Classic Audiobook Collection - The Fortune of the Rougons, Book One of Rougon-Macquart Cycle by Emile Zola ~ Full Audiobook [drama]

Episode Date: October 23, 2025

The Fortune of the Rougons, Book One of Rougon-Macquart Cycle by Emile Zola audiobook. Genre: drama In a small Provençal town called Plassans, Emile Zola opens the sweeping Rougon-Macquart saga with a story of family hunger and political upheaval. As France trembles on the edge of Louis-Napoleon's December 1851 coup, Pierre Rougon and his formidable wife, Felicite, see history not as tragedy but as opportunity. Determined to claw their way into respectability, they maneuver through gossip, backroom alliances, and shifting loyalties, trying to turn a national crisis into the foundation of a dynasty. Across town, the Rougons' poorer and more volatile relatives, the Macquarts, simmer with resentment, their lives shaped by hardship and the same corrosive inheritance of desire and impulse. Amid the tensions, young Silvere, drawn to republican ideals, finds hope and tenderness with Miette, and their private dreams collide with the brutal realities of street politics and fear. Part historical chronicle, part intimate family portrait, The Fortune of the Rougons introduces Zola's central themes of ambition, class, heredity, and the ways power remakes ordinary lives when a regime is born. For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 00 (00:13:52) Chapter 01 (00:17:44) Chapter 02 (00:55:48) Chapter 03 (01:40:56) Chapter 04 (02:20:16) Chapter 05 (03:26:07) Chapter 06 (04:10:50) Chapter 07 (05:19:24) Chapter 08 (06:25:43) Chapter 09 (07:28:42) Chapter 10 (08:29:22) Chapter 11 (09:29:56) Chapter 12 (10:07:35) Chapter 13 (11:10:13) Chapter 14 (12:17:39) Chapter 15 (13:20:32) Chapter 16 (13:35:52) Chapter 17 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Section 0 of The Fortune of the Rujon Book 1 of Rujon Macca cycle by Emil Zola translated by Henry Visitelli Read by Mark later Section 0

Introduction The Fortune of the Rujon is the initial volume of the Rujon Maca series though it was by no means Monsieur Zola's first essay in fiction it was undoubtedly his first great bid for genuine literary fame, and the foundation of what must necessarily be regarded as his life work.

The idea of writing the natural and social history of a family under the Second Empire, extending to a score of volumes, was doubtless suggested to Monsieur Zola by Balzac's immortal Comédé Umen. He was 28 years of age when this idea first occurred, to him. He was 53 when he had last sent the manuscript of his concluding volume, Dr. Pascal, to the press. He had spent five and twenty years in working out his scheme, persevering with it doggedly and stubbornly, whatever rebuffs he might encounter, whatever jeers and whatever insults might be directed against him by the ignorant, the prejudiced, and the hypocritical.

Truth was on the march and nothing could stay it, even as, at the present hour, its march, if slow, mummless continues athwart another and a different crisis of the illustrious novelist's career. It was in the early summer of 1869 that Monsieur Zola first began the actual writing of the fortune of the Rougon. It was only in the following year, however, that the serial publication of the work commenced in the column, of Le Siegla, the Republican Journal of most influence in Paris in those days of the Second Empire. The Franco-German War interrupted this issue of the story, and publication in book form did not take place until the latter half of 1871, a time when both the war and the commune had left Paris exhausted, supine, with little or no interest in anything. No more unfavorable moment for the issue of

an ambitious work of fiction could have been found. Some two or three years went by, as I well remember, before anything like a revival of literature and of public interest in literature took place. Thus, Monsieur Zola launched his gigantic scheme under auspices which would have made many another man recoil. The fortune of the Rujon and two or three subsequent volumes of his series attracted but a moderate degree of attention, and it was only on the morrow of the publication of La Thamoire that he awoke, like Byron, to find himself famous. As previously mentioned, the Rujon-McCard series forms 20 volumes. The last of these, Dr. Pascal, appeared in 1893.

Since then, Monsieur Zola has written Lourde, Rome, and Paris. critics have repeated ad nauseum that these last works constitute a new departure on M. Zola's part, and so far as they formed a new series, this is true, but the suggestion that he has in any way repented of the Rujon-Mek-a novels is ridiculous. As he has often told me of recent years, it is, as far as possible, his plan to subordinate his style and methods to his subject, to have written a book like Rome so largely devoted to the ambitions of the Papal Sea

in the same way as he had written books dealing with the drunkenness or other vices of Paris would have been the climax of absurdity yet the publication of Rome was the signal for a general outcry on the part of English and American reviewers that Zolaism, as typified by the Rujon-McKoff series,

was altogether a thing of the past. to my thinking this is a profound error. Monsieur Zola has always remained faithful to himself. The only difference that I perceive between his latest work, Paris, and certain Rujon-McCard volumes, is that with time, experience, and assiduity, his genius has expanded and ripened, and that the hesitation, the groping for truth, so to say,

which may be found in some of his earlier writings, has disappeared. At the time when the fortune of the Rujon was first published, none but the author himself can have imagined that the foundation stone of one of the great literary monuments of a century had just been laid. From the story point of view, the book is one of M. Zola's very best, although its construction, particularly as regards the long interlude of the idyll of Miette and Silvert, is far from being perfect. Such a work when first issued might well bring its author a measure of popularity, but it could hardly confer fame. Nowadays, however, looking backward and bearing in mind that one here has the genius of Monsieur Zola's life work, the fortune of the Rujon

becomes a book of exceptional interest and importance. This has been so well understood by French readers that during the last six or seven years, the annual sales of the work have increased threefold, where over a course of 20 years, 1,000 copies were sold, 2,500, and 3,000 are sold today. How many living English novelists can say the same of their early essays in fiction, issued more than a quarter of a century ago? I may here mention that at the last date to which I have authentic figures, that is, midsummer 1897, prior of course to what is called La Faire Dreyfus, There had been sold of the entire Rujon-McCour series, which had begun in 1871,

1,421,000 copies. These were of the ordinary Chaupentier editions of the French originals. By adding there to several editions de luxe, and the widely circulated popular illustrated editions of certain volumes, the total amounts roundly to 21 million, Rome, Lord, Paris, and all Monsieur Zola's other works, apart from the Réjean-McCarrs series, together with the translations into a dozen different languages, English, German, Italian, Spanish, Dutch, Danish, Portuguese, Bohemian, Hungarian, and others are not included in the above figures.

Otherwise, the latter might well be doubled. Nor is a count taken of the many serial issues which have brought Monsieur Zola's views to the knowledge of the matter, of all Europe. It is, of course, the celebrity attaching to certain of Monsieur Zola's literary efforts that has stimulated the demand for his other writings. Among those which are well worthy of being read for their own sakes, I would assign a prominent place to the present volume. Much of the story element in it is admirable, and further, it shows Monsieur Zola as a genuine satirist and humorist. The Rujon,

yellow drawing room and its habitues, and many of the scenes between Pierre Rujon and his wife Felicité, are worthy of the pen of Douglas Gerald. The whole account indeed of the town of Placin, its customs and its notabilities, is satire of the most effect of kind because it is satire true to life, and never degenerates into mere caricature. It is rather curious coincidence that, at the time when Monsieur Zola was thus portraying the life of Provence, his great contemporary bosom friend and rival for literary fame, the late Alphonse Daudet, should have been producing under the title of the Provencal Don Quixote,

that unrivaled presentment of the foibles of the French Southerner with everyone nowadays knows as Tatarin of Tarascon. It is possible that Monsieur Zola, while writing his book, may have read the installment of Le Don Quichot-Provincial, published in the Paris Figuero, and it may be that this perusal imparted that Philip to his pen to which we owe the many amusing particulars that he gives us of the town of Plaçain. Placin, I may mention, is really the Profonsal Ais, which M. Zola's father provided with water by means of a canal, still bearing his name.

Mr. Zola himself, though born in Paris, spent the greater part of his child. there. Tarascone, as is well known, never forgave Alphonse Daudet for his tartarin, and in a like way, Monsieur Zola, who doubtless counts more enemies than any other literary man of the period, has none bitterer than the worthy citizens of Aie. They cannot forget or forgive the rascally Rujon-Maccar. The name Rujon-Maccat has to me always suggested that splendid an amusing type of a cynical rogue, Robert Maccaire. But of course, both Rougain and Maccault are genuine French names and not inventions. Indeed, several years ago I came by chance upon them both in an old French deed,

which I was examining at the Bibliotech Nacional in Paris. I there found mention of a Rujon family and a Macaw family, dwelling virtually side by side in the same village. This, however, was in Champagne, not in Provence. Both families farmed vineyards for a once-famous abbey in the vicinity of Epernay, early in the 17th century. To me, personally, this trivial discovery meant a great deal. It somehow aroused my interest in Monsieur Zola and his works. Of a latter, I had then only glanced through two or three volumes. With Monsieur Zola himself, I was absolutely. unacquainted. However, I took the liberty to inform him of my little discovery, and afterwards I read all the books that he had published. Now, as it is fairly well known, I have given the greater part of my time for several years past to batask of familiarizing English readers with his writings. An old deed, a chance glance, followed by the great friendship of my life in years

of patient labor. If I mention this matter, it is solely with the object of endorsing the truth of a saying that the most insignificant incidents frequently influence and even shape our careers. But I must come back to the fortune of the Rujan. It has, as I have said, its satirical and humorous side, but it also contains a strong element of pathos. The idyll of Miette and Silvert is a very touching one, and quite in accord with the conditions of life prevailing in Provence

at the period Monsieur Zola selects for his narrative. Miette is a frank child of nature. Silvert, her lover, in certain respects foreshadows a quarter of a century in advance, the Abbe Pierre-Fromand of Lourdes, Rome, and Paris. The environment differs, of course, but germs of the same nature may readily be detected in both characters. As for the other personages of Monsieur Zola's book,

on the one hand, Aunt Didi, Pierre Rujon, his wife Felicé and their sons, Eugene, Aristide, and Pascal, and on the other, Macaugh, his daughter Jevez of La Somoar, and his son Jean of La Terre and La Democle, together with the members of the Moray branch of the ravenous neurotic duplex family, these are analyzed or sketched in a way which renders their subsequent careers as related in other volumes of the series, thoroughly consistent with their origin and their upbringing. I venture to assert that although it is possible to read individual volumes of the Rujon-Macon series while neglecting others, nobody can really understand any one of these books unless he makes himself acquainted with the alpha and the omega of the edifice.

that is, the fortune of the Rujon and Dr. Pascal. With regard to the present English translation, it is based on one made from my father several years ago. But to convey Monsieur Zola's meaning more accurately, I have found it necessary to alter on an average at least one sentence out of every three. Thus, though I only claim to edit the volume, it is to all intents and purposes quite a new English version of Monsieur Zola's work. E. A. V. Merton. Sorry. August 1898. This ends section zero. Section 1 of the fortune of the Rujon, book one of Rujon-Macka cycle by Emil Zola. Translated by Henry Vizzatelli. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Read by Mark Leder.

Section 1. Author's preface. I wish to explain how a family, a small group of human beings, conducts itself in a given social system after blossoming forth and giving birth to 10 or 20 members, who, though they may appear at the first glance, profoundly dissimilar one from the other, are, as analysts demonstrate, most closely linked together from the point of view of affinity.

Heredity like gravity has its laws. By resolving the duplex question of temperament and environment, I shall endeavor to discover and follow the thread of connection which leads mathematically from one man to another. And when I have possession of every thread and hold a complete social group in my hands, I shall show this group at work, participating in an historical period.

I shall depict it in action with all its varied energies, and I shall analyze both the will-pice, of each member and the general tendency of the whole. The great characteristic of the Rujon Maccah, the group or family which I propose to study, is their ravenous appetite, the great outburst of our age which rushes upon enjoyment. Physiologically, the Rujon Makaa represent

the slow succession of accidents pertaining to the nerves or the blood, which before a race after the first organic lesion, and according to environment, determine in each individual member of the race, those feelings, desires, and passions, briefly all the natural and instinctive manifestations peculiar to humanity, whose outcome assumes the conventional name of virtue or vice.

Historically, the Rujon Maka proceed from the masses, radiate throughout the whole of contemporary society, and ascend to all sorts of positions by the force of that impulsion of essentially mobiles, origin, which sets the lower classes marching through the social system. And thus, the dramas of their individual lives recount the story of the Second Empire, from the ambuscade of the coup d'etat to the treachery of Sedan. For three years, I had been collecting the necessary documents for this long work,

and the present volume was even written when the fall of the Bonaparte, which I needed artistically, and with, as if by fate, I ever found at the end of a drama without daring to hope that it would prove so near at hand suddenly occurred and furnished me with the terrible but necessary denouement for my work. My scheme is at this state completed. The circle in which my characters will revolve is perfected

and my work becomes a picture of a departed reign of a strange period of human madness and shame. This work, which will comprise several episodes, is therefore, in my mind, the natural and social history of a family under the Second Empire. And the first episode, here called the Fortune of the Rougon, should scientifically be entitled, The Origin. Emil Zola, Paris, July 1, 1871. This ends Section 1.

Section 2 of the Fortune of the Rougon. Book 1 of Rujon-Maca cycle by Emil Zola, translated by Henry Visitelli. This Libravox recording is in the public domain, read by Mark Leder. Section 2, Chapter 1, Part 1 On quitting Plasant by the Rome Gate, on the southern side of the town, you will find on the right side of the road to Nice, and a little way past the first suburban houses, a plot of land locally known, as the Air Saint-Mitre. This, Air Saint-Mitre, is of oblong shape and on a level with the footpath of the adjacent road, from which it is separated by a strip of trodden grass. A narrow, blind alley,

fringed with a row of Havel's borders it on the right, while on the left and at the further end, it is closed in by bits of wall overgrown with moss, above which can be seen the top branches of the mulberry trees of the Jasmefran, an extensive property with an entrance lower down the road. Enclosed upon three sides, the Ars Saint-Mitre leads nowhere, and is only crossed by people out for a stroll. In former times it was a cemetery under the patronage of Saint-Mitre, a greatly honored Provensal Saint, and in 1851,

the old people of Placin could still remember having seen the wall of the cemetery standing, although the place itself had been closed for years. The soil had been so glutted with corpses that it had been found necessary to open a new burial ground at the other end of town. Then the old abandoned cemetery had been gradually purified by the dark, thick, set vegetation, which had sprouted over it every spring. The rich soil in which the grave diggers could no longer delve without turning up some human remains was possessed of wondrous fertility.

The tall weeds overtopped the walls after the May rains and the June sunshine, so as to be visible from the high road. While inside, the place presented the appearance of a deep, dark green sea studded with large blossoms of singular brilliancy. beneath one's feet amidst the close-set stalks, one could feel but the damp soil reeked and bubbled with sap. Among the curiosities of the place at that time were some large pear trees, with twisted and knotty boughs, but none of the housewives of Pleasant cared to pluck the large fruit which grew upon them. Indeed, the townspeople spoke of this fruit with grimaces of disgust.

No such delicacy, however, restrained the suburban urns. urchins who assembled in bands at twilight and climbed the wolves to steal the pairs, even before they were ripe. The trees and the weeds with their vigorous growth had rapidly assimilated all but decomposing matter in the old cemetery of Saint-Mietre. The malaria rising from the human remains interred there had been greedily absorbed by the flowers and the fruit, so that eventually the only odor one could detect in passing by was the source. strong perfume of wild gilly flowers. This had merely been a question of a few summers. At last, the town's people determined to utilize this common property, which had long served

no purpose. The walls bordering the roadway and the blind alley were pulled down. The weeds and the pear trees uprooted. The sepulchral remains were removed. The ground was dug deep, in such bones as the earth was willing to surrender were heaped up in a corner. For nearly a month the youngsters who lamented the loss of the pear trees played a bowls with the skulls, and one night some practical jokers even suspended femurs and tibious to all the bell handles of the town. This scandal, which is still remembered at Plausanne, did not cease until the authorities decided to have the bones shot into a hole which had been dug for the purpose in the new cemetery.

All work, however, is usually carried out with discrete dilettoriness in country towns, and so during an entire week the inhabitants saw a solitary cart removing these human remains as if they'd been mere rubbish. The vehicle had to cross Pleasant from end to end, and owing to the bad condition of the roads, fragments of bones and handfuls of rich mold were supposed, scattered at every jolt. There was not the briefest religious ceremony,

nothing but slow and brutish cartage. Never before had a town felt so disgusted. For several years, the old cemetery remained an object of terror. Although it had joined the main thoroughfare and was open to all comers, it was left quite deserted, a prey to fresh vegetable growth. The local authorities, who had doubted, counted on selling it and seeing houses built upon it, were evidently unable to find a purchaser. The recollection of the heaps of bones and the cart persistently jolting through the streets

may have made people recoil from the spot, or perhaps the indifference that was shown was due to the indolence, the repugnance to pulling down and setting up again, which is characteristic of country people. At all events, the authority still retained possession of the ground, and at last forgot their desire to dispose of it. They did not even erect a fence around it, but left it open to all comers. Then, as time rolled on,

people gradually grew accustomed to this barren spot. They would sit on the grass at the edges, walk about, or gathering groups. When the grass had been worn away, and Matrodden's soil had become grey and hard, the old cemetery resembled a badly levelled public square. As if the more effectually to efface the memory of all objectionable associations, the inhabitants slowly changed the very appellation of the place, retaining but the name of the saint, which was likewise applied to the blind alley dipping down at one corner of the

field. Thus, there was the Air Saint-Mitre and the Impasse Saint-Mitre. All this dates, however, from some considerable time back. For more than 30 years now, the Air Saint-Mitre has presented a different appearance. One day, the townspeople, far too inert and indifferent to derive any advantage from it, led it for a trifling consideration to some suburban wheelwrights who turned it into a wood yard. At the present day it is still littered with huge pieces of timber 30 or 40 feet long, lying here and there in piles and looking like lofty overturned columns.

These piles of timber, disposed at intervals from one end of the yard to the other, are a continual source of delight to the local urchins. In some places the ground is covered with fallen wood, forming a kind of uneven flooring over which it is impossible to walk, unless one balance oneself with marvelous dexterity. Troops of children amuse themselves with this exercise all day long. You'll see them jumping over the big beams, walking an Indian file along the narrow ends,

or else crawling astride them, various games which generally terminate in blows and bellowings. Sometimes two would do that, dozen of them will sit, closely packed one against the other, on the thin end of a pole raised a few feet from the ground, and we'll see-saw there for hours together. The Es Sain Mitre thus serves as a recreation ground, where for more than a quarter of a century all the little suburban ragamuffins have been in the habit of wearing out the seats of their breeches. The strangeness of the place is increased by the circumstance that wandering gypsies, by a sort of traditional

custom always select the vacant portions of it for their encampments. Whenever any caravan arrives at Plausanne, it takes up its quarters on the Air Saint-Mitre. The place is consequently never empty. There's always some strange band there, some troop of wild men and withered women, among whom groups of healthy-looking children roll about on the grass. These people live in the open air, regardless of everybody, setting their pots boiling, eating nameless things, freely displaying their tattered garments, and sleeping, fighting, kissing, and reeking with mingled filth and misery. The field, formerly so still and deserted,

save for the buzzing of hornets around the rich blossoms in the heavy sunshine, has thus become a very rowdy spot, resounding with the noisy quarrels of the gypsies and the shrill cries of the urchins of the suburb. in one corner there is a primitive sawmill for cutting the timber the noise from which serves as a dull continuous base accompaniment of the sharp voices the wood is placed on two high trestles and a couple of sawyers one of whom stands aloft on the timber itself while the other underneath is half blinded by the falling sawdust work a large saw to and fro for hours together with rigid machine-like regularity as if they were wire-pulled puppets. The wood they saw as stacked plank by plank along the wall at the end, and carefully arranged pile six or eight feet high, which often remained there

several seasons and constitute one of the charms of the Air San Maitre. Between these stacks are mysterious, retired little alleys leading to a broader path between the timber and the wall. A deserted strip of verdure, whence only small patches of sky can be seen. The vigorous vegetation and the quivering, death-like stillness of the old cemetery still reign in this path. In all the country round Pleasant, there is no spot more instinct with languor, solitude, and love. It is a most delightful place for love-making.

When the cemetery was being cleared, the bones must have been heaped up in this corner, for even today it frequently happens that one's foot comes across some fragment of a skull lying concealed in the damp turf. Nobody, however, now thinks of the bodies that once slept under that turf. In the daytime, only the children go behind the piles of wood when playing at hide and seek. The green path remains virginal, unknown to others who see naught but the woodyard crowded with timber and gray with dust. In the morning and afternoon, when the sun is warm, the whole place swore, with life. Above all the turmoil, above the ragamuffins playing among the timber and the

gypsies kindling fires under their cauldrons, the sharp silhouette of a Sawyer mounted on his beams stands out against the sky, moving to and fro with the precision of clockwork, as if to regulate the busy activity that has sprung up in this spot once set apart for eternal slumber. Only the old people who sit on the planks, basking in the setting sun, speak occasionally among themselves of the bones which they once saw carted through the streets of Pleasant

by the legendary tumbril. Where night falls, the Air Saint-Mittre loses its animation and looks like some great black hole. At the far end, one may just espy by dying embers of a gypsy's fires, and at times shadows slink noiselessly into the dense darkness. The place becomes quite sinister, particularly in wintertime. Once on the evening, at about seven o'clock, a young man stepped lightly from the impasse-mitre

and closely skirting the walls took his way among the timber in the woodyard. It was in the early part of December, 1851. The weather was dry. and cold. The full moon shone with that sharp brilliancy peculiar to winter moons. The woodyard did not have the forbidding appearance which it wears on rainy nights. Illumined by stretches of white light and wrapped in deep and chilly silence, it spread around with a soft, melancholy aspect. For a few seconds the young man paused on the edge of the yard and gazed mistrustfully in front of him. He carried a long gun,

the butt end of which was hidden under his jacket, while the barrel pointed towards the ground, glittered in the moonlight. Pressing the weapon to his side, he attentively examined the square shadows cast by the piles of timber. The ground looked like a chessboard with black and white squares

clearly defined by alternate patches of light and shade. The Sawyers trestles in the center of the plot through long, narrow, fantastic shadows, suggesting some huge geometrical figure upon a strip of bare, grey ground. The rest of the yard, the flooring of beams formed a great couch on which the light reposed, streaked here and there were the slender black shadows which edged the different pieces of timber. In the frigid silence under the wintry moon, the motionless recumbent poles

stiffened, as it were, with sleep and cold, recalled the corpses of the old cemetery. The young man cast but a rapid glance around the empty space. There was not a creature, not a sound, no danger of being seen or heard. The black patches at the further end caused him more anxiety, but after a brief examination he plucked up courage and hurriedly crossed the woodyard. As soon as he felt himself undercover, he slackened his pace. He was now in the green pathway skirting the wall behind the piles of planks. Here his very footsteps became inaudible. The frozen grass scarcely crackled under his tread.

He must have loved the spot, have feared no danger, sought nothing but what was pleasant there. He no longer concealed his gun. The path stretched away like a dark trench, except at the moon rays gliding ever in and on between the piles of timber, then streaked the grass with patches of light. All slept, both darkness and light, with the same deep, soft, sad slumber. No words can describe the calm peacefulness of the place. The young man went right down the path and stopped at the end,

where the walls of Ajas Meprin form an angle. Here he listened as if to ascertain whether any sound might be coming from the adjoining estate. At last, hearing nothing, he stooped down, thrust the plank aside, and hid his gun in a timber stack. An old tombstone, which had been overlooked in the clearing of the burial ground, lay in the corner, resting on its side and forming a high and slightly sloping seat. The rain had worn its edges, and moss was slowly eating into it. Nevertheless, the following fragment of an inscription, cut on the side which was sinking into the ground, might still have been distinguished in the moonlight. Here lieth, Marie died.

The finger of time had effaced the rest. When the young man had concealed his gun, he again listened attentively, and still hearing nothing, resolved to climb upon the stone. The wall, being low, he was able to rest his elbows on the coping. He could, however, perceive nothing except a flood of light beyond the row of mulberry trees skirting the wall. The flat ground of Ajas Maffrin spread out under the moon like an immense sheet of unbleached linen, a hundred yards away the farmhouse and its outbuildings formed a still wider patch. The young man was still gazing anxiously in that direction when,

Suddenly, one of a town clock slowly and solemnly struck seven. He counted the strokes and then jumped down, apparently surprised and relieved. He seated himself on the tombstone, like one who was prepared to wait some considerable time. And for about half an hour he remained motionless and deep in thought, apparently quite unconscious of the cold, while his eyes gazed fixedly at a massive shadow. He had placed himself in a dark corner, but the beams of the rising moon had gradually reached him, and at last his head was in the full light. He was a strong, sturdy-looking lad, with a fine mouth and soft, delicate skin that bespoke youthfulness. He looked about seventeen years of age and was handsome in a characteristic way.

His thin, long face looked like the work of some master's face. sculptor. His high forehead, overhanging brows, aquiline nose, broad, flat, chin, and protruding cheekbones gave singularly bold relief to his countenance. Such a face wood with advancing age become too bony, as fleshless as that of a knight errant. But at this stage of youth, with chin and cheek, lightly covered with soft down, its latent harshness was attenuated by the charming softness of certain contours which had remained vague and childlike. His soft black eyes, still full of youth, also lent delicacy to his otherwise vigorous countenance. The young fellow would probably not have fascinated all women, as he was not what one calls

a handsome man, but his features, as a whole, expressed such ardent and sympathetic life, such enthusiasm and energy, that they doubtless engaged the thought of the thought of of the girls of his own part, those sunburnt girls of the South, as he passed their doors on sultry July evenings. He remained seated upon the tombstone, wrapped in thought, and apparently quite unconscious of the moonlight which now fell upon his chest and legs. He was of middle stature, rather thick set with overdeveloped arms in a labourer's hands, already hardened by toil. his feet shod with heavy-laced boots looked large and square-toed. His general appearance, more particularly the heaviness of his limbs,

bestoke lowly origin. There was, however, something in him, in the upright bearing of his neck and the thoughtful gleams of his eyes, which seemed to indicate an inner revolt against the brutifying manual labor which was beginning to bend him to the ground. He was no doubt, an intelligent nature buried beneath the oppressive burden of race and class, one of those delicate, refined minds embedded in a rough envelope, from which they in vain struggle to free themselves.

Thus, in spite of his vigor, he seemed timid and restless, feeling a kind of unconscious shame at his imperfection. An honest lad he doubtless was, whose very ignorance had generated, enthusiasm, whose manly heart was impelled by childish intellect, and who could show alike the submissiveness of a woman and the courage of a hero. On the evening in question, he was dressed in a coat and trousers of greenish corduroy. A soft felt hat placed lightly on the back of his head, cast a streak of shadow over his brow. As the neighboring clock struck the half hour, he suddenly started from his reverie.

perceiving that the white moonlight was shining full upon him he gazed anxiously ahead. Then he abruptly dived back into the shade, but was unable to recover the threat of his thoughts. He now realized that his hands and feet were becoming very cold, and impatience seized hold of him. So he jumped upon the stone again and once more glanced over the Jacques Maffran, which was still empty and silent. Finally, at a loss how to employ his time, he jumped down, fetched his gun from the pile of planks where he had concealed it, and amused himself by working the trigger.

The weapon was a long, heavy carbine, which had doubtless belonged to some smuggler. The thickness of the butt and the breach of the barrel showed it to be an old flintlock, which had been altered into a percussion gun by some local gunsmith. Such firearms are to be. found in farmhouses, hanging against the wall over the chimney-piece. The young man caressed his weapon with affection. Twenty times or more he pulled the trigger, thrust his little finger into the

barrel, and examined the butt attentively. By degrees he grew full of youth enthusiasm, combined with childish frolicsomeness, and ended by leveling his weapon and aiming at space, like a recruit going through his drill. It was now very nearly eight o'clock, and he'd been holding his gun leveled for over a minute, when all at once a low, panting call, light as a breath came from a direction of Vajas Mifrin. Are you there, Silvert?

The voice asked. Seville dropped his gun and bounded onto the tombstone. Yes, yes, he replied, also in a hushed voice. Wait, I'll help you. Before he could stretch out his arms, however, a girl's head appeared above the wall. With singular agility, the damsel had availed herself of a trunk of a mulberry tree and climbed aloft like a kitten. The ease and certainty with which she moved showed that she was familiar with this strange spot. In another moment she was seated on the coping of the wall.

Then Silvert, taking her in his arms, carried her, though not without a struggle to the seat. "'Let go,' she laughingly cried. "'Let go. I can get down alone very well.' And when she was seated on the stone slab, she added, "'Have you been waiting for me long? I've been running, and am quite out of breath.' Silvere made no reply. He seemed in no laughing humor, but gazed sorrowfully into the girl's face.

"'I wanted to see you, me it,' he said, as he seated himself beside her. I should have waited all night for you. I'm going away at daybreak tomorrow morning. Miet had just caught sight of the gun lying on the grass. And with a thoughtful air, she murmured, Ah, so it's decided then? There's your gun. Yes, replied Silver, after a brief pause, his voice still faltering. It's my gun. I thought it best to remove it from the house tonight. a morning, and did might have seen me take it, and it felt uneasy about it. I'm going to hide it, and shall fetch it just before starting. Then as Miette could not remove her eyes from the weapon,

which he had so foolishly left on the grass, he jumped up and again hid it among the wood stacks. We learned this morning, he said, as he resumed his seat, that the insurgents of La Palour and Saint-Martin-Devo were on the march, and spent last night at Elbois, We've decided to join them. Some of the workmen of Plasanne have already left the town this afternoon. Those who still remain will join their brothers tomorrow. He spoke the word brothers with youthful emphasis. A contest is becoming inevitable, he added.

But at any rate, we've right on our side and we shall triumph. Meath listened to Silver, her eyes meantime gazing in front of her without observing any Tis well, she said, when he'd finished speaking, and after a fresh pause she continued, You warned me, yet I still hoped. However, it is decided. Neither of them knew what else to say. The green path in the deserted corner of the wood-yard relapsed into melancholy stillness. Only the moon chased the shadows of the piles of timber over the grass.

two young people on the tombstone remained silent and motionless in the pale light. Silver had passed his arm round Miet's waist, and she was leaning against his shoulder. They exchanged no kisses, not but an embrace in which love showed the innocent tenderness of fraternal affection. Miette was enveloped in a long brown-hooded cloak reaching to her feet, and leaving only her head and hands visible. The women of the lower classes in Provence, the peasantry and work people, still wear these ample cloaks, which are called police. It is a fashion which must have lasted for ages. Yet had thrown back her hood on arriving.

Living in the open air and born of a hot-blooded race, she never wore a cap. Her barehead showed in bold relief against the wall, which the moonlight widened. She was still a child, no doubt. but a child ripening into womanhood. She'd reached that adorable, uncertain hour when the frolicsome girl changes to a young woman. At that stage of life, a bud-like delicacy, a hesitancy of contour that is exquisitely charming,

distinguishes young girls. The outlines of womanhood appear amidst girlhood's innocent slimness, and woman shoots forth at first all embarrassment, still retaining much of a child and ever and unconsciously betraying her sex. This period is very unpropitious for some girls who suddenly shoot up, become ugly, sallow and frail, like plants before their due season. For those, however, who, like Miette, are healthy and live in the open air, it is a time of delightful gracefulness which once passed can never be recalled.

yet was thirteen years of age, and although strong and sturdy did not look any older, so bright and childish was the smile which lit up her countenance. However, she was nearly as tall as Silvert, plump and full of life. Like her lover, she had no common beauty. She would not have been considered ugly, but she might have appeared peculiar to many young exquisites. Her rich black hair rose roughly, erect above her forehead, streamed back like a rushing wave and flowed over her head and neck like an inky sea, tossing and bubbling capriciously. It was very thick and inconvenient to arrange. However, she twisted it as tightly as possible into coils as thick as a child's fist, which she wound together at the back of her head. She had little time to devote to her toilet,

but this huge chignon hastily contrived without the aid of any mirror, was often instinct with vigorous grace. On seeing her thus naturally helmeted with a mass of frizzy hair which hung about her neck in temples like a mane, one could readily understand why she always went bareheaded, heedless alike of rain and frost. Under her dark locks appeared her low forehead, curved and golden like a crescent moon. Her large prominent eyes, her short tip-tilted nose with dilated nostrils, and her thick, ruddy lips, when regarded apart from one another, would have looked ugly. Viewed, however, all together amidst the delightful roundness and vivacious mobility of her countenance, they formed an ensemble of strange, surprising beauty. When Miet laughed,

throwing back her head and gently resting it on her right shoulder, she resembled an old-time Beccant, her throat distending with sonorous gaiety, her cheeks round like those of a child, her teeth large and white, her twists of woolly hair tossed by every outburst of merriment and waving like a crown of vine leaves. To realize that she was only a child of 13, one had to notice the innocence underlying her full womanly laughter, and especially the childlike delicacy of her chin and soft transparency of her temples. In certain lights, Miet's sun-tanned face showed yellow like amber. A little soft black down already shaded her upper lip.

Toil, too, was beginning to disfigure her small hands, which, if left idle, would have become charmingly plump and delicate. Miette and Savaire long remained silent. They were reading their own anxious thoughts. And as they pondered upon the unknown terrors of the morrow, they tightened their mutual embrace. Their hearts communed with each other. They understood how useless and cruel would be any verbal plaint. The girl, however, could at last no longer contain herself, and choking with emotion she gave expression in one phrase to their mutual misgivings. You will come back again, won't you? she whispered, as she hung on Silvers.

neck. Silvert made no reply, but half stifling and fearing lest he should give way to tears like herself, he kissed her in brotherly fashion on the cheek, at a loss for any other consolation. Then disengaging themselves, they again lapsed into silence. After a moment Miet shuddered. Now that she no longer lay against Silver's shoulder, she was becoming icy cold. yet she would not have shuddered thus had she been in this deserted path the previous evening seated on this tombstone where for several seasons they had tasted so much happiness i'm very cold she said as she pulled her hood over her head shall we walk about a little the young man asked her it's not yet nine o'clock we can take a stroll along the road miet reflected that for a long time she would probably not have the pleasure of another meeting, another of those evening chats, the joy of which served to sustain her all day long.

Yes, let us walk a little, she eagerly replied. Let us go as far as the mill. I could pass the whole night like this if you wanted to. They rose from the tombstone and were soon hidden in the shadow of a pile of planks. Here Miette opened her cloak, which had a quilted lining of red twilight. will, and threw half of it over Silveur's shoulders, thus enveloping him as he stood there close beside her. The same garment cloaked them both, and they passed their arms round each other's waist, and became as it were but one being. When they were thus shrouded in the police, they walked slowly towards the high road, fearlessly crossing the vacant parts of the

woodyard, which looked white in the moonlight. Miette had thrown the cloak over the cloak over the cloak over Silvert, and he had submitted to it quite naturally, as though indeed the garment rendered them a similar surface every evening. The road to Nice, on either side of which the suburban houses are built, was in the year 1851, lined with ancient elm trees, grand and gigantic ruins, still full of vigor, which the fastidious town council has replaced some years since by some little plain trees. When Silvair and Miette found themselves under the elms, the huge boughs of which cast shadows on the moonlit footpath.

They met now and again black forms which silently skirted the house fronts. These two were amorous couples, closely wrapped in one and the same cloak and strolling in the darkness. This style of promenading has been instituted by the young lovers of southern towns. those boys and girls among the people who mean to marry sooner or later, but who do not dislike a kiss or two in advance. No, no spot where they can kiss at their ease without exposing themselves to recognition and gossip. Accordingly, while strolling about the suburbs, the plots of wasteland, the footpaths of the high road,

in fact all these places where there are few passers-by and numerous shady nooks, They conceal their identity by wrapping themselves in these long cloaks, which are capacious enough to cover a whole family. The parents tolerate these proceedings, however stiff may be provincial propriety, no apprehension seemingly are entertained, and on the other hand, nothing could be more charming than these lover's rambles, which appeal so keenly to the southerner's fanciful imagination. There is a veritable masquerade, fertile in innocent enjoyments, within the reach of the most humble.

The girl clasps her sweetheart to her bosom, enveloping him in her own warm cloak. And no doubt it is delightful to be able to kiss one's sweetheart within those shrouding folds without danger of being recognized. One couple is exactly like another. And to the belated pedestrian who sees the vague groups gliding, hither and thither. Tis merely love passing, love guessed and scarce espied. The lovers know they are safely concealed within their cloaks. They converse in undertones and make themselves quite at home. Most frequently they do not converse at all, but walk along

at random and in silence, content in their embrace. The climate alone is to blame for having, in the first instance prompted these young lovers to retire to secluded spots in the suburbs. On fine summer nights, one cannot walk round Plasang without coming across a hooded couple in every patch of shadow falling from the house walls. Certain places, like the San Mietre, for instance, are full of these dark dominoes brushing past one another, gliding softly in the warm, nocturnal air. One might imagine they were guests invited to some mysterious ball given by the stars to lowly lovers. When the weather is very warm and the girls do not wear cloaks, they simply turn up their overskirts. And in the winter, the more passionate lovers make

light of the frosts. Thus, Miet and Silvert, as they descended beneath road, thought little of the chill December night. This ends section 2. Chapter 1, Part 1. Section 3 of the Fortune of the Rujon of Rujon-Macka cycle by Emil Zola,

translated by Henry Vizzatelli. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Read by Mark Leder. Section 3, Chapter 1, Part 2. They passed through the slumbering suburb without exchanging a word, but enjoying the mute delight of their warm embrace. Their hearts were heavy.

The joy which they felt in being side by side was tinged with the painful emotion which comes from the thought of approaching severance, and it seemed to them that they could never exhaust the mingled sweetness and bitterness of the silence which slowly lulled their steps. but the houses soon grew fewer, and they reached the end of the four bour. There stands the entrance to the Jacques Meprand, an iron gate fixed to two strong pillars,

a low row of mulberry trees being visible through the bars. Filver and Miette instinctively cast a glance inside as they passed on. Beyond the Josh Meprains, the road descends with a gentle slope to a valley, which serves as the bed of a little rivulet, the Vjorn, a brook in summer but a torrent in winter. The rose of elms still extended the whole way at that time, making the high road a magnificent avenue, which cast a broad band of gigantic trees across the hill, which was planted with corn and stunted vines. On that December night, under the clear, cold moonlight, the newly ploughed field stretching away on either hand, resembled vast beds of grayish wadding which deadened every sound in the atmosphere.

The dull murmur of the viand in the distance alone sent a quivering thrill through the profound silence of the countryside. When the young people had begun to descend the avenue, Nets' thoughts reverted to Bjaas Mifrin, which they had just left behind them. I had great difficulty in getting away this evening, she said, my uncle wouldn't let me go. He'd shut himself up in a cellar where he was hiding his money, I think, for he seemed greatly frightened this morning at the events that are taking place. Silvere clasped her yet more lovingly.

Be brave, said he. The time will come when we shall be able to see each other freely the whole day long. You must not fret. Oh, replied the girl, shaking her head. are very hopeful. For my part, I sometimes feel very sad. It isn't the hard work which grieves me. On the contrary, I'm often very glad of my uncle's severity, and the tasks he sets me. He was quite right to make me a peasant girl. I should perhaps have turned out badly for, do you know, Silvert, there are moments when I fancy myself under a curse. I feel then that I should like to be dead. I think of you know whom. As she spoke these last words, her voice broke into a sob.

Silvere interrupted her somewhat harshly. Be quiet, he said. You promised not to think about it. It's no crime of yours. We love each other very much, don't we? He added in a gentler tone. When we're married, you'll have no more unpleasant hours. I know, murmured Miet. You are so kind. You sustain me. What am I to do? I sometimes have fears and feelings of revolt. I think at times that I have been wronged,

and then I should like to do something wicked. You see, I pour forth my heart to you. Whenever my father's name is thrown in my face, I feel my whole body burning. When the urchins cry at me as I, pass, eh, Le Chantigre! I lose all control of myself, and feel that I should like to lay hold of them and whip them. After a savage pause, she resumed, As for you, you're a man, you're going to fight, you're very lucky.

Silvere had let her speak on. After a few steps, he observed sorrowfully, You're wrong, Miet. Yours is bad anger. You shouldn't rebel against justice. As for me, I'm going to fight in defense of our common rights, not to gratify any personal animosity. All the same, the young girl continued. I should like to be a man and handle a gun. I feel that it would do me good. Then as Silvere remained silent, she perceived that she had displeased him. Her feverishness subsided And she whispered in a supplicating tone You are not angry with me, are you?

It's your departure which grieves me And awaken such ideas I know very well you are right That I ought to be humble Then she began to cry And Sylverer moved by her tears Grafted her hands and kissed them See now how you pass from anger to tears

like a child, he said lovingly. You must be reasonable. I am not scolding you. I only want to see you happier, and that depends largely upon yourself. The remembrance of a drama which Miet had so sadly a vote cast a temporary gloom over the lovers. They continued their walk with bowed heads and troubled thoughts. Do you think I'm much happier than you?

Silvair at last inquired, resuming the conversation in spite of himself. If my grandmother had not taken care of me and educated me, what would have become of me? With the exception of my uncle Antoine, who was an artisan like myself and who taught me to love the Republic, all my other relations seemed to fear that I might besmirch them by coming near them. He was now speaking with animation and suddenly stopped,

detaining me at the middle of the road. God is my wittance. he continued, that I do not envy or hate anybody. But if we triumph, I shall have to tell the truth to those fine gentlemen. Uncle Antoine knows all about this matter. You'll see when we return. We shall all live free and happy. Then Miette gently led him on, and they resumed their walk.

You dearly love your republic? The girl asked, a saying a joke. Do you love me as much? Her smile was not altogether free from a tinge of bitterness. She was thinking perhaps how easily Sylvia abandoned her to go and scour the countryside. But the lad gravely replied, You are my wife, to whom I've given my whole heart. I love the Republic because I love you.

When we are married, we shall want plenty of happiness, and it is to procure a share of that happiness that I'm going, way tomorrow morning. You surely don't want to persuade me to remain at home. Oh, no, cried the girl eagerly. A man should be brave. Courage is beautiful. You must forgive my jealousy. I should like to be as strong minded as you are. You would love me all the more, wouldn't you? After a moment's silence, she added, with charming vivacity and ingenuousness. "'Ah, how willingly I shall kiss you when you come back!'

This outburst of a loving and courageous heart deeply affected, Silvert. He clasped Miet in his arms and printed several kisses on her cheek. As she laughingly struggled to escape him, her eyes filled with tears of emotion. All around the lovers, the country still slumbered amid the deep still stillness of the cold. They were now halfway down the hill. On the top of a rather lofty hillock to the left stood the ruins of a windmill, blanched by the moon, the tower which had fallen in on one side alone remained. This was the limit which the young people had assigned to their walk.

They had come straight from the foboog, without casting a single glance at the fields between which they passed. When Silver had kissed Miet's cheek, he raised his head and observed, the mill. What a long walk we've had, he exclaimed. See, here is the mill. It must be nearly half-past nine. We must go home.

But Miet pouted. Let us walk a little further, she employed, only a few steps, just as far as the little crossroad. No farther, really. Silvere smiled as he again took her round the waist. Then they continued to descend the hill. hill, no longer fearing inquisitive glances, for they had not met a living soul since passing the last houses. They nevertheless remained enveloped in Malong police, which seemed, as it were,

a natural nest for their love. It had shrouded them on so many happy evenings. Had they simply walked side by side, they would have felt small and isolated in that vast stretch of country, whereas, blended together as they were, they became bolder and seemed less puny. Between the folds of the police, they gazed upon the field stretching on both sides of the road without experiencing that crushing feeling with which far-stretching callous vistas oppress

human affections. It seemed to them as though they had brought their house with them. They felt a pleasure in viewing the countryside as from a window. delighting in the calm solitude, the sheets of slumbering light, the glimpses of nature vaguely distinguishable beneath the shroud of night and winter. The whole of that valley indeed, which, while charming them, could not thrust itself between their close-pressed hearts.

All continuity of conversation had ceased. They spoke no more of others, nor even of themselves. They were absorbed by the present, pressing each other's hand, uttering exclamations at the sight of some particular spot, exchanging words at rare intervals, and then understanding each other but little, for drowsiness came from the warmth of their embrace. Silvere forgot his Republican enthusiasm,

yet no longer reflected that her lover would be leading her in an hour for a long time, perhaps forever. The transports of their affection lulled them into a feeling of secure, as on other days when no prospect of parting had marred the tranquillity of their meetings. They still walked on and soon reached the little crossroad mentioned by Miet, a bit of a lane which led through the fields to a village on the banks of the Vjorn. But they passed on, pretending not to notice this path, where they had agreed to stop. And it was only some minutes afterwards that Silvier whispered,

It must be very late. You will get tired. No, I assure you I'm not at all tired, the girl replied. I could walk several leagues like this easily. Then in a coaxing tone, she added, Let us go down as far as the meadows of Saint-Clair. There we will really stop and turn back. Silvere, whom the girl's rhythmic gait lull to semi-somnolence, made no objection, and their rapture began afresh.

They now went on more slowly, fearing the moment when they would have to retrace their steps. So long as they walked onward, they felt as though they were advancing to the eternity of their mutual embrace, the return would mean separation and bitter leave-taking. The declivity of the road was gradually becoming more gentle. In the valley below, there are meadows extending as far as the Vjorn

which runs at the other end beneath a range of low hills. These meadows, separated from the high road by thick-set hedges, are the meadows of Sanclair. Ba, exclaimed Silvere this time, as he caught sight of the first patches of grass. We may as well go as far as the bridge. At this Miet burst out laughing, clasped the young man roundman,

neck and kissed him noisely. At the spot where the hedges begin, there were in those days two elms forming the end of the Long Avenue, two colossal trees larger than any of the others. The treeless field stretch out from the high road like a broad band of green wool, as far as the willows and birches by the river. The distance from the last elms to the bridge is scarcely 300 yards. The lovers took a good quarter of an hour to cover that space. At last, however slow their gate, they reached the bridge, and there they stopped. The road to Nice ran up in front of them, along the opposite slope of the valley. But they could only see a small portion of it, as it takes a sudden turn about half a mile from the bridge, and is lost to view among the wooded hills. On looking round, they caught sight of the other end of the road,

that which they had just traversed and which leads in a direct line from Placein to the Vjorn. In the beautiful winter moon light, it looks like a long silver ribbon, with dark edgings traced by the rows of elms. On the right and left, the plowed hill-land

showed like vast, grey, vague seas intersected by this ribbon, this roadway white with frost and brilliant as with metallic luster. Up above, on a level with the horizon light shone from a few windows in the foboor resembling glowing sparks by degrees meythe and silvere had walked fully a league they gazed at the intervening road full of silent admiration for the vast amphitheatre which rose to the verge of the heavens and over which flowed bluish streams of light as over the superposed rocks of a gigantic waterfall the strange and colossal picture spread out amid death-like stillness and silence nothing could have been of more sovereign grandeur then the young people having leant against the parapet of the bridge gazed beneath them

the viorn swollen by the reins float on with a dull continuous sound up and down stream despite the darkness which filled the hollows they perceived the black lines of the trees growing on the banks here and there glided the moonbeams casting a trail of molten metal as it were over the water which glittered and danced like rays of light on the scales of some live animal the gleams darted with a mysterious charm on the light on the scales of some live animal the gleams darted with a mysterious charm along the gray torrent betwixt the vague phantom-like foliage. You might have thought this is an enchanted valley, some wondrous retreat where a community of shadows and gleams lived a fantastic life. This part of the river was familiar to the lovers. They had often come here in search of coolness on warm July nights. They'd spent hours hidden among the clusters of willows on the right bank

at the spot where the meadows of St. Clair spread their verdant carpent. to the water-side. They remembered every bend of the bank, the stones on which they had stepped in order to cross the vorn, at that season as narrow as a brooklet, and certain little grassy hollows where they had indulged in their dreams of love. Yet, therefore, now gazed from the bridge at the right bank of a torrent with longing eyes. If it were warmer, she sighed, we might go down and rest a while before going back up the hill then after a pause during which she kept her eyes fixed on the banks she resumed look down there silver at that black mass yonder in front of a lock do you remember that's the brushwood where we sat last corpus christi day yes so it is replied silver softly This was the spot where they had first ventured to kiss each other on the cheek.

The remembrance just roused by the girl's words brought both of them a delightful feeling, an emotion in which the joys of the past mingled with the hopes of the morrow. Before their eyes, with the rapidity of lightning, they passed all the delightful evenings they had spent together, especially that evening of Corpus Christi Day, with the warm sky, the cool willows of the viorn, and their own loving. talk. And at the same time, whilst the past came back to their hearts full of a delightful

savor, they fancied they could plunge into the unknown future, see their dreams realized and marched through life arm in arm, even as they had just been doing on the highway, warmly wrapped in the same cloak. Then rapture came to them again, and they smiled in each other's eyes, alone amidst all the silent radiance. Suddenly, however, Silver raised his head, and throwing off the cloak, listened attentively.

Yet, in her surprise, imitated him, at a loss to understand why he had started so abruptly from her side. Confused sounds had for a moment been coming from behind the hills in the midst of which the niece rode

wends its way. They suggested the distant jolting of a procession of carts, but not to distinctly, so loud was the roaring of the vorn. Gradually, however, they became more pronounced, and rose at last like the tramping of an army on the march. Then amidst the continuous growing rumble,

one detected the shouts of a crowd, strange, rhythmical blasts as of a hurricane. One could even have fancied they were the thunder-claps of a rapidly approaching storm, which was already disturbing the slumbering atmosphere. Silvair listened attentively, unable to tell, however, what wore those tempest-like shouts, for the hills prevented them from reaching him distinctly. Suddenly a dark mass appeared at the turn of a road, and then the Marseillaise burst forth,

formidable, sung as with avenging fury. Ah, here they are, cried Silvert, with a burst of joyous enthusiasm. With he began to run up the hill, dragging Miette with him. On the left of the road was an embankment planted with evergreen oaks, up which he clambered with the young girl, to avoid being carried away by the surging, howling multitude. When he'd reached the top of the bank and the shadow of the brushwood, Miette, rather pale, gazed sorrowfully at those men whose distant song had suffice to draw Silvere from her embrace. it seemed as if the whole band had thrust itself between them they had been so happy a few minutes before locked in each other's arms alone and lost amidst the overwhelming silence and discreet glimmer of the moon

and now silvere whose head was turned away from her who no longer seemed even conscious of her presence had eyes only for those strangers whom he called his brothers the band descended the slope with a superfluous irresistible stride. There could have been nothing grander than the eruption of those few thousand men into that cold, still, deathly seen. The highway became a torrent, rolling with living waves which seemed inexhaustible. At the bend in the road fresh masses ever appeared, whose songs ever helped to swell the roar of this human tempest. When the last battalions came in sight, the uproar was deafening. The Marseillaise filled the atmosphere. as if blown through enormous trumpets by giant mouths, which cast it vibrating with a brazen clang

into every corner of the valley. The slumbering countryside awoke with a start, quivering like a beaten drum, resonant to its very entrails, and repeating with each and every echo the passionate notes of a national song. And then the singing was no longer confined to the men, from the very horizon,

from the distant rocks, the plowed land, the meadows, the copses, the smallest bits of brushwood, human voices seemed to come. The great amphitheater extending from the river to Plesson, the gigantic cascade over which the bluish moonlight flowed, was as if filled with innumerable, invisible people cheering the insurgents. And in the depths of the Vjorn, along the waters, streaked with mysterious metallic reflections, there was not a dark nook but seemed to conceal human beings who took up each refrain with yet greater passion. With air and earth alike quivering,

the whole countryside cried for vengeance and liberty. So long as the little army was descending the slope, the roar of the populace thus rolled on in sonorous waves broken by abrupt outbursts, which shook the very stones in the roadway. Silvert, pale with emotions, still listened and looked on. The insurgents who led the van of that swarming, roaring stream, so vague and monstrous in the darkness, were rapidly approaching the bridge.

I thought, murmured Miette, that you would not pass through, Plesson. They must have altered the plan of operations, Silveir replied. We were, in fact, to have marched to the chief town by the Cologne Road, passing to the left of Placons and Ocherre. They must have left Ambrales this afternoon and passed Les Toulette this evening. The head of the column had already arrived in front of the young people.

The little army was more orderly than one would have expected from a band of undisciplined men. The contingents from the various towns and villages formed separate battalions, each separated by a distance of a few paces. These battalions were apparent under the orders of certain chiefs. For the nonce, the pace at which they were descending the

hillside made them a compact mass of invincible strength. There were probably about three thousand men, all united and carried away by the same storm of indignation. The strange details of the scene were not discernible amidst the shadows cast over the highway by the lofty slopes. At five or six feet from the brushwood, however, where Miette and Silveur were sheltered, the left-hand embankment gave place to a little pathway which ran alongside the vion, and the moonlight, flowing through this gap, cast a broad band of radiance across the road. When the first insurgents reached this patch of light,

they were suddenly illumined by a sharp white glow which revealed, with singular distinctness, every outline of visage or costume. And as the various contingents swept on, the young people thus saw them emerge, fiercely and without cessation from the surrounding darkness. As the first men passed through the light, Miet instinctively clung to Silvair, although she knew she was safe, even from observation.

She passed her arm round the young fellow's neck, resting her head against his shoulder. And with the hood of her police encircling her pale face, she gazed fixedly at that square patch of light as it was rapidly traversed by those strange faces. transfigured by enthusiasm, with dark open mouths full of the furious cry of the Marseillaise. Silvert, whom she felt quivering at her side, then bent towards her and named the various contingents as they passed. The column marched along, ate abreast. In the van were a number of

big, square-headed fellows, who seemed to possess the Herculean strength and naive confidence of giants. They were doubtless proved. blind, intrepid defenders of the Republic. On their shoulders they carried large axes, whose edges freshly sharpened, glittered in the moonlight. Those are the woodcutters of the forests of the say, said so there. They have been formed into a core of sappers. At a signal from their leaders, they were the marches far as Paris, battering down the gates of batons with their axes, just as they cut down the old cork trees on the mountain. the young man spoke with pride of the heavy fists of his brethren.

And on seeing a band of labourers and rough-bearded men, tanned by the sun, coming along behind the wood-cutters, he continued. This is the contingent from La Palou. That was the first place to rise. The men in blouses are labourers who cut up the cork trees. The others in the velveteen jackets must be sportsmen, poachers and charcoal burners living in the passes of the say. The poachers knew your father, Miet.

They have good firearms, which they handle skillfully. Ah, if all were armed in the same manner. We are short of muskets. See, the laborers, have only got cudgels. Miet, still speechless, looked on and listened. As Silvair spoke to her of her father, the blood surged to her cheeks. Her face burnt as she scrutinized the sportsman with a strange air of mingled indignation and sympathy.

From this moment she grew animated, yielding to the feverish quiver which the insurgent songs awakened. The column, which had just begun, the Marseilla's afresh, was still marching down as though lashed on by the sharp blasts of the mistral. The men of La Palou were followed by another troop of workmen, among whom a goodly number of middle-class folks in great-coats were to be seen. Those are the men of Samatan de Beau, Silveir resumed. That boar grows almost at the same time as La Palou.

The masters join the workmen. There are some rich men there, meet, men whose wealth would enable them to live peacefully at home, but who prefer to risk their lives in defense of liberty. One can but admire them. Weapons are very scarce, however. They've scarcely got a few fowling pieces. But do you see those men yonder me yet? with red bands round their left elbows.

They are the leaders. The contingents descended the hill more rapidly than Silvert could speak. While he was naming the men from Sam Martin de Vaux, two battalions had already crossed the ray of light, which blanched the roadway. Did you see the insurgents from Alboise and the tulette passed by just now, he asked.

I recognized Bogat, the blacksmith. They must have joined the band today. how they do run liet was now leaning forward in order to see more of a little band as described to her by the young man the quiver she felt rose from her bosom to her throat then a battalion larger and better discipline than the others appeared the insurgents composing it were nearly all dressed in blue blouses with red sashes round their waists one would have thought they were arrayed in uniform a man on horseback with a sabre his side was in the midst of them, and most of these improvised soldiers carried guns, probably carbines and old muskets of the National Guard. I don't know those, said Silvere. The man on horseback must be the chief I've heard spoken of. He brought with him the contingents from Favarol and the neighboring villages.

The whole column ought to be equipped in the same manner. He had no time to take breath. Ah, see, here are the country people, he suddenly cried. Small groups of ten or twenty men at the most were now advancing behind the men of Favarole. They all wore the short jacket of the southern peasantry, and as they sang, they brandished pitchforks and sides. Some of them even only carried large navvies shovels. Every Hamlet, however, had sent its able-bodied men. Silvair, who recognized the parties by their leaders, enumerated them in feverish tones.

The contingent from Chavano, said he, there are only eight men, but they are strong. Uncle Antoine knows them. Here's Naze. Here's Pujo. They're all here. Not one has failed to answer the summons. Valkirah! Hold! There's the parson amongst them. I've heard about him. He's a staunch Republican. He was becoming intoxicated with a spectacle.

Now that each battalion existed of only a few insurgents, he had to name them yet more hastily, and his precipitancy gave him the appearance of one in a frenzy. Ah, Miette, he continued, what a fine march passed. Rosin, Vernou, Cobier, and there are more still, you'll see. These have only got scythe, but they'll mow down the troops as close as the grass in their meadows. Saint-Arop, Mazé, L'EGar, Mersin,

the whole north side of the sea. Ah, we shall be victorious. The whole country is with us. Look at those men's arms. They are hard and black as iron. There's no end to them. There's puy enough. Rochroix.

Those last are smugglers. They're carrying carbines. Still more scythe's and pitchforks. The contingents of country folk are still passing. Castel de Vieu, Santin, Gray, Estormel, Mortarin. His voice was husky with emotion as he finished naming these men, who seemed to be borne away by a whirlwind as fast as he enumerated them.

Erect with glowing countenance, he pointed out to several contingents with a nervous gesture. Miette followed his movements. The road below attracted her like the depth of a precipice. To avoid slipping down the incline, she clung to the young man's neck. A strange intoxication, emanated from those men, who themselves were inebriated with clamor, courage, and confidence. Those beings seen a thwart a moonbeam, those youths and those men in their prime, those old people brandishing strange weapons and dressed in the most diverse costumes,

from working smock to middle-class overcoat, those endless rows of heads, which the hour and the circumstances endowed with an expression of fanatical energy and enthusiasm, gradually appeared to the girl like a whirling impetuous torrent. At certain moments she fancied they were not of themselves moving, but they were really being carried away by the force of the Marseillaise, by that hoarse sonorous chant. She could not distinguish any conversation. She heard but a continuous volume of sound alternating from bass to shrill notes

as piercing as nails driven into one's flesh. This roar of revolt, this call to combat, to death, with its outbursts of indignation, its burning thirst for liberty, its remarkable blending of bloodthirsty and sublime impulses unceasingly smote her heart, penetrating more deeply at each fierce outburst, and filling her with the voluptuous pangs of a virgin martyr who stands erect and smiles under of a lash. And the crowd flowed on, ever amidst the same sonorous wave of sound. The march passed, which should not really last more than a few minutes, seemed to the young people to be interminable. Truly, Miet was but a child. She had turned pale at the approach of the band. She'd wept for the

loss of love. But she was a brave child whose ardent nature was easily fired by enthusiasm. Thus, ardent emotions had gradually got possession of her, and she became as courageous as a youth. She would willingly have seized the weapon and followed the insurgents. As the muskets and sides filed past, her white teeth glistened longer and sharper between her red lips, like the fangs of a young wolf, eager to bite and tear. And as she listened to Sylveir enumerating the contingents from the countryside with ever-increasing haste, the pace of the columns seemed to her to accelerate still more. She soon fancied it all a cloud of human dust swept along by a tempest.

Everything began to whirl before her. Then she closed her eyes. Big hot tears were rolling down her cheeks. Silver's eyelashes were also moist. I don't see the men who left Placein this afternoon, he murmured. He tried to distinguish the end of the column, which was still hidden by the darkness. Suddenly he cried with joyous exultation. Ah, here they are!

They've got the banner. The banner has been entrusted to them. Then he wanted to leap from the slope in order to join his companions. At this moment, however, the insurgents halted. Words of command ran along the column. The Marseus died out in a final rumble, and one could only hear the confused murmuring of a still surging crowd. Silvere, as he listened, caught the orders which were passed on from one contingent to another.

They called the men of Placin to the van. Then as each battalion ranged itself alongside the road to make way for the banner, the young man reascended the embankment, dragging me with him. Come, he said, we can get across the river before they do. When they were on the top, among the plowed land, They ran along to a mill who's lock bars the river. Then they crossed the vorn on a plank, placed there by the millers, and cut across the meadows of Sinclair,

running hand in hand without exchanging a word. The column threw a dark line over the highway, which they followed alongside the hedges. There were some gaps in the hawthorns, and at last Silvert and Miette sprang onto the road through one of them. In spite of the circuitous way they had come, they arrived at the same time as the men of Pleasant. Salvercher cans with some of them.

They must have thought he had heard of a new route they had chosen and had come to meet them. Miet, whose face was half concealed by her hood, was scrutinized rather inquisitively. Why, it chant a grey, at last said one of the men from the Foburger Plausant, the niece of Reboufé, the Mejere of the Jacques Meprin.

footnote. A megerre, he's a farmer in Provence, who shares the expenses and profits of his farm with the owner of the land. Where have you sprung from, gadabout? cried another voice. Silver, intoxicated with enthusiasm, had not thought of a distress

which his sweetheart would feel the bejeers of the workmen. Miette, all confusion looked at him as if to implore his aid. But before he could even open his life, lips and other voice rose from the crowd, brutally exclaiming, Our father's at the galleys. We don't want the daughter of a thief and murderer among us. At this me had turned dreadfully pale.

You lie, she muttered. If my father did kill anybody, he never thieved. And as Silvere, pale and trembling more than she, began to clench his fists, "'Stop,' she continued. "'This is my affair.' Then, turning to the men, she repeated with a shout, "'You lie! You lie! You lie! He never stole a copper from anybody. You know it well enough.

Why do you insult him when he can't be here?' She drew herself up, superb with indignation. With her ardent, half-wild nature, she seemed to accept a charge of murder composedly enough, but that of theft exasperated her. They knew it, and that was why folks, from stupid malice, often cast the accusation in her face. The man who had just called her father a thief

was merely repeating what he'd heard, said for many years. The girl's defiant attitude only incited the workmen to jeer the more. Silveir still had his fists clenched, and matters might have become serious if a poacher from Messey, who had been sitting on a heap of, stones at the roadside awaiting the order to march and not come to the girl's assistance. The little one's right, he said. Chantigre was one of us. I knew him. Nobody knows the real facts of his little matter. I always believed in the truth of his deposition before the judge.

The gendarme, whom he brought down with a bullet, while he was out shooting, was no doubt taking aim at him at the time. A man must defend himself. At all events, Since Chantreigre was a decent fellow, he committed no robbery. As often happens in such cases, the testimony of this poacher suffice to bring other defenders to Mietz's aid. Several workmen also professed to have known Chantagray. Yes, yes, it's true, they all said. He wasn't a thief. There are some scoundrels at Plasanne who ought to be sent to prison in his place. Chantyre was our brother.

come now be calm little one miette had never before heard anyone speak well of her father he was generally referred to as a beggar a villain and now she found good fellows who had forgiving words for him and declared him to be an honest man she burst into tears again full of the emotion awakened in her by the marseilla's and she bethought herself how she might thank these men for their kindness to her in misfortune for a moment she conceived the idea of shaking them all by the hand like a man, but her heart suggested something better. By her side stood the insurgent who carried the banner. She touched the staff, and to express her gratitude, said in an entreating tone, Give it to me, I will carry it. The simple-minded workman understood the ingenuous sublimity of this form of gratitude.

Yes, they all cried, Chantregray shall carry the banner. However, a woodcutter remarked that she would soon get tired and would not be able to go far. Oh, I'm quite strong, she retorted proudly, tucking up her sleeves and showing a pair of arms as big as those of a grown woman. Then as they handed her the flag, she resumed,

Wait just a moment. forthwith she pulled off her cloak and put it on again after turning the red lining outside. In the clear moonlight she appeared to be arrayed in a purple mantle reaching to her feet. The hood resting on the edge of her chignon formed a kind of Phrygian cap. She took the flag, pressed the staff to her bosom, and held herself upright amid the folds of that blood-colored banner which waved behind her. enthusiastic child

but she was her countenance with its curly hair large eyes moist with tears and lips parted in a smile seemed to rise with energetic pride as she turned it towards the sky at that moment she was the virgin liberty

the insurgents burst into applause the vivid imagination of those southerners was fired with enthusiasm at the sudden apparition of this girl so nervously claselessly clasped their banner to her bosom. Shouts rose from the nearest group. Bravo, Chantagray!

Chanterey forever! She shall remain with us. She'll bring us luck. They would have cheered her for a long time yet, had not the order to resume the march arrived. When the column moved on, Miette pressed Silver's hand and whispered in his ear. You hear, I shall remain with you.

Are you glad? Silveir, without replying, returned the pressure. He consented. In fact, he was deeply affected, unable to resist the enthusiasm which fired his companions. Miette seemed to him so lovely, so grand, so saintly. During the whole climb up the hill, he still saw her before him, radiant amidst the purple glory. She was now blended with his other adored mistress, the Republic. He would have liked to be an action already with his gun on his shoulder, but the insurgents moved slowly.

They had orders to make as little noise as possible. Thus the column advanced between the rows of elms, like some gigantic serpent whose every ring had a strange quivering. The frosty December night had again sunk into silence, and the Viorne alone seemed to roar more loudly. On reaching the first houses of the Fobobo, Sirver ran on in front to fetch his gun from the Ass Saint-Mitre, which he found slumbering in the moonlight. When he again joined the insurgents, they had reached the Port de Rome.

Miette bent towards him, and with her childish smile observed, I feel as if I were at the procession on Corpus Christi Day, carrying the banner of the Virgin. This ends Chapter 1, Part 2. Section 4 of The Fortune of the Rujon, book one of Rujon-Maca cycle by Emil Zola, translated by Henry Vizzatelli. This Libre-Vox recording is in the public domain. Read by Mark Leder. Section 4, Chapter 2, Part 1

Plasanne is a sub-prefecture with about 10,000 inhabitants. built on a plateau overlooking the Vjarn, and resting on the north side against the Garig hills, one of the last spurs of the Alps, the town is situated as it were in the depths of a cul-de-sac. In 1851 it communicated with the adjoining country by two roads only, the Nice Road, which runs down to the east, and the Leon Road, which rises to the west, the one continuing the other on almost parallel lines. Since that time, A railway has been built which passes to the south of the town, below the hill which descends steeply from the old ramparts to the river. At the present day, on coming out of the station on the right bank of the little torrent, one can see, by raising one's head, the first houses of Plesson, with their gardens disposed in terrorist fashion.

It is, however, only after an uphill walk, lasting a full quarter of an hour that one reaches these houses. about twenty years ago owing no doubt to deficient means of communication there was no town that had more completely retained the pious and aristocratic character of the old provenal cities plasanne then had and has even now a whole district of large mansions built in the reigns of louis the fourteenth and louis the fifteenth a dozen churches jesuit and capuchin houses and a considerable number of convents class distinctions were long perpetuated by the town's divisions into various districts. There were three of them, each forming, as it were a separate and complete locality, with its own churches, promenades, customs, and landscapes. The district of the nobility, called Saint-Marc, after the name of one of its parish churches, is a sort of miniature Versailles, with straight streets overgrown with grass and large square houses which conceal extensive gardens.

It extends to the south along the edge of the plateau. Some of the mansions built on the declivity itself have a double row of terraces, whence one can see the whole valley of the Vjorn, a most charming vista most vaunted in that part of the country. Then, on the northwest, the old quarter formed of the original town, rears its narrow, tortuous lanes bordered with tottering hovels. The town hall, the civil court, the market, and the Gendarmerie barracks are situated here.

This, the most populous part of the Placein, is inhabited by working men and shopkeepers, all the wretched, toiling, common folk. The new town forms a sort of parallelogram to the northeast, the well-to-do, those who have slowly amassed a fortune, and those engaged in the liberal professions, here occupy houses set out in straight lines and colored a light yellow.

This district, which is embellished by the sub-prefecture, an ugly plaster building decorated with rose moldings, numbered scarcely five or six streets in 1851. It is of quite recent formation, and it's only since the construction of the railway that it has been growing in extent. One circumstance, which even at the present time, tends to divide Placein into three distinct independent parts, is that the limits of a district are clearly defined by the principal thoroughfares. The Corsesauver and the Rue de Rome, which is, as it were, a narrow extension of the former, run from west to east, from the Grand Port to the Port de Rome, thus cutting the town into two portions and dividing the quarter of a nobility from the others. The latter are themselves parted by the Rue de la Ban. This street, the finest in the locality, starts from the extremity of the Courceauver and ascends northward,

leaving the black masses of the old quarter on its left and the light yellow houses of the new town on its right. It is here, about halfway along the street, that stands the sub-prefecture, in the rear of a small square planted with sickly trees. The people of Plasanne are very proud of this edifice. As if to keep more isolated and shut up within itself, The town is belted with old ramparts, which only serve to increase its gloom and render it more confined.

These ridiculous fortifications, preyed upon by ivy and crowned with wild gilly flowers, are about as high and as thick as the walls of a convent, and could be demolished by gunshot. They have several openings, the principle of which, the port to Rome and the Grand Port, afford access to Venice Road and Million Road at the other end. of town. Until 1853, these openings were furnished with huge wooden, two-leaved gates, arched at the top, and strengthened with bars of iron. These gates were double-locked at 11 o'clock in summer and 10 o'clock in winter, but town having thus shot its bolts like a timid girl, went quietly to sleep. A keeper who lived in a little cell in one of the inner corners of each gateway

was authorized to admit belated persons, but it was necessary to stand parleying a long time. The keeper would not let people in until, by the light of his lantern, he had carefully scrutinized their faces through a peephole. If their looks displeased him, they had to sleep outside. This custom of locking the gates every evening was highly characteristic of the spirit of the town, which was a commingling of cowardice, egotism, routine exclusiveness and devout longing for a cloistered life plasin when it had shut itself up would say to itself

i am at home with the satisfaction of some pious bourgeois who assured of the safety of his cash-box and certain that no noise will disturb him duly says his prayers and retires gladly to bed no other town i believe has so long persisted in thus impartial It's incarcerating itself like a nun. The population of Plusson is divided into three groups, corresponding with the same number of districts. Putting aside the functionaries, the sub-prefect, the receiver of taxes, the mortgage commissioner, and the postmaster, who are all strangers to the locality,

where they are objects of envy rather than of esteem, and who live after their own fashion. The real inhabitants, those who were born there and have every intention of ending their days there, feel too much respect for traditional usages and established boundaries not to pen themselves of their own accord in one or other of the town's social divisions the nobility virtually cloister themselves since the fall of charles the tenth they scarcely ever go out and when they do they are eager to return to their large dismal mansions and walk along furtively as though they were in a hostile country they do not visit anyone nor do they either receive each other. Their drawing rooms are frequented by a few priests only. They spend the summer in the chateau which they possess in the environs. In the winter they sit round their firesides.

They are, as it were, dead people weary of life. And thus the gloomy silence of a cemetery hangs over their quarter of the town. The doors and windows are carefully barricaded. One would think their mansions were so many convents shut off from all the tumult of the world. At rare intervals and a bay, whose measured tread adds to the gloomy silence of these sealed homes, passes by and glides like a shadow through some half-opened doorway. The well-to-do people, the retired tradesmen, the lawyers and notaries, all those of the little easy-going, ambitious world that inhabits the new town, endeavor to infuse some liveliness into Placein. They go to the parties given by the sub-prefect and dream of giving similar entertainments. They eagerly seek popularity. Call a workman, my good fellow.

Chat with the peasants about the harvest, read the papers, and walk out with their wives on Sundays. There's are the enlightened minds of the district. They are the only persons who venture to speak disparagingly of the ramparts. In fact, they have several times demanded of the authorities but demolitioning. of those old walls, relics of a former age. At the same time, the most skeptical among them experience a shock of delight whenever a marquis or a count deigns to honor them with a stiff salutation. Indeed, the dream of every citizen of the new town is to be admitted to a drawing room of a San Marque quarter. They know very well that their ambition is not attainable, and it is this which makes them proclaim a

or the louder of it they are free thinkers. But they are free thinkers in words only. Firm friends of the authorities, they are ready to rush into the arms of the first deliverer at the slightest indication of popular discontent. The group which toils and vegetates in the old quarter is not so clearly defined as the others. The laboring classes are here in a majority,

but retail dealers and even a few wholesale traders are to be found among them. As a matter of fact, Plasanne is far from being a commercial center. There's only just sufficient trade to dispose of the products of the country, oil, wine, and almonds. As for industrial labor, it is represented almost entirely by three or four evil-smelling tanyards, a felt-hat manufacturing, and some soap-boiling works,

which last are relegated to a corner of the Foburg. This little commercial and industrial world, though it may on high days and holidays, visit the people of the new district, generally takes up its quarters among the operatives of the old town. Merchants, retail traders, and artisans have common interests which unite them together. On Sundays only, the masters make themselves spruce and four-gather apart.

On the other hand, the laboring classes, which constitutes scarcely a fifth of the population, mingled with the idlers of the district. It is only once a week, and during the fine weather, that the three districts of Plesson come together face to face. The whole town repairs to the Coursovere on Sunday after Vespers. Even the nobility venture thither. Three distinct currents flow along this sort of boulevard planted with rows of plane trees.

The well-to-do citizens of the new quarter merely pass along before quitting the town, by the ground port and taking the avenue du maia on the right, where they walk up and down till nightfall. Meanwhile, the nobility and the lower classes share the cool sovere between them. For more than a century past, the nobility have selected the walk on the south side, which is bordered with large mansions, and is the first to escape the heat of the sun. The lower classes have to rest content with the walk on the north, where the cafes, inns, and tobacconist shops are located. The people and nobility promenade the whole afternoon, walking up and down the corps without any one of either party thinking of changing sides.

They are only separated by a distance of some seven or eight yards, yet it is as if they were a thousand leagues away from each other, for they scrupulously follow those two parallel lines, as though they must not come in contact here below. Even during the revolutionary periods, each party kept to its own side. This regulation walk on Sunday, and the locking of the town gates in the evening are analogous instances, which suffice to indicate the character of a 10,000 people inhabiting the town. Here, amidst these surroundings, until the year 1848, they're vegetated and obscure family that enjoyed little esteem, but whose head, people.

Pierre Rujon subsequently played an important part in life owing to certain circumstances. Pierre Rujon was the son of a peasant. His mother's family, the fouquet, owned towards the end of the last century a large plot of ground in the Fobour behind the old cemetery of Saint-Mitre. This ground was subsequently joined to Bajas Maffin. The fouquet were the richest market gardeners in that part of the country. They supplied an entire district of Placin with vegetables. However, their name died out a few years before the revolution.

Only one girl, Adelaide, remained. Born in 1768, she had become an orphan at the age of 18. This girl whose father had died insane was a long, lank, pale creature, with a scared look and strange ways which one might have taken for shyness so long. as she was a little girl. As she grew up, however, she became still stranger. She did certain things which were inexplicable,

even to the cleverest folk of the Fobour, and from that time it was rumored that she was cracked, like her father. She had scarcely been an orphan six months, in possession of a fortune which rendered her an eagerly sought heiress. When it transpired that she'd married a young gardener named Rujon, a rough-hewn peasant from the Bas-Alp. This Rougon, after the death of the last of the male fouquet, which had engaged him for a term,

had remained in the service of the deceased's daughter. From the situation of salaried servant, he ascended rapidly to the enviable position of husband. This marriage was a first shock to public opinion. No one could comprehend why Adelaide preferred this poor fellow, coarse, heavy, vulgar, scarce able to speak French, to those other young men, sons of well-to-do farmers, who'd been seen hovering round her for some time. And, as provincial people do not allow anything to remain unexplained, they made sure there was some mystery at the bottom of this affair,

alleging even that the marriage of the two young people had become an absolute necessity. But events proved the falsity of the accusation. More than a year went by before Adelaide had a son. The Foborg was annoyed It could not admit that it was wrong And determined to penetrate The supposed mystery Accordingly, all the gossips kept a watch

Upon the Rujon They soon found ample matter For Tittle-Tattle Réjohn died almost suddenly Fifteen months after his marriage From a sunstroke received one afternoon While he was weeding a bed of carrots Scarcely a year then elapsed

before the young widow caused unheard-of scandal. It became known as an indisputable fact that she had a lover. She did not appear to make any secret of it. Several persons asserted that they heard her use endearing terms in public to poor Rujong's successor. Scarcely a year of widowhood and a lover already. Such a disregard of propriety seemed monstrous out of all reason. and the scandal was heightened by Adelaide's strange choice.

At that time, they dwelt at the end of the impasse Saint-Mitre, in a hovel the back of which abutted on the Fouquet's land, a man of bad repute, who was generally referred to as that scoundrel macar. This man would vanish for weeks, and then turn up some fine evening, sauntering about with his hands in his pockets, and whistling as though he'd just come from a short walk.

And the women sitting at their doorsteps as he passed, there's that scoundrel Macart. He's hidden his bales and his gun in some hollow of the vorn. The truth was, McCart had no means, and yet ate and drank like a happy drone during his short sojourns in the town. He drank copiously and with fierce obstinacy. Seating himself alone at a table in some tavern,

he would linger there evening after evening, with his eyes stupidly fixed on his glass, neither seeing nor hearing anything around him. When the landlord closed his establishment, he would retire with a firm step, with his head raised as if he were kept yet more erect by inebriation. McCart walked so straight,

he's surely dead drunk, people used to say, as they saw him going home. Usually, when he had had no drink, he walked with a slight stoop and shone the gaze of curious people with a kind of savage shyness. Since the death of his father, a journeyman Tanner

who had left him his sole heritage the hovel in the impasse Saint-Mittre, he'd never been known to have either relatives or friends. The proximity of the frontiers and the neighbouring forests of the Sei had turned this singular, lazy fellow into a combination of smuggler and poacher,

one of those suspicious-looking characters of whom passers-by observe, i shouldn't care to meet that man at midnight in the dark wood tall with a formidable beard and lean face macaat was the terror of the good women of the faubourg of poissants they actually accused him of devouring little children raw though he was hardly thirty years old he looked fifty amidst his bushy beard and mollocks of hair which hung over his face in poodle fashion one could only distinguish the gleam of his brown eyes the furtive glance of a man of vagrant instincts rendered vicious by wine and a pariah life although no crimes had actually been brought home to him no theft or murderer was ever perpetrated in the district without suspicion at once falling upon him and it was this ogre this brigand this scoundrel mccart whom adelaide had chosen in twenty months she had two children by him first a boy and then a girl there was no question of marriage between them never had the foboor beheld such audacious improprietious impropriet The stupefaction was so great the idea of Macar having found a young and wealthy mistress so completely upset the gossips that they even spoke gently of Adelaide. Poor thing. She's gone quite mad, they would say. If she had any relatives, she would have been placed in confinement long ago.

And as they never knew anything of the history of those strange amours, they accused that rogue Macarred of having taken advantage of Adelaide's. weak mind to rob her of her money. The legitimate son, little Pierre Rujon, grew up with his mother's other offspring. The latter, Antoine and Ursul, the young wolves, as they were called in the district, were kept at home by Adelaide, who treated them as affectionately as a first child. She did not appear to entertain a very clear idea of the position in life reserved for these two poor creatures. To her, they were the same in every respect as her first-born. She would sometimes go out holding Pierre with one hand and Antoine with the other, never noticing how differently

but two little fellows were already regarded. It was a strange home. For nearly twenty years, everyone lived there after his or her fancy, the children like the mother. Everything went on free from control. In growing to womanhood, Adelaide had retained the strangeness which had been taken for shyness when she was fifteen. It was not that she was insane, as the people of the Foburg asserted, but there was a lack of equilibrium between her nerves and her blood, a disorder of the brain and heart which made her lead a life out of the ordinary, different from that of the rest of the world.

She was certainly very natural, very consistent with herself, but in the eyes of the neighbors her consistent, became pure insanity. She seemed desirous of making herself conspicuous. It was thought that she was wickedly determined to turn things at home from bad to worse, whereas with great naivete, she simply acted according to the impulses of her nature.

Ever since giving birth to her first child, she'd been subject to nervous fits, which brought on terrible convulsions. These fits recurred periodically, every two or three months. The doctors whom she consulted declared they could do nothing for her that age would weaken the severity

of the attacks. They simply prescribed a dietary regimen of underdone meat and quinine wine. However, these repeated shocks led to cerebral disorder. She lived on from day to day, like a child,

like a fawning animal yielding to its instincts. When Macar was on his rounds, she passed her time in lazy, pensive idleness. All she did for her children was to kiss and play with them. And as soon as her lover returned, she would disappear. Behind Macaas, hovel, there was a little yard separated from the fouquet's property by a wall. One morning the neighbors were much astonished to find in this wall a door,

which had not been there the previous evening. Before an hour had elapsed, the entire foe board had flocked to the neighboring windows. The lovers must have worked the whole night To pierce the opening and place the door there They could now go freely from one house to the other The scandal was revived Everyone felt less pity for Adelaide Who was certainly the disgrace of the suburb

She was reproached more wrathfully for that door That tacit, brutal admission of her union Than even for her two illegitimate children People should at least study appearances the most tolerant women would say. But Adelaide did not understand what was meant by studying appearances. She was very happy, very proud of her door.

She had assisted Macaugh to knock the stones from the wall and had even mixed the mortar so that the work might proceed the quicker. And she came with childish delight to inspect the work by daylight on the morrow, an act which was deemed the climax of shamelessness by three gossips who observed her constantly, contemplating the masonry. From that date, whenever Maccair reappeared, it was thought, as no one then ever saw the young woman, that she was living with him in the hovel of the impasse Saint-Mitre. The smuggler would come very irregularly, almost always unexpectedly, to Pleasant. Nobody ever knew what life the lovers led during the two or three days he spent there at distant intervals. They used to shut themselves up, the little dwelling seemed uninspelling.

inhabited. Then, as the gossips had declared that Nakaha simply seduced Adelaide in order to spend her money, they were astonished after a time to see him still lead his wanted life, ever uphill and downedale and as badly equipped as previously. Perhaps the young woman loved him all the more for seeing him at rare intervals. Perhaps he had disregarded her entreaties, feeling an irresistible desire for a life of adventure. The gossips invented a thousand fables, without succeeding in giving any reasonable explanation of a connection which had originated and continued in so strange a manner. The hovel in the Impasse Saint-Mitre remained closed and preserved its secrets. It was merely guessed that Maca had probably acquired the habit of beating Adelaide, although the sound of a quarrel never issued from the house.

However, on several occasions she was seen with her face black and blue and her hair torn away. At the same time, she did not display valise dejection or grief, nor did she seek in any way to hide her bruises. She smiled and seemed happy. No doubt she allowed herself to be beaten without breathing a word. This existence lasted for more than fifteen years. At times when Adelaide returned home She'd find her house upside down But would not take the least notice of it

She was utterly ignorant of the practical meaning of life Of the proper value of things and the necessity for order She let her children grow up like those plum trees Which sprout along the highways at the pleasure of the rain and sun They bore their natural fruits like wildstock Which is never known grafting or pruning never was nature allowed such complete sway, never did such mischievous creatures grow up more freely under the sole influence of instinct. They rolled among the vegetables, passed their days in the open air, playing and fighting like good-for-nothing ursians.

They stole provisions from the house and pillaged the few fruit trees in the enclosure. They were the plundering, squalling, familiar demons of the strange abode of lucid insanity. When their mother was absent for days together, they'd make such an uproar and hit upon such diabolical devices for annoying people, but the neighbors had to threaten them with a whipping. Moreover, Adelaide did not inspire them with much fear. If they were less obnoxious to other people when she was at home, it was because they made her their victim, shirking school five or six times a week in doing everything they could to receive some punishment which would allow them to squall to their heart's content.

But she never beat them, nor even lost her temper. She lived on very well, placidly, indolently, in a state of mental abstraction amidst all the uproar. At last, indeed, this uproar became indispensable to her to fill the void in her brain. She smiled complacently when she heard anyone say, Her children will beat her someday, and it'll serve her right. To all remarks, her utter indifference seemed to reply, What does it matter?

She troubled even less about her property than about her children. the fouquet's enclosure during the many years that this singular existence lasted would have become a piece of waste ground if the young woman had not luckily entrusted the cultivation of her vegetables to a clever market gardener this man who was to share the prophets with her robbed her impudently though she never noticed it this circumstance had its advantages however for in order to steal the more the gardener drew as much as possible from the land which in the circumstance had its advantages however for in order to steal the more the gardener drew as much as possible from the land which in the the result almost doubled in value. Pierre, the legitimate son, either from secret instinct or from his knowledge of a different manner in which he and the others were regarded by the neighbors, domineered over his brother and sister from an early age. In their quarrels, although he was much weaker than Antoine, he always got the better of the contest, beating the other with all the authority of a master. With regard to Ursul, a poor, puny, Juan, little

creature. She was handled with equal roughness by both the boys. Indeed, until they were 15 or 16, the three children fraternally beat each other without understanding their vague mutual hatred, without realizing how foreign they were to one another. It was only in youth that they found themselves face to face with definite self-conscious personalities. At 16, Antoine was a tall fellow, a blend of Macauch and Adelaide's. failings. Maccah, however, predominated in him with his love of vagrancy, his tendency to drunkenness, and his brutish savagery. At the same time, under the influence of Adelaide's nervous nature, the vices which in the father assumed a kind of sanguinary frankness were in the sun tinged with

an artfulness full of hypocrisy and cowardice. Antoine resembled his mother by his total want of dignified will by his effeminate voluptuous egotism, which disposed him to accept any bed of infamy provided he could lounge upon it at ease and sleep warmly in it. People said of him, Ah, the brigand, he hasn't even the courage of his villainy like Macar. If ever he commits a murder, it will be with pinpricks. Physically, Antoine inherited Adelaide's thick lips only. His other features resembled those of the smuggler, but they were softer and more prone to change of expression. In her Searle, on the other hand, physical and moral resemblance to the mother predominated. There was a mixture of certain characteristics in her also, but born the last,

at a time when Adelaide's love was warmer than Macauch, the poor little things seemed to have received with her sex a deeper impress of her mother's temperament. Moreover, hers was not a fusion of the two natures, but rather a juxtaposition, a remarkably close soldering. Her sule was whimsical and displayed at times the shyness, the melancholy, and the transports of a pariah. Then she would often break out into nervous fits of laughter and muse lazily, like a woman unsound both in head and heart. Her eyes, which at times had a scared expression like those of Adelaide, were as limpid as crystal, similar to those of kittens doomed to die of consumption. In presence of those two illegitimate children, Pierre seemed a stranger. To one who had not penetrated to the roots of his being, he would have appeared profoundly dissimilar.

Never did child's nature show a more equal balance of the characteristics of its parents. He was the exact mean between the peasant Rougeon and the nervous Adelaide. Paternal grossness was attenuated by the maternal influence. one found in him the first phase of that evolution of temperaments which ultimately brings about the amelioration or deterioration of a race although he was still a peasant his skin was less coarse his face less heavy his intellect more capacious and more supple in him the defects of his father and his mother had advantageously reacted upon each other if adelaide's nature rendered exquisitely sensitive by her rebellious nerves had combated and lessened Rujot's full-bodied ponderosity. The latter had successfully prevented the young woman's tendency to cerebral disorder from being implanted in the child. Pierre knew neither the passions nor the sickly ravings of MacArthur's

young whelps. Very badly brought up, unruly and noisy, like all children who are not restrained during their infancy. He nevertheless possessed it by the body. such sense and intelligence as would always preserve him from perpetrating any unproductive folly. His vices, his laziness, his appetite for indulgence lacked the instinctiveness which characterized Antoine's. He meant to cultivate and gratify them honorably and openly. In his plump person of medium height, in his long pale face, in which the features derived from his father had acquired some of the maternal refinement. confinement, one could already detect signs of sly and crafty ambition and insatiable desire,

with the hardness of heart and envious hatred of a peasant son whom his mother's means and nervous temperament had turned into a member of the middle classes. When, at the age of 17, Pierre observed and was able to understand Adelaide's disorders and the singular position of Antoine and Yersoul, he seemed neither sorry nor indignant, but simply worried as to the course which would best serve his own interests. He was the only one of the three children who had pursued his studies with any industry. When a peasant begins to feel the need of instruction, he most frequently becomes a fierce calculator. At school, Pierre's playmates roused his first suspicions by the manner in which they treated and hooted his brother. Later on he came to understand the significance of many looks and words, and at last he clearly

saw but the house was being pillaged. From that time forward he regarded Antoine and Ersul as shameless parasites, mouths that were devouring his own substance. Like the people of the fo'bou, he thought that his mother was a fit subject for a lunatic asylum, and feared that she would end by squandering all her money if he did not take steps to her. prevent it. What gave him the finishing stroke was the dishonesty of the gardener who cultivated the land. At this, in one day, the unruly child was transformed into a thrifty, selfish lad, hurriedly matured, as regards his instincts, by the strange improvident life which he could no longer bear to see around him without a feeling of anguish. Those vegetables from the sale of which the market

Gardner derived the largest prophets really belonged to him. The wine which his mother's offspring drank, the bread they ate, also belonged to him. The whole house, the entire fortune, was his by right, according to his boorish logic. He alone, the legitimate son, was the heir. And as his riches were in danger, as everybody was greedily gnawing at his future fortune, he sought a means of turning them all out, mother, brother, sister, servants, and of succeeding immediately to his inheritance. The conflict was a cruel one. The land knew that he must first strite his mother. Step by step, with patient tenacity, he executed a plan whose every detail he had long previously thought out. His tactics were to appear before Adelaide like a living reproach.

Not that he flew into a passion or abraded her for her misconduct, but he had acquired a certain manner of looking at her without saying a word which terrified her. Whenever she returned from a short sojourn in MacArthur's hovel, she could not turn her eyes on her son without a shudder. She felt his cold glances, as sharp as steel blades, pierce her deeply and pitilessly. The severe, taciturned demeanor of the child of the man whom she had so soon forgotten

strangely troubled her poor, disordered brain. She would fancy at times that Rujon had risen from the dead to punish her for her dissoluteness. Every week she fell into one of those nervous fits which were shattering her constitution. She was left to struggle until she recovered consciousness, after which she would creep about more feebly than ever. She would also often sob the whole night long, holding her head in their hands,

and accepting the wounds that Pierre dealt her with resignation, as if they'd been the strokes of an avenging deity. At other times she repudiated him. She would not acknowledge her own flesh and blood in that heavy-faced lad, whose calmness chilled her own feverishness so painfully. She would a thousand times rather have been beaten than glared at like this. that. Those implacable looks which followed her everywhere threw her at last into such unbearable torments that on several occasions she determined to see her lover no more. As soon, however,

as Macaugh returned, she forgot her vows and hastened to him. The conflict with her son began afresh, silent and terrible, when she came back home. At the end of a few months she fell completely under his sway. She stood before him like a child doubtful of her behavior, and fearing that she deserves a whipping. Pierre had skillfully bound her hand and foot, and made a very submissive servant of her, without opening his lips, without once entering into difficult and compromising explanations. This ends. Chapter 2, Part 1. Section 5 of the Fortune of the Rujon. Macca cycle by Emil Zola, translated by Henry Visitelli. This Libra Vox recording is in the public domain.

Read by Mark Leader. Section 5. Chapter 2. Part 2 When the young man felt that his mother was in his power, that he could treat her like a slave, he began in his own interest to turn her cerebral weakness and the foolish terror, with which his glances inspired her to his own advantage. His first care, as soon as he was a master at home, was to dismiss the market gardener and replace him by one of his own creatures. Then he took upon himself the supreme direction of the household, selling, buying, and holding

the cash box. On the other hand, he made no attempt to regulate Adelaide's actions, or to correct Antoine and Ursul for their laziness. That mattered little to him, for he counted upon getting rid of these people as soon as an opportunity presented itself. He contented himself with portioning out their bread and water. Then, having already got all the property in his own hands, he awaited an event which would permit him to dispose of it as he pleased. Circumstances proved singularly favorable. He escaped the conscription on the ground of being a widow's eldest son, but two years later Antoine was called out.

His bad luck did not affect him much. He counted on his mother purchasing a substitute for him. Adelaide, in fact, wished to save him from serving. Pierre, however, who held the money, turned a deaf ear to her. His brother's compulsory departure would be a lucky event for him and greatly assist the accomplishment of his plans. When his mother mentioned the matter to him, he gave her such a look that she did not venture to pursue it.

His glance plainly signified, Do you wish then to ruin me for the sake of your illegitimate offspring? Forthwith, she selfishly abandoned Antoine, for before everything else she sought her own peace and quietness. Pierre, who did not like violent measures, and who rejoiced at being able to eject his brother without a disturbance, then played the part of a man in despair. The year had been a bad one, money was scarce,

and to raise any he would be compelled to sell a portion of the land, which would be the beginning of their ruin. And he pledged his word of honor to Antoine that he would buy him out the following year, though he meant to do nothing of the kind. Antoine then went off, duped, and half satisfied. Pierre got rid of Ursul in a still-mour-on-experseigne, manner. A journeyman hatter of the Fobour, named Moray, conceived a real affection for the

girl whom he thought as white and delicate as any young lady from the San Mar quarter. He married her. On his part it was a love match, free from all sordid motives. As for Ursul, she accepted the marriage in order to escape a home where her eldest brother rendered life intolerable. Her mother, absorbed in her own courses and using her remaining energy to defend her own particular interests, regarded the matter with absolute indifference. She was even glad of her Searle's departure from the house, hoping that Pierre, now that he had no further cause for dissatisfaction, would let her live in peace after her own fashion. No sooner have the young people been married, then Moray perceived that he would have to quit Pleasant if he did not wish to hear

endless disparaging remarks about his wife and his mother-in-law. Taking Ursul with him, he accordingly repaired to Marseille, where he worked at his trade. It should be mentioned that he had not asked for one sou of dowry. When Pierre, somewhat surprised by this disinterestedness, commenced to stammer out some explanations. Moray closed his mouth by saying that he preferred to earn his wife's bread. Nevertheless, the worthy son of the peasant remained uneasy. Moray's indifference seemed to him to conceal some trap. Adelaide now remained to be disposed of.

Nothing in the world would have induced Pierre to live with her any longer. She was compromising him. It was with her that he would have liked to make a stup. but he found himself between two very embarrassing alternatives, to keep her and thus in a measure share her disgrace and bind a fetter to his feet which would arrest him in his ambitious flight, or to turn her out with the certainty of being pointed at as a bad son, which would have robbed him of the reputation for good nature which he desired. Knowing that he would be in want of everybody, he desired to secure an untarnished

named throughout Placein. There was but one method to adopt, namely to induce Adelaide to leave of her own accord. Pierre neglected nothing to accomplish this end. He considered his mother's misconduct

of sufficient excuse for his own hard-heartedness. He punished her as one would chastise a child. The tables were turned. The poor woman cowered under the stick, which figuratively, was constantly held over her. She was scarcely 42 years old and already had the stammerings of terror and vague, pitiful looks of an old woman in her dotage. Her son continued to stab her with his piercing glances,

hoping that she would run away when her courage was exhausted. The unfortunate woman suffered terribly from shame, restrained desire, and enforced cowardice, receiving the blows dealt her with passive resignation, and nevertheless, returning to Macar with a determination to die on the spot rather than submit. There were nights when she would have got out of bed and thrown herself into the vjorn, if with her weak, nervous nature she had not felt the greatest fear of death. On several occasions, she thought of running away and joining her lover on the frontier. It was only because she did not know whither to go that she remained in the house. submitting to her son's contemptuous silence and secret brutality.

Pierre divined that she would have left long ago if she had only had a refuge. He was waiting an opportunity to take a little apartment for her somewhere, when a fortuitous occurrence, which he had not ventured to anticipate, abruptly brought about the realization of his desires. Information reached the Foborg that Macart had just been killed on the front, by a shot from a custom house officer at the moment when he was endeavoring to smuggle a load of Geneva watches into France. The story was true. The smuggler's body was not even brought home, but was interred in the cemetery of a little mountain village. Adelaide's grief plunged her into

stupor. Her son, who watched her curiously, did not see her shed a tear. Her cart had made her sole legatee. She inherited his hovel in the impasse-sameitre and his carbine, which a fellow smuggler braving the balls of the custom-house officers loyally brought back to her. On the following day she retired to the little house, hung the carbine above the mantelpiece, and lived there estranged from all the world, solitary and silent. Pierre was at last sole master of the house. The Fouquet's land belonged to him in fact, if not in law. He never thought of establishing himself on it.

It was too narrow a field for his ambition. To till the ground and cultivate vegetables seemed to him boorish, unworthy of his faculties. He was in a hurry to divest himself of everything recalling the peasant. With his nature refined by his mother's nervous temperament, he felt an irresistible longing for the enjoyments of the middle classes. In all his calculations, therefore, he had regarded the sale of the fouquet's property as the final consummation. This sale, by placing a round sum of money in his hands, would enable him to marry the daughter of some merchant who would take him into partnership. At this period the wars of the First Empire were greatly thinning the ranks of eligible young men. Parents were not so fastidious as previously in the choice of a son-in-law.

Pierre persuaded himself that money would smooth all difficulties and that the gossip of the Foburg would be overlooked. He intended to pose as a victim, as an honest man suffering from a family disgrace, which he deplored without being soiled by him. or excusing it. For several months already he cast his eyes on a certain felicité puiche, the daughter of an oil dealer. The firm of Puich and Lacan, whose warehouses were in one of the darkest lanes of the old quarter, was far from prosperous. It enjoyed but doubtful credit in the market, and people talked vaguely of bankruptcy. It was precisely in

consequence of these evil reports that Pierre turned his batteries in this direction. No well-to-do traitor would have given him his daughter. He meant to appear on the scene at the very moment when old Pesh should no longer know which way to turn. He would then purchase Felicity of him and re-established the credit of the house by his own energy and intelligence. It was a clever expedient for ascending the first wrong of the social ladder, for raising himself. above his station. Above all things he wished to escape from that frightful Fobour where everybody reviled his family, and to obliterate all these foul legends by effacing even the very name of the

Fouquet's enclosure. For that reason the filthy streets of the old quarter seemed to him perfect paradise. There only he would be able to change his skin. The moment which he had been awaiting soon arrived. The firm of Puech and Lacanne seemed to be at the last gasp. The young man then negotiated the match with prudent skill. He was received, if not as a deliverer, at least as a necessary and acceptable expedient. The marriage agreed upon, he turned his attention to the sale of the ground. The owner of the Jasmefarin, desiring to enlarge his estate, had made him repeated offers. A low, thin, party wall alone separated the two estates. Pierre speculated on the eagerness of his wealthy neighbor,

who, to gratify his caprice, offered as much as 50,000 francs for the land. It was double its value. Pierre, whoever, with the craftiness of a peasant, pulled a long face and said that he did not care to sell, that his mother would never consent to get rid of the property where the fouquet had lived from father to son for nearly two centuries. But all the time that he was seemingly holding back, he was really making preparations for the sale. Certain doubts had arisen in his mind. According to his own brutal logic, the property belonged to him. He had the right to dispose of it as he chose. Beneath this assurance, however, he had vague presentments of legal complications. So he indirectly consulted a lawyer of the Fobor.

He learned some fine things from him. According to the lawyer, his hands were completely tied. His mother alone could alienate the property, and he doubted whether she would. But what he did not know, what came as a heavy blow to him was that Ursul and Antoine, those young wolves, had claims on the estate. What? They would despoil him.

Rob him, the legitimate child? The lawyer's explanations were clear and precise, however. Adelaide, it is true, had married Rujon under the common property system, but as the whole fortune consisted of land, the young woman, according to law, again came into possession of everything at her husband's death. Moreover, McCart and Adelaide had duly acknowledged their children when declaring their birth for registration,

and thus these children were entitled. they inherit from their mother. For sole consolation, Pierre learnt that Belor reduced the sheer of illegitimate children in favor of the others. This, however, did not console him at all. He wanted to have everything. He would not have shared ten sous with Rassoul and Antoine. This vista of the intricacies of the code opened up a new horizon which he scanned with a singularly thoughtful air. He soon recognized that a shrewd man must always keep the law on his side, and this is what he devised without consulting anyone, even the lawyer, whose suspicions he was afraid of arousing. He knew how

to turn his mother round his finger. One fine morning he took her to her notary and made her sign a deed of sale. Provided she were left the hovel in the impasseh Mitre, Adelaide would have sold all plusan. Besides, Pierre assured her an annual income of 600 francs and made the most solemn promises to watch over his brother and sister. This oath satisfied the good woman. She recited before the notary of a lesson which it had pleased her son to teach her. On the following day, the young man made her place her name at the foot of a document in which she acknowledged having received 50,000 francs as the price of the property. This was his stroke of genius, the act of a rogue.

He contented himself with telling his mother, who was a little surprised at signing such a receipt when she'd not seen a centim of the 50,000 francs, that it was a pure formality of no consequence whatever. As he slipped the paper into his pocket, he thought to himself, Now, let the young wolves ask me to render an account. I'll tell them the old woman has squandered everything. They'll never dare to go to law with me about it.

A week afterwards, the party wall no longer existed. A plow had turned up the vegetable beds, the fouquet's enclosure, in accordance with young Rujon's wish, was about to become a thing of the past. A few months later, the owner of the Josh Mifrin, even had the old market gardener's house, which was falling to pieces, pulled down. When Pierre had secured the 50,000 francs, he married Felicity Pouche, with as little delay as possible. Felicity was a short, dark woman, such as one often meets in Provence. She looked like one of those brown, lean, noisy grasshoppers, which in their sudden leaps often strike their heads against the almond trees.

Thin, flat-breasted, with pointed shoulders in a face like that of a pole cat. Her features singularly sunken and attenuated. It was not easy to tell her age. She looked as near fifteen as thirty, although she was in reality only nineteen, four years younger than her husband. There was much feline slyness in the depths of her little black eyes, which suggested gimlet holes. Her low, bumpy forehead, her slightly depressed nose with delicate quivering nostrils, her thin red lips and prominent chin parted from her cheeks by strange hollows. All suggested the countenance of an artful dwarf, a living mask of intrigue, an active, envious ambition.

With all her ugliness, however, Felicity possessed a sort of gracefulness which rendered her seductive. People said of her that she could be pretty or ugly as she pleased. It would depend on the fashion in which she tied her magnificent hair, but it depended still more on a triumphant smile which illumined her golden complexion when she thought she got the better of somebody born under an evil star and believing herself ill-used by fortune she was generally content to appear an ugly creature She did not, however, intend to abandon the struggle, for she had vowed that she would someday make the whole town burst with envy, by an insolent display of happiness and luxury. Had she been able to act her part on a more spacious stage, where full play would have been allowed her ready wit, she would have quickly brought her dream to pass.

Her intelligence was far superior to that of the girls of her own station and education. Evil tongues asserted that her mother, who had died a few years after she was born, had, during the early period of her married life, been familiar with the Marquise de Carnivant, a young nobleman of the Saint-Marc quarter. In fact, Felicity had the hands and feet of a Martianess, and in this respect did not appear to belong to that class of workers from which she was descended. Her marriage with Pierre Rujon, that semi-peasant, that man of the Fobor, whose family was in such bad odor,

kept the old quarter in a state of astonishment for more than a month. She let people gossip, however, receiving the stiff congratulations of her friends with strange smiles. Her calculations had been made. She had chosen Rujon for a husband as one would choose an accomplice.

Her father, in accepting the young man, had merely had eyes for the 50,000 francs, which were to save him from bankruptcy. Felicity, however, was more keen-sighted. She looked into the future and felt that she would be in want of a robust man, even if he were somewhat rustic, behind whom she might conceal herself and whose limbs she would move at will. She entertained a deliberate hatred for the insignificant little exquisites of provincial towns,

the lean herd of notary's clerks and prospective barristers, who stand shivering with cold while waiting for clients. Having no dowry and despairing of ever marrying a rich merchant's son, she by far preferred a peasant whom she could use as a passive tool to some lank graduate who would overwhelm her with his academic superiority and drag her about all her life in search of hollow vanities. She was of opinion that the woman ought to make the man. She believed herself capable of carving a minister out of a cowherd.

That which had attracted her, in Rujon was his broad chest, his heavy frame, which was not altogether wanting in elegance. A man thus built would bear with ease and sprightliness the massive intrigues which she dreamt of placing on his shoulders. However, while she appreciated her husband's strength and vigor, she also perceived that he was far from being a fool. Under his coarse flesh she had divined the cunning suppleness of his mind. Still, she was a long way from really knowing her Rujon. She thought him far stupider than he was.

A few days after her marriage, as she was by chance fumbling in the drawer of a secretaire, she came across the receipt for fifty thousand francs which Adelaide had signed. At sight of it she understood things and felt rather frightened. Her own natural average honesty rendered her hostile to such expedience. Her terror, however, was not unmixed with admiration. Rujon became in her eyes a very smart fellow. The young couple bravely sought to conquer fortune. The firm of Puech in Lacan was not, after all, so embarrassed as Pierre had thought.

Its liabilities were small, it was merely in want of ready money. In the provinces, traders adopt prudent courses to save them from serious disasters. Pue and Lacan were prudent to an excessive degree. They never risked a thousand crowns without the greatest fear, and thus their house, a veritable whole, was an unimportant one. The fifty thousand francs that Pierre brought into it suffice to pay the debts and extend the business. The beginnings were good.

During three successive years, the olive harvest was an abundant one. Felicity, by a bold stroke, which absolutely frightened, both Pierre and old Pouche made them purchase a considerable quantity of oil which they stored in their warehouse. During the following years, as the young woman had foreseen, the crops failed, and a considerable rise in prices having set in, they realized large profits by selling out their stock. A short time after this hall, Puech and LeCont retired from the firm, content with a few sous they had just secured and ambitious of living on their incomes. the young couple now had sole control of the business and thought that they had at last laid the foundation of their fortune you have vanquished my ill luck felicity would sometimes say to her husband

one of the rare weaknesses of her energetic nature was to believe herself stricken by misfortune hitherto so she asserted nothing had been successful with either herself or her father in spite of all their efforts goaded by her southern superstition, she prepared to struggle with fate as one struggles with somebody who's endeavoring to strangle one. Circumstances soon justified her apprehensions in a singular manner. Ill luck returned inexorably.

Every year some fresh disaster shook Rujon's business. A bankruptcy resulted in the loss of a few thousand francs. His estimates of crops proved incorrect, through the most incredible circumstances, the safest speculations collapsed miserably. It was a truseless, merciless combat. You see, I was born under an unlucky star, Felicity would bitterly exclaim. And yet she struggled furiously, not understanding how it was that she, who had shown such keen scent in a first speculation, could now only give her husband the most deplorable advice.

Pierre, dejected and less tenacious than herself, would have gone into liquidation of score of times that had not been for his wife's firm obstinacy. She longed to be rich. She perceived that her ambition could only be attained by fortune. As soon as they possessed a few hundred thousand francs, they would be masters of the town. She would get her husband.

been appointed to an important post, and she would govern. It was not the attainment of honors which troubled her. She felt herself marvelously well armed for such a combat, but she could do nothing to get together the first few bags of money which were needed. Though the ruling of men caused her no apprehensions, she felt a sort of impotent rage at the thought of those inert, white, cold, five-franc pieces over which her intriguing spirit had no power and which obstinately resisted her. The battle lasted for more than thirty years. The death of Pouche proved another heavy blow. Felicity, who had counted upon an inheritance of about forty thousand francs, found that the selfish old man, in order to indulge himself in his old age, had sunk all his money in a life anewan.

The discovery made her quite ill. She was gradually becoming soured. She was growing more lean and harsh. To see her from morning till night whirling around the jars of oil, one would have thought she believed that she could stimulate the sails by continually flitting about like a restless fly. Her husband, on the contrary, became heavier. Misfortune fattened him, making him duller and more in.

indolent. These 30 years of combat did not, however, bring him to ruin. At each annual stock taking, they managed to make both ends meet fairly well. If they suffered any loss during one season, they recouped themselves the next. However, it was precisely this living from hand to mouth which exasperated Felicity. She would by far have preferred a big failure. They would then perhaps have been able to commence life over again instead of obstinately persisting in their petty business, working themselves to death to gain the bare necessaries of life. During one third of a century, they did not save 50,000 francs.

It should be mentioned that from the very first years of their married life, they had a numerous family, which in the long run became a heavy burden to them. In the course of five years, from 1811, to 1815, Felicity gave birth to three boys. Then during the four ensuing years, she presented her husband with two girls. These had but an indifferent welcome. Daughters are a terrible embarrassment when one has no dowry to give them. However, the young woman did not regard this troop of children as the cause of their ruin.

On the contrary, she based on her son's heads the building of the fortune which was crumpled, in her own hands. They were hardly ten years old before she discounted their future careers in her dreams. Doubting whether she would ever succeed herself, she centered in them all her hopes of overcoming the animosity of fate. They would provide satisfaction for her disappointed vanity. They would give her that wealthy, honorable position which she had hitherto sought in vain. From that time forward, without abandoning the business struggle, she conceived a second plan for obtaining the gratification of her domineering instincts. It seemed to her impossible that amongst her three sons,

there should not be a man of superior intellect who would enrich them all. She felt it, she said. Accordingly, she nursed the children with a fervor in which maternal severity was blended with a newser's solicitude. She amused herself by fattening them as though they constituted a capital, which, later on, would return a large interest. Enough, Pierre would sometimes exclaim. All children are ungrateful. You're spoiling them.

You're ruining us. When Felicity spoke of sending them to college, he got angry. Latin was a useless luxury. It would be quite sufficient if they went through the classes of a... little neighboring school. The young woman, however, persisted in her design. She possessed certain elevated instincts which made her take a great pride in surrounding herself with accomplished children. Moreover, she felt that her sons must never remain as illiterate as her husband, if she wished to see them become prominent men. She fancied them all three in Paris in high

positions, which she did not clearly define. When Réjonk consent, and the three youngsters had entered the eighth class, Felicity felt the most lively satisfaction she had ever experienced. She listens with delight as they talked of their professors and their studies. When she heard her eldest son make one of his brothers decline Rosa Arose, it sounded like delicious music to her. It is only fair to add that her delight was not tarnished by any sordid calculations. Even Rujon felt the satisfaction.

which an illiterate man experiences on perceiving his sons grow more learned than himself then the fellowship which grew up between their sons and those of the local bigwigs completed the parents gratification the youngsters were soon on familiar terms with the sons of the mayor and the sub-prefect and even with two or three young noblemen whom the san mar quarter had deigned to send to the plesong college felicit was at a loss how to reprieff pay such an honor. The education of the three lads weighed seriously on the budget of the Rujon household. Until the boys had taken their degrees, their parents, who kept them at college at enormous sacrifices, lived in hopes of their success. When they had obtained their diplomas, Felicity wished to continue her work, and even persuaded her husband to send the three to Paris. Two of them devoted themselves to the study of law, and the third passed through the school of medicine. Then, when they were men and had exhausted the resources of the Rujon family

and were obliged to return and establish themselves in the provinces, their parents' this enchantment began. They idled about and grew fat. And Felicity again felt all the bitterness of her ill luck. Her sons were failing her. They'd ruin her and did not return any interest on the capital which they represented. This last blow of fate was the heaviest, as it fell on her ambition and her maternal vanity alike. Eugène repeated to her from morning till night, I told you so, which only exasperated her the more.

One day, as she was bitterly reproaching her eldest son with a large amount of money expended on his education, he said to her with equal bitterness, I will repay you later on, if I can, but as you had no means, you should have brought us up to a trade. We're out of our element. We're suffering more than you. Felicity understood the wisdom of these words. From that time she ceased to accuse her children and turned her anger against fate, which never wearied of striking her.

She started her old complaints afresh, and bemoaned more and more the want of means which made her strand as it were in port. Whenever Rujon said to her, Your sons are lazy fellows, they'll eat up all we have. She sourly returned, Would to God I had more money to give them, if they do vegetate poor fellows, it's because they haven't got a sue to bless themselves with. At the beginning of the year 1848, on the eve of the Revolution of February, the three young Rujon had, held very precarious positions at Plausanne. They presented most curious and profoundly dissimilar characteristics,

though they came of the same stock. They were, in reality, superior to their parents. The race of the Rougeon was destined to become refined through its female side. Adelaide had made Pierre a man of moderate enterprise, disposed to low ambitions. Felicity had inspired her sons with a higher intelligence, with the capacity for greater vices and greater virtues. At the period now referred to, the eldest, Eugène, was nearly 40 years old.

He was a man of middle height, slightly bald and already disposed to obesity. He had his father's face, a long face with broad features. Beneath his skin, one could divine the fat to which were due the flabby roundness of his features and his yellowish-waxy complexion. Though his massive squarehead still recalled the peasant, his physiognomy was transfigured, lit up from within, as it were, when his drooping islands were raised and his eyes awoke to life. In the son's case, the father's ponderousness had turned to gravity. This big fellow, Eugen, usually preserved a heavy somnolent demeanor.

At the same time, certain of his heavy, languid movement suggested those of a giant stretching his limbs pending the time for action. By one of those alleged freaks of nature of which, however, science is now commencing to discover the laws, a physical resemblance to Pierre was perfect in Eugen, Felicity on her side seemed to have furnished him with his brains. He offered an instance of certain moral and intellectual qualities of maternal origin being embedded in the coarse flesh he had derived from his father. He cherished lofty ambitions, possessed domineering instincts, and showed singular contempt for trifling expedience and petty fortunes. He was a proof that Placein was perhaps not mistaken in suspecting that

Felicity had some blue blood in her veins. The passion for indulgence, which became formidably developed in the Rujon, and was in fact the family characteristic, attained in his case its highest pitch. He longed for self-gratification, but in the form of mental enjoyment such as would gratify his burning desire for domination. A man such as this was never intended to succeed in a provincial town. He vegetated there for 15 years his eyes turned towards Paris, watching his opportunities. On his return home, he had entered his name on the rolls in order to be independent of his parents. After that he pleaded from time to time, earning a bare livelihood without appearing to rise above average mediocrity. At Placeon, his voice was considered thick, his movements

heavy. He generally wandered from the question at issue, rambled as the wise acres expressed it. On one occasion particularly when he was pleading in a case for damages, he so forgot himself as to stray into a political disquisition, to such a point that the presiding judge interfered, whereupon he immediately sat down with a strange smile. His client was condemned to pay considerable sum of money, a circumstance which did not, however, seemed to cause Eugène the least regret for his irrelevant digression. He appeared to regard his speeches as mere exercises which would be of use to him later on. It was this that puzzled and disheartened Felicité.

She would have liked to see her son dictating the law to the civil court of Plausanne. At last, she came to entertain a very unfavorable opinion of her firstborn. To her mind, this lazy fellow would never be the one to shed any luster on the family. Pierre, on the contrary, felt absolute confidence in him. Not that he had more intuition than his wife, but because external appearances sufficed him, and he flattered himself by believing in the genius of a son who was his living image. A month prior to the revolution of February 1848,

Eugène became restless. Some special inspiration made him anticipate the crisis. From that time forward, he seemed to feel out of his element at Plesson. He would wander about the streets like a distressed soul. At last he formed a sudden resolution and left for Paris with scarcely 500 francs in his pocket Aristide the youngest son was

so to speak diametrically opposed to Jeanne he had his mother's face and a covetousness and slyness of character prone to trivial intrigues in which his father's instincts predominated nature has need of symmetry short, with pitiful countenance suggesting the knob of a stick carved into a punch's head. Aristide ferridden fumbled everywhere without any scruples, eager only to gratify himself.

He loved money as his eldest brother loved power. While Lijen dreamed of bending a people to his will and intoxicated himself with visions of future omnipotence, the other fancied himself ten times a million. an heir, installed in a princely mansion, eating and drinking to his heart's content, and enjoying life to the fullest possible extent. Above all things he longed to make a rapid fortune. When he was building his castles in the air, they would rise in his mind, as if by magic, he would become possessed of tons of gold in one night.

These visions agreed with his indolence, as he never troubled himself about the means, considering those the best which were the most expeditious. In his case, the race of the Rougon, of those coarse, greedy peasants with brutish apathites, had matured too rapidly. Every desire for material indulgence was found in him, augmented three-fold by hasty education, and rendered the more insatiable and dangerous

by the deliberate way in which the young man had come to regard their realization as his set purpose. In spite of her keen feminine intuition, Felicity preferred this son. She did not perceive the greater affinity between herself and Eugen. She excused the follies and indolence of her youngest son under the pretext that he would someday be the superior genius of the family and that such a man was entitled to live a disorderly life until his intellectual strength should be revealed.

Aristeed subjected her indulgence to a rude test. In Paris, he led a low, idle life. He was one of those students who entered their names at the taverns of the Catier Latins. He did not remain there, however, more than two years. His father, growing apprehensive and seeing that he had not yet passed a single examination, kept him at Plasanne and spoke of finding a wife for him, hoping that domestic responsibility would make him. him more steady. Aristide let himself be married. He had no very clear idea of his own ambitions at

this time. Provincial life did not displease him. He was battening in his little town, eating, sleeping, and sauntering about. Felicite pleaded his cause so earnestly that Pierre consented to board and lodge the newly married couple, on condition that the young man should turn his attention to the business. From that time, however, Aristide led a life of ease and idleness. He spent his days in the best part of his nights at the club, again and again slipping out of his father's office

like a schoolboy to go and gamble away the few Louis that his mother gave him clandestinely. It is necessary to have lived in medepts of the French provinces to form an idea of the four brutifying years which the young fellow spent in this vat. In every little town there is a group of individuals who thus live on their parents, pretending at times to work, but in reality cultivating idleness with a sort of religious zeal. Aristide was typical of these incorrigible drones. For four years he did little but play Eckarté.

While he passed his time at the club, his wife, a fair complexion, nerveless woman, helped to ruin the Rougeon business by her inordinate passion for showy gowns and her formidable appetite, a rather remarkable peculiarity in so frail a creature. Angel, however, adored Sky, blue ribbons, and roast beef. She was the daughter of a retired captain, who was called Commander Cicardot, a good-hearted old gentleman, who'd given her a dowry of ten thousand francs, all his savings. Pierre, in selecting Angel for his son, had considered that he had made an unincoled an unexpected bargain, so lightly did he esteem Aristide. However, that dowry of 10,000 francs, which determined his choice, ultimately became a millstone round his neck. His son, who was already a cunning

rogue, deposited by 10,000 francs with his father, with whom he entered into partnership, declining with the most sincere professions of devotion to keep a single copper. We have no need of anything, he said. You'll keep my wife and myself, and we'll reckon up later on. Pierre was short of money at the time, and accepted not, however, without some uneasiness at Aristide's disinterestedness. The latter calculated that it would be years before his father would have 10,000 francs in ready money to repay him, so that he and his wife would live at the paternal expense,

so long as the partnership could not be dissolved. It was an admirable investment for his few banknotes. When the old dealer understood that the foolish bargain he had made, he was not in a position to rid himself of Aristide. Angel's dowry was involved in speculations which were turning out unfavorably. He was exasperated, stoned to the heart at having to provide for his daughter-in-law's voracious appetite and to keep his son in idleness.

Had he been able to buy them out of the business, he would twenty times have shut his doors on those bloodsuckers, as he emphatically expressed it. Felicity secretly defended them. The young man who had divined her dreams of ambition would every evening describe to her the elaborate plans by which he would shortly make a fortune. By a rare chance she had remained on excellent terms with her daughter-in-law.

it must be confessed that angel had no will of her own she could be moved and disposed of like a piece of furniture meanwhile pierre became enraged whenever his wife spoke to him of the success their youngest son would ultimately achieve he declared that he would really bring them to ruin during the four years that the young couple lived with him he stormed in this manner wasting his impotent rage and quarrels without in the least disturbing the equanimity of Aristide and Angel. They were located there, and there they intended to remain like blocks of wood. At last, Pierre met with a stroke of luck which enabled him to return the ten thousand francs to his son. When, however, he wanted to reckon up accounts with him, Aristide interposed so much chicanery that he had to let the couple go without deducting a copper for their board and lodging. They installed the themselves but a short distance off, in a part of the old quarter called the Place San Luis.

The ten thousand francs were soon consumed. They had everything to get for their new home. Moreover, Aristide made no change in his mode of living as long as any money was left in the house. When he had reached the last hundred-franc note, he felt rather nervous. He was seen prowling about the town in a suspicious manner. He no longer took his customary couple. of coffee at the club. He watched feverishly whilst play was going on without touching a card. Poverty made him more spiteful than he would otherwise have been. He bore the blow for a long time, obstinately refusing to do anything in the way of work. In 1840 he had a son, little Maxime, whom his grandmother Felicity fortunately sent to college paying his fees clandestinely. That made one

mouth less at home, but poor Angel was dying of hunger, and her husband was at last compelled to seek a situation. He secured one at the sub-prefecture. He remained there nearly ten years, and only attained a salary of eighteen hundred francs per annum. From that time forward it was with ever-increasing malevolence and rancor that he hungered for the enjoyments of which he was deprived. His lowly position exasperated him. The paltry hundred and fifty francs which he received every month seemed to him an irony of fate. Never did man burn with such desire for self-gratification. Felicite, to whom he imparted his sufferings, was by no means grieved to see him so eager.

She thought his misery would stimulate his energies. At last, crouching an ambush, as it were, with his ears wide open, he began to look about him like a thief seeking his opportunity. At the beginning of 1848, when his brother left for Paris, he had a momentary idea of following him. But Eugène was a bachelor, and he, Aristide, could not take his wife so far without money. So he waited, scenting a catastrophe and ready to fall on the first prey that might come within reach. The other son, Pascal, born by and he waited.

between Eugène and Aristide did not appear to belong to the family. He was one of those frequent cases which give vali to the laws of heredity. During the evolution of a race, nature often produces some one being whose every element she derives from her own creative powers. Nothing in the moral or physical constitution of Pascal recalled the Rougon. Tall, with a grave and gentle face, he had an uprightness of of mind, a love of study, a retiring modesty which contrasted strangely with the feverish ambitions and unscrupulous intrigues of his relatives. After acquitting himself admirably of his

medical studies in Paris, he had retired by preference to Pleasant, notwithstanding the offers he received from his professors. He loved a quiet provincial life. He maintained that for a studious man in such a life was preferable to the excitement of Paris. Even at Placein, he did not exert himself to extend his practice. Very steady and despising fortune, he contented himself with a few patients sent him by chance. All his pleasures were centred in a bright little house in the new town, where he shut himself up, lovingly devoting his whole time to the study of natural history. he was particularly fond of physiology. It was known in the town that he frequently purchased dead bodies from the hospital gravedigger,

a circumstance which rendered him an object of horror to delicate ladies and certain timid gentlemen. Fortunately, they did not actually look upon him as a sorcerer, but his practice diminished, and he was regarded as an eccentric character, to whom people of good society ought not to entrust even a fingertip for fear of being compromised. The mayor's wife was one day heard to say, I would sooner die than be attended by that gentleman. He smells of death.

From that time, Pascal was condemned. He seemed to rejoice at the mute terror which he inspired. The fewer patience he had, the more time he could devote to his favorite sciences. As his fees were very moderate, the poorer people remained faithful to him. him. He earned just enough to live and lived contentedly a thousand leagues away from the rest of the country, absorbed in the pure delight of his researchers and discoveries. From time to time,

he sent a memoir to the Academy de Science at Paris. Plesson did not know but this eccentric character, this gentleman who smelt of death, was well known and highly esteemed in the world of science. When people saw him starting on Sundays for an excursion among the Garri hills, with a botanist's bag hung round his neck and the geologist's hammer in his hand, they would shrug their shoulders and institute a comparison between him and some other doctor of the town, who was noted for his smart cravat, his affability to the ladies, and the delicious odor of violets which his garments always diffused. Pascal's parents did not understand him any better,

than other people. When Felicity saw him adopting such a strange, unpretentious mode of life, she was stupefied and reproached him for disappointing her hopes. She, who tolerated Aristide's idleness because she thought it would prove fertile, could not view without regret the slow progress of Pascal, his partiality for obscurity and contempt for riches, his determined resolve to lead a life of retirement. He was certainly not the child who would ever gratify her vanities. But where do you spring from? She would sometimes say to him, you're not one of us. Look at your brothers, how they keep their eyes open, striving to profit by the education we've given them, whilst you waste your time on follies and trifles. You make a very poor return to us,

who've ruined ourselves for your education. No, you're certainly not one of us. Pascal, who preferred to laugh whenever he was called upon to feel annoyed, replied cheerfully, but not without a sting of irony. Oh, you need not be frightened. I shall never drive you to the verge of bankruptcy. When any of you are ill, I will attend you for nothing. Moreover, though he never displayed any repugnance to his relatives, he very rarely saw them, following in this wise his natural instincts. Before Aristide obtained a situation at the sub-prefecture, Pascal had frequently come to his assistance.

For his part, he had remained a bachelor. He had not the least suspicion of the grave events that were preparing. For two or three years he'd been studying the great problem of heredity, comparing to human and animal races together, and becoming absorbed in the strange results which he obtained. certain observations which he had made with respect to himself and his relatives had been, so to say, the starting point of his studies. The common people, with their natural intuition, so well understood that he was quite different from the other Rujon, but they invariably called him Monsieur Pascal without ever adding his family name.

Three years prior to the Revolution of 1848, Pierre and Felicity retired from business. Old age was coming on apace. They were both past fifty and were weary enough of the struggle. In face of their ill fortune, they were afraid of being ultimately ruined if they obstinately persisted in the fight. Their sons, by disappointing their expectations, had dealt them the final blow. Now but they despaired of ever being enriched by them, they were anxious to make some little provision for old age. They retired with 40,000 francs at the utmost. This sum provided an annual income of 2,000 francs, just sufficient to live in a small way in the provinces.

Fortunately, they were by themselves, having succeeded in marrying their daughters, Marotta and Sidoni, the former of whom resided at Marseilles and the latter in Paris. After they had settled their affairs, they would much have liked to take up their abode in the new town, the quarter of the retired traders, but they dared not do so. Their income was too small. They were afraid that they would cut but a poor figure there. So, as a sort of compromise, they took apartments in the Rue de la Ban. That street would separate the old quarter from a new one. As their abode was one of the row of houses bordering the old quarter, they still lived among the common people. Nevertheless, they could see the town of the richer classes from their windows,

so that they were just on the threshold of the promised land. Their apartments, situated on the second floor, consisted of three large rooms, dining room, drawing room, and bedroom. The first floor was occupied by the owner of the house, a stick and umbrella manufacturer, who had a shop on the ground floor. The house, which was narrow and by no means deep, had only two stories. Felicite moved into it with a bitter pang. In the provinces, to live in another person's house is an avowal of poverty. Every family of position at Placein had a house of its own, landed property being very cheap there. Pierre kept the purse-strings well tied. He would not hear of any embellishments. The old furniture faded, worn, damaged though it was had to suffice without even being repaired. Felicity, however,

who keenly felt the necessity for this parsimony, exerted herself to give fresh polish to all the wreckage. She herself knocked nails into some of the furniture, which was more dilapidated than the rest, and darned the frayed velvet of the armchairs. The dining room, which, like the kitchen, was at the back of the house, was nearly bear. A table and a dozen chairs were lost in the gloom of this large apartment, whose window faced the gray wall of a neighboring building. As no strangers ever went into the bedroom, Felicity had stowed all her useless furniture there. Thus, besides a bedstead, wardrobe, secretaire, and washstand, it contained two cradles, one perched to top of the other,

a sideboard whose doors were missing and an empty bookcase, venerable ruins which the old woman could not make up her mind to part with. All her cares, however, were bestowed upon the drawing room, and she almost succeeded in making it comfortable and decent. The furniture was covered with yellowish velvet with satin flowers. In the middle stood a round table with a marble top, while a couple of peer tables, surmounted by mirror, lent against the walls at either end of the room.

There was even a carpet which just covered the middle of the floor and a chandelier in a white muslin cover which the flies had spotted with black specks. On the walls hung six lithographs representing the great battles of Napoleon I. Moreover, the furniture dated from the first years of the empire. The only embellishment that Felicity could obtain was to have the walls hung with orange-hued paper covered with large flowers.

Thus, the drawing room had a strange yellow glow, which filled it with an artificial dazzling light. The furniture, the paper, and the window curtains were yellow. The carpet and even the marbled tabletop showed touches of yellow. However, when the curtains were drawn, the colors harmonized fairly well, and the drawing room looked almost decent. But Felicity had dreamed of quite a different kind of luxury. She regarded with mute despair this ill-concealed misery.

She usually occupied the drawing-room, the best apartment in the house, and the sweetest and bitterest of her pastimes, was to sit at one of the windows which overlooked the Rue de Laban and gave her a side view of the square in front of the sub-prefecture. That was the paradise of her dreams. That little, neat, tidy square with its bright houses seemed to her a garden of Eden. She would have given ten years of her life to possess one of those habitations. The house at the left-hand corner in which the receiver of taxes resided,

particularly tempted her. She contemplated it with eager longing. Sometimes, when the windows of this abode were open, she could catch a glimpse of rich furniture and tasteful elements. which made her burn with envy. At this period, the Rujon passed through a curious crisis of vanity and unsatiated appetite, the few proper feelings which they had once entertained and become embittered. They posed as victims of evil fortune, not with resignation, however, for they seemed still more keenly determined that they would not die before they had satisfied their ambitions.

In reality, they did not abandon any of their hopes, notwithstanding their advanced age. Felicity professed to feel a presentiment that she would die rich. However, each day of poverty weighed them down the more, when they recapitulated their vain attempts, when they recalled their 30-year struggle and the defection of their children, when they saw their airy castles end in this yellow drawing-room, whose shabbiness they could only conceal by drawing the curtains. They were overcome with bitter rage. Then, as a consolation, they would think of plans for making a colossal fortune, seeking all sorts of devices. Felicity would fancy herself the winner of the grand prize of a hundred thousand francs in some lottery, while Pierre

pictured himself carrying out some wonderful speculation. They lived with one sole thought, that of making a fortune immediately, in a few hours, of becoming rich and enjoying themselves, if only for a year. Their whole beings tended to this stubbornly, without a pause. And they still cherished some faint hopes with regard to their sons, with that peculiar egotism of parents who cannot bear to think that they've sent their children to college without deriving some personal advantage from it. Felicity did not appear to have aged. she was still the same dark little woman ever on the move buzzing about like a grasshopper. Any person walking behind her on the pavement would have thought her a girl of 15

from the lightness of her step and the angularity of her shoulders and waist. Even her face had scarcely undergone any chains. It was simply rather more sunken, rather more suggestive of a snout of a pole cat. As for Pierre Rougon, he had grown corpulent, and had become a high, respectable-looking citizen, who only lacked a decent income to make him a very dignified individual. His pale, flabby face, his heaviness, his languid manner seemed redolent of wealth. He had one day heard a peasant who did not know him, say, Ah, he's some rich fellow, that fat old gentleman there. He's no cause to worry about his dinner.

This was a remark which stung him to the heart, for he considered, it cruel mockery to be only a poor devil while possessing the bulk and contented gravity of a millionaire. When he shaved on Sundays in front of a small five-sou looking-glass hanging from the fastening of a window, he would often think that in a dress coat and white tie, he would cut a far better figure at the sub-prefects than such or such a functionary of Plesson. This peasant son, who had grown sallow from business worries and, from a sedentary life, whose hateful passions were hidden beneath naturally placid features, really had that air of solemn imbecility which gives a man a position in an official salon. People imagined that his wife held a rod over him, but they were mistaken.

He was as self-willed as a brute. Any determined expression of extraneous will would drive him into a violent rage. Felicity was far too supple to thwart him, openly. With her light, fluttering nature, she did not attack obstacles in front. When she wished to obtain something from her husband or drive him the way she thought best, she'd buzz round him in her grasshopper fashion, stinging him on all sides, and returning to the charge a hundred times until he yielded almost unconsciously. He felt, moreover, that she was shrewder than he, and tolerated her advice fairly patiently.

Felicite, more useful than the coach fly, would sometimes do all the work while she was thus buzzing around Pierre's ears. Strange to say, the husband and wife never accused each other of their ill success. The only bone of contention between them was the education lavished on their children. The Revolution of 1848 found all the Rougeon on the lookout, exasperated by their bad luck and disposed to lay violent hands on fortune if ever they should meet her in a byway. They were a family of bandits lying in wait, ready to rifle and plunder. Eugen kept an eye on Paris. Aristee dreamt of strangling Claissant. The mother and father, perhaps the most eager of Vallotte, intended to work on their own account

and reap some additional advantage from their son's doings. Pascal alone, that discreet war of science, led the happy, indifferent life of a lover in his bright little house in the new town. This ends Chapter 2, Part 2. Section 6 of the Fortune of the Rujon, book one of Rujon-Maca cycle by Emil Zola, translated by Henry Bicetelli.

This Libravox recording is in the public domain, read by Mark Leder. Section 6 Chapter 3, Part 1 In that closed, sequestered town of Pleasant, where class distinction was so clearly marked in 1848, the commotion caused by political events was very slight. Even at the present day, the popular voice sounds very faintly there. The middle classes bring their prudence to bear in the matter, the nobility, their mute despair, and the clergy their shrewd cunning. Kings may usurp thrones, or republics may be established without scarcely any stir in the town.

Pusson sleeps while Paris fights. But though on the surface the town may appear calm and indifferent, in the depths, hidden work goes on which it is curious to study. if shots are rare in the streets intrigues consume the drawing-rooms of both the new town and the san mark quarter until the year eighteen thirty the masses were reckoned of no account even at the present time they are similarly ignored everything is settled between the clergy the nobility and the bourgeoisie the priests who are very numerous give the cue to the local politics they lace upterranean minds as it were and deal blows in the dark, following a prudent tactical system, which hardly allows of a step in advance or retreat, even in the course of ten years. The secret intrigues of men who desire above all things to avoid noise

requires special shrewdness, a special aptitude for dealing with small matters, and a patient endurance such as one only finds in person's callous to all passions. It is thus that provincial dilettoriness, which is so freely ridiculed in Paris, is full of treachery, secret stabs, hidden victories, and defeats. These worthy men, particularly when their interests are at stake, kill at home with a snap of the fingers, as we the Parisians kill with cannon in the public thoroughfares.

The political history of Plausanne, like that of all little towns in Provence, is singularly characteristic. Until 1830, the inhabitants remained observant Catholics and fervent royalists. Even the lower classes only swore by God and their legitimate sovereigns. Then there came a sudden change. Faith departed, the working and middle classes deserted the cause of legitimacy, and gradually espoused the great democratic movement of our time. When the Revolution of 1848 broke out, the nobility and the clergy were left alone to labor for the triumph of Henri, the Fifth.

For a long time they had regarded the succession of the Orleanists as a ridiculous experiment, which sooner or later would bring back the Bourbons. Although their hopes were singularly shaken, they nevertheless continued to struggle, scandalized by the defection of their former allies, whom they strove to win back to the, their cause. The San Mar Quarter, assisted by all the parish priests, set to work. Among the middle classes, and especially among the people, the enthusiasm was very great on the morrow of the events of February. These apprentice Republicans were in haste to display their revolutionary fervor. As regards the gentry of the new town, however, the conflagration, bright though it was, lasted no longer than a fire of strong.

The small house owners and retired trades people who had had their good days or had made snug little fortunes under the monarchy were soon seized with panic. The Republic, with its constant shocks and convulsions, made them tremble for their money and their life of selfishness. Consequently, when the clerical reaction of 1849 declared itself, nearly all the middle classes passed over to the Conservative Party. They were received with open arms. The new town had never before had such close relations with the Sanmark Quarter. Some of the nobility even went so far as to shake hands with lawyers in retired oil dealers. This unexpected familiarity kindled the enthusiasm of the new quarter, which hence forward waged bitter warfare against the Republican government.

To bring about such a coalition, the clergy had to display marvelous, skill and endurance. The nobility of Placant, for the most part, lay prostrate as if half dead. They retained their faith, but lethargy had fallen on them, and they preferred to remain inactive, allowing the heavens to work their will. They would gladly have contented themselves with silent protest, feeling perhaps a vague presentiment that their divinities were dead, and that there was nothing left for them to do but rejoin them. Even at this period of confusion when the catastrophe of 1848 was calculated to give them a momentary hope of the return of the Bourbons, they showed themselves spiritless and indifferent, speaking of rushing into the Malay,

yet never quitting their hearts without a pang of regret. The clergy battled indefatigably against this feeling of impotence in resignation. They infused a kind of passion into their work, a priest when he despairs, struggles all the more fiercely. The fundamental policy of the church is to march straight forward. Even though she may have to postpone the accomplishment of her projects for several centuries, she never wastes a single hour, but is always pushing forward with increasing energy. So it was the clergy who led the reaction of Plausanne. The nobility only lent them their name, nothing more. The priests hid themselves behind the nobles,

restrained them, directed them, and even succeeded in endowing them with a semblance of life. When they had induced them to overcome their repugnance so far as to make common cause with the middle classes, they believed themselves certain of victory. The ground was marvelously well prepared. This ancient royalist town, with its population of peaceful householders and timorous tradespeople, was destined to arrange itself sooner or later on the side of law and order. The clergy, by their tactics, hastened the conversion. After gaining the landlords of the new town to their side,

they even succeeded in convincing the little retail dealers of the old quarter. From that time, the reactionary movement obtained complete possession of the town. All opinions were represented in this reaction, such a mixture of embittered liberals, legitimists, Orleanists, Bonapartists, and clericals had never before been seen. It mattered little, however, at that time. The sole object was to kill the Republic, and the Republic was at the point of death. Only a fraction of the people, a thousand workmen at most, out of the ten thousand souls in the town, still saluted the tree of liberty

planted in the middle of the square in front of the sub-prefecture. The shrewdest politicians of Plasang, those who led the reactionary movement, did not sent the approach of the empire until very much later. Prince Louis Napoleon's popularity seemed to them a mere passing fancy

of the multitude. His person inspired them with but little in admiration. They reckoned him an non-earned. entity, a dreamer, incapable of laying his hands on France, and especially of maintaining his authority. To them, he was only a tool whom they would make use of, who would clear the way for them, and whom they would turn out as soon as the hour arrived for the rightful pretender to show himself. Footnote. The Count de Chamborre, Henri V. However, months went by, and they became

uneasy. It was only then that they vaguely perceived they were being duped. They had no time, however, to take any steps. The coup d'etab burst over their heads, and they were compelled to applaud. That great abomination the Republic had been assassinated. That at least was some sort of triumph. So the clergy and the nobility accepted accomplished facts with resignation, postponing until later the realization of their hopes, and making amends for their miscalculations by uniting with the Bonapartists for the purpose of crushing the last Republicans. It was these events that laid the foundation of the Rujon's fortune.

After being mixed up with the various phases of the crisis, they rose to eminence on the ruins of liberty. These bandits had been lying in wait to rob the Republic. As soon as it had been strangled, they helped to plunder it. After the events of February 1848, Felicity, who had the keenest scent of all the members of the family, perceived that they were at last on the right track, so she began to flutter around her husband, goading him on to bestore himself. The first rumors of the revolution that had overturned King Louis Philippe had terrified Pierre.

when his wife, however, made him understand that they had little to lose and much to gain from a convulsion, he soon came round to her way of thinking. I don't know what you can do, Felicity repeatedly said, but it seems to me that there's plenty to be done. Did not Monsieur de Carnivalre say to us one day that he would be rich, if ever Henri the Fifth should return, and that this sovereign would magnificently recompense those who had worked for his restoration? Perhaps our fortune lies in that direction.

We may yet be lucky. The Marquis de Carnivant, the nobleman who, according to the scandalous talk of the town, had been on very familiar terms with Felicité's mother, used occasionally to visit the Rujon. Evil tongues asserted

that Madame Rujon resembled him. He was a little lean, active man, 75 years old at that time, and Felicitis, certainly appeared to be taking his features and manner as she grew older. It was said that the wreck of his fortune, which had already been greatly diminished by his father at the time of the emigration, had been squandered on women. Indeed, he cheerfully acknowledged his poverty. Brought up by one of his relatives, the Count de Valcira, he lived the life of a

parasite, eating at the Count's table and occupying a small apartment just under his roof. "'Little one,' he would often say to Felicity as he patted her on the cheek, "'If ever Henri Veth gives me a fortune, I will make you my heiress.' He still called Felicity Little One, even when she was fifty years old. It was of these friendly paths, of these repeated promises of an inheritance that Madame Rujon was thinking when she endeavored to drive her husband into politics. Monsieur de Carnarvain had often bitterly lamented his inability to render her any assistance. No doubt he would treat her like a father if ever he should acquire some influence.

Pierre, to whom his wife half explained the situation in veiled terms, declared his readiness to move in any direction indicated. The Marquis' peculiar position qualified him to act as an energetic agent of the reactionary, movement at Pleasant from the first days of the Republic. This bustling little man who had everything to gain from the return of his legitimate sovereigns worked assiduously for their cause. While the wealthy nobility of the San Mar quarter were slumbering in mute despair, fearing, perhaps that they might compromise themselves and again be condemned to exile, he multiplied himself, as it were, spread the propaganda and rallied faithful ones together,

He was a weapon whose hilt was held by an invisible hand. From that time forward he paid daily visits to the Rougon. He required a center of operations. His relative, Monsieur de Valquhar, had forbidden him to bring any of his associates into his house, so he'd chosen Felicité's yellow drawing room. Moreover, he very soon found Pierre a valuable assistant. He couldn't not go himself and preach the cause of legitimate.

to the petty traders and workmen of the old quarter. They would have hooted him. Pierre, on the other hand, who had lived among these people, spoke their language and knew their wants, was able to catechise them in a friendly way. He thus became an indispensable man. In less than a fortnight the rougaints were more determined royalists than the king himself.

The Marquise, perceiving Pierre's zeal, shrewdly sheltered himself behind him. What was the use of making himself conspicuous when a man with such broad shoulders was willing to bear on them the burden of all the follies of a party? He allowed Pierre to reign, puff himself out with importance,

and speak with authority, content to restrain or urge him on, according to the necessities of the cause. Thus, the old oil dealer became a personage of Mark. In the evening when they were alone, Felicity used to say to him, Go on, don't be frightened. We're on the right track. If this continues, we shall be rich.

We shall have a drawing room like the tax receivers and be able to entertain people. A little party of conservatives had already been formed at the Rujon's house, and meetings were held every evening in the yellow drawing room to declaim against the Republic. Among those who came were three or four retired merchants who trembled for their money and clamored with all their might for a wise and strong government. An old almond dealer, a member of the municipal council, Monsieur Isidore Granu, was the head of this group. His hair-lipped mouth was cloven a little way from the nose.

His round eyes, his air of mingled satisfaction and astonishment, made him resemble a fat goose, whose digestion is attended by wholesome terror of the cook. He spoke little, having no command of words, and he only pricked up his ears when anyone accused the Republicans of wishing to pillage the houses of the rich, whereupon he would colour up to such a degree as to make one fear in approaching apoplectic fit, and mutter low imprecations, in which the words idlers, scoundrels, thieves, and assassins frequently recurred. All those who frequented the yellow drawing-room were not however as heavy as this fat goose. A rich landowner, Monsieur Rudier, with a plump insinuating face, used to discourse there for hours

altogether with all the passion of an Orleanist whose calculations had been upset by the fall of Louis-Philippe. He had formerly been a osier at Paris and a purveyor to the court, but had now retired to Blazant. He had made his son a magistrate, relying on the Orly Hellenist Party, to promote him to the highest dignities. The revolution, having ruined all his hopes, he had rusted wildly into the reaction. His fortune, his former commercial relations with the Tuileries, which he transformed into friendly intercourse, that prestige which is enjoyed by every man in the provinces who has made his money in Paris, and deems to come and spend it in a far-away department, gave him great influence in the district. Some persons hastened to him as

though he were an oracle. However, the strongest intellect of the yellow drawing-room was certainly commander Cicardot, Aristide's father-in-law. A Herculean frame with a brick-red face scarred and planted with tufts of gray hair. He was one of the most glorious old dults of the Grand Arme. During the February Revolution, he'd been exasperated with the street warfare and never wearied of referring to it, proclaiming with indignation that this kind of fighting was shameful, whereupon he recalled with pride the grand reign of Napoleon. Another person seen at the Rougeon's house was an individual with clammy hands and equivocal look, one Monsieur Vouillet, a bookseller who supplied all the devout ladies of the town

with holy images and rosaries. Pouillet dealt in both classical and religious works. He was a strict Catholic, a circumstance which ensured him the custom of the numerous convents and parish churches. Further, by a stroke of genius, he had added to his business

the publication of a little bi-weekly journal, the Gazette de Plaqueson, which was devoted exclusively to the interests of the clergy. This paper involved an annual lawyer, of a thousand francs, but it made him the champion of a church, and enabled him to dispose of his sacred, unsaleable stock. Though he was virtually illiterate and could not even spell correctly, he himself wrote the articles of the Gazette with the humility and rancor that compensated for his

lack of talent. The Marquis, in entering on the campaign, had perceived immediately the advantage that might be derived from the cooperation of this insipid sacriston with the coarse mercenary pen. After the February Revolution, the articles in the Gazette contained fewer mistakes. The Marquis revised them. One can now imagine what a singular spectacle the Rujon's yellow drawing room presented every evening. All opinions met there to bark at the Republic. Their hatred of that institution made them agree together.

The Marquis, who never missed a meeting, appeased by his presence the little squabbles which occasionally arose between the commander and the other adherents. These plebeians were inwardly flattered by the handshakes which he distributed on his arrival and departure. Roudier, however, like a free thinker of the Roussaint-honour-Hé, asserted that the Marquis had not a copper to bless himself with and was disposed to make light of him. Monsieur de Carnivant on his side preserved the amiable smile of a nobleman lowering himself to the level of these middle-class people without making any of those contemptuous grimaces which any other resident of a San Marquotter would have thought fit under such circumstances.

The parasite life he had led had rendered him supple. He was the life and soul of the group commanding in the name of unknown personages whom he never revealed. They want this, they don't want that, he would say. The concealed divinities who thus watched over the destitutes of Plessons from behind some cloud, without appearing to interfere directly in public matters, must have been certain priests, the great political agents of the country. When the Marquis pronounced that mysterious word, they, which inspired the assembly with such marvelous respect, Vrier confessed with a gesture of pious devotion that he knew them very well. The happiest person in all this was Felicity.

At last she had people coming to her drawing room. It was true she felt a little ashamed of her old yellow velvet furniture. She consoled herself, however, thinking of the rich things she would purchase when the good cause should have triumphed. The Rujones had, in the end, regarded their royalism as very serious. Felicity went as far as to say, when Rudier was not present, that if they had not made a fortune in the oil business the fault lay in the monarchy of July. This was her mode of giving a political tinge to their poverty. She had a friendly word for everybody, even for Granoe, inventing each evening some new polite

method of waking him up when it was time for departure. The drawing-room, that little band of conservatives belonging to all parties, and dailing increasing in numbers, soon wielded powerful influence. Owing to the diversified characters of its members, and especially to the secret impulse which each one received from the clergy, it became the center of the reactionary movement and spread its influence throughout Plassant. The policy of the Marquis, who sank his own personality, transformed Rujon into the leader of the party. The meetings were held at his house, and this circumstance sufficed in the eyes of most people to make him the head of the group, and draw public attention to him.

The whole work was attributed to him. He was believed to be the chief artisan of the movement, which was gradually bringing over to the Conservative Party those who had lately been enthusiastic Republicans. There are some situations which benefit only persons of bad repute. These lay the foundations of their fortune where men of better position and more influence would never dare to risk theirs.

Rudier, Granu, and the others, all men of means and respectability, certainly seemed a thousand times preferable to Pierre as the acting leaders of the Conservative Party, but none of them would have consented to turn his drawing-room into a political center. Their convictions did not go so far as to induce them to compromise themselves openly. In fact, they were only so many provincial babblers who liked to invade again, the Republic at a neighbor's house, as long as the neighbor was willing to bear the responsibility of their chatter. The game was too risky. There was no one among the middle classes of Plasanne who cared to play it except the Rujon, whose ungratified longings urged them on to

extreme measures. In the month of April 1849, Eugène suddenly left Paris and came to stay with his father for a fortnight. Nobody ever knew the purpose of this journey. It is probable that Eugène wanted to sound his native town to ascertain whether he might successfully stand as a candidate for the legislature which was about to replace the constituent assembly. He was too shrewd to risk a failure. No doubt public opinion appeared to him little in his favor,

for he abstained from any attempt. It was not known that Plausanne what had become of him in Paris, what he was doing there. On his return to his native place, folks found him less heavy insomnalent than formerly. They surrounded him an endeavor to make him speak out concerning the political situation. But he feigned ignorance and compelled them to talk. A little perspicacity would have detected that beneath his apparent unconcern there was great anxiety with regard to the political opinions of the town. However, he seemed to be sounding the ground more on behalf of a party than on his own account.

Although he had renounced all hope for himself, he remained at Placeon until the end of the month, assiduously attending the meetings in the yellow drawing-room. As soon as the bell rang, announcing the first visitor, he would take up his position in one of the window recesses as far as possible from the lamp. and he remained there the whole evening, resting his chin on the palm of his right hand, and listening religiously. The great absurdities did not disturb his equanimity. He nodded approval even to the wild grunts of Grenu.

When anyone asked him his own opinion, he politely repeated that of the majority. Nothing seemed to tire his patience, neither the hollow dreams of the Marquise, who spoke of the Bourbons, as if he seemed to tire his patience. 1815 were a recent date, nor the effusions of citizen Rudier, who grew quite pathetic when he recounted how many pairs of socks he had supplied to the citizen king Louis-Philippe. On the contrary, he seemed quite at his ease in this tower of Babel. Sometimes, when these grotesque personages were storming against the republic, his eyes would smile, while his lips retained their expression of gravity.

His meditative manner of listening and his invariable complacency had earned him the sympathy of everyone. He was considered a non-entity, but a very decent fellow. Whenever an old oil or almond dealer failed to get a hearing amidst the clamor, for some plan

for which he could save France if he were only a master, he took himself off to Eugène and shouted his marvelous suggestion. in his ear. And Eugène gently nodded his head, as though delighted with the grand projects he was listening to. Fouillet alone regarded him with a suspicious eye. This bookseller, half-sacristen and half-journalist, spoke less than the others, but was more observant. He had noticed that Eugène occasionally conversed at times in a corner with Commander Cicardot. So he

determined to watch them, but never succeeded in overhearing a word. Eugène silenced the commander by a wink whenever VA approached them. From that time, Cicardot never spoke of a Napoleon's without a mysterious smile. Two days before his return to Paris, Eugène met his brother Aristide on the Couls auver, and the latter accompanied him for a short distance with the importunity of a man in search of advice. As a matter of fact, Aristide was in great perplexity. Ever since the proclamation of the Republic, he had manifested the most lively enthusiasm for the new government. His intelligence, sharpened by two years' stay at Paris, enabled him to see farther than the thick heads of Plesson.

He divined the powerlessness of legitimists and Orleanists, without clearly distinguishing, however, what third thief might come in Jean-Eau. the Republic away. At all hazard he had ranged himself on the side of the victors, and he had severed his connection with his father, whom he publicly denounced as an old fool, an old dalt whom a nobility had bamboozled. Yet my mother is an intelligent woman, he would add. I should never have thought her capable of inducing her husband to join a party whose hopes are simply chimerical. They're taking the right course to end their lives in poverty. But then women know nothing about politics.

For his part, he wanted to sell himself as dearly as possible. His great anxiety as to the direction in which the wind was blowing, so that he might invariably range himself on the side of that party, which in the hour of triumph would be able to reward him munificently. Unfortunately, he was groping in the dark. Shut up in his far-away province, without a bit of him. a guide without any precise information, he felt quite lost. While waiting for events to trace out a sure and certain path, he preserved the enthusiastic Republican attitude which he had assumed

from the very first day. Thanks to this demeanor, he remained at the sub-free picture, and his salary was even raised. Burning, however, with the desire to play a prominent part, he persuaded a bookseller, one of Buier's rivals, to establish a democratic journal, to which he became one of the most energetic contributors. Under his impulse, the Independents waged merciless warfare against the reactionaries. But the current gradually carried him further than he wished to go. He ended by writing inflammatory articles which made him shudder when he re-perused them. It was remarked at Plasam.

that he directed a series of attacks against all whom his father was in the habit of receiving of an evening in his famous yellow drawing-room. The fact is that the wealth of Rudier and Granu exasperated Aristide to such a degree as to make him forget all prudence. Urged on by his jealous, insatiate bitterness, he'd already made the middle class as his irreconcilable enemy, when Eugène's arrival and demeanor at Pleistocence, caused him great consternation.

He confessed to himself that his brother was a skillful man. According to him, that big drowsy fellow always slept with one eye open, like a cat lying in wait before a mouse hole. And now, here was Eugène, spending entire evenings in the yellow drawing-room,

and devoting himself to those same grotesque personages whom he, Aristide, had so mercilessly ridiculed. When he discovered from the gossip of a town that his brother shook hands with Grenu and the Marquise, he asked himself with considerable anxiety. What was the meaning of it? Could he himself have been deceived? Had the legitimists or the Orleanists really any chance of success?

The thought terrified him. He lost his equilibrium, and as frequently happens he fell upon the conservatives with increased rancor, as if to avenge his own blindness. On the evening prior to the day when he stopped Eugen on the Coursovere, he had published in the Independant, a terrible article on the intrigues of the clergy in response to a short paragraph from Vuey,

who had accused the Republicans of desiring to demolish the churches. Vuey was Aristide's bugbear. Never a week passed, but these two journalists exchanged the greatest insults. In the provinces where a paraphrastic stylus still cultivated, polemics are clothed in high-sounding phrases. Aristeed called his adversary brother Judas, or slave of San Anthony. Valle gallantly retorted by terming the

Republican, a monster glutted with blood whose ignoble purveyor was the guillotine. In order to sound his brother, Aristide, who did not dare to appear openly uneasy, contented himself with asking, Did you read my article yesterday? What do you think of it? Eugn lightly shrugged his shoulders. You're a simpleton, brother, was his sole reply. Then you think we ain't right? cried the journalist, turning pale. You believe in Vuehain,

Yes, triumph? I, Vueyé, he was certainly about to add, Ville is as big a fool as you are. But observing his brother's distorted face anxiously extended towards him, he experienced sudden mistrust. Fouier has his good points, he calmly replied. On parting from his brother, Aristide felt more perplexed than before. Igen must certainly have been making game of him, for Vruyé was really the most abominable person imaginable. However, he determined to be prudent and not tie himself down any more, for he wished to have his hands free, should he ever be called upon to help any party in strangling the Republic.

Ejean, on the morning of his departure, an hour before getting into the diligence, took his father into the bedroom and had a long conversation, with him. Felicity, who remained in a drawing room, vainly tried to catch what they were saying. They spoke in whispers as if they feared lest a single word should be heard outside. When at last they quitted the bedroom, they seemed in high spirits. After kissing his father and mother, Eugène, who usually spoke in a drawling tone, exclaimed with vivacity, You have understood me, father? there lies our fortune. We must work with all our energy in that direction. Trust in me.

I'll follow your instructions faithfully, Rujon replied, only don't forget what I asked you as the price of my cooperation. If we succeed, your demand shall be satisfied. I give you my word. Moreover, I will write to you and guide you according to the direction which events may take. no panic or excitement. You must obey me implicitly. What have you been plotting there? Felicity asked inquisitively. My dear mother, Eugène replied with a smile. You have had too little faith in me, thither too, to induce me to confide in you my hopes. Particularly as at present, they are only based on probabilities.

To be able to understand me, you would require faith. However, Father will inform you when the right time comes. Then, as Felicity assumed the demeanor of a woman who feels somewhat peaked, he added in her ear as he kissed her once more, I take after you, although you disowned me, too much intelligence would be dangerous at the present moment. When the crisis comes, it is you who will have to manage the business. He then quitted the room, but suddenly reopening the door, exclaimed in an imperious tone,

Above all things, do not trust Aristide. He is a mar-all who would spoil everything. I have studied him sufficiently to feel certain that he will always fall on his feet. Don't have any pity. If we make a fortune, he'll know well enough how to rob us of his share. When Eugène had gone, Felicity and Devere to ferret out the secret that was being hidden from her. She knew her husband too well to interrogate him openly. He would have angrily replied that it was no business of hers. In spite, however, of the clever tactics she pursued, she learnt absolutely nothing. Eugène had chosen a good confidant for those troubled times when the greatest discretion was necessary.

Pierre, flattered by his son's confidence, exaggerated that passive ponderosity, which made him so impenetrable. When Felicity saw that she would not learn anything from him, she ceased to flutter around him. On one point only did she remain inquisitive, but in this respect her curiosity was intense. The two men had mentioned a price stipulated by Pierre himself.

What could that price be? This, after all, was the sole point of interest for Felicity, who did not care a rap for political matters. She knew that her husband must have sold himself dearly, but she was burning to know the nature of the bargain. One evening, when they'd gone to bed, finding Pierre in a good humor, she brought the conversation round to the discomforts of their poverty. It's quite time to put an end to this, she said. We've been ruining ourselves in oil and fuel since those gentlemen have been coming here. And who will pay the reckoning? Nobody, perhaps. Her husband fell into the trap and smiled with complacent superiority.

Patience, said he. And with an air of shrewdness, he looked into his wife's eye and added, would you be glad to be the wife of a receiver of taxes? Felicity's face flushed with a joyous glow. She sat up in bed and clapped her old withered little hands like a child. Really? She stammered. At placein? Pierre, without replying, gave a long affirmative nod. He enjoyed his consort's astonishment and emotion.

But she at last resumed, half sitting, You would have to deposit an enormous sum as security. I've heard that our neighbor, Monsieur Piero, had to deposit 80,000 francs with the treasury. Ah, said the retired oil dealer. That's nothing to do with me. Eugen will see to that. He will get the money advanced by a banker in Paris.

You see, I selected an appointment bringing in a good income. Eugène at first made a wry face, saying one must be rich to occupy such posts, to which influential men were usually nominated. I persisted, however, and he yielded. To be a receiver of taxes, one need not know either Greek or Latin. I shall have a representative, like Monsieur Perrejo, and he will do all the work. Felicity listened to him with rapture. I guessed, however, he continued. What it was that worried our dear son.

We're not much liked here. People know that we have no means, and will make themselves obnoxious. But all sorts of things occur in a time of crisis. Eugène wished to get me an appointment in another town. However, I objected. I want to remain at Plesson. Yes, yes, we must remain here, the old woman quickly replied. We have suffered here, and here we must triumph.

Ah, I'll crush them all, those fine ladies on the mail, who scornfully eye my woolen dresses. I didn't think of the appointment of receiver of taxes at all. I thought you wanted to become mayor. Mayor, nonsense. That appointment is honorary. Eugène also mentioned the mayoralty to me. I replied, I'll accept if you give me an income of 15,000 francs. This conversation in which high figures flew about like rockets, quite excited Felicity.

She felt delightfully buoyant. But at last, she put on a devout air and gravely said, Come, let us reckon it out. How much will you earn? Well, said Pierre, the fixed salary, I believe, is three thousand francs. 3,000, Felicity counted. Then there is so much percent on the receipts, which at Placein may produce the sum of 12,000 francs. It makes 15,000.

Yes, about 15,000 francs. That's what Perrault earns. That's not all. Perot does a little banking business on his own account. It's allowed. Perhaps I shall be disposed to make a venture when I feel luck on my side. Well, let us say

20,000. 20,000 francs a year, repeated Felicity, overwhelmed by the amount. We shall have to repay the advances, Pierre observed. That doesn't matter, Felicity replied. We shall be richer than many of those gentlemen.

Are the Marquise and the others going to share the cake with you? No, no, it will be a little. all for us, he replied. Then as she continued to impotune him with her questions, Pierre frowned, thinking that she wanted to rest his secret from him. We've talked enough, he said abruptly. It's late. Let's go to sleep. He will bring us bad luck to count our chickens beforehand. I haven't got the place yet. Above all things, be prudent. When the lamp was extinguished, Felicity could not sleep. With her eyes closed, she built the most marvelous castles in the air. Those twenty thousand francs a year danced a diabolical dance before her in the darkness.

She occupied splendid apartments in the new town, enjoyed the same luxuries as Monsieur Piero, gave parties and bespattered the whole place with her wealth. That, however, which tickled her vanity most was the high position that her husband would then occupy. He would pay their state dividends to Grinou, Rudier, and all those people who now came to their house as they might come to a cafe to swagger and learn the latest news. She'd noticed the free and easy manner in which these people entered her drawing room, and it made her take a dislike to them. Even the Marquise, with his ironical politeness, was beginning to displease her. To try to try and, I am forlone, therefore, to keep the cake for themselves, she expressed it, was a revenge

which she fondly cherished. Later on, when all those ill-bred persons presented themselves, hats off before Monsieur Rujon, the receiver of taxes, she would crush them in her turn. She was busy with these thoughts all night, and on the morrow, as she opened the shutters, she instinctively cast her first glance across the street towards Monsieur Piero's house, and smiled as she contemplated the broad damask curtains hanging in the windows. This ends Chapter 3, Part 1. Section 7 of The Fortune of the Rujon, book 1 of Rujon-Mackat cycle, by Emil Zola,

translated by Henry Visitelli. This Libre Vox according is in the public domain. Read by Mark Leder. chapter three part two felicit's hopes in becoming modified had grown yet more intense like all women she did not object to a tinge of mystery the secret object that her husband was pursuing excited her far more than the legitimist intrigues of monsieur de carnavant had ever done she abandoned without much regret the calculation she had based on the marquis's success now that her husband declared he'd be able to make large profits by other means. She displayed, moreover, remarkable prudence and discretion. In reality, she was still tortured by anxious curiosity. She studied Pierre's slightest actions, endeavoring to discover their meaning.

What if by chance he were following the wrong track? What if Fujain were dragging them in his train into some breakneck pit? whence they would emerge yet more hungry and impoverished. However, faith was dawning on her. Jeanne had commanded with such an air of authority that she ultimately came to believe in him. In this case again, some unknown power was at work. Pierre would speak mysteriously of the high personages whom their eldest son visited in Paris. For her part, she did not know what he could have to do with them.

but on the other hand she was unable to close her eyes to Aristide's ill-advised acts at Placein. The visitors to her drawing-room did not scruple to denounce the democratic journalist with extreme severity. Gannu muttered that he was a brigand, and Rudier would three or four times a week repeat to Felicity. Your son is writing some fine articles. Only yesterday he attacked our friend Vuey with revolting scurility. The whole room joined in the chorus, and Commander Cicadoe spoke of boxing his son-in-law's ears, while Pierre flatly disowned him. The poor mother hung her head, restraining her tears.

For an instant she felt an inclination to burst forth, to tell Roudier that her dear child, in spite of his faults, was worth more than he and all the others put together. But she was tied down and did not wish to compromise the position they had. it so laboriously attained. Seeing the whole town so bitter against Aristide, she despaired of his future, thinking he was hopelessly ruining himself. On two occasions she spoke to him in secret, imploring him to return to them, and not to irritate the yellow drawing-room any further. Aristide replied that she did not understand such matters, that she was the one who had committed a great blunder in placing her husband at the service of the marquis.

So she had to abandon her son to his own courses, resolving, however, that if Eugène succeeded, she would compel him to share the spoils with a poor fellow who was her favorite child. After the departure of his eldest son, Pierre Rougain pursued his reactionary intrigues. Nothing seemed to have changed in the opinions of the famous yellow drawing-room. Every evening the same men came to join in the same propaganda in favor of the establishment of a monarchy, while the master of the house approved and aided them with as much zeal as in the past. Eugène had left Plesson on May 1st. A few days later, the yellow drawing room was in raptures.

The gossips were discussing the letter of the President of the Republic to General Oudinot, in which the siege of Rome had been decided upon. This letter was regarded as a brilliant victory due to the firm demeanor of the reactionary party. Since 1848, the chambers had been discussing the Roman question, but it had been reserved for a bonaparte to stifle a rising republic by an act of intervention, which France, if free, would never have countenanced. The Marquis declared, however, that one could not better promote the cause of legitimacy, and Buier wrote a superb article along the matter. The enthusiasm became unbounded when a month later, Commander Cicardot entered the Rujon's house one evening, and announced to the company that the French army was fighting under the walls of Rome. Then, while everybody was raising exclamations at this news,

he went up to Pierre and shook hands with him in a significant manner. And when he had taken a seat, he began to sound the praises of the President of the Republic, who said he? was the only person able to save France from anarchy. Let him save it then, as quickly as possible, interrupted the Marquis, and let him understand his duty by restoring it to its legitimate masters. Pierre seemed to approve this fine retort, and having thus given proof of his ardent royalism, he ventured to remark that Prince Louis Bonaparte

had his entire sympathy in the matter. He thereupon exchanged a few short sentences with the commander, commending the excellent intentions of the president, which sentences one might have thought prepared and lurked beforehand. Bonapartism now, for the first time, made its entry into the yellow drawing-room. It is true that since the election of December 10th, the prince had been treated there with a certain amount of consideration. He was preferred a thousand times to Cavagnat, and the whole reactionary party had voted for him. But they regarded him rather as an accomplice than a friend, and as such they distrusted him, and even began to accuse him of a desire to keep for himself the chestnuts which he had pulled out of the fire.

On that particular evening, however, owing to the fighting at Rome, they listened with favor to the praises of Pierre and the commander. The group, led by Grinoux and Rudier, already demanded that the president should order all Republican rascals to be shot, while the Marquise, leaning against the mantelpiece, gazed meditatively at a faded rose on the carpet. When he at last lifted his head, Pierre, who had furtively watched his countenance as if to see the effect of his words, suddenly ceased speaking. However, Monsieur de Carnival merely smiled and glanced at the full of his words, as if to see the effect of his words, suddenly ceased speaking. with a knowing look. This rapid by-play was not observed by other people. Buey alone remarked in a sharp tone, I would rather see your bonaparte at London than at Paris. Our affairs would get along better then. At this the old oil dealer turned slightly pale, fearing that he'd gone

too far. I'm not anxious to retain my Bonaparte, he said, with some firmness. You know where I would send him to, if I were the master. I simply assert that the expedition to Rome was a good stroke. Felicity had followed this scene with inquisitive astonishment. However, she did not speak of it to her husband, which proved that she adopted it as the basis of secret study. The Marquis' smile, the significance of which escaped her, set her thinking.

From that day forward, Rujon, At distant intervals, whenever the occasion offered, slipped in a good word for the President of the Republic. On such evenings, Commander C. Gardeau acted the part of a willing accomplice. At the same time, clerical opinion still reigns supreme in the yellow drawing room. It was more particularly in the following year that this group of reactionaries gained decisive influence in the town, thanks to the retrograde movement which was going on at Paris. All those anti-liberal laws which the country called the Roman expedition at home definitively secured the triumph of the Rujon faction.

The last enthusiastic bourgeois saw the Republic tottering and hastened to rally round the conservatives. Thus, the Rujon's hour had arrived. The new town almost gave them an ovation of a day when the Tree of Lerouxs, Liberty, planted on the square before the sub-prefecture was sawed down. This tree, a young poplar, brought from the banks of the Viorne, had gradually withered, much to the despair of the Republican workingmen, who would come every Sunday to observe the progress of the decay without being able to comprehend the cause of it.

A Hatter's apprentice at last asserted that he had seen a woman leave Rujon's house and pour a pail of poisoned water at the foot of the tree. It thence forward became a matter of history that Felicity herself got up every night to sprinkle the poplar with vitriol. When the tree was dead, the municipal council declared that the dignity of the republic required its removal. For this, as they fear the displeasure of the working classes, they selected an advanced hour of the night. However, the conservative householders of the new town got window. the little ceremony, and all came down to the square before the sub-prefecture in order to see how the Tree of Liberty would fall.

The frequenters of the yellow drawing-room stationed themselves at the windows there. When the poplar cracked and fell with a thud in the darkness, as tragically rigid as some mortally stricken hero, Felicity felt bound to wave a white handkerchief. This induced the crowd to applaud, and many responded to the salute. by waving their handkerchiefs likewise. A group of people even came under the window shouting, We'll bury it! We'll bury it! They meant the Republic, no doubt.

Such was Felicity's emotion that she almost had a nervous attack. It was a fine evening for the yellow drawing room. However, the Marquis still looked at Felicity with the same mysterious smile. This little old man was far too shrewd to be ignorant of whither France was tending. He was among the first descent the coming of the empire. When the legislative assembly, later on, exhausted its energies in useless squabbling, when the Orleanists and the legitimists tacitly accepted the idea of the coup d'etat, he said to himself that the game was definitely lost.

In fact, he was the only one who saw things clearly. Vuey certainly felt that the cause of Henri V, which his paper defended, was becoming detestable. But it mattered little to him. He was content to be the obedient creature of the clergy. His entire policy was framed so as to enable him to dispose of as many rosaries and sacred images as possible. As for Rudier and Granu, they lived in a state of blind scare. It was not certain whether they really had any opinion. all that they desired was to eat and sleep in peace. Their political aspirations went no further.

The Marquise, though he had bidden farewell to his hopes, continued to come to the Rougonnes as regularly as ever. He enjoyed himself there. The clash of rival ambitions among the middle classes and the display of their follies had become an extremely amusing spectacle to him. He shuddered at the thought of again shutting himself, in the little room, which he owed to the beneficence of the Count de Valquerra. With a kind of malicious delight, he kept to himself the conviction that the Bourbonne's

hour had not yet arrived. He feigned blindness, working as hitherto for the triumph of legitimacy, and still remaining at the orders of the clergy and nobility, though from the very first day he had penetrated Pierre's new course of action and believed that Felicite was his accomplice. One evening, being the first to arrive, he found the old lady alone in the drawing-room. Well, little one, he asked with his smiling familiarity. Are your affairs going on all right? Why the deuce do you make such mysteries with me? I'm not hiding anything from you, Felicity replied, somewhat perplexed.

Come, do you think you can deceive an old fox like me, eh? My dear child, treat me as a friend. I'm quite ready to help you secretly. Come now. Be frank. A bright idea struck, Felicity. She had nothing to tell, but perhaps she might find out something if she kept quiet. Why do you smile? Monsieur de Carnivant resumed. That's the beginning of a confession, you know. I suspected that you must be behind your husband. Pierre is too stupid to invent the pretty treason you are hatching. I sincerely hope the Bonapartists will give you what I should have asked for you from the Bourbon. This single sentence confirmed the suspicions which the old lady had entertained for some time past.

Prince Louis has every chance, hasn't he? she eagerly inquired. Will you betray me if I tell you that I believe so? The Marquise laughingly replied, I've donned my morning over it, little one. I'm simply a poor old man, worn out and only fit to be laid on the shelf. It was for you, however, that I was working. Since you've been able to find the right track without me,

I shall feel some consolation in seeing you triumph amidst my own defeat. Above all things, don't make any more mysteries. come to me if you are ever in trouble. And he added, with a skeptical smile of a nobleman who is lost cased, Shaw, I also can go in for a little treachery. At this moment, the clan of retired oil and almond dealers arrived. Ah, the dear reactionaries, Monsieur de Conavons continued in an undertone. You see, little one, the great art of politics consists in having a

pair of good eyes when other people are blind. You hold all the best cards in the pack. On the following day, Felicity, incited by this conversation, desired to make sure on the matter. They were then in the first days of the year 1851. For more than 18 months, Rujon had been in the habit of receiving a letter from his son Eugène regularly every fortnight. He would shut himself in the bedroom to read these letters, which he then hid at the bottom of an old secretary, the key of which he carefully kept in his waistcoat pocket. Whenever his wife questioned him about their son, he would simply answer, Eugène writes that he's going on all right.

Felicity had long since thought of laying hands on her son's letters. So, early on the morning after her chat with the Marquise, while Pierre was still asleep, She got up on tiptoes, took the key of the secretary from her husband's waistcoat, and substituted in its place that of the chest of drawers, which was of the same size. Then, as soon as her husband had gone out, she shut herself in the room in her turn, empty the drawer, and read all the letters with feverish curiosity. Monsieur de Carnival had not been mistaken, and her own suspicions were confirmed. There were about 40 letters, which enabled her to follow the course of that great Bonapartist movement

which was to terminate in the Second Empire. The letters constituted a sort of concise journal, narrating events as they occurred, and drawing hopes and suggestions from each of them. Eugène was full of faith. He described Prince Louis Bonaparte to his father as the predestined, necessary man who alone could unravel the situation. He had believed in him prior even to his return to France at a time when Bonapartism was treated as a ridiculous chimera.

Felicitate understood that her son had been a very active secret agent since 1848. Although he did not clearly explain his position in Paris, it was evident that he was working for the empire, under the orders of personages whose names he mentioned with a sort of familiarity. Each of his letters gave information as to the progress of the cause, to which an early denouement was foreshadowed, and usually concluded by pointing out the line of action that Pierre should pursue at Pleasant. Felicite could now comprehend certain words and acts of her husband, whose significance had previously escaped her. Pierre was obeying his son and blindly following

his recommendations. When the old woman had finished reading, she was convinced. Vinsed. Jeanne's entire thoughts were clearly revealed to her. He reckoned upon making his political fortune in the squabble, and repaying his parents the debt he owed them for his education by throwing them a scrap of the prey as soon as the quarry was secured. However small the assistance his father might render to him and to the cause, it would not be difficult to get him appointed receiver of taxes. Nothing would be refused to one who, like Eugen, had steeped his hands in the most secret machinations. His letters were simply a kind attention on his part, a device to prevent the Rujon from committing any act of imprudence for which Felicity felt deeply grateful.

She read certain passages of the letters twice over, notably those in which Uzenes spoke in vague terms of a final catastrophe. This catastrophe, the nature or bearings of which she could not well conceive, became a sort of end of the world for her. God would reign as the chosen ones on his right hand and madame on his left, and she placed herself among the former. When she succeeded in replacing the key in her husband's west-cuit pocket on the following night, she made up her mind to employ the same expedient for reading every fresh letter that arrived. She resolved, likewise, to profess complete ignorance. This plan was an excellent one. Henceforward, she gave her husband the more assistance as she appeared to render it unconsciously. When Pierre thought he was working alone,

it was she who brought the conversation round to the desired topic, recruiting partisans for the decisive moment. She felt hurt at Eugène's distrust of her. She wanted to be able to say to him, after the triumph, I knew all, and so far from spoiling anything, I have secured the victory. Never did an accomplice make less noise or work harder. The Marquis, whom she'd taken into her confidence, was astounded at it. The fate of her dear Aristide, however, continued to make her uneasy. Now that she served the faith of her eldest son, the rubeau, the rabid articles of the independant alarmed her all the more. She longed to convert the

unfortunate Republican to Napoleonist ideas, but she did not know how to accomplish this in a discreet manner. She recalled the emphasis with which Eugène had told them to be on their guard against Aristide. At last, she submitted the matter to Monsieur de Carnivant, who was entirely of the same opinion. Little one, he said to her, impolitical. one must know how to look after oneself. If you were to convert your son and the Independant were to start writing in defense of Bonapartism,

it would deal the party or rude blow. The Independent had already been condemned. Its title alone suffices to enrage the middle classes of Pleasant. Let dear Aristide flounder about. This only moulds young people. He does not appear to me to be cut out for carrying on the role of a martyr for any length of time. However, in her eagerness to point out

the right way to her family, now that she believed herself in possession of the truth, Felicity even sought to convert her son Pascal. The doctor, with the egotism of a scientist, immersed in his researches, gave little heed to politics. Empires might fall while he was making an experiment, yet he would not have deigned to turn his head. He at last yielded, however, to certain importunities of his mother, who accused him more than ever of living like an unsociable churl. If you were to go into society, she said to him, you'd get some well-to-do patience. Come at least and spend some evenings in our drawing-room.

You will make the acquaintance of Monsieur Rudier, Granou, and Cicardot, all gentlemen in good circumstances, who will pay you four or five francs a visit. the poor people will never enrich you. The idea of succeeding in life, of seeing all her family attained a fortune, had become a form of monomania with Felicity. Pascal, in order to be agreeable to her, came and spent a few evenings in the yellow drawing-room. He was much less bored there than he had apprehended. At first he was rather stupefied at the degree of imbecility to which sane men can sink. The old oil and almond dealers, the Marquis and the commander even, appeared to him so many curious animals, which he had not hitherto had an opportunity of studying.

He looked with the naturalist's interest at their grameasing faces, in which he discerned traces of their occupations and appetites. He listened also to their inane chatter, just as he might have tried to catch the meaning of a cat's mew or a dog's bark. At this period he was occupied with comparative natural history, applying to the human race the observations which he'd made upon animals with regard to the working of heredity. While he was in the yellow drawing-room, therefore, he amused himself with the belief that he had fallen in with a menagerie. He established comparisons between the grotesque creatures he found there and certain animals of his acquaintance. The Marquise, with his leanness and small, crafty-looking head, reminded him exactly of a long, green grasshopper. Vuey impressed him as a pale, slimy toad.

He was more considerate for Rudier, a fat sheep, and for the commander, an old toothless mastiff. But the prodigious granue was a perpetual cause of astonishment to him. He spent a whole evening measuring this imbecile's facial ant. When he heard him mutter indistinct imprecations against those blood-suckers the Republicans, he always expected to hear him moan like a calf, and he could never see him rise from his chair without imagining that he was about to leave the room on all fours. Talk to them, his mother used to say in an undertone. Try and make a practice out of these gentlemen.

I am not a veterinary surgeon, he at last replied, exasperated. One evening, Felicity took him into a corner and tried to catacize him. She was glad to see him come to her house rather residuously. She thought him reconciled to society, not suspecting for a moment the singular amusement that he'd arrived from ridiculing these rich people. She cherished the secret project of making him the fashionable doctor of Plasin. It would be sufficient if men like Grinoux and Rudier consented to give him a start. She wished, above all, to impart to him the political views of the family, considering that a doctor had everything to gain by constituting himself a warm partisan of the regime,

which was to succeed the republic. "'My dear boy,' she said to him, "'as you have now become reasonable, you must give some thought to the future. You're accused of being a Republican because you are foolish enough to attend all the beggars of the town without making any charge. Be frank, what are your real opinions? Pascal looked at his mother with naive astonishment. Then with a smile replied, My real opinions? I don't quite know. I am accused of being a Republican, did you say? Very well. I don't feel at all offended. I am undoubtedly a Republican, if you understand by that word,

a man who wishes the welfare of everybody. But you will never attain to any position, Felicity quickly interrupted. You will be crushed. Look at your brothers. They're trying to make their way. Pascal then comprehended that he was not called upon to defend his philosophic egotism. His mother simply accused him of not speculating on the political situation. He began to laugh somewhat sadly and then turned the conversation.

into another channel. Felicity could never induce him to consider the chances of the various parties, nor to enlist in that one of them which seemed likely to carry the day. However, he still occasionally came to spend an evening in the yellow drawing room. Grinou interested him like an antediluvium animal. In the meantime, events were moving. The year 1851 was a year of anxiety and apprehension for the politician's of Plesson. And the cause which the Rougon served derived advantage from this circumstance. The most contradictory news arrived from Paris. Sometimes the Republicans were in the ascendant, sometimes the Conservative Party was crushing the Republic. The echoes of the squabbles which were

rending the Legislative Assembly reached the depths of the provinces, now in an exaggerated, now in an attenuated form, varying so greatly as to a obscure the vision of the most clear-sighted. The only general feeling was that a denouement was approaching. The prevailing ignorance as to the nature of this denouement kept timid middle-class people in a terrible state of anxiety. Everybody wished to see the end. They were sick of uncertainty and would have flung themselves into the arms of the Grand Turk if he would have deign to save France from anarchy. The Marquis' smile became more acute.

Of an evening in the yellow drawing-room, when Grinu's growl was rendered indistinct by fright, he would draw near to Felicity and whisper in her ear, Come, little one, the fruit is ripe, but you must make yourself useful. Felicity, who continued to read Eugène's letters, and knew the decisive crisis might any day occur, had already often felt the necessity of making herself useful and reflected as to the manner in which the rujon should employ themselves at last she consulted the marquise it all depends upon circumstances the little old man replied if the department remains quiet if no insurrection occurs to terrify plassin it will be difficult for you to make yourselves conspicuous and render any services to the new government I advise you in that case to remain at home and peacefully await the bounties of your son-eugène. But if the people rise and our brave bourgeois think themselves in danger, there will be a fine part to play.

Your husband is somewhat heavy. Oh, said Felicity, I'll undertake to make him supple. Do you think the department will revolt? To my mind, it's a certainty. Placant perhaps will not make a stir. The reaction has secured too firm a hold here for that. But the neighboring towns, especially the small ones and the villages, have long been worked by certain secret societies and belong to the advanced Republican Party. If a coup d'etat should burst forth, the toxin will be heard throughout the entire country, from the forests of the Sayy to the plateau of San Rour. Felicet reflected.

You think, then, she resumed, that an insurrection is necessary to ensure our fortune. That's my opinion, replied Monsieur de Carnival. And he added with a slightly ironical smile, A new dynasty is never founded excepting a pawn and affray. But is good, manure, it'll be a fine thing for the Rougeon to date from a massacre, like certain illustrious families. These words, accompanied by a sneer, sent a cold chill through Felicity's bones. But she was the strong-minded woman, and the side of Monsieur Perrault's beautiful curtains,

which she religiously viewed every morning, sustained her courage. Whenever she felt herself giving way, she planted herself at the window and contemplated Batak's house. For her, it was the twilery. She had determined upon the most extreme measures in order to secure an entree into the new town, that promised land, on the threshold of which she'd stood with burning longing for so many years. The conversation which she had held with the Marquise had at last clearly revealed the situation

to her. A few days afterwards, she succeeded in reading one of Jeanne's letters in which he, who was working for the coup d'etat, seemed also to rely upon an insurrection as the means of endowing his father with some importance. Jeanne knew his department well. All his suggestions had been framed with the object of placing as much influence as possible in the hands of the yellow drawing-room reactionaries so that the Rujon might be able to hold the town

at the critical moment. In accordance with his desires, the yellow drawing-room was master of Placin in November 1851. Rudier represented the rich citizens there, and his attitude would certainly decide that of the entire new town. Granu was still more valuable. He had the municipal council behind him. He was its most powerful member, a fact which will give some idea of its other members. Finally, through Commander Cicardot, whom the Marquis had succeeded in getting appointed as chief of a National Guard,

the yellow drawing room had the armed forces at their disposal. The Rougain, those poor, disreputable devils, had thus succeeded in rallying round themselves the instruments of their own fortune. Everyone, from cowardice or stupidity, would have to obey them and work in the dark for their aggrandizement. They simply had to fear those other influences which might be working with the same object as themselves, and might partially rob them of the merit of victory. That was their great fear, for they wanted to reserve to themselves the role. of deliverers. They knew beforehand that they would be aided rather than hindered by the clergy and nobility. But if the sub-prefect, the mayor, and the other functionaries were to take

a step in advance and at once stifle the insurrection, they would find themselves thrown into the shade, and even arrested in their exploits, they would have neither time nor means to make themselves useful. What they longed for was complete abstention, general panic, among the functionaries. If only all regular administration should disappear and they could dispose of the destinies of Plesson for a single day, their fortune would be firmly established. Happily for them, there was not a man in the government service whose convictions were so firm or whose circumstances were so needy as to make him dispose to risk the game. The sub-prefect was a man of liberal spirit whom the executive had forgets,

fully left at Placein, owing no doubt to the good repute of the town. Of timid character and incapable of exceeding his authority, he would no doubt be greatly embarrassed in the presence of an insurrection. The Rougain, who knew that he was in favor of a democratic cause and who consequently never dreaded his zeal, were simply curious to know what attitude he would assume. As for the municipality, this did not cause them much apprehension. The mayor, Monsieur Gassonne, was a legitimist whose nomination had been procured by the influence of the Samar quarter in 1849. He detested the Republicans and treated them with undisguised disdain, but he was too closely united by bonds of friendship with certain members of the Church to lend any active hand in a Bonapartist coup d'etat.

The other functionaries were in exactly the same position. The justices of the peace, the postmaster, the tax collector, as well as Monsieur Piero, the chief receiver of taxes, were all indebted for their posts to the clerical reaction. They could not accept the empire with any great enthusiasm. The Rujon, though they did not quite see how they might get rid of these people and clear the way for themselves, nevertheless indulged in sanguine hopes on finding there was little likelihood of anybody to spewere their role as deliverers. But Denouma was drawing near. In the last few days of November, as the rumor of Akudita was circulating, the Prince President was accused of seeking the position

of Emperor. "'He'll call him whatever he likes,' Grenu exclaimed, "'provided he has those Republican rascals shot!' This exclamation from Gronou, who was believed to be asleep, caused great commotion. The Marquise pretended not to have heard it, but all the bourgeois nodded approval. Rudier, who, being rich, did not fear to applaud the sentiment aloud, went so far as to declare, while glancing askance at Monsieur de Carnivant, but the position was no longer tenable, and that France must be chastised as soon as possible, never mind by what hand. The Marquis still maintained a silence which was interpreted as acquiescence.

and thereupon the conservative clan, abandoning the cause of legitimacy, venture to offer up prayers in favor of the empire. My friends, said Commander Cicardot, rising from his seat, only a Napoleon cannot protect threatened life and property. Have no fear. I've taken the necessary precautions to preserve order at Plesson. As a matter of fact, the commander, in concert with Rujon, had concealed in a kind of cart-house near the ramparts, both a supply of cartridges and a considerable number of muskets.

He had also taken steps to secure the cooperation of the National Guard, on which he believed he could rely. His words produced a very favorable impression. On separating for the evening, the peaceful citizens of the yellow drawing-room spoke of massacring the Reds, if they should dare to stir. On December 1st, Pierre Rujon received a letter from Eugène which he went to read in his bedroom, in accordance with his prudent habit.

Felicite observed, however, that he was very agitated when he came out again. She fluttered round the secretary all day. When night came she could restrain her impatience no longer. Her husband had scarcely fallen asleep when she quietly got up, took the key of the secretary from the west-cut pocket, and gained possession of the letter with as little noise as possible. Eugen, in ten lines, warned his father that the crisis was at hand and advised him to acquaint his mother with the situation of affairs. The hour for informing her had arrived, he might stand in need of her advice.

Felicity awaited on the morrow a disclosure which did not come. She did not dare to confess her curiosity, but continued to feign ignorance, though enraged at the foolish distrust of her husband, who, doubtless, considered her a god. and weak, like other women. Pierre, with that marital pride which inspires a man with the belief in his own superiority at home, had ended by attributing all their past ill luck to his life. From the time that he fancied he'd been conducting matters alone, everything seemed to him to have gone as he desired. He had decided, therefore, to dispense all together with his consorts' councils, and to confide nothing to her, in spite of his son's recommendations.

Felicity was piqued to such a degree that she would have upset the whole affair had she not desired the triumph as ardently as Pierre. So she continued to work energetically for victory while endeavoring to take her revenge. Ah, if he could only have some great fright, thought she, if he would only commit some act of imprudence, then I should see him come to me and humbly ask for advice. It would be my turn to lay down. the law. She felt somewhat uneasy at the imperious attitude Pierre would certainly assume if he were to triumph without her aid. On marrying this peasant son, in preference to some notary's clerk, she had intended to make use of him as a strongly made puppet, whose string she would pull in her own way, and now at the decisive moment the puppet, in his blind stupidity,

wanted to work alone. All the cunning, all the feverish activity within the old woman protested against this. She knew Pierre was quite capable of some brutal resolve, such as that which he had taken when he compelled his mother to sign the receipt for 50,000 francs. Patole was indeed a useful and unscrupulous one. But she felt the necessity for guiding it, especially under present circumstances, when considerable suppleness was requisite. The official news of the coup d'etat did not reach Pleasant until the evening of December 3rd, Thursday.

Already at 7 o'clock in the evening, there was a full meeting in the yellow drawing-room. Although the crisis had been eagerly desired, vague uneasiness appeared on the faces of the majority. They discussed events amid endless chatter. Pierre, who, like the others, was slightly pale, thought it right as an extreme measure of prudence, to excuse Prince Louis' decisive act to the legitimists and Orleanists who were present. There's talk of an appeal to the people, he said. The nation will then be free to choose whatever government likes. The president is a man to retire before our legitimate masters.

The Marquise, who had retained his aristocratic coolness, was the only one who greeted these words with a smile. The others, in the enthusiasm of the moment, concerned themselves very little about what might follow. All their opinions foundered. Rudier, forgetting the esteem which, as a former shopkeeper, he had entertained for the Orleanists, stopped Pierre rather abruptly, and everybody exclaimed, Don't argue the matter, let's think of preserving order. These good people were terribly afraid of the Republicans.

There had, however, been very little commotion in the town on the announcement of the events in Paris, People had collected in front of a notices posted on the door of a sub-prefecture. It was also rumored that a few hundred workmen had left their work and were endeavoring to organize resistance. That was all. No serious disturbance seemed likely to occur. The course which the neighboring towns and rural districts might take seemed more likely to occasion anxiety. However, it was not yet known how they received the news of the coup d'etat. Grinou arrived at about nine o'clock quite out of breath. He had just left the sitting of the municipal council

which had been hastily summoned together. Choking with a motion, he announced that the mayor, Monsieur Gassonne, had declared, while making due reserves, that he was determined to preserve order by the most stringent measures. However, the intelligence which caused the noisiest shattering in the yellow drawing-room was that of the resignation of the sub-prefect. This functionary had absolutely refused to communicate the dispatches of the Minister of the Interior to the inhabitants of Plesson.

He had just left the town, so Grinue asserted, and it was thanks to the mayor that the messages had been posted. This was perhaps the only sub-prefect in France who had ever had the courage of his democratic opinions. Although Monsieur Gassonne's firm demeanor caused the Rujon some secret anxiety, they rubbed their hands at the flight of the sub-prefect, which left the post vacant for them. It was decided on this memorable evening that the yellow drawing-room party should accept the coup d'etat and openly declare that it was in favor of accomplished facts.

Pouillet was commissioned to write an article to that effect and published it on the morrow in the Gazette. Neither he nor the Marquis raised any objection. They had, no doubt, received instructions from the mysterious individuals to whom they sometimes made pious allusions. The clergy and the nobility were already resigned to the course of lending a strong hand to the victors in order to crush their common enemy, the Republic. While the yellow drawing room was deliberating on the evening in question, Aristide was perspiring with anxiety. Never had a gambler, sticking his last Louis on a card, felt such a anguish. During the day, the resignation of his chief, the sub-prefect, had given him much

matter for reflection. He'd heard him repeat several times that the coup d'etat must prove a failure. This functionary, endowed with a limited amount of honesty, believed in the final triumph of a democracy, though he had not the courage to work for that triumph by offering resistance. Aristide was in the habit of listening at the doors of the sub-prefecture, in order to get precise information, for he felt that he was groping in the dark and clung to the intelligence which he gleaned from the officials. The sub-prefect's opinion struck him forcibly, but he remained perplexed. He thought to himself, Why does the fellow go away if he's so certain that the Prince President will meet with a check? However, as he was compelled to espouse one side or the

other, he resolved to continue his opposition. He wrote a very hostile article on the coup d'etat and took her to the Ande Pendarndon, the same evening for the following morning's issue. He had corrected the proofs of this article and was herning home somewhat calmed when as he passed along the Rue de la Ban, he instinctively raised his head and glanced at the Ruezone's windows. Their windows were brightly lighted up. What can they be plotting up there? The journalist asked himself, with anxious curiosity. A fierce desire to know the opinion of the yellow drawing-room with regard to recent events then assailed him. He credited this group of reactionaries with little intelligence, but his

doubts recurred. He was in that frame of mind when one might seek advice from a child. He could not think of entering his father's home at that moment, after the campaign he had waged against Grenu and the others. Nevertheless, he went to upstairs, reflecting what a singular figure he would cut if he was surprised on the way by anyone. On reaching the Rujon's door, he could only catch a confused echo of voices. What a child I am, said he. Fear makes me stupid. And he was going to descend again when he heard the approach of his mother, who was about to show somebody out. He had barely time to hide in the dark corner formed by a little staircase leading to the garrets of the house.

the rujon's door opened and the marquise appeared followed by felicite monsieur de canavan usually left before the gentleman of a new town did in order no doubt to avoid having to shake hands with them in the street eh little one he said on the landing in a low voice these men are greater cowards than i should have fought with such men france will always be at the mercy if whoever dares to lay his hand upon her And he added, with some bitterness, as though speaking to himself, the monarchy is decidedly becoming too honest for modern times. Its day is over. Eugène announced the crisis to his father, replied Felicity. Prince Louis' triumph seems to him certain. Oh, you can proceed without fear, the Marquis replied, as he descended the first steps.

In two or three days, the country will be well-bound and gagged. Goodbye till tomorrow, little one. Felicity closed the door again. Aristide had received quite a shock in his dark corner. However, without waiting for the Marquis to reach the street, he bounded down the staircase, four steps at a time, rushed outside like a madman, and turned his steps towards the printing office of the Indepedon.

A flood of thought surged through his mind. He was enraged and accused his family of having, duped him. What? Ujane kept his parents informed of a situation, and yet his mother had never given him any of his eldest brother's letters to read in order that he might follow the advice given therein. And it was only now, he learned by chance that his eldest brother regarded the success of the coup d'etat as certain. This circumstance, however, confirmed certain presentiments which that idiot of the sub-prefect had prevented him from obeying. He was especially exasperated against his father, who he thought stupid enough to be a legitimist, but who revealed himself

as a bonapartist at the right moment. What a lot of folly they have allowed me to perpetrate, he muttered as he ran along. I'm a fine fellow now. Oh, what a lesson. Gronu's more capable than I. He entered the office of the independant like a hurricane and asked for his article in a choking voice. The article had already been imposed. He had the form unlocked and would not rest until he himself destroyed the setting, mixing the type in a furious manner like a set of dominoes.

The bookseller who managed the paper looked at him in amazement. He was, in reality, rather glad of the incident, as the article had seemed to him somewhat dangerous. But he was absolutely obliged to have some copy if the independant was to appear. here. Are you going to give me something else? he asked. Suddenly, replied Aristide. He sat down at the table and began a warm panegyric on the coup d'etat. At the very first line, he swore that Prince Louis had just saved the Republic,

but he'd hardly written the page before he stopped and seemed at a loss how to continue. A troubled look came over his pole-cat face. I must go home, he said. at last. I will send you this immediately. Your paper can appear a little later if necessary. He walked slowly on his way home, lost in meditation. He was again giving way to indecision. Why should he veer round so quickly? Eugène was an intelligent fellow, but his mother had perhaps exaggerated the significance of some sentence in his letter. In any case, it would be better to wait and hold his tongue. An hour later,

Peter Angel called at the booksellers, feigning deep emotion. My husband has just severely injured himself, she said. He jammed his four fingers in a door as he was coming in. In spite of his sufferings, he's dictated this little note, which he begs you to publish tomorrow. On the following day, the Andependant, made up almost entirely of miscellaneous items of news, appeared with these few lines at the head of the first column. A deplorable accident which has occurred to our eminent contributor,

Monsieur Aristide Rougain, will deprive of his articles for some time. He will suffer at having to remain silent in the present grave circumstances. None of our readers will doubt, however, the good wishes which he offers up with patriotic feelings for the welfare of France. This burlesque note had been maturely studied. The last sentence might be interpreted in favor of all, parties. By this expedient, Aristide devised a glorious return for himself on the morrow of battle in the shape of a laudatory article on the victors. On the following day he showed himself to the

whole town with his arm in a sling. His mother, frightened by Benotus in the paper, hastily called upon him, but he refused to show his hand and spoke with the bitterness which enlightened the old woman. It won't be anything, she said in a reassuring and somewhat sarcastic. Tateau as she was leaving. You only want a little rest. It was no doubt owing to this pretended accident and the sub-prefect's departure that the enderpandant was not interfered with, like most of the democratic papers of the departments. The fourth day of the month proved comparatively quiet at Passan.

In the evening there was a public demonstration which the mere appearance of a gendarme suffice to disperse. A band of workingmen came to request. Monsieur Gautsenaise to communicate the dispatches he had received from Paris, which the latter haughtily refused to do. As it retired, the band shouted, long live the Republic, long live the Constitution. After this, order was restored. The yellow drawing room, after commenting at some length on this innocent parade, concluded that affairs were going on excellently. The fifth and sixth were, however, more disquieting.

Intelligence was received of successive risings in small neighboring towns. The whole southern part of a department had taken up arms. La Palou, and Saint-Martandevoe had been the first to rise, drawing after them the villages of Chabano, Nazare, Pujot, Valtéca and Vernou. The yellow drawing-room party was now becoming seriously alarmed. It felt particularly uneasy at seeing Plesson isolated in the very midst of the revolt. Bands of insurgents would certainly scour the country

and cut off all communications. Granu announced, with a terrified look, but the mayor was without any news. Some people even asserted that blood had been shed at Marseille and that a formidable revolution had broken out in Paris. Commander Cicardot enraged at the cowardice of the bourgeois, vowed that he would die the head of his men. On Sunday, the seventh the terror reached the climax.

Already at six o'clock the yellow drawing-room, where a sort of reactionary committee sat on permanence, was crowded with pale, trembling men who conversed in undertones, as though they were in a chamber of death. It had been ascertained during the day that a column of insurgents, about three thousand strong, had assembled at Alboise, a big village not more than three leagues, away. It was true that this column had been ordered to make for the chief town of the department, leaving Plesson on its left, but the plan of campaign might at any time be altered. Moreover, it sufficed for these cowardly sits to know, but there were insurgents a few miles off to make them feel the horny hands of the torileers already tightened round their throats.

They had had a foretaste of the revolt in the morning, the few Republicans at Plesson, seeing that they would be unable to make any determined move in the town, had resolved to join their brethren of La Palou and Saint-Martin-Devo. The first group had left at about 11 o'clock by the Port-de-Rome, shouting the Marseilles and smashing a few windows. Granu had had one broken. He mentioned the circumstances with stammerings of terror. Meantime, the most acute anxiety agitated the yellow drawing-room.

The commander had sent his servant to obtain some information, as to the exact movements of the insurgents, and the others awaited this man's return, making the most astonishing surmises. They had a full meeting. Rudier and Granu, sinking back in their armchairs, exchanged the most pitiable glances, whilst behind them moaned a terror-stricken group of retired tradesmen.

Vieu, without appearing over-scared, reflected upon what precautions he should take to protect his shop and person. He was in doubt, whether he should hide himself in his garret or cellar and inclined towards the latter. For their part, Pierre and the commander walked up and down, exchanging a word ever and anon. The old oil dealer clung to this friend Cicardot as if to borrow a little courage from him. He, who had been awaiting the crisis for such a long time, now endeavored to keep his countenance,

in spite of the emotion which was stifling him. As for the Marquise, more spruce and smiling than you, usual, he conversed in a corner with Felicity, who seemed very gay. At last the ring came. The gentleman started as if they'd heard a gunshot. Dead silence reigned in the drawing-room when Felicity went to open the door, towards which their pale, anxious faces were turned. Then the commander's servant appeared on the threshold quite out of breath and said abruptly to his master, Sir, the insurgents will be here in an hour.

This was a thunderbolt. They all started up vociferating in raising their arms towards the ceiling. For several minutes it was impossible to hear one self-speak. The company surrounded the messenger, overwhelming him with questions. Damnation, the commander at length shouted. Don't make such a row. Be calm or I won't answer for anything. Everyone sank back in his chair again, heaving long-drawn sighed.

They then obtained a few particulars. The messenger had met the column at Le Toulette and had hastened to return. There are at least three thousand of them, said he. They are marching in battalions, like soldiers. I thought I caught sight of some prisoners in their midst. Prisoners, cried the terrified bourgeois. No doubt, the Marquise interrupted in his shrill voice. I've heard that the insurgents arrest all people,

persons who are known to have conservative leanings. This information gave a finishing touch to the consternation of the yellow drawing-room. A few bourgeois got up and stealthily made for the door, reflecting that they had not too much time before them to gain a place of safety. The announcement of the arrests made by the Republicans appeared to strike Felicity. She took the Marquis aside and asked him, What do these men do with the people they arrest? why they carry them off in their train monsieur de khanavant replied they no doubt consider them excellent hostages ah the old woman rejoined in a strange tone

then she again thoughtfully watched the curious scene of panic around her the bourgeois gradually disappeared soon there only remained vuill and rudier whom the approaching danger inspired with some courage as for granou he likewise remained in his corner His legs refusing to perform their office. Well, I like this better, Cicardot remarked, as he observed the flight of the other adherents. Those cowards were exasperating me at last. For more than two years they've been speaking of shooting all the Republicans in the province, and today they wouldn't even fire a half-penny cracker under their noses. Then he took up his hat and turned towards the door. Let's see, he continued.

Time presses. Come, Rujon. Felicity, it seemed, had been waiting for this moment. She placed herself between Madur and her husband, who, for that matter, was not particularly eager to follow the formidable Cicardot. I won't have you go out, she cried, feigning sudden despair. I won't let you leave my side. Those scoundrels will kill you. The commander stopped in amazement. Hang it all, he growled, if women are going away.

wine now. Come along, Rujon. No, no, continued the old woman, affecting increase of terror. He shan't follow you. I will hang on to his clones and prevent him. The Marquise, very much surprised at the scene, looked inquiringly at Felicity. Was this really the woman who had just now been conversing so merrily? What comedy was she playing? Pierre, meantime, seeing that his wife wanted to detain him, deigned a determination to force his way out. I tell you, you shall not go, the old woman reiterated, as she clung to one of his arms,

and turning towards the commander, she said to him, How can you think of offering any resistance? They are three thousand strong, and you won't be able to collect a hundred men of any spirit. You are rushing into the cannon's mouth to no purpose. "'Ah, that is our duty,' said Cicardot impatiently. Felicity burst into sobs. "'If they don't kill him, they'll make him a prisoner,' she continued,

looked fixedly at her husband. "'Good heavens, what will become of me, left alone in an abandoned town!' "'But!' exclaimed the commander, "'we shall be arrested just the same if we allow the insurgents to enter the town, unmolested, I believe that before an hour has elapsed, the mayor and all the functionaries will be prisoners, to say nothing of your husband and the frequenters of this drawing-room. The Marquise thought he saw a vague smile play about Felicity's lips as she answered, with a look of dismay.

Do you really think so? Of course, replied Cicardot. The Republicans are not so stupid as to leave enemies behind them. tomorrow plasin will be emptied of its functionaries and good citizens at these words which she had so cleverly provoked felicite released her husband's arms pierre no longer looked as if he wanted to go out thanks to his wife whose skillful tactics escaped him however and whose secret complicity he never for a moment suspected he had just lighted on a whole plan of campaign we must deliberate before taking any decision, he said to the commander, my wife is perhaps not wrong in accusing us of forgetting the true interests of our families. No, indeed, Madame is not wrong, cried Grenu, who'd been listening to Felicity's terrified cries with the rapture of a coward.

Thereupon the commander energetically clapped his hat on his head and said in a clear voice, Right or wrong, it matters little to me. I am commander of a national guard. I ought to have been at the mayors before now. Confess that you are afraid, that you leave me to act alone. Well, good night. He was just turning the handle of Vador

when Rujon forcibly detained him. Listen, Cicardot, he said. He drew him into a corner on seeing Vuey pick up his big ears. And there he explained to him, in an undertone, that it would be a good point, plan to leave a few energetic men behind the insurgents so as to restore order in the town.

And as the fierce commander obstinately refused to desert his post, Pierre offered to place himself at the head of such a reserve corps. Give me the key of the cart-shed in which the arms and ammunition are kept, he said, and order some fifty of our men not to stir until I call for them. Cicardo ended by consenting to these prudent measures. He entrusted Pierre with the key of the cart shed, convinced as he was of the inexpediency of present resistance, but still desirous of sacrificing himself.

During this conversation, the Marquis had whispered a few words in Felicity's ear with a knowing look. He complimented her no doubt on her theatrical display. The old woman could not repress a faint smile, But as Cicardo shook hands with Rujona prepared to go, she again asked him with an air of fright. Are you really determined to leave us? It is not for one of Napoleon's old soldiers to let himself be intimidated by the mob, he replied. He was already on the landing when Groninu hurried out after him, crying,

If you go to the mayors, tell him what's going on. I'll just run home to my wife to reassure her. Then Felicity bent towards the Marquis' ear and whispered with discreet gaiety, "'Upon my word, it is best that devil of a commander should go and get himself arrested. He's far too zealous.' However, Rujon brought Grinou back to the drawing-room. Rudier, who had quietly followed the scene from his corner, making signs in support of the proposed measures of prudence, got up and joined them.

When the Marquise and Vueyé had likewise risen, Pierre began. Now that we are alone, among peaceable men, I propose that we should conceal ourselves so as to avoid certain arrest, and be at liberty as soon as ours again becomes the stronger party. Grenu was ready to embrace him. Rudier and Vueyé breathed more easily. I shall want you shortly, gentlemen, the oil dealer continued with an important air.

It is to us that the honor of restoring order in Plausanne is reserved. You may rely upon us, cried Ville, with an enthusiasm which disturbed Felicity. Time was pressing. The singular defenders of Plausanne, who hid themselves the better to protect the town, hastened away to bury themselves in some hole or other. Pierre, on being left alone with his wife, advised her not to make the mistake of barricading herself indoors, but to reply, if anybody, came to question her,

that he, Pierre, had simply gone on a short journey. And as she acted the simpleton, feigning terror and asking what all this was coming to, he replied abruptly, It's nothing to do with you. Let me manage our affairs alone. They'll get on all the better. A few minutes later, he was rapidly threading his way along, the Rue de la Ban. On reaching the Coors Sovere, he saw a band of armed workmen coming out of the

old quarter and singing the Marseillaise. The devil, he thought. It was quite time indeed. Here's the town itself in revolt now. He quickened his steps in the direction of the Port de Rome. Cold perspiration came over him while he waited there for the dilatory keeper to open the gate. Almost as soon as he set foot on the high road, he perceived in the moonlight at the other end of the Fobour the column of insurgents whose gun barrels gleamed like white flames. So it was at Iran that he dived into the impasse Saint-Mitre and reached his mother's house, which he had not visited for many a long year. This ends Chapter 3, Part 2.

Section 8 of The Fortune of the Rujon. Book 1 of Rujon-Maca cycle by Emil Zola, translated by Henry Visitelli. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Read by Mark Leader. Chapter 4, Part 1 Antoine Macca had returned to Pleasant after the fall of the first Napoleon. He had had the incredible good fortune to escape all the final murderous campaigns of the empire. He had moved from barracks,

barracks dragging on his brutifying military life. This mode of existence brought his natural vices to full development. His idleness became deliberate, his intemperance, which brought him countless punishments, became to his mind of veritable religious duty. But that which above all made him the worst of scapegraces was the supercilious disdain which he entertained for the poor devils who had to earn their bread. I've got money waiting for me at home, he often said to his comrades. When I've served my time, I shall be able to live like a gentleman.

This belief, together with his stupid ignorance, prevented him from rising even to the grade of corporal. Since his departure, he'd never spent a day's furlough at Placein, his brother having invented a thousand pretexts to keep him at a distance. He was therefore completely ignorant. of a adroit manner in which Pierre had got possession of their mother's fortune. Adelaide, with her profound indifference, did not even write to him three times to tell him how she was going on. The silence which generally greeted his numerous requests for money did not awaken the least suspicion in him. Pierre's stinginess sufficed to explain the difficulty he experienced in securing from time to time a paltry twenty-trank piece. This, this

however only increased his animosity towards his brother, who left him to languish in military service in spite of his formal promise to purchase his discharge. He vowed to himself and on his return home he would no longer submit like a child, but would

flatly demand his share of the fortune to enable him to live as he pleased. In the diligence which conveyed him home, he dreamed of a delightful life of idleness. The shattering of his castles in the air was terrible. When he reached the Foborg and could no longer even recognize the Fouquet's plot of

ground, he was stupefied. He was compelled to ask for his mother's new address. There a terrible scene occurred. Adelaide calmly informed him of the sale of the property. He flew into a rage and even raised his hand against her. The poor woman kept repeating, Your brother has taken everything. It's on that he will take care of you. At last he left her and ran off to see Pierre, whom he previously informed of his return,

and who was prepared to receive him in such a way as to put an end to the matter at the first word of abuse. Listen, the oil dealer said to him, affecting distant coldness, don't rouse my anger, or I'll turn you out. As a matter of fact, I don't know you. We don't bear the same name. It's quite misfortune enough for me that my mother misconducted herself without having her offspring coming here and insulting me.

I was well disposed towards you, but since you are insolent, I shall do nothing for you. Absolutely nothing. Antoine was almost choking with rage. And what about my money? he cried. Will you give it up, you thief? Or shall I have to drag you before the judges? Pierre shrugged his shoulders. I've got no money of yours, he replied, more calmly than ever.

My mother disposed of her fortune, as she thought proper. I'm certainly not going to poke my nose into her business. I willingly renounced all hope of inheritance. I'm quite safe from your foul accusations. And as his brother, exasperated by this composure and not knowing what to think, muttered something, Pierre thrust Adelaide's receipt under his nose. The reading of the scrap of paper completed Antoine's dismay. Very well, he said in a calmer voice,

I know now what I have to do. The trouble was, however, he did not know what to do, his inability to hit upon any immediate expedience for obtaining his share of the money and satisfying his desire of revenge increased his fury. He went back to his mother and subjected her to a disgraceful cross-examination. The wretched woman could do nothing but again refer him to Pierre. Do you think you're going to make me run to and fro like a shuttle? he cried insolently. I'll soon find out which of you two has the hoard.

You've already squandered it, perhaps? And making an allusion to her former misconduct, he asked her if there was still not some low fellow to whom she gave her last sue. He did not even spare his father, that drunkard Macar, as he called him, who must have lived on her till the day of his death, and who left his children in poverty. The poor woman listened with a stupefied air. Big tears rolled down her cheeks. She defended herself with the terror of a child, replying to her son's questions as though he were a judge. She swore that she was living respectfully and reiterated with emphasis that she never had a sue of the money that Pierre had taken everything.

Antoine almost came to believe it at last. Ah, a scoundrel, he muttered, that's why he wouldn't purchase my discharge. He had to sleep at his mother's house on a straw mattress flung in a corner. He had returned with his pockets perfectly empty and was exasperated at finding himself destitute of resources, abandoned like a dog in the streets without hearth or home, while his brother, as he thought, was in a good way of business in living on the fat of the land. As he had no money to buy clothes with, he went out on the following day in his regimental cap and trousers. He had the good fortune to find, at the bottom of a cupboard, an old yellow yellow,

velvetine jacket, threadbare and patched, which had belonged to Makar. In this strange attire, he walked about the town, relating his story to everyone and demanding justice. The people whom he went to consult received him with a contempt which made him shed tears of rage. Provincial folks are inexorable towards fallen families. In the general opinion, it was only natural that the Rujan Makar should seek to devour each. other. The spectators, instead of separating them, were more inclined to urge them on. Pierre, however, was at that time already beginning to purify himself of his early stains. People laughed at his roguery. Some even went so far as to say that he'd done quite right

if he really had taken possession of the money, and that it would be a good lesson to the dissolute folks of a town. Antoine returned home discouraged. A lawyer had advised him, in a scorn manner to wash his dirty linen at home, though not until he had skillfully ascertained whether Antoine possessed the requisite means to carry on a lawsuit. According to this man, the case was very involved, the pleadings would be very lengthy, and success was doubtful. Moreover, it would require money, and plenty of it. Antoine treated his mother yet more harshly that evening, not knowing on whom else to wreak his

vengeance, he repeated his accusation of the previous day. He kept the wretched woman up till midnight, trembling with shame and fright. Adelaide, having informed him that Pierre made her an allowance, he now felt certain that his brother had pocketed the 50,000 francs. But in his irritation he still affected to doubt it, and did not cease to question the poor woman again and again reproaching her with misconduct. Antoine soon found out that, alone and without resources, he could not successfully carry on a contest with his brother. He then endeavored to gain Adelae to his cause. An accusation lodged by her might have serious consequences. But at Antoine's first suggestion of it, the poor, lazy, lethargic creature

firmly refused to bring trouble on her eldest son. I am an unhappy woman, she stammered. It's quite right of you to get angry. But I I should feel too much remorse if I caused one of my sons to be sent to prison. No, I'd rather let you beat me. He saw that he would get nothing but tears out of her, and contented himself with saying that she was justly punished, and that he had no pity for her. In the evening, upset by the continual quarrels which her son had sought with her,

Adelaide had one of those nervous attacks, which kept her as rigid as if she'd been dead. The young man threw her on her bed And then began to rummage the house To see if the wretched woman had any savings hidden away He found about 40 francs He took possession of them And while his mother still lay there

Rigid and scarce able to breathe He quietly took the diligence to Marseille He had just bethought himself that Moray The journeyman Hatter who had married his sister Ursul must be indignant that Pierre's roguery and would no doubt be willing to defend his wife's interests. But he did not find in him the man he expected. Moray plainly told him that he had become accustomed to look upon Ursula's an orphan

and would have no contentions with her family at any price. Their affairs were prospering, and Juan was received so coldly that he hastened to take the diligence home again. But before leaving, he was anxious to revenge himself for the secret contempt which he read in the workman's eyes. And observing that his sister appeared rather pale and dejected, he said to her husband in a slyly cruel way, as he took his departure, Have a care. My sister was always sickly, and I find her much changed for the worse. You may lose her altogether.

The tears which rushed to Moray's eyes convinced him that he had touched her so. sore wound. But then those work people made too great a display of their happiness. When he was back again in Plesson, Antoine became the more menacing from the conviction that his hands were tied. During a whole month he was seen all over the place. He paraded the streets, recounting his story to all who would listen to him. Whenever he succeeded in extorting a frank from his mother, he would drink it away at some tavern, where he would revile his brother. declaring that the rascal should shortly hear from him. In places like these, the good-natured fraternity, which reigns among drunkards,

procured him a sympathetic audience. All the scum of the town espoused his cause and poured forth bitter imprecations against that rascal Rujon, who left a brave soldier to starve, the discussion generally terminating with an indiscriminate condemnation of the rich. Antoine, the better to revenge himself, continued to march about in his regimental cap and trousers and his old yellow velvet jacket, although his mother had offered to purchase some more becoming clothes for him. But no, he preferred to make a display of his rags and paraded them on Sundays in the most frequented parts of the Courselaer. One of his most exquisite pleasures

was to pass Pierre's shop ten times a day. He would enlarge him. He would enlarge him. the holes in his jacket with his fingers, slack in his step, and sometimes stand talking in front of a door so as to remain longer in the street. On these occasions, too, he would bring one of his drunken friends and gossip to him, telling him about the theft of the 50,000 francs, accompanying his narrative with loud insults and menaces, which could be heard by everyone in the street, and taking particular care that his abuse should reach the furthest end of the street. shop. He'll finish by coming to beg in front of our house, Felicite used to say in despair.

The vain little woman suffered terribly from this scandal. She even at this time felt some regret at ever having married Rujon. His family connections were so objectionable. She would have given all she had in the world to prevent Antoine from parading his rags. But Pierre, who was maddened by his brother's conduct, would not allow his name to be mentioned. When his wife tried to convince him that it would perhaps be better to free him from all annoyance by giving Antoine a little money, no, nothing, not a sue, he cried with rage. Let him starve. He confessed, however, at last, that Antoine's demeanor was becoming intolerable. One day, Felicity, desiring to put an end to it, called to that man,

as she styled him with a disdainful curl on her lip. That man was in the act of calling her a foul name in the middle of a street, where he stood with one of his friends, even more ragged than himself. They were both drunk. Come, they want us in there, said Antoine to his companion in a jeering tone. But Felicity drew back, muttering, It's you alone we wish to speak to. bah, the young man replied,

My friend's a decent fellow, you needn't mind him hearing, he'll be my witness. The witness sank heavily on a chair. He did not take off his hat, but began to stare around him with the maudlin, stupid grin of drunkards and coarse people who know that they are insolent.

Felicity was so ashamed that she stood in front of a shop door in order that people outside might not see what strange company she was receiving. Fortunately, her husband came to the rescue. A violent quarrel ensued between him and his brother. The latter, after stammering insults, reiterated his old grievances 20 times over.

At last he even began to cry, and his companion was near following his example. Pierre had defended himself in a very dignified manner. Look here, he said at last. You're unfortunate. and I pity you. Although you have cruelly insulted me, I cannot forget that we are children of the same mother. If I give you anything, however,

you must understand I give it to you out of kindness and not from fear. Would you like a hundred francs to help you out of your difficulties? This abrupt offer of a hundred francs dazzled Antoine's companion. He looked at the other with an air of delight, which clearly signified, As the gentleman offers a hundred francs, it's time to leave off abusing him. But Antoine was determined to speculate on his brother's favorable disposition.

He asked him whether he took him for a fool. It was his share, 10,000 francs that he wanted. You're wrong, you're wrong, stuttered his friend. At last, as Pierre, losing all patience, was threatening to turn them both out, Antoine lowered his demands, contented himself with claiming 1,000 francs. They quarreled for another quarter of an hour over this amount. Finally, Felicity interfered. A crowd was gathering round the shop.

Listen, she said excitedly, My husband will give you 200 francs. I'll undertake to buy you a suit of clothes and hire a room for a year for you. Rujon got angry at this, but Antoine's comrade cried, with transports of delight, All right, it's settled then, my friend accepts. Antoine did in fact declare, in a surly way,

that he would accept. He felt he would not be able to get any more. It was arranged that the money and clothes should be sent to him on the following day, and that a few days later, as soon as Felicity should have found a room for him, he would take up his quarters there. As they were leaving, the young man's sottish companion

became as respectful as he had previously been insolent. He bowed to the company more than a dozen times, in an awkward and humble manner, muttering many indistinct thanks as if the Rujon's gifts had been intended for himself. A week later, Antoine occupied a large room in the old quarter, in which Felicity, exceeding her promises, had placed a bed, a table, and some chairs, on the young man formerly undertaking not to molest them in future.

Adelaide felt no regret at her son leaving her. The short stay he'd made with her had condemned her to bread and water for more than three months. However, Antoine had soon eaten and drunk for two hundred francs he received from Pierre. He never for a moment thought of investing them in some little business which would have helped him to live. when he was again penniless having no trade and being moreover unwilling to work he again sought to slip a hand into the rujon's purse circumstances were not the same as before however and he failed to intimidate them pierre even took advantage of this opportunity to turn him out and forbade him ever to set foot in his house again it was of no avail for antoine to repeat his former accusations the townspeople for antoine to repeat his former accusations the townspeople who were acquainted with his brother's munificence from the publicity which Felicity had given to it, declared him to be in the wrong and called him a lazy, idle fellow.

Meanwhile, his hunger was pressing. He threatened to turn smuggler like his father and perpetrate some crime which would dishonor his family. At this the rougons shrugged their shoulders. They knew he was too much of a coward to risk his neck. At last, blindly enraged against his relatives in particular and society in general, Antoine made up his mind to seek some work. In a tavern of the Fobour, he made the acquaintance of a basket maker who worked at home. He offered to help him.

In a short time, he learned to plate baskets and hampers, a course in poorly paid kind of labor which finds a ready market. He was very soon able to work on his own account. This trade pleased him as it was not over laborious. He could still indulge his idleness, and that was what he chiefly cared for. He would only take to his work when he could no longer do otherwise, then he would hurriedly play a dozen baskets and go and sell them in the market. As long as the money lasted he lounged about,

visiting all the taverns and digesting his drink in the sunshine. then when he'd fasted a whole day he would once more take up his osier with a low growl and revile the wealthy who lived in idleness the trade of a basket-maker when followed in such a manner is a thankless one antoine's work would not have sufficed to pay for his drinking bouts if he had not contrived a means of procuring his osier at low cost he never bought any at plasanne but used to say that he went each month to purchase a stock at a neighbouring town where he pretended it was sold cheaper. The truth, however, was that he supplied himself from the Osier grounds of Viorne on dark nights. A rural policeman even caught him once in the very act, and Antoine underwent a few days' imprisonment in consequence.

It was from that time forward that he posed in the town as a fierce Republican. He declared that he'd been quietly smoking his pipe by the riverside when the rural policeman arrested him, And he added, they'd like to get me out of the way because they know what my opinions are, but I'm not afraid of them, those rich scoundrels. At last, at the end of ten years of idleness, Antoine considered that he'd been working too hard. His constant dream was to devise some expedient by which he might live at his ease without having to do anything. His idleness would never have rested content with bread and water.

he was not like certain lazy persons who were willing to put up with hunger, provided they can keep their hands in their pockets. He liked good feeding and nothing to do. He talked at one time of taking a situation, a servant in some nobleman's house in the Samark quarter. But one of his friends, a groom, frightened him by describing the exacting ways of his masters. Finally, Macar, sick of his baskets,

and seeing the time approach when he would be compelled to purchase the requisite Osir, was on the point of selling himself as an army's substitute and resuming his military life, which he preferred a thousand times to that of an artisan, when he made the acquaintance of a woman, an acquaintance which modified his plans. Josephine Gavaudin, who was known throughout the town by the familiar diminutive of Finet, was a tall strapping wench of about thirty. with a square face of masculine proportions and a few terribly long hairs about her chin and lips. She was sighted as a doughty woman, one who could make the weight of her fist felt.

Her broad shoulders and huge arms consequently inspired Batown urchins with marvelous respect, and they did not even dare to smile at her moustache. Notwithstanding all this, Fene had a faint voice, weak and clear like that of a child. those who were acquainted with her asserted that she was as gentle as a lamb in spite of her formidable appearance as she was very hard-working she might have put some money aside if she had a partiality for liqueurs she adored aniseed and very often had to be carried home on sunday evenings on weekdays she would toil with the stubbornness of an animal she had three or four different occupation she sold fruit or boiled chestnuts in the market, according to the season, went out charing for a few well-to-do people, washed up plates and dishes at houses when parties were given,

and employed her spare time in mending old chairs. She was more particularly known in a town as a chairmender. In the south, large numbers of straw-bottomed chairs are used. Antoine Macaugh formed an acquaintance with Fénie at the market. When he went to sell his baskets in the winter, he'd stand beside the stove on which she cooled her chestnuts and warm himself. He was astonished at her courage, he who was frightened of the least work. By degrees, he discerned, beneath the apparent roughness of this strapping creature, signs of timidity and kindliness. He frequently saw her give handfuls of chestnuts to the ragged urchins who stood in ecstasy round her smoking pot.

At other times, when the market inspector hustled her, she very nearly began to cry, apparently forgetting all about her heavy fists. Antoine at last decided that she was exactly the woman he wanted. She would work for both, and he would lay down the law at home. She would be his beast of burden, an obedient, indefatigable animal. As for her partiality for liqueurs, he regarded this as quite natural. after while weighing the advantages of such a union, he declared himself to Finet, who was delighted with his proposal.

No man had ever yet ventured to propose to her. Though she was told that Antoine was the most worthless of vagabonds, she lacked the courage to refuse matrimony. The very evening of the nuptials, the young man took up his abode and his wife's lodgings in the Rue Sivadier near the market. These lodgings, consisting of three rooms, were much more comfortably furnished than his own, and he gave a sigh of satisfaction as he stretched himself out on the two excellent macruses which covered the bedstead. Everything went on very well for the first few days.

Fienet attended to her various occupations as in the past, antoine seized with sort of marital self-pride was astonished even himself, played it in one week more baskets than he had ever before done in a month. On the first Sunday, however, war broke out. The couple had a goodly sum of money in the house, and they spent it freely. During the night, when they were both drunk, they beat each other outrageously, without being able to remember on the morrow how it was that the quarrel had commenced.

They'd remained on most affectionate terms until about ten o'clock, when Antoine had begun to beat Finay brutally, whereupon the latter, growing exasperated, and forgetting her meekness, had given him back as much as she received. She went to work again bravely on the following day, as though nothing had happened. But her husband, with sullen rancor,

Rose-Layton passed the remainder of a day smoking his pipe in the sunshine. From that time forward, the McCart's adoptable kind of life which they were destined to lead, in the future. It became, as it were, tacently understood between them, that the wife should toil and moiled to keep her husband. Finae, who had an instinct of liking for work, did not object to this. She was as patient as a saint, provided she had had no drink, thought it quite natural that her

husband should remain idle, and even strove to spare him the most trifling labor. Her little weakness, Anisey, did not make her vicious, but just. On the evenings when she'd forgotten herself in the company of a bottle of her favorite liqueur, if Antoine tried to pick a quarrel with her, she would set upon him with might and main, reproaching him with his idleness and ingratitude. The neighbors grew accustomed to the disturbances which periodically broke out in the couple's room. The two battered each other conscientiously. The wife slapped like a mother, chastised, and naughty child, but the husband, treacherous and spiteful as he was, measured his blows, and on several occasions very nearly crippled the unfortunate woman.

You will be in a fine plight when you've broken one of my arms or legs, she would say to him, who'll keep you, you lazy fellow? Accepting for these turbulent scenes, Antoine began to find his new mode of existence quite endurable. He was well-clothed and ate and drank his fill. He'd laid aside the basket work altogether. Sometimes when he was feeling overboard, he would resolve to play a dozen baskets for the next market day. But very often he did not even finish the first one.

He kept under a couch a bundle of Osir which he did not use up in 20 years. The McCartes had three children, two girls and a boy. Lisa, footnote, the pork-butcher's wife in Le Ventre de Paris, the fat and the thin. Born the first in 1827, one year after the marriage, remained but little at home. She was a fine, big, healthy, full-blooded child, greatly resembling her mother. She did not, however, inherit the latter's animal devotion and endurance. McCart had implanted in her a most decided longing for ease and comfort. While she was a child, she would consent to work for a whole day in return for a cake.

When she was scarcely seven years old, the wife of the postmaster, who was a neighbor of the McCartes, took a liking to her. She made a little maid of her. And when she lost her husband in 1839 and went to live in Paris, she took Lisa with her. The parents had almost given her their daughter. The second child, Jervais, footnote. the chief female character in La Samoir, the dram shop. Born the following year was a cripple from birth. Her right thigh was smaller than the left and showed signs of curvature, a curious hereditary result of the brutality which her mother had to endure

during her fierce drunken brawls with MacArthur. Jervais remained puny, and Féner, observing her pallor and weakness, put her on a course of anise seed under the pretext that she required. something to strengthen her. But the poor child became still more amaciated. She was a tall, lank girl whose frocks, invariably too large, hung round her as if they had nothing under them. Above a deformed and puny body, she had a sweet little doll-like head,

a tiny round face, pale and exquisitely delicate. Her infirmity almost became graceful. Her body swayed gently at every step with a sort of. sort of rhythmical swing. The McCart-son-Jean, footnote, figures prominently in La Terre, the earth, and La Debatele, the downfall, was born three years later. He was a robust child, in no respect recalling Gervais. Like the eldest girl he took after his mother without having any physical resemblance to her, He was the first to import into the Rujon-McCostock, a fat face with regular features,

which showed all the coldness of a grave, yet not over-intelligent nature. This boy grew up with the determination of someday making an independent position for himself. He attended school diligently and tortured his dull brain to force a little arithmetic and spelling into it. After that he became an apprentice, repeating much the same efforts with a perseverance that was the more meritorial, as it took him a whole day to learn what others acquired in an hour. As long as these poor little things remained a burden to the house, Antoine grumbled. They were useless mouths that lessened his own share. He vowed like his brother that he would have no more children,

those greedy creatures who bring their pounds to penury. It was something to hear him bemoan his lot when they sat five at table, and the mother gave the best morsel to jean. Jean, Lisa, and Jervais. That's right, he would growl. Stuff them. Make them burst. Whenever Fiennet bought a garment or a pair of boots for them, he would sulk for days together.

Ah, if he'd only known he would never have had that pack of brats, who compelled him to limit his smoking to four sous' worth of tobacco a day, and too frequently obliged him to eat stewed potatoes for dinner, a dish which he heartily detested. later on however as soon as jean and gervais earned their first francs he found some good in children after all lisa was no longer there he lived upon the earnings of the two others without compunction as he had already lived upon their mother it was a well-planned speculation on his part as soon as little jervais was eight years old she went to a neighboring dealers to crack almonds she there earned ten sous a day with her own as soon as little jervais was eight years old she went to a neighboring dealers to crack almonds she there earned ten sous a day with her father pocketed right royally without even a question for Finet as to what became of the money. The young girl was next apprentice to a laundress, and as soon as she received two francs a day for her work,

but two francs strayed in a similar manner into McCart's hands. Jean, who had learned the trade of a carpenter, was likewise despoiled on pay days, whenever McCart succeeded in catching him before he'd handed the money to his mother. If the money escaped Macauch, which sometimes happened, he became frightfully surly. He would glare at his wife and children for a whole week, picking a quarrel for nothing, although he was, as yet ashamed to confess the real cause of his irritations. On the next payday, however, he would station himself on the watch, and as soon as he had succeeded in pilfering the youngsters' earnings,

he disappeared for days together. Jervais, beaten and brought up in the street, among all the lads of the neighborhood, became a mother when she was fourteen years of age. The father of her child was not eighteen years old. He was a journeyman Tanner named Lantier. At first, McCart was furious, but he calmed down somewhat when he learned that Lantier's mother, a worthy woman, was willing to take charge of a child. He kept Gervais, however.

She was then already earning 25 sous a day, and he therefore avoided, it all question of marriage. Four years later she had a second child, which was likewise taken in by Lantier's mother. This time, Macaw shot his eyes all together, and Winfinay timidly suggested that it was time to come to some understanding with the tanner, in order to end the state of things which made people chatter. He flatly declared that his daughter should not leave him, and that he would give her to her lover later on, when he was worthy of her and had enough money to furnish a home.

This was a fine time for Antoine Maca. He dressed like a gentleman in frock coats in trousers of the finest cloth. Cleanly shaved and almost fat, he was no longer the emaciated, ragged, vagabond who had been wont to frequent the taverns. He dropped into cafes, read the papers, and strolled on the coursovere.

He played the gentlemen, as long as he had any money in his pocket. At times of impecuniosity, he remained at home, exasperated at being kept in his hovel and prevented from taking his customary cup of coffee. On such occasions he would reproach the whole human race with his poverty, making himself ill with rage and envy, until Fiennet, out of pity,

would often give him the last silver coin in the house so that he might spend his evening at the cafe. This dear fellow was fiercely selfish. Jervais, who brought home as much as 60 francs a month, wore only thin cotton frocks, while he had black satin waistcuts made for him by one of the best tailors in Plessons. Jean, the big lad who earned three or four francs a day,

was perhaps robbed even more impudently. The cafe where his father passed entire days was just opposite his master's workshop, and while he had plain or saw in hand, he could see Monsieur Macquard on the other side of the way, sweetening his coffee, or playing Picquet with some petty annuitant. It was his money that the lazy old fellow was gambling away. He, Jean, never stepped inside a cafe. He never had so much as five sous to pay for a drink.

Antoine treated him like a little girl, never leaving him a centim, and always demanding an exact account. of the manner in which he'd employed his time. If the unfortunate lad, led away by some of his mates, wasted a day somewhere in the country on the banks of Avionn, or on the slopes of Gareig, his father would storm and raise his hand and long bear him a grudge on account of the four francs less

that he received at the end of the fortnight. He thus held his son in a state of dependence, sometimes even looking upon the sweetheart whom the young carpenter courted as his own. Several of Gervais's friends used to come to the MacArthur's house, work girls from 16 to 18 years of age, bold and boisterous girls who, on certain evenings, filled the room with youth and gaiety.

Poor Jean, deprived of all pleasure, ever kept at home by the lack of money, looked at these girls with longing eyes. But the childish life which he was compelled to lead had implanted invincible shyness in him in playing with his sister's friends. He was hardly bold enough to touch them with the tips of his fingers. Nacott used to shrug his shoulders with pity. What a simpleton, he would mutter, with an air of ironical superiority.

And it was he who had kissed the girls when his wife's back was turned. He carried his attentions even further with a little laundress whom Jean pursued rather more earnestly than the others. One fine evening he stole her almost from his arms. The old rogue prided himself on his gallantry. There are some men who live upon their mistresses. Antoine Macar lived on his wife and children with as much shamelessness and impudence. He did not feel the least compunction in pillaging the home and going out to enjoy himself when the house was bare. He still assumed a supercilious air returning from the cafe only to rail against the poverty and

wretchedness that awaited him at home. He found the dinner detestable. He called Jervais a blockhead and declared that Jean would never be a man. Immersed in his own selfish indulgence, he rubbed his hands whenever he'd eaten the best piece in the dish, and then he smoked his pipe, puffing slowly, while the two poor children, overcome with fatigue, went to sleep with her heads resting on the table.

Thus, Macaart passed his days in lazy enjoyment. It seemed to him quite natural that he should be kept in idleness like a girl, to sprawl about on the benches of some tavern, or stroll in the cool of a day along the Coor or the Maie. At last he went so far as to relate his amorous escapades in the presence of his son, who listened with glistening eyes.

The children never protested, accustomed as they were to see their mother humble herself before her husband. Finae, that strapping woman who drubbed him soundly when they were both intoxicated, always trembled before him when she was sober, and allowed him to rule despotically at home. He robbed her in the night of the coppers which she'd earned during the day at the market, but she never dared to protest, except by veiled rebukes. Sometimes, when he'd squandered the week's money in advance, he accused her poor thing, who worked herself to death, of being stupid and not knowing how to manage.

Finae, as gentle as a lamb, replied in her soft, clear voice, which contrasted so strangely with her big figure, that she was no longer twenty years old, and that money was becoming hard to earn. In order to console herself, she'd buy a pint of aniseed, and drink little glassfuls of it with her daughter of an evening, after Antoine had gone back to the cafe. That was their dissipation. Jean went to bed while the two women remained at the table, listening attentively in order to remove the bottle and glasses at the first sound.

When Macar was late, they often became intoxicated by the many nips they thus thoughtlessly imbibed. Stupified and gazing at each other with vague smiles, this mother and daughter would end by stuttering. Red patches appeared in Jervais's cheeks. Her delicate doll-like face assumed a look of maudlin beatitude. Nothing could be more heart-rending than to see this wretched, pale child, aglow with a drink and wearing the idiotic smile of a confirmed sot about her moist lips.

Fiennet, huddled up on her chair, became heavy and drowsy. They sometimes forgot to keep watch, or even lacked the strength to remove the bottle and glasses when Antoine's footsteps were heard on the stairs. On these occasions, blows were freely exchanged among the MacArthur's. John had to get up to separate his father and mother and make his sister go to bed, as otherwise she would have slept on the floor. Every political party numbers its grotesques and its villains. Antoine Macaugh, devoured by envy and hatred and meditating revenge against society in general,

welcomed the Republic as a happy era when he would be allowed to fill his pockets from his neighbor's cash box and even strangled the neighbor if the latter manifested any displeasure. His cafe life and all the newspaper articles he'd read without understanding them had made him a terrible ranter

who enunciated the strangest of political theories. It's necessary to have heard one of those malcontents who ill digest what they read haranguing the company in some provincial taproom, in order to conceive the degree of hateful folly at which Macaq had arrived. As he talked a good deal, had seen active service, and was naturally regarded as a man of energy and spirit, he was much sought after and listened to by simpletons.

Although he was not the chief of any party, he had succeeded in collecting around him a small group of workingmen who took his jealous ravings for expressions of honest and conscientious indignation. directly after the revolution of february forty eight he persuaded himself that plexon was his own and as he strolled along the streets the jeering manner in which he regarded the little retail traders who stood terrified at their shop-doors clearly signified Our day has come, my little lambs. We're going to lead you a fine dance. He'd grown insolent beyond belief. He acted the part of a victorious despot to such a degree that he ceased to pay for his drinks at the cafe, and the landlord, a simpleton who trembled whenever Antoine rolled his eyes, dared not present his bill. The number of cups of coffee he consumed during this period was incalculable. Sometimes he invited his friends

and shouted for hours together that the people were dying of hunger and that the rich ought to share their wealth with them. He himself would never have given a sue to a beggar. That which chiefly converted him into a fierce republican was the hope of at last being able to revenge himself on the Rougon who would openly range themselves on the side of the reactionary party. Ah, what a triumph if he could only hold Pierre and Felicity at his mercy. Although the latter had not succeeded over well in business,

they had at last become gentle folks, while he, Macar, had still remained a working man. That exasperated him. Perhaps he was still more mortified because one of their sons was a barrister, another a doctor, and the third a clerk, while his son Jean merely worked at a carpenter's shop and his daughter Jervais at a washerwoman's.

When he compared the Macauch's with the Rouge, he was still more ashamed to see his wife selling chestnuts in the market and bending the greasy old straw-seated chairs of a neighborhood in the evening. Pierre, after all, was but his brother, and had no more right than himself to live fatly on his income. Moreover, this brother was actually playing the gentleman with money stolen from him. Whenever McCart touched upon this subject, he became fiercely enraged. He clambered for hours together, incessantly repeating his old accusations, and never wearying of exclaiming, if my brother was where he ought to be, I should be the moneyed man at the present time. And when anyone asked him where his brother ought to be, he would reply, at the galleys in a formidable voice.

His hatred further increased when the Rujon had gathered the conservatives around them, and thus acquired a certain influence in Placein. The famous yellow drawing room became, in his hairbrain chatter at the cafe, a cave of bandits, an assembly of villains who every evening swore on their daggers that they would murder the people. In order to incite the starvelings against Pierre, McCart went so far as to circulate a report that the retired oil dealer was not so poor as he pretended, but that he concealed his treasures through avarice and fear of robbery. His taxis, his taxis. His tax thus tended to rouse the poor people by a repetition of absurdly ridiculous tales, which he often came to believe in himself.

His personal animosity and his desire for revenge were ill-concealed beneath his professions of patriotism, but he was heard so frequently and he had such a loud voice that no one would have dared to doubt the genuineness of his convictions. At bottom, all the members of this family had the same brutish passions. felicity who clearly understood that macart's wild theories were simply the fruit of restrained rage and embittered envy would much of like to purchase his silence unfortunately she was short of money and did not dare to interest him in the dangerous game which her husband was playing antoine now injured them very much among the well-to-do people of the new town it sufficed that he was a relation of theirs granou and rudiye often scornfully reproached them for having such a man in their family felicite consequently asked herself with anguish how they could manage to cleanse themselves of such a stain it seemed to her monstrous and indecent that monsieur rujon should have a brother whose wife sold chestnuts, and who himself lived in Crapula's idleness. She at last even trembled for the success of their secret intrigues, so long as Antoine seemingly

took pleasure in compromising them. When Mediotrives which he leveled at the yellow drawing room were reported to her, she shuddered at the thought that he was capable of becoming desperate and ruining all their hopes by force of scandal. Antoine knew what consternation, his demeanor, must cause the Rujon, and he was a rougain. and it was solely for the purpose of exhausting their patience that he from day to day affected fiercer opinions. At the cafe he frequented, he used to speak of my brother Pierre, in a voice which made everybody turn around.

And if he happened to meet some reactionary from the yellow drawing room in the street, he'd mutter some low abuse, which the worthy citizen amazed at such audacity would repeat to the Rujon in the evening, as though to make them responsive. for his disagreeable encounter. One day, Grenu arrived in a state of fury.

Really, he exclaimed, when scarcely across the threshold, it's intolerable, one can't move a step without being insulted. Then addressing Pierre, he added, When one has a brother like yours, sir, one should rid society of him. I was just quietly walking past the sub-prefecture, when that rascal passed me muttering something in which I could clearly distinguish the words, Old Rogue.

Felicity turned pale, and felt it necessary to apologize to Grinou, but he refused to accept any excuses and threatened to leave altogether. The Marquise, however, exerted himself to arrange matters. It's very strange, he said, that the wretched fellow should have called you an old rogue. Are you sure that he intended the insult

for you. Grenu was perplexed. He admitted at last, however, that Antoine might have muttered. So you were again going to that old rogues? At this, Monsieur de Connavant stroked his chin to conceal the smile which rose to his lips, in spite of himself. Then, Rougain, with superb composure, replied, I thought as much.

The old rogue was no doubt intended for me. I very glad that this misunderstanding is now cleared up. Gentlemen, pray avoid the man in question, whom I formally repudiate. Felicity, however, did not take matters so coolly. Every fresh scandal caused by Macaugh made her more and more uneasy. She would sometimes pass the whole night wondering what those gentlemen must think of the matter. A few months before the coup d'etat, the Rujon received an anonymous letter,

three pages of foul insults, in which they were warned that if their party should ever triumph, the scandalous story of Adelaide's Amours would be published in some newspaper, together with an account of the robbery perpetrated by Pierre, when he compelled his mother,

driven out of her senses by debauchery, to sign a receipt for 50,000 francs. This letter was a heavy blow for Rujon himself. Felicity could not refrain from reproaching her husband with his disreputable family, for the husband and wife never for a moment doubted that this letter was Antoine's work. We shall have to get rid of the blackguard at any price, said Pierre in a gloomy tone. He's becoming too troublesome by far. In the meantime, McCart, resorting to his former tactics,

looked round among his own relatives for accomplices who would join him against the Rougon. He'd counted upon Aristide at first on reading his terrible articles in the independant. But the young man, in spite of all his jealous rage, was not so foolish as to make common cause with such a fellow as his uncle. He never even minced matters with him, but invariably kept him at a distance, a circumstance which induced Antoine to regard him suspiciously. In the taverns, where MacArthur reigned supreme, people went so far as to say the journalist was paid to provoke disturbances. Baffled on this side,

Macar had no alternative but to sound his sister Ursul's children. Ursul had died in 1839, thus fulfilling her brother's evil prophecy. The nervous affliction which he had inherited from her mother had turned into slow consumption, which gradually killed her. She left three children, a daughter, 18 years of age, named Elaine, who married a clerk, and two boys, the elder,

Francois, a young man of 23, and the younger, a sickly little fellow, scarcely six years old, named Silvere. The death of his wife, whom he adored, proved a thunderbolt to Moray. He dragged on his existence for another year, neglecting his business and losing all the money he'd saved. Then, one morning, he was found hand. in a cupboard, where Ursul's dresses were still suspended. His elder son, who had received a good commercial training,

took a situation in the house of his uncle Rujon, where he replaced Aristide, who had just left. Rujon, in spite of his profound hatred for the macar, gladly welcomed this nephew, whom he knew to be industrious and sober. He was in want of a youth, whom he could trust, and who would help him to retrieve his affairs. Moreover, during the time of Moray's prosperity, he'd learned to esteem the young couple, who knew how to make money, and thus he had soon become reconciled with his sister.

Perhaps he thought he was making Francois some compensation by taking him into his business. Having robbed the mother, he'd shield himself from remorse by giving employment of a son. Even rogues make honest calculations sometimes. It was, however, a good thing for him. If the house of Rujon did not make a fortune at this time, it was certainly through no fault of that quiet, punctilious youth, Francois, who seemed born to pass his life behind a grocer's counter, between a jar of oil and a bundle of dried codfish.

Although he physically resembled his mother, he inherited from his father a just if narrow mind, with an instinctive liking for a methodical life and the safe speculations of a small business. three months after his arrival, Pierre, pursuing his system of compensation, married him to his young daughter, Marta. Footnote, both Francois and Marta figure largely in the conquest of Plausanne, whom he did not know how to dispose of. But two young people fell in love with each other quite suddenly in a few days. A peculiar circumstance had doubtless determined and enhanced their mutual affection.

there was a remarkably close resemblance between them, suggesting that of brother and sister. Francois inherited, through Ursul, the face of his grandmother Adelaide. Marta's case was still more curious. She was an equally exact portrait of Adelaide, although Pierre Rougeon had none of his mother's features distinctly marked. The physical resemblance had, as it were, passed over Pierre to reappear in his daughter. The similarity between husband and wife went, however, no further than their faces. If the worthy son of a steady, matter-of-fact, Hatter was distinguishable in Francois, maurto showed the nervousness and mental weakness of her grandmother.

Perhaps it was this combination of physical resemblance and moral dissimilarity, which threw the young people into each other's arms. From 1840 to 1844, they had three children. francois remained in his uncle's employ until the latter retired pierre had desired to sell him the business but the young man knew what small chance there was of making a fortune in trade at plaquesne so he declined the offer and repaired to marseilles where he established himself with his little savings Mercos soon had to abandon all hope of dragging this big industrious fellow into his campaign against a rougain. Whereupon, with all the spite of a lazy-bones, he regarded him as a cunning miser. He fancied, however, that he had discovered the accomplish he was seeking in Moray's second son, a lad of fifteen years of age. Young Silvert had never even been to school at the time when Moray was found hanging among his wife's skirts.

His elder brother, not knowing what to do with him, took him also to his uncles. The latter made a wry face on beholding the child. He had no intention of carrying his compensation so far as to feed a useless mouth. Thus, Silvere, to whom Felicity also took a dislike, was growing up in tears like an unfortunate little outcast, when his grandmother Adelaide, during one of the rare visits she paid the rougon, took pity on him and expressed the wish to have him with her. Pierre was delighted he let the child go without even suggesting an increase of the paltry allowance that he made Adelaide,

and which henceforward would have to suffice for two. Adelaide was then nearly seventy-five years of age. Grown old while leading a cloistered existence, she was no longer Galanky, ardent girl who formerly ran to embrace the smuggler Macar. she had stiffened and hardened in her hovel in the impasse Saint-Mitre, that dismal, silent hole, where she lived entirely alone on potatoes and dry vegetables, and which she did not leave once in the course of a month. On seeing her pass, you might have thought her to be one of those delicately white old nuns

with automatic gait, whom the cloister is kept apart from all the concerns of this world. Her pale face, always scrupulously girt with a white cap, looked like that of a dying woman. A vague, calm countenance it was, whirring an air of supreme indifference. Prolonged taciturnity had made her dumb. The darkness of her dwelling and the continual sight of the same objects had dulled her glance

and given her eyes the limpidity of spring water. Absolute renunciation, slow physically, and moral death had little by little converted this crazy amorosa into a grave matron. When has often happened, a blank stare came into her eyes, and she gazed before her without seeing anything. One could detect utter internal void through those deep, bright cavities. Nothing now remained of her former voluptuous ardor, but weariness of the flesh and a senile tremor of the hands. She had once loved, like a she-wolf, but was now wasted, already sufficiently worn out for the grave.

There had been strange workings of her nerves during her long years of chastity. A dissolute life would perhaps have wrecked her less than the slow, hidden ravishes of unsatisfied fever which had modified her organism. Sometimes, even now, this marabund, pale old woman, who seemed to have no blood left in her, was seized with nervous fits like electric shocks, which gave. galvanized her, and for an hour brought her atrocious intensity of life. She'd lie on her bed rigid with her eyes open. Then hiccups would come upon her, and she'd writhe and struggle, acquiring the frightful strength of those hysterical madwomen whom one has to tie down in order to prevent them from breaking their heads against the wall. This returned to former vigor.

These sudden attacks gave her a terrible shock. When she came to again, she would stagger about with such a scared, stupefied look that the gossips of the Foborg used to say, she's been drinking the crazy old thing. Little Silvair's childish smile was for her the last pale ray which brought some warmth to her frozen limbs. Weary of solitude and frightened at the thought of dying alone in one of her fits, she had asked to have the child. With a little fellow running about near her, she felt secure against death.

Without relinquishing her habits of taciturnity, or seeking to render her automatic movements more supple, she conceived inexpressible affection for him. Stiff and speechless, she'd watch him playing for hours together, listening with delight to the intolerable noise with which he filled the old hovel. That tomb had resounded with uproar ever since, Sivair had been running about it, bestriding broomsticks, knocking up against the doors, and

shouting and crying. He brought Adelaide back to the world, as it were. She looked after him with the most adorable awkwardness. She, who in her youth, had neglected the duties of a mother, now felt the divine pleasures of maternity in washing his face, dressing him, and watching over his sickly life. It was a reawakening of love, a last soothing passion which heaven had granted to this woman who'd been so ravaged by the want of someone to love, but touching agony of a heart that had lived amidst the most acute desires in which was now dying, full of love for a child. She was already too far gone to pour forth the babble of good plump grandmothers. She adored the child in secret, with the bashfulness of a young girl, without knowing how to fondle

him. Sometimes she took him on her knees and gazed at him for a long time with her pale eyes. When the little one, frightened by her mute white visage, began to cry, she seemed perplexed by what she had done and quickly put him down upon the floor without even kissing him. Perhaps she recognized in him a faint resemblance to Macaugh, the poacher. Silveir grew up, ever tit-a-tete with Adelaide. With childless cajolery, he used to call her auntie. He used to call her Aunt Dide, a name which ultimately clung to the old woman. The word aunt employed in this way is simply a term of endearment in Provence. The child entertained singular affection, not unmixed with respectful terror for his grandmother. During her nervous fits, when he was

quite a little boy, he ran away from her crying, terrified by his figured countenance, and he came back very timidly after the attack, ready to run away again, as though the old woman were disposed to beat him. Later on, however, when he was twelve years old, he would stop there bravely and watch in order that she might not hurt herself by falling off the bed. He stood for hours holding her tightly in his arms to subdue the rude shocks which distorted her.

During intervals of calmness, he would gaze with pity on her convulsed features and withered frame, over which her skirts lay like a shroud. These hidden dramas which recurred every month, this old woman as rigid as a corpse, this child bent over her silently watching for the return of consciousness, made up amidst the darkness of the hovel a strange picture of mournful horror and broken-hearted tenderness. When Aunt Dede came round, she'd get up with difficulty and said about her work in the hovel without even questioning Silvert. She remembered nothing, and the child from a sort of instinctive prudence avoided the least allusion to what it

taken place. These recurring fits more than anything else strengthened Silvair's deep attachment for his grandmother. In the same manner as she adored him without any garrulous effusiveness, he felt a secret, almost bashful affection for her. While he was really very grateful to her for having taken him in and brought him up, he could not help regarding her as an extraordinary creature, a prey to some strange malady whom he ought to pity and respect. No doubt there was not sufficient life left in Adelaide. She was too white and too stiff for Silvair to throw himself on her neck. Thus they lived together amidst melancholy silence, in the depths of which they felt the tremor

of boundless love. This ends chapter four, part one. Section 9 of The Fortune of the Rujon, book one of Rujon Macca cycle, by Emil Zola, translated by Henry Bzzitelli. This Libre Vox recording is in the public domain. Read by Mark Leder. Chapter 4 Part 2

The sad, solemn atmosphere, which he breathed from childhood, gave to there a strong heart, in which gathered every form of enthusiasm. He early became a serious, thoughtful little man, seeking instruction with a kind of stubbornness. He only learned a little spelling and arithmetic at the school of the Christian brothers, which he was compelled to leave when he was but 12 years old on account of his apprenticeship.

He never acquired the first rudiments of knowledge. However, he read all the odd volumes which fell into his hands and thus provided himself with strange equipment. He had some notions of a multitude of subjects, ill-digested notions, which he could never classify distinctly in his head. When he was quite young, he'd been in the habit of playing in the workshop of a master wheelwright,

a worthy man named Vien, who lived at the entrance of the blind alley in front of the Ars Saint-Mitre, where he stored his timber. Severe used to jump up in the wheels of the tilted carts undergoing repair and amuse himself by dragging about the heavy tools which his tiny hands could scarcely lift. One of his greatest pleasures too was to assist the workmen

by holding some piece of wood for them or bringing them the ironwork which they required. When he had grown older he naturally became apprentice to Vianne. The latter had taken a liking to the little fellow who was always kicking about his heels, and asked Adelaide to let him come, refusing to take anything for his board and lodging. Silvere eagerly accepted,

already foreseeing the time when he would be able to make his poor aunt Diday some return for all she had spent upon him. In a short time he became an excellent workman. He cherished, however, much higher ambitions. Having once seen at a coachbuilder's at Placein, a fine new carriage shining with varnish, he vowed that he would one day build carriages himself. He remembered this carriage as a rare and unique work of art,

an ideal towards which his aspiration should tend. But tilted carts at which he worked in Vian's shop, those carts which he had lovingly cherished, now seemed unworthy of his affections. He began to attend the local drawing school, where he formed a connection with a youngster who had left college, and who lent him an old treatise on geometry. He plunged into the study without a guide,

racking his brains for weeks together in order to grasp the simplest problem in the world. In this matter, he gradually became one of those learned workmen who can hardly sign their name and yet talk about algebra as though it were an intimate friend. Nothing unsettles the mind so much as this desultory kind of education, which reposes on no firm basis.

Most frequently, such scraps of knowledge convey an absolutely false idea of the highest truths and render persons of limited intellect insufferably stupid. In Silvair's case, however, his scraps of stolen knowledge only augmented his liberal aspirations. He was conscious of horizons which at present remained closed to him. He formed for himself divine conceptions of things beyond his reach, and lived on regarding in a deep, innocent, religious way,

the noble thoughts and grand conceptions towards which he was raising himself, but which he could not as yet comprehend. He was one of the simple-minded, one whose simplicity was divine, and who had remained on the threshold of a temple, kneeling before the tapers, which from a distance he took for stars. The hovel in the impasse Saint-Mitre consisted in the first place

of a large room into which the street door opened. The only pieces of furniture in this room, which had a stone floor, and served both as a kitchen and a dining room, were some straw-seated chairs, a table on trestles, and an old coffer which Adelaide had converted into a sofa by spreading a piece of woolen stuff over the lid.

In the left-hand corner of a large fireplace stood a plaster image of the Holy Virgin, surrounded by artificial flowers. She's the traditional good mother of all old prevenile women, however irreligious they may be. A passage led from the room into a yard situated at the rear of the house. In this yard there was a well. Auntie Day's bedroom was on the left side of the passage. It was a little apartment containing an iron bedstead and one chair.

So there slept in a still smaller room on the right-hand side, just large enough for a trestle bedstead. and he had been obliged to plan a set of shelves, reaching up to the ceiling, to keep by him all those dear odd volumes which he saved his sue to purchase from a neighboring general dealer. When he read at night time, he would hang his lamp on a nail at the head of the bed. If his grandmother had an attack, he merely had to leap out at the first gasp to be at her side in a moment. The young man led the life of a child. he passed his existence in this lonely spot.

Like his father, he felt a dislike for taverns and Sunday strolling. His mates wounded his delicate susceptibilities by their coarse jokes. He preferred to read, to rack his brain over some simple geometrical problem. Since Auntie Day had entrusted him with a little household commission, she did not go out at all, but ceased all intercourse even with her family. The young man sometimes thought of her forlornness. He reflected that the poor old woman lived but a few steps from the children who strove to forget her, as though she were dead, and this made him love her all the more, for himself and for the others.

When he at times entertained a vague idea that Aunt D. Day might be expiating some former transgressions, he would say to himself, I was born to pardon her. A nature such as Silveur's, ardent yet self-restrained, naturally cherished the most exalted Republican ideas. At night, in his little hovel, Silvert would again and again read a work of Rousseau's, which he had picked up at the neighboring dealers among a number of old books.

The reading of this book kept him awake till daylight. Amidst his dream of universal happiness so dear to the poor, the words liberty, equality, fraternity rang in his ears like those sonorous sacred calls of the bells, at the sound of which the faithful fall upon their knees. When, therefore, he learnt that the Republic had just been proclaimed in France, he fancied that the whole world would enjoy a life of celestial beatitude. His knowledge, though imperfect, made him see farther than other workmen. His aspirations did not stop it daily bread, but his extreme ingenuousness, his complete ignorance of

mankind kept him in the dreamland of theory, a garden of Eden where universal justice reigned. His paradise was for a long time, a delightful spot in which he forgot himself. When he came to perceive that things did not go on quite satisfactorily in the best of republics, he was sorely grieved and indulged in another dream, that of compelling men to be happy, even by force. Every act would seem to him prejudicial to the interest of the people roused him to revengeful indignation. Though he was as gentle as a child,

he cherished the fiercest political animosity. He would not have killed a fly, yet he was forever talking of a call to arms. Liberty was his passion, and unreasoning absolute passion to which he gave all the feverish ardor of his blood. Blinded by enthusiasm, he was both too ignorant and too learned to be tolerant

and would not allow for men's weaknesses. He required an ideal government of perfect justice and perfect liberty. It was at this period that Antoine Macquard thought of setting him against the Rougon. He fancied that this young enthusiast would work terrible havoc if he were only exasperated to the proper pitch.

This calculation was not altogether devoid of shrewdness. Such being Antoine's scheme, he tried to induce Silvair to visit him by professing inordinate admiration for the young man's ideas. But he very nearly compromised the whole matter at the outset. He had a way of regarding the triumph of the Republic as a question of personal interest as an era of happy idleness and endless junketing,

which chilled his nephew's purely moral aspirations. However, he perceived that he was on the wrong track and plunged into strange bathos, a string of empty but high-sounding words, which Silvair accepted as a satisfactory proof of his civism. Before long the uncle and the nephew saw each other two or three times a week, during their long discussions in which the fate of the country, country was flatly settled, and Juan endeavored to persuade the young man that the Rujon's

drawing-room was the chief obstacle to the welfare of France. But he again made a false move by calling his mother, Old Jade, in Silvair's presence. He even repeated to him the early scandals about the poor woman. The young man blushed for shame, but listened without interruption. He had not asked his uncle for this information. He felt heartbroken by such confidence. which wounded his feeling of respectful affection for Aunt Dede. From that time forward he lavished yet more affection upon his grandmother, greeting her always with pleasant smiles and looks of forgiveness. However, Maccault felt that he had acted foolishly

and strove to think advantage of Silvair's affection for Adelaide by charging the Rougeon with her forlornness and poverty. According to him, he'd always been the best of sons, whereas his brother had behaved disgracefully. Pierre had robbed his mother, and now when she was penniless, he was ashamed of her. He never ceased discanting on this subject. So there, thereupon became indignant with his uncle Pierre,

much to the satisfaction of his uncle Antoine. The scene was much the same every time the young man called. He used to come in the evening while the Macaurs were at dinner. The father would be swallowing some potato stew with a growl. picking out the pieces of bacon and watching the dish when it passed into the hands of Jean and Jervais. You see, Silvert, he would say with a sullen rage, which was ill-conceived beneath his air of cynical indifference. More potatoes. Always potatoes. We never eat anything else now. Meat is only for rich people. It's getting quite impossible to make both ends meet with children who have the devil's appetite and their own too.

Chavez and Jean bent over their plates, no longer even daring to cut some bread. Silvair, who in his dream lived in heaven, did not grasp the situation. In a calm voice he pronounced these storm-laden words. But you should work, uncle. Ah, yes, sneered McCart, stung to the quick. You want me to work, eh? To let those beggars, the rich folk, continued to pray upon me. I should earn probably 20 sous a day and ruin my constitution.

It's worthwhile, isn't it? Everyone earns what he can, the young man replied. Twenty sous or 20 sous, and it all helps in a home. Besides, you're an old soldier. Why don't you seek some employment? Fene would then interpose, with the thoughtlessness of which she soon repented. That's what I'm always telling him, said she. The market inspector wants an assuited.

I mentioned my husband to him, and he seems well-disposed towards us. But McCart interrupted her with a fulminating glance. Hey, hold your tongue, he growled with suppressed anger. Women never know what they're talking about. Nobody would have me. My opinions are too well known. Every time he was offered employment, he displayed similar irritation. He did not cease, however, to ask for situations, though he always refused such as were

found for him, assigning the most extraordinary reasons. When pressed upon the point, he became terrible. If Jean were to take up a newspaper after dinner, he would at once exclaim, you'd better go to bed. You'll be getting up late tomorrow, and that'll be another day lost. To think of that young rascal coming home with eight franc short last week. However, I've requested his master not give him his money in future. I'll call for it my himself. Jean would go to bed to avoid his father's recriminations. He had but little sympathy with Silvere. Politics bored him, and he thought his cousin cracked. When only the women remained,

if they unfortunately started some whispered converse after clearing the table, McCart would cry, now, you idlers, is there nothing that requires mending? We're all in rags. Look here, Chavez, I was at your mistresses today, and I learned some fine. things. You're a good for nothing, a gad about. Jervais, now a grown girl of more than twenty, colored up at thus being scolded in the presence of Silvert, who himself felt uncomfortable. One evening, having come rather late when his uncle was not at home,

he'd found the mother and daughter intoxicated before an empty bottle. From that time he could never see his cousin without recalling the disgraceful spectacle she had presented with the maudlin gris. and large red patches on her poor pale, puny face. He was not less shocked by the nasty stories that circulated with regard to her. He sometimes looked at her stealthily, with the timid surprise of a schoolboy in the presence of a disreputable character. When the two women had taken up their needles and were ruining their eyesight in order to mend his old shirts,

McCart, taking the best seat, would throw himself back with an air of delicious comfort and sip and smoke like a man who relishes his laziness. This was the time when the old rogue generally railed against the wealthy for living on the sweat of the poor man's brow. He was superbly indignant with the gentleman of a new town who lived so idly and compelled the poor to keep them in luxury. The fragments of communistic notions which he called from the newspapers in the morning became grotesque and monstrous unfolding from his lips.

He would talk of a time near at hand when no one would be obliged to work. He always, however, kept his fiercest animosity for the rougon. He never could digest the potatoes he'd eaten. I saw that vile creature, Felicity, buying a chicken in the market this morning. He would say, those robbers of inheritance must eat chicken forsooth. Antide, interposed Silvert, says that Uncle Pierre was very kind to you when you left the army. Didn't he spend a large sum of money in lodging and clothing you?

A large sum of money, roared McCart in exasperation. Your grandmother is mad. It was those thieves who spread those reports themselves, so as to close my mouth. I never had anything. Fiener again foolishly interfered, reminding him that he'd received two hundred francs beside a suit of clothes and a year's rent.

Antoine thereupon shouted to her to hold her tongue And continued with increasing fury 200 francs A fine thing I want my due Ten thousand francs Ah yes talk of the hole they shoved me into like a dog And the old frock coat which Pierre gave me

Because he was ashamed to wear it any longer himself It was so dirty and ragged He was not speaking the truth but seeing the rage that he was in, nobody ventured to protest any further. Then, turning towards Silvair, it's very stupid of you to defend them, he added. They robbed your mother, who good woman,

would be alive now if she had had the means of taking care of herself. Oh, you're not just, uncle, the young man said. My mother did not die for want of attention, and I'm certain my father would never have accepted a sue from his wife's family. Pooh, don't talk to me. me, your father would have taken the money just like anybody else. We were disgracefully plundered, and it's high time we had our rights. Then McCart, for the hundredth time, began to recount the story of the 50,000 francs. His nephew, who knew it by heart and all the variations with which

he embellished it, listened to him rather impatiently. If you were a man, Antoine would say in conclusion, you would come someday with me, and we would kick up a nice row at the rougon. We would not leave without having some money given us. Silvert, however, grew serious and frankly replied, If those wretches robbed us, so much the worse for them. I don't want their money. You see, Uncle, it's not for us to fall on our relatives. If they've done wrong, well, one of these days they'll be severely punished for it.

Ah, what a big simpleton you are, the uncle cried. When we have the upper hand, you'll see whether I shan't settle my own little affairs myself. God cares a lot about us, indeed. What a foul family ours is. Even if I was starving to death, not one of those scoundrels would throw me a dry crust. Whenever McCart touched upon this subject, he proved inexhaustible. He bared all his bleeding wounds of envy and covetousness. He grew mad with rage when he came to think that he was the only unlucky one in the family

and was forced to eat potatoes while the others had meat to their hearts content. He would pass all his relations in review, even his grand nephews, and find some grievance and reason for threatening every one of them. Yes, yes, he repeated bitterly, they'd leave me to die like a dog. Jervais, without raising her head or ceasing to ply her needle, would sometimes say timidly, Still, father, Cousin Pascal, was very kind to us last year when you were ill. He attended you without charging the sue, continued Fénie, coming to her daughter's aid, and he often slipped a five-franc piece into my hand to make you some broth.

He, he'd have killed me if I hadn't had a strong constitution, McCart retorted. Hold your tongues, you fools. You'd let yourself be twisted about like children. They'd all like to see me dead. When I'm ill again, I beg you not to go and fetch my nephew, for I didn't feel at all comfortable in his hands. He's only a two-penny, half-penny doctor, and hasn't got a decent patient in all his practice.

When once McCart was fully launched, he could not stop. It's like that little viper, Aristide, he would say, a false brother, a traitor. Are you taken in by his articles in the independents, Silvert? You'd be a fine fool if you were. They're not even written in good French. I've always maintained that this contraband Republican is in league with his worthy father to humbug us.

You'll see how he'll turn his coat. And his brother, the illustrious Eugen, that big blockhead of whom the Rujon makes such a fuss. Why, they've got the impudence to assert that he occupies a good position in Paris. I know something about his position. He's implored at the Rue de Jerusalem. He's a police spy.

Who told you so? You know nothing about it, interrupted Silvere, whose upright spirit at last felt hurt by his uncle's lying accusations. Ah, I know nothing about it. Do you think so? I'll tell you he's a police spy. You'll be shorn like a lamb one of these days with your benevolence. You're not manly enough.

I don't want to say anything against you. your brother Francois, but if I were in your place, I shouldn't like the scurvy manner in which he treats you. He earns a heap of money at Marseilles, and yet he never sends you a paltry, 20-franc piece for pocket money. If ever you become poor, I shouldn't advise you to look to him for anything. I've no need of anybody, the young man replied, in a proud and slightly injured tone of voice. My own work suffices for Auntie Day and myself. You are cruel, uncle. I only say what's true, that's all. I should like to open your eyes. Our family is a disreputable lot. It's sad but true. Even that little Maxime, Aristide's son, that little nine-year-old

brat, posts his tongue out at me when he meets me. That child will someday beat his own mother and a good job, too. Say what you like? All those folks don't deserve their luck, but it's always like this in families, the good ones suffer, while the best of bad ones make their fortunes. All this dirty linen, which McCart washed with such complacency before his nephew, profoundly disgusted the young man. He would have liked to soar back into his dream.

As soon as he began to show unmistakable signs of impatience, Antoine would employ strong expedience to exasperate him against their relatives. Defend them! Defend them, he would say, appearing to calm down. I, from my part, have arranged to have nothing more to do with them. I only mention the matter out of pity for my poor mother, whom all that gang treat in a most revolting manner.

They are wretches, Sylvia murmured. Oh, you don't know. You don't understand. These rougain pour all sorts of insults and abuse on the good woman. Aristides is forbidden his son, even to recognize her. Felicity talks of having her placed in a lunatic asylum. The young man as white as a sheet, abruptly interrupted his uncle. Enough, he cried. I don't want to know any more about it. There will have to be an end to all this.

I'll hold my tongue since it annoys you, the old rascal replied, feigning a good-natured manner. Still, there are some things that you ought not to be ignorant of unless you want to play the part of a fool. McCart, while exerting himself to set Silvere against the Rujon, experienced the keenest pleasure on drawing tears of anguish from the young man's eyes. He detested him perhaps more than he did the others, and this because he was an excellent workman and never drank. He brought all his instincts of refined cruelty into play in order to invent atrocious falsehoods which should sting the poor lad to the heart.

Then he reveled in his pallor, his trembling hands, in his heart-rending looks, with the delight of some evil spirit who measures his stabs and finds that he has struck his victim in the right place. When he thought that he had wounded and exasperated Silvert sufficiently, he would at last touch upon politics. I've been assured, he would say, lowering his voice, that the Rujon are preparing some treachery. Treachery, Silvert asked, becoming attentive.

Yes, one of these nights they're going to seize all the good citizens of the town and throw them into prison. The young man was at first disposed to doubt it, but his uncle gave precise details. He spoke of lists that had been drawn up. He mentioned the persons whose names were on these lists. He indicated in what manner, at what hour, and under what circumstances the plot would be carried into effect.

Silvere gradually allowed himself to be taken in by this old woman's tale and was soon raving against the enemies of the Republic. it's they we shall have to reduce to impotence if they persist in betraying the country he cried and what do they intend to do with the citizens whom they arrest what do they intend to do with them why they will shoot them in the lowest dungeons of the prison of course replied mccart with a hoarse laugh And as the young man stupefied with horror, looked at him without knowing what to say, this will not be the first lot to be assassinated there, he continued. You need only go and prowl about the Palais de Justice of an evening to hear the shots and groans. Oh, the wretches, Silvere murmured. Thereupon, Uncle and Nephew launched out into high politics.

Fine and Gervais on finding them hotly debating things, quietly went to bed without attracting their attention. Then the two men remained together till midnight, commenting on the news from Paris and discussing the approaching and inevitable struggle. McCar bitterly denounced the men of his own party. Salver dreamed his dream of ideal liberty aloud, and for himself only.

Strange conversations these were, during which the uncle poured out many a little nip for himself, and from which the nephew emerged quite in time, intoxicated with enthusiasm. Antoine, however, never succeeded in obtaining from the young Republican any perfidious suggestion or play of warfare against the Rujon. In vain he tried to go him on. He seldom heard him suggest aught but an appeal to eternal justice, which sooner or later would punish the evil doers. The ingenuous youth did indeed speak warmly of taking up arms and massacring the enemies of the Republic. But as soon as these enemies,

strayed out of his dreams or became personified in his uncle Pierre or any other person of his acquaintance. He relied upon heaven to spare him the horror of shedding blood. It is very probable that he would have ceased visiting McCart, whose jealous fury made him so uncomfortable, if he had not tasted the pleasure of being able to speak freely of his dear republic there. In the end, however, his uncle exercised decisive influence over his destiny. He irritated it. He irritated his nerves by his everlasting diatribes and succeeded in making him eager for an armed struggle the conquest of universal happiness by violence. When Sylvia reached his 16th year, Macart had him admitted into the secret society of the Montagnar, a powerful association whose

influence extended throughout southern France. From that moment, the young Republican gazed with longing eyes at the smuggler's carbine, which Adelaide had hung over her chimney piece. one night while his grandmother was asleep he cleaned and put it in proper condition then he replaced it on its nail and waited indulging in brilliant reveries fancying gigantic epics homeric struggles and nightly tournaments whence the defenders of liberty would emerge victorious and acclaimed by the whole world mccart meanwhile was not discouraged he said to himself that he would be able to strangle the rujon alone if he could ever get them into a corner his envious rage and slothful greed were increased by certain successive accidents which compelled him to resume work in the early part of eighteen fifty finney died almost suddenly from inflammation of the lungs which he'd caught by going one evening to wash the family linen in the vjorn and carrying it home wet on her back. She returned soaked with water and perspiration, bowed down by her load,

which was terribly heavy, and she never recovered. Her death filled McCart with consternation. His most reliable source of income was gone. When, a few days later, he sold the cauldron in which his wife had boiled her chestnuts, and the wooden horse which she used in receding old chairs, he fouledly accused the divinity of having a,

robbed him of that strong, strapping woman of whom he had often felt ashamed, but whose real worth he now appreciated. He now also fell upon the children's earnings with greater avidity than ever. But a month later, Jervais, tired of his continual exactions, ran away with her two children and Lantier,

whose mother was dead. The lovers took refuge in Paris. Antoine, overwhelmed, vented his rage against his daughter by expressing the hope that she might die in hospital like most of her kind. This abuse did not, however, improve the situation, which was decidedly becoming bad. Jean soon followed his sister's example. He waited for payday to come round and then contrived to receive the money himself.

As he was leaving, he told one of his friends, who repeated it to Antoine, that he would no longer keep his lazy father, and that if a latter should take it into his head to have him brought back by the gendarme, he would touch neither saw nor plain. On the morrow, when Antoine, having vainly saw him, found himself alone and penniless in the house where for twenty years he'd been comfortably kept, he flew into the most frantic rage, kicked the furniture about, and yelled the vilest imprecations. Then he sat down, exhausted, and began to drag himself about and moan like a convalescent. The fear of having to earn his bread made him positively ill.

When Silvert came to see him, he complained with tears of his children's ingratitude. Had he not always been a good father to them? John and Chavez were monsters who'd made him an evil return for all he'd done for them. Now they abandoned him because he was old, and they could not get anything more out of him. But uncle, said Silvert, you are not yet too old to work. mccart coughing and stooping shook his head mournfully as if to say that he could not bear the least fatigue for any length of time just as his nephew was about to withdraw he borrowed ten francs of him then for a month he lived by taking his children's old clothes one by one to a second-hand dealers and in the same way little by little he sold all the small articles in the house soon nothing remained but a table a chair his bed his bed and the clothes on his back.

He ended by exchanging the walnut wood bedstead for a plain strap one. When he had exhausted all his resources, he cried with rage, and with the fierce pallor of a man who was resigned to suicide, he went to look for the bundle of Osir that he'd forgotten in some corner for a quarter of a century passed. As he took it up, he seemed to be lifting a mountain. However, he again began to plate baskets and hampers while denouncing the human race for their neglect.

It was particularly at this time that he talked of dividing and sharing the riches of the wealthy. He showed himself terrible. His speeches kept up a constant conflagration in the tavern where his furious look secured him unlimited credit. Moreover, he only worked when he'd been unable to get a five-franc piece out of Silvair or a comrade. He was no longer Monsieur Maccault, the clean-shaven workman,

who wore his Sunday clothes every day and played the gentleman. He again became the big slovenly devil who had once speculated on his rags. Felicite did not dare to go to market now that he was so often coming there to sell his baskets. He once had a violent quarrel with her there. His hatred against the Rujon grew with his wretchedness. He swore with horrible threats that he would wreak just himself, since the rich were leagued together to compel him to toil. In this state of mind, he welcomed the coup d'etat with the ardent,

obstreperous delight of a hound scenting the quarry. As the few honest liberals in the town had failed to arrive at an understanding amongst themselves, and therefore kept apart, he became naturally one of the most prominent agents of the insurrection. The working classes, notwithstanding the unfavorable opinion in which they at last entertained of this lazy fellow, would when the time arrived have to accept him as a rallying flag. On the first few days, however,

the town remained quiet, and McCart thought that his plans were frustrated. It was not until the news arrived of the rising of the rural districts that he recovered hope. For his own part, he would not have left Pleasant for all the world, accordingly. He invented some pretext for not following those workmen

who, on the Sunday morning, set off to join the insurrectionary band of La Palou and Saint-Martown-Devaux. On the evening of the same day, he was sitting in some disreputable tavern of the old quarter with a few friends. When a comrade came to inform him that the insurgents were only a few miles from Placein. This news had just been brought by an express

who had succeeded in making his way into the town and had been charged to get the gates open for the column. There was an outburst of triumph. Maccair especially appeared to be delirious with enthusiasm. The unforeseen arrival of the insurgents seemed to him a delicate attention of providence for his own particular benefit. His hands trembled at the idea that he would soon hold the Rujon by the throat. He hastily quitted the Tavern with his friends.

All the Republicans who had not yet left the town were soon assembled on the Kosovoire. It was this ban that Rujon had perceived as he was hastening to conceal himself in his mother's house. When the band had reached the top of the Rue de la Ban, Macca, who had stationed himself at the rear, detained four of his companions, big fellows who were not overburdened with brains and whom he swayed by his tavern bluster. He easily persuaded them that the enemies of the Republic

must be arrested immediately if they wished to prevent the greatest calamities. The truth was that he feared Pierre might escape him in the midst of the confusion which the entry of the insurgents would produce. However, the four big fellows followed him with exemplary docility and knocked violently at the door of the Rujon's abode. In this critical situation, Felicity displayed admirable courage.

She went down and opened the street door herself. We want to go upstairs into your rooms, Macaugh said to her brutally. Very well, gentlemen. Walk up, she replied with ironical politeness, pretending that she did not recognize her brother-in-law. Once upstairs Macaard ordered her to fetch her husband. "'My husband is not here,' she said with perfect calmness. "'He's traveling on business.

"'He took the diligence for Marseilles at six o'clock this evening.' Antoine at this declaration, which Felicity uttered in a clear voice, made a gesture of rage. He rushed through the drawing-room and then into the bedroom, turned the bed up, looked behind the curtains and under the furniture. The four big fellows assisted him. They searched the place for a quarter of an hour.

Felicity meantime quietly seated herself on the drawing-room sofa and began to fasten the strings of her petticoats, like a person who'd been surprised in her sleep and had not had time to dress properly. It's true, then. He's run away, the coward! McCart muttered on returning to the drawing-room. Nevertheless, he continued to look about him with a suspicious air. He felt a presentiment that Pierre could not have given up the game

at the decisive moment. At last he approached Felicity, who was yawning. Show us the place where your husband is hidden, he said to her, and I promise no harm shall be done to him. I've told you the truth, she replied impatiently. I can't deliver my husband to you as he's not here. You've searched everywhere, haven't you? Then leave me alone now. McCart, exasperated by her composure, was just going to strike her when the rumbling noise arose from the street. It was the column of insurgents entering the Rue de Laban. He then had to leave the yellow drawing room after shaking his fist at his sister-in-law, calling her an old jade and threatening that he would soon return.

At the foot of a staircase, he took one of the men who accompanied him, a navvy named Cassute, the most wooden header of the fore, and ordered him to sit on the first step and remember, there. You must come and inform me, he said to him, if you see the scoundrel from upstairs return. The man sat down heavily. When McCart reached the pavement, he raised his eyes and observed Felicity, leaning out of the window of the yellow drawing room, watching the march past of the insurgents, as if it was nothing but a regiment passing through the town to the strains of its band. This last sign of perfect composure irritated him to such a degree that he was almost tempted to go up again and throw the old woman into the street.

However, he followed the column, muttering in a hoarse voice, Yes, yes, look at us passing. We'll see whether you'll station yourself at your balcony tomorrow. It was nearly 11 o'clock at night when the insurgents entered the town by the Port-de-Rome. The workmen remaining in Plessant had opened the gates for them, in spite of the whalinges of the keeper, from whom they could only read. the keys by force. This man, very jealous of his office, stood dumbfounded in the presence of a surging crowd.

To think of it, he who never allowed more than one person to pass in at a time, and then only after a prolonged examination of his face. And then he murmured that he was dishonored. The men of Plesson were still marching at the head of the column by way of guiding the others. Miette, who was in the front rank with Silvere on her left, held up her band, more proudly than ever. Now that she could divine behind the closed blinds, the scared looks of well-to-do bourgeois

startled out of their sleep. The insurgents passed along the Rue de Rome and the Rue de la Ban slowly and warily. At every crossway, although they well knew the quietest position of the inhabitants, they feared they might be received with bullets. The town seemed lifeless, however.

They were scarcely a stifled exclamation to be heard at the windows. only five or six shutters opened. Some old householder then appeared in his nightshirt, candle in hand, and linked out to obtain a better view. But as soon as he distinguished a tall red girl who appeared to be drawing that crowd of black demons behind her, he hastily closed his window again,

terrified by such a diabolical apparition. The silence of the slumbering town reassured the assurgencese, who ventured to make their way through the lanes of the old quarter, and thus reached the marketplace in the Place de L'Octel de Ville, which was connected by a short but broad street. These open spaces, planted with slender trees, were brilliantly illumined by the moon. Against the clear sky,

the recently restored town hall appeared like a large patch of crude whiteness, the fine black lines of the wrought iron arabesques of the first-floor balcony showing in bold relief. Several persons could be plainly distinguished standing on this balcony. The mayor, Commander Cicardot, three or four municipal councillors, and other functionaries. The doors below were closed. The 3,000 Republicans, who covered both open spaces, halted with upraised heads, ready to force the doors with a single push.

The arrival of the insurrectionary column at such an hour took the authorities by surprise. Before repairing to the mayors, Commander C. C. C. Cardot had taken time to don his uniform. he then had to run and rouse the mayor. When the keeper of the Port-de-Rome, who had been left free by the insurgents, came to announce that the villains were already in the town, the commander had so far only managed to assemble a score of the National Guards. The gendarmes, though their barracks were close by,

could not even be warned. It was necessary to shut the town hall doors in all haste in order to deliberate. Five minutes later, a low, continuous rumbling announced the approach of the column. Monsieur Gassonne, out of hatred to the Republic, would have greatly liked to offer resistance, but he was of a prudent nature and comprehended

the futility of a struggle on finding only a few pale men who were scarcely awake around him. So the deliberations did not last long. Cicardot alone was obstinate. He wanted to fight, asserting that 20 men would suffice to bring these 3,000

villains to reason. At this, Monsieur Gassonet shrugged shoulders and declared that the only step to take was to make an honorable capitulation. As the uproar of the mob increased, he went out on the balcony, followed by all the persons present. Silence was gradually obtained. Below, among the black quivering massive insurgents, the guns and scythes glittered in the moonlight. Who are you? And what do you want? Quide the mayor in a loud voice.

Thereupon a man in a greatcoat, a landowner of La Palou, stepped forward. Open the doors, he said, without replying to Monsieur Gassanay's question, avoid a fracticidal conflict. I call upon you to withdraw, the mayor continued. I protest in the name of the law. These words provoke deafening shouts from the crowd. When the tumult had somewhat abated, vehement calls ascended to the balcony. Voices shouted,

it is in the name of the law that we've come here. Your duty as a functionary is to secure respect for the fundamental law of the land, the Constitution, which has just been outrageously violated. Long live the Constitution. Long live the Republic. Then, this Monsieur Gassiné endeavored to make himself heard and continued to invoke his official dignity.

The landowner of La Palou, who was standing under the balcony, interrupted him with great vehemence. You are now nothing but the functionary of a fallen functionary. We've come to dismiss you from your office. Hitherto, Commander Cicardot had been

ragefully biting his mustache and muttering insulting words. The sight of the cudgels and sides exasperated him and he made desperate efforts to restrain himself from treating these two-penny half-penny soldiers, who would not even have gone apiece as they

deserved. But when he a gentleman, in a mere greatcoat speak of deposing a mayor girded with his scarf, he could no longer contain himself and shouted, You pack of rascals! If I only had four men in a corporal, I'd come down and pull your ears

for you and make you behave yourselves. Less than this was needed to raise a serious disturbance. A long shout rose from the mob as it made a rush for the doors. Monsieur Gassonet, in consternation, hastily quitted the balcony in treating Cicardo to be reasonable

unless he wished to have them massacred. But in two minutes the doors gave way the people invaded the building and disarmed the National Guards. The mayor and the other functionaries present were arrested. Cicardot, who had declined to surrender his sword, had to be protected from the fury of some insurgents

by the chief of the contingent from Le Toulette, a man of great self-possession. When the town hall was in the hands of the Republicans, they led their prisoners to a small cafe in the marketplace, and there kept them closely watched. The insurrectionary army would have avoided marching through Plesson if its leaders had not decided but a little food and a few hours' rest were absolutely necessary for the men.

Instead of pushing forward direct to the chief town of a department, the column owing to the inexcusable weakness and the inexperience of the improvised general who commanded it, was now diverging to the left, making a detour which was destined ultimately to lead to destruction. It was bound for the heights of Saint-Hour, still about ten leagues distant, and it was in view of this long march

that it had been decided to pass through Plausanne, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour. It was now half-past eleven. When Monsieur Gassanais learnt that the band was in quest of provisions, he offered his services to procure them. This functionary formed under very difficult circumstances, a proper estimate of a situation. Those three thousand starving men would have to be satisfied.

It would never do for Placein on waking up to find them still squatting on the pavements. If they withdrew before daybreak, they would simply have passed through the slumbering town like an evil dream, like one of those nightmares which depart with the arrival of dawn. And so, although he remained a prisoner,

Monsieur Gassano, followed by two guards, went about knocking at the baker's doors and had all the provisions that he could find distributed among the insurgents. Towards one o'clock the three thousand men began to eat, squatting on the ground with their weapons between their legs. The marketplace in the neighborhood of the town hall were turned into vast open-air refactories.

In spite of the bitter cold, humorous sallies were exchanged among the swarming multitude, the smallest groups of which showed forth in the brilliant moonlight. The poor famished fellows eagerly devoured, their portions while breathing on their fingers to warm them and from the depths of adjoining streets where vague black forms sat on the white thresholds of the houses there came sudden bursts of laughter at the windows emboldened inquisitive women with silk handkerchiefs tied round their heads watched the repast of those terrible insurgents those bloodsuckers who went and turned to the market pump

to drink a little water in the hollows of their hands while the town hall was being invaded the gendarmes barracks situated a few steps away in the Rue Cancroix, which leads to the market, had also fallen into the hands of the mob. The gendarm were surprised in their beds and disarmed in a few minutes. The impetus of the crowd had carried Miet and Silvere along in this direction. The girl who still clasped her flagstaff to her breast was pushed against the wall of the barracks, while the young man, carried away by the human wave, penetrated into the interior and helped his comrades to rest from the gendarm, the carbines which they had hastily caught up. Silvert, waxing ferocious, intoxicated by the onslaught, attacked a big devil of a

gendarme named Rangard, with whom for a few moments he struggled. At last, by a sudden jerk, he succeeded in resting his carbine from him. But the barrel struck Rangard, a violent blow in the face, which put his right eye out. Blood flowed in some of it splashing Silveir's hands. quickly brought him to his senses. He looked at his hands, dropped the carbine and ran out in the state of frenzy, shaking his fingers. "'You are wounded!' cried Miette. "'No, no,' he replied in a stifled voice. "'I just killed a gendarme. "'Is he really dead?' asked Miette. "'I don't know,' replied Silvair. His face was all covered with blood. "'Come, quickly.'

Then he hurried the girl away. On reaching the market he made her sit down on a stone bench and told her to wait there for him. He was still looking at his hands, muttering something at the same time. Miet at last understood from his disquieted words that he wished to go and kiss his grandmother before leaving. Well, go, she said. Don't trouble yourself about me. Wash your hands. But he went quickly away, keeping his fingers apart, without thinking of washing them at the pump which he passed.

Since he had felt Rangod's warm blood on his skin, he had been possessed by one idea, that of running to ante-days and dipping his hands in the well trough at the back of the little yard. There only, he thought, would he be able to wash off the stain of that blood. Moreover, all his calm, gentle childhood seemed to return to him. He felt an irresistible longing to take refuge in his grandmother's skirts, if only for a minute. He arrived quite out of breath. Aunt Dide had not gone to bed, a circumstance which at any other time would have greatly surprised Silvert.

But on entering, he did not even see his uncle Rujan, who was seated in a corner on the old chest. He did not wait for the poor old woman's questions. Grandmother, he said quickly, you must forgive me. I'm going to leave with the others. You see, I've got blood on me. I believe I've killed a gendarme. You've killed a gendarme? Auntie Day repeated in a strange voice. Her eyes gleamed brightly as she fixed them on the red stains, and suddenly she turned towards the chimney piece.

You've taken the gun, she said. Where's the gun? Silvere, who'd left the weapon with Miette, swore to her that it was quite safe. And for the very first time Adelaide made an allusion to the smuggler Macar in her grandson's presence. You'll bring the gun. back? You promise me, she said with singular energy, it's all I have left of him. You've killed the gendarm. Ah, it was the gendarm who killed him. She continued gazing fixedly at Silvere with an air

of cruel satisfaction, and apparently without thought of detaining him. She never asked him for any explanation, nor wept like those good grandmothers who always imagine at sight of a least scratch, that their grandchildren are dying. All her nature was concentrated in one unique thought, to which she at last gave expression with ardent curiosity. Did you kill the gendarme with the gun? Either Sylver did not quite catch what she said, or else he misunderstood her.

Yes, he replied, I'm going to wash my hands. It was only on returning from the well that he perceived as a uncle. Pierre had turned pale on hearing the young man's words. Felicite was indeed right. His family took a pleasure in compromising him. One of his nephews had now killed a gendarme. He would never get the post-up receiver of taxes if he did not prevent this foolish madman from rejoining the insurgents. So he planted himself in front of a door, determined to prevent Silvair from going out. Listen, he said to the young fellow who was going to.

greatly surprised to find him there. I am the head of the family, and I forbid you to leave this house. You're risking both your honor and ours. Tomorrow I'll try to get you across the frontier. But Silveur shrugged his shoulders. Let me pass, he calmly replied. I'm not a police spy. I shall not reveal your hiding place. Never fear. And as Rujon continued to speak of the family, dignity, and the authority with which his seniority invested him. Do I belong to your family, the young man continued? You have always disowned me. Today fear has driven you here because you feel that the day of judgment has arrived.

Come, make way, I don't hide myself. I have a duty to perform. Rujan did not stir. But Aunt Dede, who had listened with a sort of delight to Silvair's vehement language, laid her withered hand on her son's arm. Get out of the way, Pierre, she said. The lad must go. The young man gave his uncle a slight shove and dashed outside.

Then Rougain, having carefully shut the door again, said to his mother in an angry, threatening tone, If any mischief happens to him, it'll be your fault. You're an old madwoman. You don't know what you've just done. Adelaide, however, did not appear to hear him. She went and threw some vine branches on the fire which was going out, and murmured with a vague smile.

I'm used to it. He would remain away from months together, and then come back to me in much better health. She was no doubt speaking of Makar. In the meantime, Silvere hastily regained the marketplace. As he approached the spot where he'd left me at, he heard a loud uproar of voices and saw a crowd which made him quick in his steps.

A cruel scene had just occurred. Some inquisitive people were walking among the insurgents, of the latter quietly partook of their meal. Among these onlookers was Justin Rebuffe, the son of the farmer of the Jasme-Frin, a youth of twenty years old, a sickly, squint-eyed creature who harboured implacable hatred against his cousin Miette.

At home he grudged her the bread she ate, and treated her like a beggar picked up from the gutter out of charity. It is probable that the young girl had rejected his advances. Lank and pale, with ill-proportioned limbs and face all awry, he revenged himself upon her for his own ugliness, and the contempt which the handsome, vigorous girl must have evinced for him. He ardently longed to induce his father to send her about her business, and for this reason he was always spying upon her.

For some time past he'd become a little. aware of the meetings with Silvert and had only awaited a decisive opportunity to reveal everything to his father, Rebufat. On the evening in question, having seen her leave home at about eight o'clock, Justin's hatred had overpowered him, and he had been unable to keep silent any longer. Rebufant, on hearing his story, fell into a terrible rage and declared that he'd kick the gad about out of his house should she have the audacity to return. Justin then went to bed, relishing beforehand the fine scene which would take place on the morrow.

Then, however, a burning desire came upon him for some immediate foretaste of his revenge. So he dressed himself again and went out. Perhaps he might meet me yet. In that case he was resolved to treat her insolently. This is how he came to witness the arrival of the insurgents, whom he followed to the town hall with a vague presentment that he would find, the lovers there. And indeed, he had caught sight of his cousin on the seat where she was

waiting for Silvere. Seeing her wrapped in her long police with a red flag at her side, resting against the market pillar, he began to sneer and deride her in foul language. The girl thunderstruck at seeing him, was unable to speak. She wept beneath his abuse, and whilst she was overcome by sobbing, bowing her head and hiding her face, Justin called her a convict's daughter and shouted that old Rebufant

would give her a good thrashing should she ever dare to return to Jasmefran For a quarter of an hour He thus kept her smarting and trembling Some people had gathered round And grinned stupidly at the painful scene At last a few insurgents interfered And threatened the young man with exemplary chestisement

If he did not leave Miette alone But Justin, although he retreated, declared that he was not afraid of them. It was just at this moment that Silvere came up. Young Rebufat, on catching sight of him, made a sudden bound as if to take flight, for he was afraid of him, knowing that he was much stronger than himself.

He could not, however, resist the temptation to cast a parting insult on the girl in her lover's presence. Ah, I knew very well, he cried, that the wheelwright could not be far off. You left us to run after that crack-brain fellow, eh? you wretched girl when's the baptism to be then he retreated a few steps further on seeing silver clench his fists and mine he continued with a vile sneer don't come to our house again my father will kick you out if you do do you hear but he ran away howling with bruised visage for silver had bounded upon him and dealt him a blow full in the face

the young man did not pursue him when he returned to meet he found her standing up feverishly wiping her tears away with the palm of her hand. And as he gazed at her tenderly, in order to console her, she made a sudden energetic gesture. No, she said, I'm not going to cry anymore, you'll see. I'm very glad of it. I don't feel any regret now for having left home. I am free.

She took up the flag and led Silvair back into the midst of the insurgents. It was now nearly two o'clock in the morning. The cold was becoming so intense. that the Republicans had risen to their feet and were marching to and fro in order to warm themselves while they finished their bread. At last their leaders gave orders

for departure. The column formed again. The prisoners were placed in the middle of it. Besides Monsieur Gassonne and Commander Cicardot, the insurgents had arrested Monsieur Piero, the receiver of taxes and several other functionaries, all of whom they led away.

At this moment, Aristide was observed walking about among the groups. In presence of this formidable rising, Baderfellow had thought it imprudent not to remain on friendly terms with the Republicans. But as, on the other hand, he did not desire to compromise himself too much. He'd come to bid them farewell with his arm in a sling,

complaining bitterly of the accursed injury which prevented him from carrying a weapon. As he walked through the crowd, he came across his brother Pascal. provided with a case of surgical instruments and a little portable medicine chest. The doctor informed him in his quiet way that he intended to follow the insurgents.

At this, Aristide inwardly pronounced him a great fool. At last he himself slunk away, fearing lest the others should entrust the care of a town to him, a post which he deemed exceptionally perilous. The insurgents could not think of keeping Plesson in their power. the town was animated by so reactionary a spirit that it seemed impossible even to establish a democratic municipal commission there, as had already been done in other places.

So they would simply have gone off without taking any further steps, if Macar, prompted and emboldened by his own private animosities, had not offered to hold Plausanne in awe, on condition that they left him twenty determined men. These men were given him, and at their head he marched off triumphantly, to take possession of the town hall. Meantime, the column of insurgents was wending its way along the Kurs Sauver

and making its exit by the Grand Port, leaving the streets which it had reversed like a tempest, silent and deserted in its rear. The high road, whitened by the moonshine, stretched far into the distance. Miette had refused the support of Silveur's arm. She marched on bravely, steady and upright. holding the red flag aloft with both hands, without complaining of the cold which was turning her fingers blue.

This ends, Chapter 4, Part 2. Section 10 of the Fortune of the Rujon, book one of Rujon-Maca cycle, by Emil Zola, translated by Henry Visitelli. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Read by Mark Leader. Chapter 5 Part 1 The high roads stretched far away, white with moonlight.

The insurrectionary army was continuing its heroic march through the cold, clear country. It was like a mighty wave of enthusiasm. The thrill of patriotism was transported me yet, and so there, big children that they were, eager for love and liberty, sped with generous fervor, athwart the soul. sordid intrigues of the Macarts and the Rougon's. At intervals, the trumpet voice of the people rose and drowned the prattle of the yellow drawing-room and the hateful discourses of Uncle Antoine. And vulgar, ignoble, farce was turned into a great historical drama.

On quitting, Placant, the insurgents had taken the road to Orchere. They expected to reach that town at about ten o'clock in the morning. The road skirts the course of the violins. following at some height the windings of the hillocks, below which the torrent flows. On the left, the plain spreads out like an immense green carpet, dotted here and there with grey villages. On the right, the chain of the Garig rears its desolate peaks, its plateau of stones, its huge rusty boulders that look as though they'd been reddened by the sun. The high road, embanked along the riverside, passes on amidst the enormous rock,

between which glimpses of the valley are caught at every step. Nothing could be wilder or more strikingly grand than this road out of the hillside. At nighttime, especially, it inspires one with a feeling of deep awe. The insurgents advanced under the pale light, along what seemed the chief street of some ruined town, bordered on either side with fragments of temples. The moon turned each rock into a broken, column, crumbling capital or stretch of wall pierced with mysterious arches. On high, slumbered the mass of the gharryg, suffused with a milky tinge, and resembling some

immense cyclopian city whose towers, obelisks, houses, and high terraces hid one half of the heavens. And in the depths below, on the side of the plain, was a spreading ocean of diffused light, vague and limitless, over which, floated masses of luminous haze. The insurrectionary force might well have thought they were following some gigantic causeway, making their rounds along some military road built on the shore of a phosphorescent sea, encircling some unknown babel. On the night in question, the Vjorn roared hoarsely at the foot of the rocks bordering the route.

Amidst the continuous rumbling of a torrent, the insurgents could distinguish the sharp, wailing notes of the toxin. The villages scattered about the plain on the other side of the river were rising, sounding alarm bells and lighting signal fires. Till daybreak, the marching column, which the persistent tolling of a mournful knell seemed to pursue in the darkness, thus beheld the insurrection spreading along the valley like a train of powder. The fires showed in the darkness like stains of blood,

echoes of distant songs were wafted to them. The whole vague distance, blurred by the whitish vapors of the moon, stirred confusedly, and suddenly broke into a spasm of anger, for leagues in leagues the scene remained the same. These men, marching on under the blind impetus of the fever with which the events in Paris had inspired Republican hearts, became elated at seeing that long stretch of country quivering with revolt. Intoxicated with enthusiastic belief in the general insurrection of which they dreamed, they fancied that France was following them. On the other side of the Vjorn, in that vast ocean of diffused light,

they imagined there were endless files of men rushing like themselves to the defense of the republic. All simplicity and delusion, as multitude so often, and arth. They imagined in their uncultured minds that victory was easy and certain. They would have seized and shot as a traitor anyone who had then asserted that they were the only ones who had the courage of their duty, and that the rest of the country, overwhelmed with fright, was pusillanimously allowing itself to be garotted. They derived fresh courage, too, from the welcome accorded to them by the few localities that lay along their route on the slope of the gharried.

The inhabitants rose en masse Immediately the little army drew near Women ran to meet them wishing them a speedy victory While men half-clad seized the first weapons They could find and rushed to join their ranks There was a fresh ovation that every village Shouts of Welcome and Farewell

Many times reiterated Towards daybreak The moon disappeared behind the Garieg And the insurgents continued their rapid march amidst the dense darkness of a winter night. They were now unable to distinguish the valley or the hills. They heard only the hoarse plaints of the bells, sounding through the deep obscurity like invisible drums,

hidden they knew not where, but ever goading them on with despairing calls. Miette and Silvere went on, all eagerness like the others. Towards daybreak the girl suffered greatly from fatigue. She could only walk with short, hurried steps and was unable to keep up with the long strides of the men who surrounded her. Nevertheless, she courageously strove to suppress all complaints. It would have cost her too much to

confess that she was not as strong as a boy. During the first few leagues of the march, Silvair gave her his arm. Then, seeing that the standard was gradually slipping from her benumbed hands, he tried to take it in order to relieve her. But she grew angry, and would only allow him to hold it with one hand while she continued to carry it on her shoulder. She thus maintained a heroic demeanor with childish stubbornness, smiling at the young man each time he gave her a glance of loving anxiety. At last, when the moon hit itself, she gave way in the sheltering darkness. Sylvere felt her leaning more heavily on his arm.

He now had to carry the flag and hold her around the waves to prevent her from stumbling. nevertheless she still made no complaint. Are you very tired, poor Miet? Silveur asked her. Yes, a little tired, she replied in a weary tone. Would you like to rest a bit? She made no reply, but he realized that she was staggering. He thereupon handed the flag to one of the other insurgents

and quitted the ranks, almost carrying the girl in his arms. She struggled a little, she felt so distressed at appearing such a child. But he calmed her, telling her that he knew of a crossroad which shortened the distance by one half. They would be able to take a good hour's rest and reach or share at the same time as the others. It was then six o'clock. There must have been a slight mist rising from the viand, for the darkness seemed to be growing denser. The young people groped their way along the slope of the gharig, till they came to a rough, on which they sat down.

Around them lay an abyss of darkness. They were stranded, as it were, on some reef above a dense void. And the thwart that void, when an adult tramp of a little army had died away, they only heard two bells, the one clear-toned and ringing doubtless at their feet in some village across the road, and the other far off and faint, responding, as it were, with distant sobs to the feverish plaints of the first. One might have thought that these bells were recounting to each other,

through the empty waste, the sinister story of a perishing world. Miette and Silvert, warmed by their quick march, did not at first feel the cold. They remained silent, listening in great dejection to the sounds of a toxin which made the darkness quiver. They could not even see one another. Meit felt frightened and seeking for Silvara's hand clasped it in her own. After the feverish enthusiasm which for several hours had carried them along with the others,

this sudden halt and the solitude in which they found themselves side by side left them exhausted and bewildered as though they had suddenly awakened from a strange dream. They felt as if a wave had cast them beside the highway, then ebbed back and left them stranded. Irresistible reaction plunged them into listless stupor. They forgot their enthusiasm. They thought no more of the men whom they had to rejoin. They surrendered themselves to the melancholy sweetness

of finding themselves alone, hand in hand, in the midst of the wild darkness. You are not angry with me? The girl at length inquired. I could easily walk the whole. night with you, but they were running too quickly. I could hardly breathe. Why should I be angry with you, the young man said? I don't know. I was afraid you might not love me any longer. I wish I could have taken long

strides like you and have walked along without stopping. You will think that I'm a child. Silvair smiled, and Miette, though the darkness prevented her from seeing him, guessed that he was doing so. Then she continued with determination. You must not always treat me like a sister. I want to be your wife some day. Forthwith, she clasped Silvair to her bosom, and still with her arms about him, murmured, we shall grow so cold. Come close to me that we may be warm. Then they lapsed into silence. until that troublous hour They had loved one another With the affection of brother and sister

In their ignorance They still mistook their feelings For tender friendship Although beneath their guileless love Their ardent blood surged more wildly day by day Given age and experience A violent passion of southern intensity Would at last spring from this edel

Every girl who hangs on a youth's neck Isle a woman unconsciously, whom a caress may awaken to conscious womanhood. When lovers kiss on the cheeks, it is because they are searching, feeling for one another's lips. Lovers are made by a kiss.

It was on that dark and cold December night, amid the bitter wailing of a toxin, that meeth and Sylvair exchanged one of those kisses that bring all the heart's blood to the lips. They remained silent, close to one another. A gentle glow soon penetrated them. Langer overcame them and steeped them in feverish rousiness. They were quite warm at last, and lights seemed to flit before their closed eyelids, while a buzzing mounted to their brains. This state of painful ecstasy, which lasted some minutes, seemed endless to them.

Then, in a kind of dream, their lips met. The kiss they exchanged. was long and greedy. It seemed to them as if they had never kissed before. Yet their embrace was fraught with suffering, and they released one another. And the chilliness of a night, having cooled their fever, they remained in great confusion at some distance one from the other. Meanwhile, the bells were keeping up their sinister converse in the dark abyss which surrounded the young people. Meette, trembling and frightened, did not dare to to draw near to Silvair again. She did not even know if he were still there, for she could no longer hear him move. The stinging sweetness of their kiss still clung to their lips, to which passionate

phrases surged, and they longed to kiss once more. But shame restrained them from the expression of any such desire. They felt that they would rather never taste that bliss again than speak of it aloud. If their blood had not been lashed by their rapid march, if a darkness had not offered complicity, they would, for a long time yet, have continued kissing each other on the cheeks like old playfellows. Feelings of modesty were coming to me yet. She remembered Justin's coarseness. A few hours previously she'd listened without a blush to that fellow who called her a shameless girl. She'd wept without understanding his meaning. she'd wept simply because she guessed that what he spoke of must be base.

Now that she was becoming a woman, she wondered in her last innocent transport whether that kiss, whose burning smart she could still feel, would not perhaps suffice to cover her with the shame to which her cousin had referred. Thereupon she was seized with remorse and burst into sobs. What's the matter? Why are you crying? asked Silvair in an anxious voice. oh leave me she faltered i do not know then in spite of herself as it were she continued amidst her tears ah what an unfortunate creature i am when i was ten years old people used to throw stones at me today i am treated as the vilest of creatures she standed right to despise me before everybody we've been doing wrong silvere the young man quite dismayed

clasped her in his arms again, trying to console her. I love you, he whispered. I am your brother. Why say that we've been doing wrong? We kissed each other because we were cold. You know very well that we used to kiss each other every evening before separating. Oh, not as we did just now, she whispered. It must be wrong, for a strange feeling came over me.

The men will laugh at me now as I'm. I pass, and they'll be right in doing so. I shall not be able to defend myself. The young fellow remained silent, unable to find a word to calm the agitation in this big child, trembling at her first kiss of love. He clasped her gently, imagining that he might calm her by his embrace. She struggled, however, and continued, If you like, we will go away. We will leave the province. I can't. I can't. never returned to Placein. My uncle would beat me. All the town's people would point their fingers at me. And then, as it seized with sudden irritation, she added,

But no, I am cursed. I forbid you to leave Auntie De to follow me. You must leave me on the highway. Miet, Miette, Silver-employed, don't talk like that. Yes, I want to please you. Be reasonable. me out like a vagabond. If I went back with you, you would always be fighting for my sake, and I don't want that. At this the young man again pressed a kiss upon her lips, murmuring, You shall be my wife, and nobody will then dare to hurt you. Oh, please, I entreat you, she said with a stifled cry. Don't kiss me so, you hurt me. Then after a short silence, you know quite well that I cannot be your wife now. We are too young.

You would have to wait for me, and meanwhile I should die of shame. You're wrong in protesting. You'll be forced to leave me in some corner. At this, so there, his fortitude exhausted began to cry. A man sobs are fraught with distressing hoarseness. Miette quite frightened as she felt the poor fellow shaking in her arms, kissed them on the face, forgetting she was burning her lips. But it was all her fault.

She was a little simpleton to have let a kiss upset her so completely. She now clasped her lover to her bosom, as if to beg forgiveness for having pained him. These weeping children, so anxiously clasping one another, made the dark night yet more woeful than before. In the distance the bells continued to complain unceasingly in panning, accents. It is better to die,

repeated Silvert amidst his sobs. It is better to die. Don't cry. Forgive me, stammered Miet. I will be brave. I will do all you wish. When the young man had dried his tears. You are right, he said.

We cannot return to Plasant. By the time for cowardice has not yet come. If we come out of the struggle, triumphant, I will go for Aunt Dide, and we will take her ever so far away with us. If we are beaten, he stopped. If we are beaten, repeated me yet softly. Then be it as God wills, continued Sylvere in a softer voice. I most likely shall not be there.

You will comfort the poor woman. That would be better. Ah, as you said just now, the young girl murmured. It would be better to die. At this longing for death they tightened their embrace. Miet relied upon dying with Silvert. He'd only spoken of himself, but she felt that he would gladly take her with him into the earth. They would there be able to love each other more freely than under the sun.

Aunt Dede would die likewise and join them. It was, so to say, a rapid presentiment, a desire for some strange voluptuousness to which heaven, by the mournful accents of the toxin, was promising early gratification. To die, to die, the bells repeated these words with increasing passion, and the lovers yielded to the calls of a darkness. They fancy they experienced the foretaste of the last sleep, in the drowsiness into which they again sank, whilst their lips met. once more. Miet no longer turned away. It was she now who pressed her lips to Silvers,

who sought with mute ardor for the delight whose stinging smart he had not at first been able to endure. The thought of approaching death had excited her. She no longer felt herself blushing, but hung upon her love, while he, in faltering voice, repeated, I love you, I love you. But at this, Miette shook her head. as if to say it was not true. With her free and ardent nature, she had a secret instinct of the meaning and purposes of life, and though she was right willing to die,

she would feign of known life first. At last, growing calmer, she gently rested her head on the young man's shoulder, without uttering a word. Silvair kissed her again. She tasted those kisses slowly, seeking their meaning, their hidden sweetness.

As she felt them coarse through her veins, she interrogated them, asking if they were all love, all passion. But Langer at last overcame her, and she fell into gentle slumber. Silverhead enveloped her in her police, drawing the skirt around himself at the same time. They no longer felt cold.

The young man rejoiced the find from the regularity of her breathing that the girl was now asleep. this repose would enable them to proceed on their way with spirit he resolved to let her slumber for an hour the sky was still black and the approach of day was but faintly indicated by a whitish line in the east behind the lovers there must have been a pine wood whose musical awakening it was that the young man heard amidst the morning breezes and meantime the wailing of the bells grew more sonorous in the quivering atmosphere lulling me at slumber, even as it had accompanied her passionate fever. Until that troublous night, these young people that lived through one of those innocent idles that blossom among the toiling masses, those outcasts and folks of simple mind, amidst whom one may yet occasionally find amours as

primitive as those of the ancient Greek romances. Miette had been scarcely nine years old at the time when her father was sent to the galleys for shooting a gendarme. The trial of Chantagre had remained a memorable case in the province. The poacher boldly confessed that he had killed the gendarme, but he swore with the latter had been taking aim at him. I only anticipated him, he said. I defended myself. It was a duel, not a murder.

He never desisted from this line of argument. The presiding judge of the Assizes could not make him understand that, although a gendarme has the right to fire upon a poacher, a poacher has no right to fire upon a gendarme. Chantagre escaped the guillotine, owing to his obviously sincere belief in his own innocence, and his previous good character. The man wept like a child when his daughter was brought to him prior to his departure for too long. The little thing who'd lost her mother in her infancy dwelt at this time with her grandfather at Chavano, a village in the passes of the Sayy.

When the poacher was no longer there, the old man and the girl lived upon alms. The inhabitants of Chavonau, all sportsmen and poachers, came to the assistance of the poor creatures whom the convict had left behind him. After a while, however, the old man died of grief, and yet, left alone by herself,

would have had to beg on the husband, high roads if her neighbors had not remembered that she had an aunt at Placein. The charitable soul was kind enough to take her to this aunt, who did not, however, receive her very kindly. Yulali, Chantigre, the spouse of Meijer, Rebufat, was a big, dark, stubborn creature who ruled the home. She led her husband by the nose and the people of the Foburg of Plasant. The truth was, Rebufat, avaricious and eager for work and gain, felt a sort of respect for this big creature, who combined on common vigor with strict sobriety and economy. Thanks to her, the household thrived.

Demege grumbled one evening when, on returning home from work, he found Miette installed there. But his wife closed his mouth by saying in her rough voice, Ah, a little thing strongly built. she'll do for a servant. We'll keep her and save wages. This calculation pleased, Rebufat. He went so far as to feel the little thing's arms and declared with satisfaction that she was sturdy for her age. Miet was then nine years old.

From the very next day he made use of her. The work of the peasant woman in the south of France was much lighter than in the north. One seldom sees them employed in digging the ground. carrying loads or doing other kinds of men's work. They bind sheaves, gather olives and mulberry leaves, perhaps their most laborious work is that of weeding. Miet worked away willingly, open-air life was her delight, her health. So long as her aunt lived, she was always smiling.

The good woman, in spite of her roughness, at last loved her as her own child. She forbade her doing the hard work which her husband sometimes tried to force upon her, saying to the latter, Ah, you're a clever fellow. You don't understand, you fool that if you tire her too much today, she won't be able to do anything tomorrow. This argument was decisive. Rebufant bowed his head and carried the load

which he had desired to sit on the young girl's shoulders. The latter would have lived in perfect happiness under the secret protection of her aunt Elali, but for the teasing of her cousin, who was then a lad of sixteen and employed his idle hours in hating and persecuting her. She's happiest moments were those when, by means of some gross falsehood, he succeeded in getting her scolded. Whenever he could tread on her feet or push her roughly,

pretending not to have seen her, he laughed and felt the delight of those crafty folks who rejoice at other people's misfortunes. Meath, however, would stare at him with her large black, childish eyes, gleaming with anger and silent scorn, which checked the cowardly youngster sneers. In reality, he was terribly afraid of his cousin. The young girl was just detaining her 11th year, when her aunt Ulali suddenly died. From that day, everything changed in the house. Riboufat gradually came to treat her like a farm laborer.

He overwhelmed her with all sorts of rough work and made use of her as a beast of burden. She never even complained, however, thinking that she had a debt of gratitude to repay him. In the evening, when she was worn out with fatigue, she mourned for her aunt, that terrible woman who's late and kindly as she now realized. However, it was not the hard work that distressed her, for she delighted in her strength and took a pride in her big arms and broad shoulders. What distressed her was our uncle's distrustful surveillance, his continued, her approaches in the irritated employer-like manner he assumed towards her. She'd now become a stranger in the house. Yet even a stranger would not have been so badly treated as she was.

Rebufat took the most unscrupulous advantage of his poor little relative, whom he pretended to keep out of charity. She repaid his harsh hospitality ten times over with her work, and yet never a day passed, but he grudged her the bread she ate. She Stan especially excelled in wounding her. Since his mother had been dead, seeing her without a protector, he'd brought all his evil instincts into play in trying to make the house intolerable to her. The most ingenious torture which he invented was to speak to me at of her father. The poor girl living away from the world under the protection of her aunt,

who had forbidden anyone ever to mention the words, galleys or convict before her, hardly understood their meaning. It was Justin who explained it to her by relating in his own manner, the story of the murderer of the gendarme and Chantagre's conviction. There was no end to the horrible particulars he supplied. The convicts had a cannonball fastened to one ankle by a chain.

They worked 15 hours a day, and all died under their punishment. Their prison too was a frightful place, the horrors of which he described minutely. yet listened to him stupefied, her eyes full of tears. Sometimes she was roused to sudden violence, and she sank quickly retired before her clenched fists. However, he took a savage delight

and thus instructing her as to the nature of prison life. When his father flew into a passion with the child for any little negligence, he chimed in, glad to be able to insult her without danger. And if she attempted to defend herself, he would exclaim, bah, bad blood always shows itself. You'll end at the galleys like your father.

At this meat sobbed, stung to the heart, powerless and overwhelmed with shame. She was already growing to womanhood at this period. Of precocious nature, she endured her martyrdom with extraordinary fortitude. She rarely gave way, excepting when her natural pride succumbed to her cousin's outrages. Soon, even, she was able to bear without a tear the incessant insults of this cowardly fellow,

whoever watched her while he spoke for fear lest she should fly at his face. Then, too, she learned to silence him by staring at him fixedly. She had several times felt inclined to run away from the Jasmefarin, but she did not do so, as her courage could not brook the idea of confessing that she was vanquished by the persecution she endured. She certainly earned her bread. She did not steal the Rebufus' hospitality, and this conviction satisfied her pride. So she remained there to continue the struggle, stiffening herself and living on with the one thought of resistance.

Her plan was to do her work in silence and revenge herself for all harsh treatment by mute contempt. She knew that her uncle derived too much advantage from her to listen readily to the end. insinuations of Gistin, who longed to get her turned out of doors. And in a defiant spirit she resolved that she would not go away of her own accord. Her continuous voluntary silence was full of strange fancies. Passing her days in the enclosure, isolated from all the world, she formed ideas for herself, which would have strangely shocked the good people of the Fobour. Her father's fate particularly occupied her thoughts. All Justin's abuse

recurred to her and she ended by accepting the charge of murder saying to herself, however, that her father had done well to kill the gendarme who tried to kill him. She'd learnt the real story from a labourer who had worked for a time at the Jasmefran.

From that moment, on the few occasions when she went out, she no longer even turned if the ragamuffins of the Fobork followed her, crying, Hey, La Santa Grey! She simply hastened her steps homeward with lips compressed and black fierce eyes. Then, after shutting the gate, she perhaps cast one long glance at the gang of urchins.

She would have become vicious, have lapsed into fierce pariah savagery if her childishness had not sometimes gained the mastery. Her extreme youth brought her little girlish weaknesses, which relieved her. She would then cry with shame for herself and her father. she'd hide herself in a stable so that she might sob to her heart's content, for she knew that if the others saw her crying, they'd torment her all the more. And when she'd wept sufficiently,

she'd bathe her eyes in the kitchen, and then again subside into uncomplaining silence. It was not interest alone, however, which prompted her to hide herself. She carried her pride in her precocious strength so far that she was unwilling to appear a child. in time she would have become very unhappy. Fortunately, she was saved by discovering the latent tenderness of her loving nature.

The well in the yard of the house occupied by Aunt Dide and Silvert was a party well. The wall of the Jacques Maffrin cut it in halves. Formerly, before the fouquet's property was united to the neighboring estate, the market gardeners had used this well daily. since the transfer of the fouquet's ground, however, as it was at some distance from the outhouses, the inmates of Vajas, who had large cisterns at their disposal, did not draw a pail of water from it in a month. On the other side, one could hear the grating of the pulley every morning when Silvere drew the water for Auntie Day. One day the pulley broke. The young Wheelwright made a good strong one of oak and put it up in the evening after his day's work.

To do this, he had to climb upon the wall. When he'd finished the job, he remained resting astride the coping, and surveyed with curiosity of a large expanse of the Jacques Maffrin. At last, the peasant girl, who was weeding the ground a few feet from him, attracted his attention. It was in July, and the air was broiling, although the sun had already sank to the horizon. The peasant girl had taken off her jacket. In a white bodice, with a colored neckerchief tied,

over her shoulders, and the sleeves of her chemise turned up as far as her elbows. She was squatting amid the folds of her blue cotton skirt, which was secured to a pair of braces crossed behind her back. She crawled about on her knees as she pulled up Bataris and threw them into a basket. The young man could only see her bear, sun-tanned, arms stretching out right and left to see some overlooked weed. He followed this rapid play of her arms complacent. deriving a singular pleasure from seeing them so firm and quick. The young person that slightly raised herself on noticing that he was no longer at work, but had again lowered her head before he could distinguish her features.

The shyness kept him in suspense. Like an inquisitive lad, he wondered who this weeder could be, and while he lingered there whistling and beating time with a chisel, the latter suddenly slipped out of his hand. It fell into Vajasmefran. striking the curb of the well and then bounding a few feet from the wall. Silvere looked at it, leaning forward and hesitating to get over. But the peasant girl must have been watching the young man, askance,

for she jumped up without saying anything, picked up the chisel, and handed it to Silver, who then perceived that she was a mere child. He was surprised and rather intimidated. The young girl raised herself towards him in the red glare of the sunset, The wall at this spot was low, but nevertheless too high for her to reach him, so we bent low over the coping while she still raised herself on tiptoes. They did not speak but looked at each other with an air of smiling confusion. The young man would indeed have liked to keep the girl in that position.

She turned to him a charming head with handsome black eyes and red lips which quite astonished and stirred him. He'd never before seen a girl so near. He'd not known that lips and eyes could be so pleasant to look at. Everything about the girl seemed to possess a strange fascination for him. Her colored neckerchief, her white bodice, her blue cotton skirt, hanging from braces which stretched with the motion of her shoulders. Then his glance glided along the arm, which was handing him a tool. As far as the elbow, this arm was of a golden brown,

as though clothed was sunburn. But higher up, in the shadow of a tucked-up sleeve, Silver perceived a bare, milk-white roundness. At this, he felt confused. However, he leant further over and at last managed to grasp the chisel. The little peasant girl was becoming embarrassed. Still they remained there smiling at each other,

the child beneath with upturned face and the lad half reclining on the coping of the wall. they could not part from each other. So far they had not exchanged a word, and Sylver even forgot to say, Thank you. What's your name? he asked. Marie, replied the peasant girl,

but everybody calls me Miette. Again she raised herself slightly, and in a clear voice inquired in her turn. And yours? My name is Silver, the young workman replied. A pause ensued, during which they seemed to be listening complacently to the music of their names. "'I'm fifteen years old,' resumed Silvere. "'And you?'

"'I said Miette. Oh, I shall be eleven on All Saints' Day.' The young workman made a gesture of surprise. "'Ah, really?' he said laughing, "'and to think I took you for a woman. You've such big arms.' She also began to laugh as she lowered her eyes to her arms. Then they ceased speaking. They remained for another moment gazing and smiling at each other. And finally, as Silvair seemingly had no more questions to ask her,

yet quietly withdrew and went on plucking her weeds without raising her head. The lad for his part remained on the wall for a while. The sun was setting, a stream of oblique rays. poured over the yellow sword of a Vajas Maffran would seem to be all ablaze. One would have said that a fire was running along the ground, and in the midst of the flaming expanse, Silvert saw the little stooping peasant girl

whose bare arms had resumed their rapid motion. The blue cotton skirt was now becoming white, and rays of light streamed over the child's copper-colored arms. At last, Silver felt somewhat ashamed of remaining there, and accordingly got off the wall. In the evening preoccupied with his adventure. He endeavored to question Aunt Dede. Perhaps she'd know who this meet was

who had such black eyes and such red lips. But since she had lived in the house in the alley, the old woman had never once given a look behind the wall of a little yard. It was to her like an impassable rampart which shut off her past. She did not know, She did not want to know what there might now be on the other side of that wall,

in that old enclosure of the fouquet's, where she had buried her love, her heart, and her flesh. As soon as Sylver began to question her, she looked at him with childish terror. Was he then going to stir up the ashes of those days, now dead and gone, and make her weep like her son Antoine had done? I don't know, she said in the hasty voice, I no longer go out. I never see anybody. Silvere waited the morrow with considerable impatience. And as soon as he got to his master's workshop, he drew his fellow workmen into conversation.

He did not say anything about his interview with Miette, but spoke vaguely of a girl whom he'd seen from a distance in the Josh Maffran. Oh, that's La Chantagre, cried one of the workmen. There was no necessity for Sylvia to question. them further, for they told him the story of the poacher Chantagay and his daughter Miet, with that unreasoning spite which is felt for social outcasts. The girl in particular they treated in a foul manner, and the insulting jive of daughter of a galley slave constantly rose to their lips

like an incontestable reason for condemning the poor, dear, innocent creature to eternal disgrace. However, Weill write Vian, An honest, worthy fellow at last silenced his men. "'Hall dear tongues, you foul mouths,' he said, as he let fall the shaft of a cart that he'd been examining. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves for being so hard upon the child. I've seen her, the little thing looks a very good girl.

Besides, I'm told she doesn't mind work, and already does as much as any woman of thirty. there are some lazy fellows here who aren't a match for her. I hope later on that she'll get a good husband who'll stop this evil talk. Silvere, who'd been chilled by the workman's gross jests and insults, felt tears rise to his eyes at the last word spoken by Viann. However, he did not open his lips. He took up his hammer, which he laid down near him,

and began with all his might to strike the nave of a wheel which he was binding with iron. in the evening, as soon as he'd returned home from the workshop, he ran to the wall and climbed upon it. He found Miette engaged upon the same labour as the day before. He called her. She came to him with a smile of embarrassment and the charming shyness of a girl who from infancy had grown up in tears. You're La Chanta Grey, aren't you? he asked her abruptly. She recoiled. She ceased smiling and her eyes turned sternly black. gleaming with defiance. So this lad was going to insult her like the others.

She was turning her back upon him, without giving an answer, when Silvere, perplexed by her sudden change of countenance, hastened to add, Stay, I beg you. I don't want to pain you. I've got so many things to tell you. She turned round, still distrustful. Sylvare, whose heart was full and who had resolved to relieve it, remained for a moment speechless, not knowing how to continue, for he feared lest he should commit a fresh blunder. At last he put his whole heart in one phrase. Would you like me to be your friend, he said, in a voice full of emotion.

And as Miette in surprise raised her eyes, which were again moist and smiling, he continued with animation. I know that people try to vex you. It's time to put a stop. to it. I will be your protector now, shall I? The child beamed with delight. This preferred friendship roused her from all her evil dreams of taciturn hatred. Still, she shook her head and answered, No, I don't want you to fight on my account. You'd have too much to do, beside which, there are persons from whom you cannot protect me. Salverd wished to declare that he

defend her against the whole world, but she closed his mouth with a coaxing gesture, as she added, I'm satisfied to have you as a friend. They then conversed together for a few minutes, lowering their voices as much as possible. He had spoke to Sylver of her uncle and her cousin, for all the words she would not have liked them to catch him astride the coping of the wall. She stand would be implacable with such a weapon against her. She spoke of her misgivings with the fright of a school girl. I'm meeting a friend with whom her mother has forbidden her to associate. Silvere merely understood, however, that he would not be able to see Miet at his pleasure. This made him very sad. Still, he promised that he would not climb upon the wall anymore.

They were both endeavouring to find some expedient for seeing each other again, when Mietz suddenly begged him to go away. She just caught sight of Jistin, who was crossing the ground, in the direction of the wall. Silveir quickly descended. When he was in the little yard again, he remained by the wall to listen, irritated by his flight. After a few minutes he ventured to climb again

and cast a glance into the Jacques Maffrin, but he saw Justin speaking with Miette and quickly withdrew his head. On the following day he could see nothing of his friend, not even in the distance. She must have finished her work in that part of the jacques. a week passed in this fashion and the young people had no opportunity of exchanging a single word so there was in despair he thought of boldly going to the rebufats to ask from yet the party well was a large one but not very deep on either side of the wall the curb formed a large semicircle the water was only ten or twelve feet down at the utmost this slumbering water reflected but two apertures of the

well, two half-moons between which the shadow of the wall cast a black streak. On leaning over, one might have fancied in the vague light that the half-moons were two mirrors of singular clearness and brilliance. Under the morning sunshine, when the dripping of the ropes did not disturb the surface of the water, these mirrors, these reflections of the heavens, showed like white patches on the green water, and in them the leaves of the ivy which had spread along the wall over the well were repeated with marvelous exactness. One morning, at an early hour, Silvere, as he came to draw water for Auntie Day, bent over the well mechanically, just as he was taking hold of the rope. He started, and then stood motionless,

still leaning over. He'd fancied that he could distinguish in the well the face of a young girl who was looking at him with a smile. However, he'd shaken the rope, and the disturbed water was now but a dim mirror that no longer reflected anything clearly. Silveir, who did not venture to stir, and whose heart beat rapidly, then waited for the water to settle. As its ripples gradually widened and died away, he perceived the image reappearing. It oscillated for a long time, with a swing which lent a vague, phantom-like grace to its features, but at last it remained stationary. It was the smiling countenance of Miet, with her head and shoulders, her colored neckerchief, her white bodice, and her blue braces.

Silvert next perceived his own image in the other mirror. Then, knowing that they could see each other, they nodded their heads. For the first moment they did not even think of speaking. At last they exchanged greetings. Good morning, Silver. Good morning, Miet. They were surprised by the strange sound of their voices, which became singularly soft and sweet in that damp hole.

The sound seemed indeed to come from a distance, like the soft music of voices heard of an evening in the country. They understood that it would suffice to speak in a whisper in order to hear each other. The well echoed the faintest breath. Leaning over its brink, they conversed while gazing at one another's reflection. Miette related how sad she'd been the last week. She was now working at the other end of Vajas and could only get out early in the morning.

And she made a pout of annoyance, which Silvair distinguished perfectly, and to which he replied by nodding his head with an air of vexation. They were exchanging all those gestures and facial expressions that speech entails. They cared but little for the wall with separated them, now that they could see each other in those hidden depths. i knew continued meet with a knowing look that you came here to draw water every morning at the same hour i can hear the grating of the pulley from the house so i made an excuse i pretended that the water in this well boiled the vegetables better

i thought that i might come here every morning to draw water at the same time as you so as to say good morning to you without anyone suspecting she smiled innocently as though well pleased with her device and any by saying, But I did not imagine we should see each other in the water. It was, in fact, this unhoped for pleasure which so delighted them. They only spoke to see their lips move, so greatly did this new frolic amuse their childish natures. And they resolved to use all means in their power to meet here every morning. When Miet had said she must go away,

she told so there that he could draw his pail of water. But he did not dare to shake the road. rope, yet was still leaning over. He could see her smiling face, and it was too painful to him to dispel that smile. As he slightly stirred his pale, the water murmured and the smile faded. Then he stopped, seized with a strange fear. He fancied that he had vexed her and made her cry. But the child called to him, Go on, go on! With a laugh which the echo prolonged and rendered more dishonorous. She herself then noisily sent down a pail. It was a perfect tempest. Everything disappeared under the black water. And Sylvere made up his mind to fill two pictures while listening to the retreating

steps of Miet on the other side of the wall. From that day the young people never missed their assignations. The slumbering water, the white mirrors in which they gazed at one another, imparted to their interviews a charm which long sufficed their playful, childish imaginations. They had no desire to see each other face to face. It seemed much more amusing to them to use the well as a mirror and confide their morning greetings to its echo. They soon came to look upon the well as an old friend. They loved to bend over the motionless water that resembled molten silver.

A greenish glimmer hovered below in a must. furious half-light, and seemed to change the damp hole into some hiding-place in the depths of a wood. They saw each other in a sort of greenish nest protect with moss in the midst of fresh water and foliage. And all the strangeness of a deep spring, the hollow tower over which they bent, trembling with fascination, added unconfessed in delightful fear to their merry laughter. The wild idea occurred to them of going down and seating themselves on a row of large stones, which formed a kind of circular bench at a few inches above the water. They would dip their feet in the ladder, conversed there for hours, and no one would think of coming

to look for them in such a spot. But when they asked each other what there might be down there, their vague fears returned. They thought it quite sufficient to let their reflected images descend into the depths amidst those green glimmers which tinged the stones with strange moire-like reflections, and amidst those mysterious noises which rose from the dark corners. Those sounds issuing from the invisible made them particularly uneasy. They often fancied that voices were applying to their own, and then they would remain silent, detecting a thousand faint plaints which they could not understand. These came from the secret travail of the moisture, the size of the atmosphere, the drops that

glided over the stones and fell below with a sonorousness of sobs. They would not affectionately to each other in order to reassure themselves. Thus the attraction which kept them leaning over the brink had a tinge of secret terror, like all poignant charms. But the well still remained their old friend. It was such an excellent pretext for meeting. Justin, who watched Mietz every movement, never suspect. the course of her eagerness to go and draw some water every morning.

At times he saw her from a distance, leaning over and loitering. Ah, the lazy thing, he muttered. How fond she is of dawdling about! How could he suspect that on the other side of the wall, there was a wooer contemplating the girl's smile in the water, and saying to her, if that red-haired donkey Justan should ill-treat you, just tell me of it, and he shall hear from me, This amusement lasted for more than a month.

It was July then. The mornings were sultry. The sun shone brightly, and it was quite a pleasure to come to that damp spot. It was delightful to feel the cold breath of the well on one's face and make love amidst the spring water while the skies were kindling their fires. Miet would arrive out of breath after crossing the stubble fields. As she ran along, her hair fell down over her forehead and temples. and it was with flushed face and disheveled locks that she'd lean over, shaking with laughter, almost before she had had time to set her pitcher down. Silvere, who was almost always the first at the well, felt as he suddenly saw her smiling face in the water, as keen a joy as he would have experienced had she suddenly thrown herself into his arms at the bend of a pathway.

Around them the radiant morning hummed with mirth, A wave of warm light, sonorous with the buzzing of insects, beat against the old wall, the posts, and the curbstone. They, however, no longer saw the shower of morning sunshine, nor heard the thousand sounds rising from the ground. They were in the depths of their green hiding place, under the earth, in that mysterious and awesome cavity, and quivered with pleasure as they lingered there

enjoying its fresh coolness and dim light. on some mornings miet who by nature could not long maintain a contemplative attitude began to tease she would shake the rope and make drops of water fall in order to ripple the mirrors and deface the reflections So there would then entreat her to remain still. He whose fervor was deeper than hers knew no keener pleasure than that of gazing at his love's image reflected so distinctly in every feature. But she would not listen to him. She would joke and feign a rough old bogey's voice, to which the echo imparted a raucous melodiousness. No, no, she would say in shiting fashion, I don't love you today. I'm making faces at you. See how ugly. I am. And she laughed at seeing the fantastic forms which their spreading faces assumed as they danced upon the disturbed water. One morning she got angry in real earnest. She did not find Sylveira at the Tristing Place and waited for him for nearly a quarter of an hour, vainly making

the pulley great. She was just about to depart in a rage when he arrived. As soon as she perceived him she led a perfect tempest loose in the well, shook her pale in an irritated manner, and made the blackish water whirl and splash against the stones. In vain did Silvair try to explain that Auntie Day had detained him. To all his excuses, she replied, You vexed me. I don't want to see you. The poor lad in despair vainly questioned that somber cavity, now so full of lamentable sounds, where on other days,

such a bright vision usually awaited him amidst the silence of the stagnant water. He had to go away without seeing me yet. On the morrow, arriving before the time, he gazed sadly into the well, hearing nothing, and thinking that the obstinate girl would not come when she, who was already on the other side, slyly watching his arrival, bent over suddenly with a burst of laughter. All was at once forgotten.

In this wise the well was the scene of many a little drama and comedy. That happy cavity with its gleaming mirrors and musical echoes quickly ripened their love. They endowed it with such strange life, so filled it with their youthful love, that long after they had ceased to come and lean over the brink, Silvere, as he drew water every morning, would fancy he could see his smiling face in the dim light that still quivered with the joy they had set there. That month of playful love rescued me from her mute despair.

She felt a revival of her affections, her happy childish carelessness, which had been held in check by the hateful loneliness in which she lived. The certainty that she was loved by somebody and that she was no longer alone in the world enabled her to endure the persecutions of Justin and the faux-bur urchins. A song of joy whose glad notes drowned their hootings

now sounded in her heart. She thought of her father with tender compassion and did not now so frequently yield to dreams of bitter vengeance. Her dawning love cooled her feverish broodings like the fresh breezes of the dawn. At the same time, she acquired the instinctive cunning of a young girl in love. She felt that she must maintain her usual silent and rebellious demeanor if she were to escape Justine's suspicions. But in spite of her efforts, her eyes retained a sweet, unruppled expression when, And Malad bullied her. She was no longer able to put on her old black look of indignant anger. One morning, he heard her humming to herself at breakfast time.

You seem very gay, Chantagre, he said to her suspiciously, glancing keenly at her from his lowering eyes. I bet you've been up to some of your tricks again. She shrugged her shoulders, but she trembled inwardly, and she did all she could to regain her old appearance of rebellious martyrdom. However, though Justin suspected some secret happiness, it was long before he was able to discover how his victim had escaped him. This ends Chapter 5, Part 1. Section 11 of the Fortune of the Rujon, Book 1 of Rujon-Maca cycle, by Emil Zola, translated by Henry Visitelli. This Lubrovac's recording is in the public domain. read by Mark Leader

Chapter 5 Part 2 Silvert on his side enjoyed profound happiness His daily meetings with Miette made his idle hours pass pleasantly away During his long, silent companionship with Aunt Dede he recalled one by one his remembrances of the morning

reveling in their most trifling details From that time forward the fullness of his heart cloistered him yet more in the lonely existence which he had adopted with his grandmother. He was naturally fond of hidden spots, of solitary retirement, where he could give himself up to his thoughts. At this period already, he'd eagerly begun to read all the old odd volumes which he could pick up at broker's shops in the foreboard, and which were destined to lead him to a strange and generous social religion and morality. His reading, ill digested and lacking all solid foundation, gave him glimpses of the world's vanities and pleasures, especially with regard to women, which would have seriously troubled his mind if his heart had not been contented. When Miette came, he received her at first as a companion, then as the joy and ambition of his life.

In the evening, when he had retired to the little nook where he slept and hung his lamp at the head of his head of his life, and hung his lamp at the head of his life, his strapped bedstead, he would find Miet on every page of a dusty old volume which he'd taken at random from a shelf above his head and was reading devoutly. He never came across the young girl, a good and beautiful creature in his reading, without immediately identifying her with his sweetheart. And he would set himself in the narrative as well. If he were reading a love story, it was he who married me at the end or died with her. If on the contrary, he were perusing some political pamphlet, some grave dissertation on social economy,

works which he preferred to romances, for he had that singular partiality for difficult subjects which characterizes persons of imperfect scholarship, he still found some means of associating her with the tedious themes which frequently he could not even understand. For instance, he tried to persuade himself that he was learning how to be good and kind to her when they were married. He thus associated her with all his visionary dreamings. Protected by the purity of his affection against the obscenity of certain 18th century tales which fell into his hands.

He found particular pleasure in shutting himself up with her in those humanitarian utopias which some great minds of our own time, infatuated by visions of universal happiness have imagined. Miette, in his mind, became quite essential to the abolition of palperism and the definitive triumph of the principles of the revolution. There were nights a feverish reading when his mind could not tear itself from his book, which he would lay down and take up at least a score of times. nights of voluptuous weariness which he enjoyed till daybreak like some secret orgy cramped up in that tining room,

his eyes troubled by the flickering yellow light, while he yielded to the fever of insomnia and schemed out new social schemes of the most absurdly ingenuous nature, in which woman, always personified by Miet, was worshipped by the nations on their knees. He was predisposed to utopian ideas by certain hereditary influences. His grandmother's nervous disorders became in him so much chronic enthusiasm, striving after everything that was grandiose and impossible. His lonely childhood, his imperfect education, had developed his natural tendencies in a singular manner. However, he had not yet reached the age when the fixed idea plants itself in a man's mind. In the morning, after he dipped his head in a bucket of water, he remembered his thoughts and visions of the night, but vaguely. Nothing remained of

his dreams save a childlike innocence full of trustful confidence and yearning tenderness. He felt like a child again. He ran to the well, solely desirous of meeting his sweetheart's smile, and tasting the delights of the radiant morning. And during the day, when thoughts of the future sometimes made him silent and dreamy, he would often, prompted by some sudden impulse, spring up and kiss auntie day on both cheeks, whereat the old woman would gaze at him anxiously, perturbed at seeing his eyes so bright, and gleaming with a joy which she thought she could divine. At last, this time went on. Miette and Silvert began to tire of only seeing each other's reflection. A novelty of their play was gone, and now that was the same.

they began to dream of keener pleasures than the well could afford them. In this longing for reality which came upon them, there was the wish to see each other face to face, to run through the open fields and return out of breath with her arms around each other's waist, clinging closely together in order that they might the better feel each other's love. One morning, Silvert spoke of climbing over the wall and walking in the jasas with Miette. But the child implored him not to perpetrate such folly, which would place her as she stands mercy. He then promised to seek some other means. The wall in which the well was set made a sudden bend a few paces farther on,

thereby forming a sort of recess, where the lovers would be free from observation, if they were to take shelter there. The question was how to reach this recess. Silvert could no longer entertain the idea of climbing over, as near had. appeared so afraid. He secretly thought of another plan. The little door which McCarton and Adelaide had set up one night long years previously had remained forgotten in this remote corner. The owner of Vajas Mifrin had not even thought of blocking it up. Blackened by damp and green with moss, its lock and hinges eaten away with rust, it looked like a part of the old wall. Doubtless, the key was

lost. The grass growing beside the lower boards, against which slight mounds had formed, amply proved that no one had passed that way for many a long year. However, it was the lost key that Silvere hoped to find. He knew with what devotion is Auntie Day allowed the relics of the past to lie rotting wherever they might be. He searched the house for a week without any result, and went stealthily night by night to see if he had at last put his hand on the right key during the daytime. In this way, he tried more than 30 keys, which had doubtless come from the old property of the fouquets, and which he found all over the place against the walls, on the floors, and at the bottom of drawers. He was becoming disheartened, when all at once he found

the precious key. It was simply tied by a string to the street door latch key, which always remained in Malac. It had hung there for nearly forty years. Auntie Day must every day have touched it with her hand without ever making up her mind to throw it away, although it could now only carry her back sorrowfully into the past. When Silver had convinced himself that it really opened the little door, he awaited the ensuing day, dreaming of the joyful surprise which he was preparing for Miette. He had not told her for what he'd been searching. On the morrow, as soon as he heard the girl set her picture down, he gently opened the door, sweeping away with a push to tall wedge which covered the threshold. Stretching out his head, he saw Miet leaning over the brink of the

well, looking into the water, absorbed in expectation. Thereupon, in a couple of strides, he reached the recess formed by the wall, and thence called meet, meet, in a soft voice which made her tremble. She raised her head, thinking he was on the coping of the wall. But when she saw him in the jas, had a few steps from her, she gave a faint cry of surprise and ran up to him. They took each other's hand and looked at one another, delighted to be so much. near, thinking themselves far handsomer like this in the warm sunshine. It was the middle of August,

the feast of the assumption. In the distance, the bells were peeling in the limpid atmosphere that so often accompanies great days of festival, an atmosphere full of bright gaiety. Good morning, Silvert. Good morning, Miette. The voices in which they exchanged their morning greetings sounded strange to them. They knew only the muffled accents transmitted by the echo of the well. And now their voices seemed to them as clear as the notes of a lark. And ah, how delightful it was in that warm corner, in that holiday atmosphere. They still held each other's hands, Silvair leaning against the wall, yet with her figure slightly thrown backwards. They were about to tell each other all the soft things which they had not dared to confide to the reverberations of the well,

when Silver, hearing a slight noise, started, and turning pale, dropped me its hands. He had just seen Aunt Diday standing before him erect and motionless on the threshold of the doorway. The grandmother had come to the well by chance, and on perceiving in the old black wall, the white gap formed by the doorway which Silver had left wide open, she'd experienced a violent shock. That open gap seemed to her like a gulf of light, violently illumining her past. She once more saw herself running to the door amidst the morning brightness, and crossing the threshold full of a transports of her nervous love.

And Macart was there awaiting her. She hung upon his neck and pressed against his bosom, whilst the rising sun following her through the doorway, which she left open in her hurry, enveloped. them with radiance. It was a sudden vision which roused her cruelly from the slumber of old age, like some supreme chastisement, and awakened a multitude of bitter memories within her. Had the well, had the entire wall disappeared beneath the earth, she would not have been more stupefied. She had never thought that this door would open again. In her mind it had been walled up ever since the

hour of McCart's death. And amidst her amazement, she felt angry, indignant with the sacrilegious hand that had perpetrated this violation, and left that white, open space agape like a yawning tomb. She stepped forward, yielding to a kind of fascination, and halted erect within the framework of the door. Then she gazed out before her with a feeling of dolorous surprise. She had certainly been told that the old enclosure of the fouquets was now joined to Béjase Mefran, but she would never have thought the associations of her youth could have vanished so completely. It seemed as though some tempest had carried off everything that her memory cherished. The old dwelling, the large kitchen garden, the beds of green vegetables, all had disappeared.

Not a stone, not a tree of former times remained. and instead of a scene amidst which she had grown up and which in her mind's eyes she had seen but yesterday there lay a strip of barren soil, a broad patch of stumbles, bare like a desert. Henceforward, when, on closing her eyes, she might try to recall the objects of the past. That stubble would always appear to her like a shroud of yellowish, rugged, spread over the soil in which her youth lay buried. In the presence of that unfamiliar commonplace scene her heart died, as it were a second time. Now all was completely finally ended.

She was robbed even if her dreams of the past. Then she began to regret that she'd yielded to the attraction of that white opening, of that doorway gaping upon the days which were now forever lost. She was about to retire and close the accursed door, without even seeking to discover who had opened it, when she suddenly perceived Miet and Silvert, and the sight of the two young lovers, who with hanging heads nervously awaited her glance,

kept her on the threshold, quivering with yet keener pain. She now understood all. To the very end she was destined to picture herself there, clasped in McCart's arms in the bright sunshine. Yet a second time had the door served as an accomplice. Where love had once passed, there was it passing again. T'was the eternal and endless renewal, with present joys and future tears.

Auntie Day could only see the tears, and a sudden presentment showed her the two children bleeding with stricken hearts. Overwhelmed by the recollection of her life's sorrow, which this spot had just awakened within her, she grieved for her dear Silvere. She alone was guilty. If she not formerly had that door made, Silvere would not now be at a girl's feet in that lonely nook, intoxicating himself with a bliss which prompts and angers the jealousy of death.

After a brief pause, she went up to the young man, and without a word took him by the hand. She might perhaps have left them there, chattering under the wall, had she not felt that she herself was to some extent an accomplice in this fatal love. As she came back with Silvere, she turned on hearing malight footfall of Miet, who, having quickly taken up her pitcher,

was hastening across the stubble. She was running wildly, glad at having escaped so easily, and Auntie Day smiled involuntarily as she watched her bound over the ground like a runaway goat. She is very young, she murmured. She has plenty of time.

She meant no doubt that Miet had plenty of time before her to suffer and weep. Then, turning her eyes upon Silvere, who with a glance of ecstasy, had followed the child as she ran off in the bright sunshine, she simply added, Take care, my boy, this sort of thing sometimes kills one. These were the only words she spoke with reference to the incident, which had awakened all the sorrows that lay slumbering in the depths of her being. Silence had become a real religion with her. When Silveira came in, she double-locked the door and threw the key down the well.

In this wise, she felt certain that the door would no longer make her an accomplice. She examined it for a moment, glad at seeing it reassume its usual gloomy, barrier-like aspect. The tomb was closed once more. The white gap was forever boarded up with that damp-stained, mossy timber over which, the snails had shed silvery tears. In the evening, Auntie Day had another of those nervous attacks which came upon her at intervals. At these times she would often talk aloud and ramble incoherently, as though she was suffering from nightmare. That evening, while Sylver held her down on her bed, he heard her stammer in a panting voice such words as

custom house officer, fire, and murder. And she struggled and begged for mercy and dreamed aloud of vengeance. At last as always happened when the attack was drawing to a close. She fell into a strange fright, her teeth chattering while her limbs quivered with abject terror. Finally, after raising herself into a sitting posture, she cast a haggard look of astonishment at one and another corner of the room. and then fell back upon the pillow, even deep sighs. She was doubtless appraved to some hallucination.

However, she drew Silvair to her bosom and seemed to some degree to recognize him, though ever and on she confused him with someone else. There they are, she stammered. Do you see? They're going to take you. They'll kill you again. I don't want them to.

send them away. Tell them, I won't. Tell them they're hurting me, staring at me like that. Then she turned to the wall to avoid seeing the people of whom she was talking. And after an interval of silence, she continued, You aren't near me, my child, aren't you? You must not leave me. I thought I was going to die just now. We did wrong to make an opening in the wall. I have suffered ever since. I was certain that door would bring us further misfortune.

Oh, the innocent darlings, what sorrow. They will kill them as well. They will be shot down like dogs. Then she relapsed into catalepsy. She was no longer even aware of Silvair's presence. Suddenly, however, she sat up and gazed at the foot of her bed with a fearful expression of terror. "'Why didn't you send them away?' she cried, hiding her white head against the young man's abreast.

"'They are still there. The one with the gun is making signs that he's going to fire.' Shortly afterwards, she fell into the heavy slumber that usually terminated these attacks. On the next day, she seemed to have forgotten everything. She never again spoke to Sylvair of the morning on which she'd found him with a sweetheart behind. the wall. The young people did not see each other for a couple of days. When Miette ventured to return to the well, they resolved not to recommence the pranks which had upset Aunt Dede. However, the meeting which had been so strangely interrupted had filled them with a keen desire to meet again in some happy solitude, weary of the delights afforded by the well, and unwilling to vex Auntie Day by seeing Miet again

on the other side of the wall. Silver begged the girl to meet him somewhere else. She required but little pressing. She received the proposal with the willing smile of a frolicsome lass who has no thought of evil.

What made her smile was the idea of outwitting that spy of a Justin. When the lovers had come to agreement, they discussed at length the choice of a favorable spot. Sylvare proposed the most impossible tristing places,

He planned regular journeys and even suggested meeting the young girl at midnight in the barns of the Jacques Meprand. Miet, who was much more practical, shrugged her shoulders, declaring she would try to think of some spot. On the morrow she tarried but a minute at the well, just time enough to smile at Sylver,

and tell him to be at the far end of the Assamitre at about ten o'clock in the evening. One may be sure that the young men man was punctual. All day long, Miet's choice had puzzled him, and his curiosity increased when he found himself in the narrow lane, formed by the piles of planks at the end of the plot of ground. "'She will come this way,' he said to himself, looking along the road to Nice. But he suddenly heard a loud shaking of boughs behind the wall, and saw a laughing head, with tumbled hair, appear above the coping, whilst the joyous voice crawled out,

it's me. And it was, in fact, Miet, who had climbed like an urchin up one of the mulberry trees, which even nowadays still border the boundary of the Jasmefran. In a couple of leaps, she reached a tombstone, half buried in the corner at the end of a lane. Silvere watched her descend with delight and surprise, without even thinking of helping her.

As soon as she had alighted, however, he took both her hands in his and said, how nimble you are. You climb better than I do. It was thus that they met for the first time in that hidden corner where they were destined to pass such happy hours. From that evening forward they saw each other there nearly every night. They now only used the well to warn each other of unforeseen obstacles to their meetings, of a change of time, and of all the trifling little news that seemed important in their eyes

and allowed of no delay. It sufficed for the one who had a communication to make to set the pulley in motion, for its creaking noise could be heard a long way off. But although on certain days they summoned one another two or three times in succession to speak of trifles of immense importance, it was only in the evening in that lonely little passage

that they tasted real happiness. Miet was exceptionally punctual, She fortunately slept over the kitchen in a room where the winter provisions had been kept before her arrival, and which was reached by a little private staircase. She was thus able to go out at all hours without being seen by Rebufat or Gjussain. Moreover, if the latter should ever see her returning, she intended to tell him some tale or other, staring at him the while with that stern look which always reduced him to silence.

Ah, how happy those warm evenings were. The lovers had now reached the first days of September, a month of bright sunshine in Provence. It was hardly possible for them to join each other before nine o'clock. Miette arrived from over the wall, insurmounting which she soon acquired such dexterity that she was almost always on the old tombstone before Silvert had time to stretch out his arms. She would laugh at her own strength and agility, as for her. a moment with her hair and disorder, she remained almost breathless, tapping her skirt to make it fall. Her sweetheart laughingly called her an impudent urchin. In reality, he much admired her

pluck. He watched her jump over the wall with the complacency of an older brother supervising the exercises of a younger one. Indeed, there was yet much that was childlike in their growing love. On several occasions they spoke of going on some birds nesting expedition on the banks of the Vjorn. You'll see how I can climb, said Miette proudly. When I lived at Chavano, I used to go right up to the top of old André's walnut trees. Have you ever taken a magpie's nest? It's very difficult. Then a discussion arose as to how one ought to climb a poplar. Miette stated her opinions

With all a boy's confidence However, Silvert Clasping her round the knees Had by this time lifted her to the ground And then they would walk on side by side Their arms encircling each other's waist Though they were but children Fond of frolicsome play and chatter

And knew not even how to speak of love Yet they already partook of love's delight It suffice them to press each other's hand Ignorant whither their feelings and their hearts were drifting, they did not seek to hide the blissful thrills which the slightest touch awoke. Smiling, often wondering at the delight they experienced, they yielded unconsciously to the sweetness of new feelings, even while talking like a couple of schoolboys of the magpie's nests,

which are so difficult to reach. And as they talked, they went down the silent path between the piles of plants, in the wall of the Jacques Maffran. They never went beyond the end of that narrow blind alley, but invariably retraced their steps. They were quite at home there. Miette, happy in the knowledge of their safe concealment, would often pause and congratulate herself on her discovery.

Wasn't I lucky, she would gleefully exclaim, we might walk a long way without finding such a good hiding place. The thick grass mumbled a number. noise of their footsteps. They were steeped in gloom, shot in between two black walls, and only a strip of dark sky, spangled with stars, was visible above their heads. And as they stepped along, pacing this path which resembled a dark stream flowing beneath the black star-sprint sky, they were often thrilled with undefinable emotion and lowered their voices, although there was nobody to hear them. Surrendering themselves, as it were, to the silent waves of night,

over which they seemed to drift, they recounted to one another with lover's rapture, the thousand trifles of the day. At other times on bright nights, when the moonlight clearly outlined the wall and the timber stacks, Miet and Silvert would romp about with all the carelessness of children. The path stretched out, a light with white rays, and retained. no suggestion of secrecy, and the young people laughed and chased each other like boys at play, at times venturing even to climb upon the piles of timber. Silvair was occasionally obliged to frighten me at, by telling her that Giustan might be watching her from over the wall. Then, quite out of breath, they would stroll side by side,

and plan how they might someday go for a scamper in the St. Clair meadows to see which of a two would catch the other. Their growing love thus accommodated itself to dark and clear nights. Their hearts were ever on the alert, and a little shade sufficed to sweeten the pleasure of their embrace and soften their laughter. This dearly loved retreat, so gay in the moonshine, so strangely thrilling in the gloom, seemed an inexhaustible source of both gaiety and silent emotion. They would remain there until midnight, while the town dropped off to sleep, and the life. and the windows of the foreborg went out one by one. They were never disturbed in their solitude. At that late hour, children were no longer playing at hide-and-seek

behind the piles of planks. Occasionally, when the young couple heard sounds in the distance, the singing of some workmen as they passed along the road, or conversation coming from a neighboring sidewalks. They would cast stealthy glances over the assamee to. The timber yard stretched out, empty of all, save here and there some falling shadows. On warm evenings they sometimes caught glimpses of loving couples there, and of old men sitting on the big beams by the roadside. When the evenings grew colder, all that they ever saw on the melancholy deserted spot was some gypsy fire,

before which perhaps a few black shadows passed to and fro. through the still night air words and sundry faint sounds were wafted to them the good night of a townsman shutting his door the closing of a window shutter the deep striking of a clock all the parting sounds of a provincial town retiring to rest

and when Plasanne was slumbering they might still hear the quarrelling of the gypsies and the crackling of their fires amidst which suddenly rose the guttural voices of girls singing in a strange tongue, full of rugged accents. But the lovers did not concern themselves much with what went on in the Ars Saint-Mitre. They hastened back into their own little privacy, and again walked along their favorite retired path.

Little did they care for others, or for the town itself. The few planks which separated them from the wicked world seemed to them after a while an insurmountable rampart. They were so secluded, so free in this nook, situated though it was in the very midst of the forebord, at only 50 paces from the Rome gate, that they sometimes fancied themselves far away in some hollow of the Vjorn

with the open country around them. Of all the sounds which reached them, only one made them feel uneasy, that of the clock striking slowly in the darkness. At times, when the hour sounded, they pretended not to hear. At other moments they stopped short as if to protest. However, they could not go on forever taking just another ten minutes, and so the time came when they were at last obliged to say good night. Then Miette reluctantly climbed upon the

wall again. But all was not ended yet. They would linger over their leave taking for a good quarter of an hour. When the girl had climbed upon the wall, she remained there with her elbows on the coping, and her feet supported by the branches of the mulberry tree, which served her as a ladder. Silvere, perched on the tombstone, was able to take her hands again and renew their whispered conversation. They repeated, till tomorrow, a dozen times, and still an ever found something more to say. At last, Silvere began to scold. Come, you must get down. It's past midnight. But me yet, with a girl's waywardness, wished him to descend first. She wanted to see him go away. And as he persisted in remaining,

she ended by saying abruptly, by way of punishment, perhaps, look, I'm going to jump down. then she sprang from the mulberry tree to the great consternation of Silvere. He heard Medolf thought of her fall, and the burst of laughter with which she ran off, without choosing to reply to his last to do. For some minutes he would remain watching her vague figure as it disappeared in the darkness, then slowly descending, he regained the impasse Saint-Mittre. During two years they came to the path every year,

day. At the time of their first meetings, they enjoyed some beautiful warm nights. They might almost have fancied themselves in the month of May, the month of seething sap, when a pleasant odor of earth and fresh leaves pervades the warm air. This renavo, this second spring was like a gift from heaven, which allowed them to run freely about the path and tighten their bonds of affection. At last came rain and snow and frost. But the disagreeableness of winter did not keep them away. Meett put on her long brown police, and they both made light of the bad weather. When the nights were dry and clear and puffs of wind raised the hoar frost beneath their footsteps

and fell on their faces like taps from a switch, they refrained from sitting down. They walked quickly to and fro. wrapped in the police, their cheeks blew with cold in their eyes watering, and they laughed heartily, quite quivering with mirth at the rapidity of their march through the freezing atmosphere. Once snowy evening they amused themselves with making an enormous snowball which they rolled into a corner. It remained there fully a month, which caused them fresh astonishment each time they met in the path. Nor did the rain frighten them. They came to the rain. They came to you. to see each other through the heaviest downpours, though they got wet to the skin in doing

so. Silvair would hasten to the spot, saying to himself that Miet would never be mad enough to come, and when Miette arrived he could not find it in his heart to scold her. In reality he'd been expecting her. At last he sought some shelter against the inclement weather, knowing quite well that they would certainly come out, however much they might promise one another not to do. so when it rained. To find his shelter, he only had to disturb one of a timber stacks, pulling out several pieces of wood and arranging them so that they would move easily,

in such wise that he could displace and replace them at pleasure. From that time forward, the lovers possessed a sort of low and narrow sentry box, a square hole which was only big enough to hold them closely squeezed together on a beam which they'd left at the bottom of a little cell. Whenever it rained, the first two arrived would take shelter here, and on finding themselves together again they would listen with delight to the rain beating on the piles of planks. Before and around them, through the inky blackness of a night, came a rush of water which they could not see, but which resounded continuously like the roar of a mob. They were nevertheless quite alone, as though they'd been at the end of the world or beneath the sea.

They never felt so happy, so isolated, as when they found themselves in that timber stack, in the midst of some such deluse, which threatened to carry them away at every moment. Their bent knees almost reached the opening, and though they thrust themselves back as far as possible, the spray of the rain bathed their cheeks and hands. The big drops, falling from the plant,

splashed at regular intervals at their feet. The Brown police kept them warm, and Minook was so small that Miet was compelled to sit almost on Silvair's knees. And they would chatter and then lapse into silence, overcome with languor, lulled by the warmth of their embrace and the monotonous beating of the shower.

For hours and hours they remained there, with that same enjoyment of the rain which prompts little children to stroll along solemnly in stormy weather, with open umbrellas in their hands. After a while they came to prefer the rainy evenings, though their parting became more painful on those occasions. Miette was obliged to climb the wall in the driving rain and crossed the puddles of Vajache Maffrin in perfect darkness.

As soon as she had left his arms, she was lost to Silvere amidst the gloom and the noise of the falling water. In vain he listened. was deafened, blinded. However, the anxiety caused by this brusque separation proved an additional charm, and until the morrow, each would be uneasy, lest anything should have befallen the other in such weather, when one would not even have turned a dog out of doors. Perchance one of them had slipped or lost the way. Such were the mutual fears which possessed them, and rendered their next interval, yet more loving. At last the fine days returned. April brought mild nights, and the grass

in the green alley sprouted up wildly. Amidst the stream of life flowing from heaven and rising from the earth, amidst all the intoxication of the budding springtime, the lover sometimes regretted their winter solitude, the rainy evenings and the freezing nights, during which they had been so isolated so far from all human sounds. At present the days did not draw to a close soon enough, and they grew impatient with the lagging twilights. When the night had fallen sufficiently from yet to climb upon the wall without danger of being seen,

and they could at last glide along their dear path. They no longer found there the solitude congenial to their shy, childish love. People began to flock to the Ars Saint-Mitre. The urchins of the Foburg remained there, romping about the beans and shouting till eleven o'clock at night. It even happened occasionally that one of them would go and hide behind the piles of timber and assail Miet and Silvier with boyish jeers. The fear of being surprised amidst that general awakening of life as the season gradually grew

warmer tinged their meetings with anxiety. Then, too, they began to stifle him in the narrow lane. never had it throbbed with so ardent the quiver, never had that soil in which the last bones left of the former cemetery lay mouldering, sent forth such oppressive and disturbing odors. They were still too young to relish the voluptuous charm of that secluded nook, which the spring-tide filled with fever. The grass grew to their knees,

they moved to and fro with difficulty, and certain plants, when they crushed their young shoots, sent forth a pungent odor which made them dizzy. Then seized with strange drowsiness and staggering with giddiness, their feet as though entangled in the grass, they would lean against the wall with half-closed eyes, unable to move a step. All the soft languor from the skies seemed to penetrate them.

With the peculence of beginners, impatient and irritated at this sudden faintness, They began to think their retreat too confined and decided to ramble through the open fields. Every evening came fresh frolics. Miet arrived with her police. They wrapped themselves in it, and then, gliding past the walls,

reached the high road in the open country. The broad fields were the wind rolled with full strength, like the waves at high tide. And here they no longer felt stifled. They recovered all their youthfulness, free from the giddy intoxication born of a tall rank weeds of the Aes Saint Mietre.

During two summers they rambled through the district. Every rock ledge, every bed of turf soon knew them. It was not a cluster of trees, a hedge or a bush which did not become their friend. They realized their dreams.

They chased each other wildly over the meadows of Saint-Clair and yet ran so well that Silvert had to put his bed, best foot forward to catch her. Sometimes, too, they went in search of magpie's nests. Headstrong, Miette, wishing to show how she'd climbed trees at Chavano, would tie up her skirts with a piece of string and ascend the highest poplars,

while Cervero stood trembling beneath, with his arms outstretched to catch her should she slip. These frolics so turned them from thoughts of love that one evening they almost fought like a couple of lads coming out of school. But there were nooks in the countryside, which were not healthful for them. So long as they rambled on, they were continually shouting with laughter, pushing and teasing one another.

They covered miles and miles of ground. Sometimes they went as far as the chain of the Garig, following the narrowest paths and cutting across the fields. The region belonged to them. They lived there as in a conquered territory, enjoying all that the earth and the sky could give them. Miette, with a woman's lack of scruple,

did not hesitate to pluck a bunch of grapes or a cluster of green almonds from the vines and almond trees whose boughs brushed her as she passed. And at this, Silvere, with his absolute ideas of honesty, felt vexed, although he did not venture to find fault with the girl, whose occasional sulking distressed him.

Oh, the bad girl, thought he, childishly exaggerated. the matter. She'd make a thief of me. But Miette would thereupon force his share of the stolen fruit into his mouth. The artifices he employed, such as holding her round the waste, avoiding the fruit trees, and making her run after him when they were near the vines, so as to keep her out of the way of temptation, quickly exhausted his imagination. At last there was nothing to do but to make her sit down. And then they again began to experience their former stifling sensations. The gloomy valley of the Viorne particularly disturbed them. When weariness brought them to the

banks of a torrent, all their childish gaiety seemed to disappear. A gray shadow floated under the willows, like the scented crape of a woman's dress. The children felt this crape to send warm and balmy from the voluptuous shoulders of the night, kissed their temples and enveloped them with irresistible anger. In the distance the crickets chirped in the meadows of Saint-Clair, and at their feet the ripples of the viorn sounded like lover's whispers, like the soft cooing of humid lips. The stars cast a rain of sparkles from the slumbering heavens, and amidst the throbbing of the sky, the waters and the darkness, the children are posing on the grass, sought each other's hands and pressed them. Silvert, who vaguely understood the danger of these ecstasies, would sometimes jump up and propose to cross over to one of the islets, left by the low water in the middle of the stream. Both ventured forth with bare feet. Miette made light of the pebbles, refusing Silveur's help.

And it once happened that she sat down in the very middle of the stream. However, there were only a few inches of water, and she escaped with nothing worse than a wet pebbels. petticoat. Then, having reached the island, they threw themselves on the long neck of sand, their eyes on a level with the surface of the river, whose silvery scales they saw quivering far away in the clear night. Then Miet would declare, but they were in a boat, that the island was certainly floating, she could feel it carrying her along. The dizziness caused by the rippling of the water amused them for a moment, and they lingered there, singing in an undertone, like boatmen as they strike the water with their oars.

At other times, when the island had a low bank, they sat there as on a bed of verdure, and let their bare feet dangle in the stream. And then, for hours, they chatted together, swinging their legs and splashing the water, delighted to set a tempest raging in the peaceful pool whose freshness cooled their fever. These footpaths suggested a dangerous idea to meet.

nothing would satisfy her but a complete bath. A little above the bridge over the Vjorn, there was a very convenient spot, she said, barely three or four feet deep and quite safe. The weather were so warm, it would be so nice to have the water up to their necks, besides which she'd been dying to learn to swim for such a long time, and Silvere would be able to teach her.

Silveir raised objections. It was not prudent at night time. they might be seen. Perhaps, too, they might catch cold. However, nothing could turn Miette from her purpose. One evening she came with a bathing costume which she made out of an old dress, and Siver was then obliged to go back to Auntie Dez for his bathing drawers. Their proceedings were characterized by great simplicity. Miette disrobed herself beneath the shade of a stout willow, and when both were ready, enveloped in the blackness which fell from the foliage around them,

they gaily entered the cool water, oblivious of all previous scruples, and knowing in their innocence no sense of shame. They remained in the river quite an hour, splashing and throwing water into each other's faces. Miette, now getting cross, now breaking out into laughter, while Silvera gave her her first lesson,

dipping her head under every now and again so as to accustom her to the water. As long as he held her up, She threw her arms and legs about violently, thinking she was swimming, but directly he let her go. She cried and struggled, striking in the water with her outstretched hands, clutching at anything she could get hold of, the young man's waist or one of his wrists. She leant against him for an instant, resting, out of breath and dripping with water, and then she cried,

Once more, but you do it on purpose, you don't hold me. At the end of a fortnight, the girl was able to swim. With her limbs moving freely, rocked by the stream, playing with it, she yielded form and spirit alike to its soft motion, to the silence of the heavens and the dreaminess of the melancholy banks. As she in severe swam noiselessly along, she seemed to see the foliage of both banks thicken and hang over them, draping them round is with a huge curtain. When the moon shone, its rays glided between the trunks of the trees, and phantoms seemed to be able to. to flit along the riverside in white robes. Miette felt no nervousness, however, only an indefinable emotion as she followed the play of the shadows.

As she went onward with slower motion, the calm water, which the moon converted into a bright mirror, rippled at her approach like a silver-broidered cloth. Eddies widened and lost themselves amid the shadows of the banks, under the hanging willow branches, whence issued weird, plashing sounds. At every stroke she perceived recesses full of sound, dark cavities which she hastened to pass by.

Clusters in rows of trees whose sombre masses were continually changing form, stretching forward and apparently following her from the summit of the bank. And when she threw herself on her back, the depths of the heavens affected her still more. From the fields, from the distant horizon which she could no longer see,

a solemn lingering strain composed of all the size of the night was wafted to her. She was not of a dreamy nature. It was physically, through the medium of each of her senses, that she derived enjoyment from the sky, the river and the play of light and shadow.

The river in particular bore her along with endless caresses. When she swam against the current, she was delighted to feel the stream flow rapidly against her, bosom and limbs. She dipped herself in yet more deeply, with a water reaching to her lips so that it might pass over her shoulders and envelop her from chin to feet with flying kisses. Then she would float, languid and quiescent on the surface, whilst the ripples glided softly between her costume and her

skin. And she would also roll over in the still pools like a cat on a carpet, and swim from luminous patches where the moonbeams were bathing to the dark water shaded by the foliage, shivering the while, as though she had quitted a sunny plain and then felt the cold from the boughs falling on her neck. She now remained quite silent in the water and would not allow Silvere to touch her. Gliding softly by her side, she swam on with the light rustling of a bird flying across the cops, or else she would circle around him, a prey to vague disquietude which he did not comprehend. He himself darted quickly away if he happened to brush against her. The river was now but a source of enervating intoxication, for luptuous languor, which disturbed them

strangely. When they emerged from their bath, they felt dizzy, weary and drowsy. Fortunately, the girl declared one evening that she would bathe no more, and the cold water made the blood run to her head. And it was in all truth and innocence that she said this. Then their long conversations began anew. The dangers to which the innocence of their love had lately been exposed had left no other trace in Silvair's mind than great admiration for Miette's physical strength. She had learned to swim in a fortnight, and often, when they raced together, he'd seen the her stem the current with a stroke as rapid as his own. He who delighted in strength and bodily exercises felt a thrill of pleasure at seeing her so strong, so active in a droid. He entertained

at heart a singular admiration for her stout arms. One evening, after one of the first baths that had left them so playful, they caught each other round the waist on a strip of sand and wrestled for several minutes without Silvere being able to throw me at. At least, last indeed it was the young man who lost his balance, while the girl remained standing. Her sweetheart treated her like a boy, and it was those long rambles of theirs, those wild races across the meadows, those bird's nest filched from the tree crests, those struggles and violent games of one and another kind that so long shielded them and their love from all impurity. Then, too, apart from his youthful admiration for his sweetheart's dash

pluck. Silveir felt for her all the compassionate tenderness of a heart that ever softened towards the unfortunate. He who could never see any forsaken creature, a poor man or a child, walking barefooted along the dusty roads, without a throb of pity, loved me because nobody else loved her, because she virtually led an outcast's hard life. When he saw her smile, he was deeply moved by the joy he brought her. Moreover, the child was a wilding like himself, and they were of the same mind in hating all the gossips of the forebord. The dreams in which Sylver indulged him a daytime, while he plied his heavy hammer round the cartwheels in his master's shop, were full of generous enthusiasm. He fancied himself Mietz, Redeemer. All his reading rushed to his head.

He meant to marry a sweetheart some day, in order to raise a sweetheart some day, in order to raise in the eyes of the world. It was like a holy mission that he imposed upon himself, that of redeeming and saving the convict's daughter. And his head was so full of certain theories and arguments that he did not tell himself these things in simple fashion, but became lost in perfect social mysticism, imagining rehabilitation in the form of an apathesis in which he pictured me at seated on a throne at the end of the courso-ver, while the whole town prostrated itself before her, entreating her pardon and singing her praises. Happily, he forgot all these fine things as soon as me had jumped over the wall,

and said to him on the high road, Let's have a race. I'm sure you won't catch me. However, if the young man dreamt like this of the glorification of his sweetheart, he also showed such passion for justice that he often made her weep on speaking to her about her father. In spite of a softening effect which Silvair's friendship had had upon her, she still at times gave way to angry outbreaks of temper, when all the stubbornness and rebellion latent in her nature stiffened her with scowling eyes and tightly drawn lips.

She would then contend that her father had done quite right to kill the gendarme, that the earth belongs to everybody, and that one has the right to fire a gun when and where one likes. Thereupon Silvair, in a grave voice, explained the law to her as he understood it, with strange commentaries which would have startled the whole magistracy of Plesson. These discussions took place most often

in some remote corner of a St. Clair meadows. The grassy carpet of a dusky green hue stretched further than they could see, undoubted even by a single tree, and the sky seemed colossal, spangling the bare horizon with the stars. It seemed to the young couple as if they were being rocked on a sea of verdure. Miet argued the point obstinately.

She asked Silvere if her father should have let the gendarme kill him. And Silver, after a momentary silence, replied that, in such a case, it was better to be the victim than the murderer, and that it was a great misfortune for anyone to kill a fellow man, even in legitimate defense. The law was something holy to him, and the judges had done right in sending Chantagre to the galleys. At this the girl grew angry and almost struck her sweetheart,

crying out that he was as heartless as the rest. And as he still firmly defended his ideas of justice, she finished by bursting into sobs and stammering that he was doubtless ashamed of her, since he was always reminding her of her father's crime. These discussions ended in tears, in mutual emotion, But although the child cried and acknowledged that she was perhaps wrong, she still retained deep within her a wild, resentful temper. She once related with hearty laughter that she had seen a gendarme fall off his horse and break his

leg. Apart from this, he had only lived for Silvere. When he asked her about her uncle and cousin, she replied that, she did not know, and if he pressed her, fearing that they were making her too unhappy at the Jasmeffrein. She simply answered that she worked hard, and that nothing had changed. She believed, however, that Justin had at last found out what made her sing in the morning, and filled her eyes with delight. But she added, What does it matter? If ever he comes to disturb us, we'll receive him in such a way that

he won't be in a hurry to meddle with our affairs anymore. Now and again, the open country their long rambles in the fresh year wearied them somewhat. They then invariably returned to the Ars Saint-Mitre to the narrow lane, whence they'd been driven by the noisy summer evenings, the pungent scent of the trodden grass, all the warm oppressive emanations. On certain nights, however, the path proved cooler,

and the winds freshened it so they could remain there without feeling faint. They then enjoyed a feeling of delightful repose. Seated on the tume, tombstone, deaf to the noise of its children and gypsies, they felt at home again. Silver had on various occasions picked up fragments of bones, even pieces of skulls, and they were fond of speaking of the ancient burial ground. It seemed to them in their lively fancies that their love had shot up like some vigorous plant in this nook of soil which dead men's bones

had fertilized. It had grown indeed like those wild weeds. It had blocked, and it had blocked, As blossomed as blossom the poppies which sway like bare, bleeding hearts at the slightest breeze. And they ended by fancying that the warm breaths passing over them, the whisperings heard in the gloom. The long quivering which thrilled the path came from the dead folk, sighing their departed passions in their face, telling them the stories of their bridles, as they turned restlessly in their graves, full of a fierce longing to live and love again. Those fragments of bone, they felt convinced of it, were full of affection for them. The shattered skulls grew warm again by contact with their own youthful fire.

The smallest particles surrounded them with passionate whispering, anxious solicitude, throbbing jealousy. And when they departed, the old burial grounds seemed to groan. Those weeds in which their entangled feet often stumbled on sultry nights were fingers, tapered by tomb-like. that sprang up from the earth to detain them and cast them into each other's arms. That pungent and penetrating odor exhaled by the broken stems was the fertilizing perfume, the mighty quintessence of life which is slowly elaborated in the grave and intoxicates the lovers who wander in the solitude of the paths. The dead, the old departed dead, longed for the bridle of Miette and Silvair.

They were never afraid. The sympathy which seemed to hover around them, thrilled them, and made them love the invisible beings, whose soft touch they often imagined they could feel like a gentle flapping of wings. Sometimes they were saddened by sweet melancholy and could not understand what the dead desired of them. They went on basking in their innocent love amidst this flood of sap, this abandoned cemetery, whose rich soil teemed with life and imperiously demanded their union. They still remained ignorant of the meaning of the buzzing voices which they heard ringing in their ears. The sudden glow would send the blood flying to their faces. This ends Chapter 5, Part 2. Section 12 of the Fortune of the Rujon, Book 1 of Rujon-Macon cycle

by Emil Zola, translated by Henry Visitelli. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Read by Mark Leder Chapter 5 Part 3 They often questioned each other about the remains which they discovered. Miet, after a woman's fashion, was partial to lugubrious subjects. At each new discovery, she launched into endless suppositions. If the bone was small, she spoke of some beautiful girl, a prey to consumption,

or carried off by fever on the eve of her marriage. If the bone were large, she pictured some big old man, a soldier or a judge, someone who had inspired others with terror. For a long time, Matumstone particularly engaged their attention. One fine moonlight night, yet distinguished some half-obliterated letters on one side of it, and thereupon she made Silvere scrape the moss away with his knife. Then they read the mutilated inscription, here lieth, Marie died.

And yet, finding her own name on the stone was quite terror-stricken. Silvair called her a big baby, but she could not restrain her tears. She had received a stab in the heart, she said. She would soon die, and that stone was meant for her. The young man himself felt alarmed. However, he succeeded in shaming the child out of these thoughts.

What? She's so courageous to dream about such trifles. They ended by laughing. Then they avoided speaking of it again. But in melancholy moments when the cloudy sky saddened the pathway, Miet could not help thinking of that dead one, that unknown Marie, whose tomb had so long facilitated their meetings. The poor girl's bones were perhaps still lying there. and actress thought Miette one evening had a strange whim

and asked Silveir to turn the stone over to see what might be under it. He refused as though it were sacrilege, and his refusal strengthened Miet's fancies with regard to the dear phantom which bore her name. She positively insisted that the girl had died young as she was, and in the very midst of her love. She even began to pity the stone, that stone which she climbed so nimbly, and on which they had sat so often, a stone which death had chilled, and wished their love had warmed again. You'll see, this tombstone will bring us misfortune, she added.

If you were to die, I should come and lie here, and then I should like to have this stone set over my body. At this, Silvere, choking with emotions, scolded her for thinking of such mournful things. And so, for nearly two years, their love was. grew alike in the narrow pathway and the open country. Their idyll passed through the chilling rains of December and the burning solicitations of July, free from all touch of impurity, ever retaining the sweet charm of some old Greek love-tale,

all the naive hesitancy of youth which desires but knows not. In vain did the long-departed dead whisper in their ears. They carried nothing away from the old cemetery but emotional melancholy and a vague presentiment of a short life. A voice seemed to whisper to them, that they would depart amidst their virginal love, long ere the bridle they would give them wholly to each other. It was there on the tombstone and among the bones

that lay hidden beneath the rank grass, but they'd first come to indulge in that longing for death, that eager desire to sleep together in the earth, that now set them stammering and sighing beside the Oshire, road on that December night, while the two bells repeated their mournful warnings to one another. Miet was sleeping calmly, with her head resting on Silve's chest, while he mused upon their past meeting their lovely years of unbroken happiness. At daybreak, the girl awoke. The valley now spread out clearly under the bright sky. The sun was still behind the hills,

but a stream of crystal light, limpid and cold as spring water, flowed from the pale horizon. In the distance, the vjorn, like a white satin ribbon, disappeared among an expanse of red and yellow land. It was a boundless vista with grey seas of olive trees and vineyards that looked like huge pieces of striped cloth.

The whole country was magnified by the clearness of the atmosphere and the peaceful cold. However, sharp gusts of wind chilled the young people's faces, and thereupon they sprang to their feet, cheered by the sight of the clear morning. Their melancholy forebodings had vanished with the darkness, and they gazed with delight at the immense expanse of the plain, and listened to the tolling of the two bells that now seemed to be joyfully ringing in a holiday. Ah, I've had a good sleep, Miett cried. I dreamt you were kissing me. "'Tell me now, did you kiss me?' "'It's very possible,' Silvair replied, laughing. "'I was not very warm. It's bitterly cold.'

"'I only feel cold in the feet,' Miet rejoined. "'Well, let us have a run,' said Silvair. "'We have still two good leagues to go. You will get warm.' Thereupon they descended the hill and ran until they reached the high road. when they were below they raised their heads as if to say farewell to that rock on which they had wept while their kisses burned their lips but they did not again speak of that ardent embrace which had thrilled them so strongly with vague unknown desire under the pretext of walking more quickly they did not even take each other's arm they experienced some slight confusion when they looked at one another though why they could not tell meantime maddo dawn was rising around them. The young man, who had sometimes been sent to or share by his master, knew all the shortest cuts. Thus they walked on for more than two leagues, along dingle paths by the side of interminable ledges and walls. Now and again me had accused Silvair of having

taken her the wrong way, for at times, for a quarter of an hour at a stretch, they lost all side of the surrounding country, seeing above the walls and hedges nothing but long rows of almond trees whose slender branches showed sharply against the pale sky. All at once, however, they came out just in front of Orshaer. Loud cries of joy, the shouting of a crowd, sounded clearly in the limpid air. The insurrectionary forces were only now entering Baton. Miette and Silvere went in with the stragglers. had they seen such enthusiasm. To judge from the streets, one would have thought it was a procession day when the windows are decked with the finest drapery to honour the passage of the canopy. The townsfolk welcomed the insurgents as though they were deliverers. The men embraced them

while the women brought them food. Old men were to be seen weeping at the doors, and the joyousness was of an essentially southern character, pouring forth in clamorous fashion in singing, dancing in gesticulation. As Miette passed along, she was carried away by a Farandau. Footnote, the Farandol is the popular dance of Provence, which spread whirling all round the grand place. Silveir followed her. His thoughts of death and his discouragement were now far away. He wanted to fight, to sell his life dearly at least. The idea of a struggle intoxicated him afresh. He dreamed of victory to be followed by a happy life with Miet amidst the peacefulness of the Universal Republic.

The fraternal reception accorded them by the inhabitants of Orshaire proved to be the insurgent's last delight. They spent the day amidst radiant confidence in boundless hope. The prisoners, Commander Cicardot, Monsieur Gassonne, Perot, and the others, who'd been shut up in one of the rooms at the mayors, the windows of which overlooked the grand place, watched the Farandals and wild outbursts of enthusiasm with surprise and dismay.

The villains, muttered the commander, leaning upon a window bar, as though bending over the velvet-covered hand-rest of a box at a theatre, to think that there isn't a battery or two to make a clean sweep of all that rabble. Then he perceived Miette, in addressing himself to Monsieur Garsonnais, he added,

do you see sir that big girl in red over yonder how disgraceful they've even brought their mistresses with them if this continues much longer we shall see some fine goings on m gassanay shook his head saying something about unbridled passions and the most evil days of history m perrault as white as the sheet remained silent he only opened his lips once to say to cicardo who were still bitterly railing. Not so loud, sir, not so loud. You'll get us all massacred. As a matter of fact, the insurgents treated the gentleman with the greatest kindness. They even provided them with an excellent dinner in the evening. Such attentions, however, were terrifying to such a Quaker as the receiver of taxes.

The insurgency thought would not treat them so well unless they wished to make them fat and tender for the day when they might wish to devour them. at dusk that day silver came face to face with his cousin dr pascal the latter had followed the band on foot chatting with the workmen who held him in the greatest respect at first he had striven to dissuade them from the struggle and then as if convinced by their arguments he'd said to them with his kindly smile well perhaps you're right my friends fight if you like i shall be here to patch up your arms and legs Then in the morning he began to gather pebbles and plants along the high road. He regretted that he'd not brought his geologist's hammer and botanical wallet with him. His pockets were now so full of stones that they were almost bursting, while bundles of long herbs peered forth from the surgeon's case, which he carried under his arm.

Hello, you hear, my lad, he cried, as he perceived still there. I thought I was the only member of the family here. He spoke these last words with a touch of irony, as if deriding the intrigues of his father and his uncle Antoine. Silvere was very glad to meet his cousin. The doctor was the only one of the Rujon, whoever shook hands with him in the street, and showed him any sincere friendship.

Seeing him, therefore, still covered with dust from the march, the young man thought him gained over to the Republican cause, and was much delighted thereat. He talked to the doctor with youthful, magniloquence of the people's rights, their holy cause, and their certain triumph. Pascal smiled as he listened and watched the youth's gestures and the ardent play of his features with curiosity, as though he were studying a patient or analyzing an enthusiasm, to ascertain what might be at the bottom of it.

How you run on! How you run on! he finally exclaimed. Ah, you are your grandmother's true grandmas. grandson. And in a whisper he added, like some chemist taking notes, hysteria or enthusiasm, shameful madness or sublime madness, it's always those terrible nerves. Then again speaking aloud, as if summing up the matter, he said, The family is complete now. It will count a hero among its members. Filver did not hear him. He was still talking of his dear republic.

Miet had dropped a few paces off. She was still wrapped in her large red police. She and Silveur had traversed the town arm and arm. The sight of this tall red girl at last puzzled Pascal, and again interrupting his cousin, he asked him, Who is this child with you? She's my wife, Silvair gravely answered. The doctor opened his eyes wide, for he did not understand.

He was very shy with women. However, he raised his hat to me as he went by. The night proved an anxious one. Forebodings of misfortune swept over the insurgents. The enthusiasm and confidence of the previous evening seemed to die away in the darkness. In the morning there were gloomy faces. Sad looks were exchanged, followed by discouraging silence. Terrifying rumors were now circulating.

Bad news, which the leaders had managed to conceal the previous evening had spread abroad, though nobody in particular was known to have spoken. It was the work of that invisible voice, which, with a word, throws a mob into a panic. According to some reports, Paris was subdued, and the provinces had offered their hands and feet, eager to be bound. And it was added that a large party of troops which had left Marseilles under the command of Colonel Masson and Monsieur de Blériot, the prefect of a department, was advancing by forced marches to disperse the insurrectionary bans. This news came like a thunderbolt, at once awakening rage and despair.

These men, who on the previous evening had been all aglow with patriotic fever, now shivered with cold, chilled to the hearts by the shameful submissiveness of prostrate France. They alone then had had the courage to do their duty. And now they were to be left to perish amidst the general panic, death-like silence of the country. They had become mere rebels who would be hunted down like wild beasts. They who had dreamed of a great war, of a whole nation and revolt, and of the glorious conquest of the people's rights. Miserably baffled and betrayed, this handful of men could but weep for their dead faith in their vanished dreams of justice. There were some who, while taunting France

with their cowardice, flung away their arms, and sat down by the roadside, declaring that they would there await the bullets of the troops, and show how Republicans could die. Although these men had nothing now but death or exile before them, there were very few desertions from their ranks. A splendid feeling of solidarity kept them together. Their indignation turned chiefly against their leaders, who'd really proved incapable. Irreparable, miscellable had been committed and now the insurgents without order or discipline barely protected by a few centuries and under the command of irresolute men found themselves at the mercy of the first soldiers that might arrive they spent two more days at orshaer tuesday and wednesday thus losing time and aggravating the situation the general the man with a sabre whom silver had pointed out to me at on the pleson road vacillated and hesitated under the terrible responsibility that weighed upon him.

On Thursday, he came to the conclusion that the position of Orchere was the decidedly dangerous one, so towards one o'clock he gave orders to march and led his little army to the heights of Saint-Rour. That was indeed an impregnable position for anyone who knew how to defend it. The houses of Saint-Rour rise in tears along a hillside. behind the town all approaches shut off by enormous rocks so that this kind of citadel can only be reached by the Nor plain which spread out at the foot of the plateau an esplanade converted into a public walk planted with magnificent elms

overlooks the plain it was on this esplanade that the insurgents encamped the hostages were imprisoned in the Hotel de la mulle blanche standing halfway along the promenade But night passed away heavy and black. The insurgents spoke of treachery. As soon as it was morning, however, the man with the saber, who had neglected to take the simplest precautions, reviewed the troops. The contingents were drawn up in line with their backs turned to the plane.

They presented a wonderful medley of costume. Some wearing brown jackets, others dark great-coats, and others again blue blouses girded with reds, sashes. Moreover, their arms were an equally odd collection. They were newly sharpened sides, large navvies, spades, and fowling pieces with burnished barrels glittering in the sunshine. And at the very moment when the improvised general was riding past the little army, a sentry who'd been forgotten in an olive plantation, ran up gesticulating and shouting, The soldiers! The soldiers! There was indescribable emotion.

At first they thought it a false alarm. Forgetting all discipline, they rushed forward to the end of the esplanade in order to see the soldiers. The ranks were broken, and as the dark line of troops appeared, marching in perfect order with a long glitter of bayonets, on the other side of the grayish curtain of olive trees, became a hasty and disorderly retreat, which sent a quiver of panic to the other end of the plateau. Nevertheless, the contingents of La Palou,

as Saint-Martain-Devo had again formed in line in the middle of the promenade and stood there erect and fierce. A woodcutter, who was the head taller than any of his companions, shouted as he waved his red-necarcherchief, "'Tourms, Chavano, Grasile, Pujot, Saint-Erop! "'Two-arms, Le Toulette, to arms, Plesson!' Crowd streamed across the esplanade. The man with the sabre, surrounded by the folks from Favonaut,

whole, marched off with several of the country contingents, Verneux, Cobier, Marseigne, and Prienas, to outflank the enemy and then attack him. Other contingents from Vakir, Nazer, Casselieu, Le Roche-Noir and Mour-Dor-Rand, dashed to the left, scattering themselves and skirmishing parties over the Nor plain. And meantime, the men of the towns and villages that the woodcutter had called to his aid mustered together

under the elms. They're forming a dark irregular mass, grouped without regard to any of the rules of strategy, simply placed there like a rock, as it were, to bar the way or die. The men of Placant stood in the middle of this heroic battalion. Amid the gray hues of the blouses and jackets and the bluish glitter of the weapons, the police worn by Miet, who was holding the banner with both hands, looked like a large red splotch. A fresh, and bleeding wound. All at once, perfect silence fell. Monsieur Perrault's pale face appeared at a window of the Hotel de la Mulle Blanche, and he began to speak, gesticulating with his hands.

Go in, close the shutters, the insurgents furiously shouted, you'll get yourself killed! Thereupon the shutters were quickly closed, and nothing was heard save the regular, rhythmical tramp of the soldiers who were drawing near. A minute that seemed an age went by. The troops had disappeared, hidden by an undulation of the ground.

But over yonder, on the side of Anor plain, the insurgents soon perceived the bayonets shooting up one after another, like a field of steel-eared corn under the rising sun. At that moment, Silvert, who was glowing with feverish agitation, Fanchie, he could see the gendarme whose blooded stained his hands. He knew from the accounts of his companions that Rangard was not dead,

that he'd only lost an eye, and he clearly distinguished the unlucky man with his empty socket bleeding horribly. The keen recollection of his gendarme to whom he had not given a thought since his departure from Plesson proved unbearable. He was afraid that fear might get the better of him, and he tightened his hold on his carbine while a mist gathered before his eyes. He felt a longing to discharge his gun and fire at the phantom of that one-eyed man so as to drive it away. Meantime, the bayonets were still and ever slowly ascending. When the heads of a soldiers appeared on a level with the esplanade, Silvere instinctively turned to Miette. She stood there with flushed face, looking taller than ever amidst the folds of the red banner.

She was indeed standing on tiptoes in order to see the treacher. troops, and nervous expectation made her nostrils quiver and her red lips part so as to show her white, eager, gleaming teeth. Silvert smiled at her, but he had scarcely turned his head when the fuselage burst out. The soldiers, who could only be seen from their shoulders upwards, had just fired their first volley. It seemed to Silvert as though a great gust of wind was passing over his head, while a shower of leaves, lopped off by the bullets, fell from the elms. A sharp sound like the snapping of a dead branch made him look to his right. Then, prone on the ground, he saw the big woodcutter, who was a head taller than the others. There was a little black

hole in the middle of his forehead, and thereupon Silvere fired straight before him, without taking aim, reloaded and fired again, like a madman or a man. Or a man. unthinking wild beast in haste only to kill. He could not even distinguish the soldiers now. Smoke, resembling strips of gray muslin, was floating under the elms. The leaves still reigned upon the insurgents, for the troops were firing too high. Every now and then, athwart the fierce crackling of the fuselade, the young man heard a sigh or a low rattle, and a rush was made among the band, as if to make room for some poor wretch clutching hold of his neighbors as he fell. The firing lasted ten minutes. Then between two volleys, someone exclaimed in a voice of terror.

Every man for himself, soft-keep-l. This roused shouts and murmurs of rage as if to say, the cowards, oh, the cowards, sinister rumors were spreading. The general had fled. Cavalry were sabring the skirmishers in Menor plain. However, the irregular firing did not cease. Every now and again sudden bursts of flame sped through the clouds of smoke. A gruff voice, the voice of terror, shouted yet louder, every man for himself, solve keep her. Some men took to flight, throwing down their weapons and leaping over the dead. The others closed their ranks. At last there were only some ten insurgents left. Two more took to flight, and of the remaining eight, three were killed at one discharge.

The two children had remained there mechanically without understanding anything. As the battalion diminished in numbers, Miette raised the banner still higher in the air. She held it in front of her with clenched fists as if it were a huge taper. It was completely riddled by bullets. When Silver had no more cartridges left in his pocket, he ceased firing and gazed at the carbine with an air of stupor. It was then that a shadow passed over.

his face, as though the flapping wings of some colossal bird had brushed against his forehead. And raising his eyes, he saw the banner fall from Mietz's grasp. The child, her hands clasped to her breast, her head thrown back with an expression of excruciating suffering, was staggering to the ground. She did not utter a single cry, but sank at last upon the red banner. "'Get up! Come quickly,' Silvair said. in despair as he held out his hand to her. But she lay upon the ground without uttering a word, her eyes wide open.

Then he understood and fell on his knees beside her. You are wounded, eh? Tell me, where are you wounded? She still spoke no word. She was stifling and gazing at him out of her large eyes, while short quiver shook her frame. Then he pulled away her hands. It's there, isn't it? It's there!

And he tore open her bodice and lay her bosom bare. He searched, but saw nothing. His eyes were brimming with tears. At last, under the left breast, he perceived a small pink hole. A single drop of blood stained the wound. It's nothing, he whispered. I'll go in the find. Pascal, he'll put you all right again. If you could only get up, can't you move? The soldiers were not

firing now. They dashed to the left in pursuit of the contingence led away by the man with a saber. And in the center of the esplanade, there only remained Silvere kneeling beside Mietz's body. With the stubbornness of despair he'd taken her in his arms. He wanted to set her on her feet, but such a quiver of pain came upon the girl that he laid her down again and said to her entreatingly "'Speak to me, pray, why don't you say something to me?' She could not. She slowly, gently shook her hand as if to say that it was not her fault.

Her close-pressed lips were already contracting beneath the touch of death. With her unbound hair streaming around her and her head resting amid the folds of the blood-red banner, all her life now centred in her eyes, those black eyes glittering in her white face. Filver sobbed. The glance of those big sorrowful eyes filled him with distress. He read in them bitter, immense regret for life.

Miet was telling him that she was going away all alone and before their bridal day, that she was leaving him ere she'd become his own. wife. She was telling him, too, that it was he who had willed that it should be so, that he should have loved her as other lovers love their sweethearts. In the hour of her agony, amidst that stern conflict between death and her vigorous nature, she bewailed her fate in going like that to the grave. Silver, as he bent over her, understood how bitter was the pang. He recalled their caresses, how she'd hung round his neck and he had hung round his neck and

had yearned for his love, but he had not understood. And now she was departing from him forevermore. Bitterly grieved at the thought that throughout her eternal arrest she'd remember him solely as a companion and playfellow. He kissed her on the bosom while as hot, tears fell upon her lips. Those passionate kisses brought a last gleam of joy to Mietz's eyes. They loved one another, and their idyll ended in death. But Silvere could not believe she was dying. No, you will see. It will prove only a trifle, he declared. Don't speak if it hurts you. Wait, I will raise your head and then warm you. Your hands are quite frozen. But the fusillade had begun afresh, this time on the left in the

olive plantations. The dull sound of galloping cavalry rose from the plain. At times there were loud cries as of men being slaughtered, and thick clouds of smoke were wafted along and hung about the elms on the esplanade. So there, for his part, no longer heard or saw anything. Pascal, who came running down in the direction of the plain, saw him stretched upon the ground and hastened towards him, thinking he was wounded. As soon as the young man saw him, he clutched hold of him and pointed to Miette. Look, he said, She's wounded, there under the breast.

How good of you to come! You will save her! At that moment, however, a slight convulsion shook the dying girl. A pain-fraught shadow passed over her face, and as her contracted lips suddenly parted, a faint sigh escaped from them. Her eyes still wide open gazed fixedly at the young man.

then Pascal who'd stooped down Rose again Saying in a low voice She's dead Dead Silvere reeled at the sound of the word He'd been kneeling forward But now he sank back

As though thrown down by Miet's last faint sigh Dead Dead he repeated It's not true She's looking at me See how she is looking at me. Then he caught the doctor by the coat, entreating him to remain there, assuring him that he was mistaken, that she was not dead, and that he could save her if he only would. Baskal resisted gently, saying in his kindly voice,

I can do nothing for her. Others are waiting for me. Let go, my poor child. She is quite dead. At last Silvere released his hold and again fell back. Dead. Dead. Still that word, which rang like a knell in his dazed brain. When he was alone, he crept up close to the corpse. He had still seemed to be looking at him.

He threw himself upon her, laid his head upon her bosom, and watered it with his tears. He was beside himself. with grief. He pressed his lips wildly to her and breathed out all his passion, all his soul, in one long kiss, as though in the hope that it might bring her to life again. But the girl was turning cold in spite of his caresses. He felt her lifeless and nerveless beneath his touch. Then he was seized with terror, and with haggard face and listless hanging arms, he remained crouching in a state of stupor and repeating. She's dead.

Yet she is looking at me. She does not close her eyes. She sees me still. This fancy was very sweet to him. He remained there perfectly still, exchanging a long look with me at, in whose glance, deepened by death. He still seemed to read the girl's lament for her sad fate.

In the meantime, the cavalry were still sabring the fugitives over the Naur plain. The cries of the wounded and the galloping of the horses became more distant, softening like music wafted from afar through the clear air. Silver was no longer conscious of the fighting. He did not even see his cousin, who mounted the slope again and crossed the promenade. Pascal, as he passed along, picked up McCart's carbine with Silver had thrown. down. He knew it, as he'd seen it hanging over Aunt Dede's chimney-piece, and he thought he might as well save it from the hands of the victors. He had scarcely entered the Hotel de la Mulle

Blanche, whither a large number of the wounded had been taken, when a band of insurgents, chased by the soldiers like a herd of cattle, once more rushed into the esplanade. The man with the saber had fled. It was the last contingents from the country who were being exterminated, There was a terrible massacre. In vain did Colonel Masson and the prefect, Monsieur de Bléryor, overcome by pity, order a retreat. The infuriated soldiers continued firing upon the mass and pinning isolated fugitives to the walls with their bayonets. When they had no more enemies before them, they riddled the facade of the mules blanche with bullets. The shutters flew into splinters. One window which had been left half open was torn.

out, and there was a loud rattle of broken glass. Pitiful voices were crying out from within. The prisoners! The prisoners! But the troops did not hear. They continued firing. All at once, Commander Cicardot, growing exasperated, appeared at the door, waved his arms and endeavored to speak. Monsieur Perrault, the receiver of taxes with his slim figure and scared face, stood by his side. However, another volley was fired, and Monsieur Perrot fell face foremost with a heavy thud to the ground.

Silver and Miette were still looking at each other. Silvair had remained by the corpse, through all the fuselade and the howls of agony, without even turning his head. He was only conscious of the presence of some men around him, and from a feeling of modesty he drew the red banner over Miette's breast. Then their eyes still continued to gaze at one another. The conflict, however, was at an end. The death of the receiver of taxes had satiated the soldiers.

Some of these ran about, scouring every corner of the esplanade to prevent the escape of a single insurgent. A gendarme who perceived Silveur under the trees ran up to him, and seeing that it was a lad he had to deal with called, What are you doing there, youngster? Silvair, whose eyes were still fixed on those of Miet, made no reply. Ah, the band at his hands are black with powder, the gendarme exclaimed as he stooped down. Come, get up, you scoundrel. You know what you've got to expect.

Then as Silver only smiled vaguely and did not move. The other looked more attentively, and saw that the corpse swathed in the banner was that of a girl. A fine girl. What a pity, he muttered. Your mistress, eh? You rascal. Then he made a violent grab at Silveir, and setting him on his feet, let him away like a dog that's dragged by one leg. Silveir submitted in silence as quietly as a child. He just turned round to give another glance at Miette. He felt distressed at thus leaving her alone under the trees. For the last time he looked at her from afar. She was still lying there in all her purity, wrapped in the red banner, her head slightly raised, and her big eyes turned

upward towards heaven. This ends Chapter 5, Part 3. Section 13 of The Fortune of the Rujon Book 1 of Rujon Macca cycle by Emil Zola. translated by henry visitelli this librivox recording is in the public domain read by mark leader chapter six part one it was about five o'clock in the morning when rujon at last ventured to leave his mother's house the old woman had gone to sleep on a chair he crept stealthily to the end of the impasse saint-mitre it was not a sound not a shadow He pushed on as far as the Port-Dor-Homme. The gate stood wide open in the darkness that enveloped the slumbering town. Lasson was sleeping as sound as atop, quite unconscious, apparently, of the risk it was running in allowing the gates to remain unsecured. It seemed like a city of the dead.

Rujon, taking courage, made his way into the Rue-Denice. He scanned from a distance the corners of each single. corners of each successive lane and trembled at every door, fearing lest he should see a band of insurgents rush out upon him. However, he reached the cool solver without any mishap. The insurgents seemed to have vanished in the darkness, like a nightmare. Pierre then paused for a moment on the deserted pavement, heaving a deep sigh of relief and triumph.

So those rascals had really abandoned Plesson to him, the town belonged to him now it slept like the foolish thing it was there it lay dark and tranquil silent and confident and he had only to stretch out his hand to take possession of it that brief halt the supercilious glance which he cast over the drowsy place thrilled him with unspeakable delight he remained there alone in the darkness and crossed his arms in the attitude of a great general on the eve of a victory. He could hear nothing in the distance but the murmur of the fountains of the Coors Sauvair, whose jets of water fell into the basins with a musical plashing. Then he began to feel a little uneasy. What if the empire should unhappily have been established without his aid? What if Cicardot, Cassonet, and Perot, instead of being arrested and led away by the insurrectionary band had shut the rebels up in prison.

A cold perspiration broke out over him, and he went on his way again, hoping that Felicity would give him some accurate information. He now pushed on more rapidly and was skirting the houses of the Rue de la Ban, when a strange spectacle which caught his eyes as he raised his head riveted him to the ground. one of the windows of the yellow drawing room was brilliantly illuminated, and in the glare he saw a dark form which he recognized as that of his wife, bending forward and shaking its arms in a violent manner. He asked himself what this could mean, but unable to think of any explanation was beginning to feel seriously alarmed when some hard object bounded over the pavement at his feet. Felicite had thrown him the key of the cart-house where he had concealed a supply of muskets. His key clearly signified that he must take up arms,

so he turned away again, unable to comprehend why his wife had prevented him from going upstairs and imagining the most horrible things. He now went straight to Rudier, whom he found dressed and ready to march, but completely ignorant of the events of the night. rudier lived at the far end of a new town as in a desert whither no tidings of the insurgents movements had penetrated pierre however proposed to him that they should go to granou whose house stood on one of the corners of the place de recolet and under whose windows the insurgent contingents must have passed the municipal councillor's servant remained for a long time parleying before consenting to admit them and they heard poor granu calling from the first floor in a trembling voice, "'Don't open the door, Catherine.

The streets are full of bandits!' He was in his bedroom, in the dark. When he recognized his two faithful friends, he felt relieved, but he would not let the maid bring a lamp, fearing lest the light might attract a bullet. He seemed to think that the town was still full of insurgents. Lying back on an armchair near the window,

in his pants, and with a silk handkerchief round his head, he moaned, "'Ah, my friends, if you only knew!' I tried to go to bed, but they were making such a disturbance. At last I lay down in my armchair here. I've seen it all, everything, such awful-looking men, a band of escaped convicts. Then they passed by again, dragging brave commander Cicardo,

worthy Monsieur Gassonne, the postmaster, and others away with them, and howling the wire like cannibals. Rujel felt this thrill of joy. He made Groninue repeat to him how he had seen the mayor and the others surrounded by the brigands. I saw at all, the poor man wailed. I was standing behind the blind. They had just seized Monsieur Perot, and I heard him saying as he passed under my window, gentlemen don't hurt me they were certainly maltreating him it's abominable abominable however rudier calmed by assuring him but the town was free and the worthy gentleman began to feel quite a glow of martial

ardor when pierre informed him that he had come to recruit his services for the purpose of saving Placein. These three saviors then took counsel together. They each resolved to go and rouse their friends and appoint a meeting at the cart shed, the secret arsenal of the reactionary party. Meantime, Rujon constantly bethought himself of Felicity's wild gestures, which seemed to betokened in danger somewhere. Grinou, assuredly the most foolish of the three, was the first to suggest that there must be some Republicans left in the town. This proved a flash of light, and Rujon, with a feeling of conviction, reflected,

There must be something of the MacArthur doing under all this. An hour or so later, the friends met again in the cart shed, which was situated in a very lonely spot. He had glided stealthily from door to door, knocking and ringing as quietly as possible, and picking up all the men they could. However, they'd only succeeded in collecting some forty, who arrived one after the other, creeping along in the dark

with the pale and drowsy countenances of men who had been violently startled from their sleep. The cart-shed, led to a cooper, was littered with old hoops and broken casks, of which there were piles in every corner. The guns were stored in the middle in three long boxes, A taper stuck on a piece of wood illumined the strange scene with a flickering glimmer.

When Rujon had removed the covers of the three boxes, the spectacle became weirdly grotesque. Above the firearms whose barrels shone with a bluish, phosphorescent glitter were outstretched necks and heads that bent with a sort of secret fear, while the yellow light of a taper cast shadows of huge noses and locks of stiffened hair upon the walls. However, the reactionary forces counted their numbers, and the smallness of a total filled them with hesitation. They were only 39 all told, and this adventure would mean certain death for them.

A father of a family spoke of his children. Others, without troubling themselves about excuses, turned towards the door. Then, however, two fresh conspirators arrived, who lived in the neighborhood of a town hall, and knew for certain that there were not more than about twenty Republicans still at the mayors. The ban thereupon deliberated afresh. Forty-one against twenty. These seemed practicable conditions, so the arms were distributed amid a little trembling.

It was Rujon who took them from the boxes, and each man present, as he received his gun, the barrel of which on that December night was icy cold, felt a sudden chill freeze him to his bone, The shadows on the walls assumed the clumsy postures of bewildered conscripts stretching out their fingers. Pierre closed the boxes regretfully. He left there a hundred and nine guns which he would willingly have distributed, however he now had to divide the cartridges. Of these, there were two large barrels full in the furthest corner of the cart shed, sufficient to defend Plesson

against an army. And as this corner was dark, one of the one of the cart-shed, one of the cart-shed, sufficient to defend Plesson against an army. and as this corner was dark, one of the gentlemen brought the taper near, whereupon another conspirator, a burly pork butcher with immense fists, grew angry, declaring that it was most imprudent to bring a light so close.

They strongly approved his words, so the cartridges were distributed in the dark. They completely filled their pockets with them. Then, after they had loaded their guns, with endless precautions, they lingered their feet, for another moment, looking at each other with suspicious eyes, or exchanging glances in which cowardly ferocity was mingled with an expression of stupidity. In the streets they kept close to the

houses, marching silently and in single file like savages on the warpath. Rojean had insisted upon having the honor of marching at their head, the time had come when he must needs run some risk if he wanted to see his scheme successful. Drops of perspiration poured down his forehead in spite of the cold. Nevertheless, he preserved a very martial bearing. Rudier and Grenu were immediately behind him. Upon two occasions the column came to an abrupt halt. They fancied they'd heard some distant sound of fighting,

but it was only the jingle of little brass shaving dishes hanging from chains, which are used as signs by the barbers of southern France. These dishes were gently shaking to and fro in the breeze. After each halt, the saviors of Plesson continued their stealthy march in the dark, retaining the while the mien of terrified heroes. In this manner they reached the square in front of a town hall. There they formed a group round Groujean and took council together once more.

In the façade of the building in front of them only one window was liable, It was now nearly seven o'clock, and the dawn was approaching. After a good ten minutes' discussion, it was decided to advance as far as the door, so as to ascertain what might be the meaning of this disquieting darkness and silence. The door proved to be half open. One of the conspirators thereupon popped his head in, but quickly withdrew it, announcing that there was a man under the porch, sitting against the wall fast asleep with a gun between his legs.

Rujon, seeing a chance of commencing with a deed of valor, thereupon entered first, and seizing the man, held him down while Routier gagged him. This first triumph, gained in silence, singularly emboldened the little troop, who had dreamed of a murderous fuselade, and Rujon had to make imperious signs to restrain his soldiers from indulging in over-boisterous,

delight. They continued their advance on tiptoes. Then, on the left, in the police guardroom, which was situated there, they perceived some fifteen men lying on camp beds and snoring, amid the dim glimmer of a lantern hanging from the wall. Rojon, who was decidedly becoming a great general, left half of his men in front of the guardroom with orders not to rouse the sleepers, but to watch them and make them prisoners if they stir. He was personally uneasy about the lighted window which they'd seen from the square. He still scented Makoff's hand in the business, and as he felt that he would first have to make prisoners of those who were watching upstairs, he was not sorry to be able to adopt surprise

tactics before the noise of a conflict should impel them to barricade themselves in the first-floor rooms. So we went up quietly, followed by the twenty heroes whom he still. had at his disposal. Rudier commanded the detachment remaining in the courtyard. As Rujon had surmised, it was Macca who was comfortably installed upstairs

in the mayor's office. He sat in the mayor's armchair with his elbows on the mayor's writing table. With a characteristic confidence of a man, of course, intellect, who was absorbed by a fixed idea and bent upon his own triumph, he had imagined after the departure of the

insurgents that Plasin was now at his complete disposal and that he would be able to act there like a conqueror. In his opinion, that body of 3,000 men who had just passed through the town was an invincible army whose mere proximity would suffice to keep the bourgeois humble and docile in his hands. The insurgents had imprisoned the gendarme in their barracks. The National Guard was already dismembered. The nobility must be quaking with terror. and the retired citizens of the new town had certainly never handled a gun in their lives. Moreover, there were no arms any more than there were soldiers. Thus, McCart did not even take the precautions to have the gate shut.

His men carried their confidence still further by falling asleep, while he calmly awaited the dawn, which he fancied would attract and rally all the Republicans of the district round him. He was already meditating important revolutionary measures, the nomination of a commune of which he would be the chief, the imprisonment of all bad patriots, and particularly of all such persons that had incurred his displeasure. The thought of the baffled Rujant and their yellow drawing-room, of all that clique in treating him for mercy, thrilled him with exquisite pleasure. In order to while away the time, he resolved to issue a proclamation to the inhabitants of Plausanne. Four of his party set to work to draw up this proclamation, and when it was finished, McCart, assuming a dignified manner in the mayor's armchair, had it read to him before sending it to the printing office of the independant on whose patriotism he reckoned.

one of the writers was commencing in an emphatic voice, Inhabitants of Placant, The hour of independence has struck, The reign of justice has begun, When a noise was heard at the door of the office, Which was slowly pushed in. Is it you, Kasson? Macar asked, interrupting the perusal.

Nobody answered, but the door opened wider. Come in, do! he continued, patiently, is my brigand of a brother at home? Then all at once both leaves of Adoro violently thrown back and slammed against the walls, and a crowd of armed men, in the midst of whom marched Rujon, with his face very red and his eyes starting out of their sockets, swarmed into the office, brandishing their guns like cudgels. Ah, the blackguards! They're armed! shouted McCart.

He was about to seize a pair of pistols which were lying on the writing table when five men caught hold of him by the throat and held him in check. The four authors of the proclamation struggled for an instant. It was a good deal of scuffling and stamping in a noise of persons falling. The combatants were greatly hampered by their guns, which they would not lay aside, although they could not use them. In the struggle, Rujon's weapon, which an insurgent had tried, tried to rest from him, went off of itself with a frightful report, and filled the room with smoke.

The bullet shattered a magnificent mirror that reached from the mantelpiece to the ceiling and was reputed to be one of the finest mirrors in the town. This shot, fired no one knew why, deafened everybody, and put an end to the battle. Then, while the gentlemen were panting and puffing, three other reports were heard in the courtyard. Granu immediately rushed to one of the windows, and as he and the others anxiously leaned out, their faces lengthened perceptibly, for they were in no wise eager for a struggle with the men in the guardroom whom they'd forgotten amidst their triumph. However, Rudier cried out from below that all was right, and Grinue then shot the window again, beaming with joy. The fact of the matter was

that Rujon's shot had aroused the sleepers who had promptly surrendered, seeing that resistance was impossible. Then, however, three of Rudey's men, in their blind haste to get the business over, had discharged their firearms in the air as a sort of answer to the report from above without knowing quite why they did so.

It frequently happens that guns go off of their own accord when they are in the hands of cowards. And now in the room upstairs, years, Rujon ordered Macaw's hands to be bound with the bands of the large green curtains which hung at the windows. At this, Macar, wild with rage, broke into scornful jeers. All right, go on, he muttered. This evening or tomorrow, when the others return, we'll settle accounts. This allusion to the insurrectionary forces sent a shudder to the victor's very marrow. Rujon, for his part, almost choked. His brother, who was exasional, who was exasional,

Asperated, having been surprised like a child by these terrified bourgeois. Who old soldiered that he was, he disdainfully looked upon as good-for-nothing civilians, defied him with a glance of the bitterest hatred. Ah, I can tell some pretty stories about you, very pretty ones, the rascal exclaimed, without removing his eyes from the retired oil merchant. Just send me before the Assize court, so that I may tell the judge a few tales that'll make them laugh. at this rujon turned pale he was terribly afraid lest mccarshot blabbed then and there and ruin him in the esteem of the gentleman who had just been assisting him to save plassant these gentlemen astounded by the dramatic encounter between the two brothers and foreseeing some stormy passages had retired to a corner of the room rujon however formed a heroic resolution he advanced towards the group and in a very proud

tone exclaimed, We will keep this man here. When he's reflected on his position, he'll be able to give us some useful information. Then, in a still more dignified voice, he went on, I will discharge my duty, gentlemen. I've sworn to save the town from anarchy, and I will save it,

even should I have to be the executioner of my nearest relative. One might have thought him some old romewerecter, Roman sacrificing his family on the altar of his country. Groninue, who felt deeply moved, came to press his hand with a tearful countenance, which seemed to say, I understand you, you are sublime. And then he did him the kindness to take everybody away, under the pretext of conducting the four other prisoners into the courtyard. When Pierre was alone with his brother, he felt all his self-possession returned to him.

You hardly expected me, did you? He resumed. I understand things now. You've been laying plots against me. You wretched fellow, see what your vices and disorderly life have brought you to. McCart shrugged his shoulders. Shut up, he replied. Go to the devil.

You're an old rogue. He laughs best who laughs last. Thereupon Rujon, who'd form no dead. definite plan with regard to him, thrust him into a dressing-room, with him Monsieur Gassonne retired to rest sometimes. This room lighted from above, had no other means of exit than the doorway by which one entered. It was furnished with a few armchairs, a sofa, and a marble washstand. Pierre double-locked the door after partially unbinding his brother's hands. McCart was then hurt to throw himself on the sofa and start singing the Sa'Ira in a loud voice.

as though he were trying to sing himself to sleep. Rujon, who at last found himself alone, now when his turn sat down in the mayor's armchair. He heaved a sigh as he wiped his brow. How hard indeed it was to win fortune and honors. However, he was nearing the end at last. He felt the soft seat of the armchair yield beneath him, while with a mechanical movement he caressed the mahogany,

writing table with his hands, finding it apparently quite silky and delicate, like the skin of a beautiful woman. Then he spread himself out and assumed the dignified attitude which McCart had previously affected while listening to the proclamation. The silence of the room seemed fraught with religious solemnity, which inspired Rujon with exquisite delight. Everything, even the dust and the old documents lying in the corners, seemed to exhale an odor of incense which rose to his dilated nostrils. This room, with its faded hangings, redolent of petty transactions, all the trivial concerns of a third-rate municipality became a temple of which he was the god. Nevertheless, amidst his rapture, he started nervously at every shout from McCar.

the words aristocrat and lampost, the threats of hanging that form the refrain of the famous revolutionary song, the Sa'Ira, reached him in angry bursts, interrupting his triumphant dreams in the most disagreeable manner. Always that man. And his dream, in which he saw Plasanne at his feet,

ended with a sudden vision of the Assize court of the judges, the jury, and the public listening to McCart's disgraceful revelation, the story of the 50,000 francs, and many other unpleasant matters. Or else, while enjoying the softness of Monsieur Gassonne's armchair, he suddenly pictured himself suspended from a lamppost in the Rue de la Bonn. Who would rid him of that wretched fellow? At last Antoine fell asleep.

And then Pierre enjoyed ten good minutes' pure ecstasy. Rudier and Grinoux came to rouse him from this, state of beatitude. They had just returned from the prison, whither they had taken the insurgents. Daylight was coming on apace, the town would soon be awake, and it was necessary to take some decisive step. Rudier declared that, before anything else, it would be advisable to issue a proclamation to the inhabitants. Pierre was at that moment, reading the one which the insurgents had left upon the table. Why, cried he, this!

will suit us admirably. There are only a few words to be altered. And, in fact, a quarter of an hour sufficed for the necessary changes, after which Grinoux read out in an earnest voice, Inhabitants of Plassant, the hour of resistance has struck, the reign of order has returned. It was decided that the proclamation should be printed at the office of the Gazette, and posted at all the street corners. Now, listen, said Rujon, we'll go to my house, and in the meantime,

Monsieur Granu will assemble here the members of the municipal council who had not been arrested and acquaint them with the terrible events of the night. Then he added majestically, I am quite prepared to accept the responsibility of my actions. If what I have already done appears a satisfactory pledge of my desire for order, I'm willing to place myself at the head of a municipal commission, until such time as the regular authorities can be reinstated. But in order that nobody may accuse me of ambitious designs, I shall not re-enter the town hall unless called upon to do so by my fellow citizens. At this, Granu and Rudier protested that Plesson would not be ungrateful.

Their friend had indeed saved the town. and they recalled all that he'd done for the cause of order. The yellow drawing-room always opened to the friends of authority. His service is a spokesman in the three-quarters of a town, the store of arms which had been his idea, and especially that memorable night, that night of prudence and heroism in which he'd rendered himself forever illustrious.

Grenu added that he felt sure of the admiration and gratitude of the municipal councillors. Don't stir from your house, he concluded. I will come and fetch you to lead you back in triumph. Then Rudier said he quite understood the tact and modesty of their friend and approved it. Nobody would think of accusing him of ambition, but all would appreciate the delicacy which prompted him to take no office save with the consent of his fellow citizens.

That was very dignified, very noble, altogether grand. Under the shower of eulogies, Rujon humbly bowed his head. No, no, you go too far, he murmured, with voluptuous thrillings of exquisite pleasure. Each sentence that fell from the retired hosier and the old almond merchant,

who stood on his right and left respectively, fell sweetly on his ears, and leaning back in the mayor's armchair steeped in the odor of officiality which pervaded the room, he bowed to the right and to the left, like a royal pretender whom Akudita is about to convert into an emperor. When they were tired of balding each other, they all three went downstairs. Gannu started off to call the municipal council together, while Rudier told Rujon to go on

in front, saying that he would join him at his house, after giving the necessary orders for guarding the town hall. The dawn was now fast-rising, and Pierre proceeded to the Rue de la Ban, tapping his heels in a martial manner on the still deserted pavement. He carried his hat in his hand in spite of the bitter cold, for puffs of pride sent all his blood to his head. On reaching his house, he found Cassute at the bottom of the stairs. The Navi had not stirred, for he'd seen nobody enter.

He sat there on the first step, resting his bed. big head in his hands and gazing fixedly in front of him with the vacant stare and mute stubbornness of a faithful dog. You are waiting for me, weren't you? Pierre said to him, taking in the situation at a glance. Well, go and tell Monsieur Macauch that I've come home. Go and ask for him at the town hall. Cosute rose and took himself off with an awkward bow. He was going to get himself arrested like a lamb to the great delight of Pierre, who laughed as he went upstairs, asking himself with a feeling of vague surprise.

I have certainly plenty of courage. Shall I turn out as good a diplomatist? Felicity had not gone to bed last night. He found her dressed in her Sunday clothes, wearing a cap with lemon-colored ribbons, like a lady expecting visitors. She'd sat at the window in vain. She'd heard nothing, and was dying. with curiosity. Well, she asked, rushing to meet her husband. The latter, quite out of breath, entered the yellow drawing room, whither she followed him, carefully closing the door behind her.

He sank into an armchair and in a gasping voice faltered, It's done, we shall get the receivership. At this she fell on his neck and kissed him. Really, really, she cried. But I haven't heard anything. Oh, my darling husband, do tell me, tell me all. She felt fifteen years old again, and began to coax him and whirl round him like a grasshopper

fascinated by the light and heat. And Pierre, in the effusion of his triumph, poured out his heart to her. He did not omit a single detail. He even explained his future projects, forgetting that, according to his theories, wives were good for nothing, and that his must be kept in complete ignorance of what went on if he wished to remain master.

Felicity lent over him and drank in his words. She made him repeat certain parts of his story, declaring that she had not heard. In fact, her delight bewildered her so much that at times she seemed quite deaf. When Pierre related the events at Batown Hall, she burst into a fit of laughter, changed her chair three times, and moved the furniture about, quite unable to. sit still. After 40 years of continuous struggle, fortune had at last yielded to them. Eventually, she became so mad over it that she forgot all prudence.

It's to me, you owe all this, she exclaimed, in an outburst of triumph. If I hadn't looked after you, you would have been nicely taken in by the insurgents. You booby, it was Gassonne, Cicardot, and the others that had got to be thrown to those wild beasts. Then, showing her teeth, loosened by age, she added with a girlish smile, Well, the Republic forever. It's made our path clear. But Pierre had turned cross. That's just like you, he muttered. You always fancy that you've foreseen everything. It was I, you had the idea of hiding myself, as though women understood anything about politics.

bah, my poor girl, if you were to steer the bark we should very soon be shipwrecked. Felicity bit her lip. She'd gone too far and forgotten herself assigned part of good silent fairy. Then she was seized with one of those fits of covert exasperation, which she generally experienced when her husband tried to crush her with his superiority. And she again promised herself, when the right time should arrive, some exquisite revenge which would deliver this man into her power, bound hand and foot. Ah, I was forgetting, resumed Rujon.

Monsieur Perrault is amongst them. Grinoux saw him struggling in the hands of the insurgents. Felicet gave a start. She was just at that moment standing at the window, gazing with longing eyes at the house where the receiver of taxes lived. She'd felt the desire to do so, for in her mind the idea of triumph was always associated with envy of that fine house. So Monsieur Perot is arrested, she exclaimed in a strange tone as she turned round.

For an instant she smiled complacently. Then a crimson blush rushed to her face. A murderous wish had just descended from a depth of her being. Ah, if the insurgents would only kill him. Pierre no doubt read her thoughts in her eyes. Well, if some bowl were to hit him, he murmured, our business would be settled. There would be no necessity to supersede him, eh? And it would be no fault of ours. But Felicity shuddered. She felt that she just condemned a man to death. If Monsieur Perraud should

now be killed, she would always see his ghost at night time. He would come and haunt her. so she only ventured to cast furtive glances, full of fearful delight at the unhappy man's window. Henceforward, all her enjoyment would be fraught with a touch of guilty terror. Moreover, Pierre, having now poured out his soul, began to perceive the other side of the situation. He mentioned McCart. How could they get rid of that blackguard?

But Felicity, again fired with enthusiasm, exclaimed, oh, one can't do everything at once. We'll gag him somehow. We'll soon find some means or other. She was now walking to and fro, putting the armchairs in order and dusting their backs. Suddenly she stopped in the middle of the room and gave the faded furniture a long glance.

Good heaven, she said, how ugly it is here, and we shall have everybody coming to call upon us. "'Ah,' replied Pierre, with supreme indifference, "'we'll alter all that.' He who the night before had entertained almost religious veneration of the armchairs and the sofa would now have willingly stamped on them. Felicity, who felt the same contempt,

even went so far as to upset an armchair which was short of a caster, it did not yield to her quickly enough. It was at this moment that Rudier entered. it had once occurred to the old woman that he'd become much more polite his monsieur and madame rolled forth in delightfully musical fashion but the other habituet were now arriving one after the other and the drawing-room was fast getting full nobody yet knew the full particulars of the events of the night and all had come in haste with wondering eyes and smiling lips urged on by the rumours which were beginning to circulate through the town these gentlemen who on the previous evening had left the drawing-room with such precipitation at the news of the insurgent's approach came back inquisitive and importunate like a swarm of buzzing flies which a puff of wind would have dispersed some of them had not evened even taken time to put on their braces. They were very impatient,

but it was evident that Rujon was waiting for someone else before speaking out. He constantly turned an anxious look towards the door. For an hour there was only significant handshaking, vague congratulation, admiring, whispering, suppressed joy of uncertain origin, which only awaited a word of enlightenment to turn to enthusiasm. At last, Grenu appeared. He paused for a moment on the threshold,

with his right hand pressed to his breast between the buttons of his frockcoat. His broad, pale face was beaming. In vain he strove to conceal his emotion beneath an expression of dignity. All the others became silent on perceiving him. They felt that something extraordinary was about to take place.

Grinue walked straight up to Rujon through two lines of visitors, and held out his hand to him. My friend, he said, I bring you the homage of the municipal council. They call you to their head until our mayor shall be restored to us. You have saved Placein.

In the terrible crisis through which we are passing, we want men who, like yourself, unite intelligence with courage. Come. At this point, Grinou, who was reciting a little speech, would he take in great trouble to prepare on him. his way from a town hall to the Rue de la Ban, felt his memory fail him.

But Rujon, overwhelmed with emotion, broke in, shaking his hand and repeating, Thank you, my dear Granoe, I thank you very much. He could find nothing else to say. However, a loud burst of voices followed. Everyone rushed upon him, tried to shake hands, poured forth praises and compliments, and eagerly questioned him. but he already putting on official dignity begged for a few minutes delay in order that he might confer with m granou and roudier business before everything the town was in such a critical situation then the three accomplices retired to a corner of a drawing-room where in an undertone they divided power amongst themselves the rest of the visitors who remained a few paces away trying meanwhile to the

look extremely wise and furtively glancing at them with mingled admiration and curiosity. It was decided that Rujon should take the title of President of the Municipal Commission. Grin knew was to be secretary, whilst as for Roudier, he became commander-in-chief of the reorganized National Guard. He also swore to support each other against all opposition. However, Felicity, who drawn near abruptly inquired, And Vouillet? At this they looked at each other. Nobody had seen Vouier.

Réin seemed somewhat uneasy. Perhaps they've taken him away with the others, he said, to ease his mind. But Felicity shook her head. Fouillet was not the man to let himself be arrested. Since nobody had seen or heard him, it was certain he'd been doing something wrong. Suddenly the door opened, and Vueyé up entered, bowing humbly with blinking glance and stiff sacristan smile.

Then he held out his moist hand to Rujon and the two others. Vouier had settled his little affairs alone. He had cut his own slice out of the cake, as Felicity would have said. While peeping through the ventilator of his cellar, he'd seen the insurgents arrest the postmaster, whose offices were near his bookshop. At daybreak, therefore, at the moment when Rujon was comfortably seated in the mayor's armchair, he had quietly installed himself in the postmaster's office. He knew the clerks, so he received them on their arrival, told them that he would replace their chief until his return,

and that meantime they need be in no wise uneasy. Then he ransacked the morning mail with ill-concealed curiosity. He examined the letters and seemed to be seeking a particular one. His new birth doubtless suited his secret plans, for his satisfaction became so great that he actually gave one of the clerks a copy of the Overe Badine de Pyrant. Vieu, it should be mentioned, did business in objectionable literature, which he kept concealed in a large drawer under the stock of heads in religious images. It is probable that he felt some slight qualms at the free and easy manner

in which he'd taken possession of the post office and recognized the desirability of getting his usurpation confirmed as far as possible. At all events, he thought it well to call upon Rujon, who was fast becoming an important personage. Why, where have you been? Felicity asked him in a distrustful manner. Thereupon he related his story. with sundry embellishments. According to his own account,

he had saved the post office from pillage. All right, then. Matt's settled. Stay on there, said Pierre. After a moment's reflection, make yourself useful. The last sentence revealed the one great fear that possessed the Rujon.

They were afraid that someone might prove too useful and do more than themselves to save the town. Still, Pierre saw no serious danger in leaving Vueyé as provisional postmaster. It was even a convenient means of getting rid of him. Felicite, however, made a sharp gesture of annoyance. The consultation having ended, the three accomplices mingled with the various groups that filled the drawing room. They were at last obliged to satisfy the general curiosity by giving detailed accounts of recent events.

Rujon proved magnificent. He exaggerated, embellished, and dramatized the story which he'd related to his wife. The distribution of the guns and cartridges made everybody hold their breath. But it was the march through the deserted streets and the seizure of the town hall that most amazed these worthy bourgeois. At each fresh detail there was an interruption. And you were only 41? It's marvelous. Indeed, it must have been frightfully dark.

No, I confess, I never should have dared it. Then you seized him like that by the throat? And the insurgents, what did they say? These remarks and questions only inside Rujon's imagination the more. He replied to everybody. He mimicked the action. This stout man, in his admiration of his own achievements, became as nimble as a schoolboy.

He began afresh, repeated himself amidst the exclamations of surprise and individual discussions which suddenly arose about some trifling detail. And thus he continued blowing his trumpet, making himself more and more important, as if some irresistible force impelled him to turn his narrative into a genuine epic.

Moreover, Grenu and Rudier stood by his side, prompting him, reminding him of such trifling matters as he omitted. They also were burning to put in a word, and occasionally they could not restrain themselves, so that all three went on talking together. When, in order to keep the episode of the broken mirror for the denouement, like some crowning glory,

Réjon began to describe what had taken place downstairs in the courtyard, after the arrest of the guard. Rudier accused him of spoiling the narrative by changing the sequence of events. for a moment they wrangled about it somewhat sharply then rudier seeing a good opportunity for himself suddenly exclaimed very well let it be so but you aren't there so let me tell it he thereupon explained at great length how the insurgents had awoke and how the muskets of a town deliverers had been levelled at them to reduce them to impotence he added however that no blood fortunately had been shed This last sentence disappointed his audience, who counted upon one corpse at least. But I thought you fired, interrupted Felicity, recognizing that the story was wretchedly deficient in dramatic interest.

Yes, yes, three shots, resumed the old hosier. The pork butcher, Dubruel, Monsieur Levin and Monsieur Massicoe discharged their guns with really culpable alacrity. And as there were some murmurs at this remark, "'Culpable, I repeat the word,' he continued, "'there are quite enough cruel necessities in warfare "'without any useless shedding of blood. "'Besides, these gentlemen swore to me "'that it was not their fault.

"'They can't understand how it was their guns went off. "'Nevertheless, a spent ball after ricocheting "'grazed the cheek of one of the insurgents "'and left a mark on it. "'This graze, this graze, this, Unexpected wounds satisfied the audience. Which cheek, right or left, had been grazed, and how was it that a bullet, a spent one even,

could strike a cheek without piercing it? These points supplied material for some long discussions. Meantime, continued Joan at the top of his voice, without giving time for the excitement to abate, meantime, we had plenty to do upstairs. The struggle was quite desperate. Then he described at length the arrival of his brother and the four other insurgents, without naming McCart, whom he simply called the leader.

The words the mayor's office, the mayor's armchair, the mayor's riding table, recurred to him every instant, and in the opinion of his office, imparted marvellous grandeur to the terrible scene. It was not at the porter's lodge that the fight was now being waged, but in the private sanctum of the chief magistrate of a town. Rudier was quite cast into the background. Then Rujon at last came to the episode which he'd been keeping in reserve from the commencement

and which would certainly exalt him to the dignity of a hero. Thereupon, said he, an insurgent rushes upon me. I pushed the mayor's armchair away and seize the man by the throat. I hold him tightly, you must. may be sure of it, but my gun was in my way. I didn't want to let it drop. A man always sticks to his gun. I held it like this under the left arm. All of a sudden it went off. The whole audience hung on Rujon's lips. But Grano, who was opening his mouth wide with a violent itching to say something,

shouted, no, no, that isn't right. You were not in the position to see things, my friend. You were fighting like a lion, but I saw everything, while I was helping to bind one of the prisoners. The man tried to murder you. It was he who fired the gun. I saw him distinctly slip his black fingers under your arm. Really? said Rujon, turning quite pale. He did not know he'd been in such danger, and the old almond merchant's account of the incident chilled him with fright. Grinou, as a rule, did not lie, but on a day of battle, it's surely allowable to view things dramatically. I tell you, the man tried to murder you, he repeated with conviction. Ah, said Rujon in a faint voice, that's how it is, I heard the bullet whizz past my ear.

At this, violent emotion came upon the audience. Everybody gazed at the hero with respectful awe. He'd heard a bullet whizz past his ear. Certainly, none of the other bourgeois who were there could say as much. Felicity felt bound to rush into her husband's arms so as to work up the emotion to boiling point. But Rujon immediately freed himself and concluded his narrative with this heroic sentence, which has become famous at Plosson. The shot goes off.

I hear the bullet whizz past my ear, and wish it smashes the mayor's mirror. This caused complete consternation. Such a magnificent mirror, too. It was scarcely credible. The damage done to that looking glass almost outbalanced Rujon's heroism in the estimation of the company. The glass became an object of absorbing interest, and they talked about it for a quarter of an hour, with many exclamations and expressions of regret, as though it had been some dear friend that had been stricken to the heart.

This was the culminating point that Rujon had aimed at, the denouement of his wonderful odyssey. A loud hubbaba voices filled the yellow drawing-room. The visitors were repeating what they just heard, and every now and then one of them would leave a group to ask the three heroes the exact truth with regard to some contested incident. The hero set the matter right with scrupulous minuteness, for they felt that they were speaking for history.

At last, Rujon and his two lieutenants announced that they were expected at the town hall. Respectful silence was then restored, and the company smiled at each other discreetly. Grinue was swelling with importance. He was the only one who'd seen the insurgent pull the trigger and smashed the mirror. This sufficed to exorsel.

him and almost made him burst his skin. On leaving the drawing room, he took Rudier's arm with the air of a great general who's broken down with fatigue. I've been up for 36 hours, he murmured, and heaven alone knows when I shall get to bed. Rojean, as he withdrew, took Vuey a side, and told him that the party of order relied more than ever on him and the Gazette. He would have to publish an effective article to reassure the inhabitants and treat the band of villains who'd passed through Plesson as it deserved. Be easy, replied Vuey. In the ordinary course, the Gazette ought not to appear till tomorrow morning, but I'll

issue it this very evening. When the leaders had left, the rest of the visitors remained in the yellow drawing-room for another moment, chattering like so many old women, whom the escape of a Canary had gathered together on the pavement. These retired tradesmen, oil dealers, and wholesale hatters, felt as if they were in a sort of fairyland. Never had the experience such thrilling excitement before. They could not get over their surprise at discovering such heroes as Rujon, Granu, and Roudier, in their midst. At last, half-stifled by the stuffy atmosphere, and tired of ever telling each other the same,

things, they decided to go off and spread the momentous news abroad. They glided away one by one, each anxious to have the glory of being the first to know and relate everything. And Felicity, as she leaned out the window, on being left alone, saw them dispersing in the Rue de Laban, waving their arms in an excited manner, eager as they were to diffuse emotion to the four corners of the town. It was ten o'clock, and Plesson, now wide awake, was running about the streets, wildly excited by the reports which were circulating. Those who had seen or heard the insurrectionary forces related the most foolish stories,

contradicting each other and indulging in the wildest suppositions. The majority, however, knew nothing at all about the matter. They lived at the further end of the town and listened with. with gaping mouths, like children to a nursery tale, to the stories of how several thousand bandits had invaded the streets during the night and vanished before daybreak like an army of phantoms. A few of the most skeptical said, Nonsense.

Yet some of the details were very precise, and Plesson at last felt convinced that some frightful danger had passed over it while it slept. The darkness which had shrouded this danger, The various contradictory reports that spread all invested the matter with mystery and vague horror, which made the bravest shudder. Whose hand had diverted the thunderbolt from them? There seemed to be something quite miraculous about it. There were rumors of unknown deliverers, of a handful of brave men who'd cut off the Hydra's head,

but no one seemed acquainted with the exact particulars, and the whole story appeared scarcely credible, until the company from the yellow drawing-room spread through the streets, scattering tidings, ever repeating the same narrative at each door they came to. It was like a train of powder. In a few minutes the story had spread from one end of town to the other. Rujon's name flew from mouth to mouth,

with exclamations of surprise in the new town, and of praise in the old quarter. The idea of being without a sub-prefect, a mayor, a postmaster, a receiver of taxes, or authorities of any kind, at first threw the inhabitants into consternation. They were stupefied at having been able to sleep through the night and get up as usual in the absence of any settled government. Their first stupor over, they threw themselves recklessly into the arms of their liberators. The few Republicans shrugged their shoulders. But the petty shopkeepers, the small householders, the conservatives of all shades invoked blessings on those modest heroes whose achievements had been shrouded by the night.

When it was known that Rujong had arrested his own brother, the popular admiration knew no bounds, people talked of Brutus, and thus the indiscretion which had made peer rather anxious, really redounded to his glory. At this moment when terror still hovered over them, the townsfolk were virtually unanimous in their gratitude. Rujon was accepted as their savior without the slightest show of opposition. Just think of it, the paltroons exclaimed. There were only 41 of them.

That number of 41 amazed the whole town. And this was the origin of the Passan legend of how 41 bourgeois had made three thousand insurgents bite the dust. There were only a few envious spirits of a new town, lawyers without work and retired military men ashamed of having slept ingloriously through that memorable night, who raised any doubts. The insurgents, these skeptics hinted,

had no doubt left the town of their own accord. There were no indications of a combat, no corpses, no bloodstains, so the deliverers had certainly had a very easy task. But the mirror, the mirror, repeated the enthusiasts. You can't deny that the mayor's mirror has been smashed. Go and see it for yourselves. And, in fact, until nighttime, quite a stream of townspeople flowed,

under one pretext or another, into the mayor's private office, the door of which Rujon left wide open. The visitors planted themselves in front of the mirror, which the bullet had pierced and starred. And they all gave vent to the same exclamation. By Jove, that ball must have had terrible force. Then they departed, quite convinced. Felicity at her window listened with delight

to all the rumors in laudatory and grateful remarks which arose from the town. At that moment all Plesson was talking of her husband. She felt that the two districts below her were quivering, wafting her the hope of approaching triumph. Ah, how she would crush that town which she'd been so long in getting beneath her feet. All her grievances crowded back to her memory, and her past disappointments redoubled her appetite for immediate enjoyment.

At last she left the window and walked slowly round the drawing-room. It was there that, a little, while previously everybody had held out their hands to her husband and herself. He and she had conquered. The citizens were at their feet. The yellow drawing room seemed to her a holy place. The dilapidated furniture, the frayed velvet, the chandelier soiled with fly marks. All those poor wrecks now seemed to her

like the glorious bullet-riddled debris of a battlefield. The plain of Austerlitz would not have stirred her to deeper emotion. When she returned to the window, she perceived Aristide wandering about the place of the sub-prefecture with his nose in the air. She beckoned him to come up, which he immediately did. It seemed as if he had only been waiting for this invitation. Come in, his mother said to him on the landing, seeing that he hesitated. Your father's not here.

Aristide evinced all the shyness of a prodigal son returning home. He had not been inside the yellow drawing-room, for nearly four years. He still carried his arm in a sling. Does your hand still pain you? His mother asked him, ironically. He blushed as he answered with some embarrassment. Oh, it's getting better. It's nearly well again now. Then he lingered there, loitering about not knowing what to say. Felicity came to the rescue. I suppose you've heard them talking about. your father's noble conduct, she resumed. He replied that the whole town was talking of it.

And then as he regained his self-possession, he paid his mother back for her raillery and her own coin. Looking her full in the face, he added, I came to see if father was wounded. Come, don't play the fool, cried Felicity, petulantly. If I were you, I'd act boldly and decisively. Confess now that you made a false move in joining those good-for-nothing Republicans. You would be very glad, I'm sure, to be well rid of them and to return to us who are the stronger party. Well, the house is open to you. But Aristide protested. The republic was a grand idea. Moreover, the insurgents might still carry the day. Don't talk nonsense to me, retort of the old woman with some irritation, you're afraid that your father won't have a very

warm welcome for you. But I'll see to that. Listen to me, go back to your newspaper, and between now and tomorrow, prepare a number strongly favoring the coup d'etat. Tomorrow evening, when this number has appeared, come back here, and you'll be received with open arms. Then, seeing that the young man remained silent. Do you hear, she added, in a lower and more eager tone? It's necessary for our sake and for your own, too, that it should be done. Don't let us have any more nonsense and folly. You've already compromised yourself enough in that way. The young man made a gesture, the gesture of a Caesar crossing the Rubicon, and by doing so escaped entering into any verbal engagement.

As he was about to withdraw his mother looking for the knot in his sling remarked, First of all, you must let me take off this rag. It's getting a little ridiculous, you know? Aristide let her remove it. When the silk handkerchief was untied, he folded it neatly and placed it in his pocket. And as he kissed his mother, he exclaimed, "'Till tomorrow, then!' This ends Chapter 6, Part 1.

Section 14 of the fortune of the Rujon, Book 1 of Rujon Maca cycle by Emil Zola, translated by Henry Visitelli. This Libre Vox recording is in the public domain, read by Mark Leder. Chapter 6, Part 2. In the meanwhile, Rujon was taking official possession of the mayor's offices, There were only eight municipal councillors left. The others were in the hands of the insurgents, as well as the mayor and his two assessors.

The eight remaining gentlemen, who were all on a par with Grenu, perspired with fright when the latter explained to them the critical situation of the town. It requires an intimate knowledge of the kind of men who composed the municipal councils of some of the smaller towns in order to form an idea of a terror with which these timid folk threw themselves into Rujon's arms.

At Placein, the mayor had the most incredible blockheads under him, men without any ideas of their own and accustomed to passive obedience. Consequently, as Monsieur Gossinay was no longer there, the municipal machine was bound to get out of order and fall completely under the control of the man who might know how to set it working. Moreover, as the sub-prefect had left the district, Rujon naturally became sole and absolute master of the town, and thus, strange to relate,

the chief administrative authority fell into the hands of a man of indifferent repute, to whom on the previous evening not one of his fellow citizens would have lent a hundred francs. Pierre's first act was to declare the provisional commission en permanence. Then he gave his attention to the organization of the National Guard and succeeded in raising 300 men. The 109 muskets left in the cart shed were also distributed to volunteers, thereby bringing up a number of men armed by the reactionary party to 150. The remaining 150 guards consisted of well-affected citizens

and some of Cicardot's soldiers. When Commander Rudier reviewed the little army in front, of a town hall, he was annoyed to see the market people smiling in their sleeves. The fact is that several of his men had no uniforms, and some of them looked very droll with their black hats, frock-coats, and muskets. But at any rate, they meant well. A guard was left at the town hall, and the rest of the forces were sent in detachments to the various town gates. Rudier reserved to himself the command of the guard stationed at the Grand Port, which seemed to be more liable to attack than the others.

Rujon, who now felt very conscious of his power, repaired to the Rue-Cainquins, to beg the gendarme to remain in their barracks and interfere with nothing. He certainly had the doors of the gendarmerie opened, the keys having been carried off by the insurgents, but he wanted to triumph alone and had no intention of letting the gendarme rob him of any part of his glory. if he should really have need of them, he could always send for them. So he explained to them that their presence might tend to irritate the working men and thus aggravate the situation. The sergeant in command thereupon complimented him on his prudence.

When Rujon was informed that there was a wounded man in the barracks, he asked to see him by way of rendering himself popular. He found Rangod in bed with his eye bandaged and his big moustaches just peeping out from under the linen. With some high-sounding words about duty, Rujon endeavored to comfort the unfortunate fellow who, having lost an eye, was swearing with exasperation

that the thought that his injury would compel him to quit the service. At last, Rijon promised to send the doctor to him. I much obliged to you, sir, rang God, replied, but you know, what would do me more good than any quantity of doctors, would be to wring the neck of the villain who put my eye out. Oh, I shall know him again.

He's a little thin, palish fellow, quite young. Thereupon Pierre bethought himself of the blood he'd seen on Silvair's hand. He stepped back a little, as though he was afraid that Rangard would fly at his throat, and cry, It was your nephew who blighted me, and you will have to pay for it. And whilst he was mentally cursing his disreputable family, he solemnly declared that if the guilty person were found, he should be punished with all the rigor of the law.

No, no, it isn't worth all that trouble, the one-eyed man replied, I'll just wring his neck for him when I catch him. Rujon hastened back to the town hall. The afternoon was employed in taking various measures. The proclamation posted up about 1 o'clock produced an excellent impression. It ended by an appeal to the good sense of the citizens and gave a firm assurance that order would not again be disturbed. Until dusk, in fact, the streets presented a picture of general relief and perfect confidence.

On the pavements, the groups who were reading the proclamation exclaimed, It's all finished now. We shall soon see the troops who have been sent in pursuit of the insurgents. This belief that some soldiers were approaching was so general that the idols of the Coors Sovere repaired to the Nice Road in order to meet and hear the regimental band. But they returned at nightfall disappointed, having seen nothing, and then a feeling of vague alarm began to disturb the townspeople. At the town hall, the Provisional Commission had talked so much without coming to any decision that the members whose stomachs were quite empty began. to feel alarmed again. Rujon dismissed them to dine,

saying that they would meet afresh at nine o'clock in the evening. He was just about to leave the room himself, when Maccaw awoke and began to pummel the door of his prison. He declared he was hungry, then asked what time it was, and when his brother had told him it was five o'clock, he feigned great astonishment and muttered, with diabolical malice,

that the insurgents had promised to return much earlier, and that they were very slow in coming to deliver him. Rujon, having ordered some food to be taken to him, went downstairs, quite worried by the earnestness with which the rascal spoke of the return of the insurgents. When he reached the street, his disquietude increased. The town seemed to him quite altered. It was assuming a strange aspect. Shadows were gliding along the footpaths, which were growing deserted and silent,

while gloomy fear seemed like fine rain to be slowly, persistently falling with the dusk over the mournful-looking houses. The babbling confidence of a daytime was fatally terminating in groundless panic, in growing alarm as the night drew nearer. The inhabitants were so weary and so satiated with their triumph that they had no strength left but to dream of some terrible retaliation on the part of the insurgents. Rujon shuddered as he passed through this current of terror. He hastened his steps, feeling as if he would choke. As he passed a café on the Place de Recolé,

where the lamps had just been lit, and where the petty sits of the new town were assembled, he heard a few words of terrifying conversation. Well, Monsieur Picou, said one man in a thick voice, you've heard the news? The regiment that was expected has not arrived. But nobody expected any regiment, Monsieur Tush, a shrill voice replied. I beg your pardon. You haven't read the proclamation, then?

It's true the placards declared that order will be maintained by force, if necessary. You see, then, there's force mentioned. That means armed forces, of course. What do people say, then? Well, you know, folks are beginning to feel rather frightened. They say that this delay on the part of the soldiers isn't natural, and that the insurgents may well have slaughtered them. A cry of horror resounded through the cafe. Rujon was inclined to go in and tell those bourgeois

that the proclamation had never announced the arrival of a regiment, that they had no right to strain its meaning to such a degree, nor to spread such foolish theories abroad. But he himself, amidst the disquietude which was coming over him, was not quite sure he had not counted upon a dispatch of troops, and he did in fact consider it strange that not a single soldier had made his appearance. So he reached home in a very uneasy state of mind. Felicite, still petulant and full of courage, became quite angry at seeing him upset by such silly trifles. Over the desert

she comforted him. Well, you great simpleton, she said, so much the better if the prefect does forget us. We shall save the town by ourselves. From my part, I should like to see the insurgents return so that we might receive them with bullets and cover ourselves with glory. Listen to me, go and have the gates closed and don't go to bed, bustle about all night. It will all be taken into account later on. Pierre returned to the town hall and rather more cheerful spirits. He required some courage to remain firm amidst the woeful maunderings of his colleagues. The members of the provisional commission

seemed to reek with panic, just as they might with damp in the rainy season. They all professed to have counted upon the dispatch of a regiment and began to exclaim that brave citizens ought not to be abandoned in such a manner to the fury of the rabble. Pierre, to preserve peace, almost promised they should have a regiment on the morrow.

Then he announced in a solemn manner that he was going to have the gates closed. This came as a relief. Detachments of the National Guards had to repair immediately to each gate and double lock it. When they had returned, several members confessed that they really felt more comfortable, and when Pierre remarked that this critical situation of the town imposed upon them the duty of remaining at their posts, some of them made arrangements with the view of spending the night in an armchair. Grenu put on a black silk skull cap which he brought with him by way of precaution.

Towards 11 o'clock, half of a gentleman were sleeping around Monsieur Gassinay's writing table. Those who still managed to keep their eyes open fancied as they listened to the measured tramp of the National Guards in the courtyard, but they were heroes and were receiving decorations. A large lamp placed on the writing table illumined this strange vigil. all at once however rujon who had seemed to be slumbering jumped up and sent for vuiier he had just remembered that he had not received the gazette the bookseller made his appearance in a very bad humor well rujon asked him as he took him aside what about the article you promised me i haven't seen the paper is that what you disturbed me for vuiy angrily retorted the gazette has not been issued i've no desire to to get myself murdered tomorrow should the insurgents come back.

Herzone tried to smile as he declared that, thank heaven, nobody would be murdered at all. It was precisely because false and disquieting rumors were running about that the article in question would have rendered great service to the good cause.

Possibly, Bueyre resumed, but the best of causes at the present time is to keep one's head on one's shoulders. And he added with malicious, and as I was under the impression you killed all the insurgents. You've left too many of them for me to run any risk. Rujon, when he was alone again, felt amazed at this mutiny on the part of a man who was usually so meek and mild.

Pouet's conduct seemed to him suspicious, but he had no time to seek an explanation. He'd scarcely stretched himself out afresh in his armchair when Roudier entered with a big saber, which he'd attached to his belt, clattering noisily against his legs. The sleepers awoke in a fright. Grenu thought it was a call to arms. What? What's the matter, he asked, as he hastily put his black silk cap into his pocket. Gentlemen, said Rudier, breathlessly,

without thinking of taking any oratorical precautions, I believe that a band of insurgents is approaching the town. These words were received with the silence of terror. Ujone alone had the strength to ask, Have you seen them? No, the retired Hoseer replied, but we hear strange noises out in the country. One of my men assured me that he'd seen fires along the slopes of the Garig.

Then, as all the gentlemen stared at each other, white and speechless. I return to my post, he continued. I fear an attack. You had better take precautions. Rujon would have followed him to obtain further particulars, but he was already too far away. After this the commission was by no means inclined to go to sleep again. Strange noises, fires, and attack,

and in the middle of the night, too. It was very easy to talk of taking precautions, but what were they to do? Grenu was very near advising the course, which had proved so successful the previous evening, that is, of hiding themselves, waiting till the insurgents had passed through Plesson, and then triumphing in the deserted streets.

Pierre, however, fortunately remembering his wife's advice, said that Rudier might have made a mistake and that the best thing would be to go and see for themselves. Some of the members made a wry face at this suggestion, but when it had been agreed that an armed escort should accompany the commission, they all descended very courageously. They only left a few men downstairs. They surrounded themselves with about 30 of the National Guards,

and then they ventured into a slumbering town, where the moon creeping over the house roofs slowly cast lengthened shadows. They went along the ramparts from one gate to the other, seeing nothing and hearing nothing. The National Guards at the various posts certainly told them that peculiar sounds occasionally reached them from the country through the closed gates. When they strained their ears, however, they detected nothing but a distant murmur, which Grinu said was merely the noise of the Vjorn.

Nevertheless, they remained doubtful, and they were about to return to the town hall in a state of alarm, though they made a show of shrugging their shoulders, and if treating Roudier as a paltroon and a dreamer, when Rujon, anxiously, to reassure them, thought of enabling them to view the plain over a distance of several leagues. Thereupon he led the little company to the Saint-Marc quarter and knocked at the door of the Valcarat's mansion. At the very outset of the disturbances, Count de Valcairat had left for his chateau at Corbiere. There was no one but the Marquis de Carnivant at the Placein house. He, since the previous evening, had prudently kept aloof,

Not that he was afraid, but because he did not care to be seen plotting with the Rujona at the critical moment. As a matter of fact, he was burning with curiosity. He'd been compelled to shut himself up in order to resist the temptation of hastening to the yellow drawing-room. When the footman came to tell him in the middle of a night that there was some gentleman below asking for him, he could not hold back any longer. He got up and went downstairs in all haste. My dear Marquis, said Ruchamp, as he introduced to him the members of the Municipal Commission, we want to ask a favor of you. Will you allow us to go into the Garden of the Mansion?

By all means, replied the astonished Marquis. I will conduct you there myself. On the way thither he ascertained what their object was. At the end of the garden rose a terrace which overlooked the plain. A large portion of the ramparts had, there tumbled in, leaving a boundless prospect to the view. It had occurred to Rujon, but this would serve as an excellent post of observation. While conversing together, the members of the commission leaned over the parapet. The strange spectacle that spread out before them soon made them silent. In the distance, in the valley of the Vjorn, across the vast

hollow which stretched westward between the chain of the Grieg and the mountains of the Séi, The rays of the moon were streaming like a river of pale light. The clumps of trees, the gloomy rocks, looked here and there like islets in tongues of land, emerging from a luminous sea. And according to the bends of the Viorne, one could now and again distinguish detached portions of the river, glittering like armor amidst the fine silvery dust falling from the firmament.

It all looked like an ocean, a world magnified by the darkness, the cold and their own secret fears. At first the gentleman could neither hear nor see anything. The quiver of light and of distant sound blinded their eyes and confused their ears. Grenu, though he was not naturally poetic, was struck by the calm serenity of that winter night and murmured,

What a beautiful night, gentlemen! Rudier was certainly dreaming, exclaimed Rujon, rather disdainfully. But the must be a moment. Marquis, whose ears were quick, had begun to listen. Ah, he observed in his clear voice, I hear the toxin! At this they all leant over the parapet holding their breath, and light and pure as crystal the distant tolling of a bell rose from the plain.

The gentleman could not deny it. It was indeed the toxin. Rujon pretended that he recognized the bell of Beage, a village fully eligued from Plesson. This he said, in order. to reassure his colleagues. But the Marquis interrupted him. Listen, listen, this time it is the bell of Saint-Marre,

and he indicated another point of the horizon to them. There was, in fact, a second bell whaling through the clear night. And very soon, there were ten bells, twenty bells, whose despairing tolings were detected by their ears, which had by this time grown accustomed to the quivering of the quivering of, a darkness. Aminous calls rose from all sides like the faint rattles of dying men. Soon the whole plain seemed to be wailing. The gentleman no longer jeered at Rudier, particularly as the Marquis, who took a malicious delight in terrifying them, was kind enough

to explain the cause of all this bell ringing. It is the neighboring villages, he said to Rujon, banding together to attack Plasana at daybreak. At this, Grinue opened his eyes wide. Didn't you see something just this moment over there? He asked all of a sudden. Nobody had looked. The gentleman had been keeping their eyes closed in order to hear the better. Ah, look, he resumed after a short pause.

There, beyond the Vyorn, near that black mass. Yes, I see, replied Rujon in despair. It's a fire they're kindling. A moment later another fire appeared almost immediately in front of the first one, then a third and a fourth. In this wise red splotches appeared at nearly equal distances throughout the whole length of the valley, resembling the lamps of some gigantic avenue. The moonlight which dimmed their radiance made them look like pools of blood. This melancholy illumination gave a finishing touch to the consternation of the municipal connoisse.

mission. Of course, the Marquise muttered with his bitterest sneer, those briggins are signaling to each other. And he counted the fires complacently to get some idea, he said, as to how many men the brave National Guard of Plausanne would have to deal with. Rojoin endeavored to raise doubts by saying the villages were taking up arms in order to join the army of the insurgents and not for the purpose of attacking the town. But the gentlemen, by their silent consternation, made it clear that they'd formed their own opinion and were not to be consoled.

I can hear the Marseilles now, remarked Grinou in a hushed voice. It was indeed true. The attachment must have been following the course of the Vyorn, passing at that moment just under the town. The cry to arm citizens, Form your battalions, reached the onlookers and sudden bursts with vibrating distinctness.

Oh, what an awful night it was! The gentlemen spent it leaning over the parapet of a terrace, numb by the terrible cold, and yet quite unable to tear themselves away from the sight of that plane, which resounded with the Toxin and the Marseillaise, and was all ablaze with signal fires. They feasted their eyes upon that sea of light, flecked with blood-red flames, and they strained their ears in order to listen to the confused clamor.

Till at last their senses began to deceive them, and they saw and heard the most frightful things. Nothing in the world would have induced them to leave the spot. If they had turned their backs, they would have fancied that a whole army was at their heels. After the manner of a certain class of cowards, they wished to witness the approach of a danger, in order that they might take flight at the right moment. Towards morning, when the moon had set and they could see nothing in front of them but a dark void, they fell into a terrible fright.

They fancied they were surrounded by invisible enemies who were crawling along in the darkness, ready to fly at their throats. At the slightest noise, they imagined there were enemies deliberating beneath the terrace prior to scaling it. There was nothing, nothing. nothing but darkness upon which they fixed their eyes distractedly.

The Marquise, as if to console them, said in his ironical way, Don't be uneasy, they will certainly wait till daybreak. Meanwhile, Rujon cursed and swore, he felt himself giving way to fear. As for Granoo, his hair turned completely white. At last the dawn appeared with weary slowness. This again was a terribly anxious moment. The gentleman, at the first ray of light, expected to see an army drawn up in line before the town.

It so happened that day, but the dawn was lazy and lingered a while on the edge of the horizon. With outstretched necks and fixed gaze, the party on the terrace peered anxiously into the misty expanse. In the uncertain light they fancy they'd caught glimpses of colossal profiles, The plain seemed to be transformed into a lake of blood. The rocks looked like corpses floating on its surface,

and the clusters of trees took the forms of battalions drawn up and threatening attack. When the growing light had at last dispersed these phantoms, the morning broke so pale, so mournful, so melancholy, that even the Marquis' spirit sank. Not a single insurgent was to be seen, and the high roads were free. but the Grey Valley wore a gruesomely sad and deserted aspect. The fires had now gone out, but the bells still rang on.

Towards eight o'clock, Rujon observed a small party of men who were moving off along the Vjorn. By this time, the gentlemen were half dead with cold and fatigue. Seeing no immediate danger, they determined to take a few hours rest. A National Guard was left on the terrace as a sentinel, with orders to run and inform Rudier if he should perceive any band approaching in the distance. Then Grenu and Rujon, quite worn out by the emotions of the night,

repaired to their homes, which were close together and supported each other on the way. Felicity put her husband to bed with every care. She called him, poor dear, and repeatedly told him that he ought not to give way to evil fancies, and that all would end well.

But he shook his head. He felt grave apprehensions. She let him sleep till eleven o'clock. Then, after he'd had something to eat, she gently turned him out of doors, making him understand that he must go through with the matter to the end. At the town hall,

Rujon found only four members of the commission in attendance. The others had sent excuses. They were really ill. Panic had been sweeping through the town with growing violence all through the morning. The gentleman had not been able to keep quiet respecting the memorable night they had spent on the terrace of the Valcarat mansion. Their servants had hastened to spread the news, embellishing it with various dramatic details. By this time it had already become a matter of history that from the heights of Plessons,

troops of cannibals had been seen dancing and devouring their prisoners. Yes, bands of witches had circled hand in hand round their cauldrons in which they were a oiling children, while on and on marched endless files of bandits whose weapons glittered in the moonlight. People spoke to of bells that of their own accord sent the toxin ringing through the desolate air, and it was even asserted that the insurgents had fired the neighboring forests so that the whole countryside was in flames. It was Tuesday, the market day at Placein, and Rudy had thought it necessary to have the gates opened in order to admit the few peasants who had brought vegetables, butter, and eggs. As soon as it had assembled, the municipal

commission, now composed of five members only, including his president, declared that this was unpardonable in prudence. Although the sentinel station at the Valcaram mansion had seen nothing, the town ought to have been kept closed. Then Rujon decided that the public crier, accompanied by a drummer should go through the streets, proclaim a state of siege, and announce to the inhabitants that whoever might go out would not be allowed to return. The gates were officially closed in broad daylight.

This measure, adopted in order to reassure the inhabitants, raised the scare to its highest pitch, and there could scarcely have been a more curious sight than that of this little city, thus padlocking and bolting itself up beneath the beach, bright sunshine in the middle of a 19th century. When Plasanne had buckled and tightened its belt of dilapidated ramparts, when it had bolted itself in like a besieged fortress at the approach of an assault,

the most terrible anguish passed over the mournful houses. At every moment in the center of a town, people fancied they could hear a discharge of musketry in the Fobor. They no longer received any news. They were, so to say, at the bottom of a cell. in a walled hole, where they were anxiously awaiting either deliverance or the finishing stroke. For the last two days, the insurgents who were scouring the country had cut off all communication. Plasand found itself isolated from the rest of France.

It felt that it was surrounded by a region in open rebellion, where the toxin was ever ringing, and the Marseillae was ever roaring like a river that has overflowed its banks. abandoned to its fate and shuddering with alarm, the town lay there like some prey which would prove the reward of the victorious party. The strollers on the Coorsolver were ever swaying between fear and hope, according as they fancy they could see the blouses of insurgents

or the uniforms of soldiers at the Grand Port. Never had sub-prefecture, pent within tumble-down walls, endured more agonizing torture. two o'clock, it was rumored that the coup d'etat had failed, that the Prince President was imprisoned at Vassant and that Paris was in the hands of the most advanced demagogues. It was reported also that Marseille, Toulon, Draguignan, the entire South, belonged to the victorious insurrectionary army. The insurgents would arrive in the evening and put Placein to the sword. Thereupon, a deputation repaired to the town hall to

expostulate with the municipal commission for closing the gates, whereby they would only irritate the insurgents. Rujon, who was losing his head, defended his order with all his remaining strength. This locking of the gates seemed to him one of the most ingenious acts of his administration. He advanced the most convincing arguments in its justification. But the others embarrassed him by their questions, asking him where were the soldiers, the regiment that he had promised. Then he began to lie and told them flatly that he promised nothing at all. The non-appearance of its legendary regiment, which the inhabitants longed for with such eagerness that they'd actually dreamt of its arrival, was the chief cause of the panic. Well-informed people

even named the exact spot on the high road where the soldiers had been butchered. At four o'clock, Rujon, followed by Grinoux, again repaired to the Valquerain Man-Mand. small bands on their way to join the insertion at Orshaer still passed along in the distance through the valley of the Vjorn. Throughout the day, urchins climbed the ramparts and bourgeois came to peep through the loopholes. These volunteer sentinels kept up the terror by counting the various bands, which were taken for so many strong battalions. The timorous population fancied it could see from the battlements the preparations for some universal massacre. At dusk, as on the previous evening, the panic became yet more chilling.

On returning to the municipal offices, Rujon and his inseparable companion, Granu, recognized that the situation was growing intolerable. During their absence, another member of the commission had disappeared. They were only four now, and they felt they were making themselves ridiculous by staying there for hours, looking at each other's pay. countenances and never saying a word. Moreover, they were terribly afraid of having to spend a second night on the terrace of the Valcarat mansion. Rujon gravely declared that as the situation of affairs was unchanged, there was no need for them to continue to remain there

on permanence. If anything serious should occur, information would be sent to them. And by a decision duly taken in counsel, he deputed to Roudier the carrying on of the administration. Poor Rudier, who remembered that he had served as a national guard in Paris under Louis-Philippe was meantime conscientiously keeping watch at the Grand Port. Réjean went home looking very downcast and creeping along under the shadows of the houses. He felt that Plasant was becoming hostile to him. He heard his name bandied about amongst the groups with expressions of anger and contempt. He walked upstairs, reeling and perspiring. Felicity received him with speechless consternation.

She also was beginning to despair. Their dreams were being completely shattered. They stood silent face to face in the yellow drawing room. The day was drawing to a close, a murky winter day which imparted a muddy tint to the orange-colored wallpaper with its large flower pattern. never had the room looked more faded, more mean, more shabby. And at this hour they were alone.

They no longer had a crowd of courtiers congratulating them as on the previous evening. A single day it suffice to topple them over, at the very moment when they were singing victory. If the situation did not change on the morrow, their game would be lost. Felicity, who went gazing on the previous evening at the ruins of the yellow drawing-room had thought of the plains of Austerlitz. Now recalled the accursed field of Waterloo as she observed how mournful and deserted the place was.

Then as her husband said nothing, she mechanically went to the window, that window where she had inhaled with delight the incense of the entire town. She perceived numerous groups below on the square, but she closed the blinds upon seeing some heads turn towards their house, for she feared that she might be hooted. She felt quite sure that those people were speaking about them. Indeed, voices rose through the twilight. A lawyer was clamoring in the tone of a triumphant pleader.

That's just what I said, the insurgents left of their own accord, and they won't ask the permission of the 41 to come back. The 41 indeed, a fine farce. Why, I believe there were at least 200. No, indeed, said a burly trader, an oil dealer and a great politician. We're probably not even ten. There was no fighting or else we should have seen some blood in the morning.

I went to the town hall myself to look. The courtyard was as clean as my hand. Then a workman who stepped timidly up to the group added, There was no need of any violence to seize the building, but door wasn't even shut. This remark was received with laughter, and the workmen, thus encouraged, continued. As for those Rujon, everybody knows that they're a bad lot. This insult pierced Felicity to the heart.

The ingratitude of the people was heart-rending to her, for she herself was at last beginning to believe in the mission of the Rujon. She called for her husband. She wanted him to hear how fickle was the multitude. It's all of a piece with their mirror, continued the lawyer. What a fuss they made about that broken glass. You know that Rujon is quite capable of having fired his gun at it just to make believe there'd been a battle.

Pierre restrained a cry of pain. What? They did not even believe in his mirror now. They would soon assert that he'd not heard a bullet whizzed past his ear. The legend of the Rujon would be blotted out. Nothing would remain of their glory. But his torture was not at an end yet. The groups manifested their hostility as hardly as they had displayed their approval on the previous evening.

A retired hatter, an old man's 70 years of age, whose factory had formerly been in the Foubord, ferreted out the Rujon's past history. He spoke vaguely with the hesitation of a wandering memory. about the Fouquet's property and Adelaide and her amours with a smuggler. He said just enough to give a fresh start to the gossip. The Tatlers drew closer together

and such words as rogues, thieves, and shameless intrigers ascended to the shutter behind which Pierre and Felicity were perspiring with fear and indignation. The people on the square even went so far as to pity Macar.

This was the final. blow. On the previous day, Rujon had been a brutus, a stoic soul sacrificing his own affections to his country. Now he was nothing but an ambitious villain who felled his brother to the ground and made use of him as a stepping stone to fortune. You hear, you hear them, Pierre murmured in a stifled voice. Ah, the scoundrels, they're killing us. We shall never retrieve ourselves. Felicity, enraged, was beating a tattoo on the shutter with her impatient fingers. Let them talk, she answered. If we get the upper hand again, they shall see what stuff I'm made of.

I know where the blow comes from. The new town hates us. She guessed rightly. The sudden unpopularity of the Rujon was the work of a group of lawyers who were very much annoyed at the importance acquired by an old, illiterate oil dealer whose house had been on the verge of bankruptcy. The San Marque quarter had shown no sign of life for the last two days. The inhabitants of the old quarter of Manu town alone remained in presence,

and the latter had taken advantage of the panic to injure the yellow drawing-room in the minds of a tradespeople in working classes. Rudier and Grenu were said to be excellent men, honorable citizens who'd been led away by the Rujon's intrigues. Their eyes ought to be open to it. Ought not Monsieur Isidore Granoe to be seated in the mayor's armchair in the place of that big portly beggar who had not a copper to bless himself with? Thus launched, the envious folks began to reproach Rujon

for all the acts of his administration, which only dated from the previous evening. He had no right to retain the services of the former municipal council. He'd been guilty of grave folly in ordering the gates to be closed. It was through his stupidity that five members of the commission had contracted inflammation of the lungs on the terrace of the Valkervan mansion.

There was no end to his faults. The Republicans likewise raised their heads. They talked of the possibility of a sudden attack upon the town hall by the workmen of the forebore. The reaction was at its last gasp. Pierre, at this overthrow of all his hopes, began to wonder what support he might still rely

if occasion should require any. Wasn't Aristeed to come here this evening, he asked, to make it up with us? Yes, answered Frilicite. He promised me a good article. The independant has not appeared yet. But her husband interrupted her, crying. See, isn't that he who's just coming out of a sub-prefecture?

The old woman glanced in that direction. He's got his arm in a sling again, cried. Aristide's hand was indeed wrapped in the silk handkerchief once more. The empire was breaking up, but the Republic was not yet triumphant, and he had judged it

prudent to resume the part of a disabled man. He crossed the square stealthily without raising his head. Then, doubtless hearing some dangerous and compromising remarks among the groups of bystanders, he made all haste to turn the corner of the Rue de la Ban.

bah, he won't come here, said Felicity bitterly. It's all up with us. Even our children forsake us. She shut the window violently in order that she might not see or hear anything more. When she'd lit the lamp, she and her husband sat down to dinner, disheartened and without appetite, leaving most of their food on their plates. They only had a few hours left them to take a decisive step.

It was absolutely indispensable that before daybreak, Plausanne should be at their feet beseeching forgiveness, or else they must entirely renounce the fortune which they had dreamed of. The total absence of any reliable news was the sole cause of their anxious indecision.

Felicity, with her clear intellect, had quickly perceived this. If they had been able to learn the result of the coup d'etat, they would either have faced at and have still pursued their role of deliverers, or else have done what they could to efface all recollection of their unlucky campaign.

But they had no precise information. They were losing their heads. The thought that they were thus risking their fortune on a throw, in complete ignorance of what was happening, brought a cold perspiration to their brows. And why the devil doesn't eugenie right to me? Rujon suddenly cried, in an outburst of despair.

forgetting that he was betraying the secret of his correspondence to his wife. But Felicity pretended not to have heard. Her husband's exclamation had profoundly affected her. Why, indeed, did not Ejean write to his father. After keeping him so accurately informed of the progress of the Bonapartist cause, he ought at least to have announced a triumph or defeat of Prince Louis. Mere prudence would have counseled the dispatch of such information. If he remained silent, it must be that the victorious republic had sent him to join the pretender in the dungeons of Vincent.

At this thought, Felicity felt chill to the marrow. Her son's silence destroyed her last hopes. At that moment, somebody brought up the Gazette, which had only just appeared. Ah, said Peter with surprise, Vouillet has issued his paper. Thereupon he tore off the wrapper, read the leading article, and finished it looking wide as a sheet, and swaying on his chair. Here, read, he resumed, handing the paper to Felicity. It was a magnificent article, attacking the insurgents with unheard of violence. Never had so much stinging bitterness, so many falsehood, such bigoted abuse flowed from Penn before.

Vuey commenced by narrating the entry of the insurgents into Plesson. The description was a perfect masterpiece. He spoke of those bandits, those villainous looking countenances, that scum of the galleys, invading the town, intoxicated with brandy, lust, and pillage. Then he exhibited them parading their cynicism in the streets, terrifying the inhabitants with their savage cries, and seeking only violence and murder.

Further on, the scene at the town hall and the arrest of the authorities became a most horrible drama. Then they seized the most respectable people by the throat, and the mayor, the brave commander of a national guard, the postmaster, that kindly functionary were even like the divinity,

crowned with thorns by those wretches who spat in their faces. The passage of the men, devoted to Miette and her red police was quite a flight of imagination. Vuey had seen ten, twenty girls steeped in blood, and who he wrote did not belong among those monsters, some infamous creatures clothed in red, who must have bathed themselves in the blood of the martyrs,

murdered by the brigands along the high roads. They were brandishing banners and openly receiving the vile caresses of the entire horde. And Voya added, with biblical, magniloquence. The Republic ever marches on amidst debauchery and murder. That, however, was only the first part of the article. The narrative being ended, the editor asked if the country would any longer tolerate the shamelessness of those wild beasts who respected neither property nor persons. He made an appeal to all valorous citizens declaring that to tolerate such things any longer would be to encourage them,

and that the insurgents would then come and snatch the daughter from her mother's arms, the wife from her husband's embraces. And at last, after a pious sentence in which he declared that heaven willed the extermination of the wicked, he concluded with this trumpet blast, it is asserted that these wretches are once more at our gates, well then let each one of us take a gun and shoot them down like dogs. I, for my part, shall be seen in the front rank, happy to rid the earth of such vermin. This article in which paraphrastic abuse was strung together with all the heaviness of touch,

which characterizes French provincial journalism, quite terrified Rujon, who muttered as Felicity replaced the Gazette on the table. Ah, the rich! He's giving us the last, Whoa. People believe that I inspired this diatribe. But, his wife remarked pensively, did you not this morning tell me that he absolutely refused to write against the Republicans? The news that circulated had terrified him, and he was as pale as death, you said. Yes, yes, I can't understand it at all.

When I insisted, he went so far as to reproach me for not having killed all the insolns. It was yesterday that he ought to have written that article. Today he'll get us all butchered. Felice Ite was lost in amazement. What could have prompted Vuey's change of front? The idea of that wretched semi-sacristen carrying a musket and firing on the ramparts of Plesson seemed to her one of the most ridiculous things imaginable.

There was certainly some determining cause underlying all this which escaped her. Only one thing seemed certain. Vue was too impudent in his abuse and too ready with his valor for the insurrectionary ban to be really so near the town as some people asserted.

He's a spiteful fellow, I always said so, Rujon resumed, after reading the article again. He's only been waiting for an opportunity to do us this injury. What a fool I was to leave him in charge of the post office.

This last sentence proved a flash of light. Felicity started up quickly as though it's some sudden thought. Then she put on a cap and threw a shawl over her shoulders. Where are you going, pray? Her husband asked her with surprise. It's past nine o'clock. You go to bed, she replied rather brusquely. You're not well.

Go and rest yourself. Sleep on till I come back. I'll wake you if necessary, and then we can talk the matter. over. She went out with her usual nimble gate, ran to the post office, and abruptly entered the room where VA was still at work. On seeing her, he made a hasty gesture of vexation. Never in his life, Wie A felt so happy. Since he'd been able to slip his little fingers into the mailbag, he'd enjoyed the most exquisite pleasure, the pleasure of an inquisitive priest about to relish the confessions

of his penitence. All the sly, all the vague chatter of sacrosities resounded in his ears. He poked as long, pale nose into the letters, gazed amorously at the superscriptions with his suspicious eyes, sounded the envelopes just like little abbeys sound the souls of maidens. He experienced endless enjoyment, was titillated by the most enticing temptation. The thousand secrets of Plesson lay there.

He held in his hand the honor of women, the fortunes of men, and had only to break a seal to know as much as the grand vicar at the cathedral, who was the confidant of all the better people of the town. Fouillet was one of those terribly bitter, frigid gossips who worm out everything but never repeat what they hear, except by way of dealing somebody a mortal blow. He had consequently often longed to dip his arms into the public letterbox.

Since the previous evening, the private room at the post office had become a big confession, full of darkness and mystery, in which he tasted exquisite rapture while sniffing at the letters which exhaled, veiled longings and quivering of vowels. Moreover, he carried on his work with consummate impudence. The crisis through which the country was passing

secured him perfect impunity. If some letters should be delayed or others should miscarry altogether, it would be the fault of those villainous Republicans who were scouring the country and interrupting all communications. The closing of the town gates had for a moment vexed him, but he'd come to an understanding with Rudier,

whereby the couriers were allowed to enter and bring the mails directly to him without passing by the town hall. As a matter of fact, he'd only opened a few letters, the important ones, those in which his keen sent to find some information, which it would be useful for him to know before anybody else. Then he contented himself by locking up in a drawer for delivery, subsequently such letters as might give information and rob him of the merit of his valour at a time when the whole town was trembling with fear this pious personage in selecting the management of the post-office as his own share of the spoils had given proof of singular insight into the situation when madame rujan entered he was taking his choice of a heap of letters under the pretext no doubt of classifying them he rose with his humble smile and offered her receipt his red

reddened eyes blinking rather uneasily. But Felicity did not sit down. She roughly exclaimed, I want the letter. At this Valle's eyes opened widely with an expression of perfect innocence. What letter, madame, he asked. The letter you received this morning from my husband. Come, Monsieur Vuey, I'm in a hurry. And as he stammered that he did not know that he'd not seen anything, That it was very strange. Felicity continued in a covertly threatening voice. A letter from Paris, from my son Eugen, you know what I mean, don't you? I look for it myself.

Thereupon she stepped forward as if intending to examine the various packets which littered the writing table. But he at once bestirred himself and said he would go and see. The service was necessarily in great confusion, perhaps in great, Indeed, there might be a letter. In that case, he would find it, but as far as he was concerned, he swore he had not seen any. While he was speaking, he moved about the office, turning over all the letters. Then he opened the drawers and the portfolios. Felicity waited, quite calm and collected. Yes, indeed, you're right. Here's a letter for you, he cried at last, and he took a few papers from a portfolio. Ah, those confounded clerks, they take a...

advantage of a situation to do nothing in the proper way. Felicity took the letter and examined the seal attentively, apparently quite regardless of the fact that such scrutiny might wound Vuey's susceptibilities. She clearly perceived that the envelope must have been opened. The bookseller in his unskilled way had used some sealing wax of a darker color to secure it again. She took care to open the envelope in such a manner as to preserve the seal intact, so might it might serve as proof of this. Then she read the note.

Eugène briefly announced the complete success of the coup d'etat. Paris was subdued, the provinces generally speaking remained quiet, and he counseled his parents to maintain a very firm attitude in the face of the partial insurrection, which was disturbing the South. In conclusion, he told them, at the foundation of their fortune was laid if they did not weaken. Madame Rujon put the letter in her pocket and sat down slowly, looking into Vueyé's face.

The latter had resumed his sorting in a feverish manner, as though he were very busy. Listen to me, Monsieur Vouillet, she said to him, and when he raised his head, Let us play our cards openly. You do wrong to betray us. Some misfortune may befall you. if instead of unsealing our letters, at this he protested and feigned great indignation, but she calmly continued, I know, I know your school, you never confess.

Come, don't let us waste any more words. What interest have you in favoring the coup d'etat? And as he continued to assert his perfect honesty, she at last lost patience. You take me for a fool, she cried. I've read your article, you would do much better to act in concert with us. Thereupon, without avowing anything, he flatly submitted that he wished to have the custom of the college. Formerly, it was he who had supplied that establishment with school books,

but it had become known that he sold objectionable literature clandestinely to the students, for which reason indeed he'd almost been prosecuted at the correctional police court. Since then he had jealously longed to be received back into the good graces of the directors. Felicity was surprised at the modesty of his ambition and told him so. To open letters and risk the galleys just for the sake of selling a few dictionaries and grammars. Eh, he exclaimed in a shrill voice, It is an assured sale of four or five thousand francs a year. I don't aspire to impossibilities like some people.

she did not take any notice of his last taunting words. No more was said about his opening the letters. A treaty of alliance was concluded, by which Ville engaged that he would not circulate any news or take any step in advance, on condition that the rujon should secure him the custom of the college. As she was leaving, Felicity advised him not to compromise himself any further. It would be sufficient for him to detain the law,

and distribute blame only on the second day. What a knave, she muttered when she reads the street, forgetting that she herself had just laid an interdict upon the mail. She went home slowly, wrapped in thought. She even went out of her way, passing along the course of air, as if to gain time and ease for reflection before going in. Under her trees of the promenade she met Monsieur de Carnivant, who was taking advantage of a darkness to ferret about the town without compromising himself.

The clergy of Plesson, to whom all energetic action was distasteful, had since the announcement of the coup d'etat preserved absolute neutrality. In the priests' opinion, the empire was virtually established, and they awaited an opportunity to resume in some new direction their secular intrigues. The Marquis, who had now become a useless agent, remained only in. inquisitive on one point. He wished to know how the turmoil would finish, and in what manner the Rujon would play their role to the end. Oh, it's you, little one, he exclaimed, as soon as he recognized Felicity. I wanted to see you. Your affairs are getting muddled. Oh, no, everything is going

all right, she replied, in an absent-minded way. So much the better. You'll tell me all about it, won't you? I must confess that I gave your husband and his colleagues a terrible fright the other night. You should have seen how comical they looked on the terrace while I was pointing out a band of insurgents in every cluster of trees in the valley. You forgive me. I'm much obliged to you, said Felicitye quickly. You should have made them die of fright. My husband is a big sly boots. Come and see me some morning when I'm alone. Then she turned to you. She turned to you. She turned to away, as though this meeting with the Marquise had determined her. From head to foot, the whole of her little person betokened implacable resolution. At last, she was going to revenge herself

on Pierre for his petty mysteries, have him under her heel, and secure once for all her omnipotence at home. They would be a fine scene, quite a comedy indeed, the points of which she was already enjoying in anticipation, while she worked out her plan with all the spitefulness of an injured woman. She found Pierre in bed, sleeping heavily. She brought the candle near him for an instant, and gazed with an air of compassion at his big face, across which slight twitches occasionally passed. Then she sat down at the head of the bed, talk off her cap, let her hair fall loose, assumed the appearance of one in despair, and began to sob quite loudly. "'Hello? What's the matter? What are you crying for? "'What's your? What are you crying for?

asked Pierre, suddenly awaking. She did not reply, but cried more bitterly. "'Come, come, to answer,' continued her husband, frightened by this mute despair. "'Where have you been? Have you seen the insurgents?' She shook her head. Then in a faint voice she said, "'I've just come from the Valcarat mansion.

I wanted to ask Monsieur de Carnival's advice.' "'Ah, my dear, all is lost.' Pierre sat up in bed, very pale. His bull-neck, which is unbuttoned, nightshirt exposed to view, all his soft, flabby flesh seemed to swell with terror. At last he sank back, pale and tearful, looking like some grotesque Chinese figure in the middle of the untidy bed. "'The Marquise,' continued Felicity,

"' thinks that Prince Louis has succumbed. We are ruined. We shall never get a sue. Thereupon, as often happens with cowards, Pierre flew into a passion. It was the Marquis's fault. It was his wife's fault, the fault of all his family. Had he ever thought of politics at all until Monsieur de Carnarne and Felicity had driven him to that tom foolery? I wash my hands of it altogether, he cried. It's you two who are responsible for the blood. Wasn't it better to go on living on our little savings in peace and quietness?

But then you were always determined to have your own way. You see what it has brought us to. He was losing his head completely and forgot that he'd shown himself as eager as his wife. However, his only desire now was to vent his anger by laying the blame of his ruin upon others. And moreover, he continued, could we ever have succeeded with children? like ours. Eugen abandons us just at the critical moment Aristide has dragged us

through the mire, and even that big simpleton Pascal is compromising us with his philanthropic practicing among the insurgents, and to think that we brought ourselves to poverty simply to give them a university education. Then, as he drew breath,

Felicity said to him softly, You are forgetting Macar. Ah, yes. I was forgetting him, he resumed more violently than ever. There's another whom I can't think of without losing all patience. But that's not all. You know little Silvere. Well, I saw him at my mother's the other evening with his hands covered with blood. He's put some gendarme's eye out. I did not tell you of it, as I didn't want to frighten you. But you'll see one of my nephews in the Assize court. Ah, what a family. As for McCart, he's annoyed us to such extent that I felt inclined to break his head for him the other day when I had a gun in my hand. Yes, I had a mind to do it. Felicity let the storm pass over. She had received her husband's reproaches with angelic sweetness, bowing her head like a culprit, whereby she was able to smile in her sleeve. Her demeanor provoked in madden, Pierre. When speech failed the poor man, she heaved, deep sighs, feigning repentance, and then she repeated in a disconsolate voice, Whatever shall we do, whatever shall we do, we are overhead and ears in debt. It's your fault, Pierre cried, with all his remaining strength.

The Rujon, in fact, owed money on every side. The hope of approaching success had made them forget all prudence. since the beginning of 1851 they'd gone so far as to entertain the frequenters of the yellow drawing room every evening with syrup and punch and cakes, providing in fact complete collations at which they one and all drank to the death of the Republic. Besides this, Pierre had placed a quarter of his capital of the disposal of the reactionary party as a contribution towards the purchase of guns and cartridges. The pastry-cook's bill amounts to at least the thousand francs, Felicity resumed in her sweetest tone, and we probably owe twice as much to the liquor-dealer. Then there's the butcher, the baker, the green grocer, Pierre was in agony. And Felicity struck him a final blow by adding,

I say nothing of a ten thousand francs you gave for the guns. I I he faltered But I was deceived I was robbed It was that idiot Cicardot Who let me in for that By swearing that the Napoleonists

Would be triumphant I thought I was only making an advance But the old Don't will have to repay me my money Ah you won't get anything back Said his wife shrugging her shoulders We shall suffer the fate of war When we have paid off everything

we shan't even have enough to buy dry bread with. Ah, it's been a fine campaign. We can now go and live in some hovel in the old quarter. This last phrase had a most lugubrious sound. It seemed like the knell of their existence. Pierre pictured the hovel in the old quarter, which had just been mentioned by Felicity. T'was there, then, that he would die on a pallet,

after striving all his life for the enjoyment of ease and luxury. In vain had he robbed his mother, steeped his hands in the foulest intrigues, and lied and lied for many a long year. The empire would not pay his debts. That empire which alone could save him. He jumped out of bed in his nightshirt, crying, No, I'll take my gun.

I would rather let the insurgents kill me. Well, Felicity rejoined with great composure. You can have that done tomorrow or the day after. The Republicans are not far off, and that day will do as well as another to make an end of matters. Pierre shuddered. It seemed as if someone had suddenly poured a large pair of cold water over his shoulders. This ends Chapter 6, Part 2.

Section 15 of The Fortune of the Rujon, book one of Rujon-Maca cycle, by Emil Zola, translated by Henry Bizzatelli. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Read by Mark Leder Chapter 6, Part 3 He slowly got into bed again, and when he was warmly wrapped up in the sheets, he began to cry. This fat fellow easily burst into tears, gently flowing inexhaustible tears,

which streamed from his eyes without an effort. A terrible reaction was now going on within him. After his wrath, he became as weak as a child. Felicity, who'd been waiting for this crisis, was delighted to see him so spiritless, so resourceless, and so humbled before her. She still preserved silence and an appearance of distressed humility.

After a long pause, her seeming resignation, her mute dejection, irritated Pierre's nerves. But do something, he implored, let us think matters over together. Is there really no hope left us? None.

You know very well, she replied. You explain the situation yourself just now. We have no help to expect from anyone. Even our children have betrayed us. Let us flee, then. Shall we leave Plesson tonight immediately? Flee? Why, my dear, tomorrow we should be the talk of the whole town. Don't you remember, too, that you have had the gates closed? A violent struggle was going on in Pierre's mind, which he exerted to the utmost in seeking for soul. some solution. At last as though he felt vanquished, he murmured in supplicating tones.

I beseech you. Do try to think of something. You haven't said anything yet. Felicity raised her head, feigning surprise, and with a gesture of complete powerlessness, she said, I am a fool in these matters. I don't understand anything about politics. You've told me so a hundred times. And then, as her embarrassed husband held his tongue and lowered his eyes, she continued slowly, but not reproachfully. You have not kept me informed of your affairs, have you? I know nothing at all about them.

I can't even give you any advice. It was quite right of you, though. Women chatter sometimes, and it is a thousand times better for the men to steer the ship alone. She said this with such refined iron. that her husband did not detect that she was deriding him. He simply felt profound remorse. And all of a sudden, he burst out into a confession. He spoke of Vigens' letters, explained his plans, his conduct,

with all the quacity of a man who is relieving his conscience and imploring a savior. At every moment he broke off to ask, What would you have done in my place? Or else he cried, isn't that so? I was right. I could not act otherwise. But Felicity did not even deign to make a sign. She listened with all the frigid reserve of a judge.

In reality, she was tasting the most exquisite pleasure. She'd got that sly boots fast at last. She played with him like a cat playing with a ball of paper, and he virtually held out his hands to be manacled by her. But wait, he said hastily, jumping out of bed. I'll give you Jeanne's correspondence to read. You can judge the situation better then. She vainly tried to hold him back by his nightshirt.

He spread out the letters on the table by the bedside, and then got into bed again and read whole pages of them and compelled her to go through them herself. She suppressed a smile and began to feel some pity for the poor man. well, he said anxiously when he'd finished, Now you know everything. Do you see any means of saving us from ruin? She still gave no answer.

She appeared to be pondering deeply. You are an intelligent woman, he continued, in order to flatter her. I did wrong in keeping any secret from you. I see it now. Let us say nothing more about that, she replied. in my opinion if you had enough courage and as he looked at her eagerly she broke off and said with a smile but you promise not to distrust me anymore

you will tell me everything eh you'll do nothing without consulting me he swore and accepted the most rigid conditions felicit then got into bed and in a whisper as if she feared somebody might hear them she explained at length her plan of campaign. In her opinion, the town must be allowed to fall into still greater panic,

while Pierre was to maintain an heroic demeanor in the midst of a terrified inhabitants. A secret presentiment, she said, warned her that the insurgents were still at a distance. Moreover, the party of order would sooner or later carry the day,

and Rougain's would be rewarded. After the role of deliverer, that of martyr was not to be despised. And she argued so well, and spoke with so much conviction, that her husband, surprised at first by the simplicity of her plan, which consisted in facing it out, at last detected in it a marvelous tactical scheme, and promised to conform to it with the greatest possible courage.

And don't forget that it is I who am saving you, the old woman murmured in a coaxing tone, "'Will you be nice to me?' They kissed each other and said good-night. But neither of them slept. After a quarter of an hour had gone by, Pierre, who'd been gazing at the round reflection of a night-lamp on the ceiling, turned, and in a faint whisper told his wife of an idea that had just occurred to him.

"'Oh, no, no,' Felicity murmured with a shudder. "'That would be too cruel.' Well, he resumed, but you want to spread consternation among the inhabitants? They would take me seriously if what I told you should occur. Then, perfecting his scheme, he cried, We might employ McCart. That would be a means of getting rid of him. Felicity seemed to be struck with the idea.

She reflected, seemed to hesitate, and then, in a distressful tone, faltered, perhaps you are right. We must see. After all, we should be very stupid if we were over-scrupulous, for it's a matter of life and death to us. Let me do it. I'll see McCart tomorrow, and ascertain if we can come to an understanding with him. You would only wrangle and spoil all. Good night. Sleep well, my poor dear. Our troubles will soon be ended. You'll see. They again kissed each other and fell asleep. The patch of light on the ceiling now seemed to be assuming the shape of a terrified eye that stared wildly and fixedly upon the pale, slumbering couple who reeked with crime beneath their very sheets, and dreamt they could see a rain of blood falling in big drops

which turned into golden coins as they plashed upon the floor. On the morrow, before daylight, Felicity repaired to the town hall, armed with instructions from Pierre to seek an interview with McCart. She took her husband's National Guard uniform with her wrapped in a cloth. There were only a few men fast asleep in the guardhouse. The doorkeeper, who was entrusted with the duty of supplying McCart with food, went upstairs with her to open the door of a dressing room, which had been turned into a cell. Then, quietly he came down again.

McCart had now been kept in the room for two days and two nights. He had had time to indulge in lengthy reflections. After his sleep, his first hours had been given up to outbursts of impotent rage. Goated by the idea that his brother was lorning it in the adjoining room, he'd felt a great longing to break the door open. At all events, he would strangle Rujong with his own hands, as soon as the insurgents should return and release him. But in the evening, at twilight, he calmed down and gave overstriding furiously round the little room.

He inhaled a sweet odor there. A feeling of comfort relaxed his nerves. Monsieur Gassonne, who was very rich, refined, and vain, had caused this little room to be arranged in a very elegant fashion. The sofa was soft and warm, scents. pomades and soaps adorned a marble washstand, and the pale light fell from the ceiling with a soft glow, like the gleams of a lamp suspended in an alcove. McCart, amidst this perfumed, soporific atmosphere, fell asleep,

thinking that those scoundrels, the rich, were very fortunate all the same. He'd covered himself with a blanket which had been given to him, and with his head and back and arms, posing on the cushions, he stretched himself out on the couch until morning. When he opened his eyes, a ray of sunshine was gliding through the opening above. Still he did not leave the sofa. He felt warm and lay thinking as he gazed around him. He bethought himself that he would never again have such a place to wash in. The washstand particularly interested him. It was by no means.

hard, he thought, to keep oneself spruce when one had so many little pots and files at one's disposal. This made him think bitterly of his own life of privation. The idea occurred to him that perhaps he'd been on the wrong track. There's nothing to be gained by associating with beggars. He ought to have played the scamp. He should have acted in concert with the rujones. Then, however, he rejected this idea. The rujons were villains who'd robbed him. But the warmth and softness of the sofa continued to work upon his feelings

and fill him with vague regrets. After all, the insurgents were abandoning him and allowing themselves to be beaten like idiots. Eventually he came to the conclusion that the republic was mere dupory. Those rujones were lucky. And he recalled his own. bootless wickedness and underhand intrigues.

Not one member of the family had ever been on his side, neither Aristide nor Silvere's brother, nor Silvair himself, who was a fool to grow so enthusiastic about the republic and would never do any good for himself. Then McCart reflected that his wife was dead, that his children had left him, and that he would die alone like a dog in some wretched corner without a copper to bless himself with.

Decidedly, he ought to have sold himself to the reactionary party. Pondering in this fashion, he eyed the washstand, feeling a strong inclination to go and wash his hands with a certain powder soap which he saw in a glass jar. Like all lazy fellows who live upon their wives or children, he had foppish tastes. Although he wore patched trousers, he liked to inundate himself with aromatic oil. He spent hours with his barber who talked politics and brushed his hair for him between their discussions.

So at last the temptation became too strong, and McCart installed himself before the washstand. He washed his hands in face, dressed his hair, perfumed himself, in fact went through a complete toilet. He made use in turn of all the bottles, all the various soaps and powders, but his greatest pleasure was to dry his hands with the mayor's towels, which were so soft and thick. He buried his wet face in them and inhaled with delight all the odor of wealth. Then having pomated himself and smelling sweetly from head to foot, he once more stretched himself on the sofa,

feeling quite youthful again, and disposed to the most conciliatory thoughts. He felt yet greater contempt for the Republic since he dipped his nose into Monsieur Goussinet's files. The idea occurred to him that there was, perhaps, still time for him to make peace with his brother. He wondered what he might well ask in return for playing the traitor. His rancor against the rougain still gnawed at his heart,

but he was in one of those moods when, lying on one's, back in silence, one is apt to admit stern facts and scold oneself for neglecting to feather a comfortable nest, in which one may wallow in slothful ease, even at the cost of relinquishing one's most cherished animosities. Towards evening, Antoine determined to send for his brother on the following day. But when in the morning, he saw Felicity enter the room, he understood that his aid was wanted. So he remained on his guard. The negotiations were long and full of pitfalls,

being conducted on either side with infinite skill. At first they both indulged in vague complaints. Then Felicity, who was surprised to find McCart almost polite, after the violent manner in which he'd behaved at her house on the Sunday evening, assumed a tone of gentle reproach. She deplored the hatred which severed their families, But in truth, he had so calumniated his brother and manifested such bitter animosity towards him that he had made poor Rujon quite lose his head.

But dash it, my brother has never behaved like a brother to me, McCart replied, with restrained violence. Has he ever given me any assistance? He would have let me die in my hovel. When he behaved differently towards me, you remember, epitaph. time he gave me two hundred francs, I am sure no one can reproach me with having said a single unpleasant word about him. I said everywhere that he was a very good-hearted fellow. This clearly signified, if you would continue to supply me with money, I should have been very pleasant towards you and would have helped you, instead of fighting against you,

it's your own fault. You ought to have bought me. Felicity understood this so well that she replied, I know you have accused us of being hard upon you because you imagine we are in comfortable circumstances, but you are mistaken, my dear brother. We are poor people. We've never been able to act towards you as our hearts would have desired. She hesitated a moment and then continued,

if it were absolutely necessary in some serious contingency, we might perhaps be able to make a sacrifice. But truly, we are very poor, very poor. McCart pricked up his ears. I have them, he thought. Then, without appearing to understand his sister-in-law's indirect offer, he detailed the wretchedness of his life in a doleful manner and spoke of his wife's death and his children's flight.

Felicity on her side referred to the crisis through which the country was passing and declared that the Republic had completely ruined them. Then, from word to word, she began to bemoan the exigencies of a situation which compelled one brother to imprison another. How their hearts would bleed if justice refused to release its prey. And finally, she'd bellowed.

let slip the word galleys. Bah, I defy you, said McCart calmly. But she hastily exclaimed, Oh, I would rather redeem the honor of the family with my own blood. I tell you all this to show you that we shall not abandon you. I have come to give you the means of affecting your escape, my dear Antoine. They gazed at each other for a moment, sounding each other. sounding each other with a look, before engaging in the contest.

Unconditionally, he asked at length, without any condition, she replied. Then she sat down beside him on the sofa and continued in a determined voice. And even before crossing the frontier, if you want to earn a thousand-franc note, I can put you in the way of doing so. There was another pause. "'If it's all above board, I shall have no objection,' Antoine muttered, apparently reflecting. "'You know I don't want to mix myself up with your underhand dealings.' "'But there are no underhand dealings about it,' Felicity resumed,

smiling at the old rascals, scruples. "'Nothing can be more simple. You will presently leave this room and go and conceal yourself in your mother's house.' And this evening you can assemble your friends and come and seize the town hall again. McCart did not conceal his extreme surprise. He did not understand it at all. I thought he said that you were victorious. Oh, I haven't got time now to tell you all about it, the old woman replied somewhat impatiently. Do you accept or not?

Well, no, I don't accept. I want to think it over. It would be very stupid of me to risk a possible fortune for a thousand francs. Felicity rose, Just as you like, my dear fellow, she said coldly. You don't seem to realize the position you are in. You came to my house and treated me as though I were a mere outcast, and then when I'm kind enough to hold out a hand to you

in the hole into which you have stupidly let yourself fall, you stand on ceremony and refuse to be rescued. Well, then, stay here. Wait till the authorities come back. As for me, I wash my hands of the whole business. With these words, she reached the door. But give me some explanations, he implored. I can't strike a bargain with you in perfect ignorance of everything.

For two days past, I've been quite in the dark, to what's going on. How do I know that you are not cheating me? Ba, you're a simpleton, replied Felicity, who had retraced her steps at Antoine's doleful appeal. You are very foolish not to trust yourself implicitly to us. A thousand francs. That's a fine sum, a sum that one would only risk in a winning cause. I advise you to accept. He still hesitated. But when we want to seize the place, shall we be allowed to enter quietly? Ah, I don't know, she said with a smile.

There will perhaps be a shot or two fired. He looked at her fixedly. Well, but I say, little woman, he resumed in a hoarse voice. You don't intend, do you, to have a bullet lodged in my head. Felicity blushed. She was, in fact, just thinking that they would be rendered a great service if, during the attack on the town hall, a bullet should rid them of Antoine. It would be a gain of a thousand francs, besides all the rest.

So she muttered with irritation, What an idea! Really, it's abominable to think such things. Then, suddenly calming down, she added, do you accept you understand now don't you mccart had understood perfectly it was an ambush that they were proposing to him he did not perceive the reasons or the consequences of it and this was what induced him to haggle after speaking of the republic as though it were a mistress whom to his great grief he could no longer love he recapitulated the risks which he would have to roll and finished by asking for 2,000 francs. But Felicity abided by her original offer. They debated the matter until she promised to procure him on his return to France,

some post in which he would have nothing to do and which would pay him well. The bargain was then concluded. She made him don the uniform she'd brought with her. He was to betake himself quietly to Auntie Days and afterwards towards, towards midnight, assemble all the Republicans he could in the neighborhood of a town hall, telling them that the municipal offices were unguarded, and that they had only to push open the door to take possession of them. Antoine then asked for earnest money and received 200 francs. Felicite undertook to pay the remaining 800 on the following day. The rougains were risking the

last sum they had at their disposal. When Felicite had, gone downstairs, she remained on the square for a moment to watch McCart go out. He passed the guardhouse, quietly blowing his nose. He'd previously broken the skylight in the dressing room to make it appear that he'd escaped that way. It's all arranged, Felicity said to her husband when she returned home. It will be at midnight. It doesn't matter to me at all now. I should like to see them all shot. How they slanded us yesterday in the street. It was rather silly of you to hesitate, replied Pierre, who was shaving. Everyone would do the same in our place.

That morning, it was a Wednesday. He was particularly careful about his toilet. His wife combed his hair and tied his cravat, turning him about like a child going to a distribution of prizes. And when he was ready, she examined him, declared that he looked very nice, and that he would make a very good figure in the midst of the serious events that were preparing. His big, pale face wore an expression of grave dignity and heroic determination.

She accompanied him to the first landing, giving him her last advice. He was not to depart in any way from his courageous demeanor, however great the panic might be. He was to have the gates closed more hermetically than ever, and leave the town in agonies of terror within its ramparts. It would be all the better if he were to appear the only one willing to die for the cause of order. What a day it was! The Rujon still speak of it as a glorious and decisive battle.

Pierre went straight to the town hall, heedless of the looks or words that greeted him on his way. He installed himself there in magisterial fashion like a man who did not intend to quit the place whatever might happen. And he simply sent a note to Rudier to advise him that he was resuming authority. Keep watch at the gates, he added, knowing that these lines might become public. I myself will watch over the town and ensure the security of life and property. It is at the moment when evil passions reappear and threaten to prevail that good citizens should endeavor to stifle them, even at the peril.

of their lives. The style in the very errors in spelling made this note, the brevity of which suggested the laconic style of the ancients, appear all the more heroic. Not one of the gentlemen of the provisional commission put in an appearance.

The last two who had hitherto remained faithful, and Grinou himself even, prudently stopped at home. Thus, Rujong was the only member of the commission who remained at his post, in his presidential armchair, all the others having vanished as the panic increased. He did not even deign to issue an order summoning them to attend.

He was there, and that sufficed, a sublime spectacle which a local journal depicted later on in a sentence. Courage giving the hand to duty. During the whole morning, Pierre was seen animating the town hall with his goings and comings. He was absolutely alone in the large empty building whose lofty halls re-echoed with the noise of his heels. All the doors were left open. He made an ostentatious show of his presidency over a non-existent council in the midst of this desert

and appeared so deeply impressed with the responsibility of his mission that the doorkeeper, meeting him two or three times in the passages, bowed to him with an air of mingled surprise and respect. He was seen too at every window, and in spite of the bitter cold he appeared several times on the balcony with bundles of papers in his hands, like a busy man attending to important dispatches. Then, towards noon, he passed through the town and visited the guardhouses, speaking of a possible attack and letting it be understood that the insurgents were not far off. But he relied, he said, on the courage of the brave national guards. If necessary, they must be ready to die to the last man for the defense of the good cause. When he returned from this round, slowly and solemnly,

after the manner of a hero who has set the affairs of his country in order, and now only awaits death, he observed signs of perfect stupor along his path, the people promenading in the Coor, the incorrigible little householders, whom no catastrophe would have prevented from coming at certain hours, to bask in the sun. Looked at him in amazement

as if they did not recognize him and could not believe that one of their own set a former oil dealer should have the boldness to face a whole army. In the town, the anxiety was at its height.

The insurrectionists were expected every moment. The rumor of McCart's escape was commenced upon in a most alarming manner. It was asserted that he'd been rescued by his friends, the Reds, and that he was only waiting for night time in order to fall upon the inhabitants and set fire to the four corners of a town. Plasant closed in and

terror-stricken, gnawing at its own vitals within its prison-like walls, no longer knew what to imagine in order to frighten itself. The Republicans in the face of Rujon's bold demeanor felt for a moment distrustful. As for the new town, the lawyers in retired tradespeople who had denounced the yellow drawing room on the previous evening, they were so surprised

that they dared not again openly attack such a valiant man. They contented themselves with saying, it was madness to brave victorious insurgents like that, and such useless heroism would bring the greatest misfortunes upon Plesson. then at about three o'clock they organized a deputation pierre though he was burning with desire to make a display of his devotion before his fellow

citizens had not ventured to reckon upon such a fine opportunity he spoke sublimely it was in the mayor's private room that the president of the provisional commission received the deputation from a new town The gentleman of the deputation, after paying homage to his patriotism, besought him to forego all resistance. But he, in a loud voice, talked of duty, of his country, of order, of liberty, and various other things. Moreover, he did not wish to compel anyone to imitate him. He was simply discharging a duty which his conscience and his heart dictated to him. You see, gentlemen, I am alone, he said in conclusion.

I will take all the responsibility so that nobody but myself may be compromised. And if a victim is required, I willingly offer myself. I wish to sacrifice my own life for the safety of the inhabitants. A notary, the wise acre of the party, remarked that he was running to certain death. I know it, he resumed solemnly. I am prepared. The gentlemen looked at each other. Those words, I am prepared, filled them with admiration.

Decidedly, this man was a brave fellow. The notary implored him to call in the aid of a gendarme, but he replied that the blood of those brave soldiers was precious, and he would not have it shed except in the last. extremity. The deputation slowly withdrew, feeling deeply moved. An hour afterwards, Plasin was speaking of Rujon as of a hero, the most cowardly called him an old fool. Towards evening, Rujon was much surprised to see Grinu hastened to him. The old almond dealer threw himself in his arms, calling him great man and declaring that he would die with him.

the words I am prepared which had just been reported to him by his maid-servant who had heard it at the green-grocers had made him

quite enthusiastic there was charming naivete in the nature of this grotesque timorous old man Pierre kept him with him

thinking that he would not be of much consequence he was even touched by the poor fellow's devotion and resolved to have him publicly complimented by the

prefect in order to roused the envy of the other citizens who had so cowardly abandoned him. And so both of them awaited the night in the deserted building. At the same time, Aristide was striding about at home in an uneasy manner. Quay's article had astonished him. His father's demeanor stupefied him. He had just caught sight of him at the window, in a white cravat and black frock coat,

so calm at the approach of danger that all his ideas were upset. yet the insurgents were coming back triumphant that was the belief of the whole town but aristide felt some doubts on the point he had suspicions of some lugubrious farce as he did not dare to present himself at his parents house he sent his wife thither and when angel returned she said to him in her drawling voice your mother expects you she's not angry at all she seems rather to be making fun of you. She told me several times that you could just put your sling back in your pocket. Aristeed felt terribly vexed. However, he ran to the Rue de Laban, prepared to make the most humble submission. His mother was content to receive him with scornful laughter. Ah, my poor fellow, said she, you're certainly not very shrewd. But what can one do in a hole like Plausanne?

He angrily retorted. On my word of honor, I'm becoming a fool here. No news, and everybody shivering. That's what it is to be shut up in these villainous ramparts. Ah, if I had only been able to follow Eugène to Paris. Then, seeing that his mother was still smiling, he added bitterly, You haven't been very kind to me, mother. I know many things, I do.

My brother kept you informed of what was going on, and you've never given me the faintest hint that might have been useful to me. You know that, do you? exclaimed Felicity, becoming serious and distrustful. Well, you're not so foolish as I thought, then. Do you open letters like some one of my acquaintance? No, but I listen to doors, Arrested replied, with great assurance. this frankness did not displease the old woman she began to smile again and asked more softly well then you blockhead how is it you didn't rally to us sooner

"'Ah, that's where it is,' the young man said, with some embarrassment. "'I didn't have much confidence in you. "'You received such idiots, my father-in-law, Grenu, and the others. "'And then I didn't want to go too far.' "'He hesitated and then resumed with some uneasiness. "'Today, you are at least quite sure of the success of the coup d'etat, aren't you?' "'I cried Felicity. Wounded by her son's doubts.

No, I'm not sure of anything. And yet you sent word to say that I was to take off my sling. Yes, because all the gentlemen are laughing at you. Aristide remained stocked still, apparently contemplating one of the flowers on the orange-colored wallpaper. And his mother felt sudden impatience as she saw him hesitating thus. Ah, well, she said, I've come back again. to my former opinion. You're not very shrewd. And you think you ought to have had his

letters to read? Why, my poor fellow, you would have spoiled everything with your perpetual vacillation. You never can make up your mind. You are hesitating now. I hesitate, he interrupted, giving his mother a cold, keen glance. Ah, well, you don't know me. I would set the whole town on fire if it were necessary, and I wanted to warm my feet. But understand me, I've no desire to take the wrong road. I'm tired of eating hard bread, and I hope to play fortunate trick, but I only play for certainties. He spoke these words so sharply, with such a keen longing for success, that his mother recognized the cry of her own blood. Your father is very brave, she whispered. "'Yes, I've seen him,' he resumed with a sneer.

"'He's got a fine look on him. "'He reminded me of Leonidas at Thermopylae. "'Is it you, mother, who've made him cut this figure?' "'And he added cheerfully with a gesture of determination. "'Well, so much the worse, I'm a Bonapartist. "'Father is not the man to risk the chance of being killed "'unless it pays him well.' you're quite right his mother replied i mustn't say anything but to-morrow you'll see he did not press her but swore that she would soon have reason to be proud of him and then he took his departure while felicité feeling her old preference reviving said to herself at the window where she watched him going off that he had the devil's own wit that she would never have had sufficient courage to let him leave without setting him in the right path

and now for the third time a night full of anguish fell upon Placein. The unhappy town was almost at its death rattle. The citizens hastened home and barricaded their doors with great clattering of iron bolts and bars. The general feeling seemed to be that by the morrow, Placan would no longer exist, that it would either be swallowed up by the earth or would evaporate in the atmosphere.

When Rujon went home to dine, he found the streets completely deserted. This desolation made him sad and melancholy. As a result of this, when he had finished his meal, he felt some slight misgivings and asked his wife if it were necessary to follow up the insurrection that McCart was preparing. Nobody will run us down now, said he. You should have seen those gentlemen of a new town,

how they bowed to me. It seems to me quite unnecessary, out to kill anybody. Eh? What do you think? We shall feather our nest without that. Ah, what a nerveless fellow you are, Felicity cried angrily.

It was your own idea to do it, and now you back out. I tell you that you'll never do anything without me. Go then, go your own way. Do you think the Republicans would spare you if they got hold of you? Rujon went back to the town hall and prepared for the ambush.

Grinou was very useful to him. He dispatched him with orders to the different posts guarding the ramparts. The National Guards were to repair to the town hall in small detachments as secretly as possible. Rudier, that bourgeois, who was quite out of his element in the provinces, and who would have spoiled the whole affair with his humanitarian preaching, was not even informed of it. Towards 11 o'clock the courtyard of the town hall was full of national guards. Then Rujon frightened him.

He told them that the Republicans still remaining in Plesson were about to attempt a desperate coup d'amom, and plumes himself on having been warned by his secret police. When he had pictured the bloody massacre which would overtake the town, should these wretches get the upper hand, he ordered his men to cease speaking and extinguish all lights.

He took a gun himself. Ever since the morning he'd been living as in a dream. He no longer knew himself. he felt Felicity behind him. The crisis of the previous night had thrown him into her hands, and he would have allowed himself to be hanged, thinking, it does not matter, my wife will come and cut me down. To augment the tumult and prolong the terror of the slumbering town,

he begged Grinue to repair to the cathedral and have the toxin wrong at the first shots he might hear. The Marquis's name would open the Beatles' door. and then, in darkness and dismal silence, the National Guards waited in the yard, in a terrible state of anxiety, their eyes fixed on the porch, eager to fire,

as though they were lying in wait for a pack of wolves. In the meantime, McCart had spent the day at Auntie Day's house. Stretching himself on the old coffer and lamenting the loss of Monsieur Gassene's sofa, he had several times felt a mad, to break into his 200 francs at some neighboring cafe. This money was burning a hole in his waistcoat pocket.

However, he whiled away his time by spending it in imagination. His mother moved about in her stiff, automatic way, as if she were not even aware of his presence. During the last few days, her children had been coming to her rather frequently, in a state of pallor and desperation, but she departed neither from her taciturnity nor her stiff lifeless expression. She knew nothing of the fears which were throwing the pent-up town, Topsie Turvey. She was a thousand leagues away from Plessons,

soaring into the one constant fixed idea which imparted such a blank stare to her eyes. Now and again, however, at this particular moment, some feeling of uneasiness, some human anxiety, occasionally made her blink. Antoine, unable to resist the temptation of having something nice to eat, sent her to get a roast chicken from an eating house in the Fobor. When it was set on the table, Hey, he said to her,

You don't often eat foul, do you? It's only for those who work, and I know how to manage their affairs. As for you, you always squandered everything. I bet you're giving all your savings to that little hypocrite silver. there he's got a mistress the sly fellow if you've a hoard of money hidden in some corner he'll ease you of it nicely some day mccart was in a jesting mood glowing with wild exultation the money he had in his pocket the treachery he was preparing the conviction that he'd sold himself at a good price all filled him with the self-satisfaction characteristic of vicious people who naturally became merry and scornful amidst their evil practices. Of all his talk, however, Auntie Dey only heard Silvert's name. Have you seen him, she asked, opening her lips at last.

Who? Silvere, Antoine replied. He was walking about among the insurgents with a tall red girl on his arm. It'll serve him right if he gets into trouble. The grandmother looked at him fixedly. Then, in a solemn voice, inquired, Why? Eh? Why, he shouldn't be so stupid, resumed McCart, feeling somewhat embarrassed. People don't risk their necks for the sake of ideas. I've settled my own little business. I'm no fool. But Auntie Day was no longer listening to him.

She was murmuring, He had his hands covered with blood. They'll kill him, like the other one. His uncles will send the gendarme after him. What are you muttering there? asked her son, as he finished picking the bones of a chicken. You know I like people to accuse me to my face. If I have sometimes talked to the little fellow about the republic,

it was only to bring him round to a more reasonable way of thinking. He was dottie. I love liberty myself, but it mustn't degenerate into license. and as for Rujon. I esteem him. He's a man of courage and common sense. He had the gun, hadn't he? Interrupted Aunt Dede,

whose wandering mind seemed to be following Silvere far away along the high road. The gun? Ah, yes, McCart's carbine, continued Antoine, after casting a glance at the mantel shelf where the firearm was usually hung. I fancy I saw it in his hands, a fine instrument to scour the country with when one has a girl on one's arm. What a fool!

Then he thought he might as well indulge in a few coarse jokes. Auntie Day had begun to bustle about the room again. She did not say a word. Towards the evening Antoine went out after putting on a blouse and pulling over his eyes a big cap which his mother had bought for him. He returned into the town in the same manner as he'd quitted it by relating some nonsensical story to the National Guards who were on duty at the Rome Gate. Then he made his way to the old quarter, where he crept from house to house in a mysterious manner. All the Republicans of advanced views, all the members of the Brotherhood who had not followed the insurrectionary army, met in an obscure inn, where McCart had made an appointment

with them. When about fifty men were assembled, he made a speech, in which, in which he was which he spoke of personal vengeance that must be reeked, of a victory that must be gained, and of a disgraceful yoke that must be thrown off. And he ended by undertaking to deliver the town hall over to them in ten minutes. He had just left it. It was quite unguarded, he said, and the red flag would wave over it that very night, if they so desired. The workmen deliberated.

At that moment the reaction seemed to be, in its death-throws. The insurgents were virtually at the gates of a town. It would therefore be more honorable to make an effort to regain power without awaiting their return, so as to be able to receive them as brothers, with the gates wide open, and the streets and squares adorned with flags. Moreover, none of those present distrusted McCart, his hatred of the Rougon, the personal vengeance of which he spoke could be taken as guaranteeing his loyalty. it was arranged that each of them who was a sportsman and had a gun at home should fetch it and that the band should assemble at midnight in the neighborhood of a town hall a question of detail very nearly put an end to their plans they had no bullets however they decided to load their weapons with small shot and even that seemed unnecessary as they were told that they would meet with no resistance once more plasanne beheld a band of armed men filing along close to the house

in the quiet moonlight. When the band was assembled in front of a town hall, McCart, while keeping a sharp lookout, boldly advanced to the building. He knocked, and when the doorkeeper, who'd learned his lesson, asked what was wanted, he uttered such terrible threats, but the man, feigning fright, made haste to open the door. Both leaves of it swung back slowly, and the ports then lay open and empty before them,

while McCart shouted in a loud voice, Come on, my friends. That was the signal. He himself quickly jumped aside, and as the Republicans rushed in, there came from the darkness of the yard, a stream of fire and a hail of bullets, which swept through the gaping porch with a roar as a thunder. The doorway vomited death. The National Guards, exasperated by their long wait, eager to shake off the discomfort weighing upon them in that dismal courtyard had fired a volley with feverish haste. The flash of the firing was so bright that, through the yellow gleams, McCart distinctly saw Rujon taking aim. He fancied that his brother's gun was deliberately leveled at himself, and he recalled Felicity's blush and made his

escape, muttering, No tricks. The rascal would kill me. He owes me eight hundred francs. In the meantime, a loud howl had arisen amid the darkness. The surprised Republicans shouted treachery and fired in their turn. A National Guard fell under the porch. But the Republicans on their side had three dead. They took to flight, stumbling over the corpses, stricken with panic and shouting through the quiet lanes, Our brothers are being murdered!

In despairing voices which found no echo. Thereupon the defenders of order, having had time to reload their weapons, rushed into the empty square, firing at every street corner, wherever the darkness of a door, the shadow of a lamppost, or the jutting of a stone, made them fancy they saw an insurgent. In this wise they remained their ten minutes firing into space.

The effray had burst over the slumbering town like a thunder-clap. The inhabitants in the neighboring streets, roused from sleep by this terrible fusillade, sat up in bed, their teeth chattering with fright. Nothing in the world would have induced them to poke their noses out of the window. And slowly athwart the air in which the shots had suddenly resounded, one of the cathedral bells began to ring butoxin with so irregular, so strange a rhythm that one might have thought the noise to be the hammering of an anvil

or the echoes of a colossal kettle struck by a child in a fit of passion. This howling bell Who sound the citizens did not recognize Terrified them yet more than the reports of the firearms Had done And there were some who thought they heard an endless train of artillery Rumbling over the paving stones They lay down again and buried themselves beneath their blankets

As if they would have incurred some danger By still sitting up in bed in their closely fastened rooms With their seats drawn up to their chins they held their breath and made themselves so small as possible while their wives by their side almost fainted with terror as they buried their heads among the pillows. The National Guards who'd remained at the ramparts had also heard the shots, and thinking that the insurgents had entered by means of some

subterranean passage, they ran upheld or skelter in groups of five or six, disturbing the silence of the streets with the tumult of their excited rush. Rudier was one of the first to arrive. However, Rujon sent them all back to their posts after reprimanding them severely for abandoning the gates of the town. Thrown into consternation by this reproach, for in their panic they had, in fact, left the gates absolutely defenseless.

They again set off at a gallop, hurrying through the streets with still more frightful uproar. Blasanne might well have thought that an infuriated army was crossing it in all directions. The fusillade, the toxin, the marches and counter-marches of the National Guards, the weapons which were being dragged along like clubs, the terrified cries in the darkness, all produced a deafening tumult, such as might break forth in a town taken by assault and given over to plunder. It was the final blow of the unfortunate inhabitants who really believed that the insurgents had arrived. They had indeed said that it

would be there last night, that Plasin would be swallowed up in the earth who would evaporate into smoke before daybreak, and now lying in their beds, they awaited the catastrophe in the most abject terror, fancying at times that their homes were already tottering. Meanwhile, granu still rang the toxin. When, in other respects, silence had again fallen upon the town, the mournfulness of that ringing became intolerable. Rujan, who was in a high fever, felt exasperated by its distant wailing. He hastened to the cathedral and found the door open. The beetle was on the threshold.

Ah, that's quite enough, he shouted to the man. Anybody would think there was someone crying. It's quite unbearable. But it isn't me, sir, replied the beetle in a distressed manner. It's Monsieur Granu. He's gone up into the steeple. I must tell you that I remember. move the clapper of the bell by his reverence's order, precisely to prevent the toxin

from being sounded. But Monsieur Granu wouldn't listen to reason. He climbed up and I've no idea what he could be making that noise with. Thereupon, Rouxon hastily ascended the staircase, which led to the bell, shouting, That will do, that will do! For goodness sake, leave off. When he had reached the top, he caught side of Grinou. by the light of the moon was glided through an embersher. The ex-almond dealer was standing there hatless and dealing furious blows with a heavy hammer. He did so with a right goodwill.

He first threw himself back and took a spring and finally fell upon masonrous bronze as if he wanted to crack it. One might have thought he was a blacksmith striking hot iron. But a frock-coated blacksmith, short and bald, working in a wild and awkward way. Surprise kept Rujon motionless for a moment

at the sight of this frantic bourgeois, thus belaboring the bell in the moonlight. Then he understood the kettle-like clang which this strange ringer had disseminated over the town. He shouted to him to stop, but Grinou did not hear. Rujon was obliged to take hold of his frock-coat, and then the other recognizing,

him exclaimed in a triumphant voice. Ah, you've heard it. At first I tried to knock the bell with my fists, but that hurt me. Fortunately, I found this hammer. Just a few more blows, eh? However, Rujon dragged him away. Grenu was radiant.

He wiped his forehead and made his companion promised to let everybody know in the morning that he had produced all that noise with a mere hammer. What an achievement and what a position of importance that furious ringing would confer upon him. Towards morning, Rujon B thought himself of reassuring Felicity. In accordance with his orders, National Guards had shut themselves up in the town hall. He'd forbidden them to remove the corpses,

under the pretext that it was necessary to give the populace of the old quarter a lesson. And as, while hastening to the Rue de Laban, he passed over the square on which the moon was. no longer shining, he inadvertently stepped on the clenched hand of a corpse that lay beside the footpath. At this he almost fell. That soft hand which yielded beneath his heel brought him an indefinable sensation of disgust and horror. And thereupon he hastened at full speed along the deserted streets, fancying that a bloody fist was pursuing him. There are four of them on the ground, he said, as he entered his house. He and his wife looked at one and

as though they were astonished at their crime. The lamplight imparted the hue of yellow waxed to their pale faces. "'Have you left them there?' asked Felicity. "'They must be found there.' "'Of course. I didn't pick them up. They're lying on their backs. I stepped on something soft.' Then he looked at his boot. His heel was covered with blood. While he was putting on a pair of shoes, Felicity resumed.

well so much the better it's over now people won't be inclined to repeat that you only fire at mirrors the fusillade was serugents that planned in order but they might be finally recognized as the saviors of placain brought the whole terrified and grateful town to their feet the day broke mournfully with the gray melancholy of a winter morning the inhabitants hearing nothing further ventured forth weary of tremor beneath their sheets. At first some ten or fifteen appeared. Later on, when a rumor spread that the insurgents had taken flight, leaving their dead in every gutter, Plesson rose in a body and descended upon the town hall. Throughout the morning, people strolled inquisitively round the four corpses. They were horribly mutilated, particularly one which had three bullets in the head. but the most horrible to look upon was the body of a National Guard who'd fallen under the porch. He had received the charge of a small shot

used by the Republicans in lieu of bullets, full in the face, and blood oozed for his torn and riddled countenance. The crowd feasted their eyes upon this horror, with the avidity for revolting spectacles which is so characteristic of cowards. The National Guard was freely recognized. He was the pork,

butcher, Dubruel, the man whom Rudier had accused on the Monday morning of having fired with culpable eagerness. Of the three other corpses, two were journeyman hatters. The third was not identified. For a long while, gaping groups remained shuddering in front of the red pools which stained the pavement, often looking behind them with an air of mistrust, as though that summary justice which had restored order during the night by force of arms were even now watching and listening to them, ready to shoot them down in their turn, unless they kissed with enthusiasm the hand that had just rescued them from a demigogy. The panic of the night further augmented a terrible effect produced in the morning by the sight of the four corpses. The true history of the fuselade

was never known. The firing of the combatants, Grenoes hammering, the helter-skelter rush of the National Guards through the streets had filled people's ears with such terrifying sounds that most of them dreamed of a gigantic battle waged against countless enemies. When the victors, magnifying the number of their adversaries with instinctive braggardism, spoke of about 500 men, everybody protested against such a low estimate. Some citizens asserted that they'd looked out of their windows

and seen an immense stream of fugitives, passing by for more than an hour. Moreover, everybody had heard the bandits running about. Five hundred men would never have been able to rouse a whole town. It must have been an army and a fine big army, too, which the brave militia of Plesson had driven back into the ground. This phrase of their having been driven back into the ground, first used by Rujon, struck people as being singularly. appropriate, for the guards who were charged with the defense of the ramparts swore by all that

was holy, but not a single man had entered or quitted the town, a circumstance which tinged what had happened with mystery, even suggesting the idea of horned demons who'd vanished amidst flames, and thus fairly upsetting the minds of the multitude. It's true the guards avoided all mention of their mad gallops, and so the more rational citizens were inclined to believe that a band of insurgents had really entered the town either by a breach in the wall or some other channel. Later on, rumors of treachery were spread abroad, and people talked of an ambush. The cruel truth could no longer be concealed by the men whom Ricard had led to slaughter,

but so much terror still prevailed, and the sight of blood had thrown so many cowards into the arms of the reactionary party, that these rumors were attributed to the rage of the vanquished Republicans. It was asserted, on the other hand, that McCart had been made prisoner by Rujon, who kept him in a damp cell, where he was letting him slowly die of starvation. This horrible tale made people bow to the very ground whenever they encountered Rujon. This ends Chapter 6, Part 3. Section 16 of The Fortune of the Rujon, book one of Rujon Macca, Cycle. by Emil Zollar, translated by Henry Vizzatelli.

This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Read by Mark Leder. Chapter 6, Part 4. Thus it was that this grotesque personage, this pale, flabby, tongue-bellied citizen became in one night a terrible captain whom nobody dared to ridicule any more. He had steeped his foot in blood.

The inhabitants of the old quarter stood dumb with fright before the corpses. But towards ten o'clock, when the respectable people of the new town arrived, the whole square hummed with subdued chatter. People spoke of the other attack, of the seizure of the mayor's office, in which a mirror only had been wounded. But this time they no longer poo-pooed Rougon. They spoke of him with respectful dismay. He was indeed a hero, a deliverer.

The corpses with open eyes stared at those gentlemen, the lawyers and householders, who shuddered as they murmured that civil war had many cruel necessities. The notary, the chief of a deputation sent to the town hall on the previous evening, went from group to group, recalling the proud words, I am prepared, then used by the energetic man to whom the town owed its safety. There was a general feeling of humiliation. Those who had railed most cruelly against the 41, those especially who had referred to the rougon as intriguers and cowards

who merely fired shots in the air, were the first to speak of granting a crown of laurels to the noble citizen of whom Plasang would be forever proud. For the pools of blood were drying on the pavement, and the corpses proclaimed toward a degree of audacity the party of disorder, pillage, and murder had gone, and what an iron hand had been required to put down the insurrection. Moreover, the whole crowd was eager to congratulate Grenu and shake hands with him.

The story of the hammer had become known. By an innocent falsehood, however, of which he himself soon became unconscious, he asserted that, having been the first to see the insurgents, he had set about striking the bell in order to sound the alarm, so that but for him the National Guards would have been massacred. This doubled his importance. His achievement was declared prodigious. People spoke of him now as Monsieur Isidore,

don't you know, the gentleman who sounded but toxin with a hammer? Although the sentence was somewhat lengthy, Grinoux would willingly have accepted it as a title of nobility, and from that day forward he never heard the word hammer pronounced, without imagining it to be some delicate flattery. While the corpses were being removed, Aristide came to look at them. He examined them on all sides,

stiffing and looking inquisitively at their faces. His eyes were bright, and he had a sharp expression of countenance. In order to see some wound the better, he even lifted up the blouse of one corpse with the very hand which on the previous day had been suspended in a sling. This examination seemed to convince him and remove all doubt from his mind.

He bit his lips, remained there for a moment in silence, and then went off for the purpose of hastening the issue of the endipendant for which he'd written a most important article. And as he hurried along beside the houses, he recalled his mother's words, You will see tomorrow. Well, he had seen now, it was a very important. very clever, it even frightened him somewhat. In the meantime, Rujon's triumph was beginning to

embarrass him. Alone in Monsieur Garsinay's office, hearing the buzzing of the crowd, he became conscious of a strange feeling which prevented him from showing himself on the balcony. That blood in which he'd stepped seemed to have numbed his legs. He wondered what he should do until the evening. His poor empty brain, upset by the events of the night, sought desperately for some occupation, some order to give or some measure to be taken, which might afford him some distraction. But he could think about nothing clearly. Whither was Felicity leading him? Was it really all finished now, or would he still have to kill somebody else? Then fear again assailed him, Terrible doubts arose in his mind, and he already saw the ramparts broken down on all sides

by an avenging army of the Republicans when a loud shout. The insurgents! The insurgents! Burst forth under the very windows of his room! At this he jumped up, and raising a curtain, saw the crowd rushing about the square in a state of terror. What a thunderbolt! In less than a second, he pictured himself ruined, plundered, and murdered. He cursed his wife, he cursed the whole town. Then, as he looked behind him in a suspicious manner,

seeking some means of escape, he heard the mob break out into applause, uttering shouts of joy, making the very glass rattle with their wild delight. Then he returned to the window. The women were waving their handkerchiefs, and the men were embracing each other. There were some among them who joined hands,

began to dance. Rujon stood there stupefied, unable to comprehend it all and feeling his head swimming. The big deserted, silent building in which he was alone quite frightened him. When he afterwards confessed

his feelings to Felicity, he was unable to say how long his torture had lasted. He only remembered that a noise of footsteps, re-echoing through the vast halls, had roused him from his stupor. He expected to be attacked by men in blouses, armed with sides and clubs,

whereas it was the municipal commission which entered, quite orderly and an evening dress, each member with a beaming countenance. Not one of them was absent. A piece of good news had simultaneously cured all these gentlemen. Grenu rushed into the arms of his dear president. The soldiers, he stammered, the soldiers! A regiment had in fact just arrived, under the command of Colonel Masson and Monsieur de Blereux, prefect of a department.

The gun barrels which had been observed from the ramparts far away in the plain had at first suggested the approach of the insurgents. Rujon was so deeply moved on learning the truth that two big tears rolled down his cheeks. He was weeping, the great citizen! The Municipal Commission watched those big tears with most respectful admiration, but Grinoux himself threw himself on his friend's neck, crying, "'Ah, how glad I am! You know I'm a straightforward, man! Well, we were all of us afraid. Is it not so, gentlemen? You alone were great, brave, sublime! What energy you must have had!

I was just now saying to my wife, Rujon is a great man, he deserves to be decorated. Then the gentleman proposed to go and meet the prefect. For a moment, Rujon felt both stunned and suffocated. He was unable to believe in this sudden triumph and stammered like a child. However, he drew breath and went downstairs with the quiet dignity suited to the solemnity of the occasion. But the enthusiasm which greeted the commission

and its president outside the town hall almost upset his magisterial gravity afresh. His name sped through the crowd accompanied this time by the warmest eulogies. He heard everyone repeat Grenoza vowel and treat him as a hero who had stood firm in resolute amidst universal panic. And as far as the sub-prefecture

where the commission met the prefect, he drank his fill of popularity and glory. Monsieur de Blereux and Colonel Masson had entered the town alone, leaving their troops encamped on the Lyon Road. They'd lost considerable time through a misunderstanding as to the direction taken by the insurgents. Now, however, they knew the latter were at O'Shea, and it would only be necessary to stop an hour at Pleasant, just sufficient time to reassure the population and published the cruel ordinances which decreed the sequestration of the insurgents' property and death to every individual who might be taken with arms in his hands.

Colonel Masson smiled when, in accordance with the orders of the commander of the National Guards, the bolts of the Rome Gate were drawn back with a great rattling of rusty old iron. The detachment on duty there accompanied the prefect and the colonel, a guard of honor. As they traversed the coup of Sauvres, Rudier-related Rujon's epic achievements to the gentleman, the three days of panic that had terminated with the brilliant victory of the previous night. When the two processions came face to face, therefore, Monsieur de Bluerreux quickly advanced towards the president of the commission, shook hands with him, congratulated him, and begged him to continue to watch over the town until the return of the authorities.

rujon bowed while the prefect having reached the door of the sub-prefecture where he wished to take a brief rest proclaimed in a loud voice that he would not forget to mention his brave and noble conduct in his report in the meantime in spite of the bitter cold everybody had come to their windows felicite leaning forward at the risk of falling out was quite pale with joy aristide had just arrived with a number of the endepon in which he'd openly declared himself in favor of the coup d'etat, which he welcomed as the aurora of liberty in order and of order in liberty. He'd also made a delicate allusion to the yellow drawing-room, acknowledging his errors, declaring that youth is presumptuous, and that great citizens say nothing reflect in silence and let insults pass by in order to rise heroically when the day of struggle comes. He was particularly pleased with this sentence. His mother thought his article extremely well written. She kissed her, dear child and placed him on her right hand. The Marquis de Canavan, weary of incarcerating himself and full of eager curiosity,

had likewise come to see her and stood on her left, leaning on the window rail. When Monsieur de Bléryor offered his hand to Rujon on a square below, Felicity began to weep. Oh, see, see, she said to Aristide, he's shaken hands with him. Look, he's doing it again. And casting a glance at the windows, where groups of people were congregated, she added, How wild they must be! Look at Monsieur Piroz's wife, she's biting her handkerchief.

And over there, the notary's daughter, and Madame Massico and the Brune family, what faces, eh? How angry they look! Ah, indeed, it's our turn now. She followed the scene which was being acted outside the sub-prefecture with thrills of delight, which shook her ardent grasshopper-like figure from head to foot. She interpreted the slightest gesture, invented words which she was unable to catch, and declared that Pierre bowed very well, indeed.

She was a little vexed when the prefect deigned to speak to poor Grinou, who was hovering about him, fishing for a word of praise. No doubt Monsieur de Blereux already knew the story of the hammer, for the retired almond dealer turned as red as a young girl, and seemed to be saying that he'd only done his duty. However, that which angered Felicity still more was her husband's excessive amiability in presenting Vire to the authorities. Vieu, it is true, pushed himself forward amongst them,

and Rijon was compelled to mention him. What a schemer, muttered Felicity. He creeps in everywhere. How confused my poor dear husband must be. See, there's the colonel speaking to him. What can he be saying to him? Ah, little one, the Marquis replied with a touch of irony. He's complimenting him for having closed the gate so carefully.

My father has saved the gate. a town, Aristeed retorted currently. Have you seen the corpses, sir? Monsieur de Cainte d'Avon did not answer. He withdrew from the window and sat down in an armchair, shaking his head with an air of

some disgust. At that moment, the prefect, having taken his departure, Rujon came upstairs and threw himself upon his wife's neck. Ah, my dear, he stammered. He was unable to say more. Felicite made him kiss Aristide after telling him of the superb article which the young man had inserted in the Ande Pondon.

Pierre would have kissed the Marquise as well. He was deeply affected. However, his wife took him aside and gave him Eugène's letter, which she'd sealed up in an envelope again. She pretended that it had just been delivered. Pierre read it and then triumphantly held it out to her. You are a sorceress, he said to her. You guessed everything. What folly I should have committed without you! We'll manage our little affairs together now.

Kiss me, you're a good woman. He clasped her in his arms, while she discreetly exchanged a knowing smile with the Marquis. This ends Chapter 6, Part 4. Section 17 of The Fortune of the Rougon, book one of rujon-maccar cycle by emil zola translated by henry visitelli this libravox recording is in the public domain read by mark leader chapter seven it was not until sunday the day after the massacre of saint-aure but the troops passed through placein again the prefect and the colonel whom monsieur Gassonay had invited to dinner, once more entered the town alone. The soldiers went round the ramparts and encamped in the Fobour, Amonis Road. Night was falling. The sky, overcast

since the morning, had a strange yellow tint, and illumined the town with a murky light, similar to the copper-colored glimmer of stormy weather. The reception of a troops by the inhabitants was timid. The blood-stained soldiers who passed by weary and silent in the yellow twilight horrified the cleanly citizens promenading on the corps. They stepped out of the way whispering terrible stories of fuselades and revengeful reprisals which still live in the recollection of the region. The coup d'etot terror was beginning to make itself felt, an overwhelming terror which kept the south in a state of tremor for many, a long month. Plasanne, in its fear and hatred of the insurgents, had welcomed the troops on

their first arrival with enthusiasm. But now, at the appearance of that gloomy taciturn regiment, whose men were ready to fire at a word from their officers, the retired merchants, and even the notaries of a new town, anxiously examined their consciences, asking if they had not committed some political peccadillos which might be thought deserving of a boy. it. The municipal authorities had returned on the previous evening in a couple of carts hired as St. Rour. Their unexpected entry was devoid of all triumphal display. Réjon surrendered the mayor's armchair without much regret. The game was over, and with feverish longing he now awaited the recompense for his devotion. On the Sunday, he had not hoped for it until the following day. He received a

letter from Eugène. Since the previous Thursday, Felicite had taken care to send her son the numbers of the Gazette and Endipendantant, which in special second editions had narrated the battle of the night and the arrival of the prefect at Plosson. Eugène now replied by return of post that the nomination of a receivership would soon be signed, but added that he wished to give them some good news immediately. He had obtained the ribbon of the legion of honor for his father. Felicite wept with joy. Her husband decorated. Her proud dream had never gone as far as that. Rujon, pale with delight, declared they must give a grand dinner that very evening. He no longer thought of expense. He would have thrown his last 50 francs out of

the drawing-room windows in order to celebrate that glorious day. Listen, he said to his wife, Invite Cicardot. He's annoyed me with that rosette of his for a long time. Then, Grenu and Rudier, I shouldn't be at all sorry to make them feel that it isn't their purses that will ever win them the cross. Fouier is a skinflint, but the triumph ought to be complete. Invite him as well as the small fry. I was forgetting. You must go and call on the Marquis in person. We will seat him on your right. He'll look very well at our table. You know that Monsieur Gersonnet is entertaining the colonel and the prefect. That is to make me understand that I'm nobody now. But I can afford to laugh at his mayoralty.

It doesn't bring him in a sou. He's invited me, but I shall tell them that I also have some people coming. The others will laugh on the wrong side of their mouths tomorrow. And let everything be of the best. Have everything sent from the Hotel de Provence. We must outdo the mayor's dinner. Felicity set to work. Pierre still felt some vague uneasiness amidst his rapture.

The coup d'etat was going to pay his debts. His son Aristide had repented of his faults, and he was at last freeing himself from Macar. But he feared some folly on Pascal's part and was especially anxious about the lot reserved for Silvert. Not that he felt the least pity for the lad. He was simply afraid the matter of the gendarme might call, come before the Assize court. Ah, if only some discriminating bullet had managed to rid him of that young

scoundrel. As his wife had pointed out to him in the morning, all obstacles had fallen away before him. The family which had dishonored him had at the last moment worked for his elevation. His sons, Eugène and Aristide, those spendthrifts, the cost of whose college life he had so bitterly regretted, were at last paying interest on the capital expended for their education. And yet the thought of that wretched Silvert must come to mar his hour of triumph. While Felicity was running about to prepare the dinner for the evening, Pierre heard the arrival of a troops and determined to go and make inquiries. Cicardot, whom he had questioned on his return, knew nothing.

Piscal must have remained to look after the wounded. As for Silvert, he had not even been seen by the commander who scarcely knew him. Rujon therefore appeared to the Fobour, intending to make inquiries there, and at the same time pay Macaft the 800 francs which he had just succeeded in raising with great difficulty. However, when he found himself in the crowded encampment, and from a distance saw the prisoners sitting in long files on the beams in the Arsameitre, guarded by soldiers gun in hand, he felt afraid of being compromised, and so slunk off to his mother's house with the intention of sending the old woman out to pick up some information.

When he entered the hovel, it was almost night. At first the only person he saw there was Macar smoking and drinking brandy. Is that you? I'm glad of it, muttered Antoine. I'm growing deused cold here. Have you got the money? but Pierre did not reply. He had just perceived his son Pascal leaning over the bed,

and thereupon he questioned him eagerly. The doctor, surprised by his uneasiness, which he attributed to paternal affection, told him that the soldiers had taken him and would have shot him, had it not been for the intervention of some honest fellow whom he did not know. Saved by his profession of surgeon, he had returned to Passan with the troops. This greatly relieved Rujon.

So there was yet another who would not compromise him. He was evincing his delight by repeated handshakings, when Pascal concluded in a sorrowful voice, Oh, don't make Mary. I have just found my poor grandmother in a very dangerous state. I brought her back this carbine, which she values very much. I found her lying here, and she has not moved since. Pierre's eyes were becoming accustomed to the dimness.

In the fast, fading light, he saw Aunt Dede stretched, rigid and seemingly lifeless upon her bed. Her wretched frame, attacked by neurosis from the hour of birth, was at length laid prostrate by a supreme shock. Her nerves had, so to say, consumed her blood. Moreover, some cruel grief seemed to have suddenly accelerated her slow, wasting away. her pale nun-like face, drawn and pinched by a life of gloom and cloister-like self-denial, was now stained with red blotches. With convulsed features, eyes that glared terribly and hands twisted and clenched, she lay at full length in her skirts, which failed to hide the sharp outlines of her scrawny limbs.

Extended there with lips closely pressed, she imparted to the dim room all the horror of a mute death agony. Rujon made a gesture of vexation. This heart-rending spectacle was very distasteful to him. He had company coming to dinner in the evening, and it would be extremely inconvenient for him to have to appear mournful. His mother was always doing something to bother him. She might just as well have chosen another day.

However, he put on an appearance of perfect ease, as he said, "'Bah, it's nothing. I've seen her like that a hundred times. You must let her lie still. It's the only thing that does her any good.' Pascal shook his head. "'No, this fit isn't like the others,' he whispered. "'I have often studied her, and have never observed such symptoms before. Just look at her eyes. There is a peculiar fluidity, a pale brightness about them which causes me considerable on easiness. And her face, how frightfully every muscle of it is distorted. Then bending over to observer features more closely, he continued in a whisper as though speaking to himself.

I have never seen such a face, accepting among people who have been murdered or have died from fright. She must have experienced some terrible shock. But how did the attack begin? Jean impatiently inquired, had a loss for an excuse to leave the room. Pascal did not know. McCart, as he poured himself out another glass of brandy, explained that he had felt an inclination to drink a little cognac and had sent her to fetch a bottle. She'd not been long absent, and at the very moment when she returned,

she'd fallen rigid on the floor without uttering a word. McCart himself had carried her to the bed. What surprises me, he said, by way of conclusion, is that she did not break the bottle. The young doctor reflected. After a short pause, he resumed. I heard two shots fired as I came here. Perhaps those ruffians have been shooting some more prisoners. If she passed through the ranks of the soldiers at that moment, the sight of blood might have thrown her into this fit. She must have had some dreadful shock. Fortunately, he had with him a little medicine case which he'd been carrying about ever since the departure of the insurgents.

He tried to pour a few drops of reddish liquid between Auntie De's closely set teeth, while McCart again asked his brother, Have you got the money? Yes, I've brought it. We'll settle now, Rujon replied. Glad of this diversion. Thereupon, Macart, seeing that he was about to be paid, began to mourn. He had only learnt the consequence of his treachery when it was too late. Otherwise, he would have demanded twice or thrice as much.

And he complained bitterly. Really, now, a thousand francs was not enough. His children had forsaken him. He was all alone in the world and obliged to quit France. He almost wept as he spoke of his coming exile. Come now, will you take the eight hundred francs, said Rougon. who is in haste to be off. No, certainly not.

Double the sum. Your wife cheated me. If she told me distinctly what it was she expected of me, I would never have compromised myself for such a trifle. Rujon laid the eight hundred francs upon the table. I swear I haven't got any more, he resumed. I will think of you later, but too, for mercy's sake, get away this evening. cursing and muttering protests,

thereupon carried the table to the window, and began to count the gold in the fading twilight. The coins tickled the tips of his fingers very pleasantly as he let them fall, and jingled musically in the darkness. At last he paused for a moment to say, You promised to get me a berth, remember? I want to return to France.

The post of rural guard in some pleasant neighborhood, which I could mention would just suit me. Very well. I'll see about it, Rujon replied. Have you got the 800 francs? McCart resumed as counting. The last coins were just clinking when a burst of laughter made them turn their heads. Aunt Dede was standing up in front of the bed

with her bodice unfastened, her white hair hanging loose and her face stained with red blotches. Pascal had an invivist. vain endeavored to hold her down. Trembling all over and with her arms outstretched, she shook her head deliriously. The blood money, the blood money, she again and again repeated.

I heard the gold, and it is they, they who sold him. Ah, the murderers, they are a pack of wolves! Then she pushed her hair aback and passed her hand over her brow as though seeking to collect her thoughts. And she continued, Ah, I've long seen him with a bullet hole in his forehead. There were always people lying in wait for him with guns.

They used to sign to me that they were going to fire. It's terrible. I feel someone breaking my bones and battering out my brains. Oh, mercy! Mercy, I beseech you. He shall not see her anymore. Never. Never.

I will shut him up. I will present him up. I will prevent him from walking out with her. Mercy, mercy, don't fire. It is not my fault if you knew. She'd almost fallen on her knees and was weeping and entreating while she stretched her poor trembling hands

towards some horrible vision which she saw in the darkness. Then she suddenly rose upright and her eyes opened still more widely as a terrible cry came from her convulsed throat as though some awful sight visible to horrible. visible to horror alone, had filled her with mad terror. Oh, the gendarme, she said, choking and falling backwards on the bed,

where she rolled about breaking into long bursts of furious, insane laughter. Pascal was studying the attack attentively. The two brothers, who felt very frightened and only detected snatches of what their mother said, had taken refuge in a corner of the room. When Rujon heard the word gendarme, he thought he understood her. Ever since the murder of her lover, the elder Macar on the frontier, Auntie De had cherished a bitter hatred against all gendarme and custom-house officers, whom she mingled together in one common longing for vengeance.

Why, it's the story of the poacher that she's telling us, he whispered. But Pascal made a sign. to him to keep quiet. The stricken woman had raised herself with difficulty and was looking round her with a stupefied air. She remained silent for a moment, endeavouring to recognize the various objects in the room as though she were in some strange place.

Then, with a sudden expression of anxiety, she asked, Where's the gun? The doctor put the carbine into her hands. At this she raised a light cry of joy And gazed at the weapon Saying in a soft sing-song, Girlish whisper That's it

Oh, I recognize it It's all stained with blood The stains are quite fresh today His red hands have left Marks of blood on the butt A poor, poor auntie day Then she became dizzy once more enlapsed into silent thought.

The gendarme was dead, she murmured at last. But I've seen him again. He's come back. They never die, those blackguards. Again did gloomy passion come over her. And shaking the carbine, she advanced towards her two sons, who, speechless with fright, retreated to the very wall. Her loosened skirts trailed the,

along the ground as she drew up her twisted frame, which age had reduced to mere bones. "'It's you who fired,' she cried. "'I heard the gold, wretched woman that I am. "'I brought nothing but wolves into the world, a whole family, a whole litter of wolves.' There was only one poor lad, and him they have devoured. each had a bite at him and their lips are covered with blood. Ah, the accursed villains, they've robbed, they've murdered, and they live like gentlemen.

Villains, accursed villains! She sang, laughed, cried and repeated, accursed villains in strangely sonorous tones which suggested a crackling of a fuselade. Pascal, with tears in his eyes, took her in his arms and laid her on the bed again. She submitted like a child, but persisted in her wailing cries, accelerating their rhythm and beating time on the sheets with her withered hands. That's just what I was afraid of, the doctor said.

She's mad. The blow has been too heavy for a poor creature already subject as she is to acute neurosis. She will die in a lunatic asylum like her father. But what could she have seen? asked Rujon, at last venturing to quit the corner where he'd hidden himself. I have a terrible suspicion, Pascall replied. I was going to speak to you about Silvere when you came in. He's a prisoner. You must endeavor to obtain his release from the prefect if there's still time. The old oil dealer turned pale as he looked at his son.

Then rapidly he responded, Listen to me, you stay here and watch her. I'm too busy this evening. We will see tomorrow about conveying her to the lunatic asylum at Lettulet. As for you, Macar, you must leave this very night. Swear to me that you will. I'm going to find Monsieur de Bléryor. He stammered as he spoke,

and felt more eager than ever to get out into the fresh air of the street. Pascall fixed a penetrating look on the madwoman, and then on his father and uncle. His professional instinct was getting the better of him, and he studied the mother and the sons, with all the keenness of a naturalist observing the metamorphosis of some insect. He pondered over the growth of that family to which he belonged, over the different branches growing from one parent stock, who sap carried identical germs to the farthest twigs which bent in divers ways according to the sunshine or shade in which they lived and for a moment as by the glow of a lightning flash he thought he could espy the future of the rujon mccart family a pack of unbridled insatiate appetites amidst the blaze of gold and blood auntie day however had ceased her whirling chant at the

mention of Silvair's name. For a moment she listened anxiously. Then she broke out into terrible shrieks. Night had now completely fallen, and the black groom seemed void and horrible. The shrieks of the madwoman, who was no longer visible, rang out from a darkness as from a grave.

Rujon, losing his head, took to flight, pursued by those taunting cries, whose bitterness seemed to increase amidst the gloom. As he was emerging from the impasse mitre with hesitating steps, wondering whether it would not be dangerous to solicit Silvair's pardon from the prefect, he saw Aristide prowling about the timber yard. The latter, recognizing his father, ran up to him with an expression of anxiety and whispered a few words in his ear.

Pierre turned pale and cast a look of alarm towards the end of the yard, where the darkness was only relieved by the wady glow of a little gypsy fire. Then they both disappeared down the Rue de Rome, quickening their steps as though they'd committed a murder and turning up their coat collars in order that they might not be recognized. That saves me an errand, Rujon whispered. Let us go to dinner. They're waiting for us. When they arrived, the yellow drawing room was resplendent.

Felicite was all over the place. Everybody was there. Cicardot, Granu, Rudier, Buié, the oil dealers, the alban dealers, the whole set. The Marquise, however, had excused himself

on the plea of rheumatism, and besides, he was about to leave Plausanne on a short trip. Those blood-stained bourgeois offended his feelings of delicacy, and, moreover, his relative, the Count de Valcairat, had begged him to withdraw from public notice for a little time.

Monsieur de Canevent's refusal vexed the rougain, but Felicity consoled herself by resolving to make a more profuse display. She hired a pair of candelabra and ordered several additional dishes as a kind of substitute for the Marquise. The table was laid in the yellow drawing-room in order to impart more solemnity to the occasion. The Hotel de Provence had supposed to be able to. supplied the silver, the china, and the glass. The cloth had been laid ever since five o'clock in order that the guests on arriving might feast their eyes upon it. At either end of a table

on the white cloth were bouquets of artificial roses in porcelain vases gilded and painted with flowers. When the habitual guests of the yellow drawing room were assembled there, they could not conceal their admiration of the spectacle. Several gentlemen smiled with a air of embarrassment while they exchanged furtive glances, which clearly signified, these Rujon are mad, they're throwing their money out of the window. The truth was that Felicity, on going round to invite her guests, had been unable to hold her tongue, so everybody knew that Pierre had been decorated and that he was about to be nominated to some post, of which, of course, they pulled wry faces.

Roudier indeed observed that the little black woman was puffing, herself out too much. Now that prize they had come, this band of bourgeois, who had rushed upon the expiring republic, each one keeping an eye on the other, and glorying in giving a deeper bite than his neighbor, did not think it fair that their hosts should have all the laurels of the battle. Even those who'd merely howled by instinct, asking no recompense of the rising empire, were greatly annoyed to see that, thanks to them, the poorest and least reputable of them all should be decorated with the red ribbon. The whole yellow drawing-room ought to have been decorated. Not that I value the decoration, Rudier said to Greno, whom he dragged into the embassure of a window.

I refused it in the time of Louis-Philippe when I was purveyor to the court. Ah, Louis-Philippe was a good king. France will never find his equal. Udei was becoming an Orleanist once more, and he added, with the crafty hypocrisy of an old hosier from the Roussant-on-Are, But you, my dear Grinu, don't you think the ribbon would look well in your buttonhole? After all, you did as much to save the town as Rujon did. Yesterday, when I was calling upon some very distinguished persons, they could scarcely believe it possible that you'd made so much noise with a mere hammer.

grineau stammered his thanks and blushing like a maiden at her first confession of love whispered in rudiassier don't say anything about it but i have reason to believe that rujon will ask the ribbon for me he's a good fellow at heart you know the old hosier thereupon became grave and assumed a very affable manner when bouillet came and spoke to him of the well-deserved reward that their friend had just received he replied in a loud voice so as to be heard by felicity who was sitting a little way off that men like rujon were an ornament to the legion of honor the bookseller joined in the chorus he had that morning received a formal assurance that the custom of the college would be restored to him. As for Cicardot, he at first felt somewhat annoyed to find himself no longer the only one of the set who was decorated.

According to him, none but soldiers had a right to the ribbon. Pierre's valor surprised him. However, being in reality a good-natured fellow, he at last grew warmer and ended by saying that the Napoleons always knew how to distinguish men of spirit and energy.

Rujon and Aristide consequently had an enthusiastic reception On their arrival all hands were held out to them Some of the guests went so far as to embrace them Angel sat on the sofa by the side of her mother-in-law Feeling very happy and gazing at the table with the astonishment of a gourmand Who'd never seen so many dishes at once When Aristide approached Cicardot complimented his son-in-law upon his superb article in the end

Dependant. He restored his friendship to him. The young man, in answer to the fatherly questions, would Cicardot addressed to him, replied that he was anxious to take his little family with him to Paris, where his brother Eugène would push him forward, but he was in want of five hundred francs. Cicardot thereupon promised him the money, already for seeing the day when his daughter would be received at the tuileries by Napoleon III. In the meantime, Felicity had made a sign to her husband. Pierre, surrounded by everybody and anxiously questioned about his pallor, could only escape for a minute.

He was just able to whisper in his wife's ear that he had found Pascal and that McCart would leave that night. Then, lowering his voice still more, he told her of his mother's insanity, and placed his finger on his lips to say, not a word that would spoil the whole evening. Felicite bitter lips. They exchanged a look in which they read their common thoughts.

So now the old woman would not trouble them any more. The poter's hovel would be raised to the ground as the walls of the fouquet's enclosure had been demolished, and they would forever enjoy the respect and esteem of Pleasant. But the guests were looking at the table. Felicite showed the gentlemen their seats. It was perfect bliss. As each one took his spoon,

Cicardot made a gesture to solicit a moment's delay. Then he rose and gravely said, Gentlemen, on behalf of the company present, I wish to express to our host how pleased we are at the rewards which his courage and patriotism have procured for him. I now see that he must have acted upon a heaven's sense,

inspiration in remaining here, while those beggars were dragging myself and others along the high roads. Therefore, I heartily applaud the decision of the government. Let me finish. You can then congratulate our friend. Know them that our friend, besides being a chevalier of the Legion of Honor, is also to be appointed to a receiver of taxes. There was a cry of surprise. They had expected a small post. Some of them tried to force a smile, but aided by the side of the table, the compliments again poured forth profusely.

Cicardot once more begged for silence. Wait, one moment, he resumed. I have not finished. Just one word. It is probable that our friend will remain among us, owing to the death of Monsieur Perot. While the guests burst out into exclamations, Felicity for the keen pain in her heart.

Ziegardau had already told her that the receiver had been shot. But at the mention of that sudden and shocking death, just as they were starting on that triumphal dinner, it seemed as if a chilling gust swept past her face. She remembered her wish. It was she who had killed that man. However, amidst the tinkling music of the silver, the company began to do honor to the banquet.

In the provinces, people eat very much and very noisily. By the time the relevae was served, the gentlemen were all talking together, they showered kicks upon the vanquished, flattered one another, and made disparaging remarks about the absence of the Marquise. It was impossible, they said, to maintain intercourse with the nobility.

Rudier even gave out but the Marquise had begged to be excused because his fear of the insurgents had given him jaundice. At the second course they all scrambled like hounds at the quarry. The oil dealers and almond dealers were the men who saved France. They clinked glasses to the glory of the rougon. Grinoux, who was very red, began to stammer, while Vouillet, very pale, was quite drunk. Nevertheless, Cicardot continued filling his glass. For her part, Angelle, who had already eaten too much,

prepared herself some sugar and water. The gentlemen were so delighted at being freed from panic and finding themselves together again in that yellow drawing-room, round a good table, in the bright light radiating from the candelabre and the chandelier, which they now saw for the first time without its fly-specked cover, that they gave way to most exuberant folly and indulged in the coarsest enjoyment. Their voices rose in the warm atmosphere more huskily and eulogistically at each successive dish till they could scarcely invent fresh compliments.

However, one of them, an old retired master Tanner, hit upon this fine phrase, that the dinner was, a perfect feast worthy of flecholus. Pierre was radiant, and his big pale face perspired with trying, triumph. Felicity, already accustoming herself to her new station in life, said that they would probably rent poor Monsieur Perrot's flat until they could purchase the house of their own in a new town. She was already planning how she would place her future furniture in the receiver's rooms. She was entering into possession of her twillery. At one moment, however, as the uproar of voices

became deafening, she seemed to recollect something in quitting her seat, She whispered in Aristide's ear. And Silvere? The young man started with surprise, said the question. He is dead, he replied, likewise in a whisper. I was there when the gendarme blew his brains out with a pistol. Felicity in her turn shuddered. She opened her mouth to ask her son why he had not prevented the murder by claiming the lad,

but abruptly hesitating she remained, they're speechless. Then Aristeed, who'd read her question on her quivering lips, whispered, "'You understand, I said nothing. So much the worse for him, I did quite right. It's a good riddance.' This brutal frankness displeased Felicity. So Aristeed had his skeleton, like his father and mother. He would certainly not have confessed so openly that he'd been strolling about the forebord and had allowed his cousin to be shot, had not the wine from the Hotel de Provence, and the dreams he was building upon his approaching arrival in Paris, made him depart from his habitual cunning. The words once spoken, he swung himself to and fro on his chair. Pierre, who'd watched the

conversation between his wife and son from a distance, understood what had passed, and glanced at them like an accomplice, imploring silence. It was the last blast of terror. It was the last blast of terror as it were, which blew over the rougain, amidst the splendor and enthusiastic merriment of a dinner. True, Felicite, on returning to her seat, espied a taper burning behind a window on the other side of the road. Someone sat watching Monsieur Perrot's corpse, which had been brought back from Saint-Hour that morning. She sat down, feeling as if that taper were heating her back. But the gagery was now increasing, and exclamations of rapture rang through the yellow drawing-room when the dessert appeared. At that same hour, the Foburg was still shuddering at the tragedy which had stained the Arsame Mitru with blood.

The return of a troops, after the carnage on Menor plain, had been marked by the most cruel reprisals. Men were beaten to death behind bits of wall with the butt-ends of muskets. Others had their brains blown out in ravines by the pit-es. of gendarm. In order of a terror might impose silence, the soldiers strewed their road with corpses. One might have followed them by the red trail which they left behind. Footnote, though Monsieur Zola has changed his place in his account of the insurrection, that account is strictly accurate in all its chief particulars. What he says of the savagery, both of the soldiers and of their officers, is confirmed by all impartial historical.

writers. Editor. It was a long butchery. At every halting place, a few insurgents were massacred. Two were killed at Saint-Rour, three at O'Shea, one at Beage. When the troops were encamped at Placin on Menice Road, it was decided that one more prisoner, the most guilty, should be shot. The victors judged it wise to leave this fresh corpse behind them in order to inspire the town with respect for the new,

born empire. But the soldiers were now weary of killing. None offered himself for the fatal task. The prisoners, thrown on the beams in the timber yard as though on a camp bed and bound together in pairs by the hands, listened and waited in a state of weary, resigned stupor. At that moment, the gendarme, Rangat, roughly opened away for himself through the crowd of inquisitive idlers. As soon as he heard but the troops had returned with several hundred insurgents. He'd risen from bed, shivering with fever and risking his life in the cold, dark December air. Scarcely was he out of doors when his wound reopened. The bandage was covered his eyeless socket became stained with blood, and a red streamlet trickled over his cheek and mustache. He looked frightful in his dumb fury with his pale face

and blood-stained bandage, as he ran along, closely scrutinizing each of the prisoners. He followed the beams, bending down and going to and fro, making the bravest shudder by his abrupt appearance. And all of a sudden, Oh, the bandit, I've got him, he cried. He had just laid his hand on Silver's shoulder. Silver, crouching down on a beam with lifeless and expressionless face, was looking straight before him into the pale twilight with a calm, stupefied air. Ever since his departure from Saint-Rour, he had retained that vacant stare. Along the high road for many a league, whenever the soldiers urged on the march of their captives with the butt-ends of their rifles, he'd shown himself as gentle as a child.

Covered with dust, thirsty and weary, he trudged onward without saying a word, like one of those docile animals that herdsmen drive along. He was thinking of Miet. He ever saw her lying on the banner, under Betrises, with her eyes turned upwards. For three days he'd seen none but her. And at this very moment, amidst the growing darkness, he still saw her. Rangat turned towards the officer,

who'd failed to find among the soldiers the requisite men for an execution. This villain put my eye out, he said, pointed to Silvair. hand him over to me. It's as good as done for you. The officer did not reply in words, but withdrew with an error of indifference, making a vague gesture. The Jean-Arm understood that the man was surrendered to him. Come, get up, he resumed, as he shook him.

Silvert, like all the other prisoners, had a companion attached to him. He was fastened by the arm to a peasant of Pujon named Mourg, a man about four. who'd been brutified by the scorching sun and the hard labor of tilling the ground. Crook-backed already, his hands hardened, his face coarse and heavy. He blinked his eyes in a stupid manner with the stubborn, distrustful expression of an animal subject to the lash. He'd set out armed with a pitchfork because his fellow villagers had done so, but he could not have explained what had thus set him adrift on the high roads.

Since he'd been a prisoner, he understood it still less. He had some vague idea that he was being conveyed home. His amazement at finding himself bound, the sight of all the men staring at him stupefied him still more. As he only spoke and understood the dialect of the region, he could not imagine what the gendarme wanted. He raised his course heavy face towards him with an effort, then fancying he was being asked the name of his village.

He said in his hoarse voice, I come from Pujot. A burst of laughter ran through the crowd, and some voices cried, Release the peasant. Bah, Rang God replied, The more of this vermin that's crossed, the better, as they're together they can both go.

There was a murmur. But the gendarme turned his terrible bloodstained face, upon the onlookers and they slunk off. One cleanly little citizen went away declaring that if he remained any longer, it would spoil his appetite for dinner. However, some boys who recognized Silvere began to speak of the red girl.

Thereupon the little citizen retraced his steps in order to see the lover of the female standard-bearer, that depraved creature who'd been mentioned in the Gazette. Silvert, for his part, neither saw nor heard anything. Rangod had to seize him by the collar. Thereupon he got up, forcing Mug to rise also. Come, said the gendarme, it won't take long. Silvair then recognized the one-eyed man.

He smiled. He must have understood, but he turned his head away, the sight of the one-eyed man of his most. moustache which congealed blood stiffened as with sinister rhyme caused him profound grief he would have liked to die in perfect peace so he avoided the gaze of rangod's one eye which glared from beneath the white bandage and of his own accord he proceeded to the end of the ars Saint-Mitre to the narrow lane hidden by the timber stacks morgue followed him thither the airste stretched out with an aspect of desolate under the sallow sky. A murky light fell here and there from the copper-colored clouds. Never had a sadder and more lingering twilight cast its melancholy over this bare expanse,

this woodyard with its slumbering timber, so stiff and rigid in the cold. The prisoners, the soldiers, and the mob along the high road disappeared amid the darkness of the trees. The expanse, the beams, the pile, of planks alone grew pale under the fading light, assuming a muddy tint that vaguely suggested the bed of a dried-up torrent. The Sawyer's trestles, rearing their meagre framework in a corner, seemed to form gallows, or the uprights of the guillotine. And there was no living soul there excepting three gypsies who showed their frightened faces at the door of their van. An old man and woman, and a big girl with woolly hair whose eyes gleamed like

those of a wolf. Before reaching the secluded path, Silvair looked round him. He bethought himself of a far away Sunday when he'd crossed the wood-yard in the bright moonlight. How calm and soft it had been. How slowly had the pale rays passed over the beams. Supreme silence had had fallen from the frozen sky. And amidst this silence the woolly-haired gypsy girl had sung in a low key and an unknown tongue. Then Silvair remembered that the seemingly far-off Sunday was only a week old, but a week ago he'd come to bid me at farewell. How long past it seemed, he felt as though he'd not set foot in the woodyard for years. But when he reached the narrow path, his heart failed him. He recognized the odor of the grass, the shadows of the planks, the whole.

holes in the wall. A woeful voice rose from all those things. The path stretched out, sad, and lonely. It seemed longer to him than usual, and he felt a cold wind blowing down it. The spot had aged cruelly. He saw but the wall was moss-eaten, that the verdant carpet was dried up by frost, that the piles of timber had been rotted by rain. It was perfect devastation. The yellow twilight felt like fine dust upon the ruins of all that had been most dear to him. He was obliged to close his eyes that he might again behold the lame green, and live his happy hours afresh. It was warm weather, and he was racing with me at the balmy air. Then the cruel December rains fell unceasingly, yet they still came there,

sheltering themselves beneath the planks, and listening with rapture to the, the heavy plashing of the shower. His whole life, all his happiness, passed before him like a flash of lightning. Miet was climbing over the wall, running to him, shaking with sonorous laughter. She was there. He could see her, gleaming white through the darkness with her living helm of ink-black hair. She was talking about the magpie's nests, which are so difficult to steal, and she dragged him along with her. Then he heard the gentle murmur of the Vjorn in the distance, the chirping of the belated grasshoppers,

and the blowing of the breeze among the poplars in the meadows of Sinclair. Ah, how they used to run. How well he remembered it. She'd learned to swim in a fortnight. She was a plucky girl. She had only had one great fault. She was inclined to pilfering. but he would have cured her of that.

Then the thought of their first embraces brought him back to the narrow path. They had always ended by returning to that nook. He fancied he could hear the gypsy girl's song dying away, the creaking of the last shutters, the solemn striking of the clocks. Then the hour of separation came, and yet climbed the wall again and threw him a kiss. And he saw her no more. A motion choked him at the thought.

He would never see her again. Never. When you're ready, jeered the one-eyed man. Come, choose your place. Silvert took a few more steps. He was approaching the end of the path and could see nothing but a strip of sky in which the rust-colored light was fading away.

Here had he spent his life for two years past, The slow approach of death added an ineffable charm to this pathway, which had so long served as a lover's walk. He loitered, bidding a long and lingering farewell to all he loved, the grass, the timber, the stone of the old wall, all those things into which Miet had breathed life. And again his thoughts wandered. They were waiting till they should be old enough to marry.

Auntie Day would remain with them. Ah, if they had fled far away, very far away, to some unknown village where the scamps of the Foburg would no longer have been able to come and cast Chantagre's crime in his daughter's face. What peaceful bliss! They would have opened a wheelwright's workshop beside some high road. No doubt, he cared little for his ambitions now. He no longer thought of coach-making, of carriages with broad, varnished panel. as shiny as mirrors. In the stupor of his despair,

he could not remember why his dream of bliss would never come to pass. Why did he not go away with Miette and Auntie Day? Then as he racked his memory, he heard the sharp crackling of a fusillade. He saw a standard fall before him, its staffed broken

and its folds drooping like the wings of a bird brought down by a shot. It was the Republic, falling asleep with Miette, under the red flag. Ah, what wretchedness. They were both dead, both had bleeding wounds in their breasts.

And it was they, the corpses of his two loves, that now barred his path of life. He had nothing left him and might well die himself. These were the thoughts that had made him so gentle, so listless, so childlike, all the way from St. roar. The soldiers might have struck him. He would not have felt it. His spirit no longer inhabited his

body. It was far away. Prustrate beside the loved ones who were dead under the trees amidst the pungent smoke of the gunpowder. But the one-eyed man was growing impatient, giving a push to Morg who was lagging behind. He growled, Get along, too. I don't want to be here all night. Silvair stumbled. He looked at his feet. A fragment of a skull lay whitening in the grass. He thought he heard a murmur of voices filling the pathway. The dead were calling him, those long-departed ones whose warm breath had so strangely perturbed him and his sweetheart during the sultry July evenings. He recognized their low whispers. They were rejoicing.

They were telling him to come and promising to restore him. me yet to him beneath the earth, in some retreat which would prove still more sequestered than this old tristing place. The cemetery, whose oppressive odors and dark vegetation, had breathed eager desire into the children's hearts, while alluringly spreading out its couches of rank grass, without succeeding, however, in throwing them into one another's arms, now long to imbibed Silvair's warm blood. For two summers past it had been expecting the young lover. Is it here? asked the one-eyed man. Silverer looked in front of him.

He'd reached the end of the path. His eyes fell on a tombstone, and he started. Yet was right. That stone was for her. Here, Lyeth, Marie, died. She was dead, that slab had fallen over her. His strength failing him, he leant against the frozen stone.

How warm it had been when they sat in that nook, chatting for many a long evening. He'd always come that way, and the pressure of her foot, as she alighted from the wall, had worn away the stone's surface in one corner. The mark seemed instinct with something of her lissom figure. And to Sylver it appeared as if some fatalism attached to all these objects, as if the stone were there precisely in order

that he might come to die, beside it, there were he had loved. The one-eyed man cocked his pistols. Death. Death, the thought fascinated Silvere. It was to this spot then that they had led him by the long white road which descends from Saint-Rour to Placin. If he'd known it, he would have hastened on yet more quickly in order to die on that stone at the end of a narrow path. In the atmosphere where he could still detect the scent of Miet's breath. Never had he hoped for such consolation in his grief. Heaven was merciful.

He waited a vague smile playing on his face. Morg, meantime, had caught sight of the pistols. Hitherto he had allowed himself to be dragged along, stupidly. But fear now overcame, and he repeated in a tone of despair, I come from Pujot. I come from Pujo. Then he threw himself on the ground, rolling at the gendarme's feet,

breaking out into prayers for mercy and imagining that he was being mistaken for someone else. What does it matter to me that you come from Pujo? Rangard muttered. And as the wretched man, shivering and crying with terror, and quite unable to understand why he was going to die, held out as tremble.

hands, his deformed, hard laborer's hands, exclaiming in his patois that he'd done nothing and ought to be pardoned. The one-eyed man grew quite exasperated at being unable to put the pistol to his temple, owing to his constant movements. Will you hold your tongue? he shouted. Thereupon Mourg, mad with fright and unwilling to die, began to howl like a beast, like a pig that's being slaughtered. "'Hold your tongue, you scoundrel!' the gendarme repeated, and he blew his brains out.

The peasant fell with a thud. His body rolled to the foot of a timber stack, where it remained doubled up. The violence of a shock had severed the rope, which fastened him to his companion. Silvere fell on his knees before the tombstone. It was to make his vengeance the more terrible that Rangat had killed more.

first. He played with his second pistol, raising it slowly in order to relish Silvara's agony. But the latter looked at him quietly. Then again the sight of this man, with the one fierce scorching eye, made him feel uneasy. He averted his glance, fearing that he might die cowardly if he continued to look at that feverishly quivering gendarme with blood-stained bandage bleeding mustache. However, as he raised his eyes to avoid him, he perceived Justin's head just above the wall, at the very spot Ramayette had been wont to leap over.

Justine had been at the port of Rome among the crowd when the gendarme had led the prisoners away. He had set off as fast as he could by way of the Jasme-Fran in his eagerness to witness the execution, the thought that he alone, of all the four-bours scamps, would view the tragedy at his ease as from a balcony made him run so quickly but that he twice fell down. And in spite of his wild chase,

he arrived too late to witness the first shot. He climbed the mulberry tree in despair, but he smiled when he saw that Silvair still remained. The soldiers had informed him of his cousin's death, and now the murderer of the wheelwright brought his happiness to a climax. He awaited the shot with that delight which the subject, which the sufferings of others always afforded him. His delight increased tenfold by the horror of the scene

and a feeling of exquisite fear. Silvere, on recognizing that vile scamp's head all by itself above the wall, that pale grinning face with hair standing on end, experienced the feeling of fierce rage, a sudden desire to live. It was the last revolt of his blood, a momentary mutant. knee. He again sank down on his knees, gazing straight before him. The last vision passed before his eyes in the melancholy twilight. At the end of the path, at the entrance of the impasseanitra, he fancied he could see Aunt Dede standing erect, white and rigid like the statue of a saint,

while she witnessed his agony from a distance. At that moment he felt the cold pistol on his temple. There was a smile on Gistan's pale face. Closing his eyes, Silvere heard the long-departed dead wildly summoning him. In the darkness he now saw nothing save Miette, wrapped in the banner, under the trees where their eyes

turned towards heaven. Then the one-eyed man fired, and all was over. The lad's skull burst open like a ripe pomegranate. His face fell upon the stone, with his lips pressed to the spot which Miet's feet had worn, that warm spot which still retained a trace of his dead love. And in the evening at dessert, at the Rujon's abode, bursts of laughter arose with the fumes

from the table, which was still warm with the remains of the dinner. At last the Rujons were nibbling at the pleasures of the wealthy. Their appetites sharpened by thirty years of restrained desire, now fell too with wolfish teeth. These fierce and satiate wild beasts, scarcely entering upon indulgence, exulted at the birth of the empire, the dawn of the rush for the spoils.

The coup d'et, which retrieved the fortune of the Bonaparts, also laid the foundation for that of the Rougain. Pierre stood up, held out his glass, and exclaimed, I drink to Prince Louis, to the emperor. The gentlemen who had drowned their jealousies in champagne rose in a body

and clint glasses with deafening shouts. It was a fine spectacle. The bourgeois of Placin, Rudier, Granu, Vieu and all the others wept and embraced each other over the corpse of the Republic, which as yet was scarcely cold.

But a splendid idea occurred to Sikard. He took from Felicity's hair a pink satin bow, which he'd placed over her right ear in honor of the occasion, cut off a strip of a satin with his dessert knife, and then solemnly fastened it to Rijon's buttonhole. The latter feigned modesty and pretended to resist. But his face beamed with joy, as he murmured, No, I beg you, it's too soon. We must wait until the decree is published. Zones!

Cicardot exclaimed. Will you please keep that? It's an old soldier of Napoleon who decorates you. The whole company burst into applause. Felicity almost swooned with delight. Silent Granu jumped up on a chair in his enthusiasm, waving his napkin and making a speech which was lost amid the uproar. The yellow drawing room was wild with triumph.

But the strip of pink satin fastened to Pierre's buttonhole was not the only red spot in that triumph of the rougon. A shoe, with a blood-stained heel, still lay forgotten under the bedstead in the adjoining room. The taper burning at Monsieur Pyrrhot's bedside over the way gleamed too with the lurid redness of a gaping wound amidst the dark night. And yonder, far away, in the depths of the air Saint-Mitre, a pool of blood was congealing upon,

on a tombstone. End of chapter 7. End of the fortune of the Rujon. Book 1 of Rujon Macar cycle. By Emil Zola, translated by Henry Visitelli.