Lequeu now violently tore the door open and disappeared. A yell from the stupefied peasants followed him. The scoundrel! He wanted bleeding! A man who had always been so pacific and quiet! Surely he must be going mad! Delhomme, who had quite lost his habitual placidity, declared his intention of writing to the prefect, and the others pressed him to do so. However, it was Hyacinthe, with his '89 and his humanitarian motto of "Liberty, equality, and fraternity," and Canon, with his schemes for the compulsory and scientific reorganisation of society, who appeared the most indignant. They sat there with pale faces, exasperated at not having been able to find a word to say in reply, and now expressing themselves in much stronger terms than the peasants did; bellowing out, in fact, that a fellow of that sort ought to be guillotined. Buteau, upon hearing the orator demand so much blood—flowing streams of blood to which he seemed to point with his finger—had risen from his seat in trembling alarm, his head wagging involuntarily from nervous excitement, just as though he were signifying approval of what was being said. Then he glided along the wall, casting furtive glances to make sure that he was not being followed, and on reaching the door, he, too, disappeared.
The conscripts now reverted to their uproarious merriment again. They were bellowing loudly, and insisting upon Flore cooking them some sausages, when Nénesse suddenly hustled them aside and sprang over a bench to reach Delphin, who had just fainted away, with his face lying on the table. The poor fellow was as white as a sheet. His handkerchief, which had slipped off his wounded hand, was covered with crimson stains. The conscripts yelled into Bécu's ear, for he was still hard asleep; but at last he awoke, and gazed at his son's mutilated hand. He knew what it meant, for, seizing hold of a bottle, he brandished it as if anxious to kill the lad. Then, as he led him, tottering, away, he could be heard indulging in noisy oaths, amid which he burst into tears.
Hourdequin, having heard of Françoise's accident while he was dining, repaired to Rognes that evening, prompted by his kindly feeling for Jean, to inquire how the young woman was getting on. Setting out on foot, he smoked his pipe as he walked along through the black darkness, brooding over his troubles and vexations amid the unbroken silence of the night. Feeling at last somewhat calmer, and wishing to prolong his walk, he went down the hill before calling at his old servant's house. When he reached the foot of the declivity, the sound of Lequeu's voice, which streamed forth from the open window of the tavern, penetrating the darkness of the surrounding country, made him halt, and he remained listening for a long time, standing motionless in the gloom. When he at length began to ascend the hill again, the schoolmaster's voice followed him, and even when he reached Jean's house, he could still hear it, sounding weaker, and seemingly shriller in the distance, but still as sharply incisive as the keen edge of a knife.
Jean was standing at his door, leaning against the wall. He had not been able to remain any longer at Françoise's bedside. He felt suffocated there, and altogether too miserable.
"Well, my poor fellow," Hourdequin now asked, "how is your wife?"
The unhappy man broke into a gesture of despair.
"Ah, sir, she's dying!"
Then neither of them said another word; and the deep silence around them was only broken by the distant sound of Lequeu's voice, which still persistently rang out.
The farmer could not help listening, despite himself, and presently he angrily exclaimed: