As Rougon had surmised, it was Macquart 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 the characteristic confidence of a man of coarse intellect, who is absorbed by a fixed idea and bent upon his own triumph, he had imagined after the departure of the insurgents that Plassans was now at his complete disposal, and that he would be able to act there like a conqueror. In his opinion that body of three thousand 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 gendarmes 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 Macquart did not even take the precaution to have the gates 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 as had incurred his displeasure. The thought of the baffled Rougons and their yellow drawingroom, of all that clique entreating 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 Plassans. Four of his party set to work to draw up this proclamation, and when it was finished Macquart, 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 Plassans, 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 open.
“Is it you, Cassoute?” Macquart asked, interrupting the perusal.
Nobody answered; but the door opened wider.
“Come in, do!” he continued, impatiently. “Is my brigand of a brother at home?”
Then, all at once both leaves of the door were violently thrown back and slammed against the walls, and a crowd of armed men, in the midst of whom marched Rougon, 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 Macquart.
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. There was a good deal of scuffling and stamping, and 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, Rougon’s weapon, which an insurgent had tried to wrest 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. Granoux immediately rushed to one of the windows. And as he and the others anxiously leaned out, their faces lengthened perceptibly, for they were in nowise eager for a struggle with the men in the guardroom, whom they had forgotten amidst their triumph. However, Roudier cried out from below that all was right. And Granoux then shut the window again, beaming with joy. The fact of the matter was, that Rougon’s shot had aroused the sleepers, who had promptly surrendered, seeing that resistance was impossible. Then, however, three of Roudier’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, Rougon ordered Macquart’s hands to be bound with the bands of the large green curtains which hung at the windows. At this, Macquart, 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 victors’ very marrow; Rougon for his part almost choked. His brother, who was exasperated at having been surprised like a child by these terrified bourgeois, who, old soldier 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 will make them laugh.”
At this Rougon turned pale. He was terribly afraid lest Macquart should blab then and there, and ruin him in the esteem of the gentlemen who had just been assisting him to save Plassans. These gentlemen, astounded by the dramatic encounter between the two brothers, and, foreseeing some stormy passages, had retired to a corner of the room. Rougon, 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 has reflected on his position he will 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 have 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 Roman sacrificing his family on the altar of his country. Granoux, 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 return to him. “You hardly expected me, did you?” he resumed. “I understand things now; you have been laying plots against me. You wretched fellow; see what your vices and disorderly life have brought you to!”
Macquart shrugged his shoulders. “Shut up,” he replied; “go to the devil. You’re an old rogue. He laughs best who laughs last.”
Thereupon Rougon, who had formed no definite plan with regard to him, thrust him into a dressing-room whither Monsieur Garconnet 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. Macquart was then heard to throw himself on the sofa, and start singing the “Ca Ira” in a loud voice, as though he were trying to sing himself to sleep.
Rougon, who at last found himself alone, now in 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 honours! 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 Macquart had previously affected while listening to the proclamation. The silence of the room seemed fraught with religious solemnity, which inspired Rougon with exquisite delight. Everything, even the dust