Chapter IV (3)

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.