THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ÉMILE ZOLA. Эмиль Золя
followed his movements with glittering eyes. He felt this man would be the victim he so much desired.
“Here’s my man,” he thought. “If he passes in front of that gap, which I took care to leave open, he will be shot down.”
He had noticed that during the last few moments, bullets had been pouring through the aperture in question. As the workman had quietly set about tearing up paving stones, he beckoned him with energetic gestures to approach. The man, without the least distrust, thinking the chief had something important to tell him, began crawling along slowly behind the barricade. The time came when he found himself opposite the breach. Eight or ten bullets entered his body and laid him low. He struggled atrociously, then remained quiet, with his face towards the earth.
Then, Mathéus uttered a terrible cry, and all the rioters dashed into the middle of the street howling with exasperation. The National Guards ceased firing, thinking that those who were at the barricade yielded. The spy took advantage of that circumstance to carry off the corpse. He called for assistance, placed the dead body on the workmen’s shoulders and crying aloud for vengeance, put himself at their head.
“To arms! let the people know that the Guard fires upon unarmed men. To arms! to arms! They are murdering our brothers!”
And in a low undertone he said to himself:
“I have my corpse, the people will fight.”
The party he was leading fled by the Rue de la Palud, and their retreat was marked by their cries, as they bore away the body of their dead brother like a standard of horror and revolt.
It was at that moment that Marius and Philippe arrived at the scene of the encounter. They found the company of National Guards stationed in the middle of the Rue de Rome among the remains of the three carts, looking very much embarrassed at their victory; for they had imagined they had to deal with at least a hundred men, and were quite confused on ascertaining that for nearly a quarter of an hour, they had been keeping up a brisk fire against only about a dozen poor wretches. They felt the horrible and sanguinary absurdity of their mistake.
Captain Sauvaire was exasperated. At the bottom of his heart, what irritated him the most, was the terrible blow his shako had received at the commencement of the action. He considered himself attained in the dignity of his uniform, and feared that all the prestige of his beautiful costume was escaping by the hole made by the revolutionary stone of an insurgent.
Marius, on recognising him, hastened up to him, to obtain some information as to what had occurred. But the ex-master-stevedore did not give him time to question him.
“What do you think of those blackguards,” he shouted, “who attack us with stones? The jackasses have not even guns. Hold on! Look here!”
And he held out his shako, on which the gilded metal ornament was broken.
“A bullet would only have made a small hole,” he resumed. “Now I shall be obliged to purchase a new shako. These things are very expensive.”
“Could you tell me — ?” began Marius.
But Sauvaire would not allow him to finish his sentence. He took him aside, placed his damaged shako on his head, and said:
“Speak frankly. Doesn’t this perforated headgear spoil the look of me? Ah! Brutes of Republicans! I’ll make them pay dearly for their stone!”
Marius profited by his anger to at last ask a question:
“But what has occurred?”
“Eh! we’ve killed one. So much the better! They were there behind those carts, two or three hundred, perhaps a thousand. We got the better of them after an hour’s furious fighting. You see that pool of blood in the street. For sure one of them must be dead. That will teach them to throw stones at the National Guard. Order! Order before everything!”
Marius was about to leave him when he caught him by the buttonhole of his coat.
“In reality,” he added, in a voice weak with feeling; “I am sorry of the death of this poor fellow. It was perhaps not he who threw the stone. Oh! if I were certain it were he! Just now, when I saw blood on the ground, I felt a peculiar feeling. After all, order — “
The young man left him talking and joined his brother who was standing a few paces off. He felt extremely sad at what he had just heard. This blood would fall upon the heads of those who had spilt it.
“Well?” asked Philippe.
Marius did not answer at once. He could not hide what had happened from his brother, and he hesitated to tell him of it, expecting a terrible outburst of passion. They took a few steps in silence.
“You don’t answer,” said Philippe in a gloomy manner. “Behind those carts, there were corpses, is it not so?”
“No,” murmured Marius, making up his mind to tell the truth. “Only one workman was killed.”
“Eh! what matters the number?” violently interrupted the Republican. “My duty is now traced out for me. The struggle is inevitable. You’ll not ask me to remain quietly at home any more. That would be cowardly. I have hesitated too long, I’m going to join those I swore to defend, if ever they were attacked.”
The two brothers while talking, had reached the Cours Saint Louis. Their further progress was barred by an immense crowd. There the riot was fermenting.
CHAPTER XV
IN WHICH MATHÉUS COMPLETES HIS WORK
THE delegates who had succeeded in reaching the Commissary of the government, had only been able to obtain a letter from him in which he supported the men’s desire to work only ten hours a day. But this letter came too late. The delegates might well show it to the parties they met, but the word “vengeance” was now on every tongue and the people declared that blood called for blood.
Besides, as generally happens, the causes of the struggle that was in preparation escaped the majority. The greater part of the population were ignorant of the object of the riot; there was rage and terror in the air, that was all. While the beating to arms sounded lugubriously in the streets, and the National Guards hastened to their posts, people questioned one another not knowing who was the enemy against whom they were arming.
A company composed of stevedores, having heard it stated that this enemy was the people, refused to march; notwithstanding the hopes that had, perhaps, been entertained in Conservative quarters, these workmen would not fire on workmen.
The people were in revolt, that was the only certainty that spread among the crowd. Why were they in revolt? What did they want? No one could answer. The workmen themselves were no longer acting on the motives that had brought them to the Prefecture; they were now solely led on by anger. The struggle had become personal without any hidden thought of political insurrection. If some interested leaders had not urged the people on to violence, it is very likely all would have ended in shouts and threats.
The Place Royale, which since February had been named the Place de la Revolution, became the centre of the movement. Some Republican companies had made it their headquarters. As soon as the news of the fight which had just taken place at the barricade in the Rue de la Palud, had spread among the groups assembled on the Cours and Cannebière, the workmen advanced in a crowd towards these companies and inquired whether they also were going to march against them. The gathering was soon considerable: the events of the morning were related with furious exclamations and the names given of those who had been killed or wounded by the troops and National Guard. These accounts excited those who heard them and the tumult continued to increase. But the crowd did not move, confining itself to shouting and calling for vengeance. It required another shock to throw it into open revolt.
At this moment, the General commanding the National Guard made a supreme effort. He went into the midst of the people endeavouring to pacify their minds by gentle words.
This General was not popular. He was