“Well, if some ball were to hit him,” he muttered, “our business would be settled. There would be no necessity to supercede him, eh? and it would be no fault of ours.”
But Félicité shuddered. She felt that she had just condemned a man to death. If Monsieur Peirotte should now be killed, she would always see his ghost at night time. He would come and haunt her. So she only ventured to cast furtive glances, full of fearful delight, at the unhappy man’s windows. Henceforward all her enjoyment would be fraught with a touch of guilty terror.
Moreover, Pierre, having now poured out his soul, began to perceive the other side of the situation. He mentioned Macquart. How could they get rid of that blackguard? But Félicité, again fired with enthusiasm, exclaimed: “Oh! one can’t do everything at once. We’ll gag him, somehow. We’ll soon find some means or other.”
She was now walking to and fro, putting the arm-chairs in order, and dusting their backs. Suddenly, she stopped in the middle of the room, and gave the faded furniture a long glance.
“Good Heavens!” she said, “how ugly it is here! And we shall have everybody coming to call upon us!”
“Bah!” replied Pierre, with supreme indifference, “we’ll alter all that.”
He who, the night before, had entertained almost religious veneration for the arm-chairs and the sofa, would now have willingly stamped on them. Félicité, who felt the same contempt, even went so far as to upset an arm-chair which was short of a castor and did not yield to her quickly enough.
It was at this moment that Roudier entered. It at once occurred to the old woman that he had become much more polite. His “Monsieur” and “Madame” rolled forth in delightfully musical fashion. But the other habitués were now arriving one after the other; and the drawing-room was fast getting full. Nobody yet knew the full particulars of the events of the night, and all had come in haste, with wondering eyes and smiling lips, urged on by the rumours which were beginning to circulate through the town. These gentlemen who, on the previous evening, had left the drawing-room with such precipitation at the news of the insurgents’ approach, came back, inquisitive and importunate, like a swarm of buzzing flies which a puff of wind would have dispersed. Some of them had not even taken time to put on their braces. They were very impatient, but it was evident that Rougon was waiting for some one else before speaking out. He constantly turned an anxious look towards the door. For an hour there was only significant hand-shaking, vague congratulation, admiring whispering, suppressed joy of uncertain origin, which only awaited a word of enlightenment to turn to enthusiasm.
At last Granoux appeared. He paused for a moment on the threshold, with his right hand pressed to his breast between the buttons of his frock-coat; his broad pale face was beaming; in vain he strove to conceal his emotion beneath an expression of dignity. All the others became silent on perceiving him; they felt that something extraordinary was about to take place. Granoux walked straight up to Rougon, through two lines of visitors, and held out his hand to him.
“My friend,” he said, “I bring you the homage of the Municipal Council. They call you to their head, until our mayor shall be restored to us. You have saved Plassans. In the terrible crisis through which we are passing we want men who, like yourself, unite intelligence with courage. Come—”