by Émile Zola
CHAPTER IV
Antoine Macquart had returned to Plassans after the fall of the firstNapoleon. He had had the incredible good fortune to escape all thefinal murderous campaigns of the Empire. He had moved from barracksto barracks, dragging on his brutifying military life. This mode ofexistence brought his natural vices to full development. His idlenessbecame deliberate; his intemperance, which brought him countlesspunishments, became, to his mind, a veritable religious duty. But thatwhich above all made him the worst of scapegraces was the superciliousdisdain which he entertained for the poor devils who had to earn theirbread.
"I've got money waiting for me at home," he often said to his comrades;"when I've served my time, I shall be able to live like a gentleman."
This belief, together with his stupid ignorance, prevented him fromrising even to the grade of corporal.
Since his departure he had never spent a day's furlough at Plassans, hisbrother having invented a thousand pretexts to keep him at a distance.He was therefore completely ignorant of the adroit manner in whichPierre had got possession of their mother's fortune. Adelaide, with herprofound indifference, did not even write to him three times to tell himhow she was going on. The silence which generally greeted his numerousrequests for money did not awaken the least suspicion in him; Pierre'sstinginess sufficed to explain the difficulty he experienced in securingfrom time to time a paltry twenty-franc piece. This, however, onlyincreased his animosity towards his brother, who left him to languishin military service in spite of his formal promise to purchase hisdischarge. He vowed to himself that on his return home he would nolonger submit like a child, but would flatly demand his share of thefortune to enable him to live as he pleased. In the diligence whichconveyed him home he dreamed of a delightful life of idleness. Theshattering of his castles in the air was terrible. When he reachedthe Faubourg, and could no longer even recognise the Fouques' plot ofground, he was stupefied. He was compelled to ask for his mother's newaddress. There a terrible scene occurred. Adelaide calmly informed himof the sale of the property. He flew into a rage, and even raised hishand against her.
The poor woman kept repeating: "Your brother has taken everything; it isunderstood that he will take care of you."
At last he left her and ran off to see Pierre, whom he had previouslyinformed of his return, and who was prepared to receive him in such away as to put an end to the matter at the first word of abuse.
"Listen," the oil-dealer said to him, affecting distant coldness; "don'trouse my anger, or I'll turn you out. As a matter of fact, I don't knowyou. We don't bear the same name. It's quite misfortune enough for methat my mother misconducted herself, without having her offspring cominghere and insulting me. I was well disposed towards you, but since youare insolent I shall do nothing for you, absolutely nothing."
Antoine was almost choking with rage.
"And what about my money," he cried; "will you give it up, you thief, orshall I have to drag you before the judges?"
Pierre shrugged his shoulders.
"I've got no money of yours," he replied, more calmly than ever. "Mymother disposed of her fortune as she thought proper. I am certainly notgoing to poke my nose into her business. I willingly renounced all hopeof inheritance. I am quite safe from your foul accusations."
And as his brother, exasperated by this composure, and not knowing whatto think, muttered something, Pierre thrust Adelaide's receipt under hisnose. The reading of this scrap of paper completed Antoine's dismay.
"Very well," he said, in a calmer voice, "I know now what I have to do."
The truth was, however, he did not know what to do. His inability to hitupon any immediate expedient for obtaining his share of the money andsatisfying his desire of revenge increased his fury. He went back tohis mother and subjected her to a disgraceful cross-examination. Thewretched woman could do nothing but again refer him to Pierre.
"Do you think you are going to make me run to and fro like a shuttle?"he cried, insolently. "I'll soon find out which of you two has thehoard. You've already squandered it, perhaps?"
And making an allusion to her former misconduct he asked her if therewere still not some low fellow to whom she gave her last sous? He didnot even spare his father, that drunkard Macquart, as he called him,who must have lived on her till the day of his death, and who left hischildren in poverty. The poor woman listened with a stupefied air; bigtears rolled down her cheeks. She defended herself with the terror ofa child, replying to her son's questions as though he were a judge; sheswore that she was living respectably, and reiterated with emphasis thatshe had never had a sou of the money, that Pierre had taken everything.Antoine almost came to believe it at last.
"Ah! the scoundrel!" he muttered; "that's why he wouldn't purchase mydischarge."
He had to sleep at his mother's house, on a straw mattress flung ina corner. He had returned with his pockets perfectly empty, and wasexasperated at finding himself destitute of resources, abandoned likea dog in the streets, without hearth or home, while his brother, as hethought, was in a good way of business, and living on the fat ofthe land. As he had no money to buy clothes with, he went out on thefollowing day in his regimental cap and trousers. He had the goodfortune to find, at the bottom of a cupboard, an old yellowish velveteenjacket, threadbare and patched, which had belonged to Macquart. In thisstrange attire he walked about the town, relating his story to everyone,and demanding justice.
The people whom he went to consult received him with a contempt whichmade him shed tears of rage. Provincial folks are inexorable towardsfallen families. In the general opinion it was only natural that theRougon-Macquarts should seek to devour each other; the spectators,instead of separating them, were more inclined to urge them on. Pierre,however, was at that time already beginning to purify himself of hisearly stains. People laughed at his roguery; some even went so far as tosay that he had done quite right, if he really had taken possession ofthe money, and that it would be a good lesson to the dissolute folks ofthe town.
Antoine returned home discouraged. A lawyer had advised him, in ascornful manner, to wash his dirty linen at home, though not until hehad skilfully ascertained whether Antoine possessed the requisitemeans to carry on a lawsuit. According to this man, the case was veryinvolved, the pleadings would be very lengthy, and success was doubtful.Moreover, it would require money, and plenty of it.
Antoine treated his mother yet more harshly that evening. Not knowingon whom else to wreak his vengeance, he repeated his accusation of theprevious day; he kept the wretched woman up till midnight, tremblingwith shame and fright. Adelaide having informed him that Pierre madeher an allowance, he now felt certain that his brother had pocketedthe fifty thousand francs. But, in his irritation, he still affected todoubt it, and did not cease to question the poor woman, again and againreproaching her with misconduct.
Antoine soon found out that, alone and without resources, he could notsuccessfully carry on a contest with his brother. He then endeavouredto gain Adelaide to his cause; an accusation lodged by her might haveserious consequences. But, at Antoine's first suggestion of it, thepoor, lazy, lethargic creature firmly refused to bring trouble on hereldest son.
"I am an unhappy woman," she stammered; "it is quite right of you to getangry. But I should feel too much remorse if I caused one of my sons tobe sent to prison. No; I'd rather let you beat me."
He saw that he would get nothing but tears out of her, and contentedhimself with saying that she was justly punished, and that he had nopity for her. In the evening, upset by the continual quarrels which herson had sought with her, Adelaide had one of those nervous attacks whichkept her as rigid as if she had been dead. The young man threw her onher bed, and then began to rummage the house to see if the wretchedwoman had any savings hidden away. He found about forty francs. He tookpossession of them, and, while his mother still lay there, rigid andscarce able to breathe, he quietly took the diligence to Marseilles.
He had just bethought himself that Mouret, the journeyman hatt
er who hadmarried his sister Ursule, must be indignant at Pierre's roguery, andwould no doubt be willing to defend his wife's interests. But he didnot find in him the man he expected. Mouret plainly told him that he hadbecome accustomed to look upon Ursule as an orphan, and would have nocontentions with her family at any price. Their affairs were prospering.Antoine was received so coldly that he hastened to take the diligencehome again. But, before leaving, he was anxious to revenge himself forthe secret contempt which he read in the workman's eyes; and, observingthat his sister appeared rather pale and dejected, he said to herhusband, in a slyly cruel way, as he took his departure: "Have a care,my sister was always sickly, and I find her much changed for the worse;you may lose her altogether."
The tears which rushed to Mouret's eyes convinced him that he hadtouched a sore wound. But then those work-people made too great adisplay of their happiness.
When he was back again in Plassans, Antoine became the more menacingfrom the conviction that his hands were tied. During a whole month hewas seen all over the place. He paraded the streets, recounting hisstory to all who would listen to him. Whenever he succeeded in extortinga franc from his mother, he would drink it away at some tavern, where hewould revile his brother, declaring that the rascal should shortly hearfrom him. In places like these, the good-natured fraternity which reignsamong drunkards procured him a sympathetic audience; all the scum of thetown espoused his cause, and poured forth bitter imprecations againstthat rascal Rougon, who left a brave soldier to starve; the discussiongenerally terminating with an indiscriminate condemnation of the rich.Antoine, the better to revenge himself, continued to march about in hisregimental cap and trousers and his old yellow velvet jacket, althoughhis mother had offered to purchase some more becoming clothes for him.But no; he preferred to make a display of his rags, and paraded them onSundays in the most frequented parts of the Cours Sauvaire.
One of his most exquisite pleasures was to pass Pierre's shop tentimes a day. He would enlarge the holes in his jacket with his fingers,slacken his step, and sometimes stand talking in front of the door, soas to remain longer in the street. On these occasions, too, he wouldbring one of his drunken friends and gossip to him; telling him aboutthe theft of the fifty thousand francs, accompanying his narrativewith loud insults and menaces, which could be heard by everyone inthe street, and taking particular care that his abuse should reach thefurthest end of the shop.
"He'll finish by coming to beg in front of our house," Felicite used tosay in despair.
The vain little woman suffered terribly from this scandal. She even atthis time felt some regret at ever having married Rougon; his familyconnections were so objectionable. She would have given all she had inthe world to prevent Antoine from parading his rags. But Pierre, whowas maddened by his brother's conduct, would not allow his name to bementioned. When his wife tried to convince him that it would perhapsbe better to free himself from all annoyance by giving Antoine a littlemoney: "No, nothing; not a sou," he cried with rage. "Let him starve!"
He confessed, however, at last that Antoine's demeanour was becomingintolerable. One day, Felicite, desiring to put an end to it, called to"that man," as she styled him with a disdainful curl on her lip. "Thatman" was in the act of calling her a foul name in the middle of thestreet, where he stood with one of his friends, even more ragged thanhimself. They were both drunk.
"Come, they want us in there," said Antoine to his companion in ajeering tone.
But Felicite drew back, muttering: "It's you alone we wish to speak to."
"Bah!" the young man replied, "my friend's a decent fellow. You needn'tmind him hearing. He'll be my witness."
The witness sank heavily on a chair. He did not take off his hat, butbegan to stare around him, with the maudlin, stupid grin of drunkardsand coarse people who know that they are insolent. Felicite was soashamed that she stood in front of the shop door in order thatpeople outside might not see what strange company she was receiving.Fortunately her husband came to the rescue. A violent quarrel ensuedbetween him and his brother. The latter, after stammering insults,reiterated his old grievances twenty times over. At last he even beganto cry, and his companion was near following his example. Pierre haddefended himself in a very dignified manner.
"Look here," he said at last, "you're unfortunate, and I pity you.Although you have cruelly insulted me, I can't forget that we arechildren of the same mother. If I give you anything, however, you mustunderstand I give it you out of kindness, and not from fear. Would youlike a hundred francs to help you out of your difficulties?"
This abrupt offer of a hundred francs dazzled Antoine's companion. Helooked at the other with an air of delight, which clearly signified: "Asthe gentleman offers a hundred francs, it is time to leave offabusing him." But Antoine was determined to speculate on his brother'sfavourable disposition. He asked him whether he took him for a fool; itwas his share, ten thousand francs, that he wanted.
"You're wrong, you're wrong," stuttered his friend.
At last, as Pierre, losing all patience, was threatening to turnthem both out, Antoine lowered his demands and contented himself withclaiming one thousand francs. They quarrelled for another quarter ofan hour over this amount. Finally, Felicite interfered. A crowd wasgathering round the shop.
"Listen," she said, excitedly; "my husband will give you two hundredfrancs. I'll undertake to buy you a suit of clothes, and hire a room fora year for you."
Rougon got angry at this. But Antoine's comrade cried, with transportsof delight: "All right, it's settled, then; my friend accepts."
Antoine did, in fact, declare, in a surly way, that he would accept.He felt he would not be able to get any more. It was arranged that themoney and clothes should be sent to him on the following day, and that afew days later, as soon as Felicite should have found a room for him, hewould take up his quarters there. As they were leaving, the youngman's sottish companion became as respectful as he had previously beeninsolent. He bowed to the company more than a dozen times, in an awkwardand humble manner, muttering many indistinct thanks, as if the Rougons'gifts had been intended for himself.
A week later Antoine occupied a large room in the old quarter, in whichFelicite, exceeding her promises, had placed a bed, a table, and somechairs, on the young man formally undertaking not to molest them infuture. Adelaide felt no regret at her son leaving her; the short stayhe had made with her had condemned her to bread and water for more thanthree months. However, Antoine had soon eaten and drunk the two hundredfrancs he received from Pierre. He never for a moment thought ofinvesting them in some little business which would have helped him tolive. When he was again penniless, having no trade, and being, moreover,unwilling to work, he again sought to slip a hand into the Rougons'purse. Circumstances were not the same as before, however, and he failedto intimidate them. Pierre even took advantage of this opportunity toturn him out, and forbade him ever to set foot in his house again.It was of no avail for Antoine to repeat his former accusations. Thetownspeople, who were acquainted with his brother's munificence fromthe publicity which Felicite had given to it, declared him to be inthe wrong, and called him a lazy, idle fellow. Meantime his hunger waspressing. He threatened to turn smuggler like his father, and perpetratesome crime which would dishonour his family. At this the Rougonsshrugged their shoulders; they knew he was too much of a coward to riskhis neck. At last, blindly enraged against his relatives in particularand society in general, Antoine made up his mind to seek some work.
In a tavern of the Faubourg he made the acquaintance of a basket-makerwho worked at home. He offered to help him. In a short time he learnt toplait baskets and hampers--a coarse and poorly-paid kind of labour whichfinds a ready market. He was very soon able to work on his own account.This trade pleased him, as it was not over laborious. He could stillindulge his idleness, and that was what he chiefly cared for. He wouldonly take to his work when he could no longer do otherwise; then hewould hurriedly plait a dozen baskets and go and sell them in themarket. As long as the mo
ney lasted he lounged about, visiting allthe taverns and digesting his drink in the sunshine. Then, when he hadfasted a whole day, he would once more take up his osier with a lowgrowl and revile the wealthy who lived in idleness. The trade of abasket-maker, when followed in such a manner, is a thankless one.Antoine's work would not have sufficed to pay for his drinking boutsif he had not contrived a means of procuring his osier at low cost. Henever bought any at Plassans, but used to say that he went each month topurchase a stock at a neighbouring town, where he pretended it wassold cheaper. The truth, however, was that he supplied himself fromthe osier-grounds of the Viorne on dark nights. A rural policeman evencaught him once in the very act, and Antoine underwent a few days'imprisonment in consequence. It was from that time forward that he posedin the town as a fierce Republican. He declared that he had been quietlysmoking his pipe by the riverside when the rural policeman arrested him.And he added: "They would like to get me out of the way because theyknow what my opinions are. But I'm not afraid of them, those richscoundrels."
At last, at the end of ten years of idleness, Antoine considered thathe had been working too hard. His constant dream was to devise someexpedient by which he might live at his ease without having to doanything. His idleness would never have rested content with bread andwater; he was not like certain lazy persons who are willing to put upwith hunger provided they can keep their hands in their pockets. Heliked good feeding and nothing to do. He talked at one time of taking asituation as servant in some nobleman's house in the Saint-Marc quarter.But one of his friends, a groom, frightened him by describing theexacting ways of his masters. Finally Macquart, sick of his baskets,and seeing the time approach when he would be compelled to purchasethe requisite osier, was on the point of selling himself as an armysubstitute and resuming his military life, which he preferred a thousandtimes to that of an artisan, when he made the acquaintance of a woman,an acquaintance which modified his plans.
Josephine Gavaudan, who was known throughout the town by the familiardiminutive of Fine, was a tall, strapping wench of about thirty. Witha square face of masculine proportions, and a few terribly long hairsabout her chin and lips, she was cited as a doughty woman, one who couldmake the weight of her fist felt. Her broad shoulders and huge armsconsequently inspired the town urchins with marvellous respect; and theydid not even dare to smile at her moustache. Notwithstanding all this,Fine had a faint voice, weak and clear like that of a child. Those whowere acquainted with her asserted that she was as gentle as a lamb, inspite of her formidable appearance. As she was very hard-working, shemight have put some money aside if she had not had a partiality forliqueurs. She adored aniseed, and very often had to be carried home onSunday evenings.
On week days she would toil with the stubbornness of an animal. She hadthree or four different occupations; she sold fruit or boiled chestnutsin the market, according to the season; went out charring for a fewwell-to-do people; washed up plates and dishes at houses when partieswere given, and employed her spare time in mending old chairs. She wasmore particularly known in the town as a chair-mender. In the Southlarge numbers of straw-bottomed chairs are used.
Antoine Macquart formed an acquaintance with Fine at the market. When hewent to sell his baskets in the winter he would stand beside the stoveon which she cooled her chestnuts and warm himself. He was astonishedat her courage, he who was frightened of the least work. By degrees hediscerned, beneath the apparent roughness of this strapping creature,signs of timidity and kindliness. He frequently saw her give handfuls ofchestnuts to the ragged urchins who stood in ecstasy round her smokingpot. At other times, when the market inspector hustled her, she verynearly began to cry, apparently forgetting all about her heavy fists.Antoine at last decided that she was exactly the woman he wanted. Shewould work for both and he would lay down the law at home. She wouldbe his beast of burden, an obedient, indefatigable animal. As for herpartiality for liqueurs, he regarded this as quite natural. After wellweighing the advantages of such an union, he declared himself to Fine,who was delighted with his proposal. No man had ever yet ventured topropose to her. Though she was told that Antoine was the most worthlessof vagabonds, she lacked the courage to refuse matrimony. The veryevening of the nuptials the young man took up his abode in his wife'slodgings in the Rue Civadiere, near the market. These lodgings,consisting of three rooms, were much more comfortably furnished than hisown, and he gave a sigh of satisfaction as he stretched himself out onthe two excellent mattresses which covered the bedstead.
Everything went on very well for the first few days. Fine attended toher various occupations as in the past; Antoine, seized with a sort ofmarital self-pride which astonished even himself, plaited in one weekmore baskets than he had ever before done in a month. On the firstSunday, however, war broke out. The couple had a goodly sum of money inthe house, and they spent it freely. During the night, when they wereboth drunk, they beat each other outrageously, without being able toremember on the morrow how it was that the quarrel had commenced. Theyhad remained on most affectionate terms until about ten o'clock, whenAntoine had begun to beat Fine brutally, whereupon the latter, growingexasperated and forgetting her meekness, had given him back as much asshe received. She went to work again bravely on the following day, asthough nothing had happened. But her husband, with sullen rancour,rose late and passed the remainder of the day smoking his pipe in thesunshine.
From that time forward the Macquarts adopted the kind of life whichthey were destined to lead in the future. It became, as it were, tacitlyunderstood between them that the wife should toil and moil to keep herhusband. Fine, who had an instinctive liking for work, did not objectto this. She was as patient as a saint, provided she had had no drink,thought it quite natural that her husband should remain idle, and evenstrove to spare him the most trifling labour. Her little weakness,aniseed, did not make her vicious, but just. On the evenings whenshe had forgotten herself in the company of a bottle of her favouriteliqueur, if Antoine tried to pick a quarrel with her, she would setupon him with might and main, reproaching him with his idleness andingratitude. The neighbours grew accustomed to the disturbances whichperiodically broke out in the couple's room. The two battered each otherconscientiously; the wife slapped like a mother chastising a naughtychild; but the husband, treacherous and spiteful as he was, measured hisblows, and, on several occasions, very nearly crippled the unfortunatewoman.
"You'll be in a fine plight when you've broken one of my arms or legs,"she would say to him. "Who'll keep you then, you lazy fellow?"
Excepting for these turbulent scenes, Antoine began to find his new modeof existence quite endurable. He was well clothed, and ate and drank hisfill. He had laid aside the basket work altogether; sometimes, when hewas feeling over-bored, he would resolve to plait a dozen baskets forthe next market day; but very often he did not even finish the firstone. He kept, under a couch, a bundle of osier which he did not use upin twenty years.
The Macquarts had three children, two girls and a boy. Lisa,[*] bornthe first, in 1827, one year after the marriage, remained but littleat home. She was a fine, big, healthy, full-blooded child, greatlyresembling her mother. She did not, however, inherit the latter's animaldevotion and endurance. Macquart had implanted in her a most decidedlonging for ease and comfort. While she was a child she would consent towork for a whole day in return for a cake. When she was scarcely sevenyears old, the wife of the postmaster, who was a neighbour of theMacquarts, took a liking to her. She made a little maid of her. And whenshe lost her husband in 1839, and went to live in Paris, she took Lisawith her. The parents had almost given her their daughter.
[*] The pork-butcher's wife in _Le Ventre de Paris_ (_The Fat and the Thin_).
The second girl, Gervaise,[*] born the following year, was a cripplefrom birth. Her right thigh was smaller than the left and showed signsof curvature, a curious hereditary result of the brutality which hermother had to endure during her fierce drunken brawls with Macquart.Gervaise remained puny, and Fine, observing her
pallor and weakness,put her on a course of aniseed, under the pretext that she requiredsomething to strengthen her. But the poor child became still moreemaciated. She was a tall, lank girl, whose frocks, invariably toolarge, hung round her as if they had nothing under them. Above adeformed and puny body she had a sweet little doll-like head, a tinyround face, pale and exquisitely delicate. Her infirmity almost becamegraceful. Her body swayed gently at every step with a sort of rhythmicalswing.
[*] The chief female character in _L'Assommoir_ (_The Dramshop_).
The Macquarts' son, Jean,[*] was born three years later. He was a robustchild, in no respect recalling Gervaise. Like the eldest girl, he tookafter his mother, without having any physical resemblance to her. Hewas the first to import into the Rougon-Macquart stock a fat face withregular features, which showed all the coldness of a grave yet notover-intelligent nature. This boy grew up with the determination ofsome day making an independent position for himself. He attended schooldiligently, and tortured his dull brain to force a little arithmetic andspelling into it. After that he became an apprentice, repeating muchthe same efforts with a perseverance that was the more meritorious as ittook him a whole day to learn what others acquired in an hour.
[*] Figures prominently in _La Terre_ (_The Earth_) and _La Debacle_ (_The Downfall_).
As long as these poor little things remained a burden to the house,Antoine grumbled. They were useless mouths that lessened his own share.He vowed, like his brother, that he would have no more children, thosegreedy creatures who bring their parents to penury. It was something tohear him bemoan his lot when they sat five at table, and the mother gavethe best morsels to Jean, Lisa, and Gervaise.
"That's right," he would growl; "stuff them, make them burst!"
Whenever Fine bought a garment or a pair of boots for them, he wouldsulk for days together. Ah! if he had only known, he would never had hadthat pack of brats, who compelled him to limit his smoking to four sous'worth of tobacco a day, and too frequently obliged him to eat stewedpotatoes for dinner, a dish which he heartily detested.
Later on, however, as soon as Jean and Gervaise earned their firstfrancs, he found some good in children after all. Lisa was no longerthere. He lived upon the earnings of the two others without compunction,as he had already lived upon their mother. It was a well-plannedspeculation on his part. As soon as little Gervaise was eight years old,she went to a neighbouring dealer's to crack almonds; she there earnedten sous a day, which her father pocketed right royally, without evena question from Fine as to what became of the money. The young girl wasnext apprenticed to a laundress, and as soon as she received two francsa day for her work, the two francs strayed in a similar manner intoMacquart's hands. Jean, who had learnt the trade of a carpenter, waslikewise despoiled on pay-days, whenever Macquart succeeded in catchinghim before he had handed the money to his mother. If the money escapedMacquart, which sometimes happened, he became frightfully surly. Hewould glare at his wife and children for a whole week, picking a quarrelfor nothing, although he was, as yet, ashamed to confess the real causeof his irritations. On the next pay-day, however, he would stationhimself on the watch, and as soon as he had succeeded in pilfering theyoungster's earnings, he disappeared for days together.
Gervaise, beaten and brought up in the streets among all the lads of theneighbourhood, became a mother when she was fourteen years of age. Thefather of her child was not eighteen years old. He was a journeymantanner named Lantier. At first Macquart was furious, but he calmeddown somewhat when he learnt that Lantier's mother, a worthy woman, waswilling to take charge of the child. He kept Gervaise, however; she wasthen already earning twenty-five sous a day, and he therefore avoidedall question of marriage. Four years later she had a second child, whichwas likewise taken in by Lantier's mother. This time Macquart shut hiseyes altogether. And when Fine timidly suggested that it was time tocome to some understanding with the tanner, in order to end a state ofthings which made people chatter, he flatly declared that his daughtershould not leave him, and that he would give her to her lover later on,"when he was worthy of her, and had enough money to furnish a home."
This was a fine time for Antoine Macquart. He dressed like a gentleman,in frock-coats and trousers of the finest cloth. Cleanly shaved, andalmost fat, he was no longer the emaciated ragged vagabond who had beenwont to frequent the taverns. He dropped into cafes, read the papers,and strolled on the Cours Sauvaire. He played the gentleman as long ashe had any money in his pocket. At times of impecuniosity he remained athome, exasperated at being kept in his hovel and prevented from takinghis customary cup of coffee. On such occasions he would reproach thewhole human race with his poverty, making himself ill with rage andenvy, until Fine, out of pity, would often give him the last silver coinin the house so that he might spend his evening at the cafe. This dearfellow was fiercely selfish. Gervaise, who brought home as much as sixtyfrancs a month, wore only thin cotton frocks, while he had black satinwaistcoats made for him by one of the best tailors in Plassans.
Jean, the big lad who earned three or four francs a day, was perhapsrobbed even more impudently. The cafe where his father passed entiredays was just opposite his master's workshop, and while he had plane orsaw in hand he could see "Monsieur" Macquart on the other side of theway, sweetening his coffee or playing piquet with some petty annuitant.It was his money that the lazy old fellow was gambling away. He, Jean,never stepped inside a cafe, he never had so much as five sous to payfor a drink. Antoine treated him like a little girl, never leaving him acentime, and always demanding an exact account of the manner in which hehad employed his time. If the unfortunate lad, led away by some ofhis mates, wasted a day somewhere in the country, on the banks of theViorne, or on the slopes of Garrigues, his father would storm and raisehis hand, and long bear him a grudge on account of the four francs lessthat he received at the end of the fortnight. He thus held his son ina state of dependence, sometimes even looking upon the sweethearts whomthe young carpenter courted as his own. Several of Gervaise's friendsused to come to the Macquarts' house, work-girls from sixteen toeighteen years of age, bold and boisterous girls who, on certainevenings, filled the room with youth and gaiety. Poor Jean, deprived ofall pleasure, ever kept at home by the lack of money, looked at thesegirls with longing eyes; but the childish life which he was compelledto lead had implanted invincible shyness in him; in playing with hissister's friends, he was hardly bold enough to touch them with the tipsof his fingers. Macquart used to shrug his shoulders with pity.
"What a simpleton!" he would mutter, with an air of ironicalsuperiority.
And it was he who would kiss the girls, when his wife's back was turned.He carried his attentions even further with a little laundress whom Jeanpursued rather more earnestly than the others. One fine evening he stoleher almost from his arms. The old rogue prided himself on his gallantry.
There are some men who live upon their mistresses. Antoine Macquartlived on his wife and children with as much shamelessness and impudence.He did not feel the least compunction in pillaging the home and goingout to enjoy himself when the house was bare. He still assumed asupercilious air, returning from the cafe only to rail against thepoverty and wretchedness that awaited him at home. He found the dinnerdetestable, he called Gervaise a blockhead, and declared that Jean wouldnever be a man. Immersed in his own selfish indulgence, he rubbed hishands whenever he had eaten the best piece in the dish; and then hesmoked his pipe, puffing slowly, while the two poor children, overcomewith fatigue, went to sleep with their heads resting on the table.Thus Macquart passed his days in lazy enjoyment. It seemed to him quitenatural that he should be kept in idleness like a girl, to sprawl abouton the benches of some tavern, or stroll in the cool of the day alongthe Cours or the Mail. At last he went so far as to relate his amorousescapades in the presence of his son, who listened with glisteningeyes. The children never protested, accustomed as they were to see theirmother humble herself before her husband.
Fine, that strapping woman who
drubbed him soundly when they were bothintoxicated, always trembled before him when she was sober, and allowedhim to rule despotically at home. He robbed her in the night of thecoppers which she had earned during the day at the market, but shenever dared to protest, except by veiled rebukes. Sometimes, when he hadsquandered the week's money in advance, he accused her, poor thing, whoworked herself to death, of being stupid and not knowing how to manage.Fine, as gentle as a lamb, replied, in her soft, clear voice, whichcontrasted so strangely with her big figure, that she was no longertwenty years old, and that money was becoming hard to earn. In orderto console herself, she would buy a pint of aniseed, and drink littleglassfuls of it with her daughter of an evening, after Antoine had goneback to the cafe. That was their dissipation. Jean went to bed, whilethe two women remained at the table, listening attentively in order toremove the bottle and glasses at the first sound.
When Macquart was late, they often became intoxicated by the many "nips"they thus thoughtlessly imbibed. Stupefied and gazing at each otherwith vague smiles, this mother and daughter would end by stuttering.Red patches appeared on Gervaise's cheeks; her delicate doll-like faceassumed a look of maudlin beatitude. Nothing could be more heart-rendingthan to see this wretched, pale child, aglow with drink and wearing theidiotic smile of a confirmed sot about her moist lips. Fine, huddledup on her chair, became heavy and drowsy. They sometimes forgot to keepwatch, or even lacked the strength to remove the bottle and glasses whenAntoine's footsteps were heard on the stairs. On these occasionsblows were freely exchanged among the Macquarts. Jean had to get upto separate his father and mother and make his sister go to bed, asotherwise she would have slept on the floor.
Every political party numbers its grotesques and its villains. AntoineMacquart, devoured by envy and hatred, and meditating revenge againstsociety in general, welcomed the Republic as a happy era when he wouldbe allowed to fill his pockets from his neighbour's cash-box, and evenstrangle the neighbour if the latter manifested any displeasure.His cafe life and all the newspaper articles he had read withoutunderstanding them had made him a terrible ranter who enunciated thestrangest of political theories. It is necessary to have heard one ofthose malcontents who ill digest what they read, haranguing the companyin some provincial taproom, in order to conceive the degree of hatefulfolly at which Macquart had arrived. As he talked a good deal, hadseen active service, and was naturally regarded as a man of energy andspirit, he was much sought after and listened to by simpletons. Althoughhe was not the chief of any party, he had succeeded in collectinground him a small group of working-men who took his jealous ravings forexpressions of honest and conscientious indignation.
Directly after the Revolution of February '48, he persuaded himself thatPlassans was his own, and, as he strolled along the streets, thejeering manner in which he regarded the little retail traders who stoodterrified at their shop doors clearly signified: "Our day has come,my little lambs; we are going to lead you a fine dance!" He had growninsolent beyond belief; he acted the part of a victorious despot tosuch a degree that he ceased to pay for his drinks at the cafe, and thelandlord, a simpleton who trembled whenever Antoine rolled his eyes,dared not present his bill. The number of cups of coffee he consumedduring this period was incalculable; sometimes he invited his friends,and shouted for hours together that the people were dying of hunger, andthat the rich ought to share their wealth with them. He himself wouldnever have given a sou to a beggar.
That which chiefly converted him into a fierce Republican was the hopeof at last being able to revenge himself on the Rougons, who had openlyranged themselves on the side of the reactionary party. Ah, what atriumph if he could only hold Pierre and Felicite at his mercy! Althoughthe latter had not succeeded over well in business, they had atlast become gentlefolks, while he, Macquart, had still remained aworking-man. That exasperated him. Perhaps he was still more mortifiedbecause one of their sons was a barrister, another a doctor, and thethird a clerk, while his son Jean merely worked at a carpenter's shop,and his daughter Gervaise at a washerwoman's. When he compared theMacquarts with the Rougons, he was still more ashamed to see his wifeselling chestnuts in the market, and mending the greasy old straw-seatedchairs of the neighbourhood in the evening. Pierre, after all, was buthis brother, and had no more right than himself to live fatly on hisincome. Moreover, this brother was actually playing the gentleman withmoney stolen from him. Whenever Macquart touched upon this subject, hebecame fiercely enraged; he clamoured for hours together, incessantlyrepeating his old accusations, and never wearying of exclaiming: "Ifmy brother was where he ought to be, I should be the moneyed man at thepresent time!"
And when anyone asked him where his brother ought to be, he would reply,"At the galleys!" in a formidable voice.
His hatred further increased when the Rougons had gathered theConservatives round them, and thus acquired a certain influence inPlassans. The famous yellow drawing-room became, in his hare-brainedchatter at the cafe, a cave of bandits, an assembly of villains whoevery evening swore on their daggers that they would murder the people.In order to incite the starvelings against Pierre, Macquart went so faras to circulate a report that the retired oil-dealer was not so poor ashe pretended, but that he concealed his treasures through avarice andfear of robbery. His tactics thus tended to rouse the poor people by arepetition of absurdly ridiculous tales, which he often came to believein himself. His personal animosity and his desire for revenge were illconcealed beneath his professions of patriotism; but he was heard sofrequently, and he had such a loud voice, that no one would have daredto doubt the genuineness of his convictions.
At bottom, all the members of this family had the same brutish passions.Felicite, who clearly understood that Macquart's wild theories weresimply the fruit of restrained rage and embittered envy, would much haveliked to purchase his silence. Unfortunately, she was short of money,and did not dare to interest him in the dangerous game which her husbandwas playing. Antoine now injured them very much among the well-to-dopeople of the new town. It sufficed that he was a relation of theirs.Granoux and Roudier often scornfully reproached them for having such aman in their family. Felicite consequently asked herself with anguishhow they could manage to cleanse themselves of such a stain.
It seemed to her monstrous and indecent that Monsieur Rougon should havea brother whose wife sold chestnuts, and who himself lived in crapulousidleness. She at last even trembled for the success of their secretintrigues, so long as Antoine seemingly took pleasure in compromisingthem. When the diatribes which he levelled at the yellow drawing-roomwere reported to her, she shuddered at the thought that he was capableof becoming desperate and ruining all their hopes by force of scandal.
Antoine knew what consternation his demeanour must cause the Rougons,and it was solely for the purpose of exhausting their patience that hefrom day to day affected fiercer opinions. At the cafe he frequentedhe used to speak of "my brother Pierre" in a voice which made everybodyturn round; and if he happened to meet some reactionary from the yellowdrawing-room in the street, he would mutter some low abuse which theworthy citizen, amazed at such audacity, would repeat to the Rougonsin the evening, as though to make them responsible for his disagreeableencounter.
One day Granoux arrived in a state of fury.
"Really," he exclaimed, when scarcely across the threshold, "it'sintolerable; one can't move a step without being insulted." Then,addressing Pierre, he added: "When one has a brother like yours, sir,one should rid society of him. I was just quietly walking past theSub-Prefecture, when that rascal passed me muttering something in whichI could clearly distinguish the words 'old rogue.'"
Felicite turned pale, and felt it necessary to apologise to Granoux, buthe refused to accept any excuses, and threatened to leave altogether.The marquis, however, exerted himself to arrange matters.
"It is very strange," he said, "that the wretched fellow should havecalled you an old rogue. Are you sure that he intended the insult foryou?"
Granoux was perplexed; he admit
ted at last, however, that Antoine mighthave muttered: "So you are again going to that old rogue's?"
At this Monsieur de Carnavant stroked his chin to conceal the smilewhich rose to his lips in spite of himself.
Then Rougon, with superb composure, replied: "I thought as much; the'old rogue' was no doubt intended for me. I've very glad that thismisunderstanding is now cleared up. Gentlemen, pray avoid the man inquestion, whom I formally repudiate."
Felicite, however, did not take matters so coolly; every fresh scandalcaused by Macquart made her more and more uneasy; she would sometimespass the whole night wondering what those gentlemen must think of thematter.
A few months before the Coup d'Etat, the Rougons received an anonymousletter, three pages of foul insults, in which they were warned thatif their party should ever triumph, the scandalous story of Adelaide'samours would be published in some newspaper, together with an accountof the robbery perpetrated by Pierre, when he had compelled his mother,driven out of her senses by debauchery, to sign a receipt for fiftythousand francs. This letter was a heavy blow for Rougon himself.Felicite could not refrain from reproaching her husband with hisdisreputable family; for the husband and wife never for a moment doubtedthat this letter was Antoine's work.
"We shall have to get rid of the blackguard at any price," said Pierrein a gloomy tone. "He's becoming too troublesome by far."
In the meantime, Macquart, resorting to his former tactics, looked roundamong his own relatives for accomplices who would join him against theRougons. He had counted upon Aristide at first, on reading his terriblearticles in the "Independant." But the young man, in spite of all hisjealous rage, was not so foolish as to make common cause with sucha fellow as his uncle. He never even minced matters with him, butinvariably kept him at a distance, a circumstance which induced Antoineto regard him suspiciously. In the taverns, where Macquart reignedsupreme, people went so far as to say the journalist was paid to provokedisturbances.
Baffled on this side, Macquart had no alternative but to sound hissister Ursule's children. Ursule had died in 1839, thus fulfilling herbrother's evil prophecy. The nervous affection which she had inheritedfrom her mother had turned into slow consumption, which gradually killedher. She left three children; a daughter, eighteen years of age, namedHelene, who married a clerk, and two boys, the elder, Francois, a youngman of twenty-three, and the younger, a sickly little fellow scarcelysix years old, named Silvere. The death of his wife, whom he adored,proved a thunderbolt to Mouret. He dragged on his existence for anotheryear, neglecting his business and losing all the money he had saved.Then, one morning, he was found hanging in a cupboard where Ursule'sdresses were still suspended. His elder son, who had received a goodcommercial training, took a situation in the house of his uncle Rougon,where he replaced Aristide, who had just left.
Rougon, in spite of his profound hatred for the Macquarts, gladlywelcomed this nephew, whom he knew to be industrious and sober. Hewas in want of a youth whom he could trust, and who would help him toretrieve his affairs. Moreover, during the time of Mouret's prosperity,he had learnt to esteem the young couple, who knew how to make money,and thus he had soon become reconciled with his sister. Perhaps hethought he was making Francois some compensation by taking him into hisbusiness; having robbed the mother, he would shield himself from remorseby giving employment to the son; even rogues make honest calculationssometimes. It was, however, a good thing for him. If the house of Rougondid not make a fortune at this time, it was certainly through no faultof that quiet, punctilious youth, Francois, who seemed born to pass hislife behind a grocer's counter, between a jar of oil and a bundleof dried cod-fish. Although he physically resembled his mother, heinherited from his father a just if narrow mind, with an instinctiveliking for a methodical life and the safe speculations of a smallbusiness.
Three months after his arrival, Pierre, pursuing his system ofcompensation, married him to his young daughter Marthe,[*] whom he didnot know how to dispose of. The two young people fell in love witheach other quite suddenly, in a few days. A peculiar circumstance haddoubtless determined and enhanced their mutual affection. There was aremarkably close resemblance between them, suggesting that of brotherand sister. Francois inherited, through Ursule, the face of hisgrandmother Adelaide. Marthe's case was still more curious; she was anequally exact portrait of Adelaide, although Pierre Rougon had none ofhis mother's features distinctly marked; the physical resemblancehad, as it were, passed over Pierre, to reappear in his daughter. Thesimilarity between husband and wife went, however, no further thantheir faces; if the worthy son of a steady matter-of-fact hatter wasdistinguishable in Francois, Marthe showed the nervousness and mentalweakness of her grandmother. Perhaps it was this combination of physicalresemblance and moral dissimilarity which threw the young people intoeach other's arms. From 1840 to 1844 they had three children. Francoisremained in his uncle's employ until the latter retired. Pierre haddesired to sell him the business, but the young man knew what smallchance there was of making a fortune in trade at Plassans; so hedeclined the offer and repaired to Marseilles, where he establishedhimself with his little savings.
[*] Both Francois and Marthe figure largely in _The Conquest of Plassans_.
Macquart soon had to abandon all hope of dragging this big industriousfellow into his campaign against the Rougons; whereupon, with all thespite of a lazybones, he regarded him as a cunning miser. He fancied,however, that he had discovered the accomplice he was seeking inMouret's second son, a lad of fifteen years of age. Young Silvere hadnever even been to school at the time when Mouret was found hangingamong his wife's skirts. His elder brother, not knowing what to dowith him, took him also to his uncle's. The latter made a wry face onbeholding the child; he had no intention of carrying his compensation sofar as to feed a useless mouth. Thus Silvere, to whom Felicite also tooka dislike, was growing up in tears, like an unfortunate little outcast,when his grandmother Adelaide, during one of the rare visits she paidthe Rougons, took pity on him, and expressed a wish to have him withher. Pierre was delighted; he let the child go, without even suggestingan increase of the paltry allowance that he made Adelaide, and whichhenceforward would have to suffice for two.
Adelaide was then nearly seventy-five years of age. Grown old whileleading a cloistered existence, she was no longer the lanky ardent girlwho formerly ran to embrace the smuggler Macquart. She had stiffened andhardened in her hovel in the Impasse Saint-Mittre, that dismal silenthole where she lived entirely alone on potatoes and dry vegetables, andwhich she did not leave once in the course of a month. On seeing herpass, you might have thought her to be one of those delicately white oldnuns with automatic gait, whom the cloister has kept apart from all theconcerns of this world. Her pale face, always scrupulously girt with awhite cap, looked like that of a dying woman; a vague, calm countenanceit was, wearing an air of supreme indifference. Prolonged taciturnityhad made her dumb; the darkness of her dwelling and the continualsight of the same objects had dulled her glance and given her eyes thelimpidity of spring water. Absolute renunciation, slow physical andmoral death, had little by little converted this crazy _amorosa_ into agrave matron. When, as often happened, a blank stare came into hereyes, and she gazed before her without seeing anything, one could detectutter, internal void through those deep bright cavities.
Nothing now remained of her former voluptuous ardour but weariness ofthe flesh and a senile tremor of the hands. She had once loved likea she-wolf, but was now wasted, already sufficiently worn out for thegrave. There had been strange workings of her nerves during her longyears of chastity. A dissolute life would perhaps have wrecked her lessthan the slow hidden ravages of unsatisfied fever which had modified herorganism.
Sometimes, even now, this moribund, pale old woman, who seemed to haveno blood left in her, was seized with nervous fits like electric shocks,which galvanised her, and for an hour brought her atrocious intensity oflife. She would lie on her bed rigid, with her eyes open; then hiccoughswould come upon her and she w
ould writhe and struggle, acquiring thefrightful strength of those hysterical madwomen whom one has to tie downin order to prevent them from breaking their heads against a wall.This return to former vigour, these sudden attacks, gave her a terribleshock. When she came to again, she would stagger about with such ascared, stupefied look, that the gossips of the Faubourg used to say:"She's been drinking, the crazy old thing!"
Little Silvere's childish smile was for her the last pale ray whichbrought some warmth to her frozen limbs. Weary of solitude, andfrightened at the thought of dying alone in one of her fits, she hadasked to have the child. With the little fellow running about nearher, she felt secure against death. Without relinquishing her habits oftaciturnity, or seeking to render her automatic movements more supple,she conceived inexpressible affection for him. Stiff and speechless, shewould watch him playing for hours together, listening with delight tothe intolerable noise with which he filled the old hovel. That tombhad resounded with uproar ever since Silvere had been running about it,bestriding broomsticks, knocking up against the doors, and shouting andcrying. He brought Adelaide back to the world, as it were; she lookedafter him with the most adorable awkwardness; she who, in her youth,had neglected the duties of a mother, now felt the divine pleasuresof maternity in washing his face, dressing him, and watching over hissickly life. It was a reawakening of love, a last soothing passion whichheaven had granted to this woman who had been so ravaged by the want ofsome one to love; the touching agony of a heart that had lived amidstthe most acute desires, and which was now dying full of love for achild.
She was already too far gone to pour forth the babble of good plumpgrandmothers; she adored the child in secret with the bashfulness of ayoung girl, without knowing how to fondle him. Sometimes she took him onher knees, and gazed at him for a long time with her pale eyes. Whenthe little one, frightened by her mute white visage, began to cry, sheseemed perplexed by what she had done, and quickly put him down upon thefloor without even kissing him. Perhaps she recognised in him a faintresemblance to Macquart the poacher.
Silvere grew up, ever tete-a-tete with Adelaide. With childish cajoleryhe used to call her aunt Dide, a name which ultimately clung to theold woman; the word "aunt" employed in this way is simply a term ofendearment in Provence. The child entertained singular affection, notunmixed with respectful terror, for his grandmother. During her nervousfits, when he was quite a little boy, he ran away from her, crying,terrified by her disfigured countenance; and he came back very timidlyafter the attack, ready to run away again, as though the old woman weredisposed to beat him. Later on, however, when he was twelve years old,he would stop there bravely and watch in order that she might not hurtherself by falling off the bed. He stood for hours holding her tightlyin his arms to subdue the rude shocks which distorted her. Duringintervals of calmness he would gaze with pity on her convulsed featuresand withered frame, over which her skirts lay like a shroud. Thesehidden dramas, which recurred every month, this old woman as rigid asa corpse, this child bent over her, silently watching for the returnof consciousness, made up amidst the darkness of the hovel a strangepicture of mournful horror and broken-hearted tenderness.
When aunt Dide came round, she would get up with difficulty, and setabout her work in the hovel without even questioning Silvere. Sheremembered nothing, and the child, from a sort of instinctive prudence,avoided the least allusion to what had taken place. These recurringfits, more than anything else, strengthened Silvere's deep attachmentfor his grandmother. In the same manner as she adored him without anygarrulous effusiveness, he felt a secret, almost bashful, affection forher. While he was really very grateful to her for having taken him inand brought him up, he could not help regarding her as an extraordinarycreature, a prey to some strange malady, whom he ought to pity andrespect. No doubt there was not sufficient life left in Adelaide; shewas too white and too stiff for Silvere to throw himself on her neck.Thus they lived together amidst melancholy silence, in the depths ofwhich they felt the tremor of boundless love.
The sad, solemn atmosphere, which he had breathed from childhood, gaveSilvere a strong heart, in which gathered every form of enthusiasm. Heearly became a serious, thoughtful little man, seeking instruction witha kind of stubbornness. He only learnt a little spelling and arithmeticat the school of the Christian Brothers, which he was compelled to leavewhen he was but twelve years old, on account of his apprenticeship. Henever acquired the first rudiments of knowledge. However, he read allthe odd volumes which fell into his hands, and thus provided himselfwith strange equipment; he had some notions of a multitude of subjects,ill-digested notions, which he could never classify distinctly in hishead. When he was quite young, he had been in the habit of playing inthe workshop of a master wheelwright, a worthy man named Vian, who livedat the entrance of the blind-alley in front of the Aire Saint-Mittrewhere he stored his timber. Silvere used to jump up on the wheels of thetilted carts undergoing repair, and amuse himself by dragging aboutthe heavy tools which his tiny hands could scarcely lift. One of hisgreatest pleasures, too, was to assist the workmen by holding some pieceof wood for them, or bringing them the iron-work which they required.When he had grown older he naturally became apprenticed to Vian. Thelatter had taken a liking to the little fellow who was always kickingabout his heels, and asked Adelaide to let him come, refusing to takeanything for his board and lodging. Silvere eagerly accepted, alreadyforeseeing the time when he would be able to make his poor aunt Didesome return for all she had spent upon him.
In a short time he became an excellent workman. He cherished, however,much higher ambitions. Having once seen, at a coachbuilder's atPlassans, a fine new carriage, shining with varnish, he vowed that hewould one day build carriages himself. He remembered this carriage asa rare and unique work of art, an ideal towards which his aspirationsshould tend. The tilted carts at which he worked in Vian's shop, thosecarts which he had lovingly cherished, now seemed unworthy of hisaffections. He began to attend the local drawing-school, where he formeda connection with a youngster who had left college, and who lent him anold treatise on geometry. He plunged into this study without a guide,racking his brains for weeks together in order to grasp the simplestproblem in the world. In this matter he gradually became one of thoselearned workmen who can hardly sign their name and yet talk aboutalgebra as though it were an intimate friend.
Nothing unsettles the mind so much as this desultory kind of education,which reposes on no firm basis. Most frequently such scraps of knowledgeconvey an absolutely false idea of the highest truths, and renderpersons of limited intellect insufferably stupid. In Silvere's case,however, his scraps of stolen knowledge only augmented his liberalaspirations. He was conscious of horizons which at present remainedclosed to him. He formed for himself divine conceptions of things beyondhis reach, and lived on, regarding in a deep, innocent, religious waythe noble thoughts and grand conceptions towards which he was raisinghimself, but which he could not as yet comprehend. He was one of thesimple-minded, one whose simplicity was divine, and who had remainedon the threshold of the temple, kneeling before the tapers which from adistance he took for stars.
The hovel in the Impasse Saint-Mittre consisted, in the first place,of a large room into which the street door opened. The only pieces offurniture in this room, which had a stone floor, and served both as akitchen and a dining-room, were some straw-seated chairs, a table ontrestles, and an old coffer which Adelaide had converted into a sofa, byspreading a piece of woollen stuff over the lid. In the left handcorner of the large fireplace stood a plaster image of the Holy Virgin,surrounded by artificial flowers; she is the traditional good mother ofall old Provencal women, however irreligious they may be. A passage ledfrom the room into a yard situated at the rear of the house; in thisyard there was a well. Aunt Dide's bedroom was on the left side of thepassage; it was a little apartment containing an iron bedstead and onechair; Silvere slept in a still smaller room on the right hand side,just large enough for a trestle bedstead; and he had been obliged toplan a set of s
helves, reaching up to the ceiling, to keep by himall those dear odd volumes which he saved his sous to purchase from aneighbouring general dealer. When he read at night-time, he would hanghis lamp on a nail at the head of the bed. If his grandmother had anattack, he merely had to leap out at the first gasp to be at her side ina moment.
The young man led the life of a child. He passed his existence in thislonely spot. Like his father, he felt a dislike for taverns and Sundaystrolling. His mates wounded his delicate susceptibilities by theircoarse jokes. He preferred to read, to rack his rain over some simplegeometrical problem. Since aunt Dide had entrusted him with thelittle household commissions she did not go out at all, but ceased allintercourse even with her family. The young man sometimes thought of herforlornness; he reflected that the poor old woman lived but a few stepsfrom the children who strove to forget her, as though she were dead;and this made him love her all the more, for himself and for the others.When he at times entertained a vague idea that aunt Dide might beexpiating some former transgressions, he would say to himself: "I wasborn to pardon her."
A nature such as Silvere's, ardent yet self-restrained, naturallycherished the most exalted republican ideas. At night, in his littlehovel, Silvere would again and again read a work of Rousseau's which hehad picked up at the neighbouring dealer's among a number of old locks.The reading of this book kept him awake till daylight. Amidst his dreamof universal happiness so dear to the poor, the words liberty, equality,fraternity, rang in his ears like those sonorous sacred calls of thebells, at the sound of which the faithful fall upon their knees. When,therefore, he learnt that the Republic had just been proclaimed inFrance he fancied that the whole world would enjoy a life of celestialbeatitude. His knowledge, though imperfect, made him see farther thanother workmen; his aspirations did not stop at daily bread; but hisextreme ingenuousness, his complete ignorance of mankind, kept himin the dreamland of theory, a Garden of Eden where universal justicereigned. His paradise was for a long time a delightful spot in which heforgot himself.
When he came to perceive that things did not go on quite satisfactorilyin the best of republics he was sorely grieved, and indulged in anotherdream, that of compelling men to be happy even by force. Every act whichseemed to him prejudicial to the interest of the people roused him torevengeful indignation. Though he was as gentle as a child, he cherishedthe fiercest political animosity. He would not have killed a fly, andyet he was for ever talking of a call to arms. Liberty was his passion,an unreasoning, absolute passion, to which he gave all the feverishardour of his blood. Blinded by enthusiasm, he was both too ignorant andtoo learned to be tolerant, and would not allow for men's weaknesses; herequired an ideal government of perfect justice and perfect liberty. Itwas at this period that Antoine Macquart thought of setting him againstthe Rougons. He fancied that this young enthusiast would work terriblehavoc if he were only exasperated to the proper pitch. This calculationwas not altogether devoid of shrewdness.
Such being Antoine's scheme, he tried to induce Silvere to visit him, byprofessing inordinate admiration for the young man's ideas. But hevery nearly compromised the whole matter at the outset. He had a wayof regarding the triumph of the Republic as a question of personalinterest, as an era of happy idleness and endless junketing, whichchilled his nephew's purely moral aspirations. However, he perceivedthat he was on the wrong track, and plunged into strange bathos, astring of empty but high-sounding words, which Silvere accepted as asatisfactory proof of his civism. Before long the uncle and the nephewsaw each other two or three times a week. During their long discussions,in which the fate of the country was flatly settled, Antoine endeavouredto persuade the young man that the Rougons' drawing-room was the chiefobstacle to the welfare of France. But he again made a false move bycalling his mother "old jade" in Silvere's presence. He even repeated tohim the early scandals about the poor woman. The young man blushed forshame, but listened without interruption. He had not asked his unclefor this information; he felt heart-broken by such confidences, whichwounded his feeling of respectful affection for aunt Dide. From thattime forward he lavished yet more attention upon his grandmother,greeting her always with pleasant smiles and looks of forgiveness.However, Macquart felt that he had acted foolishly, and strove to takeadvantage of Silvere's affection for Adelaide by charging the Rougonswith her forlornness and poverty. According to him, he had always beenthe best of sons, whereas his brother had behaved disgracefully; Pierrehad robbed his mother, and now, when she was penniless, he was ashamedof her. He never ceased descanting on this subject. Silvere thereuponbecame indignant with his uncle Pierre, much to the satisfaction of hisuncle Antoine.
The scene was much the same every time the young man called. He usedto come in the evening, while the Macquarts were at dinner. The fatherwould be swallowing some potato stew with a growl, picking out thepieces of bacon, and watching the dish when it passed into the hands ofJean and Gervaise.
"You see, Silvere," he would say with a sullen rage which wasill-concealed beneath his air of cynical indifference, "more potatoes,always potatoes! We never eat anything else now. Meat is only forrich people. It's getting quite impossible to make both ends meet withchildren who have the devil's appetite and their own too."
Gervaise and Jean bent over their plates, no longer even daring to cutsome bread. Silvere, who in his dream lived in heaven, did not grasp thesituation. In a calm voice he pronounced these storm-laden words:
"But you should work, uncle."
"Ah! yes," sneered Macquart, stung to the quick. "You want me to work,eh! To let those beggars, the rich folk, continue to prey upon me. Ishould earn probably twenty sous a day, and ruin my constitution. It'sworth while, isn't it?"
"Everyone earns what he can," the young man replied. "Twenty sous aretwenty sous; and it all helps in a home. Besides, you're an old soldier,why don't you seek some employment?"
Fine would then interpose, with a thoughtlessness of which she soonrepented.
"That's what I'm always telling him," said she. "The market inspectorwants an assistant; I mentioned my husband to him, and he seems welldisposed towards us."
But Macquart interrupted her with a fulminating glance. "Eh! holdyour tongue," he growled with suppressed anger. "Women never knowwhat they're talking about! Nobody would have me; my opinions are toowell-known."
Every time he was offered employment he displayed similar irritation. Hedid not cease, however, to ask for situations, though he always refusedsuch as were found for him, assigning the most extraordinary reasons.When pressed upon the point he became terrible.
If Jean were to take up a newspaper after dinner he would at onceexclaim: "You'd better go to bed. You'll be getting up late to-morrow,and that'll be another day lost. To think of that young rascal cominghome with eight francs short last week! However, I've requested hismaster not give him his money in future; I'll call for it myself."
Jean would go to bed to avoid his father's recriminations. He had butlittle sympathy with Silvere; politics bored him, and he thought hiscousin "cracked." When only the women remained, if they unfortunatelystarted some whispered converse after clearing the table, Macquart wouldcry: "Now, you idlers! Is there nothing that requires mending? we'reall in rags. Look here, Gervaise, I was at your mistress's to-day, and Ilearnt some fine things. You're a good-for-nothing, a gad-about."
Gervaise, now a grown girl of more than twenty, coloured up atthus being scolded in the presence of Silvere, who himself feltuncomfortable. One evening, having come rather late, when his uncle wasnot at home, he had found the mother and daughter intoxicated beforean empty bottle. From that time he could never see his cousin withoutrecalling the disgraceful spectacle she had presented, with the maudlingrin and large red patches on her poor, pale, puny face. He was notless shocked by the nasty stories that circulated with regard to her.He sometimes looked at her stealthily, with the timid surprise of aschoolboy in the presence of a disreputable character.
When the two women had taken up their needles, and were rui
ning theireyesight in order to mend his old shirts, Macquart, taking the bestseat, would throw himself back with an air of delicious comfort, and sipand smoke like a man who relishes his laziness. This was the time whenthe old rogue generally railed against the wealthy for living onthe sweat of the poor man's brow. He was superbly indignant with thegentlemen of the new town, who lived so idly, and compelled the poorto keep them in luxury. The fragments of communistic notions which heculled from the newspapers in the morning became grotesque and monstrouson falling from his lips. He would talk of a time near at hand whenno one would be obliged to work. He always, however, kept his fiercestanimosity for the Rougons. He never could digest the potatoes he hadeaten.
"I saw that vile creature Felicite buying a chicken in the market thismorning," he would say. "Those robbers of inheritances must eat chicken,forsooth!"
"Aunt Dide," interposed Silvere, "says that uncle Pierre was very kindto you when you left the army. Didn't he spend a large sum of money inlodging and clothing you?"
"A large sum of money!" roared Macquart in exasperation; "yourgrandmother is mad. It was those thieves who spread those reportsthemselves, so as to close my mouth. I never had anything."
Fine again foolishly interfered, reminding him that he had received twohundred francs, besides a suit of clothes and a year's rent. Antoinethereupon shouted to her to hold her tongue, and continued, withincreasing fury: "Two hundred francs! A fine thing! I want my due, tenthousand francs. Ah! yes, talk of the hole they shoved me into like adog, and the old frock-coat which Pierre gave me because he was ashamedto wear it any longer himself, it was so dirty and ragged!"
He was not speaking the truth; but, seeing the rage that he was in,nobody ventured to protest any further. Then, turning towards Silvere:"It's very stupid of you to defend them!" he added. "They robbed yourmother, who, good woman, would be alive now if she had had the means oftaking care of herself."
"Oh! you're not just, uncle," the young man said; "my mother did notdie for want of attention, and I'm certain my father would never haveaccepted a sou from his wife's family!"
"Pooh! don't talk to me! your father would have taken the money justlike anybody else. We were disgracefully plundered, and it's high timewe had our rights."
Then Macquart, for the hundredth time, began to recount the story ofthe fifty thousand francs. His nephew, who knew it by heart, and allthe variations with which he embellished it, listened to him ratherimpatiently.
"If you were a man," Antoine would say in conclusion, "you would comesome day with me, and we would kick up a nice row at the Rougons. Wewould not leave without having some money given us."
Silvere, however, grew serious, and frankly replied: "If those wretchesrobbed us, so much the worse for them. I don't want their money. Yousee, uncle, it's not for us to fall on our relatives. If they've donewrong, well, one of these days they'll be severely punished for it."
"Ah! what a big simpleton you are!" the uncle cried. "When we have theupper hand, you'll see whether I sha'n't settle my own little affairsmyself. God cares a lot about us indeed! What a foul family ours is!Even if I were starving to death, not one of those scoundrels wouldthrow me a dry crust."
Whenever Macquart touched upon this subject, he proved inexhaustible. Hebared all his bleeding wounds of envy and covetousness. He grew madwith rage when he came to think that he was the only unlucky one in thefamily, and was forced to eat potatoes, while the others had meat totheir heart's content. He would pass all his relations in review, evenhis grand-nephews, and find some grievance and reason for threateningevery one of them.
"Yes, yes," he repeated bitterly, "they'd leave me to die like a dog."
Gervaise, without raising her head or ceasing to ply her needle, wouldsometimes say timidly: "Still, father, cousin Pascal was very kind tous, last year, when you were ill."
"He attended you without charging a sou," continued Fine, coming to herdaughter's aid, "and he often slipped a five-franc piece into my hand tomake you some broth."
"He! he'd have killed me if I hadn't had a strong constitution!"Macquart retorted. "Hold your tongues, you fools! You'd let yourselvesbe twisted about like children. They'd all like to see me dead. When I'mill again, I beg you not to go and fetch my nephew, for I didn't feel atall comfortable in his hands. He's only a twopenny-halfpenny doctor, andhasn't got a decent patient in all his practice."
When once Macquart was fully launched, he could not stop. "It's likethat little viper, Aristide," he would say, "a false brother, a traitor.Are you taken in by his articles in the 'Independant,' Silvere? Youwould be a fine fool if you were. They're not even written in goodFrench; I've always maintained that this contraband Republican is inleague with his worthy father to humbug us. You'll see how he'll turnhis coat. And his brother, the illustrious Eugene, that big blockheadof whom the Rougons make such a fuss! Why, they've got the impudence toassert that he occupies a good position in Paris! I know something abouthis position; he's employed at the Rue de Jerusalem; he's a police spy."
"Who told you so? You know nothing about it," interrupted Silvere, whoseupright spirit at last felt hurt by his uncle's lying accusations.
"Ah! I know nothing about it? Do you think so? I tell you he is apolice spy. You'll be shorn like a lamb one of these days, with yourbenevolence. You're not manly enough. I don't want to say anythingagainst your brother Francois; but, if I were in your place, I shouldn'tlike the scurvy manner in which he treats you. He earns a heap of moneyat Marseilles, and yet he never sends you a paltry twenty-franc piercefor pocket money. If ever you become poor, I shouldn't advise you tolook to him for anything."
"I've no need of anybody," the young man replied in a proud and slightlyinjured tone of voice. "My own work suffices for aunt Dide and myself.You're cruel, uncle."
"I only say what's true, that's all. I should like to open your eyes.Our family is a disreputable lot; it's sad but true. Even that littleMaxime, Aristide's son, that little nine-year-old brat, pokes histongue out at me when me meets me. That child will some day beat hisown mother, and a good job too! Say what you like, all those folks don'tdeserve their luck; but it's always like this in families, the good onessuffer while the bad ones make their fortunes."
All this dirty linen, which Macquart washed with such complacency beforehis nephew, profoundly disgusted the young man. He would have liked tosoar back into his dream. As soon as he began to show unmistakable signsof impatience, Antoine would employ strong expedients to exasperate himagainst their relatives.
"Defend them! Defend them!" he would say, appearing to calm down. "I,for my part, have arranged to have nothing more to do with them. I onlymention the matter out of pity for my poor mother, whom all that gangtreat in a most revolting manner."
"They are wretches!" Silvere murmured.
"Oh! you don't know, you don't understand. These Rougons pour all sortsof insults and abuse on the good woman. Aristide has forbidden his soneven to recognise her. Felicite talks of having her placed in a lunaticasylum."
The young man, as white as a sheet, abruptly interrupted his uncle:"Enough!" he cried. "I don't want to know any more about it. There willhave to be an end to all this."
"I'll hold my tongue, since it annoys you," the old rascal replied,feigning a good-natured manner. "Still, there are some things thatyou ought not to be ignorant of, unless you want to play the part of afool."
Macquart, while exerting himself to set Silvere against the Rougons,experienced the keenest pleasure on drawing tears of anguish from theyoung man's eyes. He detested him, perhaps, more than he did the others,and this because he was an excellent workman and never drank. He broughtall his instincts of refined cruelty into play, in order to inventatrocious falsehoods which should sting the poor lad to the heart; thenhe revelled in his pallor, his trembling hands and his heart-rendinglooks, with the delight of some evil spirit who measures his stabs andfinds that he has struck his victim in the right place. When he thoughtthat he had wounded and exasperated Silvere sufficiently, he wou
ld atlast touch upon politics.
"I've been assured," he would say, lowering his voice, "that the Rougonsare preparing some treachery."
"Treachery?" Silvere asked, becoming attentive.
"Yes, one of these nights they are going to seize all the good citizensof the town and throw them into prison."
The young man was at first disposed to doubt it, but his uncle gaveprecise details; he spoke of lists that had been drawn up, he mentionedthe persons whose names were on these lists, he indicated in whatmanner, at what hour, and under what circumstances the plot would becarried into effect. Silvere gradually allowed himself to be taken inby this old woman's tale, and was soon raving against the enemies of theRepublic.
"It's they that we shall have to reduce to impotence if they persist inbetraying the country!" he cried. "And what do they intend to do withthe citizens whom they arrest?"
"What do they intend to do with them? Why, they will shoot them in thelowest dungeons of the prison, of course," replied Macquart, with ahoarse laugh. And as the young man, stupefied with horror, looked athim without knowing what to say: "This will not be the first lot to beassassinated there," he continued. "You need only go and prowl about thePalais de Justice of an evening to hear the shots and groans."
"Oh, the wretches!" Silvere murmured.
Thereupon uncle and nephew launched out into high politics. Fine andGervaise, on finding them hotly debating things, quietly went to bedwithout attracting their attention. Then the two men remained togethertill midnight, commenting on the news from Paris and discussing theapproaching and inevitable struggle. Macquart bitterly denounced the menof his own party, Silvere dreamed his dream of ideal liberty aloud, andfor himself only. Strange conversations these were, during which theuncle poured out many a little nip for himself, and from which thenephew emerged quite intoxicated with enthusiasm. Antoine, however,never succeeded in obtaining from the young Republican any perfidioussuggestion or play of warfare against the Rougons. In vain he tried togoad him on; he seldom heard him suggest aught but an appeal to eternaljustice, which sooner or later would punish the evil-doers.
The ingenuous youth did indeed speak warmly of taking up arms andmassacring the enemies of the Republic; but, as soon as these enemiesstrayed out of his dream or became personified in his uncle Pierre orany other person of his acquaintance, he relied upon heaven to sparehim the horror of shedding blood. It is very probable that he would haveceased visiting Macquart, whose jealous fury made him so uncomfortable,if he had not tasted the pleasure of being able to speak freely of hisdear Republic there. In the end, however, his uncle exercised decisiveinfluence over his destiny; he irritated his nerves by his everlastingdiatribes, and succeeded in making him eager for an armed struggle, theconquest of universal happiness by violence.
When Silvere reached his sixteenth year, Macquart had him admitted intothe secret society of the Montagnards, a powerful association whoseinfluence extended throughout Southern France. From that moment theyoung Republican gazed with longing eyes at the smuggler's carbine,which Adelaide had hung over her chimney-piece. Once night, while hisgrandmother was asleep, he cleaned and put it in proper condition. Thenhe replaced it on its nail and waited, indulging in brilliant reveries,fancying gigantic epics, Homeric struggles, and knightly tournaments,whence the defenders of liberty would emerge victorious and acclaimed bythe whole world.
Macquart meantime was not discouraged. He said to himself that he wouldbe able to strangle the Rougons alone if he could ever get them into acorner. His envious rage and slothful greed were increased by certainsuccessive accidents which compelled him to resume work. In the earlypart of 1850 Fine died, almost suddenly, from inflammation of the lungs,which she had caught by going one evening to wash the family linen inthe Viorne, and carrying it home wet on her back. She returned soakedwith water and perspiration, bowed down by her load, which was terriblyheavy, and she never recovered.
Her death filled Macquart with consternation. His most reliable sourceof income was gone. When, a few days later, he sold the caldron in whichhis wife had boiled her chestnuts, and the wooden horse which she usedin reseating old chairs, he foully accused the Divinity of having robbedhim of that strong strapping woman of whom he had often felt ashamed,but whose real worth he now appreciated. He now also fell upon thechildren's earnings with greater avidity than ever. But, a month later,Gervaise, tired of his continual exactions, ran away with her twochildren and Lantier, whose mother was dead. The lovers took refuge inParis. Antoine, overwhelmed, vented his rage against his daughter byexpressing the hope that she might die in hospital like most of herkind. This abuse did not, however, improve the situation, which wasdecidedly becoming bad. Jean soon followed his sister's example. Hewaited for pay-day to come round, and then contrived to receive themoney himself. As he was leaving he told one of his friends, whorepeated it to Antoine, that he would no longer keep his lazy father,and that if the latter should take it into his head to have him broughtback by the gendarmes he would touch neither saw nor plane.
On the morrow, when Antoine, having vainly sought him, found himselfalone and penniless in the house where for twenty years he had beencomfortably kept, he flew into the most frantic rage, kicked thefurniture about, and yelled the vilest imprecations. Then he sank downexhausted, and began to drag himself about and moan like a convalescent.The fear of having to earn his bread made him positively ill. WhenSilvere came to see him, he complained, with tears, of his children'singratitude. Had he not always been a good father to them? Jean andGervaise were monsters, who had made him an evil return for all he haddone for them. Now they abandoned him because he was old, and they couldnot get anything more out of him!
"But uncle," said Silvere, "you are not yet too old to work!"
Macquart, coughing and stooping, shook his head mournfully, as if to saythat he could not bear the least fatigue for any length of time. Justas his nephew was about to withdraw, he borrowed ten francs of him. Thenfor a month he lived by taking his children's old clothes, one by one,to a second-hand dealer's, and in the same way, little by little, hesold all the small articles in the house. Soon nothing remained buta table, a chair, his bed, and the clothes on his back. He ended byexchanging the walnut-wood bedstead for a plain strap one. When he hadexhausted all his resources, he cried with rage; and, with the fiercepallor of a man who is resigned to suicide, he went to look for thebundle of osier that he had forgotten in some corner for a quarter ofa century past. As he took it up he seemed to be lifting a mountain.However, he again began to plait baskets and hampers, while denouncingthe human race for their neglect.
It was particularly at this time that he talked of dividing and sharingthe riches of the wealthy. He showed himself terrible. His speecheskept up a constant conflagration in the tavern, where his furious lookssecured him unlimited credit. Moreover, he only worked when he had beenunable to get a five-franc piece out of Silvere or a comrade. He wasno longer "Monsieur" Macquart, the clean-shaven workman, who wore hisSunday clothes every day and played the gentleman; he again became thebig slovenly devil who had once speculated on his rags. Felicite did notdare to go to market now that he was so often coming there to sellhis baskets. He once had a violent quarrel with her there. His hatredagainst the Rougons grew with his wretchedness. He swore, with horriblethreats, that he would wreak justice himself, since the rich wereleagued together to compel him to toil.
In this state of mind, he welcomed the Coup d'Etat with the ardent,obstreperous delight of a hound scenting the quarry. As the few honestLiberals in the town had failed to arrive at an understanding amongstthemselves, and therefore kept apart, he became naturally one ofthe most prominent agents of the insurrection. The working classes,notwithstanding the unfavourable opinion which they at last entertainedof this lazy fellow, would, when the time arrived, have to accept himas a rallying flag. On the first few days, however, the town remainedquiet, and Macquart thought that his plans were frustrated. It was notuntil the news arrived of the rising of the rural distric
ts that herecovered hope. For his own part he would not have left Plassans for allthe world; accordingly he invented some pretext for not following thoseworkmen who, on the Sunday morning, set off to join the insurrectionaryband of La Palud and Saint-Martin-de-Vaulx.
On the evening of the same day he was sitting in some disreputabletavern of the old quarter with a few friends, when a comrade came toinform him that the insurgents were only a few miles from Plassans. Thisnews had just been brought by an express, who had succeeded in makinghis way into the town, and had been charged to get the gates openedfor the column. There was an outburst of triumph. Macquart, especially,appeared to be delirious with enthusiasm. The unforeseen arrival of theinsurgents seemed to him a delicate attention of Providence for his ownparticular benefit. His hands trembled at the idea that he would soonhold the Rougons by the throat.
He hastily quitted the tavern with his friends. All the Republicans whohad not yet left the town were soon assembled on the Cours Sauvaire. Itwas this band that Rougon had perceived as he was hastening to concealhimself in his mother's house. When the band had reached the top ofthe Rue de la Banne, Macquart, who had stationed himself at the rear,detained four of his companions, big fellows who were not over-burdenedwith brains and whom he swayed by his tavern bluster. He easilypersuaded them that the enemies of the Republic must be arrestedimmediately if they wished to prevent the greatest calamities. The truthwas that he feared Pierre might escape him in the midst of the confusionwhich the entry of the insurgents would produce. However, the four bigfellows followed him with exemplary docility, and knocked violentlyat the door of the Rougons' abode. In this critical situation Felicitedisplayed admirable courage. She went down and opened the street doorherself.
"We want to go upstairs into your rooms," Macquart said to her brutally.
"Very well, gentlemen, walk up," she replied with ironical politeness,pretending that she did not recognise her brother-in-law.
Once upstairs, Macquart ordered her to fetch her husband.
"My husband is not here," she said with perfect calmness; "he istravelling on business. He took the diligence for Marseilles at sixo'clock this evening."
Antoine at this declaration, which Felicite uttered in a clear voice,made a gesture of rage. He rushed through the drawing-room, and theninto the bedroom, turned the bed up, looked behind the curtains andunder the furniture. The four big fellows assisted him. They searchedthe place for a quarter of an hour. Felicite meantime quietly seatedherself on the drawing-room sofa, and began to fasten the strings of herpetticoats, like a person who has been surprised in her sleep and hasnot had time to dress properly.
"It's true then, he's run away, the coward!" Macquart muttered onreturning to the drawing-room.
Nevertheless, he continued to look about him with a suspicious air. Hefelt a presentiment that Pierre could not have given up the game at thedecisive moment. At last he approached Felicite, who was yawning: "Showus the place where your husband is hidden," he said to her, "and Ipromise no harm shall be done to him."
"I have told you the truth," she replied impatiently. "I can't delivermy husband to you, as he's not here. You have searched everywhere,haven't you? Then leave me alone now."
Macquart, exasperated by her composure, was just going to strike her,when a rumbling noise arose from the street. It was the column ofinsurgents entering the Rue de la Banne.
He then had to leave the yellow drawing-room, after shaking his fistat his sister-in-law, calling her an old jade, and threatening that hewould soon return. At the foot of the staircase, he took one of the menwho accompanied him, a navvy named Cassoute, the most wooden-headed ofthe four, and ordered him to sit on the first step, and remain there.
"You must come and inform me," he said to him, "if you see the scoundrelfrom upstairs return."
The man sat down heavily. When Macquart reached the pavement, heraised his eyes and observed Felicite leaning out of the window of theyellow-drawing room, watching the march past of the insurgents, as ifit was nothing but a regiment passing through the town to the strainsof its band. This last sign of perfect composure irritated him to such adegree that he was almost tempted to go up again and throw the old womaninto the street. However, he followed the column, muttering in a hoarsevoice: "Yes, yes, look at us passing. We'll see whether you will stationyourself at your balcony to-morrow."
It was nearly eleven o'clock at night when the insurgents entered thetown by the Porte de Rome. The workmen remaining in Plassans had openedthe gate for them, in spite of the wailings of the keeper, from whomthey could only wrest the keys by force. This man, very jealous of hisoffice, stood dumbfoundered in the presence of the surging crowd. Tothink of it! he, who never allowed more than one person to pass in ata time, and then only after a prolonged examination of his face! Andhe murmured that he was dishonoured. The men of Plassans were stillmarching at the head of the column by way of guiding the others; Miette,who was in the front rank, with Silvere on her left, held up her bannermore proudly than ever now that she could divine behind the closedblinds the scared looks of well-to-do bourgeois startled out of theirsleep. The insurgents passed along the Rue de Rome and the Rue de laBanne slowly and warily; at every crossway, although they well knew thequiet disposition of the inhabitants, they feared they might be receivedwith bullets. The town seemed lifeless, however; there was scarcelya stifled exclamation to be heard at the windows. Only five or sixshutters opened. Some old householder then appeared in his night-shirt,candle in hand, and leant out to obtain a better view; but as soon as hedistinguished the tall red girl who appeared to be drawing that crowd ofblack demons behind her, he hastily closed his window again, terrifiedby such a diabolical apparition.
The silence of the slumbering town reassured the insurgents, whoventured to make their way through the lanes of the old quarter, andthus reached the market-place and the Place de l'Hotel-de-Ville, whichwas connected by a short but broad street. These open spaces, plantedwith slender trees, were brilliantly illumined by the moon. Against theclear sky the recently restored town-hall appeared like a large patch ofcrude whiteness, the fine black lines of the wrought-iron arabesques ofthe first-floor balcony showing in bold relief. Several persons couldbe plainly distinguished standing on this balcony, the mayor, CommanderSicardot, three or four municipal councillors, and other functionaries.The doors below were closed. The three thousand Republicans, who coveredboth open spaces, halted with upraised heads, ready to force the doorswith a single push.
The arrival of the insurrectionary column at such an hour took theauthorities by surprise. Before repairing to the mayor's, CommanderSicardot had taken time to don his uniform. He then had to run and rousethe mayor. When the keeper of the Porte de Rome, who had been left freeby the insurgents, came to announce that the villains were already inthe town, the commander had so far only managed to assemble a score ofthe national guards. The gendarmes, though their barracks were close by,could not even be warned. It was necessary to shut the town-halldoors in all haste, in order to deliberate. Five minutes later a lowcontinuous rumbling announced the approach of the column.
Monsieur Garconnet, out of hatred to the Republic, would have greatlyliked to offer resistance. But he was of a prudent nature, andcomprehended the futility of a struggle on finding only a few pale men,who were scarcely awake, around him. So the deliberations did not lastlong. Sicardot alone was obstinate; he wanted to fight, asserting thattwenty men would suffice to bring these three thousand villains toreason. At this Monsieur Garconnet shrugged his shoulders, and declaredthat the only step to take was to make an honourable capitulation. Asthe uproar of the mob increased, he went out on the balcony, followedby all the persons present. Silence was gradually obtained. Below, amongthe black, quivering mass of insurgents, the guns and scythes glitteredin the moonlight.
"Who are you, and what do you want?" cried the mayor in a loud voice.
Thereupon a man in a greatcoat, a landowner of La Palud, steppedforward.
"Open the doors," he said,
without replying to Monsieur Garconnet'squestion. "Avoid a fratricidal conflict."
"I call upon you to withdraw," the mayor continued. "I protest in thename of the law."
These words provoked deafening shouts from the crowd. When the tumulthad somewhat abated, vehement calls ascended to the balcony. Voicesshouted: "It is in the name of the law that we have come here!"
"Your duty as a functionary is to secure respect for the fundamentallaw of the land, the constitution, which has just been outrageouslyviolated."
"Long live the constitution! Long live the Republic!"
Then as Monsieur Garconnet endeavoured to make himself heard, andcontinued to invoke his official dignity, the land-owner of LaPalud, who was standing under the balcony, interrupted him withgreat vehemence: "You are now nothing but the functionary of a fallenfunctionary; we have come to dismiss you from your office."
Hitherto, Commander Sicardot had been ragefully biting his moustache,and muttering insulting words. The sight of the cudgels and scythesexasperated him; and he made desperate efforts to restrain himselffrom treating these twopenny-halfpenny soldiers, who had not even agun apiece, as they deserved. But when he heard a gentleman in a meregreatcoat speak of deposing a mayor girded with his scarf, he could nolonger contain himself and shouted: "You pack of rascals! If I only hadfour men and a corporal, I'd come down and pull your ears for you, andmake you behave yourselves!"
Less than this was needed to raise a serious disturbance. A long shoutrose from the mob as it made a rush for the doors. Monsieur Garconnet,in consternation, hastily quitted the balcony, entreating Sicardot to bereasonable unless he wished to have them massacred. But in two minutesthe doors gave way, the people invaded the building and disarmed thenational guards. The mayor and the other functionaries present werearrested. Sicardot, who declined to surrender his sword, had tobe protected from the fury of some insurgents by the chief of thecontingent from Les Tulettes, a man of great self-possession. When thetown-hall was in the hands of the Republicans, they led their prisonersto a small cafe in the market-place, and there kept them closelywatched.
The insurrectionary army would have avoided marching through Plassansif its leaders had not decided that a little food and a few hours' restwere absolutely necessary for the men. Instead of pushing forwarddirect to the chief town of the department, the column, owing to theinexcusable weakness and the inexperience of the improvised general whocommanded it, was now diverging to the left, making a detour which wasdestined, ultimately, to lead it to destruction. It was bound for theheights of Sainte-Roure, still about ten leagues distant, and it wasin view of this long march that it had been decided to pass throughPlassans, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour. It was now half-pasteleven.
When Monsieur Garconnet learnt that the band was in quest of provisions,he offered his services to procure them. This functionary formed, undervery difficult circumstances, a proper estimate of the situation. Thosethree thousand starving men would have to be satisfied; it would neverdo for Plassans, on waking up, to find them still squatting on thepavements; if they withdrew before daybreak they would simply havepassed through the slumbering town like an evil dream, like one of thosenightmares which depart with the arrival of dawn. And so, although heremained a prisoner, Monsieur Garconnet, followed by two guards, wentabout knocking at the bakers' doors, and had all the provisions that hecould find distributed among the insurgents.
Towards one o'clock the three thousand men began to eat, squatting onthe ground, with their weapons between their legs. The market-placeand the neighbourhood of the town-hall were turned into vast open-airrefectories. In spite of the bitter cold, humorous sallies wereexchanged among the swarming multitude, the smallest groups of whichshowed forth in the brilliant moonlight. The poor famished fellowseagerly devoured their portions while breathing on their fingers to warmthem; and, from the depths of adjoining streets, where vague black formssat on the white thresholds of the houses, there came sudden burstsof laughter. At the windows emboldened, inquisitive women, with silkhandkerchiefs tied round their heads, watched the repast of thoseterrible insurgents, those blood-suckers who went in turn to the marketpump to drink a little water in the hollows of their hands.
While the town-hall was being invaded, the gendarmes' barracks, situateda few steps away, in the Rue Canquoin, which leads to the market, hadalso fallen into the hands of the mob. The gendarmes were surprised intheir beds and disarmed in a few minutes. The impetus of the crowd hadcarried Miette and Silvere along in this direction. The girl, who stillclasped her flagstaff to her breast, was pushed against the wall ofthe barracks, while the young man, carried away by the human wave,penetrated into the interior, and helped his comrades to wrest from thegendarmes the carbines which they had hastily caught up. Silvere, waxingferocious, intoxicated by the onslaught, attacked a big devil of agendarme named Rengade, with whom for a few moments he struggled. Atlast, by a sudden jerk, he succeeded in wresting his carbine from him.But the barrel struck Rengade a violent blow in the face, which put hisright eye out. Blood flowed, and, some of it splashing Silvere's hands,quickly brought him to his senses. He looked at his hands, dropped thecarbine, and ran out, in a state of frenzy, shaking his fingers.
"You are wounded!" cried Miette.
"No, no," he replied in a stifled voice, "I've just killed a gendarme."
"Is he really dead?" asked Miette.
"I don't know," replied Silvere, "his face was all covered with blood.Come quickly."
Then he hurried the girl away. On reaching the market, he made her sitdown on a stone bench, and told her to wait there for him. He was stilllooking at his hands, muttering something at the same time. Miette atlast understood from his disquieted words that he wished to go and kisshis grandmother before leaving.
"Well, go," she said; "don't trouble yourself about me. Wash yourhands."
But he went quickly away, keeping his fingers apart, without thinkingof washing them at the pump which he passed. Since he had felt Rengade'swarm blood on his skin, he had been possessed by one idea, that ofrunning to Aunt Dide's and dipping his hands in the well-trough at theback of the little yard. There only, he thought, would he be ableto wash off the stain of that blood. Moreover, all his calm, gentlechildhood seemed to return to him; he felt an irresistible longingto take refuge in his grandmother's skirts, if only for a minute.He arrived quite out of breath. Aunt Dide had not gone to bed, acircumstance which at any other time would have greatly surprisedSilvere. But on entering he did not even see his uncle Rougon, who wasseated in a corner on the old chest. He did not wait for the poor oldwoman's questions. "Grandmother," he said quickly, "you must forgiveme; I'm going to leave with the others. You see I've got blood on me. Ibelieve I've killed a gendarme."
"You've killed a gendarme?" Aunt Dide repeated in a strange voice.
Her eyes gleamed brightly as she fixed them on the red stains. Andsuddenly she turned towards the chimney-piece. "You've taken the gun,"she said; "where's the gun?"
Silvere, who had left the weapon with Miette, swore to her that it wasquite safe. And for the very first time, Adelaide made an allusion tothe smuggler Macquart in her grandson's presence.
"You'll bring the gun back? You promise me!" she said with singularenergy. "It's all I have left of him. You've killed a gendarme; ah, itwas the gendarmes who killed him!"
She continued gazing fixedly at Silvere with an air of cruelsatisfaction, and apparently without thought of detaining him. She neverasked him for any explanation, nor wept like those good grandmothers whoalways imagine, at sight of the least scratch, that their grandchildrenare dying. All her nature was concentrated in one unique thought, towhich she at last gave expression with ardent curiosity: "Did you killthe gendarme with the gun?"
Either Silvere did not quite catch what she said, or else hemisunderstood her.
"Yes!" he replied. "I'm going to wash my hands."
It was only on returning from the well that he perceived his uncle.Pierre had turned pale on hearing
the young man's words. Felicite wasindeed right; his family took a pleasure in compromising him. One ofhis nephews had now killed a gendarme! He would never get the postof receiver of taxes, if he did not prevent this foolish madman fromrejoining the insurgents. So he planted himself in front of the door,determined to prevent Silvere from going out.
"Listen," he said to the young fellow, who was greatly surprised to findhim there. "I am the head of the family, and I forbid you to leave thishouse. You're risking both your honour and ours. To-morrow I will try toget you across the frontier."
But Silvere shrugged his shoulders. "Let me pass," he calmly replied."I'm not a police-spy; I shall not reveal your hiding-place, neverfear." And as Rougon continued to speak of the family dignity and theauthority with which his seniority invested him: "Do I belong to yourfamily?" the young man continued. "You have always disowned me. To-day,fear has driven you here, because you feel that the day of judgment hasarrived. Come, make way! I don't hide myself; I have a duty to perform."
Rougon did not stir. But Aunt Dide, who had listened with a sort ofdelight to Silvere's vehement language, laid her withered hand on herson's arm. "Get out of the way, Pierre," she said; "the lad must go."
The young man gave his uncle a slight shove, and dashed outside. ThenRougon, having carefully shut the door again, said to his mother in anangry, threatening tone: "If any mischief happens to him it will be yourfault. You're an old mad-woman; you don't know what you've just done."
Adelaide, however, did not appear to hear him. She went and threw somevine-branches on the fire, which was going out, and murmured with avague smile: "I'm used to it. He would remain away for months together,and then come back to me in much better health."
She was no doubt speaking of Macquart.
In the meantime, Silvere hastily regained the market-place. As heapproached the spot where he had left Miette, he heard a loud uproar ofvoices and saw a crowd which made him quicken his steps. A cruel scenehad just occurred. Some inquisitive people were walking among theinsurgents, while the latter quietly partook of their meal. Amongstthese onlookers was Justin Rebufat, the son of the farmer of theJas-Meiffren, a youth of twenty years old, a sickly, squint-eyedcreature, who harboured implacable hatred against his cousin Miette.At home he grudged her the bread she ate, and treated her like a beggarpicked up from the gutter out of charity. It is probable that the younggirl had rejected his advances. Lank and pale, with ill-proportionedlimbs and face all awry, he revenged himself upon her for his ownugliness, and the contempt which the handsome, vigorous girl must haveevinced for him. He ardently longed to induce his father to send herabout her business; and for this reason he was always spying upon her.For some time past, he had become aware of the meetings with Silvere,and had only awaited a decisive opportunity to reveal everything to hisfather, Rebufat.
On the evening in question, having seen her leave home at about eighto'clock, Justin's hatred had overpowered him, and he had been unableto keep silent any longer. Rebufat, on hearing his story, fell into aterrible rage, and declared that he would kick the gadabout out of hishouse should she have the audacity to return. Justin then went tobed, relishing beforehand the fine scene which would take place on themorrow. Then, however, a burning desire came upon him for some immediateforetaste of his revenge. So he dressed himself again and went out.Perhaps he might meet Miette. In that case he was resolved to treather insolently. This is how he came to witness the arrival of theinsurgents, whom he followed to the town-hall with a vague presentimentthat he would find the lovers there. And, indeed, he at last caughtsight of his cousin on the seat where she was waiting for Silvere.Seeing her wrapped in her long pelisse, with the red flag at her side,resting against a market pillar, he began to sneer and deride her infoul language. The girl, thunderstruck at seeing him, was unableto speak. She wept beneath his abuse, and whist she was overcome bysobbing, bowing her head and hiding her face, Justin called her aconvict's daughter, and shouted that old Rebufat would give her a goodthrashing should she ever dare to return to Jas-Meiffren.
For a quarter of an hour he thus kept her smarting and trembling. Somepeople had gathered round, and grinned stupidly at the painful scene.At last a few insurgents interfered, and threatened the young man withexemplary chastisement if he did not leave Miette alone. But Justin,although he retreated, declared that he was not afraid of them. It wasjust at this moment that Silvere came up. Young Rebufat, on catchingsight of him, made a sudden bound, as if to take flight; for he wasafraid of him, knowing that he was much stronger than himself. He couldnot, however, resist the temptation to cast a parting insult on the girlin her lover's presence.
"Ah! I knew very well," he cried, "that the wheelwright could not befar off! You left us to run after that crack-brained fellow, eh? Youwretched girl! When's the baptism to be?"
Then he retreated a few steps further on seeing Silvere clench hisfists.
"And mind," he continued, with a vile sneer, "don't come to our houseagain. My father will kick you out if you do! Do you hear?"
But he ran away howling, with bruised visage. For Silvere had boundedupon him and dealt him a blow full in the face. The young man didnot pursue him. When he returned to Miette he found her standing up,feverishly wiping her tears away with the palm of her hand. And ashe gazed at her tenderly, in order to console her, she made a suddenenergetic gesture. "No," she said, "I'm not going to cry any more,you'll see. I'm very glad of it. I don't feel any regret now for havingleft home. I am free."
She took up the flag and led Silvere back into the midst of theinsurgents. It was now nearly two o'clock in the morning. The cold wasbecoming so intense that the Republicans had risen to their feet andwere marching to and fro in order to warm themselves while they finishedtheir bread. At last their leaders gave orders for departure. The columnformed again. The prisoners were placed in the middle of it. BesidesMonsieur Garconnet and Commander Sicardot, the insurgents hadarrested Monsieur Peirotte, the receiver of taxes, and several otherfunctionaries, all of whom they led away.
At this moment Aristide was observed walking about among the groups.In presence of this formidable rising, the dear fellow had thought itimprudent not to remain on friendly terms with the Republicans; but as,on the other hand, he did not desire to compromise himself too much,he had come to bid them farewell with his arm in a sling, complainingbitterly of the accursed injury which prevented him from carryinga weapon. As he walked through the crowd he came across his brotherPascal, provided with a case of surgical instruments and a littleportable medicine chest. The doctor informed him, in his quiet, way,that he intended to follow the insurgents. At this Aristide inwardlypronounced him a great fool. At last he himself slunk away, fearing lestthe others should entrust the care of the town to him, a post which hedeemed exceptionally perilous.
The insurgents could not think of keeping Plassans in their power. Thetown was animated by so reactionary a spirit that it seemed impossibleeven to establish a democratic municipal commission there, as hadalready been done in other places. So they would simply have gone offwithout taking any further steps if Macquart, prompted and emboldened byhis own private animosities, had not offered to hold Plassans in awe, oncondition that they left him twenty determined men. These men were givenhim, and at their head he marched off triumphantly to take possessionof the town-hall. Meantime the column of insurgents was wending itsway along the Cours Sauvaire, and making its exit by the Grand'-Porte,leaving the streets, which it had traversed like a tempest, silentand deserted in its rear. The high road, whitened by the moonshine,stretched far into the distance. Miette had refused the support ofSilvere's arm; she marched on bravely, steady and upright, holding thered flag aloft with both hands, without complaining of the cold whichwas turning her fingers blue.