THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ÉMILE ZOLA. Эмиль Золя
that it nailed him to his post, deprived him of his liberty of action: he could never carry a child off in his arms, so long as he remained “the man with the carroty hair” as they called him, the impetuous Tribune who had spoken on one occasion of reducing Marseille to ashes.
Mathéus walked about for a long time, without being able to make up his mind as to what he would do. He understood all the gravity of a change of physiognomy. Now, when Philippe and Marius noticed the sly glances he was casting around him, they felt certain M. de Girousse was not wrong. All at once he made a movement like a man taking a resolution, and advancing towards the door of one of the houses on the square, entered it after looking round to see that no one was spying him. A few minutes later, the two brothers, who had kept their eyes fixed on the door of the house, saw a person make his appearance there who was slightly bald and wore the same attire as the man with the carroty wig. Philippe repressed a cry of rage. He had recognised Mathéus at a glance.
“Ah! the wretch!” he muttered in a choking voice to his brother, “he’s the fidus Achates of Cazalis, the man who tried to steal Joseph at Ayasse’s.”
“I suspect some foul play,” murmured Marius, who had turned pale.
“I see it all now! it was that cursed red hair that led me astray; I felt I knew the man, but I only saw him at night, and couldn’t remember who he was.”
Marius interrupted his brother.
“Every minute is precious,” he said. “Cazalis must be there in the dark. He has set one of his creatures to dog your footsteps so as to ruin you, and at the climax, has sent this wretch here to get possession of Joseph. I don’t understand how it has all been done; however, we must first of all get rid of this man. We’ll decide on further action afterwards.”
Philippe, dumbfounded at the thought of all the misfortunes he had brought about, remained silent.
“You understand,” continued Marius, “we cannot have him arrested by accusing him of an abduction he has not yet committed. And besides, we would find nobody here to seize him by the collar.”
“You are mistaken,” said the Republican, whose eyes suddenly sparkled. “I have an idea. Wait a minute.”
Philippe ran towards a party of workmen, who were entirely devoted to him, spoke to them in an undertone for a few moments, and returning to Marius said:
“Look, our man is already caught in the trap.”
The workmen had dispersed; then, one by one, they had manoeuvred so as to surround Mathéus, while the latter, suspecting nothing, was strolling about with the air of a placid bourgeois.
“You go home,” said one of the workmen to him in a brutal tone.
“Wait,” observed another, “this citizen is not unknown to me.”
“Eh!” exclaimed a third, “what have you done with your carroty wig?”
“He’s a false brother! he’s a false brother!” shouted all the party.
This cry ran all over the square. A gathering was formed and in the midst of it Mathéus was violently hustled. A rioter searched him, and the red wig which was found in one of his pockets, was passed from hand to hand as a proof of guilt. They spoke of nothing less than hanging the wretch, for all who remembered the part he had played, shouted out that he was an instigating agent, a creature of the police, and that they must make an example of him, by stringing him up to the nearest lantern.
Mathéus trembled with fright. There was no reasoning within him at that moment, and he was not a bit surprised when he saw Philippe, of all people in the world, advance to his assistance.
“Come, my friends,” said the latter to the angry workmen, “don’t dirty your hands by killing the man. It will suffice to keep him within sight. He might be useful to us later on. Only, if he attempts to run away, send a bullet into his back.”
By the young man’s order two workmen caught hold of the wretch, and shut him up in a little shop, one of them standing on guard at the door with a loaded musket.
Mathéus’ reflections were rather sad. He cursed himself a thousand times, for having had the strange idea of taking off his wig, but he did not for a moment suspect the part the Cayols had played in his arrest. Philippe having feigned not to recognise him, he imagined his misadventure had occurred solely from the rioters taking him for a police spy, an accusation he had been unable to refute. At the bottom of his heart, he even laughed at his adversaries for having helped him. However, he did not despair beyond measure, for he had always looked upon the workmen as asses, and he said to himself that he would assuredly find a means of escaping when the barricades were attacked. It was merely an annoyance. He must wait.
Philippe had withdrawn with Marius into a corner, and was saying to him in an animated undertone:
“I preferred not to let him be hanged, for if we conquer, this man will be a terrible arm in our hands against Cazalis.”
“And if we are beaten?” inquired Marius.
“If we are beaten,” Philippe answered, sullenly, “I entrust my child to you; you will protect him. Do not overwhelm me with reproaches. I must go straight ahead, without looking backward.”
The conversation between the two brothers was interrupted by a murmur that arose in the middle of the square. It was about two o’clock. More than an hour had elapsed since the barricades had been completed, and the rioters were waiting. They had taken advantage of this moment of respite to organize a plan of defence and make their final arrangements. Since the arrest of Mathéus a silence of death reigned all around. Each workman, rivetted to his post, was gazing fixedly ahead, with his loaded musket beside him, and all his thoughts bent on vengeance.
Suddenly, those who were guarding the barricade in the Grande Rue, perceived two persons advance and boldly enter the stronghold. On hearing the murmur, that had greeted them, Philippe approached and recognised M. Martelly and Abbé Chastanier. The shipowner hastened forward to meet him.
“For pity’s sake,” he said to him, “if you have any power over these men, dissuade them from this fratricidal struggle.”
“My child,” murmured the priest on his side, “I have come to you, to beseech you with joined hands, to avoid the effusion of blood.”
Philippe shook his head without answering. He was annoyed at their arrival. He felt more guilty and upset in their presence. The shipowner continued:
“You see, I come, as I promised you I would, to place myself between the people’s fire and that of the soldiers. I bitterly regret at this moment, that I did not devote a few days to winning popularity with the workmen, so as to make them listen to me and follow my advice.”
“I can do nothing,” Philippe ended by saying. “These men are exasperated, they listen to me because I think as they do, that the people have to take vengeance; but, if I were to speak to them of pardon and forgiveness, they would turn their backs on me. Try it yourself.”
The workmen had, little by little, drawn near, and M. Martelly went up to them.
“My friends,” he said, “I am directed to announce that justice shall be done you. I have just seen the Commissary of the Government.”
These words were listened to amidst silence and sullen anger. After a moment, the entire crowd answered in one single cry:
“It is too late!”
Abbé Chastanier then addressed each workman. But they turned away, one by one, in ferocious ill-humour, without listening. When he told them that the Almighty forbade the shedding of blood, they answered him:
“Why didn’t you say that this morning to the National Guard?”
M. Martelly, on his side, was no more fortunate. They knew him as a man of independent mind, but they also knew he was rich, and they, perhaps, accused him in their hearts of giving way to fright.
The priest and shipowner