While the yellow drawingroom was deliberating on the evening in question, Aristide was perspiring with anxiety. Never had gambler, staking his last louis on a card, felt such anguish. During the day the resignation of his chief, the subprefect, had given him much matter for reflection. He had 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 the democracy, though he had not the courage to work for that triumph by offering resistance. Aristide was in the habit of listening at the doors of the SubPrefecture, 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 subprefect’s opinion struck him forcibly; but he remained perplexed. He thought to himself: “Why does the fellow go away if he is so certain that the prince-president will meet with a check?” However, as he was compelled to espouse one side or the other, he resolved to continue his opposition. He wrote a very hostile article on the Coup d’Etat, and took it to the “Independant” the same evening for the following morning’s issue. He had corrected the proofs of this article, and was returning home somewhat calmed, when, as he passed along the Rue de la Banne, he instinctively raised his head and glanced at the Rougons’ windows. Their windows were brightly lighted up.
“What can they be plotting up there?” the journalist asked himself, with anxious curiosity.
A fierce desire to know the opinion of the yellow drawingroom with regard to recent events then assailed him. He credited this group of reactionaries with little intelligence; but his doubts recurred, he was in that frame of mind when one might seek advice from a child. He could not think of entering his father’s home at that moment, after the campaign he had waged against Granoux and the others. Nevertheless, he went upstairs, reflecting what a singular figure he would cut if he were surprised on the way by anyone. On reaching the Rougons’ door, he could only catch a confused echo of voices.
“What a child I am,” said he, “fear makes me stupid.” And he was going to descend again, when he heard the approach of his mother, who was about to show somebody out. He had barely time to hide in a dark corner formed by a little staircase leading to the garrets of the house. The Rougons’ door opened, and the marquis appeared, followed by Felicite. Monsieur de Carnavant usually left before the gentlemen of the new town did, in order no doubt to avoid having to shake hands with them in the street.
“Eh! little one,” he said on the landing, in a low voice, “these men are greater cowards than I should have thought. With such men France will always be at the mercy of whoever dares to lay his hands upon her!” And he added, with some bitterness, as though speaking to himself: “The monarchy is decidedly becoming too honest for modern times. Its day is over.”
“Eugene announced the crisis to his father,” replied Felicite. “Prince Louis’s triumph seems to him certain.”
“Oh, you can proceed without fear,” the marquis replied, as he descended the first steps. “In two or three days the country will be well bound and gagged. Goodbye till tomorrow, little one.”
Felicite 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 “Independant.” A flood of thoughts surged through his mind. He was enraged, and accused his family of having duped him. What! Eugene kept his parents informed of the situation, and yet his mother had never given him any of his eldest brother’s letters to read, in order that he might follow the advice given therein! And it was only now he learnt by chance that his eldest brother regarded the success of the Coup d’Etat as certain! This circumstance, moreover, confirmed certain presentiments which that idiot of a subprefect had prevented him from obeying. He was especially exasperated against his father, whom he had thought stupid enough to be a Legitimist, but who revealed himself as a Bonapartist at the right moment.
“What a lot of folly they have allowed me to perpetrate,” he muttered as he ran along. “I’m a fine fellow now. Ah! what a lesson! Granoux is more capable than I.”
He entered the office of the “Independant” like a hurricane, and asked for his article in a choking voice. The article had already been imposed. He had the forme unlocked and would not rest until he had himself destroyed the setting, mixing the type in a furious manner, like a set of dominoes. The bookseller who managed the paper looked at him in amazement. He was, in reality, rather glad of the incident, as the article had seemed to him somewhat dangerous. But he was absolutely obliged to have some copy, if the “Independant” was to appear.
“Are you going to give me something else?” he asked.
“Certainly,” replied Aristide.
He sat down at the table and began a warm panegyric on the Coup d’Etat. At the very first line, he swore that Prince Louis had just saved the Republic; but he had hardly written a page before he stopped and seemed at a loss how to continue. A troubled look came over his pole-cat face.
“I must go home,” he said at last. “I will send you this immediately. Your paper can appear a little later, if necessary.”
He walked slowly on his way home, lost in meditation. He was again giving way to indecision. Why should he veer round so quickly? Eugene 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 Angele called at the bookseller’s, feigning deep emotion.
“My husband has just severely injured himself,” she said. “He jammed his four fingers in a door as he was coming in. In spite of his sufferings, he has dictated this little note, which he begs you to publish tomorrow.”
On the following day the “Independant,” made up almost entirely of miscellaneous items of news, appeared with these few lines at the head of the first column:
“A deplorable accident which has occurred to our eminent contributor Monsieur Aristide Rougon will deprive us of his articles for some time. He will suffer at having to remain silent in the present grave circumstances. None of our readers will doubt, however, the good wishes which he offers up with patriotic feelings for the welfare of France.”
This burlesque note had been maturely studied. The last sentence might be interpreted in favour of all parties. By this expedient, Aristide devised a glorious return for himself on the morrow of battle, in the shape of a laudatory article on the victors. On the following day he showed himself to the whole town, with his arm in a sling. His mother, frightened by the notice in the paper, hastily called upon him, but he refused to show her his hand, and spoke with a bitterness which enlightened the old woman.
“It won’t be anything,” she said in a reassuring and somewhat sarcastic tone, as she was leaving. “You only want a little rest.”
It was no doubt owing to this pretended accident, and the subprefect’s departure, that the “Independant” was not interfered with, like most of the democratic papers of the departments.
The 4th day of the month proved comparatively quiet at Plassans. In the evening there was a public demonstration which the mere appearance of the gendarmes sufficed to disperse. A band of workingmen came to request Monsieur Garconnet to communicate the despatches he had received from Paris, which the latter haughtily refused to do; as it retired the band shouted: “Long live the Republic! Long live the Constitution!” After this, order was restored.