mittre; this
+ground was subsequently joined to the Jas-Meiffren. The Fouques were
+the richest market-gardeners in that part of the country; they supplied
+an entire district of Plassans with vegetables. However, their name
+died out a few years before the Revolution. Only one girl, Adélaïde,
+remained; born in 1768, she had become an orphan at the age of
+eighteen. This girl, whose father had died insane, was a long, lank,
+pale creature, with a scared look and strange ways which one might have
+taken for shyness so long as she was a little girl. As she grew up,
+however, she became still stranger; she did certain things which were
+inexplicable even to the cleverest folk of the Faubourg, and from that
+time it was rumoured that she was cracked like her father.
+
+She had scarcely been an orphan six months, in possession of a fortune
+which rendered her an eagerly sought heiress, when it transpired that
+she had married a young gardener named Rougon, a rough-hewn peasant
+from the Basses-Alpes. This Rougon, after the death of the last of the
+male Fouques, who had engaged him for a term, had remained in the
+service of the deceased’s daughter. From the situation of salaried
+servant he ascended rapidly to the enviable position of husband. This
+marriage was a first shock to public opinion. No one could comprehend
+why Adélaïde preferred this poor fellow, coarse, heavy, vulgar, scarce
+able to speak French, to those other young men, sons of well-to-do
+farmers, who had been seen hovering round her for some time. And, as
+provincial people do not allow anything to remain unexplained, they
+made sure there was some mystery at the bottom of this affair, alleging
+even that the marriage of the two young people had become an absolute
+necessity. But events proved the falsity of the accusation. More than a
+year went by before Adélaïde had a son. The Faubourg was annoyed; it
+could not admit that it was wrong, and determined to penetrate the
+supposed mystery; accordingly all the gossips kept a watch upon the
+Rougons. They soon found ample matter for tittle-tattle. Rougon died
+almost suddenly, fifteen months after his marriage, from a sunstroke
+received one afternoon while he was weeding a bed of carrots.
+
+Scarcely a year then elapsed before the young widow caused unheard-of
+scandal. It became known, as an indisputable fact, that she had a
+lover. She did not appear to make any secret of it; several persons
+asserted that they had heard her use endearing terms in public to poor
+Rougon’s successor. Scarcely a year of widowhood and a lover already!
+Such a disregard of propriety seemed monstrous out of all reason. And
+the scandal was heightened by Adélaïde’s strange choice. At that time
+there dwelt at the end of the Impasse Saint-Mittre, in a hovel the back
+of which abutted on the Fouques’ land, a man of bad repute, who was
+generally referred to as “that scoundrel Macquart.” This man would
+vanish for weeks and then turn up some fine evening, sauntering about
+with his hands in his pockets and whistling as though he had just come
+from a short walk. And the women sitting at their doorsteps as he
+passed: “There’s that scoundrel Macquart! He has hidden his bales and
+his gun in some hollow of the Viorne.” The truth was, Macquart had no
+means, and yet ate and drank like a happy drone during his short
+sojourns in the town. He drank copiously and with fierce obstinacy.
+Seating himself alone at a table in some tavern, he would linger there
+evening after evening, with his eyes stupidly fixed on his glass,
+neither seeing nor hearing anything around him. When the landlord
+closed his establishment, he would retire with a firm step, with his
+head raised, as if he were kept yet more erect by inebriation.
+“Macquart walks so straight, he’s surely dead drunk,” people used to
+say, as they saw him going home. Usually, when he had had no drink, he
+walked with a slight stoop and shunned the gaze of curious people with
+a kind of savage shyness.
+
+Since the death of his father, a journeyman tanner who had left him as
+sole heritage the hovel in the Impasse Saint-Mittre, he had never been
+known to have either relatives or friends. The proximity of the
+frontiers and the neighbouring forests of the Seille had turned this
+singular, lazy fellow into a combination of smuggler and poacher, one
+of those suspicious-looking characters of whom passers-by observe: “I
+shouldn’t care to meet that man at midnight in a dark wood.” Tall, with
+a formidable beard and lean face, Macquart was the terror of the good
+women of the Faubourg of Plassans; they actually accused him of
+devouring little children raw. Though he was hardly thirty years old,
+he looked fifty. Amidst his bushy beard and the locks of hair which
+hung over his face in poodle fashion, one could only distinguish the
+gleam of his brown eyes, the furtive sorrowful glance of a man of
+vagrant instincts, rendered vicious by wine and a pariah life. Although
+no crimes had actually been brought home to him, no theft or murder was
+ever perpetrated in the district without suspicion at once falling upon
+him.
+
+And it was this ogre, this brigand, this scoundrel Macquart, whom
+Adélaïde had chosen! In twenty months she had two children by him,
+first a boy and then a girl. There was no question of marriage between
+them. Never had the Faubourg beheld such audacious impropriety. The
+stupefaction was so great, the idea of Macquart having found a young
+and wealthy mistress so completely upset the gossips, that they even
+spoke gently of Adélaïde. “Poor thing! She’s gone quite mad,” they
+would say. “If she had any relatives she would have been placed in
+confinement long ago.” And as they never knew anything of the history
+of those strange amours, they accused that rogue Macquart of having
+taken advantage of Adélaïde’s weak mind to rob her of her money.
+
+The legitimate son, little Pierre Rougon, grew up with his mother’s
+other offspring. The latter, Antoine and Ursule, the young wolves as
+they were called in the district, were kept at home by Adélaïde, who
+treated them as affectionately as her first child. She did not appear
+to entertain a very clear idea of the position in life reserved for
+these two poor creatures. To her they were the same in every respect as
+her first-born. She would sometimes go out holding Pierre with one hand
+and Antoine with the other, never noticing how differently the two
+little fellows were already regarded.
+
+It was a strange home. For nearly twenty years everyone lived there
+after his or her fancy, the children like the mother. Everything went
+on free from control. In growing to womanhood, Adélaïde had retained
+the strangeness which had been taken for shyness when she was fifteen.
+It was not that she was insane, as the people of the Faubourg asserted,
+but there was a lack of equilibrium between her nerves and her blood, a
+disorder of the brain and heart which made her lead a life out of the
+ordinary, different from that of the rest of the world. She was
+certainly very natural, very consistent with herself; but in the eyes
+of the neighbours her consistency became pure insanity. She seemed
+desirous of making herself conspicuous, it was thought she was wickedly
+determined to turn things at home from bad to worse, whereas with great
+naivete she simply acted according to the impulses of her nature.
+
+Ever since giving birth to her first child she had been subject to
+nervous fits which brought on terrible convulsions. These fits recurred
+periodically, every two or three months. The doctors whom she consulted
+declared they could do nothing for her, that age would weaken the
+severity of the attacks. They simply prescribed a dietary regimen of
+underdone meat and quinine wine. However, these repeated shocks led to
+cerebral disorder. She lived on from day to day like a child, like a
+fawning animal yielding to its instincts. When Macquart was on his
+rounds, she passed her time in lazy, pensive idleness. All she did for
+her children was to kiss and play with them. Then as soon as her lover
+returned she would disappear.
+
+Behind Macquart’s hovel there was a little yard, separated from the
+Fouques’ property by a wall. One morning the neighbours were much
+astonished to find in this wall a door which had not been there the
+previous evening. Before an hour had elapsed, the entire Faubourg had
+flocked to the neighbouring windows. The lovers must have worked the
+whole night to pierce the opening and place the door there. They could
+now go freely from one house to the other. The scandal was revived,
+everyone felt less pity for Adélaïde, who was certainly the disgrace of
+the suburb; she was reproached more wrathfully for that door, that
+tacit, brutal admission of her union, than even for her two
+illegitimate children. “People should at least study appearances,” the
+most tolerant women would say. But Adélaïde did not understand what was
+meant by studying appearances. She was very happy, very proud of her
+door; she had assisted Macquart to knock the stones from the wall and
+had even mixed the mortar so that the work might proceed the quicker;
+and she came with childish delight to inspect the work by daylight on
+the morrow—an act which was deemed a climax of shamelessness by three
+gossips who observed her contemplating the masonry. From that date,
+whenever Macquart reappeared, it was thought, as no one then ever saw
+the young woman, that she was living with him in the hovel of the
+Impasse Saint-Mittre.
+
+The smuggler would come very irregularly, almost always unexpectedly,
+to Plassans. Nobody ever knew what life the lovers led during the two
+or three days he spent there at distant intervals. They used to shut
+themselves up; the little dwelling seemed uninhabited. Then, as the
+gossips had declared that Macquart had simply seduced Adélaïde in order
+to spend her money, they were astonished, after a time, to see him
+still lead his wonted life, ever up hill and down dale and as badly
+equipped as previously. Perhaps the young woman loved him all the more
+for seeing him at rare intervals, perhaps he had disregarded her
+entreaties, feeling an irresistible desire for a life of adventure. The
+gossips invented a thousand fables, without succeeding in giving any
+reasonable explanation of a connection which had originated and
+continued in so strange a manner. The hovel in the Impasse Saint-Mittre
+remained closed and preserved its secrets. It was merely guessed that
+Macquart had probably acquired the habit of beating Adélaïde, although
+the sound of a quarrel never issued from the house. However, on several
+occasions she was seen with her face black and blue, and her hair torn
+away. At the same time, she did not display the least dejection or
+grief, nor did she seek in any way to hide her bruises. She smiled, and
+seemed happy. No doubt she allowed herself to be beaten without
+breathing a word. This existence lasted for more than fifteen years.
+
+At times when Adélaïde returned home she would find her house upside
+down, but would not take the least notice of it. She was utterly
+ignorant of the practical meaning of life, of the proper value of
+things and the necessity for order. She let her children grow up like
+those plum-trees which sprout along the highways at the pleasure of the
+rain and sun. They bore their natural fruits like wild stock which has
+never known grafting or pruning. Never was nature allowed such complete
+sway, never did such mischievous creatures grow up more freely under
+the sole influence of instinct. They rolled among the vegetables,
+passed their days in the open air playing and fighting like
+good-for-nothing urchins. They stole provisions from the house and
+pillaged the few fruit-trees in the enclosure; they were the
+plundering, squalling, familiar demons of this strange abode of lucid
+insanity. When their mother was absent for days together, they would
+make such an uproar, and hit upon such diabolical devices for annoying
+people, that the neighbours had to threaten them with a whipping.
+Moreover, Adélaïde did not inspire them with much fear; if they were
+less obnoxious to other people when she was at home, it was because
+they made her their victim, shirking school five or six times a week
+and doing everything they could to receive some punishment which would
+allow them to squall to their hearts’ content. But she never beat them,
+nor even lost her temper; she lived on very well, placidly, indolently,
+in a state of mental abstraction amidst all the uproar. At last,
+indeed, this uproar became indispensable to her, to fill the void in
+her brain. She smiled complacently when she heard anyone say, “Her
+children will beat her some day, and it will serve her right.” To all
+remarks, her utter indifference seemed to reply, “What does it matter?”
+She troubled even less about her property than about her children. The
+Fouques’ enclosure, during the many years that this singular existence
+lasted would have become a piece of waste ground if the young woman had
+not luckily entrusted the cultivation of her vegetables to a clever
+market-gardener. This man, who was to share the profits with her,
+robbed her impudently, though she never noticed it. This circumstance
+had its advantages, however; for, in order to steal the more, the
+gardener drew as much as possible from the land, which in the result
+almost doubled in value.
+
+Pierre, the legitimate son, either from secret instinct or from his
+knowledge of the different manner in which he and the others were
+regarded by the neighbours, domineered over his brother and sister from
+an early age. In their quarrels, although he was much weaker than
+Antoine, he always got the better of the contest, beating the other
+with all the authority of a master. With regard to Ursule, a poor,
+puny, wan little creature, she was handled with equal roughness by both
+the boys. Indeed, until they were fifteen or sixteen, the three
+children fraternally beat each other without understanding their vague,
+mutual hatred, without realising how foreign they were to one another.
+It was only in youth that they found themselves face to face with
+definite, self-conscious personalities.
+
+At sixteen, Antoine was a tall fellow, a blend of Macquart’s and
+Adélaïde’s failings. Macquart, however, predominated in him, with his
+love of vagrancy, his tendency to drunkenness, and his brutish
+savagery. At the same time, under the influence of Adélaïde’s nervous
+nature, the vices which in the father assumed a kind of sanguinary
+frankness were in the son tinged with an artfulness full of hypocrisy
+and cowardice. Antoine resembled his mother by his total want of
+dignified will, by his effeminate voluptuous egotism, which disposed
+him to accept any bed of infamy provided he could lounge upon it at his
+ease and sleep warmly in it. People said of him: “Ah! the brigand! He
+hasn’t even the courage of his villainy like Macquart; if ever he
+commits a murder, it will be with pin pricks.” Physically, Antoine
+inherited Adélaïde’s thick lips only; his other features resembled
+those of the smuggler, but they were softer and more prone to change of
+expression.
+
+In Ursule, on the other hand, physical and moral resemblance to the
+mother predominated. There was a mixture of certain characteristics in
+her also; but born the last, at a time when Adélaïde’s love was warmer
+than Macquart’s, the poor little thing seemed to have received with her
+sex a deeper impress of her mother’s temperament. Moreover, hers was
+not a fusion of the two natures, but rather a juxtaposition, a
+remarkably close soldering. Ursule was whimsical, and displayed at
+times the shyness, the melancholy, and the transports of a pariah; then
+she would often break out into nervous fits of laughter, and muse
+lazily, like a woman unsound both in head and heart. Her eyes, which at
+times had a scared expression like those of Adélaïde, were as limpid as
+crystal, similar to those of kittens doomed to die of consumption.
+
+In presence of those two illegitimate children Pierre seemed a
+stranger; to one who had not penetrated to the roots of his being he
+would have appeared profoundly dissimilar. Never did child’s nature
+show a more equal balance of the characteristics of its parents. He was
+the exact mean between the peasant Rougon and the nervous Adélaïde.
+Paternal grossness was attenuated by the maternal influence. One found
+in him the first phase of that evolution of temperaments which
+ultimately brings about the amelioration or deterioration of a race.
+Although he was still a peasant, his skin was less coarse, his face
+less heavy, his intellect more capacious and more supple. In him the
+defects of his father and his mother had advantageously reacted upon
+each other. If Adélaïde’s nature, rendered exquisitely sensitive by her
+rebellious nerves, had combated and lessened Rougon’s full-bodied
+ponderosity, the latter had successfully prevented the young woman’s
+tendency to cerebral disorder from being implanted in the child. Pierre
+knew neither the passions nor the sickly ravings of Macquart’s young
+whelps. Very badly brought up, unruly and noisy, like all children who
+are not restrained during their infancy, he nevertheless possessed at
+bottom such sense and intelligence as would always preserve him from
+perpetrating any unproductive folly. His vices, his laziness, his
+appetite for indulgence, lacked the instinctiveness which characterised
+Antoine’s; he meant to cultivate and gratify them honourably and
+openly. In his plump person of medium height, in his long pale face, in
+which the features derived from his father had acquired some of the
+maternal refinement, one could already detect signs of sly and crafty
+ambition and insatiable desire, with the hardness of heart and envious
+hatred of a peasant’s son whom his mother’s means and nervous
+temperament had turned into a member of the middle classes.
+
+When, at the age of seventeen, Pierre observed and was able to
+understand Adélaïde’s disorders and the singular position of Antoine
+and Ursule, he seemed neither sorry nor indignant, but simply worried
+as to the course which would best serve his own interests. He was the
+only one of the three children who had pursued his studies with any
+industry. When a peasant begins to feel the need of instruction he most
+frequently becomes a fierce calculator. At school Pierre’s playmates
+roused his first suspicions by the manner in which they treated and
+hooted his brother. Later on he came to understand the significance of
+many looks and words. And at last he clearly saw that the house was
+being pillaged. From that time forward he regarded Antoine and Ursule
+as shameless parasites, mouths that were devouring his own substance.
+Like the people of the Faubourg, he thought that his mother was a fit
+subject for a lunatic asylum, and feared she would end by squandering
+all her money, if he did not take steps to prevent it. What gave him
+the finishing stroke was the dishonesty of the gardener who cultivated
+the land. At this, in one day, the unruly child was transformed into a
+thrifty, selfish lad, hurriedly matured, as regards his instincts, by
+the strange improvident life which he could no longer bear to see
+around him without a feeling of anguish. Those vegetables, from the
+sale of which the market-gardener derived the largest profits, really
+belonged to him; the wine which his mother’s offspring drank, the bread
+they ate, also belonged to him. The whole house, the entire fortune,
+was his by right; according to his boorish logic, he alone, the
+legitimate son, was the heir. And as his riches were in danger, as
+everybody was greedily gnawing at his future fortune, he sought a means
+of turning them all out—mother, brother, sister, servants—and of
+succeeding immediately to his inheritance.
+
+The conflict was a cruel one; the lad knew that he must first strike
+his mother. Step by step, with patient tenacity, he executed a plan
+whose every detail he had long previously thought out. His tactics were
+to appear before Adélaïde like a living reproach—not that he flew into
+a passion, or upbraided her for her misconduct; but he had acquired a
+certain manner of looking at her, without saying a word, which
+terrified her. Whenever she returned from a short sojourn in Macquart’s
+hovel she could not turn her eyes on her son without a shudder. She
+felt his cold glances, as sharp as steel blades pierce her deeply and
+pitilessly. The severe, taciturn demeanour of the child of the man whom
+she had so soon forgotten strangely troubled her poor disordered brain.
+She would fancy at times that Rougon had risen from the dead to punish
+her for her dissoluteness. Every week she fell into one of those
+nervous fits which were shattering her constitution. She was left to
+struggle until she recovered consciousness, after which she would creep
+about more feebly than ever. She would also often sob the whole night
+long, holding her head in her hands, and accepting the wounds that
+Pierre dealt her with resignation, as if they had been the strokes of
+an avenging deity. At other times she repudiated him; she would not
+acknowledge her own flesh and blood in that heavy-faced lad, whose
+calmness chilled her own feverishness so painfully. She would a
+thousand times rather have been beaten than glared at like that. Those
+implacable looks, which followed her everywhere, threw her at last into
+such unbearable torments that on several occasions she determined to
+see her lover no more. As soon, however, as Macquart returned she
+forgot her vows and hastened to him. The conflict with her son began
+afresh, silent and terrible, when she came back home. At the end of a
+few months she fell completely under his sway. She stood before him
+like a child doubtful of her behaviour and fearing that she deserves a
+whipping. Pierre had skilfully bound her hand and foot, and made a very
+submissive servant of her, without opening his lips, without once
+entering into difficult and compromising explanations.
+
+When the young man felt that his mother was in his power, that he could
+treat her like a slave, he began, in his own interest, to turn her
+cerebral weakness and the foolish terror with which his glances
+inspired her to his own advantage. His first care, as soon as he was
+master at home, was to dismiss the market-gardener and replace him by
+one of his own creatures. Then he took upon himself the supreme
+direction of the household, selling, buying, and holding the cash-box.
+On the other hand, he made no attempt to regulate Adélaïde’s actions,
+or to correct Antoine and Ursule for their laziness. That mattered
+little to him, for he counted upon getting rid of these people as soon
+as an opportunity presented itself. He contented himself with
+portioning out their bread and water. Then, having already got all the
+property in his own hands, he awaited an event which would permit him
+to dispose of it as he pleased.
+
+Circumstances proved singularly favourable. He escaped the conscription
+on the ground of being a widow’s eldest son. But two years later
+Antoine was called out. His bad luck did not affect him much; he
+counted on his mother purchasing a substitute for him. Adélaïde, in
+fact, wished to save him from serving; Pierre, however, who held the
+money, turned a deaf ear to her. His brother’s compulsory departure
+would be a lucky event for him, and greatly assist the accomplishment
+of his plans. When his mother mentioned the matter to him, he gave her
+such a look that she did not venture to pursue it. His glance plainly
+signified, “Do you wish, then, to ruin me for the sake of your
+illegitimate offspring?” Forthwith she selfishly abandoned Antoine, for
+before everything else she sought her own peace and quietness. Pierre,
+who did not like violent measures, and who rejoiced at being able to
+eject his brother without a disturbance, then played the part of a man
+in despair: the year had been a bad one, money was scarce, and to raise
+any he would be compelled to sell a portion of the land, which would be
+the beginning of their ruin. Then he pledged his word of honour to
+Antoine that he would buy him out the following year, though he meant
+to do nothing of the kind. Antoine then went off, duped, and half
+satisfied.
+
+Pierre got rid of Ursule in a still more unexpected manner. A
+journeyman hatter of the Faubourg, named Mouret, conceived a real
+affection for the girl, whom he thought as white and delicate as any
+young lady from the Saint-Marc quarter. He married her. On his part it
+was a love match, free from all sordid motives. As for Ursule, she
+accepted the marriage in order to escape a home where her eldest
+brother rendered life intolerable. Her mother, absorbed in her own
+courses, and using her remaining energy to defend her own particular
+interests, regarded the matter with absolute indifference. She was even
+glad of Ursule’s departure from the house, hoping that Pierre, now that
+he had no further cause for dissatisfaction, would let her live in
+peace after her own fashion. No sooner had the young people been
+married than Mouret perceived that he would have to quit Plassans, if
+he did not wish to hear endless disparaging remarks about his wife and
+his mother-in-law. Taking Ursule with him, he accordingly repaired to
+Marseilles, where he worked at his trade. It should be mentioned that
+he had not asked for one sou of dowry. When Pierre, somewhat surprised
+by this disinterestedness, commenced to stammer out some explanations,
+Mouret closed his mouth by saying that he preferred to earn his wife’s
+bread. Nevertheless the worthy son of the peasant remained uneasy;
+Mouret’s indifference seemed to him to conceal some trap.
+
+Adélaïde now remained to be disposed of. Nothing in the world would
+have induced Pierre to live with her any longer. She was compromising
+him; it was with her that he would have liked to make a start. But he
+found himself between two very embarrassing alternatives: to keep her,
+and thus, in a measure, share her disgrace, and bind a fetter to his
+feet which would arrest him in his ambitious flight; or to turn her
+out, with the certainty of being pointed at as a bad son, which would
+have robbed him of the reputation for good nature which he desired.
+Knowing that he would be in want of everybody, he desired to secure an
+untarnished name throughout Plassans. There was but one method to
+adopt, namely, to induce Adélaïde to leave of her own accord. Pierre
+neglected nothing to accomplish this end. He considered his mother’s
+misconduct a sufficient excuse for his own hard-heartedness. He
+punished her as one would chastise a child. The tables were turned. The
+poor woman cowered under the stick which, figuratively, was constantly
+held over her. She was scarcely forty-two years old, and already had
+the stammerings of terror, and vague, pitiful looks of an old woman in
+her dotage. Her son continued to stab her with his piercing glances,
+hoping that she would run away when her courage was exhausted. The
+unfortunate woman suffered terribly from shame, restrained desire and
+enforced cowardice, receiving the blows dealt her with passive
+resignation, and nevertheless returning to Macquart with the
+determination to die on the spot rather than submit. There were nights
+when she would have got out of bed, and thrown herself into the Viorne,
+if with her weak, nervous, nature she had not felt the greatest fear of
+death. On several occasions she thought of running away and joining her
+lover on the frontier. It was only because she did not know whither to
+go that she remained in the house, submitting to her son’s contemptuous
+silence and secret brutality. Pierre divined that she would have left
+long ago if she had only had a refuge. He was waiting an opportunity to
+take a little apartment for her somewhere, when a fortuitous
+occurrence, which he had not ventured to anticipate, abruptly brought
+about the realisation of his desires. Information reached the Faubourg
+that Macquart had just been killed on the frontier by a shot from a
+custom-house officer, at the moment when he was endeavouring to smuggle
+a load of Geneva watches into France. The story was true. The
+smuggler’s body was not even brought home, but was interred in the
+cemetery of a little mountain village. Adélaïde’s grief plunged her
+into stupor. Her son, who watched her curiously, did not see her shed a
+tear. Macquart had made her sole legatee. She inherited his hovel in
+the Impasse Saint-Mittre, and his carbine, which a fellow-smuggler,
+braving the balls of the custom-house officers, loyally brought back to
+her. On the following day she retired to the little house, hung the
+carbine above the mantelpiece, and lived there estranged from all the
+world, solitary and silent.
+
+Pierre was at last sole master of the house. The Fouques’ land belonged
+to him in fact, if not in law. He never thought of establishing himself
+on it. It was too narrow a field for his ambition. To till the ground
+and cultivate vegetables seemed to him boorish, unworthy of his
+faculties. He was in a hurry to divest himself of everything recalling
+the peasant. With his nature refined by his mother’s nervous
+temperament, he felt an irresistible longing for the enjoyments of the
+middle classes. In all his calculations, therefore, he had regarded the
+sale of the Fouques’ property as the final consummation. This sale, by
+placing a round sum of money in his hands, would enable him to marry
+the daughter of some merchant who would take him into partnership. At
+this period the wars of the First Empire were greatly thinning the
+ranks of eligible young men. Parents were not so fastidious as
+previously in the choice of a son-in-law. Pierre persuaded himself that
+money would smooth all difficulties, and that the gossip of the
+Faubourg would be overlooked; he intended to pose as a victim, as an
+honest man suffering from a family disgrace, which he deplored, without
+being soiled by it or excusing it.
+
+For several months already he had cast his eyes on a certain Félicité
+Puech, the daughter of an oil-dealer. The firm of Puech & Lacamp, whose
+warehouses were in one of the darkest lanes of the old quarter, was far
+from prosperous. It enjoyed but doubtful credit in the market, and
+people talked vaguely of bankruptcy. It was precisely in consequence of
+these evil reports that Pierre turned his batteries in this direction.
+No well-to-do trader would have given him his daughter. He meant to
+appear on the scene at the very moment when old Puech should no longer
+know which way to turn; he would then purchase Félicité of him, and
+re-establish the credit of the house by his own energy and
+intelligence. It was a clever expedient for ascending the first rung of
+the social ladder, for raising himself above his station. Above all
+things, he wished to escape from that frightful Faubourg where
+everybody reviled his family, and to obliterate all these foul legends,
+by effacing even the very name of the Fouques’ enclosure. For that
+reason the filthy streets of the old quarter seemed to him perfect
+paradise. There, only, he would be able to change his skin.
+
+The moment which he had been awaiting soon arrived. The firm of Puech
+and Lacamp seemed to be at the last gasp. The young man then negotiated
+the match with prudent skill. He was received, if not as a deliverer,
+at least as a necessary and acceptable expedient. The marriage agreed
+upon, he turned his attention to the sale of the ground. The owner of
+the Jas-Meiffren, desiring to enlarge his estate, had made him repeated
+offers. A low, thin, party-wall alone separated the two estates. Pierre
+speculated on the eagerness of his wealthy neighbour, who, to gratify
+his caprice, offered as much as fifty thousand francs for the land. It
+was double its value. Pierre, whoever, with the craftiness of a
+peasant, pulled a long face, and said that he did not care to sell;
+that his mother would never consent to get rid of the property where
+the Fouques had lived from father to son for nearly two centuries. But
+all the time that he was seemingly holding back he was really making
+preparations for the sale. Certain doubts had arisen in his mind.
+According to his own brutal logic, the property belonged to him; he had
+the right to dispose of it as he chose. Beneath this assurance,
+however, he had vague presentiments of legal complications. So he
+indirectly consulted a lawyer of the Faubourg.
+
+He learnt some fine things from him. According to the lawyer, his hands
+were completely tied. His mother alone could alienate the property, and
+he doubted whether she would. But what he did not know, what came as a
+heavy blow to him, was that Ursule and Antoine, those young wolves, had
+claims on the estate. What! they would despoil him, rob him, the
+legitimate child! The lawyer’s explanations were clear and precise,
+however; Adélaïde, it is true, had married Rougon under the common
+property system; but as the whole fortune consisted of land, the young
+woman, according to law, again came into possession of everything at
+her husband’s death. Moreover, Macquart and Adélaïde had duly
+acknowledged their children when declaring their birth for
+registration, and thus these children were entitled to inherit from
+their mother. For sole consolation, Pierre learnt that the law reduced
+the share of illegitimate children in favour of the others. This,
+however, did not console him at all. He wanted to have everything. He
+would not have shared ten sous with Ursule and Antoine.
+
+This vista of the intricacies of the Code opened up a new horizon,
+which he scanned with a singularly thoughtful air. He soon recognised
+that a shrewd man must always keep the law on his side. And this is
+what he devised without consulting anyone, even the lawyer, whose
+suspicions he was afraid of arousing. He knew how to turn his mother
+round his finger. One fine morning he took her to a notary and made her
+sign a deed of sale. Provided she were left the hovel in the Impasse
+Saint-Mittre, Adélaïde would have sold all Plassans. Besides, Pierre
+assured her an annual income of six hundred francs, and made the most
+solemn promises to watch over his brother and sister. This oath
+satisfied the good woman. She recited, before the notary, the lesson
+which it had pleased her son to teach her. On the following day the
+young man made her place her name at the foot of a document in which
+she acknowledged having received fifty thousand francs as the price of
+the property. This was his stroke of genius, the act of a rogue. He
+contented himself with telling his mother, who was a little surprised
+at signing such a receipt when she had not seen a centime of the fifty
+thousand francs, that it was a pure formality of no consequence
+whatever. As he slipped the paper into his pocket, he thought to
+himself, “Now, let the young wolves ask me to render an account. I will
+tell them the old woman has squandered everything. They will never dare
+to go to law with me about it.” A week afterwards, the party-wall no
+longer existed: a plough had turned up the vegetable beds; the Fouques’
+enclosure, in accordance with young Rougon’s wish, was about to become
+a thing of the past. A few months later, the owner of the Jas-Meiffren
+even had the old market-gardener’s house, which was falling to pieces,
+pulled down.
+
+When Pierre had secured the fifty thousand francs he married Félicité
+Puech with as little delay as possible. Félicité was a short, dark
+woman, such as one often meets in Provence. She looked like one of
+those brown, lean, noisy grasshoppers, which in their sudden leaps
+often strike their heads against the almond-trees. Thin, flat-breasted,
+with pointed shoulders and a face like that of a pole-cat, her features
+singularly sunken and attenuated, it was not easy to tell her age; she
+looked as near fifteen as thirty, although she was in reality only
+nineteen, four years younger than her husband. There was much feline
+slyness in the depths of her little black eyes, which suggested gimlet
+holes. Her low, bumpy forehead, her slightly depressed nose with
+delicate quivering nostrils, her thin red lips and prominent chin,
+parted from her cheeks by strange hollows, all suggested the
+countenance of an artful dwarf, a living mask of intrigue, an active,
+envious ambition. With all her ugliness, however, Félicité possessed a
+sort of gracefulness which rendered her seductive. People said of her
+that she could be pretty or ugly as she pleased. It would depend on the
+fashion in which she tied her magnificent hair; but it depended still
+more on the triumphant smile which illumined her golden complexion when
+she thought she had got the better of somebody. Born under an evil
+star, and believing herself ill-used by fortune, she was generally
+content to appear an ugly creature. She did not, however, intend to
+abandon the struggle, for she had vowed that she would some day make
+the whole town burst with envy, by an insolent display of happiness and
+luxury. Had she been able to act her part on a more spacious stage,
+where full play would have been allowed her ready wit, she would have
+quickly brought her dream to pass. Her intelligence was far superior to
+that of the girls of her own station and education. Evil tongues
+asserted that her mother, who had died a few years after she was born,
+had, during the early period of her married life, been familiar with
+the Marquis de Carnavant, a young nobleman of the Saint-Marc quarter.
+In fact, Félicité had the hands and feet of a marchioness, and, in this
+respect, did not appear to belong to that class of workers from which
+she was descended.
+
+Her marriage with Pierre Rougon, that semi-peasant, that man of the
+Faubourg, whose family was in such bad odour, kept the old quarter in a
+state of astonishment for more than a month. She let people gossip,
+however, receiving the stiff congratulations of her friends with
+strange smiles. Her calculations had been made; she had chosen Rougon
+for a husband as one would choose an accomplice. Her father, in
+accepting the young man, had merely had eyes for the fifty thousand
+francs which were to save him from bankruptcy. Félicité, however, was
+more keen-sighted. She looked into the future, and felt that she would
+be in want of a robust man, even if he were somewhat rustic, behind
+whom she might conceal herself, and whose limbs she would move at will.
+She entertained a deliberate hatred for the insignificant little
+exquisites of provincial towns, the lean herd of notaries’ clerks and
+prospective barristers, who stand shivering with cold while waiting for
+clients. Having no dowry, and despairing of ever marrying a rich
+merchant’s son, she by far preferred a peasant whom she could use as a
+passive tool, to some lank graduate who would overwhelm her with his
+academical superiority, and drag her about all her life in search of
+hollow vanities. She was of opinion that the woman ought to make the
+man. She believed herself capable of carving a minister out of a
+cow-herd. That which had attracted her in Rougon was his broad chest,
+his heavy frame, which was not altogether wanting in elegance. A man
+thus built would bear with ease and sprightliness the mass of intrigues
+which she dreamt of placing on his shoulders. However, while she
+appreciated her husband’s strength and vigour, she also perceived that
+he was far from being a fool; under his coarse flesh she had divined
+the cunning suppleness of his mind. Still she was a long way from
+really knowing her Rougon; she thought him far stupider than he was. A
+few days after her marriage, as she was by chance fumbling in the
+drawer of a secretaire, she came across the receipt for fifty thousand
+francs which Adélaïde had signed. At sight of it she understood things,
+and felt rather frightened; her own natural average honesty rendered
+her hostile to such expedients. Her terror, however, was not unmixed
+with admiration; Rougon became in her eyes a very smart fellow.
+
+The young couple bravely sought to conquer fortune. The firm of Puech &
+Lacamp was not, after all, so embarrassed as Pierre had thought. Its
+liabilities were small, it was merely in want of ready-money. In the
+provinces, traders adopt prudent courses to save them from serious
+disasters. Puech & Lacamp were prudent to an excessive degree; they
+never risked a thousand crowns without the greatest fear, and thus
+their house, a veritable hole, was an unimportant one. The fifty
+thousand francs that Pierre brought into it sufficed to pay the debts
+and extend the business. The beginnings were good. During three
+successive years the olive harvest was an abundant one. Félicité, by a
+bold stroke which absolutely frightened both Pierre and old Puech, made
+them purchase a considerable quantity of oil, which they stored in
+their warehouse. During the following years, as the young woman had
+foreseen, the crops failed, and a considerable rise in prices having
+set in, they realised large profits by selling out their stock.
+
+A short time after this haul, Puech & Lacamp retired from the firm,
+content with the few sous they had just secured, and ambitious of
+living on their incomes.
+
+The young couple now had sole control of the business, and thought that
+they had at last laid the foundation of their fortune. “You have
+vanquished my ill-luck,” Félicité would sometimes say to her husband.
+
+One of the rare weaknesses of her energetic nature was to believe
+herself stricken by misfortune. Hitherto, so she asserted, nothing had
+been successful with either herself or her father, in spite of all
+their efforts. Goaded by her southern superstition, she prepared to
+struggle with fate as one struggles with somebody who is endeavouring
+to strangle one. Circumstances soon justified her apprehensions in a
+singular manner. Ill-luck returned inexorably. Every year some fresh
+disaster shook Rougon’s business. A bankruptcy resulted in the loss of
+a few thousand francs; his estimates of crops proved incorrect, through
+the most incredible circumstances; the safest speculations collapsed
+miserably. It was a truceless, merciless combat.
+
+“You see I was born under an unlucky star!” Félicité would bitterly
+exclaim.
+
+And yet she still struggled furiously, not understanding how it was
+that she, who had shown such keen scent in a first speculation, could
+now only give her husband the most deplorable advice.
+
+Pierre, dejected and less tenacious than herself, would have gone into
+liquidation a score of times had it not been for his wife’s firm
+obstinacy. She longed to be rich. She perceived that her ambition could
+only be attained by fortune. As soon as they possessed a few hundred
+thousand francs they would be masters of the town. She would get her
+husband appointed to an important post, and she would govern. It was
+not the attainment of honours which troubled her; she felt herself
+marvellously well armed for such a combat. But she could do nothing to
+get together the first few bags of money which were needed. Though the
+ruling of men caused her no apprehensions, she felt a sort of impotent
+rage at the thought of those inert, white, cold, five-franc pieces over
+which her intriguing spirit had no power, and which obstinately
+resisted her.
+
+The battle lasted for more than thirty years. The death of Puech proved
+another heavy blow. Félicité, who had counted upon an inheritance of
+about forty thousand francs, found that the selfish old man, in order
+to indulge himself in his old age, had sunk all his money in a life
+annuity. The discovery made her quite ill. She was gradually becoming
+soured, she was growing more lean and harsh. To see her, from morning
+till night, whirling round the jars of oil, one would have thought she
+believed that she could stimulate the sales by continually flitting
+about like a restless fly. Her husband, on the contrary, became
+heavier; misfortune fattened him, making him duller and more indolent.
+These thirty years of combat did not, however, bring him to ruin. At
+each annual stock-taking they managed to make both ends meet fairly
+well; if they suffered any loss during one season, they recouped
+themselves the next. However, it was precisely this living from hand to
+mouth which exasperated Félicité. She would, by far, have preferred a
+big failure. They would then, perhaps, have been able to commence life
+over again, instead of obstinately persisting in their petty business,
+working themselves to death to gain the bare necessaries of life.
+During one third of a century they did not save fifty thousand francs.
+
+It should be mentioned that, from the very first years of their married
+life, they had a numerous family, which in the long run became a heavy
+burden to them. In the course of five years, from 1811 to 1815,
+Félicité gave birth to three boys. Then during the four ensuing years
+she presented her husband with two girls. These had but an indifferent
+welcome; daughters are a terrible embarrassment when one has no dowry
+to give them.
+
+However, the young woman did not regard this troop of children as the
+cause of their ruin. On the contrary, she based on her sons’ heads the
+building of the fortune which was crumbling in her own hands. They were
+hardly ten years old before she discounted their future careers in her
+dreams. Doubting whether she would ever succeed herself, she centred in
+them all her hopes of overcoming the animosity of fate. They would
+provide satisfaction for her disappointed vanity, they would give her
+that wealthy, honourable position which she had hitherto sought in
+vain. From that time forward, without abandoning the business struggle,
+she conceived a second plan for obtaining the gratification of her
+domineering instincts. It seemed to her impossible that, amongst her
+three sons, there should not be a man of superior intellect, who would
+enrich them all. She felt it, she said. Accordingly, she nursed the
+children with a fervour in which maternal severity was blended with an
+usurer’s solicitude. She amused herself by fattening them as though
+they constituted a capital which, later on, would return a large
+interest.
+
+“Enough!” Pierre would sometimes exclaim, “all children are ungrateful.
+You are spoiling them, you are ruining us.”
+
+When Félicité spoke of sending them to college, he got angry. Latin was
+a useless luxury, it would be quite sufficient if they went through the
+classes of a little neighbouring school The young woman, however,
+persisted in her design. She possessed certain elevated instincts which
+made her take a great pride in surrounding herself with accomplished
+children; moreover, she felt that her sons must never remain as
+illiterate as her husband, if she wished to see them become prominent
+men. She fancied them all three in Paris in high positions, which she
+did not clearly define. When Rougon consented, and the three youngsters
+had entered the eighth class, Félicité felt the most lively
+satisfaction she had ever experienced. She listened with delight as
+they talked of their professors and their studies. When she heard her
+eldest son make one of his brothers decline _Rosa, a rose_, it sounded
+like delicious music to her. It is only fair to add that her delight
+was not tarnished by any sordid calculations. Even Rougon felt the
+satisfaction which an illiterate man experiences on perceiving his sons
+grow more learned than himself. Then the fellowship which grew up
+between their sons and those of the local big-wigs completed the
+parents’ gratification. The youngsters were soon on familiar terms with
+the sons of the Mayor and the Sub-Prefect, and even with two or three
+young noblemen whom the Saint-Marc quarter had deigned to send to the
+Plassans College. Félicité was at a loss how to repay such an honour.
+The education of the three lads weighed seriously on the budget of the
+Rougon household.
+
+Until the boys had taken their degrees, their parents, who kept them at
+college at enormous sacrifices, lived in hopes of their success. When
+they had obtained their diplomas Félicité wished to continue her work,
+and even persuaded her husband to send the three to Paris. Two of them
+devoted themselves to the study of law, and the third passed through
+the School of Medicine. Then, when they were men, and had exhausted the
+resources of the Rougon family and were obliged to return and establish
+themselves in the provinces, their parents’ disenchantment began. They
+idled about and grew fat. And Félicité again felt all the bitterness of
+her ill-luck. Her sons were failing her. They had ruined her, and did
+not return any interest on the capital which they represented. This
+last blow of fate was the heaviest, as it fell on her ambition and her
+maternal vanity alike. Rougon repeated to her from morning till night,
+“I told you so!” which only exasperated her the more.
+
+One day, as she was bitterly reproaching her eldest son with the large
+amount of money expended on his education, he said to her with equal
+bitterness, “I will repay you later on if I can. But as you had no
+means, you should have brought us up to a trade. We are out of our
+element, we are suffering more than you.”
+
+Félicité understood the wisdom of these words. From that time she
+ceased to accuse her children, and turned her anger against fate, which
+never wearied of striking her. She started her old complaints afresh,
+and bemoaned more and more the want of means which made her strand, as
+it were, in port. Whenever Rougon said to her, “Your sons are lazy
+fellows, they will eat up all we have,” she sourly replied, “Would to
+God I had more money to give them; if they do vegetate, poor fellows,
+it’s because they haven’t got a sou to bless themselves with.”
+
+At the beginning of the year 1848, on the eve of the Revolution of
+February, the three young Rougons held very precarious positions at
+Plassans. They presented most curious and profoundly dissimilar
+characteristics, though they came of the same stock. They were in
+reality superior to their parents. The race of the Rougons was destined
+to become refined through its female side. Adélaïde had made Pierre a
+man of moderate enterprise, disposed to low ambitions; Félicité had
+inspired her sons with a higher intelligence, with a capacity for
+greater vices and greater virtues.
+
+At the period now referred to the eldest, Eugène, was nearly forty
+years old. He was a man of middle height, slightly bald, and already
+disposed to obesity. He had his father’s face, a long face with broad
+features; beneath his skin one could divine the fat to which were due
+the flabby roundness of his features, and his yellowish, waxy
+complexion. Though his massive square head still recalled the peasant,
+his physiognomy was transfigured, lit up from within as it were, when
+his drooping eyelids were raised and his eyes awoke to life. In the
+son’s case, the father’s ponderousness had turned to gravity. This big
+fellow, Eugène, usually preserved a heavy somnolent demeanour. At the
+same time, certain of his heavy, languid movements suggested those of a
+giant stretching his limbs pending the time for action. By one of those
+alleged freaks of nature, of which, however, science is now commencing
+to discover the laws, if physical resemblance to Pierre was perfect in
+Eugène, Félicité on her side seemed to have furnished him with his
+brains. He offered an instance of certain moral and intellectual
+qualities of maternal origin being embedded in the coarse flesh he had
+derived from his father. He cherished lofty ambitions, possessed
+domineering instincts, and showed singular contempt for trifling
+expedients and petty fortunes.
+
+He was a proof that Plassans was perhaps not mistaken in suspecting
+that Félicité had some blue blood in her veins. The passion for
+indulgence, which became formidably developed in the Rougons, and was,
+in fact, the family characteristic, attained in his case its highest
+pitch; he longed for self-gratification, but in the form of mental
+enjoyment such as would gratify his burning desire for domination. A
+man such as this was never intended to succeed in a provincial town. He
+vegetated there for fifteen years, his eyes turned towards Paris,
+watching his opportunities. On his return home he had entered his name
+on the rolls, in order to be independent of his parents. After that he
+pleaded from time to time, earning a bare livelihood, without appearing
+to rise above average mediocrity. At Plassans his voice was considered
+thick, his movements heavy. He generally wandered from the question at
+issue, rambled, as the wiseacres expressed it. On one occasion
+particularly, when he was pleading in a case for damages, he so forgot
+himself as to stray into a political disquisition, to such a point that
+the presiding judge interfered, whereupon he immediately sat down with
+a strange smile. His client was condemned to pay a considerable sum of
+money, a circumstance which did not, however, seem to cause Eugène the
+least regret for his irrelevant digression. He appeared to regard his
+speeches as mere exercises which would be of use to him later on. It
+was this that puzzled and disheartened Félicité. She would have liked
+to see her son dictating the law to the Civil Court of Plassans. At
+last she came to entertain a very unfavourable opinion of her
+first-born. To her mind this lazy fellow would never be the one to shed
+any lustre on the family. Pierre, on the contrary, felt absolute
+confidence in him, not that he had more intuition than his wife, but
+because external appearances sufficed him, and he flattered himself by
+believing in the genius of a son who was his living image. A month
+prior to the Revolution of February, 1848, Eugène became restless; some
+special inspiration made him anticipate the crisis. From that time
+forward he seemed to feel out of his element at Plassans. He would
+wander about the streets like a distressed soul. At last he formed a
+sudden resolution, and left for Paris, with scarcely five hundred
+francs in his pocket.
+
+Aristide, the youngest son, was, so to speak, diametrically opposed to
+Eugène. He had his mother’s face, and a covetousness and slyness of
+character prone to trivial intrigues, in which his father’s instincts
+predominated. Nature has need of symmetry. Short, with a pitiful
+countenance suggesting the knob of a stick carved into a Punch’s head,
+Aristide ferretted and fumbled everywhere, without any scruples, eager
+only to gratify himself. He loved money as his eldest brother loved
+power. While Eugène dreamed of bending a people to his will, and
+intoxicated himself with visions of future omnipotence, the other
+fancied himself ten times a millionaire, installed in a princely
+mansion, eating and drinking to his heart’s content, and enjoying life
+to the fullest possible extent. Above all things, he longed to make a
+rapid fortune. When he was building his castles in the air, they would
+rise in his mind as if by magic; he would become possessed of tons of
+gold in one night. These visions agreed with his indolence, as he never
+troubled himself about the means, considering those the best which were
+the most expeditious. In his case the race of the Rougons, of those
+coarse, greedy peasants with brutish appetites, had matured too
+rapidly; every desire for material indulgence was found in him,
+augmented threefold by hasty education, and rendered the more
+insatiable and dangerous by the deliberate way in which the young man
+had come to regard their realisation as his set purpose. In spite of
+her keen feminine intuition, Félicité preferred this son; she did not
+perceive the greater affinity between herself and Eugène; she excused
+the follies and indolence of her youngest son under the pretext that he
+would some day be the superior genius of the family, and that such a
+man was entitled to live a disorderly life until his intellectual
+strength should be revealed.
+
+Aristide subjected her indulgence to a rude test. In Paris he led a
+low, idle life; he was one of those students who enter their names at
+the taverns of the Quartier Latin. He did not remain there, however,
+more than two years; his father, growing apprehensive, and seeing that
+he had not yet passed a single examination, kept him at Plassans and
+spoke of finding a wife for him, hoping that domestic responsibility
+would make him more steady. Aristide let himself be married. He had no
+very clear idea of his own ambitions at this time; provincial life did
+not displease him; he was battening in his little town—eating,
+sleeping, and sauntering about. Félicité pleaded his cause so earnestly
+that Pierre consented to board and lodge the newly-married couple, on
+condition that the young man should turn his attention to the business.
+From that time, however, Aristide led a life of ease and idleness. He
+spent his days and the best part of his nights at the club, again and
+again slipping out of his father’s office like a schoolboy to go and
+gamble away the few louis that his mother gave him clandestinely.
+
+It is necessary to have lived in the depths of the French provinces to
+form an idea of the four brutifying years which the young fellow spent
+in this fashion. In every little town there is a group of individuals
+who thus live on their parents, pretending at times to work, but in
+reality cultivating idleness with a sort of religious zeal. Aristide
+was typical of these incorrigible drones. For four years he did little
+but play écarté. While he passed his time at the club, his wife, a
+fair-complexioned nerveless woman, helped to ruin the Rougon business
+by her inordinate passion for showy gowns and her formidable appetite,
+a rather remarkable peculiarity in so frail a creature. Angèle,
+however, adored sky-blue ribbons and roast beef. She was the daughter
+of a retired captain who was called Commander Sicardot, a good-hearted
+old gentleman, who had given her a dowry of ten thousand francs—all his
+savings. Pierre, in selecting Angèle for his son had considered that he
+had made an unexpected bargain, so lightly did he esteem Aristide.
+However, that dowry of ten thousand francs, which determined his
+choice, ultimately became a millstone round his neck. His son, who was
+already a cunning rogue, deposited the ten thousand francs with his
+father, with whom he entered into partnership, declining, with the most
+sincere professions of devotion, to keep a single copper.
+
+“We have no need of anything,” he said; “you will keep my wife and
+myself, and we will reckon up later on.”
+
+Pierre was short of money at the time, and accepted, not, however,
+without some uneasiness at Aristide’s disinterestedness. The latter
+calculated that it would be years before his father would have ten
+thousand francs in ready money to repay him, so that he and his wife
+would live at the paternal expense so long as the partnership could not
+be dissolved. It was an admirable investment for his few bank-notes.
+When the oil-dealer understood what a foolish bargain he had made he
+was not in a position to rid himself of Aristide; Angèle’s dowry was
+involved in speculations which were turning out unfavourably. He was
+exasperated, stung to the heart, at having to provide for his
+daughter-in-law’s voracious appetite and keep his son in idleness. Had
+he been able to buy them out of the business he would twenty times have
+shut his doors on those bloodsuckers, as he emphatically expressed it.
+Félicité secretly defended them; the young man, who had divined her
+dreams of ambition, would every evening describe to her the elaborate
+plans by which he would shortly make a fortune. By a rare chance she
+had remained on excellent terms with her daughter-in-law. It must be
+confessed that Angèle had no will of her own—she could be moved and
+disposed of like a piece of furniture.
+
+Meantime Pierre became enraged whenever his wife spoke to him of the
+success their youngest son would ultimately achieve; he declared that
+he would really bring them to ruin. During the four years that the
+young couple lived with him he stormed in this manner, wasting his
+impotent rage in quarrels, without in the least disturbing the
+equanimity of Aristide and Angèle. They were located there, and there
+they intended to remain like blocks of wood. At last Pierre met with a
+stroke of luck which enabled him to return the ten thousand francs to
+his son. When, however, he wanted to reckon up accounts with him,
+Aristide interposed so much chicanery that he had to let the couple go
+without deducting a copper for their board and lodging. They installed
+themselves but a short distance off, in a part of the old quarter
+called the Place Saint-Louis. The ten thousand francs were soon
+consumed. They had everything to get for their new home. Moreover
+Aristide made no change in his mode of living as long as any money was
+left in the house. When he had reached the last hundred-franc note he
+felt rather nervous. He was seen prowling about the town in a
+suspicious manner. He no longer took his customary cup of coffee at the
+club; he watched feverishly whilst play was going on, without touching
+a card. Poverty made him more spiteful than he would otherwise have
+been. He bore the blow for a long time, obstinately refusing to do
+anything in the way of work.
+
+In 1840 he had a son, little Maxime, whom his grandmother Félicité
+fortunately sent to college, paying his fees clandestinely. That made
+one mouth less at home; but poor Angèle was dying of hunger, and her
+husband was at last compelled to seek a situation. He secured one at
+the Sub-Prefecture. He remained there nearly ten years, and only
+attained a salary of eighteen hundred francs per annum. From that time
+forward it was with ever increasing malevolence and rancour that he
+hungered for the enjoyments of which he was deprived. His lowly
+position exasperated him; the paltry hundred and fifty francs which he
+received every month seemed to him an irony of fate. Never did man burn
+with such desire for self-gratification. Félicité, to whom he imparted
+his sufferings, was by no means grieved to see him so eager. She
+thought his misery would stimulate his energies. At last, crouching in
+ambush as it were, with his ears wide open, he began to look about him
+like a thief seeking his opportunity. At the beginning of 1848, when
+his brother left for Paris, he had a momentary idea of following him.
+But Eugène was a bachelor; and he, Aristide, could not take his wife so
+far without money. So he waited, scenting a catastrophe, and ready to
+fall on the first prey that might come within his reach.
+
+The other son, Pascal, born between Eugène and Aristide, did not appear
+to belong to the family. He was one of those frequent cases which give
+the lie to the laws of heredity. During the evolution of a race nature
+often produces some one being whose every element she derives from her
+own creative powers. Nothing in the moral or physical constitution of
+Pascal recalled the Rougons. Tall, with a grave and gentle face, he had
+an uprightness of mind, a love of study, a retiring modesty which
+contrasted strangely with the feverish ambitions and unscrupulous
+intrigues of his relatives. After acquitting himself admirably of his
+medical studies in Paris, he had retired, by preference, to Plassans,
+notwithstanding the offers he received from his professors. He loved a
+quiet provincial life; he maintained that for a studious man such a
+life was preferable to the excitement of Paris. Even at Plassans he did
+not exert himself to extend his practice. Very steady, and despising
+fortune, he contented himself with the few patients sent him by chance.
+All his pleasures were centred in a bright little house in the new
+town, where he shut himself up, lovingly devoting his whole time to the
+study of natural history. He was particularly fond of physiology. It
+was known in the town that he frequently purchased dead bodies from the
+hospital grave-digger, a circumstance which rendered him an object of
+horror to delicate ladies and certain timid gentlemen. Fortunately,
+they did not actually look upon him as a sorcerer; but his practice
+diminished, and he was regarded as an eccentric character, to whom
+people of good society ought not to entrust even a finger-tip, for fear
+of being compromised. The mayor’s wife was one day heard to say: “I
+would sooner die than be attended by that gentleman. He smells of
+death.”
+
+From that time, Pascal was condemned. He seemed to rejoice at the mute
+terror which he inspired. The fewer patients he had, the more time he
+could devote to his favourite sciences. As his fees were very moderate,
+the poorer people remained faithful to him; he earned just enough to
+live, and lived contentedly, a thousand leagues away from the rest of
+the country, absorbed in the pure delight of his researches and
+discoveries. From time to time he sent a memoir to the Academie des
+Sciences at Paris. Plassans did not know that this eccentric character,
+this gentleman who smelt of death was well-known and highly-esteemed in
+the world of science. When people saw him starting on Sundays for an
+excursion among the Garrigues hills, with a botanist’s bag hung round
+his neck and a geologist’s hammer in his hand, they would shrug their
+shoulders and institute a comparison between him and some other doctor
+of the town who was noted for his smart cravat, his affability to the
+ladies, and the delicious odour of violets which his garments always
+diffused. Pascal’s parents did not understand him any better than other
+people. When Félicité saw him adopting such a strange, unpretentious
+mode of life she was stupefied, and reproached him for disappointing
+her hopes. She, who tolerated Aristide’s idleness because she thought
+it would prove fertile, could not view without regret the slow progress
+of Pascal, his partiality for obscurity and contempt for riches, his
+determined resolve to lead a life of retirement. He was certainly not
+the child who would ever gratify her vanities.
+
+“But where do you spring from?” she would sometimes say to him. “You
+are not one of us. Look at your brothers, how they keep their eyes
+open, striving to profit by the education we have given them, whilst
+you waste your time on follies and trifles. You make a very poor return
+to us, who have ruined ourselves for your education. No, you are
+certainly not one of us.”
+
+Pascal, who preferred to laugh whenever he was called upon to feel
+annoyed, replied cheerfully, but not without a sting of irony: “Oh, you
+need not be frightened, I shall never drive you to the verge of
+bankruptcy; when any of you are ill, I will attend you for nothing.”
+
+Moreover, though he never displayed any repugnance to his relatives, he
+very rarely saw them, following in this wise his natural instincts.
+Before Aristide obtained a situation at the Sub-Prefecture, Pascal had
+frequently come to his assistance. For his part he had remained a
+bachelor. He had not the least suspicion of the grave events that were
+preparing. For two or three years he had been studying the great
+problem of heredity, comparing the human and animal races together, and
+becoming absorbed in the strange results which he obtained. Certain
+observations which he had made with respect to himself and his
+relatives had been, so to say, the starting-point of his studies. The
+common people, with their natural intuition, so well understood that he
+was quite different from the other Rougons, that they invariably called
+him Monsieur Pascal, without ever adding his family name.
+
+Three years prior to the Revolution of 1848 Pierre and Félicité retired
+from business. Old age was coming on apace; they were both past fifty
+and were weary enough of the struggle. In face of their ill fortune,
+they were afraid of being ultimately ruined if they obstinately
+persisted in the fight. Their sons, by disappointing their
+expectations, had dealt them the final blow. Now that they despaired of
+ever being enriched by them, they were anxious to make some little
+provision for old age. They retired with forty thousand francs at the
+utmost. This sum provided an annual income of two thousand francs, just
+sufficient to live in a small way in the provinces. Fortunately, they
+were by themselves, having succeeded in marrying their daughters Marthe
+and Sidonie, the former of whom resided at Marseilles and the latter in
+Paris.
+
+After they had settled their affairs they would much have liked to take
+up their abode in the new town, the quarter of the retired traders, but
+they dared not do so. Their income was too small; they were afraid that
+they would cut but a poor figure there. So, as a sort of compromise,
+they took apartments in the Rue de la Banne, the street which separates
+the old quarter from the new one. As their abode was one of the row of
+houses bordering the old quarter, they still lived among the common
+people; nevertheless, they could see the town of the richer classes
+from their windows, so that they were just on the threshold of the
+promised land.
+
+Their apartments, situated on the second floor, consisted of three
+large rooms—dining-room, drawing-room, and bedroom. The first floor was
+occupied by the owner of the house, a stick and umbrella manufacturer,
+who had a shop on the ground floor. The house, which was narrow and by
+no means deep, had only two storeys. Félicité moved into it with a
+bitter pang. In the provinces, to live in another person’s house is an
+avowal of poverty. Every family of position at Plassans has a house of
+its own, landed property being very cheap there. Pierre kept the
+purse-strings well tied; he would not hear of any embellishments. The
+old furniture, faded, worn, damaged though it was, had to suffice,
+without even being repaired. Félicité, however, who keenly felt the
+necessity for this parsimony, exerted herself to give fresh polish to
+all the wreckage; she herself knocked nails into some of the furniture
+which was more dilapidated than the rest, and darned the frayed velvet
+of the arm-chairs.
+
+The dining-room, which, like the kitchen, was at the back of the house,
+was nearly bare; a table and a dozen chairs were lost in the gloom of
+this large apartment, whose window faced the grey wall of a
+neighbouring building. As no strangers ever went into the bedroom,
+Félicité had stowed all her useless furniture there; thus, besides a
+bedstead, wardrobe, secretaire, and wash-stand, it contained two
+cradles, one perched atop of the other, a sideboard whose doors were
+missing, and an empty bookcase, venerable ruins which the old woman
+could not make up her mind to part with. All her cares, however, were
+bestowed upon the drawing-room, and she almost succeeded in making it
+comfortable and decent. The furniture was covered with yellowish velvet
+with satin flowers; in the middle stood a round table with a marble
+top, while a couple of pier tables, surmounted by mirrors, leant
+against the walls at either end of the room. There was even a carpet,
+which just covered the middle of the floor, and a chandelier in a white
+muslin cover which the flies had spotted with black specks. On the
+walls hung six lithographs representing the great battles of Napoleon
+I. Moreover, the furniture dated from the first years of the Empire.
+The only embellishment that Félicité could obtain was to have the walls
+hung with orange-hued paper covered with large flowers. Thus the
+drawing room had a strange yellow glow, which filled it with an
+artificial dazzling light. The furniture, the paper, and the window
+curtains were yellow; the carpet and even the marble table-tops showed
+touches of yellow. However, when the curtains were drawn the colours
+harmonised fairly well and the drawing-room looked almost decent.
+
+But Félicité had dreamed of quite a different kind of luxury. She
+regarded with mute despair this ill-concealed misery. She usually
+occupied the drawing-room, the best apartment in the house, and the
+sweetest and bitterest of her pastimes was to sit at one of the windows
+which overlooked the Rue de la Banne and gave her a side view of the
+square in front of the Sub-Prefecture. That was the paradise of her
+dreams. That little, neat, tidy square, with its bright houses, seemed
+to her a Garden of Eden. She would have given ten years of her life to
+possess one of those habitations. The house at the left-hand corner, in
+which the receiver of taxes resided, particularly tempted her. She
+contemplated it with eager longing. Sometimes, when the windows of this
+abode were open, she could catch a glimpse of rich furniture and
+tasteful elegance which made her burn with envy.
+
+At this period the Rougons passed through a curious crisis of vanity
+and unsatiated appetite. The few proper feelings which they had once
+entertained had become embittered. They posed as victims of evil
+fortune, not with resignation, however, for they seemed still more
+keenly determined that they would not die before they had satisfied
+their ambitions. In reality, they did not abandon any of their hopes,
+notwithstanding their advanced age. Félicité professed to feel a
+presentiment that she would die rich. However, each day of poverty
+weighed them down the more. When they recapitulated their vain
+attempts—when they recalled their thirty years’ struggle, and the
+defection of their children—when they saw their airy castles end in
+this yellow drawing-room, whose shabbiness they could only conceal by
+drawing the curtains, they were overcome with bitter rage. Then, as a
+consolation, they would think of plans for making a colossal fortune,
+seeking all sorts of devices. Félicité would fancy herself the winner
+of the grand prize of a hundred thousand francs in some lottery, while
+Pierre pictured himself carrying out some wonderful speculation. They
+lived with one sole thought—that of making a fortune immediately, in a
+few hours—of becoming rich and enjoying themselves, if only for a year.
+Their whole beings tended to this, stubbornly, without a pause. And
+they still cherished some faint hopes with regard to their sons, with
+that peculiar egotism of parents who cannot bear to think that they
+have sent their children to college without deriving some personal
+advantage from it.
+
+Félicité did not appear to have aged; she was still the same dark
+little woman, ever on the move, buzzing about like a grasshopper. Any
+person walking behind her on the pavement would have thought her a girl
+of fifteen, from the lightness of her step and the angularity of her
+shoulders and waist. Even her face had scarcely undergone any change;
+it was simply rather more sunken, rather more suggestive of the snout
+of a pole-cat.
+
+As for Pierre Rougon, he had grown corpulent, and had become a highly
+respectable looking citizen, who only lacked a decent income to make
+him a very dignified individual. His pale, flabby face, his heaviness,
+his languid manner, seemed redolent of wealth. He had one day heard a
+peasant who did not know him say: “Ah! he’s some rich fellow, that fat
+old gentleman there. He’s no cause to worry about his dinner!” This was
+a remark which stung him to the heart, for he considered it cruel
+mockery to be only a poor devil while possessing the bulk and contented
+gravity of a millionaire. When he shaved on Sundays in front of a small
+five-sou looking-glass hanging from the fastening of a window, he would
+often think that in a dress coat and white tie he would cut a far
+better figure at the Sub-Prefect’s than such or such a functionary of
+Plassans. This peasant’s son, who had grown sallow from business
+worries, and corpulent from a sedentary life, whose hateful passions
+were hidden beneath naturally placid features, really had that air of
+solemn imbecility which gives a man a position in an official salon.
+People imagined that his wife held a rod over him, but they were
+mistaken. He was as self-willed as a brute. Any determined expression
+of extraneous will would drive him into a violent rage. Félicité was
+far too supple to thwart him openly; with her light fluttering nature
+she did not attack obstacles in front. When she wished to obtain
+something from her husband, or drive him the way she thought best, she
+would buzz round him in her grasshopper fashion, stinging him on all
+sides, and returning to the charge a hundred times until he yielded
+almost unconsciously. He felt, moreover, that she was shrewder than he,
+and tolerated her advice fairly patiently. Félicité, more useful than
+the coach fly, would sometimes do all the work while she was thus
+buzzing round Pierre’s ears. Strange to say, the husband and wife never
+accused each other of their ill-success. The only bone of contention
+between them was the education lavished on their children.
+
+The Revolution of 1848 found all the Rougons on the lookout,
+exasperated by their bad luck, and disposed to lay violent hands on
+fortune if ever they should meet her in a byway. They were a family of
+bandits lying in wait, ready to rifle and plunder. Eugène kept an eye
+on Paris; Aristide dreamed of strangling Plassans; the mother and
+father, perhaps the most eager of the lot, intended to work on their
+own account, and reap some additional advantage from their sons’
+doings. Pascal alone, that discreet wooer of science, led the happy,
+indifferent life of a lover in his bright little house in the new town.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+
+In that closed, sequestered town of Plassans, where class distinction
+was so clearly marked in 1848, the commotion caused by political events
+was very slight. Even at the present day the popular voice sounds very
+faintly there; the middle classes bring their prudence to bear in the
+matter, the nobility their mute despair, and the clergy their shrewd
+cunning. Kings may usurp thrones, or republics may be established,
+without scarcely any stir in the town. Plassans sleeps while Paris
+fights. But though on the surface the town may appear calm and
+indifferent, in the depths hidden work goes on which it is curious to
+study. If shots are rare in the streets, intrigues consume the
+drawing-rooms of both the new town and the Saint-Marc quarter. Until
+the year 1830 the masses were reckoned of no account. Even at the
+present time they are similarly ignored. Everything is settled between
+the clergy, the nobility, and the bourgeoisie. The priests, who are
+very numerous, give the cue to the local politics; they lay
+subterranean mines, as it were, and deal blows in the dark, following a
+prudent tactical system, which hardly allows of a step in advance or
+retreat even in the course of ten years. The secret intrigues of men
+who desire above all things to avoid noise requires special shrewdness,
+a special aptitude for dealing with small matters, and a patient
+endurance such as one only finds in persons callous to all passions. It
+is thus that provincial dilatoriness, which is so freely ridiculed in
+Paris, is full of treachery, secret stabs, hidden victories and
+defeats. These worthy men, particularly when their interests are at
+stake, kill at home with a snap of the fingers, as we, the Parisians,
+kill with cannon in the public thoroughfares.
+
+The political history of Plassans, like that of all little towns in
+Provence, is singularly characteristic. Until 1830, the inhabitants
+remained observant Catholics and fervent royalists; even the lower
+classes only swore by God and their legitimate sovereigns. Then there
+came a sudden change; faith departed, the working and middle classes
+deserted the cause of legitimacy, and gradually espoused the great
+democratic movement of our time. When the Revolution of 1848 broke out,
+the nobility and the clergy were left alone to labour for the triumph
+of Henri V. For a long time they had regarded the accession of the
+Orleanists as a ridiculous experiment, which sooner or later would
+bring back the Bourbons; although their hopes were singularly shaken,
+they nevertheless continued the struggle, scandalised by the defection
+of their former allies, whom they strove to win back to their cause.
+The Saint-Marc quarter, assisted by all the parish priests, set to
+work. Among the middle classes, and especially among the people, the
+enthusiasm was very great on the morrow of the events of February;
+these apprentice republicans were in haste to display their
+revolutionary fervour. As regards the gentry of the new town, however,
+the conflagration, bright though it was, lasted no longer than a fire
+of straw. The small houseowners and retired tradespeople who had had
+their good days, or had made snug little fortunes under the monarchy,
+were soon seized with panic; the Republic, with its constant shocks and
+convulsions, made them tremble for their money and their life of
+selfishness.
+
+Consequently, when the Clerical reaction of 1849 declared itself,
+nearly all the middle classes passed over to the Conservative party.
+They were received with open arms. The new town had never before had
+such close relations with the Saint-Marc quarter: some of the nobility
+even went so far as to shake hands with lawyers and retired
+oil-dealers. This unexpected familiarity kindled the enthusiasm of the
+new quarter, which henceforward waged bitter warfare against the
+republican government. To bring about such a coalition, the clergy had
+to display marvellous skill and endurance. The nobility of Plassans for
+the most part lay prostrate, as if half dead. They retained their
+faith, but lethargy had fallen on them, and they preferred to remain
+inactive, allowing the heavens to work their will. They would gladly
+have contented themselves with silent protest, feeling, perhaps, a
+vague presentiment that their divinities were dead, and that there was
+nothing left for them to do but rejoin them. Even at this period of
+confusion, when the catastrophe of 1848 was calculated to give them a
+momentary hope of the return of the Bourbons, they showed themselves
+spiritless and indifferent, speaking of rushing into the melee, yet
+never quitting their hearths without a pang of regret.
+
+The clergy battled indefatigably against this feeling of impotence and
+resignation. They infused a kind of passion into their work: a priest,
+when he despairs, struggles all the more fiercely. The fundamental
+policy of the Church is to march straight forward; even though she may
+have to postpone the accomplishment of her projects for several
+centuries, she never wastes a single hour, but is always pushing
+forward with increasing energy. So it was the clergy who led the
+reaction of Plassans; the nobility only lent them their name, nothing
+more. The priests hid themselves behind the nobles, restrained them,
+directed them, and even succeeded in endowing them with a semblance of
+life. When they had induced them to overcome their repugnance so far as
+to make common cause with the middle classes, they believed themselves
+certain of victory. The ground was marvellously well prepared. This
+ancient royalist town, with its population of peaceful householders and
+timorous tradespeople, was destined to range itself, sooner or later,
+on the side of law and order. The clergy, by their tactics, hastened
+the conversion. After gaining the landlords of the new town to their
+side, they even succeeded in convincing the little retail-dealers of
+the old quarter. From that time the reactionary movement obtained
+complete possession of the town. All opinions were represented in this
+reaction; such a mixture of embittered Liberals, Legitimists,
+Orleanists, Bonapartists, and Clericals had never before been seen. It
+mattered little, however, at that time. The sole object was to kill the
+Republic; and the Republic was at the point of death. Only a fraction
+of the people—a thousand workmen at most, out of the ten thousand souls
+in the town—still saluted the tree of liberty planted in the middle of
+the square in front of the Sub-Prefecture.
+
+The shrewdest politicians of Plassans, those who led the reactionary
+movement, did not scent the approach of the Empire until very much
+later. Prince Louis Napoleon’s popularity seemed to them a mere passing
+fancy of the multitude. His person inspired them with but little
+admiration. They reckoned him a nonentity, a dreamer, incapable of
+laying his hands on France, and especially of maintaining his
+authority. To them he was only a tool whom they would make use of, who
+would clear the way for them, and whom they would turn out as soon as
+the hour arrived for the rightful Pretender to show himself.[*]
+However, months went by, and they became uneasy. It was only then that
+they vaguely perceived they were being duped: they had no time,
+however, to take any steps; the Coup d’État burst over their heads, and
+they were compelled to applaud. That great abomination, the Republic,
+had been assassinated; that, at least, was some sort of triumph. So the
+clergy and the nobility accepted accomplished facts with resignation;
+postponing, until later, the realisation of their hopes, and making
+amends for their miscalculations by uniting with the Bonapartists for
+the purpose of crushing the last Republicans.
+
+[*] The Count de Chambord, “Henri V.”
+
+
+It was these events that laid the foundation of the Rougons’ fortune.
+After being mixed up with the various phases of the crisis, they rose
+to eminence on the ruins of liberty. These bandits had been lying in
+wait to rob the Republic; as soon as it had been strangled, they helped
+to plunder it.
+
+After the events of February 1848, Félicité, who had the keenest scent
+of all the members of the family, perceived that they were at last on
+the right track. So she began to flutter round her husband, goading him
+on to bestir himself. The first rumours of the Revolution that had
+overturned King Louis Philippe had terrified Pierre. When his wife,
+however, made him understand that they had little to lose and much to
+gain from a convulsion, he soon came round to her way of thinking.
+
+“I don’t know what you can do,” Félicité repeatedly said, “but it seems
+to me that there’s plenty to be done. Did not Monsieur de Carnavant say
+to us one day that he would be rich if ever Henri V. should return, and
+that this sovereign would magnificently recompense those who had worked
+for his restoration? Perhaps our fortune lies in that direction. We may
+yet be lucky.”
+
+The Marquis de Carnavant, the nobleman who, according to the scandalous
+talk of the town, had been on very familiar terms with Félicité’s
+mother, used occasionally to visit the Rougons. Evil tongues asserted
+that Madame Rougon resembled him. He was a little, lean, active man,
+seventy-five years old at that time, and Félicité certainly appeared to
+be taking his features and manner as she grew older. It was said that
+the wreck of his fortune, which had already been greatly diminished by
+his father at the time of the Emigration, had been squandered on women.
+Indeed, he cheerfully acknowledged his poverty. Brought up by one of
+his relatives, the Count de Valqueyras, he lived the life of a
+parasite, eating at the count’s table and occupying a small apartment
+just under his roof.
+
+“Little one,” he would often say to Félicité, as he patted her on the
+cheek, “if ever Henri V. gives me a fortune, I will make you my
+heiress!”
+
+He still called Félicité “little one,” even when she was fifty years
+old. It was of these friendly pats, of these repeated promises of an
+inheritance, that Madame Rougon was thinking when she endeavoured to
+drive her husband into politics. Monsieur de Carnavant had often
+bitterly lamented his inability to render her any assistance. No doubt
+he would treat her like a father if ever he should acquire some
+influence. Pierre, to whom his wife half explained the situation in
+veiled terms, declared his readiness to move in any direction
+indicated.
+
+The marquis’s peculiar position qualified him to act as an energetic
+agent of the reactionary movement at Plassans from the first days of
+the Republic. This bustling little man, who had everything to gain from
+the return of his legitimate sovereigns, worked assiduously for their
+cause. While the wealthy nobility of the Saint-Marc quarter were
+slumbering in mute despair, fearing, perhaps that they might compromise
+themselves and again be condemned to exile, he multiplied himself, as
+it were, spread the propaganda and rallied faithful ones together. He
+was a weapon whose hilt was held by an invisible hand. From that time
+forward he paid daily visits to the Rougons. He required a centre of
+operations. His relative, Monsieur de Valqueyras, had forbidden him to
+bring any of his associates into his house, so he had chosen Félicité’s
+yellow drawing-room. Moreover, he very soon found Pierre a valuable
+assistant. He could not go himself and preach the cause of Legitimacy
+to the petty traders and workmen of the old quarter; they would have
+hooted him. Pierre, on the other hand, who had lived among these
+people, spoke their language and knew their wants, was able to
+catechise them in a friendly way. He thus became an indispensable man.
+In less than a fortnight the Rougons were more determined royalists
+than the king himself. The marquis, perceiving Pierre’s zeal, shrewdly
+sheltered himself behind him. What was the use of making himself
+conspicuous, when a man with such broad shoulders was willing to bear
+on them the burden of all the follies of a party? He allowed Pierre to
+reign, puff himself out with importance and speak with authority,
+content to restrain or urge him on, according to the necessities of the
+cause. Thus, the old oil-dealer soon became a personage of mark. In the
+evening, when they were alone, Félicité used to say to him: “Go on,
+don’t be frightened. We’re on the right track. If this continues we
+shall be rich; we shall have a drawing-room like the tax-receiver’s,
+and be able to entertain people.”
+
+A little party of Conservatives had already been formed at the Rougons’
+house, and meetings were held every evening in the yellow drawing-room
+to declaim against the Republic.
+
+Among those who came were three or four retired merchants who trembled
+for their money, and clamoured with all their might for a wise and
+strong government. An old almond-dealer, a member of the Municipal
+Council, Monsieur Isidore Granoux, was the head of this group. His
+hare-lipped mouth was cloven a little way from the nose; his round
+eyes, his air of mingled satisfaction and astonishment, made him
+resemble a fat goose whose digestion is attended by wholesome terror of
+the cook. He spoke little, having no command of words; and he only
+pricked up his ears when anyone accused the Republicans of wishing to
+pillage the houses of the rich; whereupon he would colour up to such a
+degree as to make one fear an approaching apoplectic fit, and mutter
+low imprecations, in which the words “idlers,” “scoundrels,” “thieves,”
+and “assassins” frequently recurred.
+
+All those who frequented the yellow drawing-room were not, however, as
+heavy as this fat goose. A rich landowner, Monsieur Roudier, with a
+plump, insinuating face, used to discourse there for hours altogether,
+with all the passion of an Orleanist whose calculations had been upset
+by the fall of Louis Philippe. He had formerly been a hosier at Paris,
+and a purveyor to the Court, but had now retired to Plassans. He had
+made his son a magistrate, relying on the Orleanist party to promote
+him to the highest dignities. The revolution having ruined all his
+hopes, he had rushed wildly into the reaction. His fortune, his former
+commercial relations with the Tuileries, which he transformed into
+friendly intercourse, that prestige which is enjoyed by every man in
+the provinces who has made his money in Paris and deigns to come and
+spend it in a far away department, gave him great influence in the
+district; some persons listened to him as though he were an oracle.
+
+However, the strongest intellect of the yellow drawing-room was
+certainly Commander Sicardot, Aristide’s father-in-law. Of Herculean
+frame, with a brick-red face, scarred and planted with tufts of grey
+hair, he was one of the most glorious old dolts of the Grande Armée.
+During the February Revolution he had been exasperated with the street
+warfare and never wearied of referring to it, proclaiming with
+indignation that this kind of fighting was shameful: whereupon he
+recalled with pride the grand reign of Napoleon.
+
+Another person seen at the Rougons’ house was an individual with clammy
+hands and equivocal look, one Monsieur Vuillet, a bookseller, who
+supplied all the devout ladies of the town with holy images and
+rosaries. Vuillet dealt in both classical and religious works; he was a
+strict Catholic, a circumstance which insured him the custom of the
+numerous convents and parish churches. Further, by a stroke of genius
+he had added to his business the publication of a little bi-weekly
+journal, the “Gazette de Plassans,” which was devoted exclusively to
+the interests of the clergy. This paper involved an annual loss of a
+thousand francs, but it made him the champion of the Church, and
+enabled him to dispose of his sacred unsaleable stock. Though he was
+virtually illiterate and could not even spell correctly, he himself
+wrote the articles of the “Gazette” with a humility and rancour that
+compensated for his lack of talent. The marquis, in entering on the
+campaign, had perceived immediately the advantage that might be derived
+from the co-operation of this insipid sacristan with the coarse,
+mercenary pen. After the February Revolution the articles in the
+“Gazette” contained fewer mistakes; the marquis revised them.
+
+One can now imagine what a singular spectacle the Rougons’ yellow
+drawing-room presented every evening. All opinions met there to bark at
+the Republic. Their hatred of that institution made them agree
+together. The marquis, who never missed a meeting, appeased by his
+presence the little squabbles which occasionally arose between the
+commander and the other adherents. These plebeians were inwardly
+flattered by the handshakes which he distributed on his arrival and
+departure. Roudier, however, like a free-thinker of the Rue
+Saint-Honoré, asserted that the marquis had not a copper to bless
+himself with, and was disposed to make light of him. M. de Carnavant on
+his side preserved the amiable smile of a nobleman lowering himself to
+the level of these middle class people, without making any of those
+contemptuous grimaces which any other resident of the Saint-Marc
+quarter would have thought fit under such circumstances. The parasite
+life he had led had rendered him supple. He was the life and soul of
+the group, commanding in the name of unknown personages whom he never
+revealed. “They want this, they don’t want that,” he would say. The
+concealed divinities who thus watched over the destinies of Plassans
+from behind some cloud, without appearing to interfere directly in
+public matters, must have been certain priests, the great political
+agents of the country. When the marquis pronounced that mysterious word
+“they,” which inspired the assembly with such marvellous respect,
+Vuillet confessed, with a gesture of pious devotion, that he knew them
+very well.
+
+The happiest person in all this was Félicité. At last she had people
+coming to her drawing-room. It was true she felt a little ashamed of
+her old yellow velvet furniture. She consoled herself, however,
+thinking of the rich things she would purchase when the good cause
+should have triumphed. The Rougons had, in the end, regarded their
+royalism as very serious. Félicité went as far as to say, when Roudier
+was not present, that if they had not made a fortune in the oil
+business the fault lay in the monarchy of July. This was her mode of
+giving a political tinge to their poverty. She had a friendly word for
+everybody, even for Granoux, inventing each evening some new polite
+method of waking him up when it was time for departure.
+
+The drawing-room, that little band of Conservatives belonging to all
+parties, and daily increasing in numbers, soon wielded powerful
+influence. Owing to the diversified characters of its members, and
+especially to the secret impulse which each one received from the
+clergy, it became the centre of the reactionary movement and spread its
+influence throughout Plassans. The policy of the marquis, who sank his
+own personality, transformed Rougon into the leader of the party. The
+meetings were held at his house, and this circumstance sufficed in the
+eyes of most people to make him the head of the group, and draw public
+attention to him. The whole work was attributed to him; he was believed
+to be the chief artisan of the movement which was gradually bringing
+over to the Conservative party those who had lately been enthusiastic
+Republicans. There are some situations which benefit only persons of
+bad repute. These lay the foundations of their fortune where men of
+better position and more influence would never dare to risk theirs.
+Roudier, Granoux, and the others, all men of means and respectability,
+certainly seemed a thousand times preferable to Pierre as the acting
+leaders of the Conservative party. But none of them would have
+consented to turn his drawing-room into a political centre. Their
+convictions did not go so far as to induce them to compromise
+themselves openly; in fact, they were only so many provincial babblers,
+who liked to inveigh against the Republic at a neighbour’s house as
+long as the neighbour was willing to bear the responsibility of their
+chatter. The game was too risky. There was no one among the middle
+classes of Plassans who cared to play it except the Rougons, whose
+ungratified longings urged them on to extreme measures.
+
+In the month of April, 1849, Eugène suddenly left Paris, and came to
+stay with his father for a fortnight. Nobody ever knew the purpose of
+this journey. It is probable that Eugène wanted to sound his native
+town, to ascertain whether he might successfully stand as a candidate
+for the legislature which was about to replace the Constituent
+Assembly. He was too shrewd to risk a failure. No doubt public opinion
+appeared to him little in his favour, for he abstained from any
+attempt. It was not known at Plassans what had become of him in Paris,
+what he was doing there. On his return to his native place, folks found
+him less heavy and somnolent than formerly. They surrounded him and
+endeavoured to make him speak out concerning the political situation.
+But he feigned ignorance and compelled them to talk. A little
+perspicacity would have detected that beneath his apparent unconcern
+there was great anxiety with regard to the political opinions of the
+town. However, he seemed to be sounding the ground more on behalf of a
+party than on his own account.
+
+Although he had renounced all hope for himself, he remained at Plassans
+until the end of the month, assiduously attending the meetings in the
+yellow drawing-room. As soon as the bell rang, announcing the first
+visitor, he would take up his position in one of the window recesses as
+far as possible from the lamp. And he remained there the whole evening,
+resting his chin on the palm of his right hand, and listening
+religiously. The greatest absurdities did not disturb his equanimity.
+He nodded approval even to the wild grunts of Granoux. When anyone
+asked him his own opinion, he politely repeated that of the majority.
+Nothing seemed to tire his patience, neither the hollow dreams of the
+marquis, who spoke of the Bourbons as if 1815 were a recent date, nor
+the effusions of citizen Roudier, who grew quite pathetic when he
+recounted how many pairs of socks he had supplied to the citizen king,
+Louis Philippe. On the contrary, he seemed quite at his ease in this
+Tower of Babel. Sometimes, when these grotesque personages were
+storming against the Republic, his eyes would smile, while his lips
+retained their expression of gravity. His meditative manner of
+listening, and his invariable complacency, had earned him the sympathy
+of everyone. He was considered a nonentity, but a very decent fellow.
+Whenever an old oil or almond dealer failed to get a hearing, amidst
+the clamour, for some plan by which he could save France if he were
+only a master, he took himself off to Eugène and shouted his marvellous
+suggestions in his ear. And Eugène gently nodded his head, as though
+delighted with the grand projects he was listening to. Vuillet, alone,
+regarded him with a suspicious eye. This bookseller, half-sacristan and
+half-journalist, spoke less than the others, but was more observant. He
+had noticed that Eugène occasionally conversed at times in a corner
+with Commander Sicardot. So he determined to watch them, but never
+succeeded in overhearing a word. Eugène silenced the commander by a
+wink whenever Vuillet approached them. From that time, Sicardot never
+spoke of the Napoleons without a mysterious smile.
+
+Two days before his return to Paris, Eugène met his brother Aristide,
+on the Cours Sauvaire, and the latter accompanied him for a short
+distance with the importunity of a man in search of advice. As a matter
+of fact, Aristide was in great perplexity. Ever since the proclamation
+of the Republic, he had manifested the most lively enthusiasm for the
+new government. His intelligence, sharpened by two years’ stay at
+Paris, enabled him to see farther than the thick heads of Plassans. He
+divined the powerlessness of the Legitimists and Orleanists, without
+clearly distinguishing, however, what third thief would come and juggle
+the Republic away. At all hazard he had ranged himself on the side of
+the victors, and he had severed his connection with his father, whom he
+publicly denounced as an old fool, an old dolt whom the nobility had
+bamboozled.
+
+“Yet my mother is an intelligent woman,” he would add. “I should never
+have thought her capable of inducing her husband to join a party whose
+hopes are simply chimerical. They are taking the right course to end
+their lives in poverty. But then women know nothing about politics.”
+
+For his part he wanted to sell himself as dearly as possible. His great
+anxiety as to the direction in which the wind was blowing, so that he
+might invariably range himself on the side of that party, which, in the
+hour of triumph, would be able to reward him munificently.
+Unfortunately, he was groping in the dark. Shut up in his far away
+province, without a guide, without any precise information, he felt
+quite lost. While waiting for events to trace out a sure and certain
+path, he preserved the enthusiastic republican attitude which he had
+assumed from the very first day. Thanks to this demeanour, he remained
+at the Sub-Prefecture; and his salary was even raised. Burning,
+however, with the desire to play a prominent part, he persuaded a
+bookseller, one of Vuillet’s rivals, to establish a democratic journal,
+to which he became one of the most energetic contributors. Under his
+impulse the “Indépendant” waged merciless warfare against the
+reactionaries. But the current gradually carried him further than he
+wished to go; he ended by writing inflammatory articles, which made him
+shudder when he re-perused them. It was remarked at Plassans that he
+directed a series of attacks against all whom his father was in the
+habit of receiving of an evening in his famous yellow drawing-room. The
+fact is that the wealth of Roudier and Granoux exasperated Aristide to
+such a degree as to make him forget all prudence. Urged on by his
+jealous, insatiate bitterness, he had already made the middle classes
+his irreconcilable enemy, when Eugène’s arrival and demeanour at
+Plassans caused him great consternation. He confessed to himself that
+his brother was a skilful man. According to him, that big, drowsy
+fellow always slept with one eye open, like a cat lying in wait before
+a mouse-hole. And now here was Eugène spending entire evenings in the
+yellow drawing-room, and devoting himself to those same grotesque
+personages whom he, Aristide, had so mercilessly ridiculed. When he
+discovered from the gossip of the town that his brother shook hands
+with Granoux and the marquis, he asked himself, with considerable
+anxiety, what was the meaning of it? Could he himself have been
+deceived? Had the Legitimists or the Orleanists really any chance of
+success? The thought terrified him. He lost his equilibrium, and, as
+frequently happens, he fell upon the Conservatives with increased
+rancour, as if to avenge his own blindness.
+
+On the evening prior to the day when he stopped Eugène on the Cours
+Sauvaire, he had published, in the “Indépendant,” a terrible article on
+the intrigues of the clergy, in response to a short paragraph from
+Vuillet, who had accused the Republicans of desiring to demolish the
+churches. Vuillet was Aristide’s bugbear. Never a week passed but these
+two journalists exchanged the greatest insults. In the provinces, where
+a periphrastic style is still cultivated, polemics are clothed in
+high-sounding phrases. Aristide called his adversary “brother Judas,”
+or “slave of Saint-Anthony.” Vuillet gallantly retorted by terming the
+Republican “a monster glutted with blood whose ignoble purveyor was the
+guillotine.”
+
+In order to sound his brother, Aristide, who did not dare to appear
+openly uneasy, contented himself with asking: “Did you read my article
+yesterday? What do you think of it?”
+
+Eugène lightly shrugged his shoulders. “You’re a simpleton, brother,”
+was his sole reply.
+
+“Then you think Vuillet right?” cried the journalist, turning pale;
+“you believe in Vuillet’s triumph?”
+
+“I!—Vuillet——”
+
+He was certainly about to add, “Vuillet is as big a fool as you are.”
+But, observing his brother’s distorted face anxiously extended towards
+him, he experienced sudden mistrust. “Vuillet has his good points,” he
+calmly replied.
+
+On parting from his brother, Aristide felt more perplexed than before.
+Eugène must certainly have been making game of him, for Vuillet was
+really the most abominable person imaginable. However, he determined to
+be prudent and not tie himself down any more; for he wished to have his
+hands free should he ever be called upon to help any party in
+strangling the Republic.
+
+Eugène, on the morning of his departure, an hour before getting into
+the diligence, took his father into the bedroom and had a long
+conversation with him. Félicité, who remained in the drawing-room,
+vainly tried to catch what they were saying. They spoke in whispers, as
+if they feared lest a single word should be heard outside. When at last
+they quitted the bedroom they seemed in high spirits. After kissing his
+father and mother, Eugène, who usually spoke in a drawling tone,
+exclaimed with vivacity: “You have understood me, father? There lies
+our fortune. We must work with all our energy in that direction. Trust
+in me.”
+
+“I’ll follow your instructions faithfully,” Rougon replied. “Only don’t
+forget what I asked you as the price of my cooperation.”
+
+“If we succeed your demands shall be satisfied, I give you my word.
+Moreover, I will write to you and guide you according to the direction
+which events may take. Mind, no panic or excitement. You must obey me
+implicitly.”
+
+“What have you been plotting there?” Félicité asked inquisitively.
+
+“My dear mother,” Eugène replied with a smile, “you have had too little
+faith in me thitherto to induce me to confide in you my hopes,
+particularly as at present they are only based on probabilities. To be
+able to understand me you would require faith. However, father will
+inform you when the right time comes.”
+
+Then, as Félicité assumed the demeanour of a woman who feels somewhat
+piqued, he added in her ear, as he kissed her once more: “I take after
+you, although you disowned me. Too much intelligence would be dangerous
+at the present moment. When the crisis comes, it is you who will have
+to manage the business.”
+
+He then quitted the room, but, suddenly re-opening the door, exclaimed
+in an imperious tone: “Above all things, do not trust Aristide; he is a
+mar-all, who would spoil everything. I have studied him sufficiently to
+feel certain that he will always fall on his feet. Don’t have any pity;
+if we make a fortune, he’ll know well enough how to rob us of his
+share.”
+
+When Eugène had gone, Félicité endeavoured to ferret out the secret
+that was being hidden from her. She knew her husband too well to
+interrogate him openly. He would have angrily replied that it was no
+business of hers. In spite, however, of the clever tactics she pursued,
+she learnt absolutely nothing. Eugène had chosen a good confidant for
+those troubled times, when the greatest discretion was necessary.
+Pierre, flattered by his son’s confidence, exaggerated that passive
+ponderosity which made him so impenetrable. When Félicité saw she would
+not learn anything from him, she ceased to flutter round him. On one
+point only did she remain inquisitive, but in this respect her
+curiosity was intense. The two men had mentioned a price stipulated by
+Pierre himself. What could that price be? This after all was the sole
+point of interest for Félicité, who did not care a rap for political
+matters. She knew that her husband must have sold himself dearly, but
+she was burning to know the nature of the bargain. One evening, when
+they had gone to bed, finding Pierre in a good humour, she brought the
+conversation round to the discomforts of their poverty.
+
+“It’s quite time to put an end to this,” she said. “We have been
+ruining ourselves in oil and fuel since those gentlemen have been
+coming here. And who will pay the reckoning? Nobody perhaps.”
+
+Her husband fell into the trap, and smiled with complacent superiority.
+“Patience,” said he. And with an air of shrewdness he looked into his
+wife’s eyes and added: “Would you be glad to be the wife of a receiver
+of taxes?”
+
+Félicité’s face flushed with a joyous glow. She sat up in bed and
+clapped her old withered little hands like a child.
+
+“Really?” she stammered. “At Plassans?”
+
+Pierre, without replying, gave a long affirmative nod. He enjoyed his
+consort’s astonishment and emotion.
+
+“But,” she at last resumed, half sitting, “you would have to deposit an
+enormous sum as security. I have heard that our neighbour, Monsieur
+Peirotte, had to deposit eighty thousand francs with the Treasury.”
+
+“Eh!” said the retired oil-dealer, “that’s nothing to do with me;
+Eugène will see to that. He will get the money advanced by a banker in
+Paris. You see, I selected an appointment bringing in a good income.
+Eugène at first made a wry face, saying one must be rich to occupy such
+posts, to which influential men were usually nominated. I persisted,
+however, and he yielded. To be a receiver of taxes one need not know
+either Greek or Latin. I shall have a representative, like Monsieur
+Peirotte, and he will do all the work.”
+
+Félicité listened to him with rapture.
+
+“I guessed, however,” he continued, “what it was that worried our dear
+son. We’re not much liked here. People know that we have no means, and
+will make themselves obnoxious. But all sorts of things occur in a time
+of crisis. Eugène wished to get me an appointment in another town.
+However, I objected; I want to remain at Plassans.”
+
+“Yes, yes, we must remain here,” the old woman quickly replied. “We
+have suffered here, and here we must triumph. Ah! I’ll crush them all,
+those fine ladies on the Mail, who scornfully eye my woollen dresses! I
+didn’t think of the appointment of receiver of taxes at all; I thought
+you wanted to become mayor.”
+
+“Mayor! Nonsense. That appointment is honorary. Eugène also mentioned
+the mayoralty to me. I replied: ‘I’ll accept, if you give me an income
+of fifteen thousand francs.’”
+
+This conversation, in which high figures flew about like rockets, quite
+excited Félicité. She felt delightfully buoyant. But at last she put on
+a devout air, and gravely said: “Come, let us reckon it out. How much
+will you earn?”
+
+“Well,” said Pierre, “the fixed salary, I believe, is three thousand
+francs.”
+
+“Three thousand,” Félicité counted.
+
+“Then there is so much per cent on the receipts, which at Plassans, may
+produce the sum of twelve thousand francs.”
+
+“That makes fifteen thousand.”
+
+“Yes, about fifteen thousand francs. That’s what Peirotte earns. That’s
+not all. Peirotte does a little banking business on his own account.
+It’s allowed. Perhaps I shall be disposed to make a venture when I feel
+luck on my side.”
+
+“Well, let us say twenty thousand. Twenty thousand francs a year!”
+repeated Félicité, overwhelmed by the amount.
+
+“We shall have to repay the advances,” Pierre observed.
+
+“That doesn’t matter,” Félicité replied, “we shall be richer than many
+of those gentlemen. Are the marquis and the others going to share the
+cake with you?”
+
+“No, no; it will be all for us,” he replied.
+
+Then, as she continued to importune him with her questions, Pierre
+frowned, thinking that she wanted to wrest his secret from him. “We’ve
+talked enough,” he said, abruptly. “It’s late, let us go to sleep. It
+will bring us bad luck to count our chickens beforehand. I haven’t got
+the place yet. Above all things, be prudent.”
+
+When the lamp was extinguished, Félicité could not sleep. With her eyes
+closed she built the most marvellous castles in the air. Those twenty
+thousand francs a year danced a diabolical dance before her in the
+darkness. She occupied splendid apartments in the new town, enjoyed the
+same luxuries as Monsieur Peirotte, gave parties, and bespattered the
+whole place with her wealth. That, however, which tickled her vanity
+most was the high position that her husband would then occupy. He would
+pay their state dividends to Granoux, Roudier, and all those people who
+now came to her house as they might come to a cafe, to swagger and
+learn the latest news. She had noticed the free-and-easy manner in
+which these people entered her drawing-room, and it had made her take a
+dislike to them. Even the marquis, with his ironical politeness, was
+beginning to displease her. To triumph alone, therefore, to keep the
+cake for themselves, as she expressed it, was a revenge which she
+fondly cherished. Later on, when all those ill-bred persons presented
+themselves, hats off, before Monsieur Rougon the receiver of taxes, she
+would crush them in her turn. She was busy with these thoughts all
+night; and on the morrow, as she opened the shutters, she instinctively
+cast her first glance across the street towards Monsieur Peirotte’s
+house, and smiled as she contemplated the broad damask curtains hanging
+in the windows.
+
+Félicité’s hopes, in becoming modified, had grown yet more intense.
+Like all women, she did not object to a tinge of mystery. The secret
+object that her husband was pursuing excited her far more than the
+Legitimist intrigues of Monsieur de Carnavant had ever done. She
+abandoned, without much regret, the calculations she had based on the
+marquis’s success now that her husband declared he would be able to
+make large profits by other means. She displayed, moreover, remarkable
+prudence and discretion.
+
+In reality, she was still tortured by anxious curiosity; she studied
+Pierre’s slightest actions, endeavouring to discover their meaning.
+What if by chance he were following the wrong track? What if Eugène
+were dragging them in his train into some break-neck pit, whence they
+would emerge yet more hungry and impoverished? However, faith was
+dawning on her. Eugène had commanded with such an air of authority that
+she ultimately came to believe in him. In this case again some unknown
+power was at work. Pierre would speak mysteriously of the high
+personages whom their eldest son visited in Paris. For her part she did
+not know what he could have to do with them, but on the other hand she
+was unable to close her eyes to Aristide’s ill-advised acts at
+Plassans. The visitors to her drawing-room did not scruple to denounce
+the democratic journalist with extreme severity. Granoux muttered that
+he was a brigand, and Roudier would three or four times a week repeat
+to Félicité: “Your son is writing some fine articles. Only yesterday he
+attacked our friend Vuillet with revolting scurrility.”
+
+The whole room joined in the chorus, and Commander Sicardot spoke of
+boxing his son-in-law’s ears, while Pierre flatly disowned him. The
+poor mother hung her head, restraining her tears. For an instant she
+felt an inclination to burst forth, to tell Roudier that her dear
+child, in spite of his faults, was worth more than he and all the
+others put together. But she was tied down, and did not wish to
+compromise the position they had so laboriously attained. Seeing the
+whole town so bitter against Aristide, she despaired of his future,
+thinking he was hopelessly ruining himself. On two occasions she spoke
+to him in secret, imploring him to return to them, and not to irritate
+the yellow drawing-room any further. Aristide replied that she did not
+understand such matters; that she was the one who had committed a great
+blunder in placing her husband at the service of the marquis. So she
+had to abandon her son to his own courses, resolving, however that if
+Eugène succeeded she would compel him to share the spoils with the poor
+fellow who was her favourite child.
+
+After the departure of his eldest son, Pierre Rougon pursued his
+reactionary intrigues. Nothing seemed to have changed in the opinions
+of the famous yellow drawing-room. Every evening the same men came to
+join in the same propaganda in favour of the establishment of a
+monarchy, while the master of the house approved and aided them with as
+much zeal as in the past. Eugène had left Plassans on May 1. A few days
+later, the yellow drawing-room was in raptures. The gossips were
+discussing the letter of the President of the Republic to General
+Oudinot, in which the siege of Rome had been decided upon. This letter
+was regarded as a brilliant victory, due to the firm demeanour of the
+reactionary party. Since 1848 the Chambers had been discussing the
+Roman question; but it had been reserved for a Bonaparte to stifle a
+rising Republic by an act of intervention which France, if free, would
+never have countenanced. The marquis declared, however, that one could
+not better promote the cause of legitimacy, and Vuillet wrote a superb
+article on the matter. The enthusiasm became unbounded when, a month
+later, Commander Sicardot entered the Rougons’ house one evening and
+announced to the company that the French army was fighting under the
+walls of Rome. Then, while everybody was raising exclamations at this
+news, he went up to Pierre, and shook hands with him in a significant
+manner. And when he had taken a seat, he began to sound the praises of
+the President of the Republic, who, said he, was the only person able
+to save France from anarchy.
+
+“Let him save it, then, as quickly as possible,” interrupted the
+marquis, “and let him then understand his duty by restoring it to its
+legitimate masters.”
+
+Pierre seemed to approve this fine retort, and having thus given proof
+of his ardent royalism, he ventured to remark that Prince Louis
+Bonaparte had his entire sympathy in the matter. He thereupon exchanged
+a few short sentences with the commander, commending the excellent
+intentions of the President, which sentences one might have thought
+prepared and learnt beforehand. Bonapartism now, for the first time,
+made its entry into the yellow drawing-room. It is true that since the
+election of December 10 the Prince had been treated there with a
+certain amount of consideration. He was preferred a thousand times to
+Cavaignac, and the whole reactionary party had voted for him. But they
+regarded him rather as an accomplice than a friend; and, as such, they
+distrusted him, and even began to accuse him of a desire to keep for
+himself the chestnuts which he had pulled out of the fire. On that
+particular evening, however, owing to the fighting at Rome, they
+listened with favour to the praises of Pierre and the commander.
+
+The group led by Granoux and Roudier already demanded that the
+President should order all republican rascals to be shot; while the
+marquis, leaning against the mantelpiece, gazed meditatively at a faded
+rose on the carpet. When he at last lifted his head, Pierre, who had
+furtively watched his countenance as if to see the effect of his words,
+suddenly ceased speaking. However, Monsieur de Carnavant merely smiled
+and glanced at Félicité with a knowing look. This rapid by-play was not
+observed by the other people. Vuillet alone remarked in a sharp tone:
+
+“I would rather see your Bonaparte at London than at Paris. Our affairs
+would get along better then.”
+
+At this the old oil-dealer turned slightly pale, fearing that he had
+gone too far. “I’m not anxious to retain ‘my’ Bonaparte,” he said, with
+some firmness; “you know where I would send him to if I were the
+master. I simply assert that the expedition to Rome was a good stroke.”
+
+Félicité had followed this scene with inquisitive astonishment.
+However, she did not speak of it to her husband, which proved that she
+adopted it as the basis of secret study. The marquis’s smile, the
+significance of which escaped her, set her thinking.
+
+From that day forward, Rougon, at distant intervals, whenever the
+occasion offered, slipped in a good word for the President of the
+Republic. On such evenings, Commander Sicardot acted the part of a
+willing accomplice. At the same time, Clerical opinions still reigned
+supreme in the yellow drawing-room. It was more particularly in the
+following year that this group of reactionaries gained decisive
+influence in the town, thanks to the retrograde movement which was
+going on at Paris. All those anti-Liberal laws which the country called
+“the Roman expedition at home” definitively secured the triumph of the
+Rougon faction. The last enthusiastic bourgeois saw the Republic
+tottering, and hastened to rally round the Conservatives. Thus the
+Rougons’ hour had arrived; the new town almost gave them an ovation on
+the day when the tree of Liberty, planted on the square before the
+Sub-Prefecture, was sawed down. This tree, a young poplar brought from
+the banks of the Viorne, had gradually withered, much to the despair of
+the republican working-men, who would come every Sunday to observe the
+progress of the decay without being able to comprehend the cause of it.
+A hatter’s apprentice at last asserted that he had seen a woman leave
+Rougon’s house and pour a pail of poisoned water at the foot of the
+tree. It thenceforward became a matter of history that Félicité herself
+got up every night to sprinkle the poplar with vitriol. When the tree
+was dead the Municipal Council declared that the dignity of the
+Republic required its removal. For this, as they feared the displeasure
+of the working classes, they selected an advanced hour of the night.
+However, the conservative householders of the new town got wind of the
+little ceremony, and all came down to the square before the
+Sub-Prefecture in order to see how the tree of Liberty would fall. The
+frequenters of the yellow drawing-room stationed themselves at the
+windows there. When the poplar cracked and fell with a thud in the
+darkness, as tragically rigid as some mortally stricken hero, Félicité
+felt bound to wave a white handkerchief. This induced the crowd to
+applaud, and many responded to the salute by waving their handkerchiefs
+likewise. A group of people even came under the window shouting: “We’ll
+bury it, we’ll bury it.”
+
+They meant the Republic, no doubt. Such was Félicité’s emotion, that
+she almost had a nervous attack. It was a fine evening for the yellow
+drawing-room.
+
+However, the marquis still looked at Félicité with the same mysterious
+smile. This little old man was far too shrewd to be ignorant of whither
+France was tending. He was among the first to scent the coming of the
+Empire. When the Legislative Assembly, later on, exhausted its energies
+in useless squabbling, when the Orleanists and the Legitimists tacitly
+accepted the idea of the Coup d’État, he said to himself that the game
+was definitely lost. In fact, he was the only one who saw things
+clearly. Vuillet certainly felt that the cause of Henry V., which his
+paper defended, was becoming detestable; but it mattered little to him;
+he was content to be the obedient creature of the clergy; his entire
+policy was framed so as to enable him to dispose of as many rosaries
+and sacred images as possible. As for Roudier and Granoux, they lived
+in a state of blind scare; it was not certain whether they really had
+any opinions; all that they desired was to eat and sleep in peace;
+their political aspirations went no further. The marquis, though he had
+bidden farewell to his hopes, continued to come to the Rougons’ as
+regularly as ever. He enjoyed himself there. The clash of rival
+ambitions among the middle classes, and the display of their follies,
+had become an extremely amusing spectacle to him. He shuddered at the
+thought of again shutting himself in the little room which he owed to
+the beneficence of the Count de Valqueyras. With a kind of malicious
+delight, he kept to himself the conviction that the Bourbons’ hour had
+not yet arrived. He feigned blindness, working as hitherto for the
+triumph of Legitimacy, and still remaining at the orders of the clergy
+and nobility, though from the very first day he had penetrated Pierre’s
+new course of action, and believed that Félicité was his accomplice.
+
+One evening, being the first to arrive, he found the old lady alone in
+the drawing-room. “Well! little one,” he asked, with his smiling
+familiarity, “are your affairs going on all right? Why the deuce do you
+make such mysteries with me?”
+
+“I’m not hiding anything from you,” Félicité replied, somewhat
+perplexed.
+
+“Come, do you think you can deceive an old fox like me, eh? My dear
+child, treat me as a friend. I’m quite ready to help you secretly. Come
+now, be frank!”
+
+A bright idea struck Félicité. She had nothing to tell; but perhaps she
+might find out something if she kept quiet.
+
+“Why do you smile?” Monsieur de Carnavant resumed. “That’s the
+beginning of a confession, you know. I suspected that you must be
+behind your husband. Pierre is too stupid to invent the pretty treason
+you are hatching. I sincerely hope the Bonapartists will give you what
+I should have asked for you from the Bourbons.”
+
+This single sentence confirmed the suspicions which the old woman had
+entertained for some time past.
+
+“Prince Louis has every chance, hasn’t he?” she eagerly inquired.
+
+“Will you betray me if I tell you that I believe so?” the marquis
+laughingly replied. “I’ve donned my mourning over it, little one. I’m
+simply a poor old man, worn out and only fit to be laid on the shelf.
+It was for you, however, that I was working. Since you have been able
+to find the right track without me, I shall feel some consolation in
+seeing you triumph amidst my own defeat. Above all things, don’t make
+any more mysteries. Come to me if you are ever in trouble.”
+
+And he added, with the sceptical smile of a nobleman who has lost
+caste: “Pshaw! I also can go in for a little treachery!”
+
+At this moment the clan of retired oil and almond dealers arrived.
+
+“Ah! the dear reactionaries!” Monsieur de Carnavant continued in an
+undertone. “You see, little one, the great art of politics consists in
+having a pair of good eyes when other people are blind. You hold all
+the best cards in the pack.”
+
+On the following day, Félicité, incited by this conversation, desired
+to make sure on the matter. They were then in the first days of the
+year 1851. For more than eighteen months, Rougon had been in the habit
+of receiving a letter from his son Eugène regularly every fortnight. He
+would shut himself in the bedroom to read these letters, which he then
+hid at the bottom of an old secretaire, the key of which he carefully
+kept in his waistcoat pocket. Whenever his wife questioned him about
+their son he would simply answer: “Eugène writes that he is going on
+all right.” Félicité had long since thought of laying hands on her
+son’s letters. So early on the morning after her chat with the marquis,
+while Pierre was still asleep, she got up on tiptoes, took the key of
+the secretaire from her husband’s waistcoat and substituted in its
+place that of the chest of drawers, which was of the same size. Then,
+as soon as her husband had gone out, she shut herself in the room in
+her turn, emptied the drawer, and read all the letters with feverish
+curiosity.
+
+Monsieur de Carnavant had not been mistaken, and her own suspicions
+were confirmed. There were about forty letters, which enabled her to
+follow the course of that great Bonapartist movement which was to
+terminate in the second Empire. The letters constituted a sort of
+concise journal, narrating events as they occurred, and drawing hopes
+and suggestions from each of them. Eugène was full of faith. He
+described Prince Louis Bonaparte to his father as the predestined
+necessary man who alone could unravel the situation. He had believed in
+him prior even to his return to France, at a time when Bonapartism was
+treated as a ridiculous chimera. Félicité understood that her son had
+been a very active secret agent since 1848. Although he did not clearly
+explain his position in Paris, it was evident that he was working for
+the Empire, under the orders of personages whose names he mentioned
+with a sort of familiarity. Each of his letters gave information as to
+the progress of the cause, to which an early _dénouement_ was
+foreshadowed; and usually concluded by pointing out the line of action
+that Pierre should pursue at Plassans. Félicité could now comprehend
+certain words and acts of her husband, whose significance had
+previously escaped her; Pierre was obeying his son, and blindly
+following his recommendations.
+
+When the old woman had finished reading, she was convinced. Eugène’s
+entire thoughts were clearly revealed to her. He reckoned upon making
+his political fortune in the squabble, and repaying his parents the
+debt he owed them for his education, by throwing them a scrap of the
+prey as soon as the quarry was secured. However small the assistance
+his father might render to him and to the cause, it would not be
+difficult to get him appointed receiver of taxes. Nothing would be
+refused to one who like Eugène had steeped his hands in the most secret
+machinations. His letters were simply a kind attention on his part, a
+device to prevent the Rougons from committing any act of imprudence,
+for which Félicité felt deeply grateful. She read certain passages of
+the letters twice over, notably those in which Eugène spoke, in vague
+terms, of “a final catastrophe.” This catastrophe, the nature or
+bearings of which she could not well conceive became a sort of end of
+the world for her. God would range the chosen ones on His right hand
+and the damned on His left, and she placed herself among the former.
+
+When she succeeded in replacing the key in her husband’s waistcoat
+pocket on the following night, she made up her mind to employ the same
+expedient for reading every fresh letter that arrived. She resolved,
+likewise, to profess complete ignorance. This plan was an excellent
+one. Henceforward, she gave her husband the more assistance as she
+appeared to render it unconsciously. When Pierre thought he was working
+alone it was she who brought the conversation round to the desired
+topic, recruiting partisans for the decisive moment. She felt hurt at
+Eugène’s distrust of her. She wanted to be able to say to him, after
+the triumph: “I knew all, and so far from spoiling anything, I have
+secured the victory.” Never did an accomplice make less noise or work
+harder. The marquis, whom she had taken into her confidence, was
+astounded at it.
+
+The fate of her dear Aristide, however, continued to make her uneasy.
+Now that she shared the faith of her eldest son, the rabid articles of
+the “Indépendant” alarmed her all the more. She longed to convert the
+unfortunate republican to Napoleonist ideas; but she did not know how
+to accomplish this in a discreet manner. She recalled the emphasis with
+which Eugène had told them to be on their guard against Aristide. At
+last she submitted the matter to Monsieur de Carnavant, who was
+entirely of the same opinion.
+
+“Little one,” he said to her, “in politics one must know how to look
+after one’s self. If you were to convert your son, and the
+‘Indépendant’ were to start writing in defence of Bonapartism, it would
+deal the party a rude blow. The ‘Indépendant’ has already been
+condemned, its title alone suffices to enrage the middle classes of
+Plassans. Let dear Aristide flounder about; this only moulds young
+people. He does not appear to me to be cut out for carrying on the role
+of a martyr for any length of time.”
+
+However, in her eagerness to point out the right way to her family, now
+that she believed herself in possession of the truth, Félicité even
+sought to convert her son Pascal. The doctor, with the egotism of a
+scientist immersed in his researches, gave little heed to politics.
+Empires might fall while he was making an experiment, yet he would not
+have deigned to turn his head. He at last yielded, however, to certain
+importunities of his mother, who accused him more than ever of living
+like an unsociable churl.
+
+“If you were to go into society,” she said to him, “you would get some
+well-to-do patients. Come, at least, and spend some evenings in our
+drawing-room. You will make the acquaintance of Messieurs Roudier,
+Granoux, and Sicardot, all gentlemen in good circumstances, who will
+pay you four or five francs a visit. The poor people will never enrich
+you.”
+
+The idea of succeeding in life, of seeing all her family attain to
+fortune, had become a form of monomania with Félicité. Pascal, in order
+to be agreeable to her, came and spent a few evenings in the yellow
+drawing-room. He was much less bored there than he had apprehended. At
+first he was rather stupefied at the degree of imbecility to which sane
+men can sink. The old oil and almond dealers, the marquis and the
+commander even, appeared to him so many curious animals, which he had
+not hitherto had an opportunity of studying. He looked with a
+naturalist’s interest at their grimacing faces, in which he discerned
+traces of their occupations and appetites; he listened also to their
+inane chatter, just as he might have tried to catch the meaning of a
+cat’s mew or a dog’s bark. At this period he was occupied with
+comparative natural history, applying to the human race the
+observations which he had made upon animals with regard to the working
+of heredity. While he was in the yellow drawing-room, therefore, he
+amused himself with the belief that he had fallen in with a menagerie.
+He established comparisons between the grotesque creatures he found
+there and certain animals of his acquaintance. The marquis, with his
+leanness and small crafty-looking head, reminded him exactly of a long
+green grasshopper. Vuillet impressed him as a pale, slimy toad. He was
+more considerate for Roudier, a fat sheep, and for the commander, an
+old toothless mastiff. But the prodigious Granoux was a perpetual cause
+of astonishment to him. He spent a whole evening measuring this
+imbecile’s facial angle. When he heard him mutter indistinct
+imprecations against those blood-suckers the Republicans, he always
+expected to hear him moan like a calf; and he could never see him rise
+from his chair without imagining that he was about to leave the room on
+all fours.
+
+“Talk to them,” his mother used to say in an undertone; “try and make a
+practice out of these gentlemen.”
+
+“I am not a veterinary surgeon,” he at last replied, exasperated.
+
+One evening Félicité took him into a corner and tired to catechise him.
+She was glad to see him come to her house rather assiduously. She
+thought him reconciled to Society, not suspecting for a moment the
+singular amusement that he derived from ridiculing these rich people.
+She cherished the secret project of making him the fashionable doctor
+of Plassans. It would be sufficient if men like Granoux and Roudier
+consented to give him a start. She wished, above all, to impart to him
+the political views of the family, considering that a doctor had
+everything to gain by constituting himself a warm partisan of the
+regime which was to succeed the Republic.
+
+“My dear boy,” she said to him, “as you have now become reasonable, you
+must give some thought to the future. You are accused of being a
+Republican, because you are foolish enough to attend all the beggars of
+the town without making any charge. Be frank, what are your real
+opinions?”
+
+Pascal looked at his mother with naïve astonishment, then with a smile
+replied: “My real opinions? I don’t quite know—I am accused of being a
+Republican, did you say? Very well! I don’t feel at all offended. I am
+undoubtedly a Republican, if you understand by that word a man who
+wishes the welfare of everybody.”
+
+“But you will never attain to any position,” Félicité quickly
+interrupted. “You will be crushed. Look at your brothers, they are
+trying to make their way.”
+
+Pascal then comprehended that he was not called upon to defend his
+philosophic egotism. His mother simply accused him of not speculating
+on the political situation. He began to laugh somewhat sadly, and then
+turned the conversation into another channel. Félicité could never
+induce him to consider the chances of the various parties, nor to
+enlist in that one of them which seemed likely to carry the day.
+However, he still occasionally came to spend an evening in the yellow
+drawing-room. Granoux interested him like an antediluvian animal.
+
+In the meantime, events were moving. The year 1851 was a year of
+anxiety and apprehension for the politicians of Plassans, and the cause
+which the Rougons served derived advantage from this circumstance. The
+most contradictory news arrived from Paris; sometimes the Republicans
+were in the ascendant, sometimes the Conservative party was crushing
+the Republic. The echoes of the squabbles which were rending the
+Legislative Assembly reached the depths of the provinces, now in an
+exaggerated, now in an attenuated form, varying so greatly as to
+obscure the vision of the most clear-sighted. The only general feeling
+was that a _dénouement_ was approaching. The prevailing ignorance as to
+the nature of this _dénouement_ kept timid middle class people in a
+terrible state of anxiety. Everybody wished to see the end. They were
+sick of uncertainty, and would have flung themselves into the arms of
+the Grand Turk, if he would have deigned to save France from anarchy.
+
+The marquis’s smile became more acute. Of an evening, in the yellow
+drawing-room, when Granoux’s growl was rendered indistinct by fright,
+he would draw near to Félicité and whisper in her ear: “Come, little
+one, the fruit is ripe—but you must make yourself useful.”
+
+Félicité, who continued to read Eugène’s letters, and knew that a
+decisive crisis might any day occur, had already often felt the
+necessity of making herself useful, and reflected as to the manner in
+which the Rougons should employ themselves. At last she consulted the
+marquis.
+
+“It all depends upon circumstances,” the little old man replied. “If
+the department remains quiet, if no insurrection occurs to terrify
+Plassans, it will be difficult for you to make yourselves conspicuous
+and render any services to the new government. I advise you, in that
+case, to remain at home, and peacefully await the bounties of your son
+Eugène. But if the people rise, and our brave bourgeois think
+themselves in danger, there will be a fine part to play. Your husband
+is somewhat heavy—”
+
+“Oh!” said Félicité, “I’ll undertake to make him supple. Do you think
+the department will revolt?”
+
+“To my mind it’s a certainty. Plassans, perhaps, will not make a stir;
+the reaction has secured too firm a hold here for that. But the
+neighbouring towns, especially the small ones and the villages, have
+long been worked by certain secret societies, and belong to the
+advanced Republican party. If a Coup d’État should burst forth, the
+tocsin will be heard throughout the entire country, from the forests of
+the Seille to the plateau of Sainte-Roure.”
+
+Félicité reflected. “You think, then,” she resumed, “that an
+insurrection is necessary to ensure our fortune!”
+
+“That’s my opinion,” replied Monsieur de Carnavant. And he added, with
+a slightly ironical smile: “A new dynasty is never founded excepting
+upon an affray. Blood is good manure. It will be a fine thing for the
+Rougons to date from a massacre, like certain illustrious families.”
+
+These words, accompanied by a sneer, sent a cold chill through
+Félicité’s bones. But she was a strong-minded woman, and the sight of
+Monsieur Peirotte’s beautiful curtains, which she religiously viewed
+every morning, sustained her courage. Whenever she felt herself giving
+way, she planted herself at the window and contemplated the
+tax-receiver’s house. For her it was the Tuileries. She had determined
+upon the most extreme measures in order to secure an entree into the
+new town, that promised land, on the threshold of which she had stood
+with burning longing for so many years.
+
+The conversation which she had held with the marquis had at last
+clearly revealed the situation to her. A few days afterwards, she
+succeeded in reading one of Eugène’s letters, in which he, who was
+working for the Coup d’État, seemed also to rely upon an insurrection
+as the means of endowing his father with some importance. Eugène knew
+his department well. All his suggestions had been framed with the
+object of placing as much influence as possible in the hands of the
+yellow drawing-room reactionaries, so that the Rougons might be able to
+hold the town at the critical moment. In accordance with his desires,
+the yellow drawing-room was master of Plassans in November, 1851.
+Roudier represented the rich citizens there, and his attitude would
+certainly decide that of the entire new town. Granoux was still more
+valuable; he had the Municipal Council behind him: he was its most
+powerful member, a fact which will give some idea of its other members.
+Finally, through Commander Sicardot, whom the marquis had succeeded in
+getting appointed as chief of the National Guard, the yellow
+drawing-room had the armed forces at their disposal.
+
+The Rougons, those poor disreputable devils, had thus succeeded in
+rallying round themselves the instruments of their own fortune.
+Everyone, from cowardice or stupidity, would have to obey them and work
+in the dark for their aggrandisement. They simply had to fear those
+other influences which might be working with the same object as
+themselves, and might partially rob them of the merit of victory. That
+was their great fear, for they wanted to reserve to themselves the role
+of deliverers. They knew beforehand that they would be aided rather
+than hindered by the clergy and the nobility. But if the sub-prefect,
+the mayor, and the other functionaries were to take a step in advance
+and at once stifle the insurrection they would find themselves thrown
+into the shade, and even arrested in their exploits; they would have
+neither time nor means to make themselves useful. What they longed for
+was complete abstention, general panic among the functionaries. If only
+all regular administration should disappear, and they could dispose of
+the destinies of Plassans for a single day, their fortune would be
+firmly established.
+
+Happily for them, there was not a man in the government service whose
+convictions were so firm or whose circumstances were so needy as to
+make him disposed to risk the game. The sub-prefect was a man of
+liberal spirit whom the executive had forgetfully left at Plassans,
+owing, no doubt, to the good repute of the town. Of timid character and
+incapable of exceeding his authority, he would no doubt be greatly
+embarrassed in the presence of an insurrection. The Rougons, who knew
+that he was in favour of the democratic cause, and who consequently
+never dreaded his zeal, were simply curious to know what attitude he
+would assume. As for the municipality, this did not cause them much
+apprehension. The mayor, Monsieur Garconnet, was a Legitimist whose
+nomination had been procured by the influence of the Saint-Marc quarter
+in 1849. He detested the Republicans and treated them with undisguised
+disdain; but he was too closely united by bonds of friendship with
+certain members of the church to lend any active hand in a Bonapartist
+Coup d’État. The other functionaries were in exactly the same position.
+The justices of the peace, the post-master, the tax-collector, as well
+as Monsieur Peirotte, the chief receiver of taxes, were all indebted
+for their posts to the Clerical reaction, and could not accept the
+Empire with any great enthusiasm. The Rougons, though they did not
+quite see how they might get rid of these people and clear the way for
+themselves, nevertheless indulged in sanguine hopes on finding there
+was little likelihood of anybody disputing their role as deliverers.
+
+The _dénouement_ was drawing near. In the last few days of November, as
+the rumour of a Coup d’État was circulating, the prince-president was
+accused of seeking the position of emperor.
+
+“Eh! we’ll call him whatever he likes,” Granoux exclaimed, “provided he
+has those Republican rascals shot!”
+
+This exclamation from Granoux, who was believed to be asleep, caused
+great commotion. The marquis pretended not to have heard it; but all
+the bourgeois nodded approval. Roudier, who, being rich, did not fear
+to applaud the sentiment aloud, went so far as to declare, while
+glancing askance at Monsieur de Carnavant, that the position was no
+longer tenable, and that France must be chastised as soon as possible,
+never mind by what hand.
+
+The marquis still maintained a silence which was interpreted as
+acquiescence. And thereupon the Conservative clan, abandoning the cause
+of Legitimacy, ventured to offer up prayers in favour of the Empire.
+
+“My friends,” said Commander Sicardot, rising from his seat, “only a
+Napoleon can now protect threatened life and property. Have no fear,
+I’ve taken the necessary precautions to preserve order at Plassans.”
+
+As a matter of fact the commander, in concert with Rougon, had
+concealed, in a kind of cart-house near the ramparts, both a supply of
+cartridges and a considerable number of muskets; he had also taken
+steps to secure the co-operation of the National Guard, on which he
+believed he could rely. His words produced a very favourable
+impression. On separating for the evening, the peaceful citizens of the
+yellow drawing-room spoke of massacring the “Reds” if they should dare
+to stir.
+
+On December 1, Pierre Rougon received a letter from Eugène which he
+went to read in his bedroom, in accordance with his prudent habit.
+Félicité observed, however, that he was very agitated when he came out
+again. She fluttered round the secretaire all day. When night came, she
+could restrain her impatience no longer. Her husband had scarcely
+fallen asleep, when she quietly got up, took the key of the secretaire
+from the waistcoat pocket, and gained possession of the letter with as
+little noise as possible. Eugène, in ten lines, warned his father that
+the crisis was at hand, and advised him to acquaint his mother with the
+situation of affairs. The hour for informing her had arrived; he might
+stand in need of her advice.
+
+Félicité awaited, on the morrow, a disclosure which did not come. She
+did not dare to confess her curiosity; but continued to feign
+ignorance, though enraged at the foolish distrust of her husband, who,
+doubtless, considered her a gossip, and weak like other women. Pierre,
+with that marital pride which inspires a man with the belief in his own
+superiority at home, had ended by attributing all their past ill-luck
+to his wife. From the time that he fancied he had been conducting
+matters alone everything seemed to him to have gone as he desired. He
+had decided, therefore, to dispense altogether with his consort’s
+counsels, and to confide nothing to her, in spite of his son’s
+recommendations.
+
+Félicité was piqued to such a degree that she would have upset the
+whole affair had she not desired the triumph as ardently as Pierre. So
+she continued to work energetically for victory, while endeavouring to
+take her revenge.
+
+“Ah! if he could only have some great fright,” thought she; “if he
+would only commit some act of imprudence! Then I should see him come to
+me and humbly ask for advice; it would be my turn to lay down the law.”
+
+She felt somewhat uneasy at the imperious attitude Pierre would
+certainly assume if he were to triumph without her aid. On marrying
+this peasant’s son, in preference to some notary’s clerk, she had
+intended to make use of him as a strongly made puppet, whose strings
+she would pull in her own way; and now, at the decisive moment, the
+puppet, in his blind stupidity, wanted to work alone! All the cunning,
+all the feverish activity within the old woman protested against this.
+She knew Pierre was quite capable of some brutal resolve such as that
+which he had taken when he compelled his mother to sign the receipt for
+fifty thousand francs; the tool was indeed a useful and unscrupulous
+one; but she felt the necessity for guiding it, especially under
+present circumstances, when considerable suppleness was requisite.
+
+The official news of the Coup d’État did not reach Plassans until the
+afternoon of December 3—a Thursday. Already, at seven o’clock in the
+evening, there was a full meeting in the yellow drawing-room. Although
+the crisis had been eagerly desired, vague uneasiness appeared on the
+faces of the majority. They discussed events amid endless chatter.
+Pierre, who like the others was slightly pale, thought it right, as an
+extreme measure of prudence, to excuse Prince Louis’s decisive act to
+the Legitimists and Orleanists who were present.
+
+“There is talk of an appeal to the people,” he said; “the nation will
+then be free to choose whatever government it likes. The president is a
+man to retire before our legitimate masters.”
+
+The marquis, who had retained his aristocratic coolness, was the only
+one who greeted these words with a smile. The others, in the enthusiasm
+of the moment, concerned themselves very little about what might
+follow. All their opinions foundered. Roudier, forgetting the esteem
+which as a former shopkeeper he had entertained for the Orleanists,
+stopped Pierre rather abruptly. And everybody exclaimed: “Don’t argue
+the matter. Let us think of preserving order.”
+
+These good people were terribly afraid of the Republicans. There had,
+however been very little commotion in the town on the announcement of
+the events in Paris. People had collected in front of the notices
+posted on the door of the Sub-Prefecture; it was also rumoured that a
+few hundred workmen had left their work and were endeavouring to
+organise resistance. That was all. No serious disturbance seemed likely
+to occur. The course which the neighbouring towns and rural districts
+might take seemed more likely to occasion anxiety; however, it was not
+yet known how they had received the news of the Coup d’État.
+
+Granoux arrived at about nine o’clock, quite out of breath. He had just
+left a sitting of the Municipal Council which had been hastily summoned
+together. Choking with emotion, he announced that the mayor, Monsieur
+Garconnet, had declared, while making due reserves, that he was
+determined to preserve order by the most stringent measures. However,
+the intelligence which caused the noisiest chattering in the yellow
+drawing-room was that of the resignation of the sub-prefect. This
+functionary had absolutely refused to communicate the despatches of the
+Minister of the Interior to the inhabitants of Plassans; he had just
+left the town, so Granoux asserted, and it was thanks to the mayor that
+the messages had been posted. This was perhaps the only sub-prefect in
+France who ever had the courage of his democratic opinions.
+
+Although Monsieur Garconnet’s firm demeanour caused the Rougons some
+secret anxiety, they rubbed their hands at the flight of the
+sub-prefect, which left the post vacant for them. It was decided on
+this memorable evening that the yellow drawing-room party should accept
+the Coup d’État and openly declare that it was in favour of
+accomplished facts. Vuillet was commissioned to write an article to
+that effect, and publish it on the morrow in the “Gazette.” Neither he
+nor the marquis raised any objection. They had, no doubt, received
+instructions from the mysterious individuals to whom they sometimes
+made pious allusions. The clergy and the nobility were already resigned
+to the course of lending a strong hand to the victors, in order to
+crush their common enemy, the Republic.
+
+While the yellow drawing-room was deliberating on the evening in
+question, Aristide was perspiring with anxiety. Never had gambler,
+staking his last louis on a card, felt such anguish. During the day the
+resignation of his chief, the sub-prefect, had given him much matter
+for reflection. He had heard him repeat several times that the Coup
+d’État must prove a failure. This functionary, endowed with a limited
+amount of honesty, believed in the final triumph of the democracy,
+though he had not the courage to work for that triumph by offering
+resistance. Aristide was in the habit of listening at the doors of the
+Sub-Prefecture, in order to get precise information, for he felt that
+he was groping in the dark, and clung to the intelligence which he
+gleaned from the officials. The sub-prefect’s opinion struck him
+forcibly; but he remained perplexed. He thought to himself: “Why does
+the fellow go away if he is so certain that the prince-president will
+meet with a check?” However, as he was compelled to espouse one side or
+the other, he resolved to continue his opposition. He wrote a very
+hostile article on the Coup d’État, and took it to the “Indépendant”
+the same evening for the following morning’s issue. He had corrected
+the proofs of this article, and was returning home somewhat calmed,
+when, as he passed along the Rue de la Banne, he instinctively raised
+his head and glanced at the Rougons’ windows. Their windows were
+brightly lighted up.
+
+“What can they be plotting up there?” the journalist asked himself,
+with anxious curiosity.
+
+A fierce desire to know the opinion of the yellow drawing-room with
+regard to recent events then assailed him. He credited this group of
+reactionaries with little intelligence; but his doubts recurred, he was
+in that frame of mind when one might seek advice from a child. He could
+not think of entering his father’s home at that moment, after the
+campaign he had waged against Granoux and the others. Nevertheless, he
+went upstairs, reflecting what a singular figure he would cut if he
+were surprised on the way by anyone. On reaching the Rougons’ door, he
+could only catch a confused echo of voices.
+
+“What a child I am,” said he, “fear makes me stupid.” And he was going
+to descend again, when he heard the approach of his mother, who was
+about to show somebody out. He had barely time to hide in a dark corner
+formed by a little staircase leading to the garrets of the house. The
+Rougons’ door opened, and the marquis appeared, followed by Félicité.
+Monsieur de Carnavant usually left before the gentlemen of the new town
+did, in order no doubt to avoid having to shake hands with them in the
+street.
+
+“Eh! little one,” he said on the landing, in a low voice, “these men
+are greater cowards than I should have thought. With such men France
+will always be at the mercy of whoever dares to lay his hands upon
+her!” And he added, with some bitterness, as though speaking to
+himself: “The monarchy is decidedly becoming too honest for modern
+times. Its day is over.”
+
+“Eugène announced the crisis to his father,” replied Félicité. “Prince
+Louis’s triumph seems to him certain.”
+
+“Oh, you can proceed without fear,” the marquis replied, as he
+descended the first steps. “In two or three days the country will be
+well bound and gagged. Good-bye till to-morrow, little one.”
+
+Félicité closed the door again. Aristide had received quite a shock in
+his dark corner. However, without waiting for the marquis to reach the
+street, he bounded down the staircase, four steps at a time, rushed
+outside like a madman, and turned his steps towards the printing-office
+of the “Indépendant.” A flood of thoughts surged through his mind. He
+was enraged, and accused his family of having duped him. What! Eugène
+kept his parents informed of the situation, and yet his mother had
+never given him any of his eldest brother’s letters to read, in order
+that he might follow the advice given therein! And it was only now he
+learnt by chance that his eldest brother regarded the success of the
+Coup d’État as certain! This circumstance, moreover, confirmed certain
+presentiments which that idiot of a sub-prefect had prevented him from
+obeying. He was especially exasperated against his father, whom he had
+thought stupid enough to be a Legitimist, but who revealed himself as a
+Bonapartist at the right moment.
+
+“What a lot of folly they have allowed me to perpetrate,” he muttered
+as he ran along. “I’m a fine fellow now. Ah! what a lesson! Granoux is
+more capable than I.”
+
+He entered the office of the “Indépendant” like a hurricane, and asked
+for his article in a choking voice. The article had already been
+imposed. He had the forme unlocked and would not rest until he had
+himself destroyed the setting, mixing the type in a furious manner,
+like a set of dominoes. The bookseller who managed the paper looked at
+him in amazement. He was, in reality, rather glad of the incident, as
+the article had seemed to him somewhat dangerous. But he was absolutely
+obliged to have some copy, if the “Indépendant” 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’État.
+At the very first line, he swore that Prince Louis had just saved the
+Republic; but he had hardly written a page before he stopped and seemed
+at a loss how to continue. A troubled look came over his pole-cat face.
+
+“I must go home,” he said at last. “I will send you this immediately.
+Your paper can appear a little later, if necessary.”
+
+He walked slowly on his way home, lost in meditation. He was again
+giving way to indecision. Why should he veer round so quickly? Eugène
+was an intelligent fellow, but his mother had perhaps exaggerated the
+significance of some sentence in his letter. In any case, it would be
+better to wait and hold his tongue.
+
+An hour later Angèle called at the bookseller’s, feigning deep emotion.
+
+“My husband has just severely injured himself,” she said. “He jammed
+his four fingers in a door as he was coming in. In spite of his
+sufferings, he has dictated this little note, which he begs you to
+publish to-morrow.”
+
+On the following day the “Indépendant,” made up almost entirely of
+miscellaneous items of news, appeared with these few lines at the head
+of the first column:
+
+“A deplorable accident which has occurred to our eminent contributor
+Monsieur Aristide Rougon will deprive us of his articles for some time.
+He will suffer at having to remain silent in the present grave
+circumstances. None of our readers will doubt, however, the good wishes
+which he offers up with patriotic feelings for the welfare of France.”
+
+This burlesque note had been maturely studied. The last sentence might
+be interpreted in favour of all parties. By this expedient, Aristide
+devised a glorious return for himself on the morrow of battle, in the
+shape of a laudatory article on the victors. On the following day he
+showed himself to the whole town, with his arm in a sling. His mother,
+frightened by the notice in the paper, hastily called upon him, but he
+refused to show her his hand, and spoke with a bitterness which
+enlightened the old woman.
+
+“It won’t be anything,” she said in a reassuring and somewhat sarcastic
+tone, as she was leaving. “You only want a little rest.”
+
+It was no doubt owing to this pretended accident, and the sub-prefect’s
+departure, that the “Indépendant” was not interfered with, like most of
+the democratic papers of the departments.
+
+The 4th day of the month proved comparatively quiet at Plassans. In the
+evening there was a public demonstration which the mere appearance of
+the gendarmes sufficed to disperse. A band of working-men came to
+request Monsieur Garconnet to communicate the despatches he had
+received from Paris, which the latter haughtily refused to do; as it
+retired the band shouted: “Long live the Republic! Long live the
+Constitution!” After this, order was restored. The yellow drawing-room,
+after commenting at some length on this innocent parade, concluded that
+affairs were going on excellently.
+
+The 5th and 6th were, however, more disquieting. Intelligence was
+received of successive risings in small neighbouring towns; the whole
+southern part of the department had taken up arms; La Palud and
+Saint-Martin-de-Vaulx had been the first to rise, drawing after them
+the villages of Chavanos, Nazeres, Poujols, Valqueyras and Vernoux. The
+yellow drawing-room party was now becoming seriously alarmed. It felt
+particularly uneasy at seeing Plassans isolated in the very midst of
+the revolt. Bands of insurgents would certainly scour the country and
+cut off all communications. Granoux announced, with a terrified look,
+that the mayor was without any news. Some people even asserted that
+blood had been shed at Marseilles, and that a formidable revolution had
+broken out in Paris. Commander Sicardot, enraged at the cowardice of
+the bourgeois, vowed he would die at the head of his men.
+
+On Sunday the 7th the terror reached a climax. Already at six o’clock
+the yellow drawing-room, where a sort of reactionary committee sat _en
+permanence_, was crowded with pale, trembling men, who conversed in
+undertones, as though they were in a chamber of death. It had been
+ascertained during the day that a column of insurgents, about three
+thousand strong, had assembled at Alboise, a big village not more than
+three leagues away. It was true that this column had been ordered to
+make for the chief town of the department, leaving Plassans on its
+left; but the plan of campaign might at any time be altered; moreover,
+it sufficed for these cowardly cits to know that there were insurgents
+a few miles off, to make them feel the horny hands of the toilers
+already tightened round their throats. They had had a foretaste of the
+revolt in the morning; the few Republicans at Plassans, seeing that
+they would be unable to make any determined move in the town, had
+resolved to join their brethren of La Palud and Saint-Martin-de-Vaulx;
+the first group had left at about eleven o’clock, by the Porte de Rome,
+shouting the “Marseillaise” and smashing a few windows. Granoux had had
+one broken. He mentioned the circumstance with stammerings of terror.
+
+Meantime, the most acute anxiety agitated the yellow drawing-room. The
+commander had sent his servant to obtain some information as to the
+exact movements of the insurgents, and the others awaited this man’s
+return, making the most astonishing surmises. They had a full meeting.
+Roudier and Granoux, sinking back in their arm-chairs, exchanged the
+most pitiable glances, whilst behind them moaned a terror-stricken
+group of retired tradesmen. Vuillet, without appearing over scared,
+reflected upon what precautions he should take to protect his shop and
+person; he was in doubt whether he should hide himself in his garret or
+cellar, and inclined towards the latter. For their part Pierre and the
+commander walked up and down, exchanging a word ever and anon. The old
+oil-dealer clung to this friend Sicardot as if to borrow a little
+courage from him. He, who had been awaiting the crisis for such a long
+time, now endeavoured to keep his countenance, in spite of the emotion
+which was stifling him. As for the marquis, more spruce and smiling
+than usual, he conversed in a corner with Félicité, who seemed very
+gay.
+
+At last a ring came. The gentlemen started as if they had heard a
+gun-shot. Dead silence reigned in the drawing-room when Félicité went
+to open the door, towards which their pale, anxious faces were turned.
+Then the commander’s servant appeared on the threshold, quite out of
+breath, and said abruptly to his master: “Sir, the insurgents will be
+here in an hour.”
+
+This was a thunderbolt. They all started up, vociferating, and raising
+their arms towards the ceiling. For several minutes it was impossible
+to hear one’s self speak. The company surrounded the messenger,
+overwhelming him with questions.
+
+“Damnation!” the commander at length shouted, “don’t make such a row.
+Be calm, or I won’t answer for anything.”
+
+Everyone sank back in his chair again, heaving long-drawn sighs. They
+then obtained a few particulars. The messenger had met the column at
+Les Tulettes, and had hastened to return.
+
+“There are at least three thousand of them,” said he. “They are
+marching in battalions, like soldiers. I thought I caught sight of some
+prisoners in their midst.”
+
+“Prisoners!” cried the terrified bourgeois.
+
+“No doubt,” the marquis interrupted in his shrill voice. “I’ve heard
+that the insurgents arrest all persons who are known to have
+conservative leanings.”
+
+This information gave a finishing touch to the consternation of the
+yellow drawing-room. A few bourgeois got up and stealthily made for the
+door, reflecting that they had not too much time before them to gain a
+place of safety.
+
+The announcement of the arrests made by the Republicans appeared to
+strike Félicité. She took the marquis aside and asked him: “What do
+these men do with the people they arrest?”
+
+“Why, they carry them off in their train,” Monsieur de Carnavant
+replied. “They no doubt consider them excellent hostages.”
+
+“Ah!” the old woman rejoined, in a strange tone.
+
+Then she again thoughtfully watched the curious scene of panic around
+her. The bourgeois gradually disappeared; soon there only remained
+Vuillet and Roudier, whom the approaching danger inspired with some
+courage. As for Granoux, he likewise remained in his corner, his legs
+refusing to perform their office.
+
+“Well, I like this better,” Sicardot remarked, as he observed the
+flight of the other adherents. “Those cowards were exasperating me at
+last. For more than two years they’ve been speaking of shooting all the
+Republicans in the province, and to-day they wouldn’t even fire a
+halfpenny cracker under their noses.”
+
+Then he took up his hat and turned towards the door.
+
+“Let’s see,” he continued, “time presses. Come, Rougon.”
+
+Félicité, it seemed, had been waiting for this moment. She placed
+herself between the door and her husband, who, for that matter, was not
+particularly eager to follow the formidable Sicardot.
+
+“I won’t have you go out,” she cried, feigning sudden despair. “I won’t
+let you leave my side. Those scoundrels will kill you.”
+
+The commander stopped in amazement.
+
+“Hang it all!” he growled, “if the women are going to whine now—Come
+along, Rougon!’
+
+“No, no,” continued the old woman, affecting increase of terror, “he
+sha’n’t follow you. I will hang on to his clothes and prevent him.”
+
+The marquis, very much surprised at the scene, looked inquiringly at
+Félicité. Was this really the woman who had just now been conversing so
+merrily? What comedy was she playing? Pierre, meantime, seeing that his
+wife wanted to detain him, deigned a determination to force his way
+out.
+
+“I tell you you shall not go,” the old woman reiterated, as she clung
+to one of his arms. And turning towards the commander, she said to him:
+“How can you think of offering any resistance? They are three thousand
+strong, and you won’t be able to collect a hundred men of any spirit.
+You are rushing into the cannon’s mouth to no purpose.”
+
+“Eh! that is our duty,” said Sicardot, impatiently.
+
+Félicité burst into sobs.
+
+“If they don’t kill him, they’ll make him a prisoner,” she continued,
+looked fixedly at her husband. “Good heavens! What will become of me,
+left alone in an abandoned town?”
+
+“But,” exclaimed the commander, “we shall be arrested just the same if
+we allow the insurgents to enter the town unmolested. I believe that
+before an hour has elapsed the mayor and all the functionaries will be
+prisoners, to say nothing of your husband and the frequenters of this
+drawing-room.”
+
+The marquis thought he saw a vague smile play about Félicité’s lips as
+she answered, with a look of dismay: “Do you really think so?”
+
+“Of course!” replied Sicardot; “the Republicans are not so stupid as to
+leave enemies behind them. To-morrow Plassans will be emptied of its
+functionaries and good citizens.”
+
+At these words, which she had so cleverly provoked, Félicité released
+her husband’s arms. Pierre no longer looked as if he wanted to go out.
+Thanks to his wife, whose skilful tactics escaped him, however, and
+whose secret complicity he never for a moment suspected, he had just
+lighted on a whole plan of campaign.
+
+“We must deliberate before taking any decision,” he said to the
+commander. “My wife is perhaps not wrong in accusing us of forgetting
+the true interests of our families.”
+
+“No, indeed, madame is not wrong,” cried Granoux, who had been
+listening to Félicité’s terrified cries with the rapture of a coward.
+
+Thereupon the commander energetically clapped his hat on his head, and
+said in a clear voice: “Right or wrong, it matters little to me. I am
+commander of the National Guard. I ought to have been at the mayor’s
+before now. Confess that you are afraid, that you leave me to act
+alone. . . . Well, good-night.”
+
+He was just turning the handle of the door, when Rougon forcibly
+detained him.
+
+“Listen, Sicardot,” he said.
+
+He drew him into a corner, on seeing Vuillet prick up his big ears. And
+there he explained to him, in an undertone, that it would be a good
+plan to leave a few energetic men behind the insurgents, so as to
+restore order in the town. And as the fierce commander obstinately
+refused to desert his post, Pierre offered to place himself at the head
+of such a reserve corps.
+
+“Give me the key of the cart-shed in which the arms and ammunition are
+kept,” he said to him, “and order some fifty of our men not to stir
+until I call for them.”
+
+Sicardot ended by consenting to these prudent measures. He entrusted
+Pierre with the key of the cart-shed, convinced as he was of the
+inexpediency of present resistance, but still desirous of sacrificing
+himself.
+
+During this conversation, the marquis had whispered a few words in
+Félicité’s ear with a knowing look. He complimented her, no doubt, on
+her theatrical display. The old woman could not repress a faint smile.
+But, as Sicardot shook hands with Rougon and prepared to go, she again
+asked him with an air of fright: “Are you really determined to leave
+us?”
+
+“It is not for one of Napoleon’s old soldiers to let himself be
+intimidated by the mob,” he replied.
+
+He was already on the landing, when Granoux hurried after him, crying:
+“If you go to the mayor’s tell him what’s going on. I’ll just run home
+to my wife to reassure her.”
+
+Then Félicité bent towards the marquis’s ear, and whispered with
+discreet gaiety: “Upon my word, it is best that devil of a commander
+should go and get himself arrested. He’s far too zealous.”
+
+However, Rougon brought Granoux back to the drawing-room. Roudier, who
+had quietly followed the scene from his corner, making signs in support
+of the proposed measures of prudence, got up and joined them. When the
+marquis and Vuillet had likewise risen, Pierre began:
+
+“Now that we are alone, among peaceable men, I propose that we should
+conceal ourselves so as to avoid certain arrest, and be at liberty as
+soon as ours again becomes the stronger party.”
+
+Granoux was ready to embrace him. Roudier and Vuillet breathed more
+easily.
+
+“I shall want you shortly, gentlemen,” the oil-dealer continued, with
+an important air. “It is to us that the honour of restoring order in
+Plassans is reserved.”
+
+“You may rely upon us!” cried Vuillet, with an enthusiasm which
+disturbed Félicité.
+
+Time was pressing. These singular defenders of Plassans, who hid
+themselves the better to protect the town, hastened away, to bury
+themselves in some hole or other. Pierre, on being left alone with his
+wife, advised her not to make the mistake of barricading herself
+indoors, but to reply, if anybody came to question her, that he,
+Pierre, had simply gone on a short journey. And as she acted the
+simpleton, feigning terror and asking what all this was coming to, he
+replied abruptly: “It’s nothing to do with you. Let me manage our
+affairs alone. They’ll get on all the better.”
+
+A few minutes later he was rapidly threading his way along the Rue de
+la Banne. On reaching the Cours Sauvaire, he saw a band of armed
+workmen coming out of the old quarter and singing the “Marseillaise.”
+
+“The devil!” he thought. “It was quite time, indeed; here’s the town
+itself in revolt now!”
+
+He quickened his steps in the direction of the Porte de Rome. Cold
+perspiration came over him while he waited there for the dilatory
+keeper to open the gate. Almost as soon as he set foot on the high
+road, he perceived in the moonlight at the other end of the Faubourg
+the column of insurgents, whose gun barrels gleamed like white flames.
+So it was at a run that he dived into the Impasse Saint-Mittre, and
+reached his mother’s house, which he had not visited for many a long
+year.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+
+Antoine Macquart had returned to Plassans after the fall of the first
+Napoleon. He had had the incredible good fortune to escape all the
+final murderous campaigns of the Empire. He had moved from barracks to
+barracks, dragging on his brutifying military life. This mode of
+existence brought his natural vices to full development. His idleness
+became deliberate; his intemperance, which brought him countless
+punishments, became, to his mind, a veritable religious duty. But that
+which above all made him the worst of scapegraces was the supercilious
+disdain which he entertained for the poor devils who had to earn their
+bread.
+
+“I’ve got money waiting for me at home,” he often said to his comrades;
+“when I’ve served my time, I shall be able to live like a gentleman.”
+
+This belief, together with his stupid ignorance, prevented him from
+rising even to the grade of corporal.
+
+Since his departure he had never spent a day’s furlough at Plassans,
+his brother having invented a thousand pretexts to keep him at a
+distance. He was therefore completely ignorant of the adroit manner in
+which Pierre had got possession of their mother’s fortune. Adélaïde,
+with her profound indifference, did not even write to him three times
+to tell him how she was going on. The silence which generally greeted
+his numerous requests for money did not awaken the least suspicion in
+him; Pierre’s stinginess sufficed to explain the difficulty he
+experienced in securing from time to time a paltry twenty-franc piece.
+This, however, only increased his animosity towards his brother, who
+left him to languish in military service in spite of his formal promise
+to purchase his discharge. He vowed to himself that on his return home
+he would no longer submit like a child, but would flatly demand his
+share of the fortune to enable him to live as he pleased. In the
+diligence which conveyed him home he dreamed of a delightful life of
+idleness. The shattering of his castles in the air was terrible. When
+he reached the Faubourg, and could no longer even recognise the
+Fouques’ plot of ground, he was stupefied. He was compelled to ask for
+his mother’s new address. There a terrible scene occurred. Adélaïde
+calmly informed him of the sale of the property. He flew into a rage,
+and even raised his hand against her.
+
+The poor woman kept repeating: “Your brother has taken everything; it
+is understood that he will take care of you.”
+
+At last he left her and ran off to see Pierre, whom he had previously
+informed of his return, and who was prepared to receive him in such a
+way as to put an end to the matter at the first word of abuse.
+
+“Listen,” the oil-dealer said to him, affecting distant coldness;
+“don’t rouse my anger, or I’ll turn you out. As a matter of fact, I
+don’t know you. We don’t bear the same name. It’s quite misfortune
+enough for me that my mother misconducted herself, without having her
+offspring coming here and insulting me. I was well disposed towards
+you, but since you are insolent I shall do nothing for you, absolutely
+nothing.”
+
+Antoine was almost choking with rage.
+
+“And what about my money,” he cried; “will you give it up, you thief,
+or shall I have to drag you before the judges?”
+
+Pierre shrugged his shoulders.
+
+“I’ve got no money of yours,” he replied, more calmly than ever. “My
+mother disposed of her fortune as she thought proper. I am certainly
+not going to poke my nose into her business. I willingly renounced all
+hope of inheritance. I am quite safe from your foul accusations.”
+
+And as his brother, exasperated by this composure, and not knowing what
+to think, muttered something, Pierre thrust Adélaïde’s receipt under
+his nose. The reading of this scrap of paper completed Antoine’s
+dismay.
+
+“Very well,” he said, in a calmer voice, “I know now what I have to
+do.”
+
+The truth was, however, he did not know what to do. His inability to
+hit upon any immediate expedient for obtaining his share of the money
+and satisfying his desire of revenge increased his fury. He went back
+to his mother and subjected her to a disgraceful cross-examination. The
+wretched woman could do nothing but again refer him to Pierre.
+
+“Do you think you are going to make me run to and fro like a shuttle?”
+he cried, insolently. “I’ll soon find out which of you two has the
+hoard. You’ve already squandered it, perhaps?”
+
+And making an allusion to her former misconduct he asked her if there
+were still not some low fellow to whom she gave her last sous? He did
+not even spare his father, that drunkard Macquart, as he called him,
+who must have lived on her till the day of his death, and who left his
+children in poverty. The poor woman listened with a stupefied air; big
+tears rolled down her cheeks. She defended herself with the terror of a
+child, replying to her son’s questions as though he were a judge; she
+swore that she was living respectably, and reiterated with emphasis
+that she had never had a sou of the money, that Pierre had taken
+everything. Antoine almost came to believe it at last.
+
+“Ah! the scoundrel!” he muttered; “that’s why he wouldn’t purchase my
+discharge.”
+
+He had to sleep at his mother’s house, on a straw mattress flung in a
+corner. He had returned with his pockets perfectly empty, and was
+exasperated at finding himself destitute of resources, abandoned like a
+dog in the streets, without hearth or home, while his brother, as he
+thought, was in a good way of business, and living on the fat of the
+land. As he had no money to buy clothes with, he went out on the
+following day in his regimental cap and trousers. He had the good
+fortune to find, at the bottom of a cupboard, an old yellowish
+velveteen jacket, threadbare and patched, which had belonged to
+Macquart. In this strange attire he walked about the town, relating his
+story to everyone, and demanding justice.
+
+The people whom he went to consult received him with a contempt which
+made him shed tears of rage. Provincial folks are inexorable towards
+fallen families. In the general opinion it was only natural that the
+Rougon-Macquarts should seek to devour each other; the spectators,
+instead of separating them, were more inclined to urge them on. Pierre,
+however, was at that time already beginning to purify himself of his
+early stains. People laughed at his roguery; some even went so far as
+to say that he had done quite right, if he really had taken possession
+of the money, and that it would be a good lesson to the dissolute folks
+of the town.
+
+Antoine returned home discouraged. A lawyer had advised him, in a
+scornful manner, to wash his dirty linen at home, though not until he
+had skilfully ascertained whether Antoine possessed the requisite means
+to carry on a lawsuit. According to this man, the case was very
+involved, the pleadings would be very lengthy, and success was
+doubtful. Moreover, it would require money, and plenty of it.
+
+Antoine treated his mother yet more harshly that evening. Not knowing
+on whom else to wreak his vengeance, he repeated his accusation of the
+previous day; he kept the wretched woman up till midnight, trembling
+with shame and fright. Adélaïde having informed him that Pierre made
+her an allowance, he now felt certain that his brother had pocketed the
+fifty thousand francs. But, in his irritation, he still affected to
+doubt it, and did not cease to question the poor woman, again and again
+reproaching her with misconduct.
+
+Antoine soon found out that, alone and without resources, he could not
+successfully carry on a contest with his brother. He then endeavoured
+to gain Adélaïde to his cause; an accusation lodged by her might have
+serious consequences. But, at Antoine’s first suggestion of it, the
+poor, lazy, lethargic creature firmly refused to bring trouble on her
+eldest son.
+
+“I am an unhappy woman,” she stammered; “it is quite right of you to
+get angry. But I should feel too much remorse if I caused one of my
+sons to be sent to prison. No; I’d rather let you beat me.”
+
+He saw that he would get nothing but tears out of her, and contented
+himself with saying that she was justly punished, and that he had no
+pity for her. In the evening, upset by the continual quarrels which her
+son had sought with her, Adélaïde had one of those nervous attacks
+which kept her as rigid as if she had been dead. The young man threw
+her on her bed, and then began to rummage the house to see if the
+wretched woman had any savings hidden away. He found about forty
+francs. He took possession of them, and, while his mother still lay
+there, rigid and scarce able to breathe, he quietly took the diligence
+to Marseilles.
+
+He had just bethought himself that Mouret, the journeyman hatter who
+had married his sister Ursule, must be indignant at Pierre’s roguery,
+and would no doubt be willing to defend his wife’s interests. But he
+did not find in him the man he expected. Mouret plainly told him that
+he had become accustomed to look upon Ursule as an orphan, and would
+have no contentions with her family at any price. Their affairs were
+prospering. Antoine was received so coldly that he hastened to take the
+diligence home again. But, before leaving, he was anxious to revenge
+himself for the secret contempt which he read in the workman’s eyes;
+and, observing that his sister appeared rather pale and dejected, he
+said to her husband, in a slyly cruel way, as he took his departure:
+“Have a care, my sister was always sickly, and I find her much changed
+for the worse; you may lose her altogether.”
+
+The tears which rushed to Mouret’s eyes convinced him that he had
+touched a sore wound. But then those work-people made too great a
+display of their happiness.
+
+When he was back again in Plassans, Antoine became the more menacing
+from the conviction that his hands were tied. During a whole month he
+was seen all over the place. He paraded the streets, recounting his
+story to all who would listen to him. Whenever he succeeded in
+extorting a franc from his mother, he would drink it away at some
+tavern, where he would revile his brother, declaring that the rascal
+should shortly hear from him. In places like these, the good-natured
+fraternity which reigns among drunkards procured him a sympathetic
+audience; all the scum of the town espoused his cause, and poured forth
+bitter imprecations against that rascal Rougon, who left a brave
+soldier to starve; the discussion generally terminating with an
+indiscriminate condemnation of the rich. Antoine, the better to revenge
+himself, continued to march about in his regimental cap and trousers
+and his old yellow velvet jacket, although his mother had offered to
+purchase some more becoming clothes for him. But no; he preferred to
+make a display of his rags, and paraded them on Sundays in the most
+frequented parts of the Cours Sauvaire.
+
+One of his most exquisite pleasures was to pass Pierre’s shop ten times
+a day. He would enlarge the holes in his jacket with his fingers,
+slacken his step, and sometimes stand talking in front of the door, so
+as to remain longer in the street. On these occasions, too, he would
+bring one of his drunken friends and gossip to him; telling him about
+the theft of the fifty thousand francs, accompanying his narrative with
+loud insults and menaces, which could be heard by everyone in the
+street, and taking particular care that his abuse should reach the
+furthest end of the shop.
+
+“He’ll finish by coming to beg in front of our house,” Félicité used to
+say in despair.
+
+The vain little woman suffered terribly from this scandal. She even at
+this time felt some regret at ever having married Rougon; his family
+connections were so objectionable. She would have given all she had in
+the world to prevent Antoine from parading his rags. But Pierre, who
+was maddened by his brother’s conduct, would not allow his name to be
+mentioned. When his wife tried to convince him that it would perhaps be
+better to free himself from all annoyance by giving Antoine a little
+money: “No, nothing; not a sou,” he cried with rage. “Let him starve!”
+
+He confessed, however, at last that Antoine’s demeanour was becoming
+intolerable. One day, Félicité, desiring to put an end to it, called to
+“that man,” as she styled him with a disdainful curl on her lip. “That
+man” was in the act of calling her a foul name in the middle of the
+street, where he stood with one of his friends, even more ragged than
+himself. They were both drunk.
+
+“Come, they want us in there,” said Antoine to his companion in a
+jeering tone.
+
+But Félicité drew back, muttering: “It’s you alone we wish to speak
+to.”
+
+“Bah!” the young man replied, “my friend’s a decent fellow. You needn’t
+mind him hearing. He’ll be my witness.”
+
+The witness sank heavily on a chair. He did not take off his hat, but
+began to stare around him, with the maudlin, stupid grin of drunkards
+and coarse people who know that they are insolent. Félicité was so
+ashamed that she stood in front of the shop door in order that people
+outside might not see what strange company she was receiving.
+Fortunately her husband came to the rescue. A violent quarrel ensued
+between him and his brother. The latter, after stammering insults,
+reiterated his old grievances twenty times over. At last he even began
+to cry, and his companion was near following his example. Pierre had
+defended himself in a very dignified manner.
+
+“Look here,” he said at last, “you’re unfortunate, and I pity you.
+Although you have cruelly insulted me, I can’t forget that we are
+children of the same mother. If I give you anything, however, you must
+understand I give it you out of kindness, and not from fear. Would you
+like a hundred francs to help you out of your difficulties?”
+
+This abrupt offer of a hundred francs dazzled Antoine’s companion. He
+looked at the other with an air of delight, which clearly signified:
+“As the gentleman offers a hundred francs, it is time to leave off
+abusing him.” But Antoine was determined to speculate on his brother’s
+favourable disposition. He asked him whether he took him for a fool; it
+was his share, ten thousand francs, that he wanted.
+
+“You’re wrong, you’re wrong,” stuttered his friend.
+
+At last, as Pierre, losing all patience, was threatening to turn them
+both out, Antoine lowered his demands and contented himself with
+claiming one thousand francs. They quarrelled for another quarter of an
+hour over this amount. Finally, Félicité interfered. A crowd was
+gathering round the shop.
+
+“Listen,” she said, excitedly; “my husband will give you two hundred
+francs. I’ll undertake to buy you a suit of clothes, and hire a room
+for a year for you.”
+
+Rougon got angry at this. But Antoine’s comrade cried, with transports
+of delight: “All right, it’s settled, then; my friend accepts.”
+
+Antoine did, in fact, declare, in a surly way, that he would accept. He
+felt he would not be able to get any more. It was arranged that the
+money and clothes should be sent to him on the following day, and that
+a few days later, as soon as Félicité should have found a room for him,
+he would take up his quarters there. As they were leaving, the young
+man’s sottish companion became as respectful as he had previously been
+insolent. He bowed to the company more than a dozen times, in an
+awkward and humble manner, muttering many indistinct thanks, as if the
+Rougons’ gifts had been intended for himself.
+
+A week later Antoine occupied a large room in the old quarter, in which
+Félicité, exceeding her promises, had placed a bed, a table, and some
+chairs, on the young man formally undertaking not to molest them in
+future. Adélaïde felt no regret at her son leaving her; the short stay
+he had made with her had condemned her to bread and water for more than
+three months. However, Antoine had soon eaten and drunk the two hundred
+francs he received from Pierre. He never for a moment thought of
+investing them in some little business which would have helped him to
+live. When he was again penniless, having no trade, and being,
+moreover, unwilling to work, he again sought to slip a hand into the
+Rougons’ purse. Circumstances were not the same as before, however, and
+he failed to intimidate them. Pierre even took advantage of this
+opportunity to turn him out, and forbade him ever to set foot in his
+house again. It was of no avail for Antoine to repeat his former
+accusations. The townspeople, who were acquainted with his brother’s
+munificence from the publicity which Félicité had given to it, declared
+him to be in the wrong, and called him a lazy, idle fellow. Meantime
+his hunger was pressing. He threatened to turn smuggler like his
+father, and perpetrate some crime which would dishonour his family. At
+this the Rougons shrugged their shoulders; they knew he was too much of
+a coward to risk his neck. At last, blindly enraged against his
+relatives in particular and society in general, Antoine made up his
+mind to seek some work.
+
+In a tavern of the Faubourg he made the acquaintance of a basket-maker
+who worked at home. He offered to help him. In a short time he learnt
+to plait baskets and hampers—a coarse and poorly-paid kind of labour
+which finds a ready market. He was very soon able to work on his own
+account. This trade pleased him, as it was not over laborious. He could
+still indulge his idleness, and that was what he chiefly cared for. He
+would only take to his work when he could no longer do otherwise; then
+he would hurriedly plait a dozen baskets and go and sell them in the
+market. As long as the money lasted he lounged about, visiting all the
+taverns and digesting his drink in the sunshine. Then, when he had
+fasted a whole day, he would once more take up his osier with a low
+growl and revile the wealthy who lived in idleness. The trade of a
+basket-maker, when followed in such a manner, is a thankless one.
+Antoine’s work would not have sufficed to pay for his drinking bouts if
+he had not contrived a means of procuring his osier at low cost. He
+never bought any at Plassans, but used to say that he went each month
+to purchase a stock at a neighbouring town, where he pretended it was
+sold cheaper. The truth, however, was that he supplied himself from the
+osier-grounds of the Viorne on dark nights. A rural policeman even
+caught him once in the very act, and Antoine underwent a few days’
+imprisonment in consequence. It was from that time forward that he
+posed in the town as a fierce Republican. He declared that he had been
+quietly smoking his pipe by the riverside when the rural policeman
+arrested him. And he added: “They would like to get me out of the way
+because they know what my opinions are. But I’m not afraid of them,
+those rich scoundrels.”
+
+At last, at the end of ten years of idleness, Antoine considered that
+he had been working too hard. His constant dream was to devise some
+expedient by which he might live at his ease without having to do
+anything. His idleness would never have rested content with bread and
+water; he was not like certain lazy persons who are willing to put up
+with hunger provided they can keep their hands in their pockets. He
+liked good feeding and nothing to do. He talked at one time of taking a
+situation as servant in some nobleman’s house in the Saint-Marc
+quarter. But one of his friends, a groom, frightened him by describing
+the exacting ways of his masters. Finally Macquart, sick of his
+baskets, and seeing the time approach when he would be compelled to
+purchase the requisite osier, was on the point of selling himself as an
+army substitute and resuming his military life, which he preferred a
+thousand times to that of an artisan, when he made the acquaintance of
+a woman, an acquaintance which modified his plans.
+
+Josephine Gavaudan, who was known throughout the town by the familiar
+diminutive of Fine, was a tall, strapping wench of about thirty. With a
+square face of masculine proportions, and a few terribly long hairs
+about her chin and lips, she was cited as a doughty woman, one who
+could make the weight of her fist felt. Her broad shoulders and huge
+arms consequently inspired the town urchins with marvellous respect;
+and they did not even dare to smile at her moustache. Notwithstanding
+all this, Fine had a faint voice, weak and clear like that of a child.
+Those who were acquainted with her asserted that she was as gentle as a
+lamb, in spite of her formidable appearance. As she was very
+hard-working, she might have put some money aside if she had not had a
+partiality for liqueurs. She adored aniseed, and very often had to be
+carried home on Sunday evenings.
+
+On week days she would toil with the stubbornness of an animal. She had
+three or four different occupations; she sold fruit or boiled chestnuts
+in the market, according to the season; went out charring for a few
+well-to-do people; washed up plates and dishes at houses when parties
+were given, and employed her spare time in mending old chairs. She was
+more particularly known in the town as a chair-mender. In the South
+large numbers of straw-bottomed chairs are used.
+
+Antoine Macquart formed an acquaintance with Fine at the market. When
+he went to sell his baskets in the winter he would stand beside the
+stove on which she cooled her chestnuts and warm himself. He was
+astonished at her courage, he who was frightened of the least work. By
+degrees he discerned, beneath the apparent roughness of this strapping
+creature, signs of timidity and kindliness. He frequently saw her give
+handfuls of chestnuts to the ragged urchins who stood in ecstasy round
+her smoking pot. At other times, when the market inspector hustled her,
+she very nearly began to cry, apparently forgetting all about her heavy
+fists. Antoine at last decided that she was exactly the woman he
+wanted. She would work for both and he would lay down the law at home.
+She would be his beast of burden, an obedient, indefatigable animal. As
+for her partiality for liqueurs, he regarded this as quite natural.
+After well weighing the advantages of such an union, he declared
+himself to Fine, who was delighted with his proposal. No man had ever
+yet ventured to propose to her. Though she was told that Antoine was
+the most worthless of vagabonds, she lacked the courage to refuse
+matrimony. The very evening of the nuptials the young man took up his
+abode in his wife’s lodgings in the Rue Civadière, near the market.
+These lodgings, consisting of three rooms, were much more comfortably
+furnished than his own, and he gave a sigh of satisfaction as he
+stretched himself out on the two excellent mattresses which covered the
+bedstead.
+
+Everything went on very well for the first few days. Fine attended to
+her various occupations as in the past; Antoine, seized with a sort of
+marital self-pride which astonished even himself, plaited in one week
+more baskets than he had ever before done in a month. On the first
+Sunday, however, war broke out. The couple had a goodly sum of money in
+the house, and they spent it freely. During the night, when they were
+both drunk, they beat each other outrageously, without being able to
+remember on the morrow how it was that the quarrel had commenced. They
+had remained on most affectionate terms until about ten o’clock, when
+Antoine had begun to beat Fine brutally, whereupon the latter, growing
+exasperated and forgetting her meekness, had given him back as much as
+she received. She went to work again bravely on the following day, as
+though nothing had happened. But her husband, with sullen rancour, rose
+late and passed the remainder of the day smoking his pipe in the
+sunshine.
+
+From that time forward the Macquarts adopted the kind of life which
+they were destined to lead in the future. It became, as it were,
+tacitly understood between them that the wife should toil and moil to
+keep her husband. Fine, who had an instinctive liking for work, did not
+object to this. She was as patient as a saint, provided she had had no
+drink, thought it quite natural that her husband should remain idle,
+and even strove to spare him the most trifling labour. Her little
+weakness, aniseed, did not make her vicious, but just. On the evenings
+when she had forgotten herself in the company of a bottle of her
+favourite liqueur, if Antoine tried to pick a quarrel with her, she
+would set upon him with might and main, reproaching him with his
+idleness and ingratitude. The neighbours grew accustomed to the
+disturbances which periodically broke out in the couple’s room. The two
+battered each other conscientiously; the wife slapped like a mother
+chastising a naughty child; but the husband, treacherous and spiteful
+as he was, measured his blows, and, on several occasions, very nearly
+crippled the unfortunate woman.
+
+“You’ll be in a fine plight when you’ve broken one of my arms or legs,”
+she would say to him. “Who’ll keep you then, you lazy fellow?”
+
+Excepting for these turbulent scenes, Antoine began to find his new
+mode of existence quite endurable. He was well clothed, and ate and
+drank his fill. He had laid aside the basket work altogether;
+sometimes, when he was feeling over-bored, he would resolve to plait a
+dozen baskets for the next market day; but very often he did not even
+finish the first one. He kept, under a couch, a bundle of osier which
+he did not use up in twenty years.
+
+The Macquarts had three children, two girls and a boy. Lisa,[*] born
+the first, in 1827, one year after the marriage, remained but little at
+home. She was a fine, big, healthy, full-blooded child, greatly
+resembling her mother. She did not, however, inherit the latter’s
+animal devotion and endurance. Macquart had implanted in her a most
+decided longing for ease and comfort. While she was a child she would
+consent to work for a whole day in return for a cake. When she was
+scarcely seven years old, the wife of the postmaster, who was a
+neighbour of the Macquarts, took a liking to her. She made a little
+maid of her. And when she lost her husband in 1839, and went to live in
+Paris, she took Lisa with her. The parents had almost given her their
+daughter.
+
+[*] The pork-butcher’s wife in _Le Ventre de Paris_ (_The Fat and the
+Thin_).
+
+
+The second girl, Gervaise,[*] born the following year, was a cripple
+from birth. Her right thigh was smaller than the left and showed signs
+of curvature, a curious hereditary result of the brutality which her
+mother had to endure during her fierce drunken brawls with Macquart.
+Gervaise remained puny, and Fine, observing her pallor and weakness,
+put her on a course of aniseed, under the pretext that she required
+something to strengthen her. But the poor child became still more
+emaciated. She was a tall, lank girl, whose frocks, invariably too
+large, hung round her as if they had nothing under them. Above a
+deformed and puny body she had a sweet little doll-like head, a tiny
+round face, pale and exquisitely delicate. Her infirmity almost became
+graceful. Her body swayed gently at every step with a sort of
+rhythmical swing.
+
+[*] The chief female character in _L’Assommoir_ (_The Dramshop_).
+
+
+The Macquarts’ son, Jean,[*] was born three years later. He was a
+robust child, in no respect recalling Gervaise. Like the eldest girl,
+he took after his mother, without having any physical resemblance to
+her. He was the first to import into the Rougon-Macquart stock a fat
+face with regular features, which showed all the coldness of a grave
+yet not over-intelligent nature. This boy grew up with the
+determination of some day making an independent position for himself.
+He attended school diligently, and tortured his dull brain to force a
+little arithmetic and spelling into it. After that he became an
+apprentice, repeating much the same efforts with a perseverance that
+was the more meritorious as it took him a whole day to learn what
+others acquired in an hour.
+
+[*] Figures prominently in _La Terre_ (_The Earth_) and _La Debacle_
+(_The Downfall_).
+
+
+As long as these poor little things remained a burden to the house,
+Antoine grumbled. They were useless mouths that lessened his own share.
+He vowed, like his brother, that he would have no more children, those
+greedy creatures who bring their parents to penury. It was something to
+hear him bemoan his lot when they sat five at table, and the mother
+gave the best morsels to Jean, Lisa, and Gervaise.
+
+“That’s right,” he would growl; “stuff them, make them burst!”
+
+Whenever Fine bought a garment or a pair of boots for them, he would
+sulk for days together. Ah! if he had only known, he would never had
+had that pack of brats, who compelled him to limit his smoking to four
+sous’ worth of tobacco a day, and too frequently obliged him to eat
+stewed potatoes for dinner, a dish which he heartily detested.
+
+Later on, however, as soon as Jean and Gervaise earned their first
+francs, he found some good in children after all. Lisa was no longer
+there. He lived upon the earnings of the two others without
+compunction, as he had already lived upon their mother. It was a
+well-planned speculation on his part. As soon as little Gervaise was
+eight years old, she went to a neighbouring dealer’s to crack almonds;
+she there earned ten sous a day, which her father pocketed right
+royally, without even a question from Fine as to what became of the
+money. The young girl was next apprenticed to a laundress, and as soon
+as she received two francs a day for her work, the two francs strayed
+in a similar manner into Macquart’s hands. Jean, who had learnt the
+trade of a carpenter, was likewise despoiled on pay-days, whenever
+Macquart succeeded in catching him before he had handed the money to
+his mother. If the money escaped Macquart, which sometimes happened, he
+became frightfully surly. He would glare at his wife and children for a
+whole week, picking a quarrel for nothing, although he was, as yet,
+ashamed to confess the real cause of his irritations. On the next
+pay-day, however, he would station himself on the watch, and as soon as
+he had succeeded in pilfering the youngster’s earnings, he disappeared
+for days together.
+
+Gervaise, beaten and brought up in the streets among all the lads of
+the neighbourhood, became a mother when she was fourteen years of age.
+The father of her child was not eighteen years old. He was a journeyman
+tanner named Lantier. At first Macquart was furious, but he calmed down
+somewhat when he learnt that Lantier’s mother, a worthy woman, was
+willing to take charge of the child. He kept Gervaise, however; she was
+then already earning twenty-five sous a day, and he therefore avoided
+all question of marriage. Four years later she had a second child,
+which was likewise taken in by Lantier’s mother. This time Macquart
+shut his eyes altogether. And when Fine timidly suggested that it was
+time to come to some understanding with the tanner, in order to end a
+state of things which made people chatter, he flatly declared that his
+daughter should not leave him, and that he would give her to her lover
+later on, “when he was worthy of her, and had enough money to furnish a
+home.”
+
+This was a fine time for Antoine Macquart. He dressed like a gentleman,
+in frock-coats and trousers of the finest cloth. Cleanly shaved, and
+almost fat, he was no longer the emaciated ragged vagabond who had been
+wont to frequent the taverns. He dropped into cafes, read the papers,
+and strolled on the Cours Sauvaire. He played the gentleman as long as
+he had any money in his pocket. At times of impecuniosity he remained
+at home, exasperated at being kept in his hovel and prevented from
+taking his customary cup of coffee. On such occasions he would reproach
+the whole human race with his poverty, making himself ill with rage and
+envy, until Fine, out of pity, would often give him the last silver
+coin in the house so that he might spend his evening at the cafe. This
+dear fellow was fiercely selfish. Gervaise, who brought home as much as
+sixty francs a month, wore only thin cotton frocks, while he had black
+satin waistcoats made for him by one of the best tailors in Plassans.
+
+Jean, the big lad who earned three or four francs a day, was perhaps
+robbed even more impudently. The cafe where his father passed entire
+days was just opposite his master’s workshop, and while he had plane or
+saw in hand he could see “Monsieur” Macquart on the other side of the
+way, sweetening his coffee or playing piquet with some petty annuitant.
+It was his money that the lazy old fellow was gambling away. He, Jean,
+never stepped inside a cafe, he never had so much as five sous to pay
+for a drink. Antoine treated him like a little girl, never leaving him
+a centime, and always demanding an exact account of the manner in which
+he had employed his time. If the unfortunate lad, led away by some of
+his mates, wasted a day somewhere in the country, on the banks of the
+Viorne, or on the slopes of Garrigues, his father would storm and raise
+his hand, and long bear him a grudge on account of the four francs less
+that he received at the end of the fortnight. He thus held his son in a
+state of dependence, sometimes even looking upon the sweethearts whom
+the young carpenter courted as his own. Several of Gervaise’s friends
+used to come to the Macquarts’ house, work-girls from sixteen to
+eighteen years of age, bold and boisterous girls who, on certain
+evenings, filled the room with youth and gaiety. Poor Jean, deprived of
+all pleasure, ever kept at home by the lack of money, looked at these
+girls with longing eyes; but the childish life which he was compelled
+to lead had implanted invincible shyness in him; in playing with his
+sister’s friends, he was hardly bold enough to touch them with the tips
+of his fingers. Macquart used to shrug his shoulders with pity.
+
+“What a simpleton!” he would mutter, with an air of ironical
+superiority.
+
+And it was he who would kiss the girls, when his wife’s back was
+turned. He carried his attentions even further with a little laundress
+whom Jean pursued rather more earnestly than the others. One fine
+evening he stole her almost from his arms. The old rogue prided himself
+on his gallantry.
+
+There are some men who live upon their mistresses. Antoine Macquart
+lived on his wife and children with as much shamelessness and
+impudence. He did not feel the least compunction in pillaging the home
+and going out to enjoy himself when the house was bare. He still
+assumed a supercilious air, returning from the cafe only to rail
+against the poverty and wretchedness that awaited him at home. He found
+the dinner detestable, he called Gervaise a blockhead, and declared
+that Jean would never be a man. Immersed in his own selfish indulgence,
+he rubbed his hands whenever he had eaten the best piece in the dish;
+and then he smoked his pipe, puffing slowly, while the two poor
+children, overcome with fatigue, went to sleep with their heads resting
+on the table. Thus Macquart passed his days in lazy enjoyment. It
+seemed to him quite natural that he should be kept in idleness like a
+girl, to sprawl about on the benches of some tavern, or stroll in the
+cool of the day along the Cours or the Mail. At last he went so far as
+to relate his amorous escapades in the presence of his son, who
+listened with glistening eyes. The children never protested, accustomed
+as they were to see their mother humble herself before her husband.
+
+Fine, that strapping woman who drubbed him soundly when they were both
+intoxicated, always trembled before him when she was sober, and allowed
+him to rule despotically at home. He robbed her in the night of the
+coppers which she had earned during the day at the market, but she
+never dared to protest, except by veiled rebukes. Sometimes, when he
+had squandered the week’s money in advance, he accused her, poor thing,
+who worked herself to death, of being stupid and not knowing how to
+manage. Fine, as gentle as a lamb, replied, in her soft, clear voice,
+which contrasted so strangely with her big figure, that she was no
+longer twenty years old, and that money was becoming hard to earn. In
+order to console herself, she would buy a pint of aniseed, and drink
+little glassfuls of it with her daughter of an evening, after Antoine
+had gone back to the cafe. That was their dissipation. Jean went to
+bed, while the two women remained at the table, listening attentively
+in order to remove the bottle and glasses at the first sound.
+
+When Macquart was late, they often became intoxicated by the many
+“nips” they thus thoughtlessly imbibed. Stupefied and gazing at each
+other with vague smiles, this mother and daughter would end by
+stuttering. Red patches appeared on Gervaise’s cheeks; her delicate
+doll-like face assumed a look of maudlin beatitude. Nothing could be
+more heart-rending than to see this wretched, pale child, aglow with
+drink and wearing the idiotic smile of a confirmed sot about her moist
+lips. Fine, huddled up on her chair, became heavy and drowsy. They
+sometimes forgot to keep watch, or even lacked the strength to remove
+the bottle and glasses when Antoine’s footsteps were heard on the
+stairs. On these occasions blows were freely exchanged among the
+Macquarts. Jean had to get up to separate his father and mother and
+make his sister go to bed, as otherwise she would have slept on the
+floor.
+
+Every political party numbers its grotesques and its villains. Antoine
+Macquart, devoured by envy and hatred, and meditating revenge against
+society in general, welcomed the Republic as a happy era when he would
+be allowed to fill his pockets from his neighbour’s cash-box, and even
+strangle the neighbour if the latter manifested any displeasure. His
+cafe life and all the newspaper articles he had read without
+understanding them had made him a terrible ranter who enunciated the
+strangest of political theories. It is necessary to have heard one of
+those malcontents who ill digest what they read, haranguing the company
+in some provincial taproom, in order to conceive the degree of hateful
+folly at which Macquart had arrived. As he talked a good deal, had seen
+active service, and was naturally regarded as a man of energy and
+spirit, he was much sought after and listened to by simpletons.
+Although he was not the chief of any party, he had succeeded in
+collecting round him a small group of working-men who took his jealous
+ravings for expressions of honest and conscientious indignation.
+
+Directly after the Revolution of February ‘48, he persuaded himself
+that Plassans was his own, and, as he strolled along the streets, the
+jeering manner in which he regarded the little retail traders who stood
+terrified at their shop doors clearly signified: “Our day has come, my
+little lambs; we are going to lead you a fine dance!” He had grown
+insolent beyond belief; he acted the part of a victorious despot to
+such a degree that he ceased to pay for his drinks at the cafe, and the
+landlord, a simpleton who trembled whenever Antoine rolled his eyes,
+dared not present his bill. The number of cups of coffee he consumed
+during this period was incalculable; sometimes he invited his friends,
+and shouted for hours together that the people were dying of hunger,
+and that the rich ought to share their wealth with them. He himself
+would never have given a sou to a beggar.
+
+That which chiefly converted him into a fierce Republican was the hope
+of at last being able to revenge himself on the Rougons, who had openly
+ranged themselves on the side of the reactionary party. Ah, what a
+triumph if he could only hold Pierre and Félicité at his mercy!
+Although the latter had not succeeded over well in business, they had
+at last become gentlefolks, while he, Macquart, had still remained a
+working-man. That exasperated him. Perhaps he was still more mortified
+because one of their sons was a barrister, another a doctor, and the
+third a clerk, while his son Jean merely worked at a carpenter’s shop,
+and his daughter Gervaise at a washerwoman’s. When he compared the
+Macquarts with the Rougons, he was still more ashamed to see his wife
+selling chestnuts in the market, and mending the greasy old
+straw-seated chairs of the neighbourhood in the evening. Pierre, after
+all, was but his brother, and had no more right than himself to live
+fatly on his income. Moreover, this brother was actually playing the
+gentleman with money stolen from him. Whenever Macquart touched upon
+this subject, he became fiercely enraged; he clamoured for hours
+together, incessantly repeating his old accusations, and never wearying
+of exclaiming: “If my brother was where he ought to be, I should be the
+moneyed man at the present time!”
+
+And when anyone asked him where his brother ought to be, he would
+reply, “At the galleys!” in a formidable voice.
+
+His hatred further increased when the Rougons had gathered the
+Conservatives round them, and thus acquired a certain influence in
+Plassans. The famous yellow drawing-room became, in his hare-brained
+chatter at the cafe, a cave of bandits, an assembly of villains who
+every evening swore on their daggers that they would murder the people.
+In order to incite the starvelings against Pierre, Macquart went so far
+as to circulate a report that the retired oil-dealer was not so poor as
+he pretended, but that he concealed his treasures through avarice and
+fear of robbery. His tactics thus tended to rouse the poor people by a
+repetition of absurdly ridiculous tales, which he often came to believe
+in himself. His personal animosity and his desire for revenge were ill
+concealed beneath his professions of patriotism; but he was heard so
+frequently, and he had such a loud voice, that no one would have dared
+to doubt the genuineness of his convictions.
+
+At bottom, all the members of this family had the same brutish
+passions. Félicité, who clearly understood that Macquart’s wild
+theories were simply the fruit of restrained rage and embittered envy,
+would much have liked to purchase his silence. Unfortunately, she was
+short of money, and did not dare to interest him in the dangerous game
+which her husband was playing. Antoine now injured them very much among
+the well-to-do people of the new town. It sufficed that he was a
+relation of theirs. Granoux and Roudier often scornfully reproached
+them for having such a man in their family. Félicité consequently asked
+herself with anguish how they could manage to cleanse themselves of
+such a stain.
+
+It seemed to her monstrous and indecent that Monsieur Rougon should
+have a brother whose wife sold chestnuts, and who himself lived in
+crapulous idleness. She at last even trembled for the success of their
+secret intrigues, so long as Antoine seemingly took pleasure in
+compromising them. When the diatribes which he levelled at the yellow
+drawing-room were reported to her, she shuddered at the thought that he
+was capable of becoming desperate and ruining all their hopes by force
+of scandal.
+
+Antoine knew what consternation his demeanour must cause the Rougons,
+and it was solely for the purpose of exhausting their patience that he
+from day to day affected fiercer opinions. At the cafe he frequented he
+used to speak of “my brother Pierre” in a voice which made everybody
+turn round; and if he happened to meet some reactionary from the yellow
+drawing-room in the street, he would mutter some low abuse which the
+worthy citizen, amazed at such audacity, would repeat to the Rougons in
+the evening, as though to make them responsible for his disagreeable
+encounter.
+
+One day Granoux arrived in a state of fury.
+
+“Really,” he exclaimed, when scarcely across the threshold, “it’s
+intolerable; one can’t move a step without being insulted.” Then,
+addressing Pierre, he added: “When one has a brother like yours, sir,
+one should rid society of him. I was just quietly walking past the
+Sub-Prefecture, when that rascal passed me muttering something in which
+I could clearly distinguish the words ‘old rogue.’”
+
+Félicité turned pale, and felt it necessary to apologise to Granoux,
+but he refused to accept any excuses, and threatened to leave
+altogether. The marquis, however, exerted himself to arrange matters.
+
+“It is very strange,” he said, “that the wretched fellow should have
+called you an old rogue. Are you sure that he intended the insult for
+you?”
+
+Granoux was perplexed; he admitted at last, however, that Antoine might
+have muttered: “So you are again going to that old rogue’s?”
+
+At this Monsieur de Carnavant stroked his chin to conceal the smile
+which rose to his lips in spite of himself.
+
+Then Rougon, with superb composure, replied: “I thought as much; the
+‘old rogue’ was no doubt intended for me. I’ve very glad that this
+misunderstanding is now cleared up. Gentlemen, pray avoid the man in
+question, whom I formally repudiate.”
+
+Félicité, however, did not take matters so coolly; every fresh scandal
+caused by Macquart made her more and more uneasy; she would sometimes
+pass the whole night wondering what those gentlemen must think of the
+matter.
+
+A few months before the Coup d’État, the Rougons received an anonymous
+letter, three pages of foul insults, in which they were warned that if
+their party should ever triumph, the scandalous story of Adélaïde’s
+amours would be published in some newspaper, together with an account
+of the robbery perpetrated by Pierre, when he had compelled his mother,
+driven out of her senses by debauchery, to sign a receipt for fifty
+thousand francs. This letter was a heavy blow for Rougon himself.
+Félicité could not refrain from reproaching her husband with his
+disreputable family; for the husband and wife never for a moment
+doubted that this letter was Antoine’s work.
+
+“We shall have to get rid of the blackguard at any price,” said Pierre
+in a gloomy tone. “He’s becoming too troublesome by far.”
+
+In the meantime, Macquart, resorting to his former tactics, looked
+round among his own relatives for accomplices who would join him
+against the Rougons. He had counted upon Aristide at first, on reading
+his terrible articles in the “Indépendant.” But the young man, in spite
+of all his jealous rage, was not so foolish as to make common cause
+with such a fellow as his uncle. He never even minced matters with him,
+but invariably kept him at a distance, a circumstance which induced
+Antoine to regard him suspiciously. In the taverns, where Macquart
+reigned supreme, people went so far as to say the journalist was paid
+to provoke disturbances.
+
+Baffled on this side, Macquart had no alternative but to sound his
+sister Ursule’s children. Ursule had died in 1839, thus fulfilling her
+brother’s evil prophecy. The nervous affection which she had inherited
+from her mother had turned into slow consumption, which gradually
+killed her. She left three children; a daughter, eighteen years of age,
+named Helene, who married a clerk, and two boys, the elder, Francois, a
+young man of twenty-three, and the younger, a sickly little fellow
+scarcely six years old, named Silvère. The death of his wife, whom he
+adored, proved a thunderbolt to Mouret. He dragged on his existence for
+another year, neglecting his business and losing all the money he had
+saved. Then, one morning, he was found hanging in a cupboard where
+Ursule’s dresses were still suspended. His elder son, who had received
+a good commercial training, took a situation in the house of his uncle
+Rougon, where he replaced Aristide, who had just left.
+
+Rougon, in spite of his profound hatred for the Macquarts, gladly
+welcomed this nephew, whom he knew to be industrious and sober. He was
+in want of a youth whom he could trust, and who would help him to
+retrieve his affairs. Moreover, during the time of Mouret’s prosperity,
+he had learnt to esteem the young couple, who knew how to make money,
+and thus he had soon become reconciled with his sister. Perhaps he
+thought he was making Francois some compensation by taking him into his
+business; having robbed the mother, he would shield himself from
+remorse by giving employment to the son; even rogues make honest
+calculations sometimes. It was, however, a good thing for him. If the
+house of Rougon did not make a fortune at this time, it was certainly
+through no fault of that quiet, punctilious youth, Francois, who seemed
+born to pass his life behind a grocer’s counter, between a jar of oil
+and a bundle of dried cod-fish. Although he physically resembled his
+mother, he inherited from his father a just if narrow mind, with an
+instinctive liking for a methodical life and the safe speculations of a
+small business.
+
+Three months after his arrival, Pierre, pursuing his system of
+compensation, married him to his young daughter Marthe,[*] whom he did
+not know how to dispose of. The two young people fell in love with each
+other quite suddenly, in a few days. A peculiar circumstance had
+doubtless determined and enhanced their mutual affection. There was a
+remarkably close resemblance between them, suggesting that of brother
+and sister. Francois inherited, through Ursule, the face of his
+grandmother Adélaïde. Marthe’s case was still more curious; she was an
+equally exact portrait of Adélaïde, although Pierre Rougon had none of
+his mother’s features distinctly marked; the physical resemblance had,
+as it were, passed over Pierre, to reappear in his daughter. The
+similarity between husband and wife went, however, no further than
+their faces; if the worthy son of a steady matter-of-fact hatter was
+distinguishable in Francois, Marthe showed the nervousness and mental
+weakness of her grandmother. Perhaps it was this combination of
+physical resemblance and moral dissimilarity which threw the young
+people into each other’s arms. From 1840 to 1844 they had three
+children. Francois remained in his uncle’s employ until the latter
+retired. Pierre had desired to sell him the business, but the young man
+knew what small chance there was of making a fortune in trade at
+Plassans; so he declined the offer and repaired to Marseilles, where he
+established himself with his little savings.
+
+[*] Both Francois and Marthe figure largely in _The Conquest of
+Plassans_.
+
+
+Macquart soon had to abandon all hope of dragging this big industrious
+fellow into his campaign against the Rougons; whereupon, with all the
+spite of a lazybones, he regarded him as a cunning miser. He fancied,
+however, that he had discovered the accomplice he was seeking in
+Mouret’s second son, a lad of fifteen years of age. Young Silvère had
+never even been to school at the time when Mouret was found hanging
+among his wife’s skirts. His elder brother, not knowing what to do with
+him, took him also to his uncle’s. The latter made a wry face on
+beholding the child; he had no intention of carrying his compensation
+so far as to feed a useless mouth. Thus Silvère, to whom Félicité also
+took a dislike, was growing up in tears, like an unfortunate little
+outcast, when his grandmother Adélaïde, during one of the rare visits
+she paid the Rougons, took pity on him, and expressed a wish to have
+him with her. Pierre was delighted; he let the child go, without even
+suggesting an increase of the paltry allowance that he made Adélaïde,
+and which henceforward would have to suffice for two.
+
+Adélaïde was then nearly seventy-five years of age. Grown old while
+leading a cloistered existence, she was no longer the lanky ardent girl
+who formerly ran to embrace the smuggler Macquart. She had stiffened
+and hardened in her hovel in the Impasse Saint-Mittre, that dismal
+silent hole where she lived entirely alone on potatoes and dry
+vegetables, and which she did not leave once in the course of a month.
+On seeing her pass, you might have thought her to be one of those
+delicately white old nuns with automatic gait, whom the cloister has
+kept apart from all the concerns of this world. Her pale face, always
+scrupulously girt with a white cap, looked like that of a dying woman;
+a vague, calm countenance it was, wearing an air of supreme
+indifference. Prolonged taciturnity had made her dumb; the darkness of
+her dwelling and the continual sight of the same objects had dulled her
+glance and given her eyes the limpidity of spring water. Absolute
+renunciation, slow physical and moral death, had little by little
+converted this crazy _amorosa_ into a grave matron. When, as often
+happened, a blank stare came into her eyes, and she gazed before her
+without seeing anything, one could detect utter, internal void through
+those deep bright cavities.
+
+Nothing now remained of her former voluptuous ardour but weariness of
+the flesh and a senile tremor of the hands. She had once loved like a
+she-wolf, but was now wasted, already sufficiently worn out for the
+grave. There had been strange workings of her nerves during her long
+years of chastity. A dissolute life would perhaps have wrecked her less
+than the slow hidden ravages of unsatisfied fever which had modified
+her organism.
+
+Sometimes, even now, this moribund, pale old woman, who seemed to have
+no blood left in her, was seized with nervous fits like electric
+shocks, which galvanised her, and for an hour brought her atrocious
+intensity of life. She would lie on her bed rigid, with her eyes open;
+then hiccoughs would come upon her and she would writhe and struggle,
+acquiring the frightful strength of those hysterical madwomen whom one
+has to tie down in order to prevent them from breaking their heads
+against a wall. This return to former vigour, these sudden attacks,
+gave her a terrible shock. When she came to again, she would stagger
+about with such a scared, stupefied look, that the gossips of the
+Faubourg used to say: “She’s been drinking, the crazy old thing!”
+
+Little Silvère’s childish smile was for her the last pale ray which
+brought some warmth to her frozen limbs. Weary of solitude, and
+frightened at the thought of dying alone in one of her fits, she had
+asked to have the child. With the little fellow running about near her,
+she felt secure against death. Without relinquishing her habits of
+taciturnity, or seeking to render her automatic movements more supple,
+she conceived inexpressible affection for him. Stiff and speechless,
+she would watch him playing for hours together, listening with delight
+to the intolerable noise with which he filled the old hovel. That tomb
+had resounded with uproar ever since Silvère had been running about it,
+bestriding broomsticks, knocking up against the doors, and shouting and
+crying. He brought Adélaïde back to the world, as it were; she looked
+after him with the most adorable awkwardness; she who, in her youth,
+had neglected the duties of a mother, now felt the divine pleasures of
+maternity in washing his face, dressing him, and watching over his
+sickly life. It was a reawakening of love, a last soothing passion
+which heaven had granted to this woman who had been so ravaged by the
+want of some one to love; the touching agony of a heart that had lived
+amidst the most acute desires, and which was now dying full of love for
+a child.
+
+She was already too far gone to pour forth the babble of good plump
+grandmothers; she adored the child in secret with the bashfulness of a
+young girl, without knowing how to fondle him. Sometimes she took him
+on her knees, and gazed at him for a long time with her pale eyes. When
+the little one, frightened by her mute white visage, began to cry, she
+seemed perplexed by what she had done, and quickly put him down upon
+the floor without even kissing him. Perhaps she recognised in him a
+faint resemblance to Macquart the poacher.
+
+Silvère grew up, ever _tête-à-tête_ with Adélaïde. With childish
+cajolery he used to call her aunt Dide, a name which ultimately clung
+to the old woman; the word “aunt” employed in this way is simply a term
+of endearment in Provence. The child entertained singular affection,
+not unmixed with respectful terror, for his grandmother. During her
+nervous fits, when he was quite a little boy, he ran away from her,
+crying, terrified by her disfigured countenance; and he came back very
+timidly after the attack, ready to run away again, as though the old
+woman were disposed to beat him. Later on, however, when he was twelve
+years old, he would stop there bravely and watch in order that she
+might not hurt herself by falling off the bed. He stood for hours
+holding her tightly in his arms to subdue the rude shocks which
+distorted her. During intervals of calmness he would gaze with pity on
+her convulsed features and withered frame, over which her skirts lay
+like a shroud. These hidden dramas, which recurred every month, this
+old woman as rigid as a corpse, this child bent over her, silently
+watching for the return of consciousness, made up amidst the darkness
+of the hovel a strange picture of mournful horror and broken-hearted
+tenderness.
+
+When aunt Dide came round, she would get up with difficulty, and set
+about her work in the hovel without even questioning Silvère. She
+remembered nothing, and the child, from a sort of instinctive prudence,
+avoided the least allusion to what had taken place. These recurring
+fits, more than anything else, strengthened Silvère’s deep attachment
+for his grandmother. In the same manner as she adored him without any
+garrulous effusiveness, he felt a secret, almost bashful, affection for
+her. While he was really very grateful to her for having taken him in
+and brought him up, he could not help regarding her as an extraordinary
+creature, a prey to some strange malady, whom he ought to pity and
+respect. No doubt there was not sufficient life left in Adélaïde; she
+was too white and too stiff for Silvère to throw himself on her neck.
+Thus they lived together amidst melancholy silence, in the depths of
+which they felt the tremor of boundless love.
+
+The sad, solemn atmosphere, which he had breathed from childhood, gave
+Silvère a strong heart, in which gathered every form of enthusiasm. He
+early became a serious, thoughtful little man, seeking instruction with
+a kind of stubbornness. He only learnt a little spelling and arithmetic
+at the school of the Christian Brothers, which he was compelled to
+leave when he was but twelve years old, on account of his
+apprenticeship. He never acquired the first rudiments of knowledge.
+However, he read all the odd volumes which fell into his hands, and
+thus provided himself with strange equipment; he had some notions of a
+multitude of subjects, ill-digested notions, which he could never
+classify distinctly in his head. When he was quite young, he had been
+in the habit of playing in the workshop of a master wheelwright, a
+worthy man named Vian, who lived at the entrance of the blind-alley in
+front of the Aire Saint-Mittre where he stored his timber. Silvère used
+to jump up on the wheels of the tilted carts undergoing repair, and
+amuse himself by dragging about the heavy tools which his tiny hands
+could scarcely lift. One of his greatest pleasures, too, was to assist
+the workmen by holding some piece of wood for them, or bringing them
+the iron-work which they required. When he had grown older he naturally
+became apprenticed to Vian. The latter had taken a liking to the little
+fellow who was always kicking about his heels, and asked Adélaïde to
+let him come, refusing to take anything for his board and lodging.
+Silvère eagerly accepted, already foreseeing the time when he would be
+able to make his poor aunt Dide some return for all she had spent upon
+him.
+
+In a short time he became an excellent workman. He cherished, however,
+much higher ambitions. Having once seen, at a coachbuilder’s at
+Plassans, a fine new carriage, shining with varnish, he vowed that he
+would one day build carriages himself. He remembered this carriage as a
+rare and unique work of art, an ideal towards which his aspirations
+should tend. The tilted carts at which he worked in Vian’s shop, those
+carts which he had lovingly cherished, now seemed unworthy of his
+affections. He began to attend the local drawing-school, where he
+formed a connection with a youngster who had left college, and who lent
+him an old treatise on geometry. He plunged into this study without a
+guide, racking his brains for weeks together in order to grasp the
+simplest problem in the world. In this matter he gradually became one
+of those learned workmen who can hardly sign their name and yet talk
+about algebra as though it were an intimate friend.
+
+Nothing unsettles the mind so much as this desultory kind of education,
+which reposes on no firm basis. Most frequently such scraps of
+knowledge convey an absolutely false idea of the highest truths, and
+render persons of limited intellect insufferably stupid. In Silvère’s
+case, however, his scraps of stolen knowledge only augmented his
+liberal aspirations. He was conscious of horizons which at present
+remained closed to him. He formed for himself divine conceptions of
+things beyond his reach, and lived on, regarding in a deep, innocent,
+religious way the noble thoughts and grand conceptions towards which he
+was raising himself, but which he could not as yet comprehend. He was
+one of the simple-minded, one whose simplicity was divine, and who had
+remained on the threshold of the temple, kneeling before the tapers
+which from a distance he took for stars.
+
+The hovel in the Impasse Saint-Mittre consisted, in the first place, of
+a large room into which the street door opened. The only pieces of
+furniture in this room, which had a stone floor, and served both as a
+kitchen and a dining-room, were some straw-seated chairs, a table on
+trestles, and an old coffer which Adélaïde had converted into a sofa,
+by spreading a piece of woollen stuff over the lid. In the left hand
+corner of the large fireplace stood a plaster image of the Holy Virgin,
+surrounded by artificial flowers; she is the traditional good mother of
+all old Provencal women, however irreligious they may be. A passage led
+from the room into a yard situated at the rear of the house; in this
+yard there was a well. Aunt Dide’s bedroom was on the left side of the
+passage; it was a little apartment containing an iron bedstead and one
+chair; Silvère slept in a still smaller room on the right hand side,
+just large enough for a trestle bedstead; and he had been obliged to
+plan a set of shelves, reaching up to the ceiling, to keep by him all
+those dear odd volumes which he saved his sous to purchase from a
+neighbouring general dealer. When he read at night-time, he would hang
+his lamp on a nail at the head of the bed. If his grandmother had an
+attack, he merely had to leap out at the first gasp to be at her side
+in a moment.
+
+The young man led the life of a child. He passed his existence in this
+lonely spot. Like his father, he felt a dislike for taverns and Sunday
+strolling. His mates wounded his delicate susceptibilities by their
+coarse jokes. He preferred to read, to rack his rain over some simple
+geometrical problem. Since aunt Dide had entrusted him with the little
+household commissions she did not go out at all, but ceased all
+intercourse even with her family. The young man sometimes thought of
+her forlornness; he reflected that the poor old woman lived but a few
+steps from the children who strove to forget her, as though she were
+dead; and this made him love her all the more, for himself and for the
+others. When he at times entertained a vague idea that aunt Dide might
+be expiating some former transgressions, he would say to himself: “I
+was born to pardon her.”
+
+A nature such as Silvère’s, ardent yet self-restrained, naturally
+cherished the most exalted republican ideas. At night, in his little
+hovel, Silvère would again and again read a work of Rousseau’s which he
+had picked up at the neighbouring dealer’s among a number of old locks.
+The reading of this book kept him awake till daylight. Amidst his dream
+of universal happiness so dear to the poor, the words liberty,
+equality, fraternity, rang in his ears like those sonorous sacred calls
+of the bells, at the sound of which the faithful fall upon their knees.
+When, therefore, he learnt that the Republic had just been proclaimed
+in France he fancied that the whole world would enjoy a life of
+celestial beatitude. His knowledge, though imperfect, made him see
+farther than other workmen; his aspirations did not stop at daily
+bread; but his extreme ingenuousness, his complete ignorance of
+mankind, kept him in the dreamland of theory, a Garden of Eden where
+universal justice reigned. His paradise was for a long time a
+delightful spot in which he forgot himself.
+
+When he came to perceive that things did not go on quite satisfactorily
+in the best of republics he was sorely grieved, and indulged in another
+dream, that of compelling men to be happy even by force. Every act
+which seemed to him prejudicial to the interest of the people roused
+him to revengeful indignation. Though he was as gentle as a child, he
+cherished the fiercest political animosity. He would not have killed a
+fly, and yet he was for ever talking of a call to arms. Liberty was his
+passion, an unreasoning, absolute passion, to which he gave all the
+feverish ardour of his blood. Blinded by enthusiasm, he was both too
+ignorant and too learned to be tolerant, and would not allow for men’s
+weaknesses; he required an ideal government of perfect justice and
+perfect liberty. It was at this period that Antoine Macquart thought of
+setting him against the Rougons. He fancied that this young enthusiast
+would work terrible havoc if he were only exasperated to the proper
+pitch. This calculation was not altogether devoid of shrewdness.
+
+Such being Antoine’s scheme, he tried to induce Silvère to visit him,
+by professing inordinate admiration for the young man’s ideas. But he
+very nearly compromised the whole matter at the outset. He had a way of
+regarding the triumph of the Republic as a question of personal
+interest, as an era of happy idleness and endless junketing, which
+chilled his nephew’s purely moral aspirations. However, he perceived
+that he was on the wrong track, and plunged into strange bathos, a
+string of empty but high-sounding words, which Silvère accepted as a
+satisfactory proof of his civism. Before long the uncle and the nephew
+saw each other two or three times a week. During their long
+discussions, in which the fate of the country was flatly settled,
+Antoine endeavoured to persuade the young man that the Rougons’
+drawing-room was the chief obstacle to the welfare of France. But he
+again made a false move by calling his mother “old jade” in Silvère’s
+presence. He even repeated to him the early scandals about the poor
+woman. The young man blushed for shame, but listened without
+interruption. He had not asked his uncle for this information; he felt
+heart-broken by such confidences, which wounded his feeling of
+respectful affection for aunt Dide. From that time forward he lavished
+yet more attention upon his grandmother, greeting her always with
+pleasant smiles and looks of forgiveness. However, Macquart felt that
+he had acted foolishly, and strove to take advantage of Silvère’s
+affection for Adélaïde by charging the Rougons with her forlornness and
+poverty. According to him, he had always been the best of sons, whereas
+his brother had behaved disgracefully; Pierre had robbed his mother,
+and now, when she was penniless, he was ashamed of her. He never ceased
+descanting on this subject. Silvère thereupon became indignant with his
+uncle Pierre, much to the satisfaction of his uncle Antoine.
+
+The scene was much the same every time the young man called. He used to
+come in the evening, while the Macquarts were at dinner. The father
+would be swallowing some potato stew with a growl, picking out the
+pieces of bacon, and watching the dish when it passed into the hands of
+Jean and Gervaise.
+
+“You see, Silvère,” he would say with a sullen rage which was
+ill-concealed beneath his air of cynical indifference, “more potatoes,
+always potatoes! We never eat anything else now. Meat is only for rich
+people. It’s getting quite impossible to make both ends meet with
+children who have the devil’s appetite and their own too.”
+
+Gervaise and Jean bent over their plates, no longer even daring to cut
+some bread. Silvère, who in his dream lived in heaven, did not grasp
+the situation. In a calm voice he pronounced these storm-laden words:
+
+“But you should work, uncle.”
+
+“Ah! yes,” sneered Macquart, stung to the quick. “You want me to work,
+eh! To let those beggars, the rich folk, continue to prey upon me. I
+should earn probably twenty sous a day, and ruin my constitution. It’s
+worth while, isn’t it?”
+
+“Everyone earns what he can,” the young man replied. “Twenty sous are
+twenty sous; and it all helps in a home. Besides, you’re an old
+soldier, why don’t you seek some employment?”
+
+Fine would then interpose, with a thoughtlessness of which she soon
+repented.
+
+“That’s what I’m always telling him,” said she. “The market inspector
+wants an assistant; I mentioned my husband to him, and he seems well
+disposed towards us.”
+
+But Macquart interrupted her with a fulminating glance. “Eh! hold your
+tongue,” he growled with suppressed anger. “Women never know what
+they’re talking about! Nobody would have me; my opinions are too
+well-known.”
+
+Every time he was offered employment he displayed similar irritation.
+He did not cease, however, to ask for situations, though he always
+refused such as were found for him, assigning the most extraordinary
+reasons. When pressed upon the point he became terrible.
+
+If Jean were to take up a newspaper after dinner he would at once
+exclaim: “You’d better go to bed. You’ll be getting up late to-morrow,
+and that’ll be another day lost. To think of that young rascal coming
+home with eight francs short last week! However, I’ve requested his
+master not give him his money in future; I’ll call for it myself.”
+
+Jean would go to bed to avoid his father’s recriminations. He had but
+little sympathy with Silvère; politics bored him, and he thought his
+cousin “cracked.” When only the women remained, if they unfortunately
+started some whispered converse after clearing the table, Macquart
+would cry: “Now, you idlers! Is there nothing that requires mending?
+we’re all in rags. Look here, Gervaise, I was at your mistress’s
+to-day, and I learnt some fine things. You’re a good-for-nothing, a
+gad-about.”
+
+Gervaise, now a grown girl of more than twenty, coloured up at thus
+being scolded in the presence of Silvère, who himself felt
+uncomfortable. One evening, having come rather late, when his uncle was
+not at home, he had found the mother and daughter intoxicated before an
+empty bottle. From that time he could never see his cousin without
+recalling the disgraceful spectacle she had presented, with the maudlin
+grin and large red patches on her poor, pale, puny face. He was not
+less shocked by the nasty stories that circulated with regard to her.
+He sometimes looked at her stealthily, with the timid surprise of a
+schoolboy in the presence of a disreputable character.
+
+When the two women had taken up their needles, and were ruining their
+eyesight in order to mend his old shirts, Macquart, taking the best
+seat, would throw himself back with an air of delicious comfort, and
+sip and smoke like a man who relishes his laziness. This was the time
+when the old rogue generally railed against the wealthy for living on
+the sweat of the poor man’s brow. He was superbly indignant with the
+gentlemen of the new town, who lived so idly, and compelled the poor to
+keep them in luxury. The fragments of communistic notions which he
+culled from the newspapers in the morning became grotesque and
+monstrous on falling from his lips. He would talk of a time near at
+hand when no one would be obliged to work. He always, however, kept his
+fiercest animosity for the Rougons. He never could digest the potatoes
+he had eaten.
+
+“I saw that vile creature Félicité buying a chicken in the market this
+morning,” he would say. “Those robbers of inheritances must eat
+chicken, forsooth!”
+
+“Aunt Dide,” interposed Silvère, “says that uncle Pierre was very kind
+to you when you left the army. Didn’t he spend a large sum of money in
+lodging and clothing you?”
+
+“A large sum of money!” roared Macquart in exasperation; “your
+grandmother is mad. It was those thieves who spread those reports
+themselves, so as to close my mouth. I never had anything.”
+
+Fine again foolishly interfered, reminding him that he had received two
+hundred francs, besides a suit of clothes and a year’s rent. Antoine
+thereupon shouted to her to hold her tongue, and continued, with
+increasing fury: “Two hundred francs! A fine thing! I want my due, ten
+thousand francs. Ah! yes, talk of the hole they shoved me into like a
+dog, and the old frock-coat which Pierre gave me because he was ashamed
+to wear it any longer himself, it was so dirty and ragged!”
+
+He was not speaking the truth; but, seeing the rage that he was in,
+nobody ventured to protest any further. Then, turning towards Silvère:
+“It’s very stupid of you to defend them!” he added. “They robbed your
+mother, who, good woman, would be alive now if she had had the means of
+taking care of herself.”
+
+“Oh! you’re not just, uncle,” the young man said; “my mother did not
+die for want of attention, and I’m certain my father would never have
+accepted a sou from his wife’s family!”
+
+“Pooh! don’t talk to me! your father would have taken the money just
+like anybody else. We were disgracefully plundered, and it’s high time
+we had our rights.”
+
+Then Macquart, for the hundredth time, began to recount the story of
+the fifty thousand francs. His nephew, who knew it by heart, and all
+the variations with which he embellished it, listened to him rather
+impatiently.
+
+“If you were a man,” Antoine would say in conclusion, “you would come
+some day with me, and we would kick up a nice row at the Rougons. We
+would not leave without having some money given us.”
+
+Silvère, however, grew serious, and frankly replied: “If those wretches
+robbed us, so much the worse for them. I don’t want their money. You
+see, uncle, it’s not for us to fall on our relatives. If they’ve done
+wrong, well, one of these days they’ll be severely punished for it.”
+
+“Ah! what a big simpleton you are!” the uncle cried. “When we have the
+upper hand, you’ll see whether I sha’n’t settle my own little affairs
+myself. God cares a lot about us indeed! What a foul family ours is!
+Even if I were starving to death, not one of those scoundrels would
+throw me a dry crust.”
+
+Whenever Macquart touched upon this subject, he proved inexhaustible.
+He bared all his bleeding wounds of envy and covetousness. He grew mad
+with rage when he came to think that he was the only unlucky one in the
+family, and was forced to eat potatoes, while the others had meat to
+their heart’s content. He would pass all his relations in review, even
+his grand-nephews, and find some grievance and reason for threatening
+every one of them.
+
+“Yes, yes,” he repeated bitterly, “they’d leave me to die like a dog.”
+
+Gervaise, without raising her head or ceasing to ply her needle, would
+sometimes say timidly: “Still, father, cousin Pascal was very kind to
+us, last year, when you were ill.”
+
+“He attended you without charging a sou,” continued Fine, coming to her
+daughter’s aid, “and he often slipped a five-franc piece into my hand
+to make you some broth.”
+
+“He! he’d have killed me if I hadn’t had a strong constitution!”
+Macquart retorted. “Hold your tongues, you fools! You’d let yourselves
+be twisted about like children. They’d all like to see me dead. When
+I’m ill again, I beg you not to go and fetch my nephew, for I didn’t
+feel at all comfortable in his hands. He’s only a twopenny-halfpenny
+doctor, and hasn’t got a decent patient in all his practice.”
+
+When once Macquart was fully launched, he could not stop. “It’s like
+that little viper, Aristide,” he would say, “a false brother, a
+traitor. Are you taken in by his articles in the ‘Indépendant,’
+Silvère? You would be a fine fool if you were. They’re not even written
+in good French; I’ve always maintained that this contraband Republican
+is in league with his worthy father to humbug us. You’ll see how he’ll
+turn his coat. And his brother, the illustrious Eugène, that big
+blockhead of whom the Rougons make such a fuss! Why, they’ve got the
+impudence to assert that he occupies a good position in Paris! I know
+something about his position; he’s employed at the Rue de Jerusalem;
+he’s a police spy.”
+
+“Who told you so? You know nothing about it,” interrupted Silvère,
+whose upright spirit at last felt hurt by his uncle’s lying
+accusations.
+
+“Ah! I know nothing about it? Do you think so? I tell you he is a
+police spy. You’ll be shorn like a lamb one of these days, with your
+benevolence. You’re not manly enough. I don’t want to say anything
+against your brother Francois; but, if I were in your place, I
+shouldn’t like the scurvy manner in which he treats you. He earns a
+heap of money at Marseilles, and yet he never sends you a paltry
+twenty-franc piece for pocket money. If ever you become poor, I
+shouldn’t advise you to look to him for anything.”
+
+“I’ve no need of anybody,” the young man replied in a proud and
+slightly injured tone of voice. “My own work suffices for aunt Dide and
+myself. You’re cruel, uncle.”
+
+“I only say what’s true, that’s all. I should like to open your eyes.
+Our family is a disreputable lot; it’s sad but true. Even that little
+Maxime, Aristide’s son, that little nine-year-old brat, pokes his
+tongue out at me when he meets me. That child will some day beat his
+own mother, and a good job too! Say what you like, all those folks
+don’t deserve their luck; but it’s always like this in families, the
+good ones suffer while the bad ones make their fortunes.”
+
+All this dirty linen, which Macquart washed with such complacency
+before his nephew, profoundly disgusted the young man. He would have
+liked to soar back into his dream. As soon as he began to show
+unmistakable signs of impatience, Antoine would employ strong
+expedients to exasperate him against their relatives.
+
+“Defend them! Defend them!” he would say, appearing to calm down. “I,
+for my part, have arranged to have nothing more to do with them. I only
+mention the matter out of pity for my poor mother, whom all that gang
+treat in a most revolting manner.”
+
+“They are wretches!” Silvère murmured.
+
+“Oh! you don’t know, you don’t understand. These Rougons pour all sorts
+of insults and abuse on the good woman. Aristide has forbidden his son
+even to recognise her. Félicité talks of having her placed in a lunatic
+asylum.”
+
+The young man, as white as a sheet, abruptly interrupted his uncle:
+“Enough!” he cried. “I don’t want to know any more about it. There will
+have to be an end to all this.”
+
+“I’ll hold my tongue, since it annoys you,” the old rascal replied,
+feigning a good-natured manner. “Still, there are some things that you
+ought not to be ignorant of, unless you want to play the part of a
+fool.”
+
+Macquart, while exerting himself to set Silvère against the Rougons,
+experienced the keenest pleasure on drawing tears of anguish from the
+young man’s eyes. He detested him, perhaps, more than he did the
+others, and this because he was an excellent workman and never drank.
+He brought all his instincts of refined cruelty into play, in order to
+invent atrocious falsehoods which should sting the poor lad to the
+heart; then he revelled in his pallor, his trembling hands and his
+heart-rending looks, with the delight of some evil spirit who measures
+his stabs and finds that he has struck his victim in the right place.
+When he thought that he had wounded and exasperated Silvère
+sufficiently, he would at last touch upon politics.
+
+“I’ve been assured,” he would say, lowering his voice, “that the
+Rougons are preparing some treachery.”
+
+“Treachery?” Silvère asked, becoming attentive.
+
+“Yes, one of these nights they are going to seize all the good citizens
+of the town and throw them into prison.”
+
+The young man was at first disposed to doubt it, but his uncle gave
+precise details; he spoke of lists that had been drawn up, he mentioned
+the persons whose names were on these lists, he indicated in what
+manner, at what hour, and under what circumstances the plot would be
+carried into effect. Silvère gradually allowed himself to be taken in
+by this old woman’s tale, and was soon raving against the enemies of
+the Republic.
+
+“It’s they that we shall have to reduce to impotence if they persist in
+betraying the country!” he cried. “And what do they intend to do with
+the citizens whom they arrest?”
+
+“What do they intend to do with them? Why, they will shoot them in the
+lowest dungeons of the prison, of course,” replied Macquart, with a
+hoarse laugh. And as the young man, stupefied with horror, looked at
+him without knowing what to say: “This will not be the first lot to be
+assassinated there,” he continued. “You need only go and prowl about
+the Palais de Justice of an evening to hear the shots and groans.”
+
+“Oh, the wretches!” Silvère murmured.
+
+Thereupon uncle and nephew launched out into high politics. Fine and
+Gervaise, on finding them hotly debating things, quietly went to bed
+without attracting their attention. Then the two men remained together
+till midnight, commenting on the news from Paris and discussing the
+approaching and inevitable struggle. Macquart bitterly denounced the
+men of his own party, Silvère dreamed his dream of ideal liberty aloud,
+and for himself only. Strange conversations these were, during which
+the uncle poured out many a little nip for himself, and from which the
+nephew emerged quite intoxicated with enthusiasm. Antoine, however,
+never succeeded in obtaining from the young Republican any perfidious
+suggestion or play of warfare against the Rougons. In vain he tried to
+goad him on; he seldom heard him suggest aught but an appeal to eternal
+justice, which sooner or later would punish the evil-doers.
+
+The ingenuous youth did indeed speak warmly of taking up arms and
+massacring the enemies of the Republic; but, as soon as these enemies
+strayed out of his dream or became personified in his uncle Pierre or
+any other person of his acquaintance, he relied upon heaven to spare
+him the horror of shedding blood. It is very probable that he would
+have ceased visiting Macquart, whose jealous fury made him so
+uncomfortable, if he had not tasted the pleasure of being able to speak
+freely of his dear Republic there. In the end, however, his uncle
+exercised decisive influence over his destiny; he irritated his nerves
+by his everlasting diatribes, and succeeded in making him eager for an
+armed struggle, the conquest of universal happiness by violence.
+
+When Silvère reached his sixteenth year, Macquart had him admitted into
+the secret society of the Montagnards, a powerful association whose
+influence extended throughout Southern France. From that moment the
+young Republican gazed with longing eyes at the smuggler’s carbine,
+which Adélaïde had hung over her chimney-piece. Once night, while his
+grandmother was asleep, he cleaned and put it in proper condition. Then
+he replaced it on its nail and waited, indulging in brilliant reveries,
+fancying gigantic epics, Homeric struggles, and knightly tournaments,
+whence the defenders of liberty would emerge victorious and acclaimed
+by the whole world.
+
+Macquart meantime was not discouraged. He said to himself that he would
+be able to strangle the Rougons alone if he could ever get them into a
+corner. His envious rage and slothful greed were increased by certain
+successive accidents which compelled him to resume work. In the early
+part of 1850 Fine died, almost suddenly, from inflammation of the
+lungs, which she had caught by going one evening to wash the family
+linen in the Viorne, and carrying it home wet on her back. She returned
+soaked with water and perspiration, bowed down by her load, which was
+terribly heavy, and she never recovered.
+
+Her death filled Macquart with consternation. His most reliable source
+of income was gone. When, a few days later, he sold the caldron in
+which his wife had boiled her chestnuts, and the wooden horse which she
+used in reseating old chairs, he foully accused the Divinity of having
+robbed him of that strong strapping woman of whom he had often felt
+ashamed, but whose real worth he now appreciated. He now also fell upon
+the children’s earnings with greater avidity than ever. But, a month
+later, Gervaise, tired of his continual exactions, ran away with her
+two children and Lantier, whose mother was dead. The lovers took refuge
+in Paris. Antoine, overwhelmed, vented his rage against his daughter by
+expressing the hope that she might die in hospital like most of her
+kind. This abuse did not, however, improve the situation, which was
+decidedly becoming bad. Jean soon followed his sister’s example. He
+waited for pay-day to come round, and then contrived to receive the
+money himself. As he was leaving he told one of his friends, who
+repeated it to Antoine, that he would no longer keep his lazy father,
+and that if the latter should take it into his head to have him brought
+back by the gendarmes he would touch neither saw nor plane.
+
+On the morrow, when Antoine, having vainly sought him, found himself
+alone and penniless in the house where for twenty years he had been
+comfortably kept, he flew into the most frantic rage, kicked the
+furniture about, and yelled the vilest imprecations. Then he sank down
+exhausted, and began to drag himself about and moan like a
+convalescent. The fear of having to earn his bread made him positively
+ill. When Silvère came to see him, he complained, with tears, of his
+children’s ingratitude. Had he not always been a good father to them?
+Jean and Gervaise were monsters, who had made him an evil return for
+all he had done for them. Now they abandoned him because he was old,
+and they could not get anything more out of him!
+
+“But uncle,” said Silvère, “you are not yet too old to work!”
+
+Macquart, coughing and stooping, shook his head mournfully, as if to
+say that he could not bear the least fatigue for any length of time.
+Just as his nephew was about to withdraw, he borrowed ten francs of
+him. Then for a month he lived by taking his children’s old clothes,
+one by one, to a second-hand dealer’s, and in the same way, little by
+little, he sold all the small articles in the house. Soon nothing
+remained but a table, a chair, his bed, and the clothes on his back. He
+ended by exchanging the walnut-wood bedstead for a plain strap one.
+When he had exhausted all his resources, he cried with rage; and, with
+the fierce pallor of a man who is resigned to suicide, he went to look
+for the bundle of osier that he had forgotten in some corner for a
+quarter of a century past. As he took it up he seemed to be lifting a
+mountain. However, he again began to plait baskets and hampers, while
+denouncing the human race for their neglect.
+
+It was particularly at this time that he talked of dividing and sharing
+the riches of the wealthy. He showed himself terrible. His speeches
+kept up a constant conflagration in the tavern, where his furious looks
+secured him unlimited credit. Moreover, he only worked when he had been
+unable to get a five-franc piece out of Silvère or a comrade. He was no
+longer “Monsieur” Macquart, the clean-shaven workman, who wore his
+Sunday clothes every day and played the gentleman; he again became the
+big slovenly devil who had once speculated on his rags. Félicité did
+not dare to go to market now that he was so often coming there to sell
+his baskets. He once had a violent quarrel with her there. His hatred
+against the Rougons grew with his wretchedness. He swore, with horrible
+threats, that he would wreak justice himself, since the rich were
+leagued together to compel him to toil.
+
+In this state of mind, he welcomed the Coup d’État with the ardent,
+obstreperous delight of a hound scenting the quarry. As the few honest
+Liberals in the town had failed to arrive at an understanding amongst
+themselves, and therefore kept apart, he became naturally one of the
+most prominent agents of the insurrection. The working classes,
+notwithstanding the unfavourable opinion which they at last entertained
+of this lazy fellow, would, when the time arrived, have to accept him
+as a rallying flag. On the first few days, however, the town remained
+quiet, and Macquart thought that his plans were frustrated. It was not
+until the news arrived of the rising of the rural districts that he
+recovered hope. For his own part he would not have left Plassans for
+all the world; accordingly he invented some pretext for not following
+those workmen who, on the Sunday morning, set off to join the
+insurrectionary band of La Palud and Saint-Martin-de-Vaulx.
+
+On the evening of the same day he was sitting in some disreputable
+tavern of the old quarter with a few friends, when a comrade came to
+inform him that the insurgents were only a few miles from Plassans.
+This news had just been brought by an express, who had succeeded in
+making his way into the town, and had been charged to get the gates
+opened for the column. There was an outburst of triumph. Macquart,
+especially, appeared to be delirious with enthusiasm. The unforeseen
+arrival of the insurgents seemed to him a delicate attention of
+Providence for his own particular benefit. His hands trembled at the
+idea that he would soon hold the Rougons by the throat.
+
+He hastily quitted the tavern with his friends. All the Republicans who
+had not yet left the town were soon assembled on the Cours Sauvaire. It
+was this band that Rougon had perceived as he was hastening to conceal
+himself in his mother’s house. When the band had reached the top of the
+Rue de la Banne, Macquart, who had stationed himself at the rear,
+detained four of his companions, big fellows who were not over-burdened
+with brains and whom he swayed by his tavern bluster. He easily
+persuaded them that the enemies of the Republic must be arrested
+immediately if they wished to prevent the greatest calamities. The
+truth was that he feared Pierre might escape him in the midst of the
+confusion which the entry of the insurgents would produce. However, the
+four big fellows followed him with exemplary docility, and knocked
+violently at the door of the Rougons’ abode. In this critical situation
+Félicité displayed admirable courage. She went down and opened the
+street door herself.
+
+“We want to go upstairs into your rooms,” Macquart said to her
+brutally.
+
+“Very well, gentlemen, walk up,” she replied with ironical politeness,
+pretending that she did not recognise her brother-in-law.
+
+Once upstairs, Macquart ordered her to fetch her husband.
+
+“My husband is not here,” she said with perfect calmness; “he is
+travelling on business. He took the diligence for Marseilles at six
+o’clock this evening.”
+
+Antoine at this declaration, which Félicité uttered in a clear voice,
+made a gesture of rage. He rushed through the drawing-room, and then
+into the bedroom, turned the bed up, looked behind the curtains and
+under the furniture. The four big fellows assisted him. They searched
+the place for a quarter of an hour. Félicité meantime quietly seated
+herself on the drawing-room sofa, and began to fasten the strings of
+her petticoats, like a person who has been surprised in her sleep and
+has not had time to dress properly.
+
+“It’s true then, he’s run away, the coward!” Macquart muttered on
+returning to the drawing-room.
+
+Nevertheless, he continued to look about him with a suspicious air. He
+felt a presentiment that Pierre could not have given up the game at the
+decisive moment. At last he approached Félicité, who was yawning: “Show
+us the place where your husband is hidden,” he said to her, “and I
+promise no harm shall be done to him.”
+
+“I have told you the truth,” she replied impatiently. “I can’t deliver
+my husband to you, as he’s not here. You have searched everywhere,
+haven’t you? Then leave me alone now.”
+
+Macquart, exasperated by her composure, was just going to strike her,
+when a rumbling noise arose from the street. It was the column of
+insurgents entering the Rue de la Banne.
+
+He then had to leave the yellow drawing-room, after shaking his fist at
+his sister-in-law, calling her an old jade, and threatening that he
+would soon return. At the foot of the staircase, he took one of the men
+who accompanied him, a navvy named Cassoute, the most wooden-headed of
+the four, and ordered him to sit on the first step, and remain there.
+
+“You must come and inform me,” he said to him, “if you see the
+scoundrel from upstairs return.”
+
+The man sat down heavily. When Macquart reached the pavement, he raised
+his eyes and observed Félicité leaning out of the window of the
+yellow-drawing room, watching the march past of the insurgents, as if
+it was nothing but a regiment passing through the town to the strains
+of its band. This last sign of perfect composure irritated him to such
+a degree that he was almost tempted to go up again and throw the old
+woman into the street. However, he followed the column, muttering in a
+hoarse voice: “Yes, yes, look at us passing. We’ll see whether you will
+station yourself at your balcony to-morrow.”
+
+It was nearly eleven o’clock at night when the insurgents entered the
+town by the Porte de Rome. The workmen remaining in Plassans had opened
+the gate for them, in spite of the wailings of the keeper, from whom
+they could only wrest the keys by force. This man, very jealous of his
+office, stood dumbfoundered in the presence of the surging crowd. To
+think of it! he, who never allowed more than one person to pass in at a
+time, and then only after a prolonged examination of his face! And he
+murmured that he was dishonoured. The men of Plassans were still
+marching at the head of the column by way of guiding the others;
+Miette, who was in the front rank, with Silvère on her left, held up
+her banner more proudly than ever now that she could divine behind the
+closed blinds the scared looks of well-to-do bourgeois startled out of
+their sleep. The insurgents passed along the Rue de Rome and the Rue de
+la Banne slowly and warily; at every crossway, although they well knew
+the quiet disposition of the inhabitants, they feared they might be
+received with bullets. The town seemed lifeless, however; there was
+scarcely a stifled exclamation to be heard at the windows. Only five or
+six shutters opened. Some old householder then appeared in his
+night-shirt, candle in hand, and leant out to obtain a better view; but
+as soon as he distinguished the tall red girl who appeared to be
+drawing that crowd of black demons behind her, he hastily closed his
+window again, terrified by such a diabolical apparition.
+
+The silence of the slumbering town reassured the insurgents, who
+ventured to make their way through the lanes of the old quarter, and
+thus reached the market-place and the Place de l’Hôtel-de-Ville, which
+was connected by a short but broad street. These open spaces, planted
+with slender trees, were brilliantly illumined by the moon. Against the
+clear sky the recently restored town-hall appeared like a large patch
+of crude whiteness, the fine black lines of the wrought-iron arabesques
+of the first-floor balcony showing in bold relief. Several persons
+could be plainly distinguished standing on this balcony, the mayor,
+Commander Sicardot, three or four municipal councillors, and other
+functionaries. The doors below were closed. The three thousand
+Republicans, who covered both open spaces, halted with upraised heads,
+ready to force the doors with a single push.
+
+The arrival of the insurrectionary column at such an hour took the
+authorities by surprise. Before repairing to the mayor’s, Commander
+Sicardot had taken time to don his uniform. He then had to run and
+rouse the mayor. When the keeper of the Porte de Rome, who had been
+left free by the insurgents, came to announce that the villains were
+already in the town, the commander had so far only managed to assemble
+a score of the national guards. The gendarmes, though their barracks
+were close by, could not even be warned. It was necessary to shut the
+town-hall doors in all haste, in order to deliberate. Five minutes
+later a low continuous rumbling announced the approach of the column.
+
+Monsieur Garconnet, out of hatred to the Republic, would have greatly
+liked to offer resistance. But he was of a prudent nature, and
+comprehended the futility of a struggle on finding only a few pale men,
+who were scarcely awake, around him. So the deliberations did not last
+long. Sicardot alone was obstinate; he wanted to fight, asserting that
+twenty men would suffice to bring these three thousand villains to
+reason. At this Monsieur Garconnet shrugged his shoulders, and declared
+that the only step to take was to make an honourable capitulation. As
+the uproar of the mob increased, he went out on the balcony, followed
+by all the persons present. Silence was gradually obtained. Below,
+among the black, quivering mass of insurgents, the guns and scythes
+glittered in the moonlight.
+
+“Who are you, and what do you want?” cried the mayor in a loud voice.
+
+Thereupon a man in a greatcoat, a landowner of La Palud, stepped
+forward.
+
+“Open the doors,” he said, without replying to Monsieur Garconnet’s
+question. “Avoid a fratricidal conflict.”
+
+“I call upon you to withdraw,” the mayor continued. “I protest in the
+name of the law.”
+
+These words provoked deafening shouts from the crowd. When the tumult
+had somewhat abated, vehement calls ascended to the balcony. Voices
+shouted: “It is in the name of the law that we have come here!”
+
+“Your duty as a functionary is to secure respect for the fundamental
+law of the land, the constitution, which has just been outrageously
+violated.”
+
+“Long live the constitution! Long live the Republic!”
+
+Then as Monsieur Garconnet endeavoured to make himself heard, and
+continued to invoke his official dignity, the land-owner of La Palud,
+who was standing under the balcony, interrupted him with great
+vehemence: “You are now nothing but the functionary of a fallen
+functionary; we have come to dismiss you from your office.”
+
+Hitherto, Commander Sicardot had been ragefully biting his moustache,
+and muttering insulting words. The sight of the cudgels and scythes
+exasperated him; and he made desperate efforts to restrain himself from
+treating these twopenny-halfpenny soldiers, who had not even a gun
+apiece, as they deserved. But when he heard a gentleman in a mere
+greatcoat speak of deposing a mayor girded with his scarf, he could no
+longer contain himself and shouted: “You pack of rascals! If I only had
+four men and a corporal, I’d come down and pull your ears for you, and
+make you behave yourselves!”
+
+Less than this was needed to raise a serious disturbance. A long shout
+rose from the mob as it made a rush for the doors. Monsieur Garconnet,
+in consternation, hastily quitted the balcony, entreating Sicardot to
+be reasonable unless he wished to have them massacred. But in two
+minutes the doors gave way, the people invaded the building and
+disarmed the national guards. The mayor and the other functionaries
+present were arrested. Sicardot, who declined to surrender his sword,
+had to be protected from the fury of some insurgents by the chief of
+the contingent from Les Tulettes, a man of great self-possession. When
+the town-hall was in the hands of the Republicans, they led their
+prisoners to a small cafe in the market-place, and there kept them
+closely watched.
+
+The insurrectionary army would have avoided marching through Plassans
+if its leaders had not decided that a little food and a few hours’ rest
+were absolutely necessary for the men. Instead of pushing forward
+direct to the chief town of the department, the column, owing to the
+inexcusable weakness and the inexperience of the improvised general who
+commanded it, was now diverging to the left, making a detour which was
+destined, ultimately, to lead it to destruction. It was bound for the
+heights of Sainte-Roure, still about ten leagues distant, and it was in
+view of this long march that it had been decided to pass through
+Plassans, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour. It was now
+half-past eleven.
+
+When Monsieur Garconnet learnt that the band was in quest of
+provisions, he offered his services to procure them. This functionary
+formed, under very difficult circumstances, a proper estimate of the
+situation. Those three thousand starving men would have to be
+satisfied; it would never do for Plassans, on waking up, to find them
+still squatting on the pavements; if they withdrew before daybreak they
+would simply have passed through the slumbering town like an evil
+dream, like one of those nightmares which depart with the arrival of
+dawn. And so, although he remained a prisoner, Monsieur Garconnet,
+followed by two guards, went about knocking at the bakers’ doors, and
+had all the provisions that he could find distributed among the
+insurgents.
+
+Towards one o’clock the three thousand men began to eat, squatting on
+the ground, with their weapons between their legs. The market-place and
+the neighbourhood of the town-hall were turned into vast open-air
+refectories. In spite of the bitter cold, humorous sallies were
+exchanged among the swarming multitude, the smallest groups of which
+showed forth in the brilliant moonlight. The poor famished fellows
+eagerly devoured their portions while breathing on their fingers to
+warm them; and, from the depths of adjoining streets, where vague black
+forms sat on the white thresholds of the houses, there came sudden
+bursts of laughter. At the windows emboldened, inquisitive women, with
+silk handkerchiefs tied round their heads, watched the repast of those
+terrible insurgents, those blood-suckers who went in turn to the market
+pump to drink a little water in the hollows of their hands.
+
+While the town-hall was being invaded, the gendarmes’ barracks,
+situated a few steps away, in the Rue Canquoin, which leads to the
+market, had also fallen into the hands of the mob. The gendarmes were
+surprised in their beds and disarmed in a few minutes. The impetus of
+the crowd had carried Miette and Silvère along in this direction. The
+girl, who still clasped her flagstaff to her breast, was pushed against
+the wall of the barracks, while the young man, carried away by the
+human wave, penetrated into the interior, and helped his comrades to
+wrest from the gendarmes the carbines which they had hastily caught up.
+Silvère, waxing ferocious, intoxicated by the onslaught, attacked a big
+devil of a gendarme named Rengade, with whom for a few moments he
+struggled. At last, by a sudden jerk, he succeeded in wresting his
+carbine from him. But the barrel struck Rengade a violent blow in the
+face, which put his right eye out. Blood flowed, and, some of it
+splashing Silvère’s hands, quickly brought him to his senses. He looked
+at his hands, dropped the carbine, and ran out, in a state of frenzy,
+shaking his fingers.
+
+“You are wounded!” cried Miette.
+
+“No, no,” he replied in a stifled voice, “I’ve just killed a gendarme.”
+
+“Is he really dead?” asked Miette.
+
+“I don’t know,” replied Silvère, “his face was all covered with blood.
+Come quickly.”
+
+Then he hurried the girl away. On reaching the market, he made her sit
+down on a stone bench, and told her to wait there for him. He was still
+looking at his hands, muttering something at the same time. Miette at
+last understood from his disquieted words that he wished to go and kiss
+his grandmother before leaving.
+
+“Well, go,” she said; “don’t trouble yourself about me. Wash your
+hands.”
+
+But he went quickly away, keeping his fingers apart, without thinking
+of washing them at the pump which he passed. Since he had felt
+Rengade’s warm blood on his skin, he had been possessed by one idea,
+that of running to Aunt Dide’s and dipping his hands in the well-trough
+at the back of the little yard. There only, he thought, would he be
+able to wash off the stain of that blood. Moreover, all his calm,
+gentle childhood seemed to return to him; he felt an irresistible
+longing to take refuge in his grandmother’s skirts, if only for a
+minute. He arrived quite out of breath. Aunt Dide had not gone to bed,
+a circumstance which at any other time would have greatly surprised
+Silvère. But on entering he did not even see his uncle Rougon, who was
+seated in a corner on the old chest. He did not wait for the poor old
+woman’s questions. “Grandmother,” he said quickly, “you must forgive
+me; I’m going to leave with the others. You see I’ve got blood on me. I
+believe I’ve killed a gendarme.”
+
+“You’ve killed a gendarme?” Aunt Dide repeated in a strange voice.
+
+Her eyes gleamed brightly as she fixed them on the red stains. And
+suddenly she turned towards the chimney-piece. “You’ve taken the gun,”
+she said; “where’s the gun?”
+
+Silvère, who had left the weapon with Miette, swore to her that it was
+quite safe. And for the very first time, Adélaïde made an allusion to
+the smuggler Macquart in her grandson’s presence.
+
+“You’ll bring the gun back? You promise me!” she said with singular
+energy. “It’s all I have left of him. You’ve killed a gendarme; ah, it
+was the gendarmes who killed him!”
+
+She continued gazing fixedly at Silvère with an air of cruel
+satisfaction, and apparently without thought of detaining him. She
+never asked him for any explanation, nor wept like those good
+grandmothers who always imagine, at sight of the least scratch, that
+their grandchildren are dying. All her nature was concentrated in one
+unique thought, to which she at last gave expression with ardent
+curiosity: “Did you kill the gendarme with the gun?”
+
+Either Silvère did not quite catch what she said, or else he
+misunderstood her.
+
+“Yes!” he replied. “I’m going to wash my hands.”
+
+It was only on returning from the well that he perceived his uncle.
+Pierre had turned pale on hearing the young man’s words. Félicité was
+indeed right; his family took a pleasure in compromising him. One of
+his nephews had now killed a gendarme! He would never get the post of
+receiver of taxes, if he did not prevent this foolish madman from
+rejoining the insurgents. So he planted himself in front of the door,
+determined to prevent Silvère from going out.
+
+“Listen,” he said to the young fellow, who was greatly surprised to
+find him there. “I am the head of the family, and I forbid you to leave
+this house. You’re risking both your honour and ours. To-morrow I will
+try to get you across the frontier.”
+
+But Silvère shrugged his shoulders. “Let me pass,” he calmly replied.
+“I’m not a police-spy; I shall not reveal your hiding-place, never
+fear.” And as Rougon continued to speak of the family dignity and the
+authority with which his seniority invested him: “Do I belong to your
+family?” the young man continued. “You have always disowned me. To-day,
+fear has driven you here, because you feel that the day of judgment has
+arrived. Come, make way! I don’t hide myself; I have a duty to
+perform.”
+
+Rougon did not stir. But Aunt Dide, who had listened with a sort of
+delight to Silvère’s vehement language, laid her withered hand on her
+son’s arm. “Get out of the way, Pierre,” she said; “the lad must go.”
+
+The young man gave his uncle a slight shove, and dashed outside. Then
+Rougon, having carefully shut the door again, said to his mother in an
+angry, threatening tone: “If any mischief happens to him it will be
+your fault. You’re an old mad-woman; you don’t know what you’ve just
+done.”
+
+Adélaïde, however, did not appear to hear him. She went and threw some
+vine-branches on the fire, which was going out, and murmured with a
+vague smile: “I’m used to it. He would remain away for months together,
+and then come back to me in much better health.”
+
+She was no doubt speaking of Macquart.
+
+In the meantime, Silvère hastily regained the market-place. As he
+approached the spot where he had left Miette, he heard a loud uproar of
+voices and saw a crowd which made him quicken his steps. A cruel scene
+had just occurred. Some inquisitive people were walking among the
+insurgents, while the latter quietly partook of their meal. Amongst
+these onlookers was Justin Rebufat, the son of the farmer of the
+Jas-Meiffren, a youth of twenty years old, a sickly, squint-eyed
+creature, who harboured implacable hatred against his cousin Miette. At
+home he grudged her the bread she ate, and treated her like a beggar
+picked up from the gutter out of charity. It is probable that the young
+girl had rejected his advances. Lank and pale, with ill-proportioned
+limbs and face all awry, he revenged himself upon her for his own
+ugliness, and the contempt which the handsome, vigorous girl must have
+evinced for him. He ardently longed to induce his father to send her
+about her business; and for this reason he was always spying upon her.
+For some time past, he had become aware of the meetings with Silvère,
+and had only awaited a decisive opportunity to reveal everything to his
+father, Rebufat.
+
+On the evening in question, having seen her leave home at about eight
+o’clock, Justin’s hatred had overpowered him, and he had been unable to
+keep silent any longer. Rebufat, on hearing his story, fell into a
+terrible rage, and declared that he would kick the gadabout out of his
+house should she have the audacity to return. Justin then went to bed,
+relishing beforehand the fine scene which would take place on the
+morrow. Then, however, a burning desire came upon him for some
+immediate foretaste of his revenge. So he dressed himself again and
+went out. Perhaps he might meet Miette. In that case he was resolved to
+treat her insolently. This is how he came to witness the arrival of the
+insurgents, whom he followed to the town-hall with a vague presentiment
+that he would find the lovers there. And, indeed, he at last caught
+sight of his cousin on the seat where she was waiting for Silvère.
+Seeing her wrapped in her long pelisse, with the red flag at her side,
+resting against a market pillar, he began to sneer and deride her in
+foul language. The girl, thunderstruck at seeing him, was unable to
+speak. She wept beneath his abuse, and whist she was overcome by
+sobbing, bowing her head and hiding her face, Justin called her a
+convict’s daughter, and shouted that old Rebufat would give her a good
+thrashing should she ever dare to return to Jas-Meiffren.
+
+For a quarter of an hour he thus kept her smarting and trembling. Some
+people had gathered round, and grinned stupidly at the painful scene.
+At last a few insurgents interfered, and threatened the young man with
+exemplary chastisement if he did not leave Miette alone. But Justin,
+although he retreated, declared that he was not afraid of them. It was
+just at this moment that Silvère came up. Young Rebufat, on catching
+sight of him, made a sudden bound, as if to take flight; for he was
+afraid of him, knowing that he was much stronger than himself. He could
+not, however, resist the temptation to cast a parting insult on the
+girl in her lover’s presence.
+
+“Ah! I knew very well,” he cried, “that the wheelwright could not be
+far off! You left us to run after that crack-brained fellow, eh? You
+wretched girl! When’s the baptism to be?”
+
+Then he retreated a few steps further on seeing Silvère clench his
+fists.
+
+“And mind,” he continued, with a vile sneer, “don’t come to our house
+again. My father will kick you out if you do! Do you hear?”
+
+But he ran away howling, with bruised visage. For Silvère had bounded
+upon him and dealt him a blow full in the face. The young man did not
+pursue him. When he returned to Miette he found her standing up,
+feverishly wiping her tears away with the palm of her hand. And as he
+gazed at her tenderly, in order to console her, she made a sudden
+energetic gesture. “No,” she said, “I’m not going to cry any more,
+you’ll see. I’m very glad of it. I don’t feel any regret now for having
+left home. I am free.”
+
+She took up the flag and led Silvère back into the midst of the
+insurgents. It was now nearly two o’clock in the morning. The cold was
+becoming so intense that the Republicans had risen to their feet and
+were marching to and fro in order to warm themselves while they
+finished their bread. At last their leaders gave orders for departure.
+The column formed again. The prisoners were placed in the middle of it.
+Besides Monsieur Garconnet and Commander Sicardot, the insurgents had
+arrested Monsieur Peirotte, the receiver of taxes, and several other
+functionaries, all of whom they led away.
+
+At this moment Aristide was observed walking about among the groups. In
+presence of this formidable rising, the dear fellow had thought it
+imprudent not to remain on friendly terms with the Republicans; but as,
+on the other hand, he did not desire to compromise himself too much, he
+had come to bid them farewell with his arm in a sling, complaining
+bitterly of the accursed injury which prevented him from carrying a
+weapon. As he walked through the crowd he came across his brother
+Pascal, provided with a case of surgical instruments and a little
+portable medicine chest. The doctor informed him, in his quiet, way,
+that he intended to follow the insurgents. At this Aristide inwardly
+pronounced him a great fool. At last he himself slunk away, fearing
+lest the others should entrust the care of the town to him, a post
+which he deemed exceptionally perilous.
+
+The insurgents could not think of keeping Plassans in their power. The
+town was animated by so reactionary a spirit that it seemed impossible
+even to establish a democratic municipal commission there, as had
+already been done in other places. So they would simply have gone off
+without taking any further steps if Macquart, prompted and emboldened
+by his own private animosities, had not offered to hold Plassans in
+awe, on condition that they left him twenty determined men. These men
+were given him, and at their head he marched off triumphantly to take
+possession of the town-hall. Meantime the column of insurgents was
+wending its way along the Cours Sauvaire, and making its exit by the
+Grand’-Porte, leaving the streets, which it had traversed like a
+tempest, silent and deserted in its rear. The high road, whitened by
+the moonshine, stretched far into the distance. Miette had refused the
+support of Silvère’s arm; she marched on bravely, steady and upright,
+holding the red flag aloft with both hands, without complaining of the
+cold which was turning her fingers blue.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+
+The high roads stretched far way, white with moonlight.
+
+The insurrectionary army was continuing its heroic march through the
+cold, clear country. It was like a mighty wave of enthusiasm. The
+thrill of patriotism, which transported Miette and Silvère, big
+children that they were, eager for love and liberty, sped, with
+generous fervour, athwart the sordid intrigues of the Macquarts and the
+Rougons. At intervals the trumpet-voice of the people rose and drowned
+the prattle of the yellow drawing-room and the hateful discourses of
+uncle Antoine. And vulgar, ignoble farce was turned into a great
+historical drama.
+
+On quitting Plassans, the insurgents had taken the road to Orcheres.
+They expected to reach that town at about ten o’clock in the morning.
+The road skirts the course of the Viorne, following at some height the
+windings of the hillocks, below which the torrent flows. On the left,
+the plain spreads out like an immense green carpet, dotted here and
+there with grey villages. On the right, the chain of the Garrigues
+rears its desolate peaks, its plateaux of stones, its huge rusty
+boulders that look as though they had been reddened by the sun. The
+high road, embanked along the riverside, passes on amidst enormous
+rocks, between which glimpses of the valley are caught at every step.
+Nothing could be wilder or more strikingly grand than this road out of
+the hillside. At night time, especially, it inspires one with a feeling
+of deep awe. The insurgents advanced under the pale light, along what
+seemed the chief street of some ruined town, bordered on either side
+with fragments of temples. The moon turned each rock into a broken
+column, crumbling capital, or stretch of wall pierced with mysterious
+arches. On high slumbered the mass of the Garrigues, suffused with a
+milky tinge, and resembling some immense Cyclopean city whose towers,
+obelisks, houses and high terraces hid one half of the heavens; and in
+the depths below, on the side of the plain, was a spreading ocean of
+diffused light, vague and limitless, over which floated masses of
+luminous haze. The insurrectionary force might well have thought they
+were following some gigantic causeway, making their rounds along some
+military road built on the shore of a phosphorescent sea, and circling
+some unknown Babel.
+
+On the night in question, the Viorne roared hoarsely at the foot of the
+rocks bordering the route. Amidst the continuous rumbling of the
+torrent, the insurgents could distinguish the sharp, wailing notes of
+the tocsin. The villages scattered about the plain, on the other side
+of the river, were rising, sounding alarm-bells, and lighting signal
+fires. Till daybreak the marching column, which the persistent tolling
+of a mournful knell seemed to pursue in the darkness, thus beheld the
+insurrection spreading along the valley, like a train of powder. The
+fires showed in the darkness like stains of blood; echoes of distant
+songs were wafted to them; the whole vague distance, blurred by the
+whitish vapours of the moon, stirred confusedly, and suddenly broke
+into a spasm of anger. For leagues and leagues the scene remained the
+same.
+
+These men, marching on under the blind impetus of the fever with which
+the events in Paris had inspired Republican hearts, became elated at
+seeing that long stretch of country quivering with revolt. Intoxicated
+with enthusiastic belief in the general insurrection of which they
+dreamed, they fancied that France was following them; on the other side
+of the Viorne, in that vast ocean of diffused light, they imagined
+there were endless files of men rushing like themselves to the defence
+of the Republic. All simplicity and delusion, as multitudes so often
+are, they imagined, in their uncultured minds, that victory was easy
+and certain. They would have seized and shot as a traitor any one who
+had then asserted that they were the only ones who had the courage of
+their duty, and that the rest of the country, overwhelmed with fright,
+was pusillanimously allowing itself to be garrotted.
+
+They derived fresh courage, too, from the welcome accorded to them by
+the few localities that lay along their route on the slopes of the
+Garrigues. The inhabitants rose _en masse_ immediately the little army
+drew near; women ran to meet them, wishing them a speedy victory, while
+men, half clad, seized the first weapons they could find and rushed to
+join their ranks. There was a fresh ovation at every village, shouts of
+welcome and farewell many times reiterated.
+
+Towards daybreak the moon disappeared behind the Garrigues and the
+insurgents continued their rapid march amidst the dense darkness of a
+winter night. They were now unable to distinguish the valley or the
+hills; they heard only the hoarse plaints of the bells, sounding
+through the deep obscurity like invisible drums, hidden they knew not
+where, but ever goading them on with despairing calls.
+
+Miette and Silvère went on, all eagerness like the others. Towards
+daybreak, the girl suffered greatly from fatigue; she could only walk
+with short hurried steps, and was unable to keep up with the long
+strides of the men who surrounded her. Nevertheless she courageously
+strove to suppress all complaints; it would have cost her too much to
+confess that she was not as strong as a boy. During the first few
+leagues of the march Silvère gave her his arm; then, seeing that the
+standard was gradually slipping from her benumbed hands, he tried to
+take it in order to relieve her; but she grew angry, and would only
+allow him to hold it with one hand while she continued to carry it on
+her shoulder. She thus maintained her heroic demeanour with childish
+stubbornness, smiling at the young man each time he gave her a glance
+of loving anxiety. At last, when the moon hid itself, she gave way in
+the sheltering darkness. Silvère felt her leaning more heavily on his
+arm. He now had to carry the flag, and hold her round the waist to
+prevent her from stumbling. Nevertheless she still made no complaint.
+
+“Are you very tired, poor Miette?” Silvère asked her.
+
+“Yea, a little tired,” she replied in a weary tone.
+
+“Would you like to rest a bit?”
+
+She made no reply; but he realised that she was staggering. He
+thereupon handed the flag to one of the other insurgents and quitted
+the ranks, almost carrying the girl in his arms. She struggled a
+little, she felt so distressed at appearing such a child. But he calmed
+her, telling her that he knew of a cross-road which shortened the
+distance by one half. They would be able to take a good hour’s rest and
+reach Orcheres at the same time as the others.
+
+It was then six o’clock. There must have been a slight mist rising from
+the Viorne, for the darkness seemed to be growing denser. The young
+people groped their way along the slope of the Garrigues, till they
+came to a rock on which they sat down. Around them lay an abyss of
+darkness. They were stranded, as it were, on some reef above a dense
+void. And athwart that void, when the dull tramp of the little army had
+died away, they only heard two bells, the one clear toned and ringing
+doubtless at their feet, in some village across the road; and the other
+far-off and faint, responding, as it were, with distant sobs to the
+feverish plaints of the first. One might have thought that these bells
+were recounting to each other, through the empty waste, the sinister
+story of a perishing world.
+
+Miette and Silvère, warmed by their quick march, did not at first feel
+the cold. They remained silent, listening in great dejection to the
+sounds of the tocsin, which made the darkness quiver. They could not
+even see one another. Miette felt frightened, and, seeking for
+Silvère’s hand, clasped it in her own. After the feverish enthusiasm
+which for several hours had carried them along with the others, this
+sudden halt and the solitude in which they found themselves side by
+side left them exhausted and bewildered as though they had suddenly
+awakened from a strange dream. They felt as if a wave had cast them
+beside the highway, then ebbed back and left them stranded.
+Irresistible reaction plunged them into listless stupor; they forgot
+their enthusiasm; they thought no more of the men whom they had to
+rejoin; they surrendered themselves to the melancholy sweetness of
+finding themselves alone, hand in hand, in the midst of the wild
+darkness.
+
+“You are not angry with me?” the girl at length inquired. “I could
+easily walk the whole night with you; but they were running too
+quickly, I could hardly breathe.”
+
+“Why should I be angry with you?” the young man said.
+
+“I don’t know. I was afraid you might not love me any longer. I wish I
+could have taken long strides like you, and have walked along without
+stopping. You will think I am a child.”
+
+Silvère smiled, and Miette, though the darkness prevented her from
+seeing him, guessed that he was doing so. Then she continued with
+determination: “You must not always treat me like a sister. I want to
+be your wife some day.”
+
+Forthwith she clasped Silvère to her bosom, and, still with her arms
+about him, murmured: “We shall grow so cold; come close to me that we
+may be warm.”
+
+Then they lapsed into silence. Until that troublous hour, they had
+loved one another with the affection of brother and sister. In their
+ignorance they still mistook their feelings for tender friendship,
+although beneath their guileless love their ardent blood surged more
+wildly day by day. Given age and experience, a violent passion of
+southern intensity would at last spring from this idyll. Every girl who
+hangs on a youth’s neck is already a woman, a woman unconsciously, whom
+a caress may awaken to conscious womanhood. When lovers kiss on the
+cheeks, it is because they are searching, feeling for one another’s
+lips. Lovers are made by a kiss. It was on that dark and cold December
+night, amid the bitter wailing of the tocsin, that Miette and Silvère
+exchanged one of those kisses that bring all the heart’s blood to the
+lips.
+
+They remained silent, close to one another. A gentle glow soon
+penetrated them, languor overcame them, and steeped them in feverish
+drowsiness. They were quite warm at last, and lights seemed to flit
+before their closed eyelids, while a buzzing mounted to their brains.
+This state of painful ecstasy, which lasted some minutes, seemed
+endless to them. Then, in a kind of dream, their lips met. The kiss
+they exchanged was long and greedy. It seemed to them as if they had
+never kissed before. Yet their embrace was fraught with suffering and
+they released one another. And the chilliness of the night having
+cooled their fever, they remained in great confusion at some distance
+one from the other.
+
+Meantime the bells were keeping up their sinister converse in the dark
+abyss which surrounded the young people. Miette, trembling and
+frightened, did not dare to draw near to Silvère again. She did not
+even know if he were still there, for she could no longer hear him
+move. The stinging sweetness of their kiss still clung to their lips,
+to which passionate phrases surged, and they longed to kiss once more.
+But shame restrained them from the expression of any such desire. They
+felt that they would rather never taste that bliss again than speak of
+it aloud. If their blood had not been lashed by their rapid march, if
+the darkness had not offered complicity, they would, for a long time
+yet, have continued kissing each other on the cheeks like old
+playfellows. Feelings of modesty were coming to Miette. She remembered
+Justin’s coarseness. A few hours previously she had listened, without a
+blush, to that fellow who called her a shameless girl. She had wept
+without understanding his meaning, she had wept simply because she
+guessed that what he spoke of must be base. Now that she was becoming a
+woman, she wondered in a last innocent transport whether that kiss,
+whose burning smart she could still feel, would not perhaps suffice to
+cover her with the shame to which her cousin had referred. Thereupon
+she was seized with remorse, and burst into sobs.
+
+“What is the matter; why are you crying?” asked Silvère in an anxious
+voice.
+
+“Oh, leave me,” she faltered, “I do not know.”
+
+Then in spite of herself, as it were, she continued amidst her tears:
+“Ah! what an unfortunate creature I am! When I was ten years old people
+used to throw stones at me. To-day I am treated as the vilest of
+creatures. Justin did right to despise me before everybody. We have
+been doing wrong, Silvère.”
+
+The young man, quite dismayed, clasped her in his arms again, trying to
+console her. “I love you,” he whispered, “I am your brother. Why say
+that we have been doing wrong? We kissed each other because we were
+cold. You know very well that we used to kiss each other every evening
+before separating.”
+
+“Oh! not as we did just now,” she whispered. “It must be wrong, for a
+strange feeling came over me. The men will laugh at me now as I pass,
+and they will be right in doing so. I shall not be able to defend
+myself.”
+
+The young fellow remained silent, unable to find a word to calm the
+agitation of this big child, trembling at her first kiss of love. He
+clasped her gently, imagining that he might calm her by his embrace.
+She struggled, however, and continued: “If you like, we will go away;
+we will leave the province. I can never return to Plassans; my uncle
+would beat me; all the townspeople would point their fingers at me—”
+And then, as if seized with sudden irritation, she added: “But no! I am
+cursed! I forbid you to leave aunt Dide to follow me. You must leave me
+on the highway.”
+
+“Miette, Miette!” Silvère implored; “don’t talk like that.”
+
+“Yes. I want to please you. Be reasonable. They have turned me out like
+a vagabond. If I went back with you, you would always be fighting for
+my sake, and I don’t want that.”
+
+At this the young man again pressed a kiss upon her lips, murmuring:
+“You shall be my wife, and nobody will then dare to hurt you.”
+
+“Oh! please, I entreat you!” she said, with a stifled cry; “don’t kiss
+me so. You hurt me.”
+
+Then, after a short silence: “You know quite well that I cannot be your
+wife now. We are too young. You would have to wait for me, and
+meanwhile I should die of shame. You are wrong in protesting; you will
+be forced to leave me in some corner.”
+
+At this Silvère, his fortitude exhausted, began to cry. A man’s sobs
+are fraught with distressing hoarseness. Miette, quite frightened as
+she felt the poor fellow shaking in her arms, kissed him on the face,
+forgetting she was burning her lips. But it was all her fault. She was
+a little simpleton to have let a kiss upset her so completely. She now
+clasped her lover to her bosom as if to beg forgiveness for having
+pained him. These weeping children, so anxiously clasping one another,
+made the dark night yet more woeful than before. In the distance, the
+bells continued to complain unceasingly in panting accents.
+
+“It is better to die,” repeated Silvère, amidst his sobs; “it is better
+to die.”
+
+“Don’t cry; forgive me,” stammered Miette. “I will be brave; I will do
+all you wish.”
+
+When the young man had dried his tears: “You are right,” he said; “we
+cannot return to Plassans. But the time for cowardice has not yet come.
+If we come out of the struggle triumphant, I will go for aunt Dide, and
+we will take her ever so far away with us. If we are beaten——”
+
+He stopped.
+
+“If we are beaten?” repeated Miette, softly.
+
+“Then be it as God wills!” continued Silvère, in a softer voice. “I
+most likely shall not be there. You will comfort the poor woman. That
+would be better.”
+
+“Ah! as you said just now,” the young girl murmured, “it would be
+better to die.”
+
+At this longing for death they tightened their embrace. Miette relied
+upon dying with Silvère; he had only spoken of himself, but she felt
+that he would gladly take her with him into the earth. They would there
+be able to love each other more freely than under the sun. Aunt Dide
+would die likewise and join them. It was, so to say, a rapid
+presentiment, a desire for some strange voluptuousness, to which
+Heaven, by the mournful accents of the tocsin, was promising early
+gratification. To die! To die! The bells repeated these words with
+increasing passion, and the lovers yielded to the calls of the
+darkness; they fancied they experienced a foretaste of the last sleep,
+in the drowsiness into which they again sank, whilst their lips met
+once more.
+
+Miette no longer turned away. It was she, now, who pressed her lips to
+Silvère’s, who sought with mute ardour for the delight whose stinging
+smart she had not at first been able to endure. The thought of
+approaching death had excited her; she no longer felt herself blushing,
+but hung upon her love, while he in faltering voice repeated: “I love
+you! I love you!”
+
+But at this Miette shook her head, as if to say it was not true. With
+her free and ardent nature she had a secret instinct of the meaning and
+purposes of life, and though she was right willing to die she would
+fain have known life first. At last, growing calmer, she gently rested
+her head on the young man’s shoulder, without uttering a word. Silvère
+kissed her again. She tasted those kisses slowly, seeking their
+meaning, their hidden sweetness. As she felt them course through her
+veins, she interrogated them, asking if they were all love, all
+passion. But languor at last overcame her, and she fell into gentle
+slumber. Silvère had enveloped her in her pelisse, drawing the skirt
+around himself at the same time. They no longer felt cold. The young
+man rejoiced to find, from the regularity of her breathing, that the
+girl was now asleep; this repose would enable them to proceed on their
+way with spirit. He resolved to let her slumber for an hour. The sky
+was still black, and the approach of day was but faintly indicated by a
+whitish line in the east. Behind the lovers there must have been a pine
+wood whose musical awakening it was that the young man heard amidst the
+morning breezes. And meantime the wailing of the bells grew more
+sonorous in the quivering atmosphere, lulling Miette’s slumber even as
+it had accompanied her passionate fever.
+
+Until that troublous night, these young people had lived through one of
+those innocent idylls that blossom among the toiling masses, those
+outcasts and folks of simple mind amidst whom one may yet occasionally
+find amours as primitive as those of the ancient Greek romances.
+
+Miette had been scarcely nine years old at the time when her father was
+sent to the galleys for shooting a gendarme. The trial of Chantegreil
+had remained a memorable case in the province. The poacher boldly
+confessed that he had killed the gendarme, but he swore that the latter
+had been taking aim at him. “I only anticipated him,” he said, “I
+defended myself; it was a duel, not a murder.” He never desisted from
+this line of argument. The presiding Judge of the Assizes could not
+make him understand that, although a gendarme has the right to fire
+upon a poacher, a poacher has no right to fire upon a gendarme.
+Chantegreil escaped the guillotine, owing to his obviously sincere
+belief in his own innocence, and his previous good character. The man
+wept like a child when his daughter was brought to him prior to his
+departure for Toulon. The little thing, who had lost her mother in her
+infancy, dwelt at this time with her grandfather at Chavanoz, a village
+in the passes of the Seille. When the poacher was no longer there, the
+old man and the girl lived upon alms. The inhabitants of Chavanoz, all
+sportsmen and poachers, came to the assistance of the poor creatures
+whom the convict had left behind him. After a while, however, the old
+man died of grief, and Miette, left alone by herself, would have had to
+beg on the high roads, if the neighbours had not remembered that she
+had an aunt at Plassans. A charitable soul was kind enough to take her
+to this aunt, who did not, however, receive her very kindly.
+
+Eulalie Chantegreil, the spouse of _méger_ Rebufat, was a big, dark,
+stubborn creature, who ruled the home. She led her husband by the
+noise, said the people of the Faubourg of Plassans. The truth was,
+Rebufat, avaricious and eager for work and gain, felt a sort of respect
+for this big creature, who combined uncommon vigour with strict
+sobriety and economy.
+
+Thanks to her, the household thrived. The _méger_ grumbled one evening
+when, on returning home from work, he found Miette installed there. But
+his wife closed his mouth by saying in her gruff voice: “Bah, the
+little thing’s strongly built, she’ll do for a servant; we’ll keep her
+and save wages.”
+
+This calculation pleased Rebufat. He went so far as to feel the little
+thing’s arms, and declared with satisfaction that she was sturdy for
+her age. Miette was then nine years old. From the very next day he made
+use of her. The work of the peasant-woman in the South of France is
+much lighter than in the North. One seldom sees them employed in
+digging the ground, carrying loads, or doing other kinds of men’s work.
+They bind sheaves, gather olives and mulberry leaves; perhaps their
+most laborious work is that of weeding. Miette worked away willingly.
+Open-air life was her delight, her health. So long as her aunt lived
+she was always smiling. The good woman, in spite of her roughness, at
+last loved her as her own child; she forbade her doing the hard work
+which her husband sometimes tried to force upon her, saying to the
+latter:
+
+“Ah! you’re a clever fellow! You don’t understand, you fool, that if
+you tire her too much to-day, she won’t be able to do anything
+to-morrow!”
+
+This argument was decisive. Rebufat bowed his head, and carried the
+load which he had desired to set on the young girl’s shoulders.
+
+The latter would have lived in perfect happiness under the secret
+protection of her aunt Eulalie, but for the teasing of her cousin, who
+was then a lad of sixteen, and employed his idle hours in hating and
+persecuting her. Justin’s happiest moments were those when by means of
+some gross falsehood he succeeded in getting her scolded. Whenever he
+could tread on her feet, or push her roughly, pretending not to have
+seen her, he laughed and felt the delight of those crafty folks who
+rejoice at other people’s misfortunes. Miette, however, would stare at
+him with her large black childish eyes gleaming with anger and silent
+scorn, which checked the cowardly youngster’s sneers. In reality he was
+terribly afraid of his cousin.
+
+The young girl was just attaining her eleventh year when her aunt
+Eulalie suddenly died. From that day everything changed in the house.
+Rebufat gradually come to treat her like a farm-labourer. He
+overwhelmed her with all sorts of rough work, and made use of her as a
+beast of burden. She never even complained, however, thinking that she
+had a debt of gratitude to repay him. In the evening, when she was worn
+out with fatigue, she mourned for her aunt, that terrible woman whose
+latent kindliness she now realised. However, it was not the hard work
+that distressed her, for she delighted in her strength, and took a
+pride in her big arms and broad shoulders. What distressed her was her
+uncle’s distrustful surveillance, his continual reproaches, and the
+irritated employer-like manner he assumed towards her. She had now
+become a stranger in the house. Yet even a stranger would not have been
+so badly treated as she was. Rebufat took the most unscrupulous
+advantage of this poor little relative, whom he pretended to keep out
+of charity. She repaid his harsh hospitality ten times over with her
+work, and yet never a day passed but he grudged her the bread she ate.
+Justin especially excelled in wounding her. Since his mother had been
+dead, seeing her without a protector, he had brought all his evil
+instincts into play in trying to make the house intolerable to her. The
+most ingenious torture which he invented was to speak to Miette of her
+father. The poor girl, living away from the world, under the protection
+of her aunt, who had forbidden any one ever to mention the words
+“galleys” or “convict” before her, hardly understood their meaning. It
+was Justin who explained it to her by relating, in his own manner, the
+story of the murder of the gendarme, and Chantegreil’s conviction.
+There was no end to the horrible particulars he supplied: the convicts
+had a cannonball fastened to one ankle by a chain, they worked fifteen
+hours a day, and all died under their punishment; their prison, too,
+was a frightful place, the horrors of which he described minutely.
+Miette listened to him, stupefied, her eyes full of tears. Sometimes
+she was roused to sudden violence, and Justin quickly retired before
+her clenched fists. However, he took a savage delight in thus
+instructing her as to the nature of prison life. When his father flew
+into a passion with the child for any little negligence, he chimed in,
+glad to be able to insult her without danger. And if she attempted to
+defend herself, he would exclaim: “Bah! bad blood always shows itself.
+You’ll end at the galleys like your father.”
+
+At this Miette sobbed, stung to the heart, powerless and overwhelmed
+with shame.
+
+She was already growing to womanhood at this period. Of precocious
+nature, she endured her martyrdom with extraordinary fortitude. She
+rarely gave way, excepting when her natural pride succumbed to her
+cousin’s outrages. Soon even, she was able to bear, without a tear, the
+incessant insults of this cowardly fellow, who ever watched her while
+he spoke, for fear lest she should fly at his face. Then, too, she
+learnt to silence him by staring at him fixedly. She had several times
+felt inclined to run away from the Jas-Meiffren; but she did not do so,
+as her courage could not brook the idea of confessing that she was
+vanquished by the persecution she endured. She certainly earned her
+bread, she did not steal the Rebufats’ hospitality; and this conviction
+satisfied her pride. So she remained there to continue the struggle,
+stiffening herself and living on with the one thought of resistance.
+Her plan was to do her work in silence, and revenge herself for all
+harsh treatment by mute contempt. She knew that her uncle derived too
+much advantage from her to listen readily to the insinuations of
+Justin, who longed to get her turned out of doors. And in a defiant
+spirit she resolved that she would not go away of her own accord.
+
+Her continuous voluntary silence was full of strange fancies. Passing
+her days in the enclosure, isolated from all the world, she formed
+ideas for herself which would have strangely shocked the good people of
+the Faubourg. Her father’s fate particularly occupied her thoughts. All
+Justin’s abuse recurred to her; and she ended by accepting the charge
+of murder, saying to herself, however, that her father had done well to
+kill the gendarme who had tried to kill him. She had learnt the real
+story from a labourer who had worked for a time at the Jas-Meiffren.
+From that moment, on the few occasions when she went out, she no longer
+even turned if the ragamuffins of the Faubourg followed her, crying:
+“Hey! La Chantegreil!”
+
+She simply hastened her steps homeward, with lips compressed, and
+black, fierce eyes. Then after shutting the gate, she perhaps cast one
+long glance at the gang of urchins. She would have become vicious, have
+lapsed into fierce pariah savagery, if her childishness had not
+sometimes gained the mastery. Her extreme youth brought her little
+girlish weaknesses which relieved her. She would then cry with shame
+for herself and her father. She would hide herself in a stable so that
+she might sob to her heart’s content, for she knew that, if the others
+saw her crying, they would torment her all the more. And when she had
+wept sufficiently, she would bathe her eyes in the kitchen, and then
+again subside into uncomplaining silence. It was not interest alone,
+however, which prompted her to hide herself; she carried her pride in
+her precocious strength so far that she was unwilling to appear a
+child. In time she would have become very unhappy. Fortunately she was
+saved by discovering the latent tenderness of her loving nature.
+
+The well in the yard of the house occupied by aunt Dide and Silvère was
+a party-well. The wall of the Jas-Meiffren cut it in halves. Formerly,
+before the Fouques’ property was united to the neighbouring estate, the
+market-gardeners had used this well daily. Since the transfer of the
+Fouques’ ground, however, as it was at some distance from the
+outhouses, the inmates of the Jas, who had large cisterns at their
+disposal, did not draw a pail of water from it in a month. On the other
+side, one could hear the grating of the pulley every morning when
+Silvère drew the water for aunt Dide.
+
+One day the pulley broke. The young wheelwright made a good strong one
+of oak, and put it up in the evening after his day’s work. To do this
+he had to climb upon the wall. When he had finished the job he remained
+resting astride the coping, and surveyed with curiosity the large
+expanse of the Jas-Meiffren. At last a peasant-girl, who was weeding
+the ground a few feet from him, attracted his attention. It was in
+July, and the air was broiling, although the sun had already sank to
+the horizon. The peasant-girl had taken off her jacket. In a white
+bodice, with a coloured neckerchief tied over her shoulders, and the
+sleeves of her chemise turned up as far as her elbows, she was
+squatting amid the folds of her blue cotton skirt, which was secured to
+a pair of braces crossed behind her back. She crawled about on her
+knees as she pulled up the tares and threw them into a basket. The
+young man could only see her bare, sun-tanned arms stretching out right
+and left to seize some overlooked weed. He followed this rapid play of
+her arms complacently, deriving a singular pleasure from seeing them so
+firm and quick. The young person had slightly raised herself on
+noticing that he was no longer at work, but had again lowered her head
+before he could distinguish her features. This shyness kept him in
+suspense. Like an inquisitive lad he wondered who this weeder could be,
+and while he lingered there, whistling and beating time with a chisel,
+the latter suddenly slipped out of his hand. It fell into the
+Jas-Meiffren, striking the curb of the well, and then bounding a few
+feet from the wall. Silvère looked at it, leaning forward and
+hesitating to get over. But the peasant-girl must have been watching
+the young man askance, for she jumped up without saying anything,
+picked up the chisel, and handed it to Silvère, who then perceived that
+she was a mere child. He was surprised and rather intimidated. The
+young girl raised herself towards him in the red glare of the sunset.
+The wall at this spot was low, but nevertheless too high for her to
+reach him. So he bent low over the coping, while she still raised
+herself on tiptoes. They did not speak, but looked at each other with
+an air of smiling confusion. The young man would indeed have liked to
+keep the girl in that position. She turned to him a charming head, with
+handsome black eyes, and red lips, which quite astonished and stirred
+him. He had never before seen a girl so near; he had not known that
+lips and eyes could be so pleasant to look at. Everything about the
+girl seemed to possess a strange fascination for him—her coloured
+neckerchief, her white bodice, her blue cotton skirt hanging from
+braces which stretched with the motion of her shoulders. Then his
+glance glided along the arm which was handing him the tool; as far as
+the elbow this arm was of a golden brown, as though clothed with
+sun-burn; but higher up, in the shadow of the tucked-up sleeve, Silvère
+perceived a bare, milk-white roundness. At this he felt confused;
+however, he leant further over, and at last managed to grasp the
+chisel. The little peasant-girl was becoming embarrassed. Still they
+remained there, smiling at each other, the child beneath with upturned
+face, and the lad half reclining on the coping of the wall. They could
+not part from each other. So far they had not exchanged a word, and
+Silvère even forgot to say, “Thank you.”
+
+“What’s your name?” he asked.
+
+“Marie,” replied the peasant-girl; “but everybody calls me Miette.”
+
+Again she raised herself slightly, and in a clear voice inquired in her
+turn: “And yours?”
+
+“My name is Silvère,” the young workman replied.
+
+A pause ensued, during which they seemed to be listening complacently
+to the music of their names.
+
+“I’m fifteen years old,” resumed Silvère. “And you?”
+
+“I!” said Miette; “oh, I shall be eleven on All Saints’ Day.”
+
+The young workman made a gesture of surprise. “Ah! really!” he said,
+laughing, “and to think I took you for a woman! You’ve such big arms.”
+
+She also began to laugh, as she lowered her eyes to her arms. Then they
+ceased speaking. They remained for another moment gazing and smiling at
+each other. And finally, as Silvère seemingly had no more questions to
+ask her, Miette quietly withdrew and went on plucking her weeds,
+without raising her head. The lad for his part remained on the wall for
+a while. The sun was setting; a stream of oblique rays poured over the
+yellow soil of the Jas-Meiffren, which seemed to be all ablaze—one
+would have said that a fire was running along the ground—and, in the
+midst of the flaming expanse, Silvère saw the little stooping
+peasant-girl, whose bare arms had resumed their rapid motion. The blue
+cotton skirt was now becoming white; and rays of light streamed over
+the child’s copper-coloured arms. At last Silvère felt somewhat ashamed
+of remaining there, and accordingly got off the wall.
+
+In the evening, preoccupied with his adventure, he endeavoured to
+question aunt Dide. Perhaps she would know who this Miette was who had
+such black eyes and such red lips. But, since she had lived in the
+house in the alley, the old woman had never once given a look behind
+the wall of the little yard. It was, to her, like an impassable
+rampart, which shut off her past. She did not know—she did not want to
+know—what there might now be on the other side of that wall, in that
+old enclosure of the Fouques, where she had buried her love, her heart
+and her flesh. As soon as Silvère began to question her she looked at
+him with childish terror. Was he, then, going to stir up the ashes of
+those days now dead and gone, and make her weep like her son Antoine
+had done?
+
+“I don’t know,” she said in a hasty voice; “I no longer go out, I never
+see anybody.”
+
+Silvère waited the morrow with considerable impatience. And as soon as
+he got to his master’s workshop, he drew his fellow-workmen into
+conversation. He did not say anything about his interview with Miette;
+but spoke vaguely of a girl whom he had seen from a distance in the
+Jas-Meiffren.
+
+“Oh! that’s La Chantegreil!” cried one of the workmen.
+
+There was no necessity for Silvère to question them further, for they
+told him the story of the poacher Chantegreil and his daughter Miette,
+with that unreasoning spite which is felt for social outcasts. The
+girl, in particular, they treated in a foul manner; and the insulting
+gibe of “daughter of a galley-slave” constantly rose to their lips like
+an incontestable reason for condemning the poor, dear innocent creature
+to eternal disgrace.
+
+However, wheelwright Vian, an honest, worthy fellow, at last silenced
+his men.
+
+“Hold your tongues, you foul mouths!” he said, as he let fall the shaft
+of a cart that he had been examining. “You ought to be ashamed of
+yourselves for being so hard upon the child. I’ve seen her, the little
+thing looks a very good girl. Besides, I’m told she doesn’t mind work,
+and already does as much as any woman of thirty. There are some lazy
+fellows here who aren’t a match for her. I hope, later on, that she’ll
+get a good husband who’ll stop this evil talk.”
+
+Silvère, who had been chilled by the workmen’s gross jests and insults,
+felt tears rise to his eyes at the last words spoken by Vian. However,
+he did not open his lips. He took up his hammer, which he had laid down
+near him, and began with all his might to strike the nave of a wheel
+which he was binding with iron.
+
+In the evening, as soon as he had returned home from the workshop, he
+ran to the wall and climbed upon it. He found Miette engaged upon the
+same labour as the day before. He called her. She came to him, with her
+smile of embarrassment, and the charming shyness of a child who from
+infancy had grown up in tears.
+
+“You’re La Chantegreil, aren’t you?” he asked her, abruptly.
+
+She recoiled, she ceased smiling, and her eyes turned sternly black,
+gleaming with defiance. So this lad was going to insult her, like the
+others! She was turning her back upon him, without giving an answer,
+when Silvère, perplexed by her sudden change of countenance, hastened
+to add: “Stay, I beg you—I don’t want to pain you—I’ve got so many
+things to tell you!”
+
+She turned round, still distrustful. Silvère, whose heart was full, and
+who had resolved to relieve it, remained for a moment speechless, not
+knowing how to continue, for he feared lest he should commit a fresh
+blunder. At last he put his whole heart in one phrase: “Would you like
+me to be your friend?” he said, in a voice full of emotion. And as
+Miette, in surprise, raised her eyes, which were again moist and
+smiling, he continued with animation: “I know that people try to vex
+you. It’s time to put a stop to it. I will be your protector now. Shall
+I?”
+
+The child beamed with delight. This proffered friendship roused her
+from all her evil dreams of taciturn hatred. Still she shook her head
+and answered: “No, I don’t want you to fight on my account. You’d have
+too much to do. Besides which, there are persons from whom you cannot
+protect me.”
+
+Silvère wished to declare that he would defend her against the whole
+world, but she closed his mouth with a coaxing gesture, as she added:
+“I am satisfied to have you as a friend.”
+
+They then conversed together for a few minutes, lowering their voices
+as much as possible. Miette spoke to Silvère of her uncle and her
+cousin. For all the world she would not have liked them to catch him
+astride the coping of the wall. Justin would be implacable with such a
+weapon against her. She spoke of her misgivings with the fright of a
+schoolgirl on meeting a friend with whom her mother has forbidden her
+to associate. Silvère merely understood, however, that he would not be
+able to see Miette at his pleasure. This made him very sad. Still, he
+promised that he would not climb upon the wall any more. They were both
+endeavouring to find some expedient for seeing each other again, when
+Miette suddenly begged him to go away; she had just caught sight of
+Justin, who was crossing the grounds in the direction of the wall.
+Silvère quickly descended. When he was in the little yard again, he
+remained by the wall to listen, irritated by his flight. After a few
+minutes he ventured to climb again and cast a glance into the
+Jas-Meiffren, but he saw Justin speaking with Miette, and quickly
+withdrew his head. On the following day he could see nothing of his
+friend, not even in the distance; she must have finished her work in
+that part of the Jas. A week passed in this fashion, and the young
+people had no opportunity of exchanging a single word. Silvère was in
+despair; he thought of boldly going to the Rebufats to ask for Miette.
+
+The party-well was a large one, but not very deep. On either side of
+the wall the curb formed a large semicircle. The water was only ten or
+twelve feet down at the utmost. This slumbering water reflected the two
+apertures of the well, two half-moons between which the shadow of the
+wall cast a black streak. On leaning over, one might have fancied in
+the vague light that the half-moons were two mirrors of singular
+clearness and brilliance. Under the morning sunshine, when the dripping
+of the ropes did not disturb the surface of the water, these mirrors,
+these reflections of the heavens, showed like white patches on the
+green water, and in them the leaves of the ivy which had spread along
+the wall over the well were repeated with marvellous exactness.
+
+One morning, at an early hour, Silvère, as he came to draw water for
+aunt Dide, bent over the well mechanically, just as he was taking hold
+of the rope. He started, and then stood motionless, still leaning over.
+He had fancied that he could distinguish in the well the face of a
+young girl who was looking at him with a smile; however, he had shaken
+the rope, and the disturbed water was now but a dim mirror that no
+longer reflected anything clearly. Silvère, who did not venture to
+stir, and whose heart beat rapidly, then waited for the water to
+settle. As its ripples gradually widened and died away, he perceived
+the image reappearing. It oscillated for a long time, with a swing
+which lent a vague, phantom-like grace to its features, but at last it
+remained stationary. It was the smiling countenance of Miette, with her
+head and shoulders, her coloured neckerchief, her white bodice, and her
+blue braces. Silvère next perceived his own image in the other mirror.
+Then, knowing that they could see each other, they nodded their heads.
+For the first moment, they did not even think of speaking. At last they
+exchanged greetings.
+
+“Good morning, Silvère.”
+
+“Good morning, Miette.”
+
+They were surprised by the strange sound of their voices, which became
+singularly soft and sweet in that damp hole. The sound seemed, indeed,
+to come from a distance, like the soft music of voices heard of an
+evening in the country. They understood that it would suffice to speak
+in a whisper in order to hear each other. The well echoed the faintest
+breath. Leaning over its brink, they conversed while gazing at one
+another’s reflection. Miette related how sad she had been the last
+week. She was now working at the other end of the Jas, and could only
+get out early in the morning. Then she made a pout of annoyance which
+Silvère distinguished perfectly, and to which he replied by nodding his
+head with an air of vexation. They were exchanging all those gestures
+and facial expressions that speech entails. They cared but little for
+the wall which separated them now that they could see each other in
+those hidden depths.
+
+“I knew,” continued Miette, with a knowing look, “that you came here to
+draw water every morning at the same hour. I can hear the grating of
+the pulley from the house. So I made an excuse, I pretended that the
+water in this well boiled the vegetables better. I thought that I might
+come here every morning to draw water at the same time as you, so as to
+say good morning to you without anyone suspecting it.”
+
+She smiled innocently, as though well pleased with her device, and
+ended by saying: “But I did not imagine we should see each other in the
+water.”
+
+It was, in fact, this unhoped-for pleasure which so delighted them.
+They only spoke to see their lips move, so greatly did this new frolic
+amuse their childish natures. And they resolved to use all means in
+their power to meet here every morning. When Miette had said that she
+must go away, she told Silvère that he could draw his pail of water.
+But he did not dare to shake the rope; Miette was still leaning over—he
+could see her smiling face, and it was too painful to him to dispel
+that smile. As he slightly stirred his pail, the water murmured, and
+the smile faded. Then he stopped, seized with a strange fear; he
+fancied that he had vexed her and made her cry. But the child called to
+him, “Go on! go on!” with a laugh which the echo prolonged and rendered
+more sonorous. She herself then nosily sent down a pail. There was a
+perfect tempest. Everything disappeared under the black water. And
+Silvère made up his mind to fill two pitchers, while listening to the
+retreating steps of Miette on the other side of the wall.
+
+From that day, the young people never missed their assignations. The
+slumbering water, the white mirrors in which they gazed at one another,
+imparted to their interviews a charm which long sufficed their playful,
+childish imaginations. They had no desire to see each other face to
+face: it seemed much more amusing to them to use the well as a mirror,
+and confide their morning greetings to its echo. They soon came to look
+upon the well as an old friend. They loved to bend over the motionless
+water that resembled molten silver. A greenish glimmer hovered below,
+in a mysterious half light, and seemed to change the damp hole into
+some hiding-place in the depths of a wood. They saw each other in a
+sort of greenish nest bedecked with moss, in the midst of fresh water
+and foliage. And all the strangeness of the deep spring, the hollow
+tower over which they bent, trembling with fascination, added
+unconfessed and delightful fear to their merry laughter. The wild idea
+occurred to them of going down and seating themselves on a row of large
+stones which formed a kind of circular bench at a few inches above the
+water. They would dip their feet in the latter, converse there for
+hours, and no one would think of coming to look for them in such a
+spot. But when they asked each other what there might be down there,
+their vague fears returned; they thought it quite sufficient to let
+their reflected images descend into the depths amidst those green
+glimmers which tinged the stones with strange moire-like reflections,
+and amidst those mysterious noises which rose from the dark corners.
+Those sounds issuing from the invisible made them particularly uneasy;
+they often fancied that voices were replying to their own; and then
+they would remain silent, detecting a thousand faint plaints which they
+could not understand. These came from the secret travail of the
+moisture, the sighs of the atmosphere, the drops that glided over the
+stones, and fell below with the sonorousness of sobs. They would nod
+affectionately to each other in order to reassure themselves. Thus the
+attraction which kept them leaning over the brink had a tinge of secret
+terror, like all poignant charms. But the well still remained their old
+friend. It was such an excellent pretext for meeting! Justin, who
+watched Miette’s every movement, never suspected the cause of her
+eagerness to go and draw some water every morning. At times, he saw her
+from the distance, leaning over and loitering. “Ah! the lazy thing!” he
+muttered; “how fond she is of dawdling about!” How could he suspect
+that, on the other side of the wall, there was a wooer contemplating
+the girl’s smile in the water, and saying to her: “If that red-haired
+donkey Justin should illtreat you, just tell me of it, and he shall
+hear from me!”
+
+This amusement lasted for more than a month. It was July then; the
+mornings were sultry; the sun shone brightly, and it was quite a
+pleasure to come to that damp spot. It was delightful to feel the cold
+breath of the well on one’s face, and make love amidst this spring
+water while the skies were kindling their fires. Miette would arrive
+out of breath after crossing the stubble fields; as she ran along, her
+hair fell down over her forehead and temples; and it was with flushed
+face and dishevelled locks that she would lean over, shaking with
+laughter, almost before she had had time to set her pitcher down.
+Silvère, who was almost always the first at the well, felt, as he
+suddenly saw her smiling face in the water, as keen a joy as he would
+have experienced had she suddenly thrown herself into his arms at the
+bend of a pathway. Around them the radiant morning hummed with mirth; a
+wave of warm light, sonorous with the buzzing of insects, beat against
+the old wall, the posts, and the curbstone. They, however, no longer
+saw the shower of morning sunshine, nor heard the thousand sounds
+rising from the ground; they were in the depths of their green
+hiding-place, under the earth, in that mysterious and awesome cavity,
+and quivered with pleasure as they lingered there enjoying its fresh
+coolness and dim light.
+
+On some mornings, Miette, who by nature could not long maintain a
+contemplative attitude, began to tease; she would shake the rope, and
+make drops of water fall in order to ripple the mirrors and deface the
+reflections. Silvère would then entreat her to remain still; he, whose
+fervour was deeper than hers, knew no keener pleasure than that of
+gazing at his love’s image reflected so distinctly in every feature.
+But she would not listen to him; she would joke and feign a rough old
+bogey’s voice, to which the echo imparted a raucous melodiousness.
+
+“No, no,” she would say in chiding fashion; “I don’t love you to-day!
+I’m making faces at you; see how ugly I am.”
+
+And she laughed at seeing the fantastic forms which their spreading
+faces assumed as they danced upon the disturbed water.
+
+One morning she got angry in real earnest. She did not find Silvère at
+the trysting-place, and waited for him for nearly a quarter of an hour,
+vainly making the pulley grate. She was just about to depart in a rage
+when he arrived. As soon as she perceived him she let a perfect tempest
+loose in the well, shook her pail in an irritated manner, and made the
+blackish water whirl and splash against the stones. In vain did Silvère
+try to explain that aunt Dide had detained him. To all his excuses she
+replied: “You’ve vexed me; I don’t want to see you.”
+
+The poor lad, in despair, vainly questioned that sombre cavity, now so
+full of lamentable sounds, where, on other days, such a bright vision
+usually awaited him amid the silence of the stagnant water. He had to
+go away without seeing Miette. On the morrow, arriving before the time,
+he gazed sadly into the well, hearing nothing, and thinking that the
+obstinate girl would not come, when she, who was already on the other
+side slyly watching his arrival, bent over suddenly with a burst of
+laughter. All was at once forgotten.
+
+In this wise the well was the scene of many a little drama and comedy.
+That happy cavity, with its gleaming mirrors and musical echoes,
+quickly ripened their love. They endowed it with such strange life, so
+filled it with their youthful love, that, long after they had ceased to
+come and lean over the brink, Silvère, as he drew water every morning,
+would fancy he could see Miette’s smiling face in the dim light that
+still quivered with the joy they had set there.
+
+That month of playful love rescued Miette from her mute despair. She
+felt a revival of her affections, her happy childish carelessness,
+which had been held in check by the hateful loneliness in which she
+lived. The certainty that she was loved by somebody, and that she was
+no longer alone in the world, enabled her to endure the persecutions of
+Justin and the Faubourg urchins. A song of joy, whose glad notes
+drowned their hootings, now sounded in her heart. She thought of her
+father with tender compassion, and did not now so frequently yield to
+dreams of bitter vengeance. Her dawning love cooled her feverish
+broodings like the fresh breezes of the dawn. At the same time she
+acquired the instinctive cunning of a young girl in love. She felt that
+she must maintain her usual silent and rebellious demeanour if she were
+to escape Justin’s suspicions. But, in spite of her efforts, her eyes
+retained a sweet unruffled expression when the lad bullied her; she was
+no longer able to put on her old black look of indignant anger. One
+morning he heard her humming to herself at breakfast-time.
+
+“You seem very gay, Chantegreil!” he said to her suspiciously, glancing
+keenly at her from his lowering eyes. “I bet you’ve been up to some of
+your tricks again!”
+
+She shrugged her shoulders, but she trembled inwardly; and she did all
+she could to regain her old appearance of rebellious martyrdom.
+However, though Justin suspected some secret happiness, it was long
+before he was able to discover how his victim had escaped him.
+
+Silvère, on his side, enjoyed profound happiness. His daily meetings
+with Miette made his idle hours pass pleasantly away. During his long
+silent companionship with aunt Dide, he recalled one by one his
+remembrances of the morning, revelling in their most trifling details.
+From that time forward, the fulness of his heart cloistered him yet
+more in the lonely existence which he had adopted with his grandmother.
+He was naturally fond of hidden spots, of solitary retirement, where he
+could give himself up to his thoughts. At this period already he had
+eagerly begun to read all the old odd volumes which he could pick up at
+brokers’ shops in the Faubourg, and which were destined to lead him to
+a strange and generous social religion and morality. His
+reading—ill-digested and lacking all solid foundation—gave him glimpses
+of the world’s vanities and pleasures, especially with regard to women,
+which would have seriously troubled his mind if his heart had not been
+contented. When Miette came, he received her at first as a companion,
+then as the joy and ambition of his life. In the evening, when he had
+retired to the little nook where he slept, and hung his lamp at the
+head of his strap-bedstead, he would find Miette on every page of the
+dusty old volume which he had taken at random from a shelf above his
+head and was reading devoutly. He never came across a young girl, a
+good and beautiful creature, in his reading, without immediately
+identifying her with his sweetheart. And he would set himself in the
+narrative as well. If he were reading a love story, it was he who
+married Miette at the end, or died with her. If, on the contrary, he
+were perusing some political pamphlet, some grave dissertation on
+social economy, works which he preferred to romances, for he had that
+singular partiality for difficult subjects which characterises persons
+of imperfect scholarship, he still found some means of associating her
+with the tedious themes which frequently he could not even understand.
+For instance, he tried to persuade himself that he was learning how to
+be good and kind to her when they were married. He thus associated her
+with all his visionary dreamings. Protected by the purity of his
+affection against the obscenity of certain eighteenth-century tales
+which fell into his hands, he found particular pleasure in shutting
+himself up with her in those humanitarian Utopias which some great
+minds of our own time, infatuated by visions of universal happiness
+have imagined. Miette, in his mind, became quite essential to the
+abolition of pauperism and the definitive triumph of the principles of
+the Revolution. There were nights of feverish reading, when his mind
+could not tear itself from his book, which he would lay down and take
+up at least a score of times, nights of voluptuous weariness which he
+enjoyed till daybreak like some secret orgy, cramped up in that tiny
+room, his eyes troubled by the flickering yellow light, while he
+yielded to the fever of insomnia and schemed out new social schemes of
+the most absurdly ingenuous nature, in which woman, always personified
+by Miette, was worshipped by the nations on their knees.
+
+He was predisposed to Utopian ideas by certain hereditary influences;
+his grandmother’s nervous disorders became in him so much chronic
+enthusiasm, striving after everything that was grandiose and
+impossible. His lonely childhood, his imperfect education, had
+developed his natural tendencies in a singular manner. However, he had
+not yet reached the age when the fixed idea plants itself in a man’s
+mind. In the morning, after he had dipped his head in a bucket of
+water, he remembered his thoughts and visions of the night but vaguely;
+nothing remained of his dreams save a childlike innocence, full of
+trustful confidence and yearning tenderness. He felt like a child
+again. He ran to the well, solely desirous of meeting his sweetheart’s
+smile, and tasting the delights of the radiant morning. And during the
+day, when thoughts of the future sometimes made him silent and dreamy,
+he would often, prompted by some sudden impulse, spring up and kiss
+aunt Dide on both cheeks, whereat the old woman would gaze at him
+anxiously, perturbed at seeing his eyes so bright, and gleaming with a
+joy which she thought she could divine.
+
+At last, as time went on, Miette and Silvère began to tire of only
+seeing each other’s reflection. The novelty of their play was gone, and
+now they began to dream of keener pleasures than the well could afford
+them. In this longing for reality which came upon them, there was the
+wish to see each other face to face, to run through the open fields,
+and return out of breath with their arms around each other’s waist,
+clinging closely together in order that they might the better feel each
+other’s love. One morning Silvère spoke of climbing over the wall, and
+walking in the Jas with Miette. But the child implored him not to
+perpetrate such folly, which would place her at Justin’s mercy. He then
+promised to seek some other means.
+
+The wall in which the well was set made a sudden bend a few paces
+further on, thereby forming a sort of recess, where the lovers would be
+free from observation, if they were to take shelter there. The question
+was how to reach this recess. Silvère could no longer entertain the
+idea of climbing over, as Miette had appeared so afraid. He secretly
+thought of another plan. The little door which Macquart and Adélaïde
+had set up one night long years previously had remained forgotten in
+this remote corner. The owner of the Jas-Meiffren had not even thought
+of blocking it up. Blackened by damp and green with moss, its lock and
+hinges eaten away with rust, it looked like a part of the old wall.
+Doubtless the key was lost; the grass growing beside the lower boards,
+against which slight mounds had formed, amply proved that no one had
+passed that way for many a long year. However, it was the lost key that
+Silvère hoped to find. He knew with what devotion his aunt Dide allowed
+the relics of the past to lie rotting wherever they might be. He
+searched the house for a week without any result, and went stealthily
+night by night to see if he had at last put his hand on the right key
+during the daytime. In this way he tried more than thirty keys which
+had doubtless come from the old property of the Fouques, and which he
+found all over the place, against the walls, on the floors, and at the
+bottom of drawers. He was becoming disheartened, when all at once he
+found the precious key. It was simply tied by a string to the street
+door latch-key, which always remained in the lock. It had hung there
+for nearly forty years. Aunt Dide must every day have touched it with
+her hand, without ever making up her mind to throw it away, although it
+could now only carry her back sorrowfully into the past. When Silvère
+had convinced himself that it really opened the little door, he awaited
+the ensuing day, dreaming of the joyful surprise which he was preparing
+for Miette. He had not told her for what he had been searching.
+
+On the morrow, as soon as he heard the girl set her pitcher down, he
+gently opened the door, sweeping away with a push the tall weeds which
+covered the threshold. Stretching out his head, he saw Miette leaning
+over the brink of the well, looking into the water, absorbed in
+expectation. Thereupon, in a couple of strides, he reached the recess
+formed by the wall, and thence called, “Miette! Miette!” in a soft
+voice, which made her tremble. She raised her head, thinking he was on
+the coping of the wall. But when she saw him in the Jas, at a few steps
+from her, she gave a faint cry of surprise, and ran up to him. They
+took each other’s hand, and looked at one another, delighted to be so
+near, thinking themselves far handsomer like this, in the warm
+sunshine. It was the middle of August, the Feast of the Assumption. In
+the distance, the bells were pealing in the limpid atmosphere that so
+often accompanies great days of festival, an atmosphere full of bright
+gaiety.
+
+“Good morning, Silvère!”
+
+“Good morning, Miette!”
+
+The voices in which they exchanged their morning greetings sounded
+strange to them. They knew only the muffled accents transmitted by the
+echo of the well. And now their voices seemed to them as clear as the
+notes of a lark. And ah! how delightful it was in that warm corner, in
+that holiday atmosphere! They still held each other’s hands. Silvère
+leaning against the wall, Miette with her figure slightly thrown
+backwards. They were about to tell each other all the soft things which
+they had not dared to confide to the reverberations of the well, when
+Silvère, hearing a slight noise, started, and, turning pale, dropped
+Miette’s hands. He had just seen aunt Dide standing before him erect
+and motionless on the threshold of the doorway.
+
+The grandmother had come to the well by chance. And on perceiving, in
+the old black wall, the white gap formed by the doorway which Silvère
+had left wide open, she had experienced a violent shock. That open gap
+seemed to her like a gulf of light violently illumining her past. She
+once more saw herself running to the door amidst the morning
+brightness, and crossing the threshold full of the transports of her
+nervous love. And Macquart was there awaiting her. She hung upon his
+neck and pressed against his bosom, whilst the rising sun, following
+her through the doorway, which she had left open in her hurry,
+enveloped them with radiance. It was a sudden vision which roused her
+cruelly from the slumber of old age, like some supreme chastisement,
+and awakened a multitude of bitter memories within her. Had the well,
+had the entire wall, disappeared beneath the earth, she would not have
+been more stupefied. She had never thought that this door would open
+again. In her mind it had been walled up ever since the hour of
+Macquart’s death. And amidst her amazement she felt angry, indignant
+with the sacrilegious hand that had penetrated this violation, and left
+that white open space agape like a yawning tomb. She stepped forward,
+yielding to a kind of fascination, and halted erect within the
+framework of the door.
+
+Then she gazed out before her, with a feeling of dolorous surprise. She
+had certainly been told that the old enclosure of the Fouques was now
+joined to the Jas-Meiffren; but she would never have thought the
+associations of her youth could have vanished so completely. It seemed
+as though some tempest had carried off everything that her memory
+cherished. The old dwelling, the large kitchen-garden, the beds of
+green vegetables, all had disappeared. Not a stone, not a tree of
+former times remained. And instead of the scene amidst which she had
+grown up, and which in her mind’s eye she had seen but yesterday, there
+lay a strip of barren soil, a broad patch of stubbles, bare like a
+desert. Henceforward, when, on closing her eyes, she might try to
+recall the objects of the past, that stubble would always appear to her
+like a shroud of yellowish drugget spread over the soil, in which her
+youth lay buried. In the presence of that unfamiliar commonplace scene
+her heart died, as it were, a second time. Now all was completely,
+finally ended. She was robbed even of her dreams of the past. Then she
+began to regret that she had yielded to the attraction of that white
+opening, of that doorway gaping upon the days which were now for ever
+lost.
+
+She was about to retire and close the accursed door, without even
+seeking to discover who had opened it, when she suddenly perceived
+Miette and Silvère. And the sight of the two young lovers, who, with
+hanging heads, nervously awaited her glance, kept her on the threshold,
+quivering with yet keener pain. She now understood all. To the very
+end, she was destined to picture herself there, clasped in Macquart’s
+arms in the bright sunshine. Yet a second time had the door served as
+an accomplice. Where love had once passed, there was it passing again.
+‘Twas the eternal and endless renewal, with present joys and future
+tears. Aunt Dide could only see the tears, and a sudden presentiment
+showed her the two children bleeding, with stricken hearts. Overwhelmed
+by the recollection of her life’s sorrow, which this spot had just
+awakened within her, she grieved for her dear Silvère. She alone was
+guilty; if she had not formerly had that door made Silvère would not
+now be at a girl’s feet in that lonely nook, intoxicating himself with
+a bliss which prompts and angers the jealousy of death.
+
+After a brief pause, she went up to the young man, and, without a word,
+took him by the hand. She might, perhaps, have left them there,
+chattering under the wall, had she not felt that she herself was, to
+some extent, an accomplice in this fatal love. As she came back with
+Silvère, she turned on hearing the light footfall of Miette, who,
+having quickly taken up her pitcher, was hastening across the stubble.
+She was running wildly, glad at having escaped so easily. And aunt Dide
+smiled involuntarily as she watched her bound over the ground like a
+runaway goat.
+
+“She is very young,” she murmured, “she has plenty of time.”
+
+She meant, no doubt, that Miette had plenty of time before her to
+suffer and weep. Then, turning her eyes upon Silvère, who with a glance
+of ecstasy had followed the child as she ran off in the bright
+sunshine, she simply added: “Take care, my boy; this sort of thing
+sometimes kills one.”
+
+These were the only words she spoke with reference to the incident
+which had awakened all the sorrows that lay slumbering in the depths of
+her being. Silence had become a real religion with her. When Silvère
+came in, she double-locked the door, and threw the key down the well.
+In this wise she felt certain that the door would no longer make her an
+accomplice. She examined it for a moment, glad at seeing it reassume
+its usual gloomy, barrier-like aspect. The tomb was closed once more;
+the white gap was for ever boarded up with that damp-stained mossy
+timber over which the snails had shed silvery tears.
+
+In the evening, aunt Dide had another of those nervous attacks which
+came upon her at intervals. At these times she would often talk aloud
+and ramble incoherently, as though she was suffering from nightmare.
+That evening, while Silvère held her down on her bed, he heard her
+stammer in a panting voice such words as “custom-house officer,”
+“fire,” and “murder.” And she struggled, and begged for mercy, and
+dreamed aloud of vengeance. At last, as always happened when the attack
+was drawing to a close, she fell into a strange fright, her teeth
+chattering, while her limbs quivered with abject terror. Finally, after
+raising herself into a sitting posture, she cast a haggard look of
+astonishment at one and another corner of the room, and then fell back
+upon the pillow, heaving deep sighs. She was, doubtless, a prey to some
+hallucination. However, she drew Silvère to her bosom, and seemed to
+some degree to recognise him, though ever and anon she confused him
+with someone else.
+
+“There they are!” she stammered. “Do you see? They are going to take
+you, they will kill you again. I don’t want them to—Send them away,
+tell them I won’t; tell them they are hurting me, staring at me like
+that—”
+
+Then she turned to the wall, to avoid seeing the people of whom she was
+talking. And after an interval of silence, she continued: “You are near
+me, my child, aren’t you? You must not leave me. I thought I was going
+to die just now. We did wrong to make an opening in the wall. I have
+suffered ever since. I was certain that door would bring us further
+misfortune—Oh! the innocent darlings, what sorrow! They will kill them
+as well, they will be shot down like dogs.”
+
+Then she relapsed into catalepsy; she was no longer even aware of
+Silvère’s presence. Suddenly, however, she sat up, and gazed at the
+foot of her bed, with a fearful expression of terror.
+
+“Why didn’t you send them away?” she cried, hiding her white head
+against the young man’s breast. “They are still there. The one with the
+gun is making signs that he is going to fire.”
+
+Shortly afterwards she fell into the heavy slumber that usually
+terminated these attacks. On the next day, she seemed to have forgotten
+everything. She never again spoke to Silvère of the morning on which
+she had found him with a sweetheart behind the wall.
+
+The young people did not see each other for a couple of days. When
+Miette ventured to return to the well, they resolved not to recommence
+the pranks which had upset aunt Dide. However, the meeting which had
+been so strangely interrupted had filled them with a keen desire to
+meet again in some happy solitude. Weary of the delights afforded by
+the well, and unwilling to vex aunt Dide by seeing Miette again on the
+other side of the wall, Silvère begged the girl to meet him somewhere
+else. She required but little pressing; she received the proposal with
+the willing smile of a frolicsome lass who has no thought of evil. What
+made her smile was the idea of outwitting that spy of a Justin. When
+the lovers had come to agreement, they discussed at length the choice
+of a favourable spot. Silvère proposed the most impossible
+trysting-places. He planned regular journeys, and even suggested
+meeting the young girl at midnight in the barns of the Jas-Meiffren.
+Miette, who was much more practical, shrugged her shoulders, declaring
+she would try to think of some spot. On the morrow, she tarried but a
+minute at the well, just time enough to smile at Silvère and tell him
+to be at the far end of the Aire Saint-Mittre at about ten o’clock in
+the evening. One may be sure that the young man was punctual. All day
+long Miette’s choice had puzzled him, and his curiosity increased when
+he found himself in the narrow lane formed by the piles of planks at
+the end of the plot of ground. “She will come this way,” he said to
+himself, looking along the road to Nice. But he suddenly heard a loud
+shaking of boughs behind the wall, and saw a laughing head, with
+tumbled hair, appear above the coping, whilst a joyous voice called
+out: “It’s me!”
+
+And it was, in fact, Miette, who had climbed like an urchin up one of
+the mulberry-trees, which even nowadays still border the boundary of
+the Jas-Meiffren. In a couple of leaps she reached the tombstone, half
+buried in the corner at the end of the lane. Silvère watched her
+descend with delight and surprise, without even thinking of helping
+her. As soon as she had alighted, however, he took both her hands in
+his, and said: “How nimble you are!—you climb better than I do.”
+
+It was thus that they met for the first time in that hidden corner
+where they were destined to pass such happy hours. From that evening
+forward they saw each other there nearly every night. They now only
+used the well to warn each other of unforeseen obstacles to their
+meetings, of a change of time, and of all the trifling little news that
+seemed important in their eyes, and allowed of no delay. It sufficed
+for the one who had a communication to make to set the pulley in
+motion, for its creaking noise could be heard a long way off. But
+although, on certain days, they summoned one another two or three times
+in succession to speak of trifles of immense importance, it was only in
+the evening in that lonely little passage that they tasted real
+happiness. Miette was exceptionally punctual. She fortunately slept
+over the kitchen, in a room where the winter provisions had been kept
+before her arrival, and which was reached by a little private
+staircase. She was thus able to go out at all hours, without being seen
+by Rebufat or Justin. Moreover, if the latter should ever see her
+returning she intended to tell him some tale or other, staring at him
+the while with that stern look which always reduced him to silence.
+
+Ah! how happy those warm evenings were! The lovers had now reached the
+first days of September, a month of bright sunshine in Provence. It was
+hardly possible for them to join each other before nine o’clock. Miette
+arrived from over the wall, in surmounting which she soon acquired such
+dexterity that she was almost always on the old tombstone before
+Silvère had time to stretch out his arms. She would laugh at her own
+strength and agility as, for a moment, with her hair in disorder, she
+remained almost breathless, tapping her skirt to make it fall. Her
+sweetheart laughingly called her an impudent urchin. In reality he much
+admired her pluck. He watched her jump over the wall with the
+complacency of an older brother supervising the exercises of a younger
+one. Indeed, there was yet much that was childlike in their growing
+love. On several occasions they spoke of going on some bird’s-nesting
+expedition on the banks of the Viorne.
+
+“You’ll see how I can climb,” said Miette proudly. “When I lived at
+Chavanoz, I used to go right up to the top of old Andre’s walnut-trees.
+Have you ever taken a magpie’s nest? It’s very difficult!”
+
+Then a discussion arose as to how one ought to climb a poplar. Miette
+stated her opinions, with all a boy’s confidence.
+
+However, Silvère, clasping her round the knees, had by this time lifted
+her to the ground, and then they would walk on, side by side, their
+arms encircling each other’s waist. Though they were but children, fond
+of frolicsome play and chatter, and knew not even how to speak of love,
+yet they already partook of love’s delight. It sufficed them to press
+each other’s hands. Ignorant whither their feelings and their hearts
+were drifting, they did not seek to hide the blissful thrills which the
+slightest touch awoke. Smiling, often wondering at the delight they
+experienced, they yielded unconsciously to the sweetness of new
+feelings even while talking, like a couple of schoolboys, of the
+magpies’ nests which are so difficult to reach.
+
+And as they talked they went down the silent path, between the piles of
+planks and the wall of the Jas-Meiffren. They never went beyond the end
+of that narrow blind alley, but invariably retraced their steps. They
+were quite at home there. Miette, happy in the knowledge of their safe
+concealment, would often pause and congratulate herself on her
+discovery.
+
+“Wasn’t I lucky!” she would gleefully exclaim. “We might walk a long
+way without finding such a good hiding-place.”
+
+The thick grass muffled the noise of their footsteps. They were steeped
+in gloom, shut in between two black walls, and only a strip of dark
+sky, spangled with stars, was visible above their heads. And as they
+stepped along, pacing this path which resembled a dark stream flowing
+beneath the black star-sprent sky, they were often thrilled with
+undefinable emotion, and lowered their voices, although there was
+nobody to hear them. Surrendering themselves as it were to the silent
+waves of night, over which they seemed to drift, they recounted to one
+another, with lovers’ rapture, the thousand trifles of the day.
+
+At other times, on bright nights, when the moonlight clearly outlined
+the wall and the timber-stacks, Miette and Silvère would romp about
+with all the carelessness of children. The path stretched out, alight
+with white rays, and retaining no suggestion of secrecy, and the young
+people laughed and chased each other like boys at play, at times
+venturing even to climb upon the piles of timber. Silvère was
+occasionally obliged to frighten Miette by telling her that Justin
+might be watching her from over the wall. Then, quite out of breath,
+they would stroll side by side, and plan how they might some day go for
+a scamper in the Sainte-Claire meadows, to see which of the two would
+catch the other.
+
+Their growing love thus accommodated itself to dark and clear nights.
+Their hearts were ever on the alert, and a little shade sufficed to
+sweeten the pleasure of their embrace, and soften their laughter. This
+dearly-loved retreat—so gay in the moonshine, so strangely thrilling in
+the gloom—seemed an inexhaustible source of both gaiety and silent
+emotion. They would remain there until midnight, while the town dropped
+off to sleep and the lights in the windows of the Faubourg went out one
+by one.
+
+They were never disturbed in their solitude. At that late hour children
+were no longer playing at hide-and-seek behind the piles of planks.
+Occasionally, when the young couple heard sounds in the distance—the
+singing of some workmen as they passed along the road, or conversation
+coming from the neighbouring sidewalks—they would cast stealthy glances
+over the Aire Saint-Mittre. The timber-yard stretched out, empty of
+all, save here and there some falling shadows. On warm evenings they
+sometimes caught glimpses of loving couples there, and of old men
+sitting on the big beams by the roadside. When the evenings grew
+colder, all that they ever saw on the melancholy, deserted spot was
+some gipsy fire, before which, perhaps, a few black shadows passed to
+and fro. Through the still night air words and sundry faint sounds were
+wafted to them, the “good-night” of a townsman shutting his door, the
+closing of a window-shutter, the deep striking of a clock, all the
+parting sounds of a provincial town retiring to rest. And when Plassans
+was slumbering, they might still hear the quarrelling of the gipsies
+and the crackling of their fires, amidst which suddenly rose the
+guttural voices of girls singing in a strange tongue, full of rugged
+accents.
+
+But the lovers did not concern themselves much with what went on in the
+Aire Saint-Mittre; they hastened back into their own little privacy,
+and again walked along their favourite retired path. Little did they
+care for others, or for the town itself! The few planks which separated
+them from the wicked world seemed to them, after a while, an
+insurmountable rampart. They were so secluded, so free in this nook,
+situated though it was in the very midst of the Faubourg, at only fifty
+paces from the Rome Gate, that they sometimes fancied themselves far
+away in some hollow of the Viorne, with the open country around them.
+Of all the sounds which reached them, only one made them feel uneasy,
+that of the clocks striking slowly in the darkness. At times, when the
+hour sounded, they pretended not to hear, at other moments they stopped
+short as if to protest. However, they could not go on for ever taking
+just another ten minutes, and so the time came when they were at last
+obliged to say good-night. Then Miette reluctantly climbed upon the
+wall again. But all was not ended yet, they would linger over their
+leave-taking for a good quarter of an hour. When the girl had climbed
+upon the wall, she remained there with her elbows on the coping, and
+her feet supported by the branches of the mulberry-tree, which served
+her as a ladder. Silvère, perched on the tombstone, was able to take
+her hands again, and renew their whispered conversation. They repeated
+“till to-morrow!” a dozen times, and still and ever found something
+more to say. At last Silvère began to scold.
+
+“Come, you must get down, it is past midnight.”
+
+But Miette, with a girl’s waywardness, wished him to descend first; she
+wanted to see him go away. And as he persisted in remaining, she ended
+by saying abruptly, by way of punishment, perhaps: “Look! I am going to
+jump down.”
+
+Then she sprang from the mulberry-tree, to the great consternation of
+Silvère. He heard the dull thud of her fall, and the burst of laughter
+with which she ran off, without choosing to reply to his last adieu.
+For some minutes he would remain watching her vague figure as it
+disappeared in the darkness, then, slowly descending, he regained the
+Impasse Saint-Mittre.
+
+During two years they came to the path every day. At the time of their
+first meetings they enjoyed some beautiful warm nights. They might
+almost have fancied themselves in the month of May, the month of
+seething sap, when a pleasant odour of earth and fresh leaves pervades
+the warm air. This _renouveau_, this second spring, was like a gift
+from heaven which allowed them to run freely about the path and tighten
+their bonds of affection.
+
+At last came rain, and snow, and frost. But the disagreeableness of
+winter did not keep them away. Miette put on her long brown pelisse,
+and they both made light of the bad weather. When the nights were dry
+and clear, and puffs of wind raised the hoar frost beneath their
+footsteps and fell on their faces like taps from a switch, they
+refrained from sitting down. They walked quickly to and fro, wrapped in
+the pelisse, their cheeks blue with cold, and their eyes watering; and
+they laughed heartily, quite quivering with mirth, at the rapidity of
+their march through the freezing atmosphere. One snowy evening they
+amused themselves with making an enormous snowball, which they rolled
+into a corner. It remained there fully a month, which caused them fresh
+astonishment each time they met in the path. Nor did the rain frighten
+them. They came to see each other through the heaviest downpours,
+though they got wet to the skin in doing so. Silvère would hasten to
+the spot, saying to himself that Miette would never be mad enough to
+come; and when Miette arrived, he could not find it in his heart to
+scold her. In reality he had been expecting her. At last he sought some
+shelter against the inclement weather, knowing quite well that they
+would certainly come out, however much they might promise one another
+not to do so when it rained. To find a shelter he only had to disturb
+one of the timber-stacks; pulling out several pieces of wood and
+arranging them so that they would move easily, in such wise that he
+could displace and replace them at pleasure.
+
+From that time forward the lovers possessed a sort of low and narrow
+sentry-box, a square hole, which was only big enough to hold them
+closely squeezed together on a beam which they had left at the bottom
+of the little cell. Whenever it rained, the first to arrive would take
+shelter here; and on finding themselves together again they would
+listen with delight to the rain beating on the piles of planks. Before
+and around them, through the inky blackness of the night, came a rush
+of water which they could not see, but which resounded continuously
+like the roar of a mob. They were nevertheless quite alone, as though
+they had been at the end of the world or beneath the sea. They never
+felt so happy, so isolated, as when they found themselves in that
+timber-stack, in the midst of some such deluge which threatened to
+carry them away at every moment. Their bent knees almost reached the
+opening, and though they thrust themselves back as far as possible, the
+spray of the rain bathed their cheeks and hands. The big drops, falling
+from the planks, splashed at regular intervals at their feet. The brown
+pelisse kept them warm, and the nook was so small that Miette was
+compelled to sit almost on Silvère’s knees. And they would chatter and
+then lapse into silence, overcome with languor, lulled by the warmth of
+their embrace and the monotonous beating of the shower. For hours and
+hours they remained there, with that same enjoyment of the rain which
+prompts little children to stroll along solemnly in stormy weather with
+open umbrellas in their hands. After a while they came to prefer the
+rainy evenings, though their parting became more painful on those
+occasions. Miette was obliged to climb the wall in the driving rain,
+and cross the puddles of the Jas-Meiffren in perfect darkness. As soon
+as she had left his arms, she was lost to Silvère amidst the gloom and
+the noise of the falling water. In vain he listened, he was deafened,
+blinded. However, the anxiety caused by this brusque separation proved
+an additional charm, and, until the morrow, each would be uneasy lest
+anything should have befallen the other in such weather, when one would
+not even have turned a dog out of doors. Perchance one of them had
+slipped, or lost the way; such were the mutual fears which possessed
+them, and rendered their next interview yet more loving.
+
+At last the fine days returned, April brought mild nights, and the
+grass in the green alley sprouted up wildly. Amidst the stream of life
+flowing from heaven and rising from the earth, amidst all the
+intoxication of the budding spring-time, the lovers sometimes regretted
+their winter solitude, the rainy evenings and the freezing nights,
+during which they had been so isolated so far from all human sounds. At
+present the days did not draw to a close soon enough, and they grew
+impatient with the lagging twilights. When the night had fallen
+sufficiently for Miette to climb upon the wall without danger of being
+seen, and they could at last glide along their dear path, they no
+longer found there the solitude congenial to their shy, childish love.
+People began to flock to the Aire Saint-Mittre, the urchins of the
+Faubourg remained there, romping about the beams, and shouting, till
+eleven o’clock at night. It even happened occasionally that one of them
+would go and hide behind the piles of timber, and assail Miette and
+Silvère with boyish jeers. The fear of being surprised amidst that
+general awakening of life as the season gradually grew warmer, tinged
+their meetings with anxiety.
+
+Then, too, they began to stifle in the narrow lane. Never had it
+throbbed with so ardent a quiver; never had that soil, in which the
+last bones left of the former cemetery lay mouldering, sent forth such
+oppressive and disturbing odours. They were still too young to relish
+the voluptuous charm of that secluded nook which the springtide filled
+with fever. The grass grew to their knees, they moved to and fro with
+difficulty, and certain plants, when they crushed their young shoots,
+sent forth a pungent odour which made them dizzy. Then, seized with
+strange drowsiness and staggering with giddiness, their feet as though
+entangled in the grass, they would lean against the wall, with
+half-closed eyes, unable to move a step. All the soft languor from the
+skies seemed to penetrate them.
+
+With the petulance of beginners, impatient and irritated at this sudden
+faintness, they began to think their retreat too confined, and decided
+to ramble through the open fields. Every evening came fresh frolics.
+Miette arrived with her pelisse; they wrapped themselves in it, and
+then, gliding past the walls, reached the high-road and the open
+country, the broad fields where the wind rolled with full strength,
+like the waves at high tide. And here they no longer felt stifled; they
+recovered all their youthfulness, free from the giddy intoxication born
+of the tall rank weeds of the Aire Saint-Mittre.
+
+During two summers they rambled through the district. Every rock ledge,
+every bed of turf soon knew them; there was not a cluster of trees, a
+hedge, or a bush, which did not become their friend. They realized
+their dreams: they chased each other wildly over the meadows of
+Sainte-Claire, and Miette ran so well that Silvère had to put his best
+foot forward to catch her. Sometimes, too, they went in search of
+magpies’ nests. Headstrong Miette, wishing to show how she had climbed
+trees at Chavanoz, would tie up her skirts with a piece of string, and
+ascend the highest poplars; while Silvère stood trembling beneath, with
+his arms outstretched to catch her should she slip. These frolics so
+turned them from thoughts of love that one evening they almost fought
+like a couple of lads coming out of school. But there were nooks in the
+country side which were not healthful for them. So long as they rambled
+on they were continually shouting with laughter, pushing and teasing
+one another. They covered miles and miles of ground; sometimes they
+went as far as the chain of the Garrigues, following the narrowest
+paths and cutting across the fields. The region belonged to them; they
+lived there as in a conquered territory, enjoying all that the earth
+and the sky could give them. Miette, with a woman’s lack of scruple,
+did not hesitate to pluck a bunch of grapes, or a cluster of green
+almonds, from the vines and almond-trees whose boughs brushed her as
+she passed; and at this Silvère, with his absolute ideas of honesty,
+felt vexed, although he did not venture to find fault with the girl,
+whose occasional sulking distressed him. “Oh! the bad girl!” thought
+he, childishly exaggerating the matter, “she would make a thief of me.”
+But Miette would thereupon force his share of the stolen fruit into his
+mouth. The artifices he employed, such as holding her round the waist,
+avoiding the fruit trees, and making her run after him when they were
+near the vines, so as to keep her out of the way of temptation, quickly
+exhausted his imagination. At last there was nothing to do but to make
+her sit down. And then they again began to experience their former
+stifling sensations. The gloomy valley of the Viorne particularly
+disturbed them. When weariness brought them to the banks of the
+torrent, all their childish gaiety seemed to disappear. A grey shadow
+floated under the willows, like the scented crape of a woman’s dress.
+The children felt this crape descend warm and balmy from the voluptuous
+shoulders of the night, kiss their temples and envelop them with
+irresistible languor. In the distance the crickets chirped in the
+meadows of Sainte-Claire, and at their feet the ripples of the Viorne
+sounded like lovers’ whispers—like the soft cooing of humid lips. The
+stars cast a rain of sparkles from the slumbering heavens. And, amidst
+the throbbing of the sky, the waters and the darkness, the children
+reposing on the grass sought each other’s hands and pressed them.
+
+Silvère, who vaguely understood the danger of these ecstasies, would
+sometimes jump up and propose to cross over to one of the islets left
+by the low water in the middle of the stream. Both ventured forth, with
+bare feet. Miette made light of the pebbles, refusing Silvère’s help,
+and it once happened that she sat down in the very middle of the
+stream; however, there were only a few inches of water, and she escaped
+with nothing worse than a wet petticoat. Then, having reached the
+island, they threw themselves on the long neck of sand, their eyes on a
+level with the surface of the river whose silvery scales they saw
+quivering far away in the clear night. Then Miette would declare that
+they were in a boat, that the island was certainly floating; she could
+feel it carrying her along. The dizziness caused by the rippling of the
+water amused them for a moment, and they lingered there, singing in an
+undertone, like boatmen as they strike the water with their oars. At
+other times, when the island had a low bank, they sat there as on a bed
+of verdure, and let their bare feet dangle in the stream. And then for
+hours they chatted together, swinging their legs, and splashing the
+water, delighted to set a tempest raging in the peaceful pool whose
+freshness cooled their fever.
+
+These footbaths suggested a dangerous idea to Miette. Nothing would
+satisfy her but a complete bath. A little above the bridge over the
+Viorne there was a very convenient spot, she said, barely three or four
+feet deep and quite safe; the weather was so warm, it would be so nice
+to have the water up to their necks; besides which, she had been dying
+to learn to swim for such a long time, and Silvère would be able to
+teach her. Silvère raised objections; it was not prudent at night time;
+they might be seen; perhaps, too they might catch cold. However,
+nothing could turn Miette from her purpose. One evening she came with a
+bathing costume which she had made out of an old dress; and Silvère was
+then obliged to go back to aunt Dide’s for his bathing drawers. Their
+proceedings were characterised by great simplicity. Miette disrobed
+herself beneath the shade of a stout willow; and when both were ready,
+enveloped in the blackness which fell from the foliage around them,
+they gaily entered the cool water, oblivious of all previous scruples,
+and knowing in their innocence no sense of shame. They remained in the
+river quite an hour, splashing and throwing water into each other’s
+faces; Miette now getting cross, now breaking out into laughter, while
+Silvère gave her her first lesson, dipping her head under every now and
+again so as to accustom her to the water. As long as he held her up she
+threw her arms and legs about violently, thinking she was swimming; but
+directly he let her go, she cried and struggled, striking the water
+with her outstretched hands, clutching at anything she could get hold
+of, the young man’s waist or one of his wrists. She leant against him
+for an instant, resting, out of breath and dripping with water; and
+then she cried: “Once more; but you do it on purpose, you don’t hold
+me.”
+
+At the end of a fortnight, the girl was able to swim. With her limbs
+moving freely, rocked by the stream, playing with it, she yielded form
+and spirit alike to its soft motion, to the silence of the heavens, and
+the dreaminess of the melancholy banks. As she and Silvère swam
+noiselessly along, she seemed to see the foliage of both banks thicken
+and hang over them, draping them round as with a huge curtain. When the
+moon shone, its rays glided between the trunks of the trees, and
+phantoms seemed to flit along the river-side in white robes. Miette
+felt no nervousness, however, only an indefinable emotion as she
+followed the play of the shadows. As she went onward with slower
+motion, the calm water, which the moon converted into a bright mirror,
+rippled at her approach like a silver-broidered cloth; eddies widened
+and lost themselves amid the shadows of the banks, under the hanging
+willow branches, whence issued weird, plashing sounds. At every stroke
+she perceived recesses full of sound; dark cavities which she hastened
+to pass by; clusters and rows of trees, whose sombre masses were
+continually changing form, stretching forward and apparently following
+her from the summit of the bank. And when she threw herself on her
+back, the depths of the heavens affected her still more. From the
+fields, from the distant horizon, which she could no longer see, a
+solemn lingering strain, composed of all the sighs of the night, was
+wafted to her.
+
+She was not of a dreamy nature; it was physically, through the medium
+of each of her senses, that she derived enjoyment from the sky, the
+river, and the play of light and shadow. The river, in particular, bore
+her along with endless caresses. When she swam against the current she
+was delighted to feel the stream flow rapidly against her bosom and
+limbs. She dipped herself in it yet more deeply, with the water
+reaching to her lips, so that it might pass over her shoulders, and
+envelop her, from chin to feet, with flying kisses. Then she would
+float, languid and quiescent, on the surface, whilst the ripples glided
+softly between her costume and her skin. And she would also roll over
+in the still pools like a cat on a carpet; and swim from the luminous
+patches where the moonbeams were bathing, to the dark water shaded by
+the foliage, shivering the while, as though she had quitted a sunny
+plain and then felt the cold from the boughs falling on her neck.
+
+She now remained quite silent in the water, and would not allow Silvère
+to touch her. Gliding softly by his side, she swam on with the light
+rustling of a bird flying across the copse, or else she would circle
+round him, a prey to vague disquietude which she did not comprehend. He
+himself darted quickly away if he happened to brush against her. The
+river was now but a source of enervating intoxication, voluptuous
+languor, which disturbed them strangely. When they emerged from their
+bath they felt dizzy, weary, and drowsy. Fortunately, the girl declared
+one evening that she would bathe no more, as the cold water made the
+blood run to her head. And it was in all truth and innocence that she
+said this.
+
+Then their long conversations began anew. The dangers to which the
+innocence of their love had lately been exposed had left no other trace
+in Silvère’s mind than great admiration for Miette’s physical strength.
+She had learned to swim in a fortnight, and often, when they raced
+together, he had seen her stem the current with a stroke as rapid as
+his own. He, who delighted in strength and bodily exercises, felt a
+thrill of pleasure at seeing her so strong, so active and adroit. He
+entertained at heart a singular admiration for her stout arms. One
+evening, after one of the first baths that had left them so playful,
+they caught each other round the waist on a strip of sand, and wrestled
+for several minutes without Silvère being able to throw Miette. At
+last, indeed, it was the young man who lost his balance, while the girl
+remained standing. Her sweetheart treated her like a boy, and it was
+those long rambles of theirs, those wild races across the meadows,
+those birds’ nests filched from the tree crests, those struggles and
+violent games of one and another kind that so long shielded them and
+their love from all impurity.
+
+Then, too, apart from his youthful admiration for his sweetheart’s
+dashing pluck, Silvère felt for her all the compassionate tenderness of
+a heart that ever softened towards the unfortunate. He, who could never
+see any forsaken creature, a poor man, or a child, walking barefooted
+along the dusty roads, without a throb of pity, loved Miette because
+nobody else loved her, because she virtually led an outcast’s hard
+life. When he saw her smile he was deeply moved by the joy he brought
+her. Moreover, the child was a wildling, like himself, and they were of
+the same mind in hating all the gossips of the Faubourg. The dreams in
+which Silvère indulged in the daytime, while he plied his heavy hammer
+round the cartwheels in his master’s shop, were full of generous
+enthusiasm. He fancied himself Miette’s redeemer. All his reading
+rushed to his head; he meant to marry his sweetheart some day, in order
+to raise her in the eyes of the world. It was like a holy mission that
+he imposed upon himself, that of redeeming and saving the convict’s
+daughter. And his head was so full of certain theories and arguments,
+that he did not tell himself these things in simple fashion, but became
+lost in perfect social mysticism; imagining rehabilitation in the form
+of an apotheosis in which he pictured Miette seated on a throne, at the
+end of the Cours Sauvaire, while the whole town prostrated itself
+before her, entreating her pardon and singing her praises. Happily he
+forgot all these fine things as soon as Miette jumped over the wall,
+and said to him on the high road: “Let us have a race! I’m sure you
+won’t catch me.”
+
+However, if the young man dreamt like this of the glorification of his
+sweetheart, he also showed such passion for justice that he often made
+her weep on speaking to her about her father. In spite of the softening
+effect which Silvère’s friendship had had upon her, she still at times
+gave way to angry outbreaks of temper, when all the stubbornness and
+rebellion latent in her nature stiffened her with scowling eyes and
+tightly-drawn lips. She would then contend that her father had done
+quite right to kill the gendarme, that the earth belongs to everybody,
+and that one has the right to fire a gun when and where one likes.
+Thereupon Silvère, in a grave voice, explained the law to her as he
+understood it, with strange commentaries which would have startled the
+whole magistracy of Plassans. These discussions took place most often
+in some remote corner of the Sainte-Claire meadows. The grassy carpet
+of a dusky green hue stretched further than they could see, undotted
+even by a single tree, and the sky seemed colossal, spangling the bare
+horizon with the stars. It seemed to the young couple as if they were
+being rocked on a sea of verdure. Miette argued the point obstinately;
+she asked Silvère if her father should have let the gendarme kill him,
+and Silvère, after a momentary silence, replied that, in such a case,
+it was better to be the victim than the murderer, and that it was a
+great misfortune for anyone to kill a fellow man, even in legitimate
+defence. The law was something holy to him, and the judges had done
+right in sending Chantegreil to the galleys. At this the girl grew
+angry, and almost struck her sweetheart, crying out that he was as
+heartless as the rest. And as he still firmly defended his ideas of
+justice, she finished by bursting into sobs, and stammering that he was
+doubtless ashamed of her, since he was always reminding her of her
+father’s crime. These discussions ended in tears, in mutual emotion.
+But although the child cried, and acknowledged that she was perhaps
+wrong, she still retained deep within her a wild resentful temper. She
+once related, with hearty laughter, that she had seen a gendarme fall
+off his horse and break his leg. Apart from this, Miette only lived for
+Silvère. When he asked her about her uncle and cousin, she replied that
+“She did not know;” and if he pressed her, fearing that they were
+making her too unhappy at the Jas-Meiffren, she simply answered that
+she worked hard, and that nothing had changed. She believed, however,
+that Justin had at last found out what made her sing in the morning,
+and filled her eyes with delight. But she added: “What does it matter?
+If ever he comes to disturb us we’ll receive him in such a way that he
+won’t be in a hurry to meddle with our affairs any more.”
+
+Now and again the open country, their long rambles in the fresh air,
+wearied them somewhat. They then invariably returned to the Aire
+Saint-Mittre, to the narrow lane, whence they had been driven by the
+noisy summer evenings, the pungent scent of the trodden grass, all the
+warm oppressive emanations. On certain nights, however, the path proved
+cooler, and the winds freshened it so that they could remain there
+without feeling faint. They then enjoyed a feeling of delightful
+repose. Seated on the tombstone, deaf to the noise of the children and
+gipsies, they felt at home again. Silvère had on various occasions
+picked up fragments of bones, even pieces of skulls, and they were fond
+of speaking of the ancient burial-ground. It seemed to them, in their
+lively fancies, that their love had shot up like some vigorous plant in
+this nook of soil which dead men’s bones had fertilised. It had grown,
+indeed, like those wild weeds, it had blossomed as blossom the poppies
+which sway like bare bleeding hearts at the slightest breeze. And they
+ended by fancying that the warm breaths passing over them, the
+whisperings heard in the gloom, the long quivering which thrilled the
+path, came from the dead folk sighing their departed passions in their
+faces, telling them the stories of their bridals, as they turned
+restlessly in their graves, full of a fierce longing to live and love
+again. Those fragments of bone, they felt convinced of it, were full of
+affection for them; the shattered skulls grew warm again by contact
+with their own youthful fire, the smallest particles surrounded them
+with passionate whispering, anxious solicitude, throbbing jealousy. And
+when they departed, the old burial-ground seemed to groan. Those weeds,
+in which their entangled feet often stumbled on sultry nights, were
+fingers, tapered by tomb life, that sprang up from the earth to detain
+them and cast them into each other’s arms. That pungent and penetrating
+odour exhaled by the broken stems was the fertilising perfume, the
+mighty quintessence of life which is slowly elaborated in the grave,
+and intoxicates the lovers who wander in the solitude of the paths. The
+dead, the old departed dead, longed for the bridal of Miette and
+Silvère.
+
+They were never afraid. The sympathy which seemed to hover around them
+thrilled them and made them love the invisible beings whose soft touch
+they often imagined they could feel, like a gentle flapping of wings.
+Sometimes they were saddened by sweet melancholy, and could not
+understand what the dead desired of them. They went on basking in their
+innocent love, amidst this flood of sap, this abandoned cemetery, whose
+rich soil teemed with life, and imperiously demanded their union. They
+still remained ignorant of the meaning of the buzzing voices which they
+heard ringing in their ears, the sudden glow which sent the blood
+flying to their faces.
+
+They often questioned each other about the remains which they
+discovered. Miette, after a woman’s fashion, was partial to lugubrious
+subjects. At each new discovery she launched into endless suppositions.
+If the bone were small, she spoke of some beautiful girl a prey to
+consumption, or carried off by fever on the eve of her marriage; if the
+bone were large, she pictured some big old man, a soldier or a judge,
+some one who had inspired others with terror. For a long time the
+tombstone particularly engaged their attention. One fine moonlight
+night Miette distinguished some half-obliterated letters on one side of
+it, and thereupon she made Silvère scrape the moss away with his knife.
+Then they read the mutilated inscription: “Here lieth . . . Marie . . .
+died . . .” And Miette, finding her own name on the stone, was quite
+terror-stricken. Silvère called her a “big baby,” but she could not
+restrain her tears. She had received a stab in the heart, she said; she
+would soon die, and that stone was meant for her. The young man himself
+felt alarmed. However, he succeeded in shaming the child out of these
+thoughts. What! she so courageous, to dream about such trifles! They
+ended by laughing. Then they avoided speaking of it again. But in
+melancholy moments, when the cloudy sky saddened the pathway, Miette
+could not help thinking of that dead one, that unknown Marie, whose
+tomb had so long facilitated their meetings. The poor girl’s bones were
+perhaps still lying there. And at this thought Miette one evening had a
+strange whim, and asked Silvère to turn the stone over to see what
+might be under it. He refused, as though it were sacrilege, and his
+refusal strengthened Miette’s fancies with regard to the dear phantom
+which bore her name. She positively insisted that the girl had died
+young, as she was, and in the very midst of her love. She even began to
+pity the stone, that stone which she climbed so nimbly, and on which
+they had sat so often, a stone which death had chilled, and which their
+love had warmed again.
+
+“You’ll see, this tombstone will bring us misfortune,” she added. “If
+you were to die, I should come and lie here, and then I should like to
+have this stone set over my body.”
+
+At this, Silvère, choking with emotion, scolded her for thinking of
+such mournful things.
+
+And so, for nearly two years, their love grew alike in the narrow
+pathway and the open country. Their idyll passed through the chilling
+rains of December and the burning solicitations of July, free from all
+touch of impurity, ever retaining the sweet charm of some old Greek
+love-tale, all the naive hesitancy of youth which desires but knows
+not. In vain did the long-departed dead whisper in their ears. They
+carried nothing away from the old cemetery but emotional melancholy and
+a vague presentiment of a short life. A voice seemed to whisper to them
+that they would depart amidst their virginal love, long ere the bridal
+day would give them wholly to each other. It was there, on the
+tombstone and among the bones that lay hidden beneath the rank grass,
+that they had first come to indulge in that longing for death, that
+eager desire to sleep together in the earth, that now set them
+stammering and sighing beside the Orcheres road, on that December
+night, while the two bells repeated their mournful warnings to one
+another.
+
+Miette was sleeping calmly, with her head resting on Silvère’s chest
+while he mused upon their past meeting, their lovely years of unbroken
+happiness. At daybreak the girl awoke. The valley now spread out
+clearly under the bright sky. The sun was still behind the hills, but a
+stream of crystal light, limpid and cold as spring-water, flowed from
+the pale horizon. In the distance, the Viorne, like a white satin
+ribbon, disappeared among an expanse of red and yellow land. It was a
+boundless vista, with grey seas of olive-trees, and vineyards that
+looked like huge pieces of striped cloth. The whole country was
+magnified by the clearness of the atmosphere and the peaceful cold.
+However, sharp gusts of wind chilled the young people’s faces. And
+thereupon they sprang to their feet, cheered by the sight of the clear
+morning. Their melancholy forebodings had vanished with the darkness,
+and they gazed with delight at the immense expanse of the plain, and
+listened to the tolling of the two bells that now seemed to be joyfully
+ringing in a holiday.
+
+“Ah! I’ve had a good sleep!” Miette cried. “I dreamt you were kissing
+me. Tell me now, did you kiss me?”
+
+“It’s very possible,” Silvère replied laughing. “I was not very warm.
+It is bitterly cold.”
+
+“I only feel cold in the feet,” Miette rejoined.
+
+“Well! let us have a run,” said Silvère. “We have still two good
+leagues to go. You will get warm.”
+
+Thereupon they descended the hill and ran until they reached the high
+road. When they were below they raised their heads as if to say
+farewell to that rock on which they had wept while their kisses burned
+their lips. But they did not again speak of that ardent embrace which
+had thrilled them so strongly with vague, unknown desire. Under the
+pretext of walking more quickly they did not even take each other’s
+arm. They experienced some slight confusion when they looked at one
+another, though why they could not tell. Meantime the dawn was rising
+around them. The young man, who had sometimes been sent to Orcheres by
+his master, knew all the shortest cuts. Thus they walked on for more
+than two leagues, along dingle paths by the side of interminable ledges
+and walls. Now and again Miette accused Silvère of having taken her the
+wrong way; for, at times—for a quarter of an hour at a stretch—they
+lost all sight of the surrounding country, seeing above the walls and
+hedges nothing but long rows of almond-trees whose slender branches
+showed sharply against the pale sky.
+
+All at once, however, they came out just in front of Orcheres. Loud
+cries of joy, the shouting of a crowd, sounded clearly in the limpid
+air. The insurrectionary forces were only now entering the town. Miette
+and Silvère went in with the stragglers. Never had they seen such
+enthusiasm. To judge from the streets, one would have thought it was a
+procession day, when the windows are decked with the finest drapery to
+honour the passage of the Canopy. The townsfolk welcomed the insurgents
+as though they were deliverers. The men embraced them, while the women
+brought them food. Old men were to be seen weeping at the doors. And
+the joyousness was of an essentially Southern character, pouring forth
+in clamorous fashion, in singing, dancing, and gesticulation. As Miette
+passed along she was carried away by a _farandole_[*] which spread
+whirling all round the Grand’ Place. Silvère followed her. His thoughts
+of death and his discouragement were now far away. He wanted to fight,
+to sell his life dearly at least. The idea of a struggle intoxicated
+him afresh. He dreamed of victory to be followed by a happy life with
+Miette, amidst the peacefulness of the universal Republic.
+
+[*] The _farandole_ is the popular dance of Provence.
+
+
+The fraternal reception accorded them by the inhabitants of Orcheres
+proved to be the insurgents’ last delight. They spent the day amidst
+radiant confidence and boundless hope. The prisoners, Commander
+Sicardot, Messieurs Garconnet, Peirotte and the others, who had been
+shut up in one of the rooms at the mayor’s, the windows of which
+overlooked the Grand’ Place, watched the _farandoles_ and wild
+outbursts of enthusiasm with surprise and dismay.
+
+“The villains!” muttered the Commander, leaning upon a window-bar, as
+though bending over the velvet-covered hand-rest of a box at a theatre:
+“To think that there isn’t a battery or two to make a clean sweep of
+all that rabble!”
+
+Then he perceived Miette, and addressing himself to Monsieur Garconnet,
+he added: “Do you see, sir, that big girl in red over yonder? How
+disgraceful! They’ve even brought their mistresses with them. If this
+continues much longer we shall see some fine goings-on.”
+
+Monsieur Garconnet shook his head, saying something about “unbridled
+passions,” and “the most evil days of history.” Monsieur Peirotte, as
+white as a sheet, remained silent; he only opened his lips once, to say
+to Sicardot, who was still bitterly railing: “Not so loud, sir; not so
+loud! You will get us all massacred.”
+
+As a matter of fact, the insurgents treated the gentlemen with the
+greatest kindness. They even provided them with an excellent dinner in
+the evening. Such attentions, however, were terrifying to such a quaker
+as the receiver of taxes; the insurgents he thought would not treat
+them so well unless they wished to make them fat and tender for the day
+when they might wish to devour them.
+
+At dusk that day Silvère came face to face with his cousin, Doctor
+Pascal. The latter had followed the band on foot, chatting with the
+workmen who held him in the greatest respect. At first he had striven
+to dissuade them from the struggle; and then, as if convinced by their
+arguments, he had said to them with his kindly smile: “Well, perhaps
+you are right, my friends; fight if you like, I shall be here to patch
+up your arms and legs.”
+
+Then, in the morning he began to gather pebbles and plants along the
+high road. He regretted that he had not brought his geologist’s hammer
+and botanical wallet with him. His pockets were now so full of stones
+that they were almost bursting, while bundles of long herbs peered
+forth from the surgeon’s case which he carried under his arm.
+
+“Hallo! You here, my lad?” he cried, as he perceived Silvère. “I
+thought I was the only member of the family here.”
+
+He spoke these last words with a touch of irony, as if deriding the
+intrigues of his father and his uncle Antoine. Silvère was very glad to
+meet his cousin; the doctor was the only one of the Rougons who ever
+shook hands with him in the street, and showed him any sincere
+friendship. Seeing him, therefore, still covered with dust from the
+march, the young man thought him gained over to the Republican cause,
+and was much delighted thereat. He talked to the doctor, with youthful
+magniloquence, of the people’s rights, their holy cause, and their
+certain triumph. Pascal smiled as he listened, and watched the youth’s
+gestures and the ardent play of his features with curiosity, as though
+he were studying a patient, or analysing an enthusiasm, to ascertain
+what might be at the bottom of it.
+
+“How you run on! How you run on!” he finally exclaimed. “Ah! you are
+your grandmother’s true grandson.” And, in a whisper, he added, like
+some chemist taking notes: “Hysteria or enthusiasm, shameful madness or
+sublime madness. It’s always those terrible nerves!” Then, again
+speaking aloud, as if summing up the matter, he said: “The family is
+complete now. It will count a hero among its members.”
+
+Silvère did not hear him. He was still talking of his dear Republic.
+Miette had dropped a few paces off; she was still wrapped in her large
+red pelisse. She and Silvère had traversed the town arm-in-arm. The
+sight of this tall red girl at last puzzled Pascal, and again
+interrupting his cousin, he asked him: “Who is this child with you?”
+
+“She is my wife,” Silvère gravely answered.
+
+The doctor opened his eyes wide, for he did not understand. He was very
+shy with women; however, he raised his hat to Miette as he went away.
+
+The night proved an anxious one. Forebodings of misfortune swept over
+the insurgents. The enthusiasm and confidence of the previous evening
+seemed to die away in the darkness. In the morning there were gloomy
+faces; sad looks were exchanged, followed by discouraging silence.
+Terrifying rumours were now circulating. Bad news, which the leaders
+had managed to conceal the previous evening, had spread abroad, though
+nobody in particular was known to have spoken. It was the work of that
+invisible voice, which, with a word, throws a mob into a panic.
+According to some reports Paris was subdued, and the provinces had
+offered their hands and feet, eager to be bound. And it was added that
+a large party of troops, which had left Marseilles under the command of
+Colonel Masson and Monsieur de Bleriot, the prefect of the department,
+was advancing by forced marches to disperse the insurrectionary bands.
+This news came like a thunderbolt, at once awakening rage and despair.
+These men, who on the previous evening had been all aglow with
+patriotic fever, now shivered with cold, chilled to their hearts by the
+shameful submissiveness of prostrate France. They alone, then, had had
+the courage to do their duty! And now they were to be left to perish
+amidst the general panic, the death-like silence of the country; they
+had become mere rebels, who would be hunted down like wild beasts;
+they, who had dreamed of a great war, of a whole nation in revolt, and
+of the glorious conquest of the people’s rights! Miserably baffled and
+betrayed, this handful of men could but weep for their dead faith and
+their vanished dreams of justice. There were some who, while taunting
+France with her cowardice, flung away their arms, and sat down by the
+roadside, declaring that they would there await the bullets of the
+troops, and show how Republicans could die.
+
+Although these men had nothing now but death or exile before them,
+there were very few desertions from their ranks. A splendid feeling of
+solidarity kept them together. Their indignation turned chiefly against
+their leaders, who had really proved incapable. Irreparable mistakes
+had been committed; and now the insurgents, without order or
+discipline, barely protected by a few sentries, and under the command
+of irresolute men, found themselves at the mercy of the first soldiers
+that might arrive.
+
+They spent two more days at Orcheres, Tuesday and Wednesday, thus
+losing time and aggravating the situation. The general, the man with
+the sabre, whom Silvère had pointed out to Miette on the Plassans road,
+vacillated and hesitated under the terrible responsibility that weighed
+upon him. On Thursday he came to the conclusion that the position of
+Orcheres was a decidedly dangerous one; so towards one o’clock he gave
+orders to march, and led his little army to the heights of
+Sainte-Roure. That was, indeed, an impregnable position for any one who
+knew how to defend it. The houses of Sainte-Roure rise in tiers along a
+hill-side; behind the town all approach is shut off by enormous rocks,
+so that this kind of citadel can only be reached by the Nores plain,
+which spreads out at the foot of the plateau. An esplanade, converted
+into a public walk planted with magnificent elms, overlooks the plain.
+It was on this esplanade that the insurgents encamped. The hostages
+were imprisoned in the Hôtel de la Mule-Blanche, standing half-way
+along the promenade. The night passed away heavy and black. The
+insurgents spoke of treachery. As soon as it was morning, however, the
+man with the sabre, who had neglected to take the simplest precautions,
+reviewed the troops. The contingents were drawn up in line with their
+backs turned to the plain. They presented a wonderful medley of
+costume, some wearing brown jackets, others dark greatcoats, and others
+again blue blouses girded with red sashes. Moreover, their arms were an
+equally odd collection: there were newly sharpened scythes, large
+navvies’ spades, and fowling-pieces with burnished barrels glittering
+in the sunshine. And at the very moment when the improvised general was
+riding past the little army, a sentry, who had been forgotten in an
+olive-plantation, ran up gesticulating and shouting:
+
+“The soldiers! The soldiers!”
+
+There was indescribable emotion. At first, they thought it a false
+alarm. Forgetting all discipline, they rushed forward to the end of the
+esplanade in order to see the soldiers. The ranks were broken, and as
+the dark line of troops appeared, marching in perfect order with a long
+glitter of bayonets, on the other side of the greyish curtain of olive
+trees, there came a hasty and disorderly retreat, which sent a quiver
+of panic to the other end of the plateau. Nevertheless, the contingents
+of La Palud and Saint-Martin-de-Vaulx had again formed in line in the
+middle of the promenade, and stood there erect and fierce. A
+wood-cutter, who was a head taller than any of his companions, shouted,
+as he waved his red neckerchief: “To arms, Chavanoz, Graille, Poujols,
+Saint-Eutrope! To arms, Les Tulettes! To arms, Plassans!”
+
+Crowds streamed across the esplanade. The man with the sabre,
+surrounded by the folks from Faverolles, marched off with several of
+the country contingents—Vernoux, Corbière, Marsanne, and Pruinas—to
+outflank the enemy and then attack him. Other contingents, from
+Valqueyras, Nazere, Castel-le-Vieux, Les Roches-Noires, and Murdaran,
+dashed to the left, scattering themselves in skirmishing parties over
+the Nores plain.
+
+And meantime the men of the towns and villages that the wood-cutter had
+called to his aid mustered together under the elms, there forming a
+dark irregular mass, grouped without regard to any of the rules of
+strategy, simply placed there like a rock, as it were, to bar the way
+or die. The men of Plassans stood in the middle of this heroic
+battalion. Amid the grey hues of the blouses and jackets, and the
+bluish glitter of the weapons, the pelisse worn by Miette, who was
+holding the banner with both hands, looked like a large red splotch—a
+fresh and bleeding wound.
+
+All at once perfect silence fell. Monsieur Peirotte’s pale face
+appeared at a window of the Hôtel de la Mule-Blanche. And he began to
+speak, gesticulating with his hands.
+
+“Go in, close the shutters,” the insurgents furiously shouted; “you’ll
+get yourself killed.”
+
+Thereupon the shutters were quickly closed, and nothing was heard save
+the regular, rhythmical tramp of the soldiers who were drawing near.
+
+A minute, that seemed an age, went by. The troops had disappeared,
+hidden by an undulation of the ground; but over yonder, on the side of
+the Nores plain, the insurgents soon perceived the bayonets shooting
+up, one after another, like a field of steel-eared corn under the
+rising sun. At that moment Silvère, who was glowing with feverish
+agitation, fancied he could see the gendarme whose blood had stained
+his hands. He knew, from the accounts of his companions, that Rengade
+was not dead, that he had only lost an eye; and he clearly
+distinguished the unlucky man with his empty socket bleeding horribly.
+The keen recollection of this gendarme, to whom he had not given a
+thought since his departure from Plassans, proved unbearable. He was
+afraid that fear might get the better of him, and he tightened his hold
+on his carbine, while a mist gathered before his eyes. He felt a
+longing to discharge his gun and fire at the phantom of that one-eyed
+man so as to drive it away. Meantime the bayonets were still and ever
+slowly ascending.
+
+When the heads of the soldiers appeared on a level with the esplanade,
+Silvère instinctively turned to Miette. She stood there with flushed
+face, looking taller than ever amidst the folds of the red banner; she
+was indeed standing on tiptoes in order to see the troops, and nervous
+expectation made her nostrils quiver and her red lips part so as to
+show her white, eager, gleaming teeth. Silvère smiled at her. But he
+had scarcely turned his head when a fusillade burst out. The soldiers,
+who could only be seen from their shoulders upwards, had just fired
+their first volley. It seemed to Silvère as though a great gust of wind
+was passing over his head, while a shower of leaves, lopped off by the
+bullets, fell from the elms. A sharp sound, like the snapping of a dead
+branch, made him look to his right. Then, prone on the ground, he saw
+the big wood-cutter, he who was a head taller than the others. There
+was a little black hole in the middle of his forehead. And thereupon
+Silvère fired straight before him, without taking aim, reloaded and
+fired again like a madman or an unthinking wild beast, in haste only to
+kill. He could not even distinguish the soldiers now; smoke, resembling
+strips of grey muslin, was floating under the elms. The leaves still
+rained upon the insurgents, for the troops were firing too high. Every
+now and then, athwart the fierce crackling of the fusillade, the young
+man heard a sigh or a low rattle, and a rush was made among the band as
+if to make room for some poor wretch clutching hold of his neighbours
+as he fell. The firing lasted ten minutes.
+
+Then, between two volleys some one exclaimed in a voice of terror:
+“Every man for himself! _Sauve qui peut!_” This roused shouts and
+murmurs of rage, as if to say, “The cowards! Oh! the cowards!” sinister
+rumours were spreading—the general had fled; cavalry were sabring the
+skirmishers in the Nores plain. However, the irregular firing did not
+cease, every now and again sudden bursts of flame sped through the
+clouds of smoke. A gruff voice, the voice of terror, shouted yet
+louder: “Every man for himself! _Sauve qui peut!_” Some men took to
+flight, throwing down their weapons and leaping over the dead. The
+others closed their ranks. At last there were only some ten insurgents
+left. Two more took to flight, and of the remaining eight three were
+killed at one discharge.
+
+The two children had remained there mechanically without understanding
+anything. As the battalion diminished in numbers, Miette raised the
+banner still higher in the air; she held it in front of her with
+clenched fists as if it were a huge taper. It was completely riddled by
+bullets. When Silvère had no more cartridges left in his pocket, he
+ceased firing, and gazed at the carbine with an air of stupor. It was
+then that a shadow passed over his face, as though the flapping wings
+of some colossal bird had brushed against his forehead. And raising his
+eyes he saw the banner fall from Miette’s grasp. The child, her hands
+clasped to her breast, her head thrown back with an expression of
+excruciating suffering, was staggering to the ground. She did not utter
+a single cry, but sank at last upon the red banner.
+
+“Get up; come quickly,” Silvère said, in despair, as he held out his
+hand to her.
+
+But she lay upon the ground without uttering a word, her eyes wide
+open. Then he understood, and fell on his knees beside her.
+
+“You are wounded, eh? tell me? Where are you wounded?”
+
+She still spoke no word; she was stifling, and gazing at him out of her
+large eyes, while short quivers shook her frame. Then he pulled away
+her hands.
+
+“It’s there, isn’t it? it’s there.”
+
+And he tore open her bodice, and laid her bosom bare. He searched, but
+saw nothing. His eyes were brimming with tears. At last under the left
+breast he perceived a small pink hole; a single drop of blood stained
+the wound.
+
+“It’s nothing,” he whispered; “I’ll go and find Pascal, he’ll put you
+all right again. If you could only get up. Can’t you move?”
+
+The soldiers were not firing now; they had dashed to the left in
+pursuit of the contingents led away by the man with the sabre. And in
+the centre of the esplanade there only remained Silvère kneeling beside
+Miette’s body. With the stubbornness of despair, he had taken her in
+his arms. He wanted to set her on her feet, but such a quiver of pain
+came upon the girl that he laid her down again, and said to her
+entreatingly: “Speak to me, pray. Why don’t you say something to me?”
+
+She could not; she slowly, gently shook her hand, as if to say that it
+was not her fault. Her close-pressed lips were already contracting
+beneath the touch of death. With her unbound hair streaming around her,
+and her head resting amid the folds of the blood-red banner, all her
+life now centred in her eyes, those black eyes glittering in her white
+face. Silvère sobbed. The glance of those big sorrowful eyes filled him
+with distress. He read in them bitter, immense regret for life. Miette
+was telling him that she was going away all alone, and before their
+bridal day; that she was leaving him ere she had become his wife. She
+was telling him, too, that it was he who had willed that it should be
+so, that he should have loved her as other lovers love their
+sweethearts. In the hour of her agony, amidst that stern conflict
+between death and her vigorous nature, she bewailed her fate in going
+like that to the grave. Silvère, as he bent over her, understood how
+bitter was the pang. He recalled their caresses, how she had hung round
+his neck, and had yearned for his love, but he had not understood, and
+now she was departing from him for evermore. Bitterly grieved at the
+thought that throughout her eternal rest she would remember him solely
+as a companion and playfellow, he kissed her on the bosom while his hot
+tears fell upon her lips. Those passionate kisses brought a last gleam
+of joy to Miette’s eyes. They loved one another, and their idyll ended
+in death.
+
+But Silvère could not believe she was dying. “No, you will see, it will
+prove only a trifle,” he declared. “Don’t speak if it hurts you. Wait,
+I will raise your head and then warm you; your hands are quite frozen.”
+
+But the fusillade had begun afresh, this time on the left, in the olive
+plantations. A dull sound of galloping cavalry rose from the plain. At
+times there were loud cries, as of men being slaughtered. And thick
+clouds of smoke were wafted along and hung about the elms on the
+esplanade. Silvère for his part no longer heard or saw anything.
+Pascal, who came running down in the direction of the plain, saw him
+stretched upon the ground, and hastened towards him, thinking he was
+wounded. As soon as the young man saw him, he clutched hold of him and
+pointed to Miette.
+
+“Look,” he said, “she’s wounded, there, under the breast. Ah! how good
+of you to come! You will save her.”
+
+At that moment, however, a slight convulsion shook the dying girl. A
+pain-fraught shadow passed over her face, and as her contracted lips
+suddenly parted, a faint sigh escaped from them. Her eyes, still wide
+open, gazed fixedly at the young man.
+
+Then Pascal, who had stooped down, rose again, saying in a low voice:
+“She is dead.”
+
+Dead! Silvère reeled at the sound of the word. He had been kneeling
+forward, but now he sank back, as though thrown down by Miette’s last
+faint sigh.
+
+“Dead! Dead!” he repeated; “it is not true, she is looking at me. See
+how she is looking at me!”
+
+Then he caught the doctor by the coat, entreating him to remain there,
+assuring him that he was mistaken, that she was not dead, and that he
+could save her if he only would. Pascal resisted gently, saying, in his
+kindly voice: “I can do nothing for her, others are waiting for me. Let
+go, my poor child; she is quite dead.”
+
+At last Silvère released his hold and again fell back. Dead! Dead!
+Still that word, which rang like a knell in his dazed brain! When he
+was alone he crept up close to the corpse. Miette still seemed to be
+looking at him. He threw himself upon her, laid his head upon her
+bosom, and watered it with his tears. He was beside himself with grief.
+He pressed his lips wildly to her, and breathed out all his passion,
+all his soul, in one long kiss, as though in the hope that it might
+bring her to life again. But the girl was turning cold in spite of his
+caresses. He felt her lifeless and nerveless beneath his touch. Then he
+was seized with terror, and with haggard face and listless hanging arms
+he remained crouching in a state of stupor, and repeating: “She is
+dead, yet she is looking at me; she does not close her eyes, she sees
+me still.”
+
+This fancy was very sweet to him. He remained there perfectly still,
+exchanging a long look with Miette, in whose glance, deepened by death,
+he still seemed to read the girl’s lament for her sad fate.
+
+In the meantime, the cavalry were still sabring the fugitives over the
+Nores plain; the cries of the wounded and the galloping of the horses
+became more distant, softening like music wafted from afar through the
+clear air. Silvère was no longer conscious of the fighting. He did not
+even see his cousin, who mounted the slope again and crossed the
+promenade. Pascal, as he passed along, picked up Macquart’s carbine
+which Silvère had thrown down; he knew it, as he had seen it hanging
+over aunt Dide’s chimney-piece, and he thought he might as well save it
+from the hands of the victors. He had scarcely entered the Hôtel de la
+Mule-Blanche, whither a large number of the wounded had been taken,
+when a band of insurgents, chased by the soldiers like a herd of
+cattle, once more rushed into the esplanade. The man with the sabre had
+fled; it was the last contingents from the country who were being
+exterminated. There was a terrible massacre. In vain did Colonel Masson
+and the prefect, Monsieur de Bleriot, overcome by pity, order a
+retreat. The infuriated soldiers continued firing upon the mass, and
+pinning isolated fugitives to the walls with their bayonets. When they
+had no more enemies before them, they riddled the façade of the
+Mule-Blanche with bullets. The shutters flew into splinters; one window
+which had been left half-open was torn out, and there was a loud rattle
+of broken glass. Pitiful voices were crying out from within; “The
+prisoners! The prisoners!” But the troops did not hear; they continued
+firing. All at once Commander Sicardot, growing exasperated, appeared
+at the door, waved his arms, and endeavoured to speak. Monsieur
+Peirotte, the receiver of taxes, with his slim figure and scared face,
+stood by his side. However, another volley was fired, and Monsieur
+Peirotte fell face foremost, with a heavy thud, to the ground.
+
+Silvère and Miette were still looking at each other. Silvère had
+remained by the corpse, through all the fusillade and the howls of
+agony, without even turning his head. He was only conscious of the
+presence of some men around him, and, from a feeling of modesty, he
+drew the red banner over Miette’s breast. Then their eyes still
+continued to gaze at one another.
+
+The conflict, however, was at an end. The death of the receiver of
+taxes had satiated the soldiers. Some of these ran about, scouring
+every corner of the esplanade, to prevent the escape of a single
+insurgent. A gendarme who perceived Silvère under the trees, ran up to
+him, and seeing that it was a lad he had to deal with, called: “What
+are you doing there, youngster?”
+
+Silvère, whose eyes were still fixed on those of Miette, made no reply.
+
+“Ah! the bandit, his hands are black with powder,” the gendarme
+exclaimed, as he stooped down. “Come, get up, you scoundrel! You know
+what you’ve got to expect.”
+
+Then, as Silvère only smiled vaguely and did not move, the other looked
+more attentively, and saw that the corpse swathed in the banner was
+that of a girl.
+
+“A fine girl; what a pity!” he muttered. “Your mistress, eh? you
+rascal!”
+
+Then he made a violent grab at Silvère, and setting him on his feet led
+him away like a dog that is dragged by one leg. Silvère submitted in
+silence, as quietly as a child. He just turned round to give another
+glance at Miette. He felt distressed at thus leaving her alone under
+the trees. For the last time he looked at her from afar. She was still
+lying there in all her purity, wrapped in the red banner, her head
+slightly raised, and her big eyes turned upward towards heaven.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+
+It was about five o’clock in the morning when Rougon at last ventured
+to leave his mother’s house. The old woman had gone to sleep on a
+chair. He crept stealthily to the end of the Impasse Saint-Mittre.
+There was not a sound, not a shadow. He pushed on as far as the Porte
+de Rome. The gates stood wide open in the darkness that enveloped the
+slumbering town. Plassans was sleeping as sound as a top, quite
+unconscious, apparently, of the risk it was running in allowing the
+gates to remain unsecured. It seemed like a city of the dead. Rougon,
+taking courage, made his way into the Rue de Nice. He scanned from a
+distance the corners of each successive lane; and trembled at every
+door, fearing lest he should see a band of insurgents rush out upon
+him. However, he reached the Cours Sauvaire without any mishap. The
+insurgents seemed to have vanished in the darkness like a nightmare.
+
+Pierre then paused for a moment on the deserted pavement, heaving a
+deep sigh of relief and triumph. So those rascals had really abandoned
+Plassans to him. The town belonged to him now; it slept like the
+foolish thing it was; there it lay, dark and tranquil, silent and
+confident, and he had only to stretch out his hand to take possession
+of it. That brief halt, the supercilious glance which he cast over the
+drowsy place, thrilled him with unspeakable delight. He remained there,
+alone in the darkness, and crossed his arms, in the attitude of a great
+general on the eve of a victory. He could hear nothing in the distance
+but the murmur of the fountains of the Cours Sauvaire, whose jets of
+water fell into the basins with a musical plashing.
+
+Then he began to feel a little uneasy. What if the Empire should
+unhappily have been established without his aid? What if Sicardot,
+Garconnet, and Peirotte, instead of being arrested and led away by the
+insurrectionary band, had shut the rebels up in prison? A cold
+perspiration broke out over him, and he went on his way again, hoping
+that Félicité would give him some accurate information. He now pushed
+on more rapidly, and was skirting the houses of the Rue de la Banne,
+when a strange spectacle, which caught his eyes as he raised his head,
+riveted him to the ground. One of the windows of the yellow
+drawing-room was brilliantly illuminated, and, in the glare, he saw a
+dark form, which he recognized as that of his wife, bending forward,
+and shaking its arms in a violent manner. He asked himself what this
+could mean, but, unable to think of any explanation, was beginning to
+feel seriously alarmed, when some hard object bounded over the pavement
+at his feet. Félicité had thrown him the key of the cart-house, where
+he had concealed a supply of muskets. This key clearly signified that
+he must take up arms. So he turned away again, unable to comprehend why
+his wife had prevented him from going upstairs, and imagining the most
+horrible things.
+
+He now went straight to Roudier, whom he found dressed and ready to
+march, but completely ignorant of the events of the night. Roudier
+lived at the far end of the new town, as in a desert, whither no
+tidings of the insurgents’ movements had penetrated. Pierre, however,
+proposed to him that they should go to Granoux, whose house stood on
+one of the corners of the Place des Récollets, and under whose windows
+the insurgent contingents must have passed. The municipal councillor’s
+servant remained for a long time parleying before consenting to admit
+them, and they heard poor Granoux calling from the first floor in a
+trembling voice:
+
+“Don’t open the door, Catherine! The streets are full of bandits.”
+
+He was in his bedroom, in the dark. When he recognised his two faithful
+friends he felt relieved; but he would not let the maid bring a lamp,
+fearing lest the light might attract a bullet. He seemed to think that
+the town was still full of insurgents. Lying back on an arm-chair near
+the window, in his pants, and with a silk handkerchief round his head,
+he moaned: “Ah! my friends, if you only knew!—I tried to go to bed, but
+they were making such a disturbance! At last I lay down in my arm-chair
+here. I’ve seen it all, everything. Such awful-looking men; a band of
+escaped convicts! Then they passed by again, dragging brave Commander
+Sicardot, worthy Monsieur Garconnet, the postmaster, and others away
+with them, and howling the while like cannibals!”
+
+Rougon felt a thrill of joy. He made Granoux repeat to him how he had
+seen the mayor and the others surrounded by the “brigands.”
+
+“I saw it all!” the poor man wailed. “I was standing behind the blind.
+They had just seized Monsieur Peirotte, and I heard him saying as he
+passed under my window: ‘Gentlemen, don’t hurt me!’ They were certainly
+maltreating him. It’s abominable, abominable.”
+
+However, Roudier calmed Granoux by assuring him that the town was free.
+And the worthy gentleman began to feel quite a glow of martial ardour
+when Pierre informed him that he had come to recruit his services for
+the purpose of saving Plassans. These three saviours then took council
+together. They each resolved to go and rouse their friends, and appoint
+a meeting at the cart-shed, the secret arsenal of the reactionary
+party. Meantime Rougon constantly bethought himself of Félicité’s wild
+gestures, which seemed to betoken danger somewhere. Granoux, assuredly
+the most foolish of the three, was the first to suggest that there must
+be some Republicans left in the town. This proved a flash of light, and
+Rougon, with a feeling of conviction, reflected: “There must be
+something of Macquart’s doing under all this.”
+
+An hour or so later the friends met again in the cart-shed, which was
+situated in a very lonely spot. They had glided stealthily from door to
+door, knocking and ringing as quietly as possible, and picking up all
+the men they could. However, they had only succeeded in collecting some
+forty, who arrived one after the other, creeping along in the dark,
+with the pale and drowsy countenances of men who had been violently
+startled from their sleep. The cart-shed, let to a cooper, was littered
+with old hoops and broken casks, of which there were piles in every
+corner. The guns were stored in the middle, in three long boxes. A
+taper, stuck on a piece of wood, illumined the strange scene with a
+flickering glimmer. When Rougon had removed the covers of the three
+boxes, the spectacle became weirdly grotesque. Above the fire-arms,
+whose barrels shown with a bluish, phosphorescent glitter, were
+outstretched necks and heads that bent with a sort of secret fear,
+while the yellow light of the taper cast shadows of huge noses and
+locks of stiffened hair upon the walls.
+
+However, the reactionary forces counted their numbers, and the
+smallness of the total filled them with hesitation. They were only
+thirty-nine all told, and this adventure would mean certain death for
+them. A father of a family spoke of his children; others, without
+troubling themselves about excuses, turned towards the door. Then,
+however, two fresh conspirators arrived, who lived in the neighbourhood
+of the Town Hall, and knew for certain that there were not more than
+about twenty Republicans still at the mayor’s. The band thereupon
+deliberated afresh. Forty-one against twenty—these seemed practicable
+conditions. So the arms were distributed amid a little trembling. It
+was Rougon who took them from the boxes, and each man present, as he
+received his gun, the barrel of which on that December night was icy
+cold, felt a sudden chill freeze him to his bones. The shadows on the
+walls assumed the clumsy postures of bewildered conscripts stretching
+out their fingers. Pierre closed the boxes regretfully; he left there a
+hundred and nine guns which he would willingly have distributed;
+however, he now had to divide the cartridges. Of these, there were two
+large barrels full in the furthest corner of the cart-shed, sufficient
+to defend Plassans against an army. And as this corner was dark, one of
+the gentlemen brought the taper near, whereupon another conspirator—a
+burly pork-butcher, with immense fists—grew angry, declaring that it
+was most imprudent to bring a light so close. They strongly approved
+his words, so the cartridges were distributed in the dark. They
+completely filled their pockets with them. Then, after they had loaded
+their guns, with endless precautions, they lingered there for another
+moment, looking at each other with suspicious eyes, or exchanging
+glances in which cowardly ferocity was mingled with an expression of
+stupidity.
+
+In the streets they kept close to the houses, marching silently and in
+single file, like savages on the war-path. Rougon had insisted upon
+having the honour of marching at their head; the time had come when he
+must needs run some risk, if he wanted to see his schemes successful.
+Drops of perspiration poured down his forehead in spite of the cold.
+Nevertheless he preserved a very martial bearing. Roudier and Granoux
+were immediately behind him. Upon two occasions the column came to an
+abrupt halt. They fancied they had heard some distant sound of
+fighting; but it was only the jingle of the little brass shaving-dishes
+hanging from chains, which are used as signs by the barbers of Southern
+France. These dishes were gently shaking to and fro in the breeze.
+After each halt, the saviours of Plassans continued their stealthy
+march in the dark, retaining the while the mien of terrified heroes. In
+this manner they reached the square in front of the Town Hall. There
+they formed a group round Rougon, and took counsel together once more.
+In the façade of the building in front of them only one window was
+lighted. It was now nearly seven o’clock and the dawn was approaching.
+
+After a good ten minutes’ discussion, it was decided to advance as far
+as the door, so as to ascertain what might be the meaning of this
+disquieting darkness and silence. The door proved to be half open. One
+of the conspirators thereupon popped his head in, but quickly withdrew
+it, announcing that there was a man under the porch, sitting against
+the wall fast asleep, with a gun between his legs. Rougon, seeing a
+chance of commencing with a deed of valour, thereupon entered first,
+and, seizing the man, held him down while Roudier gagged him. This
+first triumph, gained in silence, singularly emboldened the little
+troop, who had dreamed of a murderous fusillade. And Rougon had to make
+imperious signs to restrain his soldiers from indulging in
+over-boisterous delight.
+
+They continued their advance on tip-toes. Then, on the left, in the
+police guard-room, which was situated there, they perceived some
+fifteen men lying on camp-beds and snoring, amid the dim glimmer of a
+lantern hanging from the wall. Rougon, who was decidedly becoming a
+great general, left half of his men in front of the guard-room with
+orders not to rouse the sleepers, but to watch them and make them
+prisoners if they stirred. He was personally uneasy about the lighted
+window which they had seen from the square. He still scented Macquart’s
+hand in the business, and, as he felt that he would first have to make
+prisoners of those who were watching upstairs, he was not sorry to be
+able to adopt surprise tactics before the noise of a conflict should
+impel them to barricade themselves in the first-floor rooms. So he went
+up quietly, followed by the twenty heroes whom he still had at his
+disposal. Roudier commanded the detachment remaining in the courtyard.
+
+As Rougon had surmised, it was Macquart who was comfortably installed
+upstairs in the mayor’s office. He sat in the mayor’s arm-chair, with
+his elbows on the mayor’s writing-table. With the characteristic
+confidence of a man of coarse intellect, who is absorbed by a fixed
+idea and bent upon his own triumph, he had imagined after the departure
+of the insurgents that Plassans was now at his complete disposal, and
+that he would be able to act there like a conqueror. In his opinion
+that body of three thousand men who had just passed through the town
+was an invincible army, whose mere proximity would suffice to keep the
+bourgeois humble and docile in his hands. The insurgents had imprisoned
+the gendarmes in their barracks, the National Guard was already
+dismembered, the nobility must be quaking with terror, and the retired
+citizens of the new town had certainly never handled a gun in their
+lives. Moreover, there were no arms any more than there were soldiers.
+Thus Macquart did not even take the precaution to have the gates shut.
+His men carried their confidence still further by falling asleep, while
+he calmly awaited the dawn which he fancied would attract and rally all
+the Republicans of the district round him.
+
+He was already meditating important revolutionary measures; the
+nomination of a Commune of which he would be the chief, the
+imprisonment of all bad patriots, and particularly of all such persons
+as had incurred his displeasure. The thought of the baffled Rougons and
+their yellow drawing-room, of all that clique entreating him for mercy,
+thrilled him with exquisite pleasure. In order to while away the time
+he resolved to issue a proclamation to the inhabitants of Plassans.
+Four of his party set to work to draw up this proclamation, and when it
+was finished Macquart, assuming a dignified manner in the mayor’s
+arm-chair, had it read to him before sending it to the printing office
+of the “Indépendant,” on whose patriotism he reckoned. One of the
+writers was commencing, in an emphatic voice, “Inhabitants of Plassans,
+the hour of independence has struck, the reign of justice has begun——”
+when a noise was heard at the door of the office, which was slowly
+pushed open.
+
+“Is it you, Cassoute?” Macquart asked, interrupting the perusal.
+
+Nobody answered; but the door opened wider.
+
+“Come in, do!” he continued, impatiently. “Is my brigand of a brother
+at home?”
+
+Then, all at once both leaves of the door were violently thrown back
+and slammed against the walls, and a crowd of armed men, in the midst
+of whom marched Rougon, with his face very red and his eyes starting
+out of their sockets, swarmed into the office, brandishing their guns
+like cudgels.
+
+“Ah! the blackguards, they’re armed!” shouted Macquart.
+
+He was about to seize a pair of pistols which were lying on the
+writing-table, when five men caught hold of him by the throat and held
+him in check. The four authors of the proclamation struggled for an
+instant. There was a good deal of scuffling and stamping, and a noise
+of persons falling. The combatants were greatly hampered by their guns,
+which they would not lay aside, although they could not use them. In
+the struggle, Rougon’s weapon, which an insurgent had tried to wrest
+from him, went off of itself with a frightful report, and filled the
+room with smoke. The bullet shattered a magnificent mirror that reached
+from the mantelpiece to the ceiling, and was reputed to be one of the
+finest mirrors in the town. This shot, fired no one knew why, deafened
+everybody, and put an end to the battle.
+
+Then, while the gentlemen were panting and puffing, three other reports
+were heard in the courtyard. Granoux immediately rushed to one of the
+windows. And as he and the others anxiously leaned out, their faces
+lengthened perceptibly, for they were in nowise eager for a struggle
+with the men in the guard-room, whom they had forgotten amidst their
+triumph. However, Roudier cried out from below that all was right. And
+Granoux then shut the window again, beaming with joy. The fact of the
+matter was, that Rougon’s shot had aroused the sleepers, who had
+promptly surrendered, seeing that resistance was impossible. Then,
+however, three of Roudier’s men, in their blind haste to get the
+business over, had discharged their firearms in the air, as a sort of
+answer to the report from above, without knowing quite why they did so.
+It frequently happens that guns go off of their own accord when they
+are in the hands of cowards.
+
+And now, in the room upstairs, Rougon ordered Macquart’s hands to be
+bound with the bands of the large green curtains which hung at the
+windows. At this, Macquart, wild with rage, broke into scornful jeers.
+“All right; go on,” he muttered. “This evening or to-morrow, when the
+others return, we’ll settle accounts!”
+
+This allusion to the insurrectionary forces sent a shudder to the
+victors’ very marrow; Rougon for his part almost choked. His brother,
+who was exasperated at having been surprised like a child by these
+terrified bourgeois, who, old soldier that he was, he disdainfully
+looked upon as good-for-nothing civilians, defied him with a glance of
+the bitterest hatred.
+
+“Ah! I can tell some pretty stories about you, very pretty ones!” the
+rascal exclaimed, without removing his eyes from the retired oil
+merchant. “Just send me before the Assize Court, so that I may tell the
+judge a few tales that will make them laugh.”
+
+At this Rougon turned pale. He was terribly afraid lest Macquart should
+blab then and there, and ruin him in the esteem of the gentlemen who
+had just been assisting him to save Plassans. These gentlemen,
+astounded by the dramatic encounter between the two brothers, and,
+foreseeing some stormy passages, had retired to a corner of the room.
+Rougon, however, formed a heroic resolution. He advanced towards the
+group, and in a very proud tone exclaimed: “We will keep this man here.
+When he has reflected on his position he will be able to give us some
+useful information.” Then, in a still more dignified voice, he went on:
+“I will discharge my duty, gentlemen. I have sworn to save the town
+from anarchy, and I will save it, even should I have to be the
+executioner of my nearest relative.”
+
+One might have thought him some old Roman sacrificing his family on the
+altar of his country. Granoux, who felt deeply moved, came to press his
+hand with a tearful countenance, which seemed to say: “I understand
+you; you are sublime!” And then he did him the kindness to take
+everybody away, under the pretext of conducting the four other
+prisoners into the courtyard.
+
+When Pierre was alone with his brother, he felt all his self-possession
+return to him. “You hardly expected me, did you?” he resumed. “I
+understand things now; you have been laying plots against me. You
+wretched fellow; see what your vices and disorderly life have brought
+you to!”
+
+Macquart shrugged his shoulders. “Shut up,” he replied; “go to the
+devil. You’re an old rogue. He laughs best who laughs last.”
+
+Thereupon Rougon, who had formed no definite plan with regard to him,
+thrust him into a dressing-room whither Monsieur Garconnet retired to
+rest sometimes. This room lighted from above, had no other means of
+exit than the doorway by which one entered. It was furnished with a few
+arm-chairs, a sofa, and a marble wash-stand. Pierre double-locked the
+door, after partially unbinding his brother’s hands. Macquart was then
+heard to throw himself on the sofa, and start singing the “Ça Ira” in a
+loud voice, as though he were trying to sing himself to sleep.
+
+Rougon, who at last found himself alone, now in his turn sat down in
+the mayor’s arm-chair. He heaved a sigh as he wiped his brow. How hard,
+indeed, it was to win fortune and honours! However, he was nearing the
+end at last. He felt the soft seat of the arm-chair yield beneath him,
+while with a mechanical movement he caressed the mahogany writing-table
+with his hands, finding it apparently quite silky and delicate, like
+the skin of a beautiful woman. Then he spread himself out, and assumed
+the dignified attitude which Macquart had previously affected while
+listening to the proclamation. The silence of the room seemed fraught
+with religious solemnity, which inspired Rougon with exquisite delight.
+Everything, even the dust and the old documents lying in the corners,
+seemed to exhale an odour of incense, which rose to his dilated
+nostrils. This room, with its faded hangings redolent of petty
+transactions, all the trivial concerns of a third-rate municipality,
+became a temple of which he was the god.
+
+Nevertheless, amidst his rapture, he started nervously at every shout
+from Macquart. The words aristocrat and lamp-post, the threats of
+hanging that form the refrain of the famous revolutionary song, the “Ca
+Ira,” reached him in angry bursts, interrupting his triumphant dream in
+the most disagreeable manner. Always that man! And his dream, in which
+he saw Plassans at his feet, ended with a sudden vision of the Assize
+Court, of the judges, the jury, and the public listening to Macquart’s
+disgraceful revelations; the story of the fifty thousand francs, and
+many other unpleasant matters; or else, while enjoying the softness of
+Monsieur Garconnet’s arm-chair, he suddenly pictured himself suspended
+from a lamp-post in the Rue de la Banne. Who would rid him of that
+wretched fellow? At last Antoine fell asleep, and then Pierre enjoyed
+ten good minutes’ pure ecstasy.
+
+Roudier and Granoux came to rouse him from this state of beatitude.
+They had just returned from the prison, whither they had taken the
+insurgents. Daylight was coming on apace, the town would soon be awake,
+and it was necessary to take some decisive step. Roudier declared that,
+before anything else, it would be advisable to issue a proclamation to
+the inhabitants. Pierre was, at that moment, reading the one which the
+insurgents had left upon the table.
+
+“Why,” cried he, “this will suit us admirably! There are only a few
+words to be altered.”
+
+And, in fact, a quarter of an hour sufficed for the necessary changes,
+after which Granoux read out, in an earnest voice: “Inhabitants of
+Plassans—The hour of resistance has struck, the reign of order has
+returned——”
+
+It was decided that the proclamation should be printed at the office of
+the “Gazette,” and posted at all the street corners.
+
+“Now listen,” said Rougon; “we’ll go to my house; and in the meantime
+Monsieur Granoux will assemble here the members of the municipal
+council who had not been arrested and acquaint them with the terrible
+events of the night.” Then he added, majestically: “I am quite prepared
+to accept the responsibility of my actions. If what I have already done
+appears a satisfactory pledge of my desire for order, I am willing to
+place myself at the head of a municipal commission, until such time as
+the regular authorities can be reinstated. But, in order, that nobody
+may accuse me of ambitious designs, I shall not re-enter the Town Hall
+unless called upon to do so by my fellow-citizens.”
+
+At this Granoux and Roudier protested that Plassans would not be
+ungrateful. Their friend had indeed saved the town. And they recalled
+all that he had done for the cause of order: the yellow drawing-room
+always open to the friends of authority, his services as spokesman in
+the three quarters of the town, the store of arms which had been his
+idea, and especially that memorable night—that night of prudence and
+heroism—in which he had rendered himself forever illustrious. Granoux
+added that he felt sure of the admiration and gratitude of the
+municipal councillors.
+
+“Don’t stir from your house,” he concluded; “I will come and fetch you
+to lead you back in triumph.”
+
+Then Roudier said that he quite understood the tact and modesty of
+their friend, and approved it. Nobody would think of accusing him of
+ambition, but all would appreciate the delicacy which prompted him to
+take no office save with the consent of his fellow-citizens. That was
+very dignified, very noble, altogether grand.
+
+Under this shower of eulogies, Rougon humbly bowed his head. “No, no;
+you go too far,” he murmured, with voluptuous thrillings of exquisite
+pleasure. Each sentence that fell from the retired hosier and the old
+almond-merchant, who stood on his right and left respectively, fell
+sweetly on his ears; and, leaning back in the mayor’s arm-chair,
+steeped in the odour of officiality which pervaded the room, he bowed
+to the right and to the left, like a royal pretender whom a _coup
+d’etat_ is about to convert into an emperor.
+
+When they were tired of belauding each other, they all three went
+downstairs. Granoux started off to call the municipal council together,
+while Roudier told Rougon to go on in front, saying that he would join
+him at his house, after giving the necessary orders for guarding the
+Town Hall. The dawn was now fast rising, and Pierre proceeded to the
+Rue de la Banne, tapping his heels in a martial manner on the still
+deserted pavement. He carried his hat in his hand in spite of the
+bitter cold; for puffs of pride sent all his blood to his head.
+
+On reaching his house he found Cassoute at the bottom of the stairs.
+The navvy had not stirred, for he had seen nobody enter. He sat there,
+on the first step, resting his big head in his hands, and gazing
+fixedly in front of him, with the vacant stare and mute stubbornness of
+a faithful dog.
+
+“You were waiting for me, weren’t you?” Pierre said to him, taking in
+the situation at a glance. “Well, go and tell Monsieur Macquart that
+I’ve come home. Go and ask for him at the Town Hall.”
+
+Cassoute rose and took himself off, with an awkward bow. He was going
+to get himself arrested like a lamb, to the great delight of Pierre,
+who laughed as he went upstairs, asking himself, with a feeling of
+vague surprise: “I have certainly plenty of courage; shall I turn out
+as good a diplomatist?”
+
+Félicité had not gone to bed last night. He found her dressed in her
+Sunday clothes, wearing a cap with lemon-coloured ribbons, like a lady
+expecting visitors. She had sat at the window in vain; she had heard
+nothing, and was dying with curiosity.
+
+“Well?” she asked, rushing to meet her husband.
+
+The latter, quite out of breath, entered the yellow drawing-room,
+whither she followed him, carefully closing the door behind her. He
+sank into an arm-chair, and, in a gasping voice, faltered: “It’s done;
+we shall get the receivership.”
+
+At this she fell on his neck and kissed him.
+
+“Really? Really?” she cried. “But I haven’t heard anything. Oh, my
+darling husband, do tell me; tell me all!”
+
+She felt fifteen years old again, and began to coax him and whirl round
+him like a grasshopper fascinated by the light and heat. And Pierre, in
+the effusion of his triumph, poured out his heart to her. He did not
+omit a single detail. He even explained his future projects, forgetting
+that, according to his theories, wives were good for nothing, and that
+his must be kept in complete ignorance of what went on if he wished to
+remain master. Félicité leant over him and drank in his words. She made
+him repeat certain parts of his story, declaring she had not heard; in
+fact, her delight bewildered her so much that at times she seemed quite
+deaf. When Pierre related the events at the Town Hall, she burst into a
+fit of laughter, changed her chair three times, and moved the furniture
+about, quite unable to sit still. After forty years of continuous
+struggle, fortune had at last yielded to them. Eventually she became so
+mad over it that she forgot all prudence.
+
+“It’s to me you owe all this!” she exclaimed, in an outburst of
+triumph. “If I hadn’t looked after you, you would have been nicely
+taken in by the insurgents. You booby, it was Garconnet, Sicardot, and
+the others, that had got to be thrown to those wild beasts.”
+
+Then, showing her teeth, loosened by age, she added, with a girlish
+smile: “Well, the Republic for ever! It has made our path clear.”
+
+But Pierre had turned cross. “That’s just like you!” he muttered; “you
+always fancy that you’ve foreseen everything. It was I who had the idea
+of hiding myself. As though women understood anything about politics!
+Bah, my poor girl, if you were to steer the bark we should very soon be
+shipwrecked.”
+
+Félicité bit her lip. She had gone too far and forgotten her
+self-assigned part of good, silent fairy. Then she was seized with one
+of those fits of covert exasperation, which she generally experienced
+when her husband tried to crush her with his superiority. And she again
+promised herself, when the right time should arrive, some exquisite
+revenge, which would deliver this man into her power, bound hand and
+foot.
+
+“Ah! I was forgetting!” resumed Rougon, “Monsieur Peirotte is amongst
+them. Granoux saw him struggling in the hands of the insurgents.”
+
+Félicité gave a start. She was just at that moment standing at the
+window, gazing with longing eyes at the house where the receiver of
+taxes lived. She had felt a desire to do so, for in her mind the idea
+of triumph was always associated with envy of that fine house.
+
+“So Monsieur Peirotte is arrested!” she exclaimed in a strange tone as
+she turned round.
+
+For an instant she smiled complacently; then a crimson blush rushed to
+her face. A murderous wish had just ascended from the depths of her
+being. “Ah! if the insurgents would only kill him!”
+
+Pierre no doubt read her thoughts in her eyes.
+
+“Well, if some ball were to hit him,” he muttered, “our business would
+be settled. There would be no necessity to supercede him, eh? and it
+would be no fault of ours.”
+
+But Félicité shuddered. She felt that she had just condemned a man to
+death. If Monsieur Peirotte should now be killed, she would always see
+his ghost at night time. He would come and haunt her. So she only
+ventured to cast furtive glances, full of fearful delight, at the
+unhappy man’s windows. Henceforward all her enjoyment would be fraught
+with a touch of guilty terror.
+
+Moreover, Pierre, having now poured out his soul, began to perceive the
+other side of the situation. He mentioned Macquart. How could they get
+rid of that blackguard? But Félicité, again fired with enthusiasm,
+exclaimed: “Oh! one can’t do everything at once. We’ll gag him,
+somehow. We’ll soon find some means or other.”
+
+She was now walking to and fro, putting the arm-chairs in order, and
+dusting their backs. Suddenly, she stopped in the middle of the room,
+and gave the faded furniture a long glance.
+
+“Good Heavens!” she said, “how ugly it is here! And we shall have
+everybody coming to call upon us!”
+
+“Bah!” replied Pierre, with supreme indifference, “we’ll alter all
+that.”
+
+He who, the night before, had entertained almost religious veneration
+for the arm-chairs and the sofa, would now have willingly stamped on
+them. Félicité, who felt the same contempt, even went so far as to
+upset an arm-chair which was short of a castor and did not yield to her
+quickly enough.
+
+It was at this moment that Roudier entered. It at once occurred to the
+old woman that he had become much more polite. His “Monsieur” and
+“Madame” rolled forth in delightfully musical fashion. But the other
+_habitués_ were now arriving one after the other; and the drawing-room
+was fast getting full. Nobody yet knew the full particulars of the
+events of the night, and all had come in haste, with wondering eyes and
+smiling lips, urged on by the rumours which were beginning to circulate
+through the town. These gentlemen who, on the previous evening, had
+left the drawing-room with such precipitation at the news of the
+insurgents’ approach, came back, inquisitive and importunate, like a
+swarm of buzzing flies which a puff of wind would have dispersed. Some
+of them had not even taken time to put on their braces. They were very
+impatient, but it was evident that Rougon was waiting for some one else
+before speaking out. He constantly turned an anxious look towards the
+door. For an hour there was only significant hand-shaking, vague
+congratulation, admiring whispering, suppressed joy of uncertain
+origin, which only awaited a word of enlightenment to turn to
+enthusiasm.
+
+At last Granoux appeared. He paused for a moment on the threshold, with
+his right hand pressed to his breast between the buttons of his
+frock-coat; his broad pale face was beaming; in vain he strove to
+conceal his emotion beneath an expression of dignity. All the others
+became silent on perceiving him; they felt that something extraordinary
+was about to take place. Granoux walked straight up to Rougon, through
+two lines of visitors, and held out his hand to him.
+
+“My friend,” he said, “I bring you the homage of the Municipal Council.
+They call you to their head, until our mayor shall be restored to us.
+You have saved Plassans. In the terrible crisis through which we are
+passing we want men who, like yourself, unite intelligence with
+courage. Come—”
+
+At this point Granoux, who was reciting a little speech which he had
+taken great trouble to prepare on his way from the Town Hall to the Rue
+de la Banne felt his memory fail him. But Rougon, overwhelmed with
+emotion, broke in, shaking his hand and repeating: “Thank you, my dear
+Granoux; I thank you very much.”
+
+He could find nothing else to say. However, a loud burst of voices
+followed. Every one rushed upon him, tried to shake hands, poured forth
+praises and compliments, and eagerly questioned him. But he, already
+putting on official dignity, begged for a few minutes’ delay in order
+that he might confer with Messieurs Granoux and Roudier. Business
+before everything. The town was in such a critical situation! Then the
+three accomplices retired to a corner of the drawing-room, where, in an
+undertone, they divided power amongst themselves; the rest of the
+visitors, who remained a few paces away, trying meanwhile to look
+extremely wise and furtively glancing at them with mingled admiration
+and curiosity. It was decided that Rougon should take the title of
+president of the Municipal Commission; Granoux was to be secretary;
+whilst, as for Roudier, he became commander-in-chief of the reorganised
+National Guard. They also swore to support each other against all
+opposition.
+
+However, Félicité, who had drawn near, abruptly inquired: “And
+Vuillet?”
+
+At this they looked at each other. Nobody had seen Vuillet. Rougon
+seemed somewhat uneasy.
+
+“Perhaps they’ve taken him away with the others,” he said, to ease his
+mind.
+
+But Félicité shook her head. Vuillet was not the man to let himself be
+arrested. Since nobody had seen or heard him, it was certain he had
+been doing something wrong.
+
+Suddenly the door opened and Vuillet entered, bowing humbly, with
+blinking glance and stiff sacristan’s smile. Then he held out his moist
+hand to Rougon and the two others.
+
+Vuillet had settled his little affairs alone. He had cut his own slice
+out of the cake, as Félicité would have said. While peeping through the
+ventilator of his cellar he had seen the insurgents arrest the
+postmaster, whose offices were near his bookshop. At daybreak,
+therefore, at the moment when Rougon was comfortably seated in the
+mayor’s arm-chair, he had quietly installed himself in the postmaster’s
+office. He knew the clerks; so he received them on their arrival, told
+them that he would replace their chief until his return, and that
+meantime they need be in nowise uneasy. Then he ransacked the morning
+mail with ill-concealed curiosity. He examined the letters, and seemed
+to be seeking a particular one. His new berth doubtless suited his
+secret plans, for his satisfaction became so great that he actually
+gave one of the clerks a copy of the “Oeuvres Badines de Piron.”
+Vuillet, it should be mentioned, did business in objectionable
+literature, which he kept concealed in a large drawer, under the stock
+of heads and religious images. It is probable that he felt some slight
+qualms at the free-and-easy manner in which he had taken possession of
+the post office, and recognised the desirability of getting his
+usurpation confirmed as far as possible. At all events, he had thought
+it well to call upon Rougon, who was fast becoming an important
+personage.
+
+“Why! where have you been?” Félicité asked him in a distrustful manner.
+
+Thereupon he related his story with sundry embellishments. According to
+his own account he had saved the post-office from pillage.
+
+“All right then! That’s settled! Stay on there!” said Pierre, after a
+moment’s reflection. “Make yourself useful.”
+
+This last sentence revealed the one great fear that possessed the
+Rougons. They were afraid that some one might prove too useful, and do
+more than themselves to save the town. Still, Pierre saw no serious
+danger in leaving Vuillet as provisional postmaster; it was even a
+convenient means of getting rid of him. Félicité, however, made a sharp
+gesture of annoyance.
+
+The consultation having ended, the three accomplices mingled with the
+various groups that filled the drawing-room. They were at last obliged
+to satisfy the general curiosity by giving detailed accounts of recent
+events. Rougon proved magnificent. He exaggerated, embellished, and
+dramatised the story which he had related to his wife. The distribution
+of the guns and cartridges made everybody hold their breath. But it was
+the march through the deserted streets and the seizure of the town-hall
+that most amazed these worthy bourgeois. At each fresh detail there was
+an interruption.
+
+“And you were only forty-one; it’s marvellous!”
+
+“Ah, indeed! it must have been frightfully dark!”
+
+“No; I confess I never should have dared it!”
+
+“Then you seized him, like that, by the throat?
+
+“And the insurgents, what did they say?”
+
+These remarks and questions only incited Rougon’s imagination the more.
+He replied to everybody. He mimicked the action. This stout man, in his
+admiration of his own achievements, became as nimble as a schoolboy; he
+began afresh, repeated himself, amidst the exclamations of surprise and
+individual discussions which suddenly arose about some trifling detail.
+And thus he continued blowing his trumpet, making himself more and more
+important as if some irresistible force impelled him to turn his
+narrative into a genuine epic. Moreover Granoux and Roudier stood by
+his side prompting him, reminding him of such trifling matters as he
+omitted. They also were burning to put in a word, and occasionally they
+could not restrain themselves, so that all three went on talking
+together. When, in order to keep the episode of the broken mirror for
+the _dénouement_, like some crowning glory, Rougon began to describe
+what had taken place downstairs in the courtyard, after the arrest of
+the guard, Roudier accused him of spoiling the narrative by changing
+the sequence of events. For a moment they wrangled about it somewhat
+sharply. Then Roudier, seeing a good opportunity for himself, suddenly
+exclaimed: “Very well, let it be so. But you weren’t there. So let me
+tell it.”
+
+He thereupon explained at great length how the insurgents had awoke,
+and how the muskets of the town’s deliverers had been levelled at them
+to reduce them to impotence. He added, however, that no blood,
+fortunately, had been shed. This last sentence disappointed his
+audience, who had counted upon one corpse at least.
+
+“But I thought you fired,” interrupted Félicité, recognising that the
+story was wretchedly deficient in dramatic interest.
+
+“Yes, yes, three shots,” resumed the old hosier. “The pork-butcher
+Dubruel, Monsieur Lievin, and Monsieur Massicot discharged their guns
+with really culpable alacrity.” And as there were some murmurs at this
+remark; “Culpable, I repeat the word,” he continued. “There are quite
+enough cruel necessities in warfare without any useless shedding of
+blood. Besides, these gentlemen swore to me that it was not their
+fault; they can’t understand how it was their guns went off.
+Nevertheless, a spent ball after ricocheting grazed the cheek of one of
+the insurgents and left a mark on it.”
+
+This graze, this unexpected wound, satisfied the audience. Which cheek,
+right or left, had been grazed, and how was it that a bullet, a spent
+one, even, could strike a cheek without piercing it? These points
+supplied material for some long discussions.
+
+“Meantime,” continued Rougon at the top of his voice, without giving
+time for the excitement to abate; “meantime we had plenty to do
+upstairs. The struggle was quite desperate.”
+
+Then he described, at length, the arrival of his brother and the four
+other insurgents, without naming Macquart, whom he simply called “the
+leader.” The words, “the mayor’s office,” “the mayor’s arm-chair,” “the
+mayor’s writing table,” recurred to him every instant, and in the
+opinion of his audience imparted marvellous grandeur to the terrible
+scene. It was not at the porter’s lodge that the fight was now being
+waged, but in the private sanctum of the chief magistrate of the town.
+Roudier was quite cast in to the background. Then Rougon at last came
+to the episode which he had been keeping in reserve from the
+commencement, and which would certainly exalt him to the dignity of a
+hero.
+
+“Thereupon,” said he, “an insurgent rushes upon me. I push the mayor’s
+arm-chair away, and seize the man by the throat. I hold him tightly,
+you may be sure of it! But my gun was in my way. I didn’t want to let
+it drop; a man always sticks to his gun. I held it, like this, under
+the left arm. All of a sudden, it went off—”
+
+The whole audience hung on Rougon’s lips. But Granoux, who was opening
+his mouth wide with a violent itching to say something, shouted: “No,
+no, that isn’t right. You were not in a position to see things, my
+friend; you were fighting like a lion. But I saw everything, while I
+was helping to bind one of the prisoners. The man tried to murder you;
+it was he who fired the gun; I saw him distinctly slip his black
+fingers under your arm.”
+
+“Really?” said Rougon, turning quite pale.
+
+He did not know he had been in such danger, and the old almond
+merchant’s account of the incident chilled him with fright. Granoux, as
+a rule, did not lie; but, on a day of battle, it is surely allowable to
+view things dramatically.
+
+“I tell you the man tried to murder you,” he repeated, with conviction.
+
+“Ah,” said Rougon in a faint voice, “that’s how it is I heard the
+bullet whiz past my ear!”
+
+At this, violent emotion came upon the audience. Everybody gazed at the
+hero with respectful awe. He had heard a bullet whiz past his ear!
+Certainly, none of the other bourgeois who were there could say as
+much. Félicité felt bound to rush into her husband’s arms so as to work
+up the emotion to boiling point. But Rougon immediately freed himself,
+and concluded his narrative with this heroic sentence, which has become
+famous at Plassans: “The shot goes off; I hear the bullet whiz past my
+ear; and whish! it smashes the mayor’s mirror.”
+
+This caused complete consternation. Such a magnificent mirror, too! It
+was scarcely credible! the damage done to that looking-glass almost
+out-balanced Rougon’s heroism, in the estimation of the company. The
+glass became an object of absorbing interest, and they talked about it
+for a quarter of an hour, with many exclamations and expressions of
+regret, as though it had been some dear friend that had been stricken
+to the heart. This was the culminating point that Rougon had aimed at,
+the _dénouement_ of his wonderful Odyssey. A loud hubbub of voices
+filled the yellow drawing-room. The visitors were repeating what they
+had just heard, and every now and then one of them would leave a group
+to ask the three heroes the exact truth with regard to some contested
+incident. The heroes set the matter right with scrupulous minuteness,
+for they felt that they were speaking for history!
+
+At last Rougon and his two lieutenants announced that they were
+expected at the town-hall. Respectful silence was then restored, and
+the company smiled at each other discreetly. Granoux was swelling with
+importance. He was the only one who had seen the insurgent pull the
+trigger and smash the mirror; this sufficed to exalt him, and almost
+made him burst his skin. On leaving the drawing-room, he took Roudier’s
+arm with the air of a great general who is broken down with fatigue.
+“I’ve been up for thirty-six hours,” he murmured, “and heaven alone
+knows when I shall get to bed!”
+
+Rougon, as he withdrew, took Vuillet aside and told him that the party
+of order relied more than ever on him and the “Gazette.” He would have
+to publish an effective article to reassure the inhabitants and treat
+the band of villains who had passed through Plassans as it deserved.
+
+“Be easy!” replied Vuillet. “In the ordinary course the ‘Gazette’ ought
+not to appear till to-morrow morning, but I’ll issue it this very
+evening.”
+
+When the leaders had left, the rest of the visitors remained in the
+yellow drawing-room for another moment, chattering like so many old
+women, whom the escape of a canary has gathered together on the
+pavement. These retired tradesmen, oil dealers, and wholesale hatters,
+felt as if they were in a sort of fairyland. Never had they experienced
+such thrilling excitement before. They could not get over their
+surprise at discovering such heroes as Rougon, Granoux, and Roudier in
+their midst. At last, half stifled by the stuffy atmosphere, and tired
+of ever telling each other the same things, they decided to go off and
+spread the momentous news abroad. They glided away one by one, each
+anxious to have the glory of being the first to know and relate
+everything, and Félicité, as she leaned out of the window, on being
+left alone, saw them dispersing in the Rue de la Banne, waving their
+arms in an excited manner, eager as they were to diffuse emotion to the
+four corners of the town.
+
+It was ten o’clock, and Plassans, now wide awake, was running about the
+streets, wildly excited by the reports which were circulating. Those
+who had seen or heard the insurrectionary forces, related the most
+foolish stories, contradicting each other, and indulging in the wildest
+suppositions. The majority, however, knew nothing at all about the
+matter; they lived at the further end of the town, and listened with
+gaping mouths, like children to a nursery tale, to the stories of how
+several thousand bandits had invaded the streets during the night and
+vanished before daybreak like an army of phantoms. A few of the most
+sceptical said: “Nonsense!” Yet some of the details were very precise;
+and Plassans at last felt convinced that some frightful danger had
+passed over it while it slept. The darkness which had shrouded this
+danger, the various contradictory reports that spread, all invested the
+matter with mystery and vague horror, which made the bravest shudder.
+Whose hand had diverted the thunderbolt from them? There seemed to be
+something quite miraculous about it. There were rumours of unknown
+deliverers, of a handful of brave men who had cut off the hydra’s head;
+but no one seemed acquainted with the exact particulars, and the whole
+story appeared scarcely credible, until the company from the yellow
+drawing-room spread through the streets, scattering tidings, ever
+repeating the same narrative at each door they came to.
+
+It was like a train of powder. In a few minutes the story had spread
+from one end of the town to the other. Rougon’s name flew from mouth to
+mouth, with exclamations of surprise in the new town, and of praise in
+the old quarter. The idea of being without a sub-prefect, a mayor, a
+postmaster, a receiver of taxes, or authorities of any kind, at first
+threw the inhabitants into consternation. They were stupefied at having
+been able to sleep through the night and get up as usual, in the
+absence of any settled government. Their first stupor over, they threw
+themselves recklessly into the arms of their liberators. The few
+Republicans shrugged their shoulders, but the petty shopkeepers, the
+small householders, the Conservatives of all shades, invoked blessings
+on those modest heroes whose achievements had been shrouded by the
+night. When it was known that Rougon had arrested his own brother, the
+popular admiration knew no bounds. People talked of Brutus, and thus
+the indiscretion which had made Pierre rather anxious, really redounded
+to his glory. At this moment when terror still hovered over them, the
+townsfolk were virtually unanimous in their gratitude. Rougon was
+accepted as their saviour without the slightest show of opposition.
+
+“Just think of it!” the poltroons exclaimed, “there were only forty-one
+of them!”
+
+That number of forty-one amazed the whole town, and this was the origin
+of the Plassans legend of how forty-one bourgeois had made three
+thousand insurgents bite the dust. There were only a few envious
+spirits of the new town, lawyers without work and retired military men
+ashamed of having slept ingloriously through that memorable night, who
+raised any doubts. The insurgents, these sceptics hinted, had no doubt
+left the town of their own accord. There were no indications of a
+combat, no corpses, no blood-stains. So the deliverers had certainly
+had a very easy task.
+
+“But the mirror, the mirror!” repeated the enthusiasts. “You can’t deny
+that the mayor’s mirror has been smashed; go and see it for
+yourselves.”
+
+And, in fact, until night-time, quite a stream of town’s-people flowed,
+under one pretext or another, into the mayor’s private office, the door
+of which Rougon left wide open. The visitors planted themselves in
+front of the mirror, which the bullet had pierced and starred, and they
+all gave vent to the same exclamation: “By Jove; that ball must have
+had terrible force!”
+
+Then they departed quite convinced.
+
+Félicité, at her window, listened with delight to all the rumours and
+laudatory and grateful remarks which arose from the town. At that
+moment all Plassans was talking of her husband. She felt that the two
+districts below her were quivering, wafting her the hope of approaching
+triumph. Ah! how she would crush that town which she had been so long
+in getting beneath her feet! All her grievances crowded back to her
+memory, and her past disappointments redoubled her appetite for
+immediate enjoyment.
+
+At last she left the window, and walked slowly round the drawing-room.
+It was there that, a little while previously, everybody had held out
+their hands to her husband and herself. He and she had conquered; the
+citizens were at their feet. The yellow drawing-room seemed to her a
+holy place. The dilapidated furniture, the frayed velvet, the
+chandelier soiled with fly-marks, all those poor wrecks now seemed to
+her like the glorious bullet-riddled debris of a battle-field. The
+plain of Austerlitz would not have stirred her to deeper emotion.
+
+When she returned to the window, she perceived Aristide wandering about
+the place of the Sub-Prefecture, with his nose in the air. She beckoned
+to him to come up, which he immediately did. It seemed as if he had
+only been waiting for this invitation.
+
+“Come in,” his mother said to him on the landing, seeing that he
+hesitated. “Your father is not here.”
+
+Aristide evinced all the shyness of a prodigal son returning home. He
+had not been inside the yellow drawing-room for nearly four years. He
+still carried his arm in a sling.
+
+“Does your hand still pain you?” his mother asked him, ironically.
+
+He blushed as he answered with some embarrassment: “Oh! it’s getting
+better; it’s nearly well again now.”
+
+Then he lingered there, loitering about and not knowing what to say.
+Félicité came to the rescue. “I suppose you’ve heard them talking about
+your father’s noble conduct?” she resumed.
+
+He replied that the whole town was talking of it. And then, as he
+regained his self-possession, he paid his mother back for her raillery
+in her own coin. Looking her full in the face he added: “I came to see
+if father was wounded.”
+
+“Come, don’t play the fool!” cried Félicité, petulantly. “If I were you
+I would act boldly and decisively. Confess now that you made a false
+move in joining those good-for-nothing Republicans. You would be very
+glad, I’m sure, to be well rid of them, and to return to us, who are
+the stronger party. Well, the house is open to you!”
+
+But Aristide protested. The Republic was a grand idea. Moreover, the
+insurgents might still carry the day.
+
+“Don’t talk nonsense to me!” retorted the old woman, with some
+irritation. “You’re afraid that your father won’t have a very warm
+welcome for you. But I’ll see to that. Listen to me: go back to your
+newspaper, and, between now and to-morrow, prepare a number strongly
+favouring the Coup d’État. To-morrow evening, when this number has
+appeared, come back here and you will be received with open arms.”
+
+Then seeing that the young man remained silent: “Do you hear?” she
+added, in a lower and more eager tone; “it is necessary for our sake,
+and for your own, too, that it should be done. Don’t let us have any
+more nonsense and folly. You’ve already compromised yourself enough in
+that way.”
+
+The young man made a gesture—the gesture of a Caesar crossing the
+Rubicon—and by doing so escaped entering into any verbal engagement. As
+he was about to withdraw, his mother, looking for the knot in his
+sling, remarked: “First of all, you must let me take off this rag. It’s
+getting a little ridiculous, you know!”
+
+Aristide let her remove it. When the silk handkerchief was untied, he
+folded it neatly and placed it in his pocket. And as he kissed his
+mother he exclaimed: “Till to-morrow then!”
+
+In the meanwhile, Rougon was taking official possession of the mayor’s
+offices. There were only eight municipal councillors left; the others
+were in the hands of the insurgents, as well as the mayor and his two
+assessors. The eight remaining gentlemen, who were all on a par with
+Granoux, perspired with fright when the latter explained to them the
+critical situation of the town. It requires an intimate knowledge of
+the kind of men who compose the municipal councils of some of the
+smaller towns, in order to form an idea of the terror with which these
+timid folk threw themselves into Rougon’s arms. At Plassans, the mayor
+had the most incredible blockheads under him, men without any ideas of
+their own, and accustomed to passive obedience. Consequently, as
+Monsieur Garconnet was no longer there, the municipal machine was bound
+to get out of order, and fall completely under the control of the man
+who might know how to set it working. Moreover, as the sub-prefect had
+left the district, Rougon naturally became sole and absolute master of
+the town; and thus, strange to relate, the chief administrative
+authority fell into the hands of a man of indifferent repute, to whom,
+on the previous evening, not one of his fellow-citizens would have lent
+a hundred francs.
+
+Pierre’s first act was to declare the Provisional Commission “en
+permanence.” Then he gave his attention to the organisation of the
+national guard, and succeeded in raising three hundred men. The hundred
+and nine muskets left in the cart-shed were also distributed to
+volunteers, thereby bringing up the number of men armed by the
+reactionary party to one hundred and fifty; the remaining one hundred
+and fifty guards consisted of well-affected citizens and some of
+Sicardot’s soldiers. When Commander Roudier reviewed the little army in
+front of the town-hall, he was annoyed to see the market-people smiling
+in their sleeves. The fact is that several of his men had no uniforms,
+and some of them looked very droll with their black hats, frock-coats,
+and muskets. But, at any rate, they meant well. A guard was left at the
+town-hall and the rest of the forces were sent in detachments to the
+various town gates. Roudier reserved to himself the command of the
+guard stationed at the Grand’-Porte, which seemed to be more liable to
+attack than the others.
+
+Rougon, who now felt very conscious of his power, repaired to the Rue
+Canquoin to beg the gendarmes to remain in their barracks and interfere
+with nothing. He certainly had the doors of the gendarmerie opened—the
+keys having been carried off by the insurgents—but he wanted to triumph
+alone, and had no intention of letting the gendarmes rob him of any
+part of his glory. If he should really have need of them he could
+always send for them. So he explained to them that their presence might
+tend to irritate the working-men and thus aggravate the situation. The
+sergeant in command thereupon complimented him on his prudence. When
+Rougon was informed that there was a wounded man in the barracks, he
+asked to see him, by way of rendering himself popular. He found Rengade
+in bed, with his eye bandaged, and his big moustaches just peeping out
+from under the linen. With some high-sounding words about duty, Rougon
+endeavoured to comfort the unfortunate fellow who, having lost an eye,
+was swearing with exasperation at the thought that his injury would
+compel him to quit the service. At last Rougon promised to send the
+doctor to him.
+
+“I’m much obliged to you, sir,” Rengade replied; “but, you know, what
+would do me more good than any quantity of doctor’s stuff would be to
+wring the neck of the villain who put my eye out. Oh! I shall know him
+again; he’s a little thin, palish fellow, quite young.”
+
+Thereupon Pierre bethought himself of the blood he had seen on
+Silvère’s hand. He stepped back a little, as though he was afraid that
+Rengade would fly at his throat, and cry: “It was your nephew who
+blinded me; and you will have to pay for it.” And whilst he was
+mentally cursing his disreputable family, he solemnly declared that if
+the guilty person were found he should be punished with all the rigour
+of the law.
+
+“No, no, it isn’t worth all that trouble,” the one-eyed man replied;
+“I’ll just wring his neck for him when I catch him.”
+
+Rougon hastened back to the town-hall. The afternoon was employed in
+taking various measures. The proclamation posted up about one o’clock
+produced an excellent impression. It ended by an appeal to the good
+sense of the citizens, and gave a firm assurance that order would not
+again be disturbed. Until dusk, in fact, the streets presented a
+picture of general relief and perfect confidence. On the pavements, the
+groups who were reading the proclamation exclaimed:
+
+“It’s all finished now; we shall soon see the troops who have been sent
+in pursuit of the insurgents.”
+
+This belief that some soldiers were approaching was so general that the
+idles of the Cours Sauvaire repaired to the Nice road, in order to meet
+and hear the regimental band. But they returned at nightfall
+disappointed, having seen nothing; and then a feeling of vague alarm
+began to disturb the townspeople.
+
+At the town-hall, the Provisional Commission had talked so much,
+without coming to any decision, that the members, whose stomachs were
+quite empty, began to feel alarmed again. Rougon dismissed them to
+dine, saying that they would meet afresh at nine o’clock in the
+evening. He was just about to leave the room himself, when Macquart
+awoke and began to pommel the door of his prison. He declared he was
+hungry, then asked what time it was, and when his brother had told him
+it was five o’clock, he feigned great astonishment, and muttered, with
+diabolical malice, that the insurgents had promised to return much
+earlier, and that they were very slow in coming to deliver him. Rougon,
+having ordered some food to be taken to him, went downstairs, quite
+worried by the earnestness with which the rascal spoke of the return of
+the insurgents.
+
+When he reached the street, his disquietude increased. The town seemed
+to him quite altered. It was assuming a strange aspect; shadows were
+gliding along the footpaths, which were growing deserted and silent,
+while gloomy fear seemed, like fine rain, to be slowly, persistently
+falling with the dusk over the mournful-looking houses. The babbling
+confidence of the daytime was fatally terminating in groundless panic,
+in growing alarm as the night drew nearer; the inhabitants were so
+weary and so satiated with their triumph that they had no strength left
+but to dream of some terrible retaliation on the part of the
+insurgents. Rougon shuddered as he passed through this current of
+terror. He hastened his steps, feeling as if he would choke. As he
+passed a cafe on the Place des Récollets, where the lamps had just been
+lit, and where the petty cits of the new town were assembled, he heard
+a few words of terrifying conversation.
+
+“Well! Monsieur Picou,” said one man in a thick voice, “you’ve heard
+the news? The regiment that was expected has not arrived.”
+
+“But nobody expected any regiment, Monsieur Touche,” a shrill voice
+replied.
+
+“I beg your pardon. You haven’t read the proclamation, then?”
+
+“Oh yes, it’s true the placards declare that order will be maintained
+by force, if necessary.”
+
+“You see, then, there’s force mentioned; that means armed forces, of
+course.”
+
+“What do people say then?”
+
+“Well, you know, folks are beginning to feel rather frightened; they
+say that this delay on the part of the soldiers isn’t natural, and that
+the insurgents may well have slaughtered them.”
+
+A cry of horror resounded through the cafe. Rougon was inclined to go
+in and tell those bourgeois that the proclamation had never announced
+the arrival of a regiment, that they had no right to strain its meaning
+to such a degree, nor to spread such foolish theories abroad. But he
+himself, amidst the disquietude which was coming over him, was not
+quite sure he had not counted upon a despatch of troops; and he did, in
+fact, consider it strange that not a single soldier had made his
+appearance. So he reached home in a very uneasy state of mind.
+Félicité, still petulant and full of courage, became quite angry at
+seeing him upset by such silly trifles. Over the dessert she comforted
+him.
+
+“Well, you great simpleton,” she said, “so much the better, if the
+prefect does forget us! We shall save the town by ourselves. For my
+part, I should like to see the insurgents return, so that we might
+receive them with bullets and cover ourselves with glory. Listen to me,
+go and have the gates closed, and don’t go to bed; bustle about all
+night; it will all be taken into account later on.”
+
+Pierre returned to the town-hall in rather more cheerful spirits. He
+required some courage to remain firm amidst the woeful maunderings of
+his colleagues. The members of the Provisional Commission seemed to
+reek with panic, just as they might with damp in the rainy season. They
+all professed to have counted upon the despatch of a regiment, and
+began to exclaim that brave citizens ought not to be abandoned in such
+a manner to the fury of the rabble. Pierre, to preserve peace, almost
+promised they should have a regiment on the morrow. Then he announced,
+in a solemn manner, that he was going to have the gates closed. This
+came as a relief. Detachments of the national guards had to repair
+immediately to each gate and double-lock it. When they had returned,
+several members confessed that they really felt more comfortable; and
+when Pierre remarked that the critical situation of the town imposed
+upon them the duty of remaining at their posts, some of them made
+arrangements with the view of spending the night in an arm-chair.
+Granoux put on a black silk skull cap which he had brought with him by
+way of precaution. Towards eleven o’clock, half of the gentlemen were
+sleeping round Monsieur Garconnet’s writing table. Those who still
+managed to keep their eyes open fancied, as they listened to the
+measured tramp of the national guards in the courtyard, that they were
+heroes and were receiving decorations. A large lamp, placed on the
+writing-table, illumined this strange vigil. All at once, however,
+Rougon, who had seemed to be slumbering, jumped up, and sent for
+Vuillet. He had just remembered that he had not received the “Gazette.”
+
+The bookseller made his appearance in a very bad humour.
+
+“Well!” Rougon asked him as he took him aside, “what about the article
+you promised me? I haven’t seen the paper.”
+
+“Is that what you disturbed me for?” Vuillet angrily retorted. “The
+‘Gazette’ has not been issued; I’ve no desire to get myself murdered
+to-morrow, should the insurgents come back.”
+
+Rougon tried to smile as he declared that, thank heaven, nobody would
+be murdered at all. It was precisely because false and disquieting
+rumours were running about that the article in question would have
+rendered great service to the good cause.
+
+“Possibly,” Vuillet resumed; “but the best of causes at the present
+time is to keep one’s head on one’s shoulders.” And he added, with
+maliciousness, “And I was under the impression you had killed all the
+insurgents! You’ve left too many of them for me to run any risk.”
+
+Rougon, when he was alone again, felt amazed at this mutiny on the part
+of a man who was usually so meek and mild. Vuillet’s conduct seemed to
+him suspicious. But he had no time to seek an explanation; he had
+scarcely stretched himself out afresh in his arm-chair, when Roudier
+entered, with a big sabre, which he had attached to his belt,
+clattering noisily against his legs. The sleepers awoke in a fright.
+Granoux thought it was a call to arms.
+
+“Eh? what! What’s the matter?” he asked, as he hastily put his black
+silk cap into his pocket.
+
+“Gentlemen,” said Roudier, breathlessly, without thinking of taking any
+oratorical precautions, “I believe that a band of insurgents is
+approaching the town.”
+
+These words were received with the silence of terror. Rougon alone had
+the strength to ask, “Have you seen them?”
+
+“No,” the retired hosier replied; “but we hear strange noises out in
+the country; one of my men assured me that he had seen fires along the
+slope of the Garrigues.”
+
+Then, as all the gentlemen stared at each other white and speechless,
+“I’ll return to my post,” he continued. “I fear an attack. You had
+better take precautions.”
+
+Rougon would have followed him, to obtain further particulars, but he
+was already too far away. After this the Commission was by no means
+inclined to go to sleep again. Strange noises! Fires! An attack! And in
+the middle of the night too! It was very easy to talk of taking
+precautions, but what were they to do? Granoux was very near advising
+the course which had proved so successful the previous evening: that is
+of hiding themselves, waiting till the insurgents has passed through
+Plassans, and then triumphing in the deserted streets. Pierre, however,
+fortunately remembering his wife’s advice, said that Roudier might have
+made a mistake, and that the best thing would be to go and see for
+themselves. Some of the members made a wry face at this suggestion; but
+when it had been agreed that an armed escort should accompany the
+Commission, they all descended very courageously. They only left a few
+men downstairs; they surrounded themselves with about thirty of the
+national guards, and then they ventured into the slumbering town, where
+the moon, creeping over the house roofs, slowly cast lengthened
+shadows. They went along the ramparts, from one gate to the other,
+seeing nothing and hearing nothing. The national guards at the various
+posts certainly told them that peculiar sounds occasionally reached
+them from the country through the closed gates. When they strained
+their ears, however, they detected nothing but a distant murmur, which
+Granoux said was merely the noise of the Viorne.
+
+Nevertheless they remained doubtful. And they were about to return to
+the town-hall in a state of alarm, though they made a show of shrugging
+their shoulders and of treating Roudier as a poltroon and a dreamer,
+when Rougon, anxious to reassure them, thought of enabling them to view
+the plain over a distance of several leagues. Thereupon he led the
+little company to the Saint-Marc quarter and knocked at the door of the
+Valqueyras mansion.
+
+At the very outset of the disturbances Count de Valqueyras had left for
+his chateau at Corbière. There was no one but the Marquis de Carnavant
+at the Plassans house. He, since the previous evening, had prudently
+kept aloof; not that he was afraid, but because he did not care to be
+seen plotting with the Rougons at the critical moment. As a matter of
+fact, he was burning with curiosity. He had been compelled to shut
+himself up in order to resist the temptation of hastening to the yellow
+drawing-room. When the footman came to tell him, in the middle of the
+night, that there were some gentlemen below asking for him, he could
+not hold back any longer. He got up and went downstairs in all haste.
+
+“My dear Marquis,” said Rougon, as he introduced to him the members of
+the Municipal Commission, “we want to ask a favour of you. Will you
+allow us to go into the garden of the mansion?”
+
+“By all means,” replied the astonished marquis, “I will conduct you
+there myself.”
+
+On the way thither he ascertained what their object was. At the end of
+the garden rose a terrace which overlooked the plain. A large portion
+of the ramparts had there tumbled in, leaving a boundless prospect to
+the view. It had occurred to Rougon that this would serve as an
+excellent post of observation. While conversing together the members of
+the Commission leaned over the parapet. The strange spectacle that
+spread out before them soon made them silent. In the distance, in the
+valley of the Viorne, across the vast hollow which stretched westward
+between the chain of the Garrigues and the mountains of the Seille, the
+rays of the moon were streaming like a river of pale light. The clumps
+of trees, the gloomy rocks, looked, here and there, like islets and
+tongues of land, emerging from a luminous sea; and, according to the
+bends of the Viorne one could now and again distinguish detached
+portions of the river, glittering like armour amidst the fine silvery
+dust falling from the firmament. It all looked like an ocean, a world,
+magnified by the darkness, the cold, and their own secret fears. At
+first the gentlemen could neither hear nor see anything. The quiver of
+light and of distant sound blinded their eyes and confused their ears.
+Granoux, though he was not naturally poetic, was struck by the calm
+serenity of that winter night, and murmured: “What a beautiful night,
+gentlemen!”
+
+“Roudier was certainly dreaming,” exclaimed Rougon, rather
+disdainfully.
+
+But the marquis, whose ears were quick, had begun to listen. “Ah!” he
+observed in his clear voice, “I hear the tocsin.”
+
+At this they all leant over the parapet, holding their breath. And
+light and pure as crystal the distant tolling of a bell rose from the
+plain. The gentlemen could not deny it. It was indeed the tocsin.
+Rougon pretended that he recognised the bell of Beage, a village fully
+a league from Plassans. This he said in order to reassure his
+colleagues.
+
+But the marquis interrupted him. “Listen, listen: this time it is the
+bell of Saint-Maur.” And he indicated another point of the horizon to
+them. There was, in fact, a second bell wailing through the clear
+night. And very soon there were ten bells, twenty bells, whose
+despairing tollings were detected by their ears, which had by this time
+grown accustomed to the quivering of the darkness. Ominous calls rose
+from all sides, like the faint rattles of dying men. Soon the whole
+plain seemed to be wailing. The gentlemen no longer jeered at Roudier;
+particularly as the marquis, who took a malicious delight in terrifying
+them, was kind enough to explain the cause of all this bell-ringing.
+
+“It is the neighbouring villages,” he said to Rougon, “banding together
+to attack Plassans at daybreak.”
+
+At this Granoux opened his eyes wide. “Didn’t you see something just
+this moment over there?” he asked all of a sudden.
+
+Nobody had looked; the gentlemen had been keeping their eyes closed in
+order to hear the better.
+
+“Ah! look!” he resumed after a short pause. “There, beyond the Viorne,
+near that black mass.”
+
+“Yes, I see,” replied Rougon, in despair; “it’s a fire they’re
+kindling.”
+
+A moment later another fire appeared almost immediately in front of the
+first one, then a third, and a fourth. In this wise red splotches
+appeared at nearly equal distances throughout the whole length of the
+valley, resembling the lamps of some gigantic avenue. The moonlight,
+which dimmed their radiance, made them look like pools of blood. This
+melancholy illumination gave a finishing touch to the consternation of
+the Municipal Commission.
+
+“Of course!” the marquis muttered, with his bitterest sneer, “those
+brigands are signalling to each other.” And he counted the fires
+complacently, to get some idea, he said, as to how many men “the brave
+national guard of Plassans” would have to deal with. Rougon endeavoured
+to raise doubts by saying the villages were taking up arms in order to
+join the army of the insurgents, and not for the purpose of attacking
+the town. But the gentlemen, by their silent consternation, made it
+clear that they had formed their own opinion, and were not to be
+consoled.
+
+“I can hear the ‘Marseillaise’ now,” remarked Granoux in a hushed
+voice.
+
+It was indeed true. A detachment must have been following the course of
+the Viorne, passing, at that moment, just under the town. The cry, “To
+arms, citizens! Form your battalions!” reached the on-lookers in sudden
+bursts with vibrating distinctness. Ah! what an awful night it was! The
+gentlemen spent it leaning over the parapet of the terrace, numbed by
+the terrible cold, and yet quite unable to tear themselves away from
+the sight of that plain which resounded with the tocsin and the
+“Marseillaise,” and was all ablaze with signal-fires. They feasted
+their eyes upon that sea of light, flecked with blood-red flames; and
+they strained their ears in order to listen to the confused clamour,
+till at last their senses began to deceive them, and they saw and heard
+the most frightful things. Nothing in the world would have induced them
+to leave the spot. If they had turned their backs, they would have
+fancied that a whole army was at their heels. After the manner of a
+certain class of cowards, they wished to witness the approach of the
+danger, in order that they might take flight at the right moment.
+Towards morning, when the moon had set and they could see nothing in
+front of them but a dark void, they fell into a terrible fright. They
+fancied they were surrounded by invisible enemies, who were crawling
+along in the darkness, ready to fly at their throats. At the slightest
+noise they imagined there were enemies deliberating beneath the
+terrace, prior to scaling it. Yet there was nothing, nothing but
+darkness upon which they fixed their eyes distractedly. The marquis, as
+if to console them, said in his ironical way: “Don’t be uneasy! They
+will certainly wait till daybreak.”
+
+Meanwhile Rougon cursed and swore. He felt himself again giving way to
+fear. As for Granoux, his hair turned completely white. At last the
+dawn appeared with weary slowness. This again was a terribly anxious
+moment. The gentlemen, at the first ray of light, expected to see an
+army drawn up in line before the town. It so happened that day that the
+dawn was lazy and lingered awhile on the edge of the horizon. With
+outstretched necks and fixed gaze, the party on the terrace peered
+anxiously into the misty expanse. In the uncertain light they fancied
+they caught glimpses of colossal profiles, the plain seemed to be
+transformed into a lake of blood, the rocks looked like corpses
+floating on its surface, and the clusters of trees took the forms of
+battalions drawn up and threatening attack. When the growing light had
+at last dispersed these phantoms, the morning broke so pale, so
+mournful, so melancholy, that even the marquis’s spirits sank. Not a
+single insurgent was to be seen, and the high roads were free; but the
+grey valley wore a gruesomely sad and deserted aspect. The fires had
+now gone out, but the bells still rang on. Towards eight o’clock,
+Rougon observed a small party of men who were moving off along the
+Viorne.
+
+By this time the gentlemen were half dead with cold and fatigue. Seeing
+no immediate danger, they determined to take a few hours’ rest. A
+national guard was left on the terrace as a sentinel, with orders to
+run and inform Roudier if he should perceive any band approaching in
+the distance. Then Granoux and Rougon, quite worn out by the emotions
+of the night, repaired to their homes, which were close together, and
+supported each other on the way.
+
+Félicité put her husband to bed with every care. She called him “poor
+dear,” and repeatedly told him that he ought not to give way to evil
+fancies, and that all would end well. But he shook his head; he felt
+grave apprehensions. She let him sleep till eleven o’clock. Then, after
+he had had something to eat, she gently turned him out of doors, making
+him understand that he must go through with the matter to the end. At
+the town-hall, Rougon found only four members of the Commission in
+attendance; the others had sent excuses, they were really ill. Panic
+had been sweeping through the town with growing violence all through
+the morning. The gentlemen had not been able to keep quiet respecting
+the memorable night they had spent on the terrace of the Valqueyras
+mansion. Their servants had hastened to spread the news, embellishing
+it with various dramatic details. By this time it had already become a
+matter of history that from the heights of Plassans troops of cannibals
+had been seen dancing and devouring their prisoners. Yes, bands of
+witches had circled hand in hand round their caldrons in which they
+were boiling children, while on and on marched endless files of
+bandits, whose weapons glittered in the moonlight. People spoke too of
+bells that of their own accord, sent the tocsin ringing through the
+desolate air, and it was even asserted that the insurgents had fired
+the neighbouring forests, so that the whole country side was in flames.
+
+It was Tuesday, the market-day at Plassans, and Roudier had thought it
+necessary to have the gates opened in order to admit the few peasants
+who had brought vegetables, butter, and eggs. As soon as it had
+assembled, the Municipal Commission, now composed of five members only,
+including its president, declared that this was unpardonable
+imprudence. Although the sentinel stationed at the Valqueyras mansion
+had seen nothing, the town ought to have been kept closed. Then Rougon
+decided that the public crier, accompanied by a drummer, should go
+through the streets, proclaim a state of siege, and announce to the
+inhabitants that whoever might go out would not be allowed to return.
+The gates were officially closed in broad daylight. This measure,
+adopted in order to reassure the inhabitants, raised the scare to its
+highest pitch. And there could scarcely have been a more curious sight
+than that of this little city, thus padlocking and bolting itself up
+beneath the bright sunshine, in the middle of the nineteenth century.
+
+When Plassans had buckled and tightened its belt of dilapidated
+ramparts, when it had bolted itself in like a besieged fortress at the
+approach of an assault, the most terrible anguish passed over the
+mournful houses. At every moment, in the centre of the town, people
+fancied they could hear a discharge of musketry in the Faubourgs. They
+no longer received any news; they were, so to say, at the bottom of a
+cellar, in a walled hole, where they were anxiously awaiting either
+deliverance or the finishing stroke. For the last two days the
+insurgents, who were scouring the country, had cut off all
+communication. Plassans found itself isolated from the rest of France.
+It felt that it was surrounded by a region in open rebellion, where the
+tocsin was ever ringing and the “Marseillaise” was ever roaring like a
+river that has overflowed its banks. Abandoned to its fate and
+shuddering with alarm the town lay there like some prey which would
+prove the reward of the victorious party. The strollers on the Cours
+Sauvaire were ever swaying between fear and hope according as they
+fancied that they could see the blouses of insurgents or the uniforms
+of soldiers at the Grand’-Porte. Never had sub-prefecture, pent within
+tumble-down walls, endured more agonising torture.
+
+Towards two o’clock it was rumoured that the Coup d’État had failed,
+that the prince-president was imprisoned at Vincennes, and that Paris
+was in the hands of the most advanced demagogues. It was reported also
+that Marseilles, Toulon, Draguignan, the entire South, belonged to the
+victorious insurrectionary army. The insurgents would arrive in the
+evening and put Plassans to the sword.
+
+Thereupon a deputation repaired to the town-hall to expostulate with
+the Municipal Commission for closing the gates, whereby they would only
+irritate the insurgents. Rougon, who was losing his head, defended his
+order with all his remaining strength. This locking of the gates seemed
+to him one of the most ingenious acts of his administration; he
+advanced the most convincing arguments in its justification. But the
+others embarrassed him by their questions, asking him where were the
+soldiers, the regiment that he had promised. Then he began to lie, and
+told them flatly that he had promised nothing at all. The
+non-appearance of this legendary regiment, which the inhabitants longed
+for with such eagerness that they had actually dreamt of its arrival,
+was the chief cause of the panic. Well-informed people even named the
+exact spot on the high road where the soldiers had been butchered.
+
+At four o’clock Rougon, followed by Granoux, again repaired to the
+Valqueyras mansion. Small bands, on their way to join the insurgents at
+Orcheres, still passed along in the distance, through the valley of the
+Viorne. Throughout the day urchins climbed the ramparts, and bourgeois
+came to peep through the loopholes. These volunteer sentinels kept up
+the terror by counting the various bands, which were taken for so many
+strong battalions. The timorous population fancied it could see from
+the battlements the preparations for some universal massacre. At dusk,
+as on the previous evening, the panic became yet more chilling.
+
+On returning to the municipal offices Rougon and his inseparable
+companion, Granoux, recognised that the situation was growing
+intolerable. During their absence another member of the Commission had
+disappeared. They were only four now, and they felt they were making
+themselves ridiculous by staying there for hours, looking at each
+other’s pale countenances, and never saying a word. Moreover, they were
+terribly afraid of having to spend a second night on the terrace of the
+Valqueyras mansion.
+
+Rougon gravely declared that as the situation of affairs was unchanged,
+there was no need for them to continue to remain there _en permanence_.
+If anything serious should occur information would be sent to them.
+And, by a decision duly taken in council, he deputed to Roudier the
+carrying on of the administration. Poor Roudier, who remembered that he
+had served as a national guard in Paris under Louis-Philippe, was
+meantime conscientiously keeping watch at the Grand’-Porte.
+
+Rougon went home looking very downcast, and creeping along under the
+shadows of the houses. He felt that Plassans was becoming hostile to
+him. He heard his name bandied about amongst the groups, with
+expressions of anger and contempt. He walked upstairs, reeling and
+perspiring. Félicité received him with speechless consternation. She,
+also, was beginning to despair. Their dreams were being completely
+shattered. They stood silent, face to face, in the yellow drawing-room.
+The day was drawing to a close, a murky winter day which imparted a
+muddy tint to the orange-coloured wall-paper with its large flower
+pattern; never had the room looked more faded, more mean, more shabby.
+And at this hour they were alone; they no longer had a crowd of
+courtiers congratulating them, as on the previous evening. A single day
+had sufficed to topple them over, at the very moment when they were
+singing victory. If the situation did not change on the morrow their
+game would be lost.
+
+Félicité who, when gazing on the previous evening at the ruins of the
+yellow drawing-room, had thought of the plains of Austerlitz, now
+recalled the accursed field of Waterloo as she observed how mournful
+and deserted the place was. Then, as her husband said nothing, she
+mechanically went to the window—that window where she had inhaled with
+delight the incense of the entire town. She perceived numerous groups
+below on the square, but she closed the blinds upon seeing some heads
+turn towards their house, for she feared that she might be hooted. She
+felt quite sure that those people were speaking about them.
+
+Indeed, voices rose through the twilight. A lawyer was clamouring in
+the tone of a triumphant pleader. “That’s just what I said; the
+insurgents left of their own accord, and they won’t ask the permission
+of the forty-one to come back. The forty-one indeed! a fine farce! Why,
+I believe there were at least two hundred.”
+
+“No, indeed,” said a burly trader, an oil-dealer and a great
+politician, “there were probably not even ten. There was no fighting or
+else we should have seen some blood in the morning. I went to the
+town-hall myself to look; the courtyard was as clean as my hand.”
+
+Then a workman, who stepped timidly up to the group, added: “There was
+no need of any violence to seize the building; the door wasn’t even
+shut.”
+
+This remark was received with laughter, and the workman, thus
+encouraged, continued: “As for those Rougons, everybody knows that they
+are a bad lot.”
+
+This insult pierced Félicité to the heart. The ingratitude of the
+people was heartrending to her, for she herself was at last beginning
+to believe in the mission of the Rougons. She called for her husband.
+She wanted him to learn how fickle was the multitude.
+
+“It’s all a piece with their mirror,” continued the lawyer. “What a
+fuss they made about that broken glass! You know that Rougon is quite
+capable of having fired his gun at it just to make believe there had
+been a battle.”
+
+Pierre restrained a cry of pain. What! they did not even believe in his
+mirror now! They would soon assert that he had not heard a bullet whiz
+past his ear. The legend of the Rougons would be blotted out; nothing
+would remain of their glory. But his torture was not at an end yet. The
+groups manifested their hostility as heartily as they had displayed
+their approval on the previous evening. A retired hatter, an old man
+seventy years of age, whose factory had formerly been in the Faubourg,
+ferreted out the Rougons’ past history. He spoke vaguely, with the
+hesitation of a wandering memory, about the Fouques’ property, and
+Adélaïde, and her amours with a smuggler. He said just enough to give a
+fresh start to the gossip. The tattlers drew closer together and such
+words as “rogues,” “thieves,” and “shameless intriguers,” ascended to
+the shutter behind which Pierre and Félicité were perspiring with fear
+and indignation. The people on the square even went so far as to pity
+Macquart. This was the final blow. On the previous day Rougon had been
+a Brutus, a stoic soul sacrificing his own affections to his country;
+now he was nothing but an ambitious villain, who felled his brother to
+the ground and made use of him as a stepping-stone to fortune.
+
+“You hear, you hear them?” Pierre murmured in a stifled voice. “Ah! the
+scoundrels, they are killing us; we shall never retrieve ourselves.”
+
+Félicité, enraged, was beating a tattoo on the shutter with her
+impatient fingers.
+
+“Let them talk,” she answered. “If we get the upper hand again they
+shall see what stuff I’m made of. I know where the blow comes from. The
+new town hates us.”
+
+She guessed rightly. The sudden unpopularity of the Rougons was the
+work of a group of lawyers who were very much annoyed at the importance
+acquired by an old illiterate oil-dealer, whose house had been on the
+verge of bankruptcy. The Saint-Marc quarter had shown no sign of life
+for the last two days. The inhabitants of the old quarter and the new
+town alone remained in presence, and the latter had taken advantage of
+the panic to injure the yellow drawing-room in the minds of the
+tradespeople and working-classes. Roudier and Granoux were said to be
+excellent men, honourable citizens, who had been led away by the
+Rougons’ intrigues. Their eyes ought to be opened to it. Ought not
+Monsieur Isidore Granoux to be seated in the mayor’s arm-chair, in the
+place of that big portly beggar who had not a copper to bless himself
+with? Thus launched, the envious folks began to reproach Rougon for all
+the acts of his administration, which only dated from the previous
+evening. He had no right to retain the services of the former Municipal
+Council; he had been guilty of grave folly in ordering the gates to be
+closed; it was through his stupidity that five members of the
+Commission had contracted inflammation of the lungs on the terrace of
+the Valqueyras mansion. There was no end to his faults. The Republicans
+likewise raised their heads. They talked of the possibility of a sudden
+attack upon the town-hall by the workmen of the Faubourg. The reaction
+was at its last gasp.
+
+Pierre, at this overthrow of all his hopes, began to wonder what
+support he might still rely on if occasion should require any.
+
+“Wasn’t Aristide to come here this evening,” he asked, “to make it up
+with us?”
+
+“Yes,” answered Félicité. “He promised me a good article. The
+‘Indépendant’ has not appeared yet—”
+
+But her husband interrupted her, crying: “See! isn’t that he who is
+just coming out of the Sub-Prefecture?”
+
+The old woman glanced in that direction. “He’s got his arm in a sling
+again!” she cried.
+
+Aristide’s hand was indeed wrapped in the silk handkerchief once more.
+The Empire was breaking up, but the Republic was not yet triumphant,
+and he had judged it prudent to resume the part of a disabled man. He
+crossed the square stealthily, without raising his head. Then doubtless
+hearing some dangerous and compromising remarks among the groups of
+bystanders, he made all haste to turn the corner of the Rue de la
+Banne.
+
+“Bah! he won’t come here,” said Félicité bitterly. “It’s all up with
+us. Even our children forsake us!”
+
+She shut the window violently, in order that she might not see or hear
+anything more. When she had lit the lamp, she and her husband sat down
+to dinner, disheartened and without appetite, leaving most of their
+food on their plates. They only had a few hours left them to take a
+decisive step. It was absolutely indispensable that before daybreak
+Plassans should be at their feet beseeching forgiveness, or else they
+must entirely renounce the fortune which they had dreamed of. The total
+absence of any reliable news was the sole cause of their anxious
+indecision. Félicité, with her clear intellect, had quickly perceived
+this. If they had been able to learn the result of the Coup d’État,
+they would either have faced it out and have still pursued their role
+of deliverers, or else have done what they could to efface all
+recollection of their unlucky campaign. But they had no precise
+information; they were losing their heads; the thought that they were
+thus risking their fortune on a throw, in complete ignorance of what
+was happening, brought a cold perspiration to their brows.
+
+“And why the devil doesn’t Eugène write to me?” Rougon suddenly cried,
+in an outburst of despair, forgetting that he was betraying the secret
+of his correspondence to his wife.
+
+But Félicité pretended not to have heard. Her husband’s exclamation had
+profoundly affected her. Why, indeed, did not Eugène write to his
+father? After keeping him so accurately informed of the progress of the
+Bonapartist cause, he ought at least to have announced the triumph or
+defeat of Prince Louis. Mere prudence would have counselled the
+despatch of such information. If he remained silent, it must be that
+the victorious Republic had sent him to join the pretender in the
+dungeons of Vincennes. At this thought Félicité felt chilled to the
+marrow; her son’s silence destroyed her last hopes.
+
+At that moment somebody brought up the “Gazette,” which had only just
+appeared.
+
+“Ah!” said Pierre, with surprise. “Vuillet has issued his paper!”
+
+Thereupon he tore off the wrapper, read the leading article, and
+finished it looking as white as a sheet, and swaying on his chair.
+
+“Here, read,” he resumed, handing the paper to Félicité.
+
+It was a magnificent article, attacking the insurgents with unheard of
+violence. Never had so much stinging bitterness, so many falsehoods,
+such bigoted abuse flowed from pen before. Vuillet commenced by
+narrating the entry of the insurgents into Plassans. The description
+was a perfect masterpiece. He spoke of “those bandits, those
+villainous-looking countenances, that scum of the galleys,” invading
+the town, “intoxicated with brandy, lust, and pillage.” Then he
+exhibited them “parading their cynicism in the streets, terrifying the
+inhabitants with their savage cries and seeking only violence and
+murder.” Further on, the scene at the town-hall and the arrest of the
+authorities became a most horrible drama. “Then they seized the most
+respectable people by the throat; and the mayor, the brave commander of
+the national guard, the postmaster, that kindly functionary, were—even
+like the Divinity—crowned with thorns by those wretches, who spat in
+their faces.” The passage devoted to Miette and her red pelisse was
+quite a flight of imagination. Vuillet had seen ten, twenty girls
+steeped in blood: “and who,” he wrote, “did not behold among those
+monsters some infamous creatures clothed in red, who must have bathed
+themselves in the blood of the martyrs murdered by the brigands along
+the high roads? They were brandishing banners, and openly receiving the
+vile caresses of the entire horde.” And Vuillet added, with Biblical
+magniloquence, “The Republic ever marches on amidst debauchery and
+murder.”
+
+That, however, was only the first part of the article; the narrative
+being ended, the editor asked if the country would any longer tolerate
+“the shamelessness of those wild beasts, who respected neither property
+nor persons.” He made an appeal to all valorous citizens, declaring
+that to tolerate such things any longer would be to encourage them, and
+that the insurgents would then come and snatch “the daughter from her
+mother’s arms, the wife from her husband’s embraces.” And at last,
+after a pious sentence in which he declared that Heaven willed the
+extermination of the wicked, he concluded with this trumpet blast: “It
+is asserted that these wretches are once more at our gates; well then
+let each one of us take a gun and shoot them down like dogs. I for my
+part shall be seen in the front rank, happy to rid the earth of such
+vermin.”
+
+This article, in which periphrastic abuse was strung together with all
+the heaviness of touch which characterises French provincial
+journalism, quite terrified Rougon, who muttered, as Félicité replaced
+the “Gazette” on the table: “Ah! the wretch! he is giving us the last
+blow; people will believe that I inspired this diatribe.”
+
+“But,” his wife remarked, pensively, “did you not this morning tell me
+that he absolutely refused to write against the Republicans? The news
+that circulated had terrified him, and he was as pale as death, you
+said.”
+
+“Yes! yes! I can’t understand it at all. When I insisted, he went so
+far as to reproach me for not having killed all the insurgents. It was
+yesterday that he ought to have written that article; to-day he’ll get
+us all butchered!”
+
+Félicité was lost in amazement. What could have prompted Vuillet’s
+change of front? The idea of that wretched semi-sacristan carrying a
+musket and firing on the ramparts of Plassans seemed to her one of the
+most ridiculous things imaginable. There was certainly some determining
+cause underlying all this which escaped her. Only one thing seemed
+certain. Vuillet was too impudent in his abuse and too ready with his
+valour, for the insurrectionary band to be really so near the town as
+some people asserted.
+
+“He’s a spiteful fellow, I always said so,” Rougon resumed, after
+reading the article again. “He has only been waiting for an opportunity
+to do us this injury. What a fool I was to leave him in charge of the
+post-office!”
+
+This last sentence proved a flash of light. Félicité started up
+quickly, as though at some sudden thought. Then she put on a cap and
+threw a shawl over her shoulders.
+
+“Where are you going, pray?” her husband asked her with surprise. “It’s
+past nine o’clock.”
+
+“You go to bed,” she replied rather brusquely, “you’re not well; go and
+rest yourself. Sleep on till I come back; I’ll wake you if necessary,
+and then we can talk the matter over.”
+
+She went out with her usual nimble gait, ran to the post-office, and
+abruptly entered the room where Vuillet was still at work. On seeing
+her he made a hasty gesture of vexation.
+
+Never in his life had Vuillet felt so happy. Since he had been able to
+slip his little fingers into the mail-bag he had enjoyed the most
+exquisite pleasure, the pleasure of an inquisitive priest about to
+relish the confessions of his penitents. All the sly blabbing, all the
+vague chatter of sacristies resounded in his ears. He poked his long,
+pale nose into the letters, gazed amorously at the superscriptions with
+his suspicious eyes, sounded the envelopes just like little abbés sound
+the souls of maidens. He experienced endless enjoyment, was titillated
+by the most enticing temptation. The thousand secrets of Plassans lay
+there. He held in his hand the honour of women, the fortunes of men,
+and had only to break a seal to know as much as the grand vicar at the
+cathedral who was the confidant of all the better people of the town.
+Vuillet was one of those terribly bitter, frigid gossips, who worm out
+everything, but never repeat what they hear, except by way of dealing
+somebody a mortal blow. He had, consequently, often longed to dip his
+arms into the public letter-box. Since the previous evening the private
+room at the post-office had become a big confessional full of darkness
+and mystery, in which he tasted exquisite rapture while sniffing at the
+letters which exhaled veiled longings and quivering avowals. Moreover,
+he carried on his work with consummate impudence. The crisis through
+which the country was passing secured him perfect impunity. If some
+letters should be delayed, or others should miscarry altogether, it
+would be the fault of those villainous Republicans who were scouring
+the country and interrupting all communication. The closing of the town
+gates had for a moment vexed him, but he had come to an understanding
+with Roudier, whereby the couriers were allowed to enter and bring the
+mails direct to him without passing by the town-hall.
+
+As a matter of fact he had only opened a few letters, the important
+ones, those in which his keen scent divined some information which it
+would be useful for him to know before anybody else. Then he contented
+himself by locking up in a drawer, for delivery subsequently, such
+letters as might give information and rob him of the merit of his
+valour at a time when the whole town was trembling with fear. This
+pious personage, in selecting the management of the post-office as his
+own share of the spoils, had given proof of singular insight into the
+situation.
+
+When Madame Rougon entered, he was taking his choice of a heap of
+letters and papers, under the pretext, no doubt, of classifying them.
+He rose, with his humble smile, and offered her a seat; his reddened
+eyelids blinking rather uneasily. But Félicité did not sit down; she
+roughly exclaimed: “I want the letter.”
+
+At this Vuillet’s eyes opened widely, with an expression of perfect
+innocence.
+
+“What letter, madame?” he asked.
+
+“The letter you received this morning for my husband. Come, Monsieur
+Vuillet, I’m in a hurry.”
+
+And as he stammered that he did not know, that he had not seen
+anything, that it was very strange, Félicité continued in a covertly
+threatening voice: “A letter from Paris, from my son, Eugène; you know
+what I mean, don’t you? I’ll look for it myself.”
+
+Thereupon she stepped forward as if intending to examine the various
+packets which littered the writing table. But he at once bestirred
+himself, and said he would go and see. The service was necessarily in
+great confusion! Perhaps, indeed, there might be a letter. In that case
+they would find it. But, as far as he was concerned, he swore he had
+not seen any. While he was speaking he moved about the office turning
+over all the papers. Then he opened the drawers and the portfolios.
+Félicité waited, quite calm and collected.
+
+“Yes, indeed, you’re right, here’s a letter for you,” he cried at last,
+as he took a few papers from a portfolio. “Ah! those confounded clerks,
+they take advantage of the situation to do nothing in the proper way.”
+
+Félicité took the letter and examined the seal attentively, apparently
+quite regardless of the fact that such scrutiny might wound Vuillet’s
+susceptibilities. She clearly perceived that the envelope must have
+been opened; the bookseller, in his unskilful way, had used some
+sealing wax of a darker colour to secure it again. She took care to
+open the envelope in such a manner as to preserve the seal intact, so
+that it might serve as proof of this. Then she read the note. Eugène
+briefly announced the complete success of the Coup d’État. Paris was
+subdued, the provinces generally speaking remained quiet, and he
+counselled his parents to maintain a very firm attitude in face of the
+partial insurrection which was disturbing the South. In conclusion he
+told them that the foundation of their fortune was laid, if they did
+not weaken.
+
+Madame Rougon put the letter in her pocket, and sat down slowly,
+looking into Vuillet’s face. The latter had resumed his sorting in a
+feverish manner, as though he were very busy.
+
+“Listen to me, Monsieur Vuillet,” she said to him. And when he raised
+his head: “let us play our cards openly; you do wrong to betray us;
+some misfortune may befall you. If, instead of unsealing our letters—”
+
+At this he protested, and feigned great indignation. But she calmly
+continued: “I know, I know your school, you never confess. Come, don’t
+let us waste any more words, what interest have you in favouring the
+Coup d’État?”
+
+And, as he continued to assert his perfect honesty, she at last lost
+patience. “You take me for a fool!” she cried. “I’ve read your article.
+You would do much better to act in concert with us.”
+
+Thereupon, without avowing anything, he flatly submitted that he wished
+to have the custom of the college. Formerly it was he who had supplied
+that establishment with school books. But it had become known that he
+sold objectionable literature clandestinely to the pupils; for which
+reason, indeed, he had almost been prosecuted at the Correctional
+Police Court. Since then he had jealously longed to be received back
+into the good graces of the directors.
+
+Félicité was surprised at the modesty of his ambition, and told him so.
+To open letters and risk the galleys just for the sake of selling a few
+dictionaries and grammars!
+
+“Eh!” he exclaimed in a shrill voice, “it’s an assured sale of four or
+five thousand francs a year. I don’t aspire to impossibilities like
+some people.”
+
+She did not take any notice of his last taunting words. No more was
+said about his opening the letters. A treaty of alliance was concluded,
+by which Vuillet engaged that he would not circulate any news or take
+any step in advance, on condition that the Rougons should secure him
+the custom of the college. As she was leaving, Félicité advised him not
+to compromise himself any further. It would be sufficient for him to
+detain the letters and distribute them only on the second day.
+
+“What a knave,” she muttered, when she reached the street, forgetting
+that she herself had just laid an interdict upon the mail.
+
+She went home slowly, wrapped in thought. She even went out of her way,
+passing along the Cours Sauvaire, as if to gain time and ease for
+reflection before going in. Under the trees of the promenade she met
+Monsieur de Carnavant, who was taking advantage of the darkness to
+ferret about the town without compromising himself. The clergy of
+Plassans, to whom all energetic action was distasteful, had, since the
+announcement of the Coup d’État, preserved absolute neutrality. In the
+priests’ opinion the Empire was virtually established, and they awaited
+an opportunity to resume in some new direction their secular intrigues.
+The marquis, who had now become a useless agent, remained only
+inquisitive on one point—he wished to know how the turmoil would
+finish, and in what manner the Rougons would play their role to the
+end.
+
+“Oh! it’s you, little one!” he exclaimed, as soon as he recognized
+Félicité. “I wanted to see you; your affairs are getting muddled!”
+
+“Oh, no; everything is going on all right,” she replied, in an
+absent-minded way.
+
+“So much the better. You’ll tell me all about it, won’t you? Ah! I must
+confess that I gave your husband and his colleagues a terrible fright
+the other night. You should have seen how comical they looked on the
+terrace, while I was pointing out a band of insurgents in every cluster
+of trees in the valley! You forgive me?”
+
+“I’m much obliged to you,” said Félicité quickly. “You should have made
+them die of fright. My husband is a big sly-boots. Come and see me some
+morning, when I am alone.”
+
+Then she turned away, as though this meeting with the marquis had
+determined her. From head to foot the whole of her little person
+betokened implacable resolution. At last she was going to revenge
+herself on Pierre for his petty mysteries, have him under her heel, and
+secure, once for all, her omnipotence at home. There would be a fine
+scene, quite a comedy, indeed, the points of which she was already
+enjoying in anticipation, while she worked out her plan with all the
+spitefulness of an injured woman.
+
+She found Pierre in bed, sleeping heavily; she brought the candle near
+him for an instant, and gazed with an air of compassion, at his big
+face, across which slight twitches occasionally passed; then she sat
+down at the head of the bed, took off her cap, let her hair fall loose,
+assumed the appearance of one in despair, and began to sob quite
+loudly.
+
+“Hallo! What’s the matter? What are you crying for?” asked Pierre,
+suddenly awaking.
+
+She did not reply, but cried more bitterly.
+
+“Come, come, do answer,” continued her husband, frightened by this mute
+despair. “Where have you been? Have you seen the insurgents?”
+
+She shook her head; then, in a faint voice, she said: “I’ve just come
+from the Valqueyras mansion. I wanted to ask Monsieur de Carnavant’s
+advice. Ah! my dear, all is lost.”
+
+Pierre sat up in bed, very pale. His bull neck, which his unbuttoned
+night-shirt exposed to view, all his soft, flabby flesh seemed to swell
+with terror. At last he sank back, pale and tearful, looking like some
+grotesque Chinese figure in the middle of the untidy bed.
+
+“The marquis,” continued Félicité, “thinks that Prince Louis has
+succumbed. We are ruined; we shall never get a sou.”
+
+Thereupon, as often happens with cowards, Pierre flew into a passion.
+It was the marquis’s fault, it was his wife’s fault, the fault of all
+his family. Had he ever thought of politics at all, until Monsieur de
+Carnavant and Félicité had driven him to that tomfoolery?
+
+“I wash my hands of it altogether,” he cried. “It’s you two who are
+responsible for the blunder. Wasn’t it better to go on living on our
+little savings in peace and quietness? But then, you were always
+determined to have your own way! You see what it has brought us to.”
+
+He was losing his head completely, and forgot that he had shown himself
+as eager as his wife. However, his only desire now was to vent his
+anger, by laying the blame of his ruin upon others.
+
+“And, moreover,” he continued, “could we ever have succeeded with
+children like ours? Eugène abandons us just at the critical moment;
+Aristide has dragged us through the mire, and even that big simpleton
+Pascal is compromising us by his philanthropic practising among the
+insurgents. And to think that we brought ourselves to poverty simply to
+give them a university education!”
+
+Then, as he drew breath, Félicité said to him softly: “You are
+forgetting Macquart.”
+
+“Ah! yes; I was forgetting him,” he resumed more violently than ever;
+“there’s another whom I can’t think of without losing all patience! But
+that’s not all; you know little Silvère. Well, I saw him at my mother’s
+the other evening with his hands covered with blood. He has put some
+gendarme’s eye out. I did not tell you of it, as I didn’t want to
+frighten you. But you’ll see one of my nephews in the Assize Court. Ah!
+what a family! As for Macquart, he has annoyed us to such an extent
+that I felt inclined to break his head for him the other day when I had
+a gun in my hand. Yes, I had a mind to do it.”
+
+Félicité let the storm pass over. She had received her husband’s
+reproaches with angelic sweetness, bowing her head like a culprit,
+whereby she was able to smile in her sleeve. Her demeanour provoked and
+maddened Pierre. When speech failed the poor man, she heaved deep
+sighs, feigning repentance; and then she repeated, in a disconsolate
+voice: “Whatever shall we do! Whatever shall we do! We are over head
+and ears in debt.”
+
+“It’s your fault!” Pierre cried, with all his remaining strength.
+
+The Rougons, in fact, owed money on every side. The hope of approaching
+success had made them forget all prudence. Since the beginning of 1851
+they had gone so far as to entertain the frequenters of the yellow
+drawing-room every evening with syrup and punch, and cakes—providing,
+in fact, complete collations, at which they one and all drank to the
+death of the Republic. Besides this, Pierre had placed a quarter of his
+capital at the disposal of the reactionary party, as a contribution
+towards the purchase of guns and cartridges.
+
+“The pastry-cook’s bill amounts to at least a thousand francs,”
+Félicité resumed, in her sweetest tone, “and we probably owe twice as
+much to the liqueur-dealer. Then there’s the butcher, the baker, the
+greengrocer——”
+
+Pierre was in agony. And Félicité struck him a final blow by adding: “I
+say nothing of the ten thousand francs you gave for the guns.”
+
+“I, I!” he faltered, “but I was deceived, I was robbed! It was that
+idiot Sicardot who let me in for that by swearing that the Napoleonists
+would be triumphant. I thought I was only making an advance. But the
+old dolt will have to repay me my money.”
+
+“Ah! you won’t get anything back,” said his wife, shrugging her
+shoulders. “We shall suffer the fate of war. When we have paid off
+everything, we sha’n’t even have enough to buy dry bread with. Ah! it’s
+been a fine campaign. We can now go and live in some hovel in the old
+quarter.”
+
+This last phrase had a most lugubrious sound. It seemed like the knell
+of their existence. Pierre pictured the hovel in the old quarter, which
+had just been mentioned by Félicité. ‘Twas there, then, that he would
+die on a pallet, after striving all his life for the enjoyment of ease
+and luxury. In vain had he robbed his mother, steeped his hands in the
+foulest intrigues, and lied and lied for many a long year. The Empire
+would not pay his debts—that Empire which alone could save him. He
+jumped out of bed in his night-shirt, crying: “No; I’ll take my gun; I
+would rather let the insurgents kill me.”
+
+“Well!” Félicité rejoined, with great composure, “you can have that
+done to-morrow or the day after; the Republicans are not far off. And
+that way will do as well as another to make an end of matters.”
+
+Pierre shuddered. It seemed as if some one had suddenly poured a large
+pail of cold water over his shoulders. He slowly got into bed again,
+and when he was warmly wrapped up in the sheets, he began to cry. This
+fat fellow easily burst into tears—gently flowing, inexhaustible
+tears—which streamed from his eyes without an effort. A terrible
+reaction was now going on within him. After his wrath he became as weak
+as a child. Félicité, who had been waiting for this crisis, was
+delighted to see him so spiritless, so resourceless, and so humbled
+before her. She still preserved silence, and an appearance of
+distressed humility. After a long pause, her seeming resignation, her
+mute dejection, irritated Pierre’s nerves.
+
+“But do say something!” he implored; “let us think matters over
+together. Is there really no hope left us?”
+
+“None, you know very well,” she replied; “you explained the situation
+yourself just now; we have no help to expect from anyone; even our
+children have betrayed us.”
+
+“Let us flee, then. Shall we leave Plassans to-night—immediately?”
+
+“Flee! Why, my dear, to-morrow we should be the talk of the whole town.
+Don’t you remember, too, that you have had the gates closed?”
+
+A violent struggle was going on in Pierre’s mind, which he exerted to
+the utmost in seeking for some solution; at last, as though he felt
+vanquished, he murmured, in supplicating tones: “I beseech you, do try
+to think of something; you haven’t said anything yet.”
+
+Félicité raised her head, feigning surprise; and with a gesture of
+complete powerlessness she said: “I am a fool in these matters. I don’t
+understand anything about politics, you’ve told me so a hundred times.”
+
+And then, as her embarrassed husband held his tongue and lowered his
+eyes, she continued slowly, but not reproachfully: “You have not kept
+me informed of your affairs, have you? I know nothing at all about
+them, I can’t even give you any advice. It was quite right of you,
+though; women chatter sometimes, and it is a thousand times better for
+the men to steer the ship alone.”
+
+She said this with such refined irony that her husband did not detect
+that she was deriding him. He simply felt profound remorse. And, all of
+a sudden, he burst out into a confession. He spoke of Eugène’s letters,
+explained his plans, his conduct, with all the loquacity of a man who
+is relieving his conscience and imploring a saviour. At every moment he
+broke off to ask: “What would you have done in my place?” or else he
+cried, “Isn’t that so? I was right, I could not act otherwise.” But
+Félicité did not even deign to make a sign. She listened with all the
+frigid reserve of a judge. In reality she was tasting the most
+exquisite pleasure; she had got that sly-boots fast at last; she played
+with him like a cat playing with a ball of paper; and he virtually held
+out his hands to be manacled by her.
+
+“But wait,” he said hastily, jumping out of bed. “I’ll give you
+Eugène’s correspondence to read. You can judge the situation better
+then.”
+
+She vainly tried to hold him back by his night-shirt. He spread out the
+letters on the table by the bed-side, and then got into bed again, and
+read whole pages of them, and compelled her to go through them herself.
+She suppressed a smile, and began to feel some pity for the poor man.
+
+“Well,” he said anxiously, when he had finished, “now you know
+everything. Do you see any means of saving us from ruin!”
+
+She still gave no answer. She appeared to be pondering deeply.
+
+“You are an intelligent woman,” he continued, in order to flatter her,
+“I did wrong in keeping any secret from you; I see it now.”
+
+“Let us say nothing more about that,” she replied. “In my opinion, if
+you had enough courage——” And as he looked at her eagerly, she broke
+off and said, with a smile: “But you promise not to distrust me any
+more? You will tell me everything, eh? You will do nothing without
+consulting me?”
+
+He swore, and accepted the most rigid conditions. Félicité then got
+into bed; and in a whisper, as if she feared somebody might hear them,
+she explained at length her plan of campaign. In her opinion the town
+must be allowed to fall into still greater panic, while Pierre was to
+maintain an heroic demeanour in the midst of the terrified inhabitants.
+A secret presentiment, she said, warned her that the insurgents were
+still at a distance. Moreover, the party of order would sooner or later
+carry the day, and the Rougons would be rewarded. After the role of
+deliverer, that of martyr was not to be despised. And she argued so
+well, and spoke with so much conviction, that her husband, surprised at
+first by the simplicity of her plan, which consisted in facing it out,
+at last detected in it a marvellous tactical scheme, and promised to
+conform to it with the greatest possible courage.
+
+“And don’t forget that it is I who am saving you,” the old woman
+murmured in a coaxing tone. “Will you be nice to me?”
+
+They kissed each other and said good-night. But neither of them slept;
+after a quarter of an hour had gone by, Pierre, who had been gazing at
+the round reflection of the night-lamp on the ceiling, turned, and in a
+faint whisper told his wife of an idea that had just occurred to him.
+
+“Oh! no, no,” Félicité murmured, with a shudder. “That would be too
+cruel.”
+
+“Well,” he resumed, “but you want to spread consternation among the
+inhabitants! They would take me seriously, if what I told you should
+occur.” Then perfecting his scheme, he cried: “We might employ
+Macquart. That would be a means of getting rid of him.”
+
+Félicité seemed to be struck with the idea. She reflected, seemed to
+hesitate, and then, in a distressful tone faltered: “Perhaps you are
+right. We must see. After all we should be very stupid if we were
+over-scrupulous, for it’s a matter of life and death to us. Let me do
+it. I’ll see Macquart to-morrow, and ascertain if we can come to an
+understanding with him. You would only wrangle and spoil all.
+Good-night; sleep well, my poor dear. Our troubles will soon be ended,
+you’ll see.”
+
+They again kissed each other and fell asleep. The patch of light on the
+ceiling now seemed to be assuming the shape of a terrified eye, that
+stared wildly and fixedly upon the pale, slumbering couple who reeked
+with crime beneath their very sheets, and dreamt they could see a rain
+of blood falling in big drops which turned into golden coins as they
+plashed upon the floor.
+
+On the morrow, before daylight, Félicité repaired to the town-hall,
+armed with instructions from Pierre to seek an interview with Macquart.
+She took her husband’s national guard uniform with her, wrapped in a
+cloth. There were only a few men fast asleep in the guard-house. The
+doorkeeper, who was entrusted with the duty of supplying Macquart with
+food, went upstairs with her to open the door of the dressing-room,
+which had been turned into a cell. Then quietly he came down again.
+
+Macquart had now been kept in the room for two days and two nights. He
+had had time to indulge in lengthy reflections. After his sleep, his
+first hours had been given up to outbursts of impotent rage. Goaded by
+the idea that his brother was lording it in the adjoining room, he had
+felt a great longing to break the door open. At all events he would
+strangle Rougon with his own hands, as soon as the insurgents should
+return and release him. But, in the evening, at twilight, he calmed
+down, and gave over striding furiously round the little room. He
+inhaled a sweet odour there; a feeling of comfort relaxed his nerves.
+Monsieur Garconnet, who was very rich, refined, and vain, had caused
+this little room to be arranged in a very elegant fashion; the sofa was
+soft and warm; scents, pomades, and soaps adorned the marble washstand,
+and the pale light fell from the ceiling with a soft glow, like the
+gleams of a lamp suspended in an alcove. Macquart, amidst this perfumed
+soporific atmosphere fell asleep, thinking that those scoundrels, the
+rich, “were very fortunate, all the same.” He had covered himself with
+a blanket which had been given to him, and with his head and back and
+arms reposing on the cushions, he stretched himself out on the couch
+until morning. When he opened his eyes, a ray of sunshine was gliding
+through the opening above. Still he did not leave the sofa. He felt
+warm, and lay thinking as he gazed around him. He bethought himself
+that he would never again have such a place to wash in. The washstand
+particularly interested him. It was by no means hard, he thought, to
+keep oneself spruce when one had so many little pots and phials at
+one’s disposal. This made him think bitterly of his own life of
+privation. The idea occurred to him that perhaps he had been on the
+wrong track. There is nothing to be gained by associating with beggars.
+He ought to have played the scamp; he should have acted in concert with
+the Rougons.
+
+Then, however, he rejected this idea. The Rougons were villains who had
+robbed him. But the warmth and softness of the sofa, continued to work
+upon his feelings, and fill him with vague regrets. After all, the
+insurgents were abandoning him, and allowing themselves to be beaten
+like idiots. Eventually he came to the conclusion that the Republic was
+mere dupery. Those Rougons were lucky! And he recalled his own bootless
+wickedness and underhand intrigues. Not one member of the family had
+ever been on his side; neither Aristide, nor Silvère’s brother, nor
+Silvère himself, who was a fool to grow so enthusiastic about the
+Republic and would never do any good for himself. Then Macquart
+reflected that his wife was dead, that his children had left him, and
+that he would die alone, like a dog in some wretched corner, without a
+copper to bless himself with. Decidedly, he ought to have sold himself
+to the reactionary party. Pondering in this fashion, he eyed the
+washstand, feeling a strong inclination to go and wash his hands with a
+certain powder soap which he saw in a glass jar. Like all lazy fellows
+who live upon their wives or children, he had foppish tastes. Although
+he wore patched trousers, he liked to inundate himself with aromatic
+oil. He spent hours with his barber, who talked politics, and brushed
+his hair for him between their discussions. So, at last, the temptation
+became too strong, and Macquart installed himself before the washstand.
+He washed his hands and face, dressed his hair, perfumed himself, in
+fact went through a complete toilet. He made use in turn of all the
+bottles, all the various soaps and powders; but his greatest pleasure
+was to dry his hands with the mayor’s towels, which were so soft and
+thick. He buried his wet face in them, and inhaled, with delight, all
+the odour of wealth. Then, having pomaded himself, and smelling sweetly
+from head to foot, he once more stretched himself on the sofa, feeling
+quite youthful again, and disposed to the most conciliatory thoughts.
+He felt yet greater contempt for the Republic since he had dipped his
+nose into Monsieur Garconnet’s phials. The idea occurred to him that
+there was, perhaps, still time for him to make peace with his brother.
+He wondered what he might well ask in return for playing the traitor.
+His rancour against the Rougons still gnawed at his heart; but he was
+in one of those moods when, lying on one’s back in silence, one is apt
+to admit stern facts, and scold oneself for neglecting to feather a
+comfortable nest in which one may wallow in slothful ease, even at the
+cost of relinquishing one’s most cherished animosities. Towards evening
+Antoine determined to send for his brother on the following day. But
+when, in the morning, he saw Félicité enter the room he understood that
+his aid was wanted, so he remained on his guard.
+
+The negotiations were long and full of pitfalls, being conducted on
+either side with infinite skill. At first they both indulged in vague
+complaints, then Félicité, who was surprised to find Macquart almost
+polite, after the violent manner in which he had behaved at her house
+on the Sunday evening, assumed a tone of gentle reproach. She deplored
+the hatred which severed their families. But, in truth, he had so
+calumniated his brother, and manifested such bitter animosity towards
+him, that he had made poor Rougon quite lose his head.
+
+“But, dash it, my brother has never behaved like a brother to me,”
+Macquart replied, with restrained violence. “Has he ever given me any
+assistance? He would have let me die in my hovel! When he behaved
+differently towards me—you remember, at the time he gave me two hundred
+francs—I am sure no one can reproach me with having said a single
+unpleasant word about him. I said everywhere that he was a very
+good-hearted fellow.”
+
+This clearly signified: “If you had continued to supply me with money,
+I should have been very pleasant towards you, and would have helped
+you, instead of fighting against you. It’s your own fault. You ought to
+have bought me.”
+
+Félicité understood this so well that she replied: “I know you have
+accused us of being hard upon you, because you imagine we are in
+comfortable circumstances; but you are mistaken, my dear brother; we
+are poor people; we have never been able to act towards you as our
+hearts would have desired.” She hesitated a moment, and then continued:
+“If it were absolutely necessary in some serious contingency, we might
+perhaps be able to make a sacrifice; but, truly, we are very poor, very
+poor!”
+
+Macquart pricked up his ears. “I have them!” he thought. Then, without
+appearing to understand his sister-in-law’s indirect offer, he detailed
+the wretchedness of his life in a doleful manner, and spoke of his
+wife’s death and his children’s flight. Félicité, on her side, referred
+to the crisis through which the country was passing, and declared that
+the Republic had completely ruined them. Then from word to word she
+began to bemoan the exigencies of a situation which compelled one
+brother to imprison another. How their hearts would bleed if justice
+refused to release its prey! And finally she let slip the word
+“galleys!”
+
+“Bah! I defy you,” said Macquart calmly.
+
+But she hastily exclaimed: “Oh! I would rather redeem the honour of the
+family with my own blood. I tell you all this to show you that we shall
+not abandon you. I have come to give you the means of effecting your
+escape, my dear Antoine.”
+
+They gazed at each other for a moment, sounding each other with a look,
+before engaging in the contest.
+
+“Unconditionally?” he asked, at length.
+
+“Without any condition,” she replied.
+
+Then she sat down beside him on the sofa, and continued, in a
+determined voice: “And even, before crossing the frontier, if you want
+to earn a thousand-franc note, I can put you in the way of doing so.”
+
+There was another pause.
+
+“If it’s all above board I shall have no objection,” Antoine muttered,
+apparently reflecting. “You know I don’t want to mix myself up with
+your underhand dealings.”
+
+“But there are no underhand dealings about it,” Félicité resumed,
+smiling at the old rascal’s scruples. “Nothing can be more simple: you
+will presently leave this room, and go and conceal yourself in your
+mother’s house, and this evening you can assemble your friends and come
+and seize the town-hall again.”
+
+Macquart did not conceal his extreme surprise. He did not understand it
+at all.
+
+“I thought,” he said, “that you were victorious.”
+
+“Oh! I haven’t got time now to tell you all about it,” the old woman
+replied, somewhat impatiently. “Do you accept or not?”
+
+“Well, no; I don’t accept—I want to think it over. It would be very
+stupid of me to risk a possible fortune for a thousand francs.”
+
+Félicité rose. “Just as you like my dear fellow,” she said, coldly.
+“You don’t seem to realise the position you are in. You came to my
+house and treated me as though I were a mere outcast; and then, when I
+am kind enough to hold out a hand to you in the hole into which you
+have stupidly let yourself fall, you stand on ceremony, and refuse to
+be rescued. Well, then, stay here, wait till the authorities come back.
+As for me, I wash my hands of the whole business.”
+
+With these words she reached the door.
+
+“But give me some explanations,” he implored. “I can’t strike a bargain
+with you in perfect ignorance of everything. For two days past I have
+been quite in the dark as to what’s going on. How do I know that you
+are not cheating me?”
+
+“Bah! you’re a simpleton,” replied Félicité, who had retraced her steps
+at Antoine’s doleful appeal. “You are very foolish not to trust
+yourself implicitly to us. A thousand francs! That’s a fine sum, a sum
+that one would only risk in a winning cause. I advise you to accept.”
+
+He still hesitated.
+
+“But when we want to seize the place, shall we be allowed to enter
+quietly?”
+
+“Ah! I don’t know,” she said, with a smile. “There will perhaps be a
+shot or two fired.”
+
+He looked at her fixedly.
+
+“Well, but I say, little woman,” he resumed in a hoarse voice, “you
+don’t intend, do you, to have a bullet lodged in my head?”
+
+Félicité blushed. She was, in fact, just thinking that they would be
+rendered a great service, if, during the attack on the town-hall, a
+bullet should rid them of Antoine. It would be a gain of a thousand
+francs, besides all the rest. So she muttered with irritation: “What an
+idea! Really, it’s abominable to think such things!”
+
+Then, suddenly calming down, she added:
+
+“Do you accept? You understand now, don’t you?”
+
+Macquart had understood perfectly. It was an ambush that they were
+proposing to him. He did not perceive the reasons or the consequences
+of it, and this was what induced him to haggle. After speaking of the
+Republic as though it were a mistress whom, to his great grief, he
+could no longer love, he recapitulated the risks which he would have to
+run, and finished by asking for two thousand francs. But Félicité
+abided by her original offer. They debated the matter until she
+promised to procure him, on his return to France, some post in which he
+would have nothing to do, and which would pay him well. The bargain was
+then concluded. She made him don the uniform she had brought with her.
+He was to betake himself quietly to aunt Dide’s, and afterwards,
+towards midnight, assemble all the Republicans he could in the
+neighbourhood of the town-hall, telling them that the municipal offices
+were unguarded, and that they had only to push open the door to take
+possession of them. Antoine then asked for earnest money, and received
+two hundred francs. Félicité undertook to pay the remaining eight
+hundred on the following day. The Rougons were risking the last sum
+they had at their disposal.
+
+When Félicité had gone downstairs, she remained on the square for a
+moment to watch Macquart go out. He passed the guard-house, quietly
+blowing his nose. He had previously broken the skylight in the
+dressing-room, to make it appear that he had escaped that way.
+
+“It’s all arranged,” Félicité said to her husband, when she returned
+home. “It will be at midnight. It doesn’t matter to me at all now. I
+should like to see them all shot. How they slandered us yesterday in
+the street!”
+
+“It was rather silly of you to hesitate,” replied Pierre, who was
+shaving. “Every one would do the same in our place.”
+
+That morning—it was a Wednesday—he was particularly careful about his
+toilet. His wife combed his hair and tied his cravat, turning him about
+like a child going to a distribution of prizes. And when he was ready,
+she examined him, declared that he looked very nice, and that he would
+make a very good figure in the midst of the serious events that were
+preparing. His big pale face wore an expression of grave dignity and
+heroic determination. She accompanied him to the first landing, giving
+him her last advice: he was not to depart in any way from his
+courageous demeanour, however great the panic might be; he was to have
+the gates closed more hermetically than ever, and leave the town in
+agonies of terror within its ramparts; it would be all the better if he
+were to appear the only one willing to die for the cause of order.
+
+What a day it was! The Rougons still speak of it as of a glorious and
+decisive battle. Pierre went straight to the town-hall, heedless of the
+looks or words that greeted him on his way. He installed himself there
+in magisterial fashion, like a man who did not intend to quit the
+place, whatever might happen. And he simply sent a note to Roudier, to
+advise him that he was resuming authority.
+
+“Keep watch at the gates,” he added, knowing that these lines might
+become public: “I myself will watch over the town and ensure the
+security of life and property. It is at the moment when evil passions
+reappear and threaten to prevail that good citizens should endeavour to
+stifle them, even at the peril of their lives.” The style, and the very
+errors in spelling, made this note—the brevity of which suggested the
+laconic style of the ancients—appear all the more heroic. Not one of
+the gentlemen of the Provisional Commission put in an appearance. The
+last two who had hitherto remained faithful, and Granoux himself, even,
+prudently stopped at home. Thus Rougon was the only member of the
+Commission who remained at his post, in his presidential arm-chair, all
+the others having vanished as the panic increased. He did not even
+deign to issue an order summoning them to attend. He was there, and
+that sufficed, a sublime spectacle, which a local journal depicted
+later on in a sentence: “Courage giving the hand to duty.”
+
+During the whole morning Pierre was seen animating the town-hall with
+his goings and comings. He was absolutely alone in the large, empty
+building, whose lofty halls reechoed with the noise of his heels. All
+the doors were left open. He made an ostentatious show of his
+presidency over a non-existent council in the midst of this desert, and
+appeared so deeply impressed with the responsibility of his mission
+that the doorkeeper, meeting him two or three times in the passages,
+bowed to him with an air of mingled surprise and respect. He was seen,
+too, at every window, and, in spite of the bitter cold, he appeared
+several times on the balcony with bundles of papers in his hand, like a
+busy man attending to important despatches.
+
+Then, towards noon, he passed through the town and visited the
+guard-houses, speaking of a possible attack, and letting it be
+understood, that the insurgents were not far off; but he relied, he
+said, on the courage of the brave national guards. If necessary they
+must be ready to die to the last man for the defence of the good cause.
+When he returned from this round, slowly and solemnly, after the manner
+of a hero who has set the affairs of his country in order, and now only
+awaits death, he observed signs of perfect stupor along his path; the
+people promenading in the Cours, the incorrigible little householders,
+whom no catastrophe would have prevented from coming at certain hours
+to bask in the sun, looked at him in amazement, as if they did not
+recognize him, and could not believe that one of their own set, a
+former oil-dealer, should have the boldness to face a whole army.
+
+In the town the anxiety was at its height. The insurrectionists were
+expected every moment. The rumour of Macquart’s escape was commented
+upon in a most alarming manner. It was asserted that he had been
+rescued by his friends, the Reds, and that he was only waiting for
+nighttime in order to fall upon the inhabitants and set fire to the
+four corners of the town. Plassans, closed in and terror-stricken,
+gnawing at its own vitals within its prison-like walls, no longer knew
+what to imagine in order to frighten itself. The Republicans, in the
+face of Rougon’s bold demeanour, felt for a moment distrustful. As for
+the new town—the lawyers and retired tradespeople who had denounced the
+yellow drawing-room on the previous evening—they were so surprised that
+they dared not again openly attack such a valiant man. They contented
+themselves with saying “It was madness to brave victorious insurgents
+like that, and such useless heroism would bring the greatest
+misfortunes upon Plassans.” Then, at about three o’clock, they
+organised a deputation. Pierre, though he was burning with desire to
+make a display of his devotion before his fellow-citizens, had not
+ventured to reckon upon such a fine opportunity.
+
+He spoke sublimely. It was in the mayor’s private room that the
+president of the Provisional Commission received the deputation from
+the new town. The gentlemen of the deputation, after paying homage to
+his patriotism, besought him to forego all resistance. But he, in a
+loud voice, talked of duty, of his country, of order, of liberty, and
+various other things. Moreover, he did not wish to compel any one to
+imitate him; he was simply discharging a duty which his conscience and
+his heart dictated to him.
+
+“You see, gentlemen, I am alone,” he said in conclusion. “I will take
+all the responsibility, so that nobody but myself may be compromised.
+And if a victim is required I willingly offer myself; I wish to
+sacrifice my own life for the safety of the inhabitants.”
+
+A notary, the wiseacre of the party, remarked that he was running to
+certain death.
+
+“I know it,” he resumed solemnly. “I am prepared!”
+
+The gentlemen looked at each other. Those words “I am prepared!” filled
+them with admiration. Decidedly this man was a brave fellow. The notary
+implored him to call in the aid of the gendarmes; but he replied that
+the blood of those brave soldiers was precious, and he would not have
+it shed, except in the last extremity. The deputation slowly withdrew,
+feeling deeply moved. An hour afterwards, Plassans was speaking of
+Rougon as of a hero; the most cowardly called him “an old fool.”
+
+Towards evening, Rougon was much surprised to see Granoux hasten to
+him. The old almond-dealer threw himself in his arms, calling him
+“great man,” and declaring that he would die with him. The words “I am
+prepared!” which had just been reported to him by his maid-servant, who
+had heard it at the greengrocer’s, had made him quite enthusiastic.
+There was charming naivete in the nature of this grotesque, timorous
+old man. Pierre kept him with him, thinking that he would not be of
+much consequence. He was even touched by the poor fellow’s devotion,
+and resolved to have him publicly complimented by the prefect, in order
+to rouse the envy of the other citizens who had so cowardly abandoned
+him. And so both of them awaited the night in the deserted building.
+
+At the same time Aristide was striding about at home in an uneasy
+manner. Vuillet’s article had astonished him. His father’s demeanour
+stupefied him. He had just caught sight of him at the window, in a
+white cravat and black frock-coat, so calm at the approach of danger
+that all his ideas were upset. Yet the insurgents were coming back
+triumphant, that was the belief of the whole town. But Aristide felt
+some doubts on the point; he had suspicions of some lugubrious farce.
+As he did not dare to present himself at his parents’ house, he sent
+his wife thither. And when Angèle returned, she said to him, in her
+drawling voice: “Your mother expects you; she is not angry at all, she
+seems rather to be making fun of you. She told me several times that
+you could just put your sling back in your pocket.”
+
+Aristide felt terribly vexed. However, he ran to the Rue de la Banne,
+prepared to make the most humble submission. His mother was content to
+receive him with scornful laughter. “Ah! my poor fellow,” said she,
+“you’re certainly not very shrewd.”
+
+“But what can one do in a hole like Plassans!” he angrily retorted. “On
+my word of honour, I am becoming a fool here. No news, and everybody
+shivering! That’s what it is to be shut up in these villainous
+ramparts. Ah! If I had only been able to follow Eugène to Paris!”
+
+Then, seeing that his mother was still smiling, he added bitterly: “You
+haven’t been very kind to me, mother. I know many things, I do. My
+brother kept you informed of what was going on, and you have never
+given me the faintest hint that might have been useful to me.”
+
+“You know that, do you?” exclaimed Félicité, becoming serious and
+distrustful. “Well, you’re not so foolish as I thought, then. Do you
+open letters like some one of my acquaintance?”
+
+“No; but I listen at doors,” Aristide replied, with great assurance.
+
+This frankness did not displease the old woman. She began to smile
+again, and asked more softly: “Well, then, you blockhead, how is it you
+didn’t rally to us sooner?”
+
+“Ah! that’s where it is,” the young man said, with some embarrassment.
+“I didn’t have much confidence in you. You received such idiots: my
+father-in-law, Granoux, and the others!—And then, I didn’t want to go
+too far. . . .” He hesitated, and then resumed, with some uneasiness:
+“To-day you are at least quite sure of the success of the Coup d’État,
+aren’t you?”
+
+“I!” cried Félicité, wounded by her son’s doubts; “no, I’m not sure of
+anything.”
+
+“And yet you sent word to say that I was to take off my sling!”
+
+“Yes; because all the gentlemen are laughing at you.”
+
+Aristide remained stock still, apparently contemplating one of the
+flowers of the orange-coloured wall-paper. And his mother felt sudden
+impatience as she saw him hesitating thus.
+
+“Ah! well,” she said, “I’ve come back again to my former opinion;
+you’re not very shrewd. And you think you ought to have had Eugène’s
+letters to read? Why, my poor fellow you would have spoilt everything,
+with your perpetual vacillation. You never can make up your mind. You
+are hesitating now.”
+
+“I hesitate?” he interrupted, giving his mother a cold, keen glance.
+“Ah! well, you don’t know me. I would set the whole town on fire if it
+were necessary, and I wanted to warm my feet. But, understand me, I’ve
+no desire to take the wrong road! I’m tired of eating hard bread, and I
+hope to play fortune a trick. But I only play for certainties.”
+
+He spoke these words so sharply, with such a keen longing for success,
+that his mother recognised the cry of her own blood.
+
+“Your father is very brave,” she whispered.
+
+“Yes, I’ve seen him,” he resumed with a sneer. “He’s got a fine look on
+him! He reminded me of Leonidas at Thermopylae. Is it you, mother, who
+have made him cut this figure?”
+
+And he added cheerfully, with a gesture of determination: “Well, so
+much the worse! I’m a Bonapartist! Father is not the man to risk the
+chance of being killed unless it pays him well.”
+
+“You’re quite right,” his mother replied; “I mustn’t say anything; but
+to-morrow you’ll see.”
+
+He did not press her, but swore that she would soon have reason to be
+proud of him; and then he took his departure, while Félicité, feeling
+her old preference reviving, said to herself at the window, as she
+watched him going off, that he had the devil’s own wit, that she would
+never have had sufficient courage to let him leave without setting him
+in the right path.
+
+And now for the third time a night full of anguish fell upon Plassans.
+The unhappy town was almost at its death-rattle. The citizens hastened
+home and barricaded their doors with a great clattering of iron bolts
+and bars. The general feeling seemed to be that, by the morrow,
+Plassans would no longer exist, that it would either be swallowed up by
+the earth or would evaporate in the atmosphere. When Rougon went home
+to dine, he found the streets completely deserted. This desolation made
+him sad and melancholy. As a result of this, when he had finished his
+meal, he felt some slight misgivings, and asked his wife if it were
+necessary to follow up the insurrection that Macquart was preparing.
+
+“Nobody will run us down now,” said he. “You should have seen those
+gentlemen of the new town, how they bowed to me! It seems to me quite
+unnecessary now to kill anybody—eh? What do you think? We shall feather
+our nest without that.”
+
+“Ah! what a nerveless fellow you are!” Félicité cried angrily. “It was
+your own idea to do it, and now you back out! I tell you that you’ll
+never do anything without me! Go then, go your own way. Do you think
+the Republicans would spare you if they got hold of you?”
+
+Rougon went back to the town-hall, and prepared for the ambush. Granoux
+was very useful to him. He despatched him with orders to the different
+posts guarding the ramparts. The national guards were to repair to the
+town-hall in small detachments, as secretly as possible. Roudier, that
+bourgeois who was quite out of his element in the provinces, and who
+would have spoilt the whole affair with his humanitarian preaching, was
+not even informed of it. Towards eleven o’clock, the court-yard of the
+town-hall was full of national guards. Then Rougon frightened them; he
+told them that the Republicans still remaining in Plassans were about
+to attempt a desperate _coup de main_, and plumed himself on having
+been warned in time by his secret police. When he had pictured the
+bloody massacre which would overtake the town, should these wretches
+get the upper hand, he ordered his men to cease speaking, and
+extinguish all lights. He took a gun himself. Ever since the morning he
+had been living as in a dream; he no longer knew himself; he felt
+Félicité behind him. The crisis of the previous night had thrown him
+into her hands, and he would have allowed himself to be hanged,
+thinking: “It does not matter, my wife will come and cut me down.” To
+augment the tumult, and prolong the terror of the slumbering town, he
+begged Granoux to repair to the cathedral and have the tocsin rung at
+the first shots he might hear. The marquis’s name would open the
+beadle’s door. And then, in darkness and dismal silence, the national
+guards waited in the yard, in a terrible state of anxiety, their eyes
+fixed on the porch, eager to fire, as though they were lying in wait
+for a pack of wolves.
+
+In the meantime, Macquart had spent the day at aunt Dide’s house.
+Stretching himself on the old coffer, and lamenting the loss of
+Monsieur Garconnet’s sofa, he had several times felt a mad inclination
+to break into his two hundred francs at some neighbouring cafe. This
+money was burning a hole in his waistcoat pocket; however, he whiled
+away his time by spending it in imagination. His mother moved about, in
+her stiff, automatic way, as if she were not even aware of his
+presence. During the last few days her children had been coming to her
+rather frequently, in a state of pallor and desperation, but she
+departed neither from her taciturnity, nor her stiff, lifeless
+expression. She knew nothing of the fears which were throwing the
+pent-up town topsy-turvy, she was a thousand leagues away from
+Plassans, soaring into the one constant fixed idea which imparted such
+a blank stare to her eyes. Now and again, however, at this particular
+moment, some feeling of uneasiness, some human anxiety, occasionally
+made her blink. Antoine, unable to resist the temptation of having
+something nice to eat, sent her to get a roast chicken from an
+eating-house in the Faubourg. When it was set on the table: “Hey!” he
+said to her, “you don’t often eat fowl, do you? It’s only for those who
+work, and know how to manage their affairs. As for you, you always
+squandered everything. I bet you’re giving all your savings to that
+little hypocrite, Silvère. He’s got a mistress, the sly fellow. If
+you’ve a hoard of money hidden in some corner, he’ll ease you of it
+nicely some day.”
+
+Macquart was in a jesting mood, glowing with wild exultation. The money
+he had in his pocket, the treachery he was preparing, the conviction
+that he had sold himself at a good price—all filled him with the
+self-satisfaction characteristic of vicious people who naturally became
+merry and scornful amidst their evil practices. Of all his talk,
+however, aunt Dide only heard Silvère’s name.
+
+“Have you seen him?” she asked, opening her lips at last.
+
+“Who? Silvère?” Antoine replied. “He was walking about among the
+insurgents with a tall red girl on his arm. It will serve him right if
+he gets into trouble.”
+
+The grandmother looked at him fixedly, then, in a solemn voice,
+inquired: “Why?”
+
+“Eh! Why, he shouldn’t be so stupid,” resumed Macquart, feeling
+somewhat embarrassed. “People don’t risk their necks for the sake of
+ideas. I’ve settled my own little business. I’m no fool.”
+
+But aunt Dide was no longer listening to him. She was murmuring: “He
+had his hands covered with blood. They’ll kill him like the other one.
+His uncles will send the gendarmes after him.”
+
+“What are you muttering there?” asked her son, as he finished picking
+the bones of the chicken. “You know I like people to accuse me to my
+face. If I have sometimes talked to the little fellow about the
+Republic, it was only to bring him round to a more reasonable way of
+thinking. He was dotty. I love liberty myself, but it mustn’t
+degenerate into license. And as for Rougon, I esteem him. He’s a man of
+courage and common-sense.”
+
+“He had the gun, hadn’t he?” interrupted aunt Dide, whose wandering
+mind seemed to be following Silvère far away along the high road.
+
+“The gun? Ah! yes; Macquart’s carbine,” continued Antoine, after
+casting a glance at the mantel-shelf, where the fire-arm was usually
+hung. “I fancy I saw it in his hands. A fine instrument to scour the
+country with, when one has a girl on one’s arm. What a fool!”
+
+Then he thought he might as well indulge in a few coarse jokes. Aunt
+Dide had begun to bustle about the room again. She did not say a word.
+Towards the evening Antoine went out, after putting on a blouse, and
+pulling over his eyes a big cap which his mother had bought for him. He
+returned into the town in the same manner as he had quitted it, by
+relating some nonsensical story to the national guards who were on duty
+at the Rome Gate. Then he made his way to the old quarter, where he
+crept from house to house in a mysterious manner. All the Republicans
+of advanced views, all the members of the brotherhood who had not
+followed the insurrectionary army, met in an obscure inn, where
+Macquart had made an appointment with them. When about fifty men were
+assembled, he made a speech, in which he spoke of personal vengeance
+that must be wreaked, of a victory that must be gained, and of a
+disgraceful yoke that must be thrown off. And he ended by undertaking
+to deliver the town-hall over to them in ten minutes. He had just left
+it, it was quite unguarded, he said, and the red flag would wave over
+it that very night if they so desired. The workmen deliberated. At that
+moment the reaction seemed to be in its death throes. The insurgents
+were virtually at the gates of the town. It would therefore be more
+honourable to make an effort to regain power without awaiting their
+return, so as to be able to receive them as brothers, with the gates
+wide open, and the streets and squares adorned with flags. Moreover,
+none of those present distrusted Macquart. His hatred of the Rougons,
+the personal vengeance of which he spoke, could be taken as
+guaranteeing his loyalty. It was arranged that each of them who was a
+sportsman and had a gun at home should fetch it, and that the band
+should assemble at midnight in the neighbourhood of the town-hall. A
+question of detail very nearly put an end to their plans—they had no
+bullets; however, they decided to load their weapons with small shot:
+and even that seemed unnecessary, as they were told that they would
+meet with no resistance.
+
+Once more Plassans beheld a band of armed men filing along close to the
+houses, in the quiet moonlight. When the band was assembled in front of
+the town-hall, Macquart, while keeping a sharp look-out, boldly
+advanced to the building. He knocked, and when the door-keeper, who had
+learnt his lesson, asked what was wanted, he uttered such terrible
+threats, that the man, feigning fright, made haste to open the door.
+Both leaves of it swung back slowly, and the porch then lay open and
+empty before them, while Macquart shouted in a loud voice: “Come on, my
+friends!”
+
+That was the signal. He himself quickly jumped aside, and as the
+Republicans rushed in, there came, from the darkness of the yard, a
+stream of fire and a hail of bullets, which swept through the gaping
+porch with a roar as of thunder. The doorway vomited death. The
+national guards, exasperated by their long wait, eager to shake off the
+discomfort weighing upon them in that dismal court-yard, had fired a
+volley with feverish haste. The flash of the firing was so bright,
+that, through the yellow gleams Macquart distinctly saw Rougon taking
+aim. He fancied that his brother’s gun was deliberately levelled at
+himself, and he recalled Félicité’s blush, and made his escape,
+muttering: “No tricks! The rascal would kill me. He owes me eight
+hundred francs.”
+
+In the meantime a loud howl had arisen amid the darkness. The surprised
+Republicans shouted treachery, and fired in their turn. A national
+guard fell under the porch. But the Republicans, on their side, had
+three dead. They took to flight, stumbling over the corpses, stricken
+with panic, and shouting through the quiet lanes: “Our brothers are
+being murdered!” in despairing voices which found no echo. Thereupon
+the defenders of order, having had time to reload their weapons, rushed
+into the empty square, firing at every street corner, wherever the
+darkness of a door, the shadow of a lamp-post, or the jutting of a
+stone made them fancy they saw an insurgent. In this wise they remained
+there ten minutes, firing into space.
+
+The affray had burst over the slumbering town like a thunderclap. The
+inhabitants in the neighbouring streets, roused from sleep by this
+terrible fusillade, sat up in bed, their teeth chattering with fright.
+Nothing in the world would have induced them to poke their noses out of
+the window. And slowly, athwart the air, in which the shots had
+suddenly resounded, one of the cathedral bells began to ring the tocsin
+with so irregular, so strange a rhythm, that one might have thought the
+noise to be the hammering of an anvil or the echoes of a colossal
+kettle struck by a child in a fit of passion. This howling bell, whose
+sound the citizens did not recognise, terrified them yet more than the
+reports of the fire-arms had done; and there were some who thought they
+heard an endless train of artillery rumbling over the paving-stones.
+They lay down again and buried themselves beneath their blankets, as if
+they would have incurred some danger by still sitting up in bed in
+their closely-fastened rooms. With their sheets drawn up to their
+chins, they held their breath, and made themselves as small as
+possible, while their wives, by their side, almost fainted with terror
+as they buried their heads among the pillows.
+
+The national guards who had remained at the ramparts had also heard the
+shots, and thinking that the insurgents had entered by means of some
+subterranean passage, they ran up helter-skelter, in groups of five or
+six, disturbing the silence of the streets with the tumult of their
+excited rush. Roudier was one of the first to arrive. However, Rougon
+sent them all back to their posts, after reprimanding them severely for
+abandoning the gates of the town. Thrown into consternation by this
+reproach—for in their panic, they had, in fact, left the gates
+absolutely defenceless—they again set off at a gallop, hurrying through
+the streets with still more frightful uproar. Plassans might well have
+thought that an infuriated army was crossing it in all directions. The
+fusillade, the tocsin, the marches and countermarches of the national
+guards, the weapons which were being dragged along like clubs, the
+terrified cries in the darkness, all produced a deafening tumult, such
+as might break forth in a town taken by assault and given over to
+plunder. It was the final blow of the unfortunate inhabitants, who
+really believed that the insurgents had arrived. They had, indeed, said
+that it would be their last night—that Plassans would be swallowed up
+in the earth, or would evaporate into smoke before daybreak; and now,
+lying in their beds, they awaited the catastrophe in the most abject
+terror, fancying at times that their houses were already tottering.
+
+Meantime Granoux still rang the tocsin. When, in other respects,
+silence had again fallen upon the town, the mournfulness of that
+ringing became intolerable. Rougon, who was in a high fever, felt
+exasperated by its distant wailing. He hastened to the cathedral, and
+found the door open. The beadle was on the threshold.
+
+“Ah! that’s quite enough!” he shouted to the man; “anybody would think
+there was some one crying; it’s quite unbearable.”
+
+“But it isn’t me, sir,” replied the beadle in a distressed manner.
+“It’s Monsieur Granoux, he’s gone up into the steeple. I must tell you
+that I removed the clapper of the bell, by his Reverence’s order,
+precisely to prevent the tocsin from being sounded. But Monsieur
+Granoux wouldn’t listen to reason. He climbed up, and I’ve no idea what
+he can be making that noise with.”
+
+Thereupon Rougon hastily ascended the staircase which led to the bells,
+shouting: “That will do! That will do! For goodness’ sake leave off!”
+
+When he had reached the top he caught sight of Granoux, by the light of
+the moon which glided through an embrasure; the ex almond dealer was
+standing there hatless, and dealing furious blows with a heavy hammer.
+He did so with a right good will. He first threw himself back, then
+took a spring, and finally fell upon the sonorous bronze as if he
+wanted to crack it. One might have thought he was a blacksmith striking
+hot iron—but a frock-coated blacksmith, short and bald, working in a
+wild and awkward way.
+
+Surprise kept Rougon motionless for a moment at the sight of this
+frantic bourgeois thus belabouring the bell in the moonlight. Then he
+understood the kettle-like clang which this strange ringer had
+disseminated over the town. He shouted to him to stop, but Granoux did
+not hear. Rougon was obliged to take hold of his frock-coat, and then
+the other recognising him, exclaimed in a triumphant voice: “Ah! you’ve
+heard it. At first I tried to knock the bell with my fists, but that
+hurt me. Fortunately I found this hammer. Just a few more blows, eh?”
+
+However, Rougon dragged him away. Granoux was radiant. He wiped his
+forehead, and made his companion promise to let everybody know in the
+morning that he had produced all that noise with a mere hammer. What an
+achievement, and what a position of importance that furious ringing
+would confer upon him!
+
+Towards morning, Rougon bethought himself of reassuring Félicité. In
+accordance with his orders, the national guards had shut themselves up
+in the town-hall. He had forbidden them to remove the corpses, under
+the pretext that it was necessary to give the populace of the old
+quarter a lesson. And as, while hastening to the Rue de la Banne, he
+passed over the square, on which the moon was no longer shining, he
+inadvertently stepped on the clenched hand of a corpse that lay beside
+the footpath. At this he almost fell. That soft hand, which yielded
+beneath his heel, brought him an indefinable sensation of disgust and
+horror. And thereupon he hastened at full speed along the deserted
+streets, fancying that a bloody fist was pursuing him.
+
+“There are four of them on the ground,” he said, as he entered his
+house.
+
+He and his wife looked at one another as though they were astonished at
+their crime.
+
+The lamplight imparted the hue of yellow wax to their pale faces.
+
+“Have you left them there?” asked Félicité; “they must be found there.”
+
+“Of course! I didn’t pick them up. They are lying on their backs. I
+stepped on something soft——”
+
+Then he looked at his boot; its heel was covered with blood. While he
+was putting on a pair of shoes, Félicité resumed:
+
+“Well! so much the better! It’s over now. People won’t be inclined to
+repeat that you only fire at mirrors.”
+
+The fusillade which the Rougons had planned in order that they might be
+finally recognised as the saviours of Plassans, brought the whole
+terrified and grateful town to their feet. The day broke mournfully
+with the grey melancholy of a winter-morning. The inhabitants, hearing
+nothing further, ventured forth, weary of trembling beneath their
+sheets. At first some ten or fifteen appeared. Later on, when a rumour
+spread that the insurgents had taken flight, leaving their dead in
+every gutter, Plassans rose in a body and descended upon the town-hall.
+Throughout the morning people strolled inquisitively round the four
+corpses. They were horribly mutilated, particularly one, which had
+three bullets in the head. But the most horrible to look upon was the
+body of a national guard, who had fallen under the porch; he had
+received a charge of the small shot, used by the Republicans in lieu of
+bullets, full in the face; and blood oozed from his torn and riddled
+countenance. The crowd feasted their eyes upon this horror, with the
+avidity for revolting spectacles which is so characteristic of cowards.
+The national guard was freely recognised; he was the pork-butcher
+Dubruel, the man whom Roudier had accused on the Monday morning of
+having fired with culpable eagerness. Of the three other corpses, two
+were journeymen hatters; the third was not identified. For a long while
+gaping groups remained shuddering in front of the red pools which
+stained the pavement, often looking behind them with an air of
+mistrust, as though that summary justice which had restored order
+during the night by force of arms, were, even now, watching and
+listening to them, ready to shoot them down in their turn, unless they
+kissed with enthusiasm the hand that had just rescued them from the
+demagogy.
+
+The panic of the night further augmented the terrible effect produced
+in the morning by the sight of the four corpses. The true history of
+the fusillade was never known. The firing of the combatants, Granoux’s
+hammering, the helter-skelter rush of the national guards through the
+streets, had filled people’s ears with such terrifying sounds that most
+of them dreamed of a gigantic battle waged against countless enemies.
+When the victors, magnifying the number of their adversaries with
+instinctive braggardism, spoke of about five hundred men, everybody
+protested against such a low estimate. Some citizens asserted that they
+had looked out of their windows and seen an immense stream of fugitives
+passing by for more than an hour. Moreover everybody had heard the
+bandits running about. Five hundred men would never have been able to
+rouse a whole town. It must have been an army, and a fine big army too,
+which the brave militia of Plassans had “driven back into the ground.”
+This phrase of their having been “driven back into the ground,” first
+used by Rougon, struck people as being singularly appropriate, for the
+guards who were charged with the defence of the ramparts swore by all
+that was holy that not a single man had entered or quitted the town, a
+circumstance which tinged what had happened with mystery, even
+suggesting the idea of horned demons who had vanished amidst flames,
+and thus fairly upsetting the minds of the multitude. It is true the
+guards avoided all mention of their mad gallops; and so the more
+rational citizens were inclined to believe that a band of insurgents
+had really entered the town either by a breach in the wall or some
+other channel. Later on, rumours of treachery were spread abroad, and
+people talked of an ambush. The cruel truth could no longer be
+concealed by the men whom Macquart had led to slaughter, but so much
+terror still prevailed, and the sight of blood had thrown so many
+cowards into the arms of the reactionary party, that these rumours were
+attributed to the rage of the vanquished Republicans. It was asserted,
+on the other hand, that Macquart had been made prisoner by Rougon, who
+kept him in a damp cell, where he was letting him slowly die of
+starvation. This horrible tale made people bow to the very ground
+whenever they encountered Rougon.
+
+Thus it was that this grotesque personage, this pale, flabby,
+tun-bellied citizen became, in one night, a terrible captain, whom
+nobody dared to ridicule any more. He had steeped his foot in blood.
+The inhabitants of the old quarter stood dumb with fright before the
+corpses. But towards ten o’clock, when the respectable people of the
+new town arrived, the whole square hummed with subdued chatter. People
+spoke of the other attack, of the seizure of the mayor’s office, in
+which a mirror only had been wounded; but this time they no longer
+pooh-poohed Rougon, they spoke of him with respectful dismay; he was
+indeed a hero, a deliverer. The corpses, with open eyes, stared at
+those gentlemen, the lawyers and householders, who shuddered as they
+murmured that civil war had many cruel necessities. The notary, the
+chief of the deputation sent to the town-hall on the previous evening,
+went from group to group, recalling the proud words “I am prepared!”
+then used by the energetic man to whom the town owed its safety. There
+was a general feeling of humiliation. Those who had railed most cruelly
+against the forty-one, those, especially, who had referred to the
+Rougons as intriguers and cowards who merely fired shots in the air,
+were the first to speak of granting a crown of laurels “to the noble
+citizen of whom Plassans would be for ever proud.” For the pools of
+blood were drying on the pavement, and the corpses proclaimed to what a
+degree of audacity the party of disorder, pillage, and murder had gone,
+and what an iron hand had been required to put down the insurrection.
+
+Moreover, the whole crowd was eager to congratulate Granoux, and shake
+hands with him. The story of the hammer had become known. By an
+innocent falsehood, however, of which he himself soon became
+unconscious, he asserted that, having been the first to see the
+insurgents, he had set about striking the bell, in order to sound the
+alarm, so that, but for him, the national guards would have been
+massacred. This doubled his importance. His achievement was declared
+prodigious. People spoke of him now as “Monsieur Isidore, don’t you
+know? the gentleman who sounded the tocsin with a hammer!” Although the
+sentence was somewhat lengthy, Granoux would willingly have accepted it
+as a title of nobility; and from that day forward he never heard the
+word “hammer” pronounced without imagining it to be some delicate
+flattery.
+
+While the corpses were being removed, Aristide came to look at them. He
+examined them on all sides, sniffing and looking inquisitively at their
+faces. His eyes were bright, and he had a sharp expression of
+countenance. In order to see some wound the better he even lifted up
+the blouse of one corpse with the very hand which on the previous day
+had been suspended in a sling. This examination seemed to convince him
+and remove all doubt from his mind. He bit his lips, remained there for
+a moment in silence, and then went off for the purpose of hastening the
+issue of the “Indépendant,” for which he had written a most important
+article. And as he hurried along beside the houses he recalled his
+mother’s words: “You will see to-morrow!” Well, he had seen now; it was
+very clever; it even frightened him somewhat.
+
+In the meantime, Rougon’s triumph was beginning to embarrass him. Alone
+in Monsieur Garconnet’s office, hearing the buzzing of the crowd, he
+became conscious of a strange feeling, which prevented him from showing
+himself on the balcony. That blood, in which he had stepped, seemed to
+have numbed his legs. He wondered what he should do until the evening.
+His poor empty brain, upset by the events of the night, sought
+desperately for some occupation, some order to give, or some measure to
+be taken, which might afford him some distraction. But he could think
+about nothing clearly. Whither was Félicité leading him? Was it really
+all finished now, or would he still have to kill somebody else? Then
+fear again assailed him, terrible doubts arose in his mind, and he
+already saw the ramparts broken down on all sides by an avenging army
+of the Republicans, when a loud shout: “The insurgents! The
+insurgents!” burst forth under the very windows of his room. At this he
+jumped up, and raising a curtain, saw the crowd rushing about the
+square in a state of terror. What a thunderbolt! In less than a second
+he pictured himself ruined, plundered, and murdered; he cursed his
+wife, he cursed the whole town. Then, as he looked behind him in a
+suspicious manner, seeking some means of escape, he heard the mob break
+out into applause, uttering shouts of joy, making the very glass rattle
+with their wild delight. Then he returned to the window; the women were
+waving their handkerchiefs, and the men were embracing each other.
+There were some among them who joined hands and began to dance. Rougon
+stood there stupefied, unable to comprehend it all, and feeling his
+head swimming. The big, deserted, silent building, in which he was
+alone, quite frightened him.
+
+When he afterwards confessed his feelings to Félicité, he was unable to
+say how long his torture had lasted. He only remembered that a noise of
+footsteps, re-echoing through the vast halls, had roused him from his
+stupor. He expected to be attacked by men in blouses, armed with
+scythes and clubs, whereas it was the Municipal Commission which
+entered, quite orderly and in evening dress, each member with a beaming
+countenance. Not one of them was absent. A piece of good news had
+simultaneously cured all these gentlemen. Granoux rushed into the arms
+of his dear president.
+
+“The soldiers!” he stammered, “the soldiers!”
+
+A regiment had, in fact, just arrived, under the command of Colonel
+Masson and Monsieur de Bleriot, prefect of the department. The
+gunbarrels which had been observed from the ramparts, far away in the
+plain, had at first suggested the approach of the insurgents. Rougon
+was so deeply moved on learning the truth, that two big tears rolled
+down his cheeks. He was weeping, the great citizen! The Municipal
+Commission watched those big tears with most respectful admiration. But
+Granoux again threw himself on his friend’s neck, crying:
+
+“Ah! how glad I am! You know I’m a straightforward man. Well, we were
+all of us afraid; it is not so, gentlemen? You, alone, were great,
+brave, sublime! What energy you must have had! I was just now saying to
+my wife: ‘Rougon is a great man; he deserves to be decorated.’”
+
+Then the gentlemen proposed to go and meet the prefect. For a moment
+Rougon felt both stunned and suffocated; he was unable to believe in
+this sudden triumph, and stammered like a child. However, he drew
+breath, and went downstairs with the quiet dignity suited to the
+solemnity of the occasion. But the enthusiasm which greeted the
+commission and its president outside the town-hall almost upset his
+magisterial gravity afresh. His name sped through the crowd,
+accompanied this time by the warmest eulogies. He heard everyone repeat
+Granoux’s avowal, and treat him as a hero who had stood firm and
+resolute amidst universal panic. And, as far as the Sub-Prefecture,
+where the commission met the prefect, he drank his fill of popularity
+and glory.
+
+Monsieur de Bleriot and Colonel Masson had entered the town alone,
+leaving their troops encamped on the Lyons road. They had lost
+considerable time through a misunderstanding as to the direction taken
+by the insurgents. Now, however, they knew the latter were at Orcheres;
+and it would only be necessary to stop an hour at Plassans, just
+sufficient time to reassure the population and publish the cruel
+ordinances which decreed the sequestration of the insurgents’ property,
+and death to every individual who might be taken with arms in his
+hands. Colonel Masson smiled when, in accordance with the orders of the
+commander of the national guards, the bolts of the Rome Gate were drawn
+back with a great rattling of rusty old iron. The detachment on duty
+there accompanied the prefect and the colonel as a guard of honour. As
+they traversed the Cours Sauvaire, Roudier related Rougon’s epic
+achievements to the gentlemen—the three days of panic that had
+terminated with the brilliant victory of the previous night. When the
+two processions came face to face therefore, Monsieur de Bleriot
+quickly advanced towards the president of the Commission, shook hands
+with him, congratulated him, and begged him to continue to watch over
+the town until the return of the authorities. Rougon bowed, while the
+prefect, having reached the door of the Sub-Prefecture, where he wished
+to take a brief rest, proclaimed in a loud voice that he would not
+forget to mention his brave and noble conduct in his report.
+
+In the meantime, in spite of the bitter cold, everybody had come to
+their windows. Félicité, leaning forward at the risk of falling out,
+was quite pale with joy. Aristide had just arrived with a number of the
+“Indépendant,” in which he had openly declared himself in favour of the
+Coup d’État, which he welcomed “as the aurora of liberty in order and
+of order in liberty.” He had also made a delicate allusion to the
+yellow drawing-room, acknowledging his errors, declaring that “youth is
+presumptuous,” and that “great citizens say nothing, reflect in
+silence, and let insults pass by, in order to rise heroically when the
+day of struggle comes.” He was particularly pleased with this sentence.
+His mother thought his article extremely well written. She kissed her
+dear child, and placed him on her right hand. The Marquis de Carnavant,
+weary of incarcerating himself, and full of eager curiosity, had
+likewise come to see her, and stood on her left, leaning on the window
+rail.
+
+When Monsieur de Bleriot offered his hand to Rougon on the square below
+Félicité began to weep. “Oh! see, see,” she said to Aristide. “He has
+shaken hands with him. Look! he is doing it again!” And casting a
+glance at the windows, where groups of people were congregated, she
+added: “How wild they must be! Look at Monsieur Peirotte’s wife, she’s
+biting her handkerchief. And over there, the notary’s daughter, and
+Madame Massicot, and the Brunet family, what faces, eh? how angry they
+look! Ah, indeed, it’s our turn now.”
+
+She followed the scene which was being acted outside the Sub-Prefecture
+with thrills of delight, which shook her ardent, grasshopper-like
+figure from head to foot. She interpreted the slightest gesture,
+invented words which she was unable to catch, and declared that Pierre
+bowed very well indeed. She was a little vexed when the prefect deigned
+to speak to poor Granoux, who was hovering about him fishing for a word
+of praise. No doubt Monsieur de Bleriot already knew the story of the
+hammer, for the retired almond-dealer turned as red as a young girl,
+and seemed to be saying that he had only done his duty. However, that
+which angered Félicité still more was her husband’s excessive
+amiability in presenting Vuillet to the authorities. Vuillet, it is
+true, pushed himself forward amongst them, and Rougon was compelled to
+mention him.
+
+“What a schemer!” muttered Félicité. “He creeps in everywhere. How
+confused my poor dear husband must be! See, there’s the colonel
+speaking to him. What can he be saying to him?”
+
+“Ah! little one,” the marquis replied with a touch of irony, “he is
+complimenting him for having closed the gates so carefully.”
+
+“My father has saved the town,” Aristide retorted curtly. “Have you
+seen the corpses, sir?”
+
+Monsieur de Carnavant did not answer. He withdrew from the window, and
+sat down in an arm-chair, shaking his head with an air of some disgust.
+At that moment, the prefect having taken his departure, Rougon came
+upstairs and threw himself upon his wife’s neck.
+
+“Ah! my dear!” he stammered.
+
+He was unable to say more. Félicité made him kiss Aristide after
+telling him of the superb article which the young man had inserted in
+the “Indépendant.” Pierre would have kissed the marquis as well, he was
+deeply affected. However, his wife took him aside, and gave him
+Eugène’s letter which she had sealed up in an envelope again. She
+pretended that it had just been delivered. Pierre read it and then
+triumphantly held it out to her.
+
+“You are a sorceress,” he said to her laughing. “You guessed
+everything. What folly I should have committed without you! We’ll
+manage our little affairs together now. Kiss me: you’re a good woman.”
+
+He clasped her in his arms, while she discreetly exchanged a knowing
+smile with the marquis.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+
+It was not until Sunday, the day after the massacre at Sainte-Roure,
+that the troops passed through Plassans again. The prefect and the
+colonel, whom Monsieur Garconnet had invited to dinner, once more
+entered the town alone. The soldiers went round the ramparts and
+encamped in the Faubourg, on the Nice road. Night was falling; the sky,
+overcast since the morning, had a strange yellow tint, and illumined
+the town with a murky light, similar to the copper-coloured glimmer of
+stormy weather. The reception of the troops by the inhabitants was
+timid; the bloodstained soldiers, who passed by weary and silent, in
+the yellow twilight, horrified the cleanly citizens promenading on the
+Cours. They stepped out of the way whispering terrible stories of
+fusillades and revengeful reprisals which still live in the
+recollection of the region. The Coup d’État terror was beginning to
+make itself felt, an overwhelming terror which kept the South in a
+state of tremor for many a long month. Plassans, in its fear and hatred
+of the insurgents, had welcomed the troops on their first arrival with
+enthusiasm; but now, at the appearance of that gloomy taciturn
+regiment, whose men were ready to fire at a word from their officers,
+the retired merchants and even the notaries of the new town anxiously
+examined their consciences, asking if they had not committed some
+political peccadilloes which might be thought deserving of a bullet.
+
+The municipal authorities had returned on the previous evening in a
+couple of carts hired at Sainte-Roure. Their unexpected entry was
+devoid of all triumphal display. Rougon surrendered the mayor’s
+arm-chair without much regret. The game was over; and with feverish
+longing he now awaited the recompense for his devotion. On the
+Sunday—he had not hoped for it until the following day—he received a
+letter from Eugène. Since the previous Thursday Félicité had taken care
+to send her son the numbers of the “Gazette” and “Indépendant” which,
+in special second editions had narrated the battle of the night and the
+arrival of the prefect at Plassans. Eugène now replied by return of
+post that the nomination of a receivership would soon be signed; but
+added that he wished to give them some good news immediately. He had
+obtained the ribbon of the Legion of Honour for his father. Félicité
+wept with joy. Her husband decorated! Her proud dream had never gone as
+far as that. Rougon, pale with delight, declared they must give a grand
+dinner that very evening. He no longer thought of expense; he would
+have thrown his last fifty francs out of the drawing-room windows in
+order to celebrate that glorious day.
+
+“Listen,” he said to his wife; “you must invite Sicardot: he has
+annoyed me with that rosette of his for a long time! Then Granoux and
+Roudier; I shouldn’t be at all sorry to make them feel that it isn’t
+their purses that will ever win them the cross. Vuillet is a skinflint,
+but the triumph ought to be complete: invite him as well as the small
+fry. I was forgetting; you must go and call on the marquis in person;
+we will seat him on your right; he’ll look very well at our table. You
+know that Monsieur Garconnet is entertaining the colonel and the
+prefect. That is to make me understand that I am nobody now. But I can
+afford to laugh at his mayoralty; it doesn’t bring him in a sou! He has
+invited me, but I shall tell him that I also have some people coming.
+The others will laugh on the wrong side of their mouths to-morrow. And
+let everything be of the best. Have everything sent from the Hôtel de
+Provence. We must outdo the mayor’s dinner.”
+
+Félicité set to work. Pierre still felt some vague uneasiness amidst
+his rapture. The Coup d’État was going to pay his debts, his son
+Aristide had repented of his faults, and he was at last freeing himself
+from Macquart; but he feared some folly on Pascal’s part, and was
+especially anxious about the lot reserved for Silvère. Not that he felt
+the least pity for the lad; he was simply afraid the matter of the
+gendarme might come before the Assize Court. Ah! if only some
+discriminating bullet had managed to rid him of that young scoundrel!
+As his wife had pointed out to him in the morning, all obstacles had
+fallen away before him; the family which had dishonoured him had, at
+the last moment, worked for his elevation; his sons Eugène and
+Aristide, those spend-thrifts, the cost of whose college life he had so
+bitterly regretted, were at last paying interest on the capital
+expended for their education. And yet the thought of that wretched
+Silvère must come to mar his hour of triumph!
+
+While Félicité was running about to prepare the dinner for the evening,
+Pierre heard of the arrival of the troops and determined to go and make
+inquiries. Sicardot, whom he had questioned on his return, knew
+nothing; Pascal must have remained to look after the wounded; as for
+Silvère, he had not even been seen by the commander, who scarcely knew
+him. Rougon therefore repaired to the Faubourg, intending to make
+inquiries there and at the same time pay Macquart the eight hundred
+francs which he had just succeeded in raising with great difficulty.
+However, when he found himself in the crowded encampment, and from a
+distance saw the prisoners sitting in long files on the beams in the
+Aire Saint-Mittre, guarded by soldiers gun in hand, he felt afraid of
+being compromised, and so slunk off to his mother’s house, with the
+intention of sending the old woman out to pick up some information.
+
+When he entered the hovel it was almost night. At first the only person
+he saw there was Macquart smoking and drinking brandy.
+
+“Is that you? I’m glad of it,” muttered Antoine. “I’m growing deuced
+cold here. Have you got the money?”
+
+But Pierre did not reply. He had just perceived his son Pascal leaning
+over the bed. And thereupon he questioned him eagerly. The doctor,
+surprised by his uneasiness, which he attributed to paternal affection,
+told him that the soldiers had taken him and would have shot him, had
+it not been for the intervention of some honest fellow whom he did not
+know. Saved by his profession of surgeon, he had returned to Plassans
+with the troops. This greatly relieved Rougon. So there was yet another
+who would not compromise him. He was evincing his delight by repeated
+hand-shakings, when Pascal concluded in a sorrowful voice: “Oh! don’t
+make merry. I have just found my poor grandmother in a very dangerous
+state. I brought her back this carbine, which she values very much; I
+found her lying here, and she has not moved since.”
+
+Pierre’s eyes were becoming accustomed to the dimness. In the fast
+fading light he saw aunt Dide stretched, rigid and seemingly lifeless,
+upon her bed. Her wretched frame, attacked by neurosis from the hour of
+birth, was at length laid prostrate by a supreme shock. Her nerves had
+so to say consumed her blood. Moreover some cruel grief seemed to have
+suddenly accelerated her slow wasting-away. Her pale nun-like face,
+drawn and pinched by a life of gloom and cloister-like self-denial, was
+now stained with red blotches. With convulsed features, eyes that
+glared terribly, and hands twisted and clenched, she lay at full length
+in her skirts, which failed to hide the sharp outlines of her scrawny
+limbs. Extended there with lips closely pressed she imparted to the dim
+room all the horror of a mute death-agony.
+
+Rougon made a gesture of vexation. This heart-rending spectacle was
+very distasteful to him. He had company coming to dinner in the
+evening, and it would be extremely inconvenient for him to have to
+appear mournful. His mother was always doing something to bother him.
+She might just as well have chosen another day. However, he put on an
+appearance of perfect ease, as he said: “Bah! it’s nothing. I’ve seen
+her like that a hundred times. You must let her lie still; it’s the
+only thing that does her any good.”
+
+Pascal shook his head. “No, this fit isn’t like the others,” he
+whispered. “I have often studied her, and have never observed such
+symptoms before. Just look at her eyes: there is a peculiar fluidity, a
+pale brightness about them which causes me considerable uneasiness. And
+her face, how frightfully every muscle of it is distorted!”
+
+Then bending over to observe her features more closely, he continued in
+a whisper, as though speaking to himself: “I have never seen such a
+face, excepting among people who have been murdered or have died from
+fright. She must have experienced some terrible shock.”
+
+“But how did the attack begin?” Rougon impatiently inquired, at a loss
+for an excuse to leave the room.
+
+Pascal did not know. Macquart, as he poured himself out another glass
+of brandy, explained that he had felt an inclination to drink a little
+Cognac, and had sent her to fetch a bottle. She had not been long
+absent, and at the very moment when she returned she had fallen rigid
+on the floor without uttering a word. Macquart himself had carried her
+to the bed.
+
+“What surprises me,” he said, by way of conclusion, “is, that she did
+not break the bottle.”
+
+The young doctor reflected. After a short pause he resumed: “I heard
+two shots fired as I came here. Perhaps those ruffians have been
+shooting some more prisoners. If she passed through the ranks of the
+soldiers at that moment, the sight of blood may have thrown her into
+this fit. She must have had some dreadful shock.”
+
+Fortunately he had with him the little medicine-case which he had been
+carrying about ever since the departure of the insurgents. He tried to
+pour a few drops of reddish liquid between aunt Dide’s closely-set
+teeth, while Macquart again asked his brother: “Have you got the
+money?”
+
+“Yes, I’ve brought it; we’ll settle now,” Rougon replied, glad of this
+diversion.
+
+Thereupon Macquart, seeing that he was about to be paid, began to moan.
+He had only learnt the consequence of his treachery when it was too
+late; otherwise he would have demanded twice or thrice as much. And he
+complained bitterly. Really now a thousand francs was not enough. His
+children had forsaken him, he was all alone in the world, and obliged
+to quit France. He almost wept as he spoke of his coming exile.
+
+“Come now, will you take the eight hundred francs?” said Rougon, who
+was in haste to be off.
+
+“No, certainly not; double the sum. Your wife cheated me. If she had
+told me distinctly what it was she expected of me, I would never have
+compromised myself for such a trifle.”
+
+Rougon laid the eight hundred francs upon the table.
+
+“I swear I haven’t got any more,” he resumed. “I will think of you
+later. But do, for mercy’s sake, get away this evening.”
+
+Macquart, cursing and muttering protests, thereupon carried the table
+to the window, and began to count the gold in the fading twilight. The
+coins tickled the tips of his fingers very pleasantly as he let them
+fall, and jingled musically in the darkness. At last he paused for a
+moment to say: “You promised to get me a berth, remember. I want to
+return to France. The post of rural guard in some pleasant
+neighbourhood which I could mention, would just suit me.”
+
+“Very well, I’ll see about it,” Rougon replied. “Have you got the eight
+hundred francs?”
+
+Macquart resumed his counting. The last coins were just clinking when a
+burst of laughter made them turn their heads. Aunt Dide was standing up
+in front of the bed, with her bodice unfastened, her white hair hanging
+loose, and her face stained with red blotches. Pascal had in vain
+endeavoured to hold her down. Trembling all over, and with her arms
+outstretched, she shook her head deliriously.
+
+“The blood-money! the blood-money!” she again and again repeated. “I
+heard the gold. And it is they, they who sold him. Ah! the murderers!
+They are a pack of wolves.”
+
+Then she pushed her hair aback, and passed her hand over her brow, as
+though seeking to collect her thoughts. And she continued: “Ah! I have
+long seen him with a bullet-hole in his forehead. There were always
+people lying in wait for him with guns. They used to sign to me that
+they were going to fire. . . . It’s terrible! I feel some one breaking
+my bones and battering out my brains. Oh! Mercy! Mercy! I beseech you;
+he shall not see her any more—never, never! I will shut him up. I will
+prevent him from walking out with her. Mercy! Mercy! Don’t fire. It is
+not my fault. If you knew——”
+
+She had almost fallen on her knees, and was weeping and entreating
+while she stretched her poor trembling hands towards some horrible
+vision which she saw in the darkness. Then she suddenly rose upright,
+and her eyes opened still more widely as a terrible cry came from her
+convulsed throat, as though some awful sight, visible to her alone, had
+filled her with mad terror.
+
+“Oh, the gendarme!” she said, choking and falling backwards on the bed,
+where she rolled about, breaking into long bursts of furious, insane
+laughter.
+
+Pascal was studying the attack attentively. The two brothers, who felt
+very frightened, and only detected snatches of what their mother said,
+had taken refuge in a corner of the room. When Rougon heard the word
+gendarme, he thought he understood her. Ever since the murder of her
+lover, the elder Macquart, on the frontier, aunt Dide had cherished a
+bitter hatred against all gendarmes and custom-house officers, whom she
+mingled together in one common longing for vengeance.
+
+“Why, it’s the story of the poacher that she’s telling us,” he
+whispered.
+
+But Pascal made a sign to him to keep quiet. The stricken woman had
+raised herself with difficulty, and was looking round her, with a
+stupefied air. She remained silent for a moment, endeavouring to
+recognise the various objects in the room, as though she were in some
+strange place. Then, with a sudden expression of anxiety, she asked:
+“Where is the gun?”
+
+The doctor put the carbine into her hands. At this she raised a light
+cry of joy, and gazed at the weapon, saying in a soft, sing-song,
+girlish whisper: “That is it. Oh! I recognise it! It is all stained
+with blood. The stains are quite fresh to-day. His red hands have left
+marks of blood on the butt. Ah! poor, poor aunt Dide!”
+
+Then she became dizzy once more, and lapsed into silent thought.
+
+“The gendarme was dead,” she murmured at last, “but I have seen him
+again; he has come back. They never die, those blackguards!”
+
+Again did gloomy passion come over her, and, shaking the carbine, she
+advanced towards her two sons who, speechless with fright, retreated to
+the very wall. Her loosened skirts trailed along the ground, as she
+drew up her twisted frame, which age had reduced to mere bones.
+
+“It’s you who fired!” she cried. “I heard the gold. . . . Wretched
+woman that I am! . . . I brought nothing but wolves into the world—a
+whole family—a whole litter of wolves! . . . There was only one poor
+lad, and him they have devoured; each had a bite at him, and their lips
+are covered with blood. . . . Ah! the accursed villains! They have
+robbed, they have murdered. . . . And they live like gentlemen.
+Villains! Accursed villains!”
+
+She sang, laughed, cried, and repeated “accursed villains!” in
+strangely sonorous tones, which suggested a crackling of a fusillade.
+Pascal, with tears in his eyes, took her in his arms and laid her on
+the bed again. She submitted like a child, but persisted in her wailing
+cries, accelerating their rhythm, and beating time on the sheet with
+her withered hands.
+
+“That’s just what I was afraid of,” the doctor said; “she is mad. The
+blow has been too heavy for a poor creature already subject, as she is,
+to acute neurosis. She will die in a lunatic asylum like her father.”
+
+“But what could she have seen?” asked Rougon, at last venturing to quit
+the corner where he had hidden himself.
+
+“I have a terrible suspicion,” Pascal replied. “I was going to speak to
+you about Silvère when you came in. He is a prisoner. You must
+endeavour to obtain his release from the prefect, if there is still
+time.”
+
+The old oil-dealer turned pale as he looked at his son. Then, rapidly,
+he responded: “Listen to me; you stay here and watch her. I’m too busy
+this evening. We will see to-morrow about conveying her to the lunatic
+asylum at Les Tulettes. As for you, Macquart, you must leave this very
+night. Swear to me that you will! I’m going to find Monsieur de
+Bleriot.”
+
+He stammered as he spoke, and felt more eager than ever to get out into
+the fresh air of the streets. Pascal fixed a penetrating look on the
+madwoman, and then on his father and uncle. His professional instinct
+was getting the better of him, and he studied the mother and the sons,
+with all the keenness of a naturalist observing the metamorphosis of
+some insect. He pondered over the growth of that family to which he
+belonged, over the different branches growing from one parent stock,
+whose sap carried identical germs to the farthest twigs, which bent in
+divers ways according to the sunshine or shade in which they lived. And
+for a moment, as by the glow of a lightning flash, he thought he could
+espy the future of the Rougon-Macquart family, a pack of unbridled,
+insatiate appetites amidst a blaze of gold and blood.
+
+Aunt Dide, however, had ceased her wailing chant at the mention of
+Silvère’s name. For a moment she listened anxiously. Then she broke out
+into terrible shrieks. Night had now completely fallen, and the black
+room seemed void and horrible. The shrieks of the madwoman, who was no
+longer visible, rang out from the darkness as from a grave. Rougon,
+losing his head, took to flight, pursued by those taunting cries, whose
+bitterness seemed to increase amidst the gloom.
+
+As he was emerging from the Impasse Saint-Mittre with hesitating steps,
+wondering whether it would not be dangerous to solicit Silvère’s pardon
+from the prefect, he saw Aristide prowling about the timber-yard. The
+latter, recognising his father, ran up to him with an expression of
+anxiety and whispered a few words in his ear. Pierre turned pale, and
+cast a look of alarm towards the end of the yard, where the darkness
+was only relieved by the ruddy glow of a little gipsy fire. Then they
+both disappeared down the Rue de Rome, quickening their steps as though
+they had committed a murder, and turning up their coat-collars in order
+that they might not be recognised.
+
+“That saves me an errand,” Rougon whispered. “Let us go to dinner. They
+are waiting for us.”
+
+When they arrived, the yellow drawing-room was resplendent. Félicité
+was all over the place. Everybody was there; Sicardot, Granoux,
+Roudier, Vuillet, the oil-dealers, the almond-dealers, the whole set.
+The marquis, however, had excused himself on the plea of rheumatism;
+and, besides, he was about to leave Plassans on a short trip. Those
+bloodstained bourgeois offended his feelings of delicacy, and moreover
+his relative, the Count de Valqueyras, had begged him to withdraw from
+public notice for a little time. Monsieur de Carnavant’s refusal vexed
+the Rougons; but Félicité consoled herself by resolving to make a more
+profuse display. She hired a pair of candelabra and ordered several
+additional dishes as a kind of substitute for the marquis. The table
+was laid in the yellow drawing-room, in order to impart more solemnity
+to the occasion. The Hôtel de Provence had supplied the silver, the
+china, and the glass. The cloth had been laid ever since five o’clock
+in order that the guests on arriving might feast their eyes upon it. At
+either end of the table, on the white cloth, were bouquets of
+artificial roses, in porcelain vases gilded and painted with flowers.
+
+When the habitual guests of the yellow drawing-room were assembled
+there they could not conceal their admiration of the spectacle. Several
+gentlemen smiled with an air of embarrassment while they exchanged
+furtive glances, which clearly signified, “These Rougons are mad, they
+are throwing their money out of the window.” The truth was that
+Félicité, on going round to invite her guests, had been unable to hold
+her tongue. So everybody knew that Pierre had been decorated, and that
+he was about to be nominated to some post; at which, of course, they
+pulled wry faces. Roudier indeed observed that “the little black woman
+was puffing herself out too much.” Now that “prize-day” had come this
+band of bourgeois, who had rushed upon the expiring Republic—each one
+keeping an eye on the other, and glorying in giving a deeper bite than
+his neighbour—did not think it fair that their hosts should have all
+the laurels of the battle. Even those who had merely howled by
+instinct, asking no recompense of the rising Empire, were greatly
+annoyed to see that, thanks to them, the poorest and least reputable of
+them all should be decorated with the red ribbon. The whole yellow
+drawing-room ought to have been decorated!
+
+“Not that I value the decoration,” Roudier said to Granoux, whom he had
+dragged into the embrasure of a window. “I refused it in the time of
+Louis-Philippe, when I was purveyor to the court. Ah! Louis-Philippe
+was a good king. France will never find his equal!”
+
+Roudier was becoming an Orleanist once more. And he added, with the
+crafty hypocrisy of an old hosier from the Rue Saint-Honoré: “But you,
+my dear Granoux; don’t you think the ribbon would look well in your
+button-hole? After all, you did as much to save the town as Rougon did.
+Yesterday, when I was calling upon some very distinguished persons,
+they could scarcely believe it possible that you had made so much noise
+with a mere hammer.”
+
+Granoux stammered his thanks, and, blushing like a maiden at her first
+confession of love, whispered in Roudier’s ear: “Don’t say anything
+about it, but I have reason to believe that Rougon will ask the ribbon
+for me. He’s a good fellow at heart, you know.”
+
+The old hosier thereupon became grave, and assumed a very affable
+manner. When Vuillet came and spoke to him of the well-deserved reward
+that their friend had just received, he replied in a loud voice, so as
+to be heard by Félicité, who was sitting a little way off, that “men
+like Rougon were an ornament to the Legion of Honour.” The bookseller
+joined in the chorus; he had that morning received a formal assurance
+that the custom of the college would be restored to him. As for
+Sicardot, he at first felt somewhat annoyed to find himself no longer
+the only one of the set who was decorated. According to him, none but
+soldiers had a right to the ribbon. Pierre’s valour surprised him.
+However, being in reality a good-natured fellow, he at last grew
+warmer, and ended by saying that the Napoleons always knew how to
+distinguish men of spirit and energy.
+
+Rougon and Aristide consequently had an enthusiastic reception; on
+their arrival all hands were held out to them. Some of the guests went
+so far as to embrace them. Angèle sat on the sofa, by the side of her
+mother-in-law, feeling very happy, and gazing at the table with the
+astonishment of a gourmand who has never seen so many dishes at once.
+When Aristide approached, Sicardot complimented his son-in-law upon his
+superb article in the “Indépendant.” He restored his friendship to him.
+The young man, in answer to the fatherly questions which Sicardot
+addressed to him, replied that he was anxious to take his little family
+with him to Paris, where his brother Eugène would push him forward; but
+he was in want of five hundred francs. Sicardot thereupon promised him
+the money, already foreseeing the day when his daughter would be
+received at the Tuileries by Napoleon III.
+
+In the meantime, Félicité had made a sign to her husband. Pierre,
+surrounded by everybody and anxiously questioned about his pallor,
+could only escape for a minute. He was just able to whisper in his
+wife’s ear that he had found Pascal and that Macquart would leave that
+night. Then lowering his voice still more he told her of his mother’s
+insanity, and placed his finger on his lips, as if to say: “Not a word;
+that would spoil the whole evening.” Félicité bit her lips. They
+exchanged a look in which they read their common thoughts: so now the
+old woman would not trouble them any more: the poacher’s hovel would be
+razed to the ground, as the walls of the Fouques’ enclosure had been
+demolished; and they would for ever enjoy the respect and esteem of
+Plassans.
+
+But the guests were looking at the table. Félicité showed the gentlemen
+their seats. It was perfect bliss. As each one took his spoon, Sicardot
+made a gesture to solicit a moment’s delay. Then he rose and gravely
+said: “Gentlemen, on behalf of the company present, I wish to express
+to our host how pleased we are at the rewards which his courage and
+patriotism have procured for him. I now see that he must have acted
+upon a heaven-sent inspiration in remaining here, while those beggars
+were dragging myself and others along the high roads. Therefore, I
+heartily applaud the decision of the government. . . . Let me finish,
+you can then congratulate our friend. . . . Know, then, that our
+friend, besides being made a chevalier of the Legion of Honour, is also
+to be appointed to a receiver of taxes.”
+
+There was a cry of surprise. They had expected a small post. Some of
+them tried to force a smile; but, aided by the sight of the table, the
+compliments again poured forth profusely.
+
+Sicardot once more begged for silence. “Wait one moment,” he resumed;
+“I have not finished. Just one word. It is probable that our friend
+will remain among us, owing to the death of Monsieur Peirotte.”
+
+Whilst the guests burst out into exclamations, Félicité felt a keen
+pain in her heart. Sicardot had already told her that the receiver had
+been shot; but at the mention of that sudden and shocking death, just
+as they were starting on that triumphal dinner, it seemed as if a
+chilling gust swept past her face. She remembered her wish; it was she
+who had killed that man. However, amidst the tinkling music of the
+silver, the company began to do honour to the banquet. In the
+provinces, people eat very much and very noisily. By the time the
+_relevé_ was served, the gentlemen were all talking together; they
+showered kicks upon the vanquished, flattered one another, and made
+disparaging remarks about the absence of the marquis. It was
+impossible, they said, to maintain intercourse with the nobility.
+Roudier even gave out that the marquis had begged to be excused because
+his fear of the insurgents had given him jaundice. At the second course
+they all scrambled like hounds at the quarry. The oil-dealers and
+almond-dealers were the men who saved France. They clinked glasses to
+the glory of the Rougons. Granoux, who was very red, began to stammer,
+while Vuillet, very pale, was quite drunk. Nevertheless Sicardot
+continued filling his glass. For her part Angèle, who had already eaten
+too much, prepared herself some sugar and water. The gentlemen were so
+delighted at being freed from panic, and finding themselves together
+again in that yellow drawing-room, round a good table, in the bright
+light radiating from the candelabra and the chandelier—which they now
+saw for the first time without its fly-specked cover—that they gave way
+to most exuberant folly and indulged in the coarsest enjoyment. Their
+voices rose in the warm atmosphere more huskily and eulogistically at
+each successive dish till they could scarcely invent fresh compliments.
+However, one of them, an old retired master-tanner, hit upon this fine
+phrase—that the dinner was a “perfect feast worthy of Lucullus.”
+
+Pierre was radiant, and his big pale face perspired with triumph.
+Félicité, already accustoming herself to her new station in life, said
+that they would probably rent poor Monsieur Peirotte’s flat until they
+could purchase a house of their own in the new town. She was already
+planning how she would place her future furniture in the receiver’s
+rooms. She was entering into possession of her Tuileries. At one
+moment, however, as the uproar of voices became deafening, she seemed
+to recollect something, and quitting her seat she whispered in
+Aristide’s ear: “And Silvère?”
+
+The young man started with surprise at the question.
+
+“He is dead,” he replied, likewise in a whisper. “I was there when the
+gendarme blew his brains out with a pistol.”
+
+Félicité in her turn shuddered. She opened her mouth to ask her son why
+he had not prevented this murder by claiming the lad; but abruptly
+hesitating she remained there speechless. Then Aristide, who had read
+her question on her quivering lips, whispered: “You understand, I said
+nothing—so much the worse for him! I did quite right. It’s a good
+riddance.”
+
+This brutal frankness displeased Félicité. So Aristide had his
+skeleton, like his father and mother. He would certainly not have
+confessed so openly that he had been strolling about the Faubourg and
+had allowed his cousin to be shot, had not the wine from the Hôtel de
+Provence and the dreams he was building upon his approaching arrival in
+Paris, made him depart from his habitual cunning. The words once
+spoken, he swung himself to and fro on his chair. Pierre, who had
+watched the conversation between his wife and son from a distance,
+understood what had passed and glanced at them like an accomplice
+imploring silence. It was the last blast of terror, as it were, which
+blew over the Rougons, amidst the splendour and enthusiastic merriment
+of the dinner. True, Félicité, on returning to her seat, espied a taper
+burning behind a window on the other side of the road. Some one sat
+watching Monsieur Peirotte’s corpse, which had been brought back from
+Sainte-Roure that morning. She sat down, feeling as if that taper were
+heating her back. But the gaiety was now increasing, and exclamations
+of rapture rang through the yellow drawing-room when the dessert
+appeared.
+
+At that same hour, the Faubourg was still shuddering at the tragedy
+which had just stained the Aire Saint-Mittre with blood. The return of
+the troops, after the carnage on the Nores plain, had been marked by
+the most cruel reprisals. Men were beaten to death behind bits of wall,
+with the butt-ends of muskets, others had their brains blown out in
+ravines by the pistols of gendarmes. In order that terror might impose
+silence, the soldiers strewed their road with corpses. One might have
+followed them by the red trail which they left behind.[*] It was a long
+butchery. At every halting-place, a few insurgents were massacred. Two
+were killed at Sainte-Roure, three at Ocheres, one at Beage. When the
+troops were encamped at Plassans, on the Nice road, it was decided that
+one more prisoner, the most guilty, should be shot. The victors judged
+it wise to leave this fresh corpse behind them in order to inspire the
+town with respect for the new-born Empire. But the soldiers were now
+weary of killing; none offered himself for the fatal task. The
+prisoners, thrown on the beams in the timber-yard as though on a camp
+bed, and bound together in pairs by the hands, listened and waited in a
+state of weary, resigned stupor.
+
+[*] Though M. Zola has changed his place in his account of the
+insurrection, that account is strictly accurate in all its chief
+particulars. What he says of the savagery both of the soldiers and of
+their officers is confirmed by all impartial historical
+writers.—EDITOR.
+
+
+At that moment the gendarme Rengade roughly opened a way for himself
+through the crowd of inquisitive idlers. As soon as he heard that the
+troops had returned with several hundred insurgents, he had risen from
+bed, shivering with fever, and risking his life in the cold, dark
+December air. Scarcely was he out of doors when his wound reopened, the
+bandage which covered his eyeless socket became stained with blood, and
+a red streamlet trickled over his cheek and moustache. He looked
+frightful in his dumb fury with his pale face and blood-stained
+bandage, as he ran along closely scrutinising each of the prisoners. He
+followed the beams, bending down and going to and fro, making the
+bravest shudder by his abrupt appearance. And, all of a sudden: “Ah!
+the bandit, I’ve got him!” he cried.
+
+He had just laid his hand on Silvère’s shoulder. Silvère, crouching
+down on a beam, with lifeless and expressionless face, was looking
+straight before him into the pale twilight, with a calm, stupefied air.
+Ever since his departure from Sainte-Roure, he had retained that vacant
+stare. Along the high road, for many a league, whenever the soldiers
+urged on the march of their captives with the butt-ends of their
+rifles, he had shown himself as gentle as a child. Covered with dust,
+thirsty and weary, he trudged onward without saying a word, like one of
+those docile animals that herdsmen drive along. He was thinking of
+Miette. He ever saw her lying on the banner, under the trees with her
+eyes turned upwards. For three days he had seen none but her; and at
+this very moment, amidst the growing darkness, he still saw her.
+
+Rengade turned towards the officer, who had failed to find among the
+soldiers the requisite men for an execution.
+
+“This villain put my eye out,” he said, pointing to Silvère. “Hand him
+over to me. It’s as good as done for you.”
+
+The officer did not reply in words, but withdrew with an air of
+indifference, making a vague gesture. The gendarme understood that the
+man was surrendered to him.
+
+“Come, get up!” he resumed, as he shook him.
+
+Silvère, like all the other prisoners, had a companion attached to him.
+He was fastened by the arm to a peasant of Poujols named Mourgue, a man
+about fifty, who had been brutified by the scorching sun and the hard
+labour of tilling the ground. Crooked-backed already, his hands
+hardened, his face coarse and heavy, he blinked his eyes in a stupid
+manner, with the stubborn, distrustful expression of an animal subject
+to the lash. He had set out armed with a pitchfork, because his fellow
+villagers had done so; but he could not have explained what had thus
+set him adrift on the high roads. Since he had been made a prisoner he
+understood it still less. He had some vague idea that he was being
+conveyed home. His amazement at finding himself bound, the sight of all
+the people staring at him, stupefied him still more. As he only spoke
+and understood the dialect of the region, he could not imagine what the
+gendarme wanted. He raised his coarse, heavy face towards him with an
+effort; then, fancying he was being asked the name of his village, he
+said in his hoarse voice:
+
+“I come from Poujols.”
+
+A burst of laughter ran through the crowd, and some voices cried:
+“Release the peasant.”
+
+“Bah!” Rengade replied; “the more of this vermin that’s crushed the
+better. As they’re together, they can both go.”
+
+There was a murmur.
+
+But the gendarme turned his terrible blood-stained face upon the
+onlookers, and they slunk off. One cleanly little citizen went away
+declaring that if he remained any longer it would spoil his appetite
+for dinner. However some boys who recognised Silvère, began to speak of
+“the red girl.” Thereupon the little citizen retraced his steps, in
+order to see the lover of the female standard-bearer, that depraved
+creature who had been mentioned in the “Gazette.”
+
+Silvère, for his part, neither saw nor heard anything; Rengade had to
+seize him by the collar. Thereupon he got up, forcing Mourgue to rise
+also.
+
+“Come,” said the gendarme. “It won’t take long.”
+
+Silvère then recognised the one-eyed man. He smiled. He must have
+understood. But he turned his head away. The sight of the one-eyed man,
+of his moustaches which congealed blood stiffened as with sinister
+rime, caused him profound grief. He would have liked to die in perfect
+peace. So he avoided the gaze of Rengade’s one eye, which glared from
+beneath the white bandage. And of his own accord he proceeded to the
+end of the Aire Saint-Mittre, to the narrow lane hidden by the timber
+stacks. Mourgue followed him thither.
+
+The Aire stretched out, with an aspect of desolation under the sallow
+sky. A murky light fell here and there from the copper-coloured clouds.
+Never had a sadder and more lingering twilight cast its melancholy over
+this bare expanse—this wood-yard with its slumbering timber, so stiff
+and rigid in the cold. The prisoners, the soldiers, and the mob along
+the high road disappeared amid the darkness of the trees. The expanse,
+the beams, the piles of planks alone grew pale under the fading light,
+assuming a muddy tint that vaguely suggested the bed of a dried-up
+torrent. The sawyers’ trestles, rearing their meagre framework in a
+corner, seemed to form gallows, or the uprights of a guillotine. And
+there was no living soul there excepting three gipsies who showed their
+frightened faces at the door of their van—an old man and woman, and a
+big girl with woolly hair, whose eyes gleamed like those of a wolf.
+
+Before reaching the secluded path, Silvère looked round him. He
+bethought himself of a far away Sunday when he had crossed the
+wood-yard in the bright moonlight. How calm and soft it had been!—how
+slowly had the pale rays passed over the beams! Supreme silence had
+fallen from the frozen sky. And amidst this silence, the woolly-haired
+gipsy girl had sung in a low key and an unknown tongue. Then Silvère
+remembered that the seemingly far-off Sunday was only a week old. But a
+week ago he had come to bid Miette farewell! How long past it seemed!
+He felt as though he had not set foot in the wood-yard for years. But
+when he reached the narrow path his heart failed him. He recognised the
+odour of the grass, the shadows of the planks, the holes in the wall. A
+woeful voice rose from all those things. The path stretched out sad and
+lonely; it seemed longer to him than usual, and he felt a cold wind
+blowing down it. The spot had aged cruelly. He saw that the wall was
+moss-eaten, that the verdant carpet was dried up by frost, that the
+piles of timber had been rotted by rain. It was perfect devastation.
+The yellow twilight fell like fine dust upon the ruins of all that had
+been most dear to him. He was obliged to close his eyes that he might
+again behold the lane green, and live his happy hours afresh. It was
+warm weather; and he was racing with Miette in the balmy air. Then the
+cruel December rains fell unceasingly, yet they still came there,
+sheltering themselves beneath the planks and listening with rapture to
+the heavy plashing of the shower. His whole life—all his
+happiness—passed before him like a flash of lightning. Miette was
+climbing over the wall, running to him, shaking with sonorous laughter.
+She was there; he could see her, gleaming white through the darkness,
+with her living helm of ink-black hair. She was talking about the
+magpies’ nests, which are so difficult to steal, and she dragged him
+along with her. Then he heard the gentle murmur of the Viorne in the
+distance, the chirping of the belated grasshoppers, and the blowing of
+the breeze among the poplars in the meadows of Sainte-Claire. Ah, how
+they used to run! How well he remembered it! She had learnt to swim in
+a fortnight. She was a plucky girl. She had only had one great fault:
+she was inclined to pilfering. But he would have cured her of that.
+Then the thought of their first embraces brought him back to the narrow
+path. They had always ended by returning to that nook. He fancied he
+could hear the gipsy girl’s song dying away, the creaking of the last
+shutters, the solemn striking of the clocks. Then the hour of
+separation came, and Miette climbed the wall again and threw him a
+kiss. And he saw her no more. Emotion choked him at the thought: he
+would never see her again—never!
+
+“When you’re ready,” jeered the one-eyed man; “come, choose your
+place.”
+
+Silvère took a few more steps. He was approaching the end of the path,
+and could see nothing but a strip of sky in which the rust-coloured
+light was fading away. Here had he spent his life for two years past.
+The slow approach of death added an ineffable charm to this pathway
+which had so long served as a lovers’ walk. He loitered, bidding a long
+and lingering farewell to all he loved; the grass, the timber, the
+stone of the old wall, all those things into which Miette had breathed
+life. And again his thoughts wandered. They were waiting till they
+should be old enough to marry: Aunt Dide would remain with them. Ah! if
+they had fled far away, very far away, to some unknown village, where
+the scamps of the Faubourg would no longer have been able to come and
+cast Chantegreil’s crime in his daughter’s face. What peaceful bliss!
+They would have opened a wheelwright’s workshop beside some high road.
+No doubt, he cared little for his ambitions now; he no longer thought
+of coachmaking, of carriages with broad varnished panels as shiny as
+mirrors. In the stupor of his despair he could not remember why his
+dream of bliss would never come to pass. Why did he not go away with
+Miette and aunt Dide? Then as he racked his memory, he heard the sharp
+crackling of a fusillade; he saw a standard fall before him, its staff
+broken and its folds drooping like the wings of a bird brought down by
+a shot. It was the Republic falling asleep with Miette under the red
+flag. Ah, what wretchedness! They were both dead, both had bleeding
+wounds in their breasts. And it was they—the corpses of his two
+loves—that now barred his path of life. He had nothing left him and
+might well die himself. These were the thoughts that had made him so
+gentle, so listless, so childlike all the way from Sainte-Roure. The
+soldiers might have struck him, he would not have felt it. His spirit
+no longer inhabited his body. It was far away, prostrate beside the
+loved ones who were dead under the trees amidst the pungent smoke of
+the gunpowder.
+
+But the one-eyed man was growing impatient; giving a push to Mourgue,
+who was lagging behind, he growled: “Get along, do; I don’t want to be
+here all night.”
+
+Silvère stumbled. He looked at his feet. A fragment of a skull lay
+whitening in the grass. He thought he heard a murmur of voices filling
+the pathway. The dead were calling him, those long departed ones, whose
+warm breath had so strangely perturbed him and his sweetheart during
+the sultry July evenings. He recognised their low whispers. They were
+rejoicing, they were telling him to come, and promising to restore
+Miette to him beneath the earth, in some retreat which would prove
+still more sequestered than this old trysting-place. The cemetery,
+whose oppressive odours and dark vegetation had breathed eager desire
+into the children’s hearts, while alluringly spreading out its couches
+of rank grass, without succeeding however in throwing them into one
+another’s arms, now longed to imbibe Silvère’s warm blood. For two
+summers past it had been expecting the young lovers.
+
+“Is it here?” asked the one-eyed man.
+
+Silvère looked in front of him. He had reached the end of the path. His
+eyes fell on the tombstone, and he started. Miette was right, that
+stone was for her. _“Here lieth . . . Marie . . . died . . . “_ She was
+dead, that slab had fallen over her. His strength failing him, he leant
+against the frozen stone. How warm it had been when they sat in that
+nook, chatting for many a long evening! She had always come that way,
+and the pressure of her foot, as she alighted from the wall, had worn
+away the stone’s surface in one corner. The mark seemed instinct with
+something of her lissom figure. And to Silvère it appeared as if some
+fatalism attached to all these objects—as if the stone were there
+precisely in order that he might come to die beside it, there where he
+had loved.
+
+The one-eyed man cocked his pistols.
+
+Death! death! the thought fascinated Silvère. It was to this spot,
+then, that they had led him, by the long white road which descends from
+Sainte-Roure to Plassans. If he had known it, he would have hastened on
+yet more quickly in order to die on that stone, at the end of the
+narrow path, in the atmosphere where he could still detect the scent of
+Miette’s breath! Never had he hoped for such consolation in his grief.
+Heaven was merciful. He waited, a vague smile playing on is face.
+
+Mourgue, meantime, had caught sight of the pistols. Hitherto he had
+allowed himself to be dragged along stupidly. But fear now overcame
+him, and he repeated, in a tone of despair: “I come from Poujols—I come
+from Poujols!”
+
+Then he threw himself on the ground, rolling at the gendarme’s feet,
+breaking out into prayers for mercy, and imagining that he was being
+mistaken for some one else.
+
+“What does it matter to me that you come from Poujols?” Rengade
+muttered.
+
+And as the wretched man, shivering and crying with terror, and quite
+unable to understand why he was going to die, held out his trembling
+hands—his deformed, hard, labourer’s hands—exclaiming in his patois
+that he had done nothing and ought to be pardoned, the one-eyed man
+grew quite exasperated at being unable to put the pistol to his temple,
+owing to his constant movements.
+
+“Will you hold your tongue?” he shouted.
+
+Thereupon Mourgue, mad with fright and unwilling to die, began to howl
+like a beast—like a pig that is being slaughtered.
+
+“Hold your tongue, you scoundrel!” the gendarme repeated.
+
+And he blew his brains out. The peasant fell with a thud. His body
+rolled to the foot of a timber-stack, where it remained doubled up. The
+violence of the shock had severed the rope which fastened him to his
+companion. Silvère fell on his knees before the tombstone.
+
+It was to make his vengeance the more terrible that Rengade had killed
+Mourgue first. He played with his second pistol, raising it slowly in
+order to relish Silvère’s agony. But the latter looked at him quietly.
+Then again the sight of this man, with the one fierce, scorching eye,
+made him feel uneasy. He averted his glance, fearing that he might die
+cowardly if he continued to look at that feverishly quivering gendarme,
+with blood-stained bandage and bleeding moustache. However, as he
+raised his eyes to avoid him, he perceived Justin’s head just above the
+wall, at the very spot where Miette had been wont to leap over.
+
+Justin had been at the Porte de Rome, among the crowd, when the
+gendarme had led the prisoners away. He had set off as fast as he could
+by way of the Jas-Meiffren, in his eagerness to witness the execution.
+The thought that he alone, of all the Faubourg scamps, would view the
+tragedy at his ease, as from a balcony, made him run so quickly that he
+twice fell down. And in spite of his wild chase, he arrived too late to
+witness the first shot. He climbed the mulberry tree in despair; but he
+smiled when he saw that Silvère still remained. The soldiers had
+informed him of his cousin’s death, and now the murder of the
+wheelwright brought his happiness to a climax. He awaited the shot with
+that delight which the sufferings of others always afforded him—a
+delight increased tenfold by the horror of the scene, and a feeling of
+exquisite fear.
+
+Silvère, on recognising that vile scamp’s head all by itself above the
+wall—that pale grinning face, with hair standing on end—experienced a
+feeling of fierce rage, a sudden desire to live. It was the last revolt
+of his blood—a momentary mutiny. He again sank down on his knees,
+gazing straight before him. A last vision passed before his eyes in the
+melancholy twilight. At the end of the path, at the entrance of the
+Impasse Saint-Mittre, he fancied he could see aunt Dide standing erect,
+white and rigid like the statue of a saint, while she witnessed his
+agony from a distance.
+
+At that moment he felt the cold pistol on his temple. There was a smile
+on Justin’s pale face. Closing his eyes, Silvère heard the
+long-departed dead wildly summoning him. In the darkness, he now saw
+nothing save Miette, wrapped in the banner, under the trees, with her
+eyes turned towards heaven. Then the one-eyed man fired, and all was
+over; the lad’s skull burst open like a ripe pomegranate; his face fell
+upon the stone, with his lips pressed to the spot which Miette’s feet
+had worn—that warm spot which still retained a trace of his dead love.
+
+And in the evening at dessert, at the Rougons’ abode, bursts of
+laughter arose with the fumes from the table, which was still warm with
+the remains of the dinner. At last the Rougons were nibbling at the
+pleasures of the wealthy! Their appetites, sharpened by thirty years of
+restrained desire, now fell to with wolfish teeth. These fierce,
+insatiate wild beasts, scarcely entering upon indulgence, exulted at
+the birth of the Empire—the dawn of the Rush for the Spoils. The Coup
+d’État, which retrieved the fortune of the Bonapartes, also laid the
+foundation for that of the Rougons.
+
+Pierre stood up, held out his glass, and exclaimed: “I drink to Prince
+Louis—to the Emperor!”
+
+The gentlemen, who had drowned their jealousies in champagne, rose in a
+body and clinked glasses with deafening shouts. It was a fine
+spectacle. The bourgeois of Plassans, Roudier, Granoux, Vuillet, and
+all the others, wept and embraced each other over the corpse of the
+Republic, which as yet was scarcely cold. But a splendid idea occurred
+to Sicardot. He took from Félicité’s hair a pink satin bow, which she
+had placed over her right ear in honour of the occasion, cut off a
+strip of the satin with his dessert knife, and then solemnly fastened
+it to Rougon’s button-hole. The latter feigned modesty, and pretended
+to resist. But his face beamed with joy, as he murmured: “No, I beg
+you, it is too soon. We must wait until the decree is published.”
+
+“Zounds!” Sicardot exclaimed, “will you please keep that! It’s an old
+soldier of Napoleon who decorates you!”
+
+The whole company burst into applause. Félicité almost swooned with
+delight. Silent Granoux jumped up on a chair in his enthusiasm, waving
+his napkin and making a speech which was lost amid the uproar. The
+yellow drawing-room was wild with triumph.
+
+But the strip of pink satin fastened to Pierre’s button-hole was not
+the only red spot in that triumph of the Rougons. A shoe, with a
+blood-stained heel, still lay forgotten under the bedstead in the
+adjoining room. The taper burning at Monsieur Peirotte’s bedside, over
+the way, gleamed too with the lurid redness of a gaping wound amidst
+the dark night. And yonder, far away, in the depths of the Aire
+Saint-Mittre, a pool of blood was congealing upon a tombstone.
+
+
+
+
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