The omnibus had now stopped, and the crowd had surrounded the wounded man, and, strange to say, a policeman was soon on the spot. Still standing up, invoking the testimony of the people on the knife-board, who had also got up, to look over and see the wounded man, the coachman was explaining the matter, with exasperated gestures, choked by his increasing anger.
“It's something fearful. This fellow was walking in the middle of the road, quite at home. I called out, and he at once threw himself under the wheels!”
A house-painter, who had run up, brush in hand, from a neighbouring house, then said, in a sharp voice, amidst the clamour: “Don't excite yourself. I saw him, he threw himself under. He jumped in, head first. Another unfortunate tired of life, no doubt.”
Others spoke up, and all agreed upon it being a case of suicide, whilst the policeman pulled out his book and made his entry. Several ladies, very pale, got out quickly, and ran away without looking back, filled with horror by the soft shaking which had stirred them up when the omnibus passed over the body. Denise approached, attracted by a practical pity, which prompted her to interest herself in all sorts of street accidents, wounded dogs, horses down, and tilers falling off roofs. And she immediately recognised the unfortunate fellow who had fainted away, his clothes covered with mud.
“It's Monsieur Robineau,” cried she, in her grievous astonishment.
The policeman at once questioned the young girl, and she gave his name, profession, and address. Thanks to the driver's energy, the omnibus had twisted round, and thus only Robineau's legs had gone under the wheels, but it was to be feared that they were both broken. Four men carried the wounded draper to a chemist's shop in the Rue Gaillon, whilst the omnibus slowly resumed its journey.
“My stars!” said the driver, whipping up his horses, “I've done a famous day's work.”
Denise followed Robineau into the chemist's. The latter, waiting for a doctor who could not be found, declared there was no immediate danger, and that the wounded man had better be taken home, as he lived in the neighbourhood. A lad started off to the police-station to order a stretcher, and Denise had the happy thought of going on in front and preparing Madame Robineau for this frightful blow. But she had the greatest trouble in the world to get into the street through the crowd, which was struggling before the door. This crowd, attracted by death, was increasing every minute; men, women, and children stood on tip-toe, and held their own amidst a brutal pushing, and each new comer had his version of the accident, so that at last it was said to be a husband pitched out of the window by his wife's lover.
In the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs, Denise perceived Madame Robineau on the threshold of the silk warehouse. This gave her a pretext for stopping, and she talked on for a moment, trying to find a way of breaking the terrible news. The shop presented the disorderly, abandoned appearance of the last struggles of a dying business. It was the inevitable end of the great battle of the silks; the Paris Paradise had crushed its rival by a fresh reduction of a sou; it was now sold at four francs nineteen sous, Gaujean's silk had found its Waterloo. For the last two months Robineau, reduced to all sorts of shifts, had been leading a fearful life, trying to prevent a declaration of bankruptcy.
“I've just seen your husband pass through the Place Gaillon,” murmured Denise, who had now entered the shop.