THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ÉMILE ZOLA. Эмиль Золя

      CHAPTER IX

      PARDON! PARDON!

      PHILIPPE had taken the precaution of putting out the lamp before opening the door, and the gendarmes who were on the point of rushing forward, stopped short on the threshold, fearing that the darkness might conceal some snare. Perhaps the trap door of a cellar was gaping open before them or perhaps they would be attacked from behind, as soon as they entered. The mass of darkness that expanded before them struck terror into their hearts.

      “We must have a light,” one of them murmured. “We cannot look for and find a man in this obscurity.”

      “I have no lucifer matches on me,” said the other.

      M. de Cazalis was in despair, he had not foreseen this new obstacle. Night was like an impenetrable wall which still separated him from Philippe.

      “Are you afraid?” he exclaimed.

      And in a moment of anger, he gave a push to the gendarmes who thus advanced a few steps into the room. Philippe who had placed himself upright against the wall at the entrance, dashed forward, passed behind them and found himself outside, after having knocked Mathéus almost over.

      “Help!” the latter yelled, “the man’s escaping!”

      The gendarmes were right about face in an instant. The young man had come to a standstill at a few yards from the house. He could have run away, but he thought no longer of himself, all his mind was taken up with his child. If he had put out the lamp and pretended to make oil it was merely to gain time. With crossed arms and disdainful bearing, he said in a loud voice:

      “What do you want with me? Why have you obliged me to open the door?”

      The gendarmes had sprung forward and each had seized him by a wrist.

      “Let me go,” he exclaimed, with violence. “You can see, very well, I am giving myself up voluntarily. Had I wished to escape I could have been far away by now. Speak, what do you want?”

      “We have orders to arrest you,” they said, taking their hands off him under the influence of the imperious tone of his voice.

      “Good,” he continued, “I will follow you when you have shown me the warrant concerning me. Let us go in.”

      He entered the room, feigning not to see either Mathéus or M. de Cazalis. When he had relit the lamp, and the former deputy and his instrument appeared, he turned towards the gendarmes and said in a mocking voice:

      “Do these gentlemen belong to the police?”

      The nobleman received the phrase right in the face like a cut from a whip. He was conscious of the unworthy part he was playing, and the silent anger that had been raging within him burst out.

      “What are you waiting for?” he cried. “Gag the villain, pinion him. Ah! rascal, so I’ve found you, and this time you’ll not escape me!”

      He was foaming, he asked for the handcuffs to put them himself on the prisoner. The latter looked at him with withering contempt. The gendarmes had given him the warrant that had been issued against him and he was reading it slowly, seeking an excuse for delay. In the meanwhile, Mathéus had disappeared. He had lit a wax taper he had on him and had slipped into the staircase. He was going to execute the orders of M. de Cazalis who had promised him a good reward if he succeeded in stealing little Joseph amidst the confusion of Philippe’s arrest.

      Mathéus was a prudent man who did nothing lightly. For two days he had been studying the habits at the gardener’s house: he knew that the latter and his wife must be at Marseille, and he calculated in his mind that Philippe, hearing the gendarmes, had without doubt hidden his son in a room above. He expected to find the child alone and to be able to take him without difficulty.

      He inspected the rooms on the first floor and found nothing. He burst open a door that was locked, searched in every corner and acquired the certitude that Joseph was not there.

      Then, he decided he would go up to the loft.

      The door only closed with a latch. Mathéus opened it and advanced a few steps on the straw which went up in a heap to the tiles; he held the taper high, looked from a distance in all the corners, not daring to advance for fear of setting fire to the place. He could find nothing. There was a quantity of things in the place impossible to describe in detail: old caved-in barrels, agricultural implements of no further utility, refuse without a name, encumbering the flooring, and throwing great dark shadows here and there.

      Mathéus thought that Philippe could not have hidden his son among all this rubbish covered with dust and cobwebs, and did not pursue his search further, but returned to the first floor, where he made another minute inspection. He opened the articles of furniture, pulled up the curtains, looked everywhere. There was no child. Then he sat down and began to think. The rascal was in the habit of reasoning on all occasions, and of always acting in accordance with the strict laws of logic.

      His reasoning was short and his conclusion unanswerable. He had heard the child cry, therefore he must be in the house; if he was not to be found on the first floor, he must naturally be in the loft. He had no doubt made an imperfect search.

      He returned to the loft.

      As soon as he entered, he placed his taper on an old watering-pot so as not to set fire to anything. He had thought for a moment of lighting the straw at the risk of burning the place down. The child was there for sure, and he had a vague idea that M. de Cazalis would be delighted at the poor little creature’s death. He had only to let the taper fall and Blanche’s heir would be roasted. But he was afraid of displaying too much zeal, of going beyond his instructions. His master had asked for the child alive and he couldn’t decently take it to him dead.

      He began to search in the straw, to rummage among the old barrels. He proceeded slowly, making sure no corner escaped him, expecting at every moment to put his hand on a warm body.

      The taper placed on the watering-pot, cast a yellow, vacillating light over the loft and afforded him very poor assistance in his search. When he had reached the end of the loft, he suddenly stopped, hearing the sound of restrained breathing. He smiled triumphantly. The noise came from a sort of buttress formed by trusses of hay piled up at some distance from the wall.

      Mathéus stretched forward his head and hands, but when he had cast a glance into the hiding-place, he brought his hands down beside him in surprise. Fine had suddenly risen up before him, holding little Joseph against her bosom. The child was fast asleep and smiling in his slumber.

      For nearly a quarter of an hour the young girl had been listening to the smothered tread of Mathéus, and during that time, had been a prey to most terrible anxiety. She almost betrayed herself when he appeared in the loft the first time. Then, when he went down, she breathed, thinking herself saved. And there he was back again, and had discovered her! She was lost, he was about to