On Sunday the 7th the terror reached a climax. Already at six o’clock the yellow drawingroom, where a sort of reactionary committee sat en permanence, was crowded with pale, trembling men, who conversed in undertones, as though they were in a chamber of death. It had been ascertained during the day that a column of insurgents, about three thousand strong, had assembled at Alboise, a big village not more than three leagues away. It was true that this column had been ordered to make for the chief town of the department, leaving Plassans on its left; but the plan of campaign might at any time be altered; moreover, it sufficed for these cowardly cits to know that there were insurgents a few miles off, to make them feel the horny hands of the toilers already tightened round their throats. They had had a foretaste of the revolt in the morning; the few Republicans at Plassans, seeing that they would be unable to make any determined move in the town, had resolved to join their brethren of La Palud and Saint-Martin-de-Vaulx; the first group had left at about eleven o’clock, by the Porte de Rome, shouting the “Marseillaise” and smashing a few windows. Granoux had had one broken. He mentioned the circumstance with stammerings of terror.
Meantime, the most acute anxiety agitated the yellow drawingroom. The commander had sent his servant to obtain some information as to the exact movements of the insurgents, and the others awaited this man’s return, making the most astonishing surmises. They had a full meeting. Roudier and Granoux, sinking back in their armchairs, exchanged the most pitiable glances, whilst behind them moaned a terror-stricken group of retired tradesmen. Vuillet, without appearing over scared, reflected upon what precautions he should take to protect his shop and person; he was in doubt whether he should hide himself in his garret or cellar, and inclined towards the latter. For their part Pierre and the commander walked up and down, exchanging a word ever and anon. The old oil-dealer clung to this friend Sicardot as if to borrow a little courage from him. He, who had been awaiting the crisis for such a long time, now endeavoured to keep his countenance, in spite of the emotion which was stifling him. As for the marquis, more spruce and smiling than usual, he conversed in a corner with Felicite, who seemed very gay.
At last a ring came. The gentlemen started as if they had heard a gunshot. Dead silence reigned in the drawingroom when Felicite went to open the door, towards which their pale, anxious faces were turned. Then the commander’s servant appeared on the threshold, quite out of breath, and said abruptly to his master: “Sir, the insurgents will be here in an hour.”
This was a thunderbolt. They all started up, vociferating, and raising their arms towards the ceiling. For several minutes it was impossible to hear one’s self speak. The company surrounded the messenger, overwhelming him with questions.
“Damnation!” the commander at length shouted, “don’t make such a row. Be calm, or I won’t answer for anything.”
Everyone sank back in his chair again, heaving long-drawn sighs. They then obtained a few particulars. The messenger had met the column at Les Tulettes, and had hastened to return.
“There are at least three thousand of them,” said he. “They are marching in battalions, like soldiers. I thought I caught sight of some prisoners in their midst.”
“Prisoners!” cried the terrified bourgeois.
“No doubt,” the marquis interrupted in his shrill voice. “I’ve heard that the insurgents arrest all persons who are known to have conservative leanings.”
This information gave a finishing touch to the consternation of the yellow drawingroom. 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 Felicite. She took the marquis aside and asked him: “What do these men do with the people they arrest?”
“Why, they carry them off in their train,” Monsieur de Carnavant replied. “They no doubt consider them excellent hostages.”
“Ah!” the old woman rejoined, in a strange tone.
Then she again thoughtfully watched the curious scene of panic around her. The bourgeois gradually disappeared; soon there only remained Vuillet and Roudier, whom the approaching danger inspired with some courage. As for Granoux, he likewise remained in his corner, his legs refusing to perform their office.
“Well, I like this better,” Sicardot remarked, as he observed the flight of the other adherents. “Those cowards were exasperating me at last. For more than two years they’ve been speaking of shooting all the Republicans in the province, and to-day they wouldn’t even fire a halfpenny cracker under their noses.”
Then he took up his hat and turned towards the door.
“Let’s see,” he continued, “time presses. Come, Rougon.”
Felicite, it seemed, had been waiting for this moment. She placed herself between the door and her husband, who, for that matter, was not particularly eager to follow the formidable Sicardot.
“I won’t have you go out,” she cried, feigning sudden despair. “I won’t let you leave my side. Those scoundrels will kill you.”
The commander stopped in amazement.
“Hang it all!” he growled, “if the women are going to whine now — Come along, Rougon!’
“No, no,” continued the old woman, affecting increase of terror, “he sha’n’t follow you. I will hang on to his clothes and prevent him.”
The marquis, very much surprised at the scene, looked inquiringly at Felicite. Was this really the woman who had just now been conversing so merrily? What comedy was she playing? Pierre, meantime, seeing that his wife wanted to detain him, deigned a determination to force his way out.
“I tell you you shall not go,” the old woman reiterated, as she clung to one of his arms. And turning towards the commander, she said to him: “How can you think of offering any resistance? They are three thousand strong, and you won’t be able to collect a hundred men of any spirit. You are rushing into the cannon’s mouth to no purpose.”
“Eh! that is our duty,” said Sicardot, impatiently.
Felicite 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 drawingroom.”
The marquis thought he saw a vague smile play about Felicite’s lips as she answered, with a look of dismay: “Do you really think so?”
“Of course!” replied Sicardot; “the Republicans are not so stupid as to leave enemies behind them. Tomorrow Plassans 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 skilful tactics escaped him, however, and whose secret complicity he never for a moment suspected, he had just lighted on a whole plan of campaign.