A violent clamour, coming from the direction of the town, cut short the conversation. A light shone in the sky. Songs, at the same time as a dull tramp of a marching band, were heard on the road. And the workmen’s Marseillaise, shouted out by hundreds of voices, again broke the silence. On leaving the inn the workmen, accompanied by their wives, were marching through the sleeping town, hurling out against the startled citizens threats of revolt and violence. Marcel and his uncle Graff, halting there in the garden, listened, and watched the shouting mob as it passed by, waving in the air torches made of pine branches. It was the smoke and flame hovering above a crowd which was hurling imprecations against the masters.
Uncle Graff pointed to the street, and said—
“You hear what these people are saying. ‘All the masters shall be strung up!’ And yet there is not one of them who, were he ill or infirm, would not have the right to rely on us to mitigate his suffering. We have given them workmen’s dwellings where they are lodged, schools where their children are educated, hospitals where they are treated with every attention when ill, and co-operative societies where they may buy everything at cheap rates. There is only the public-house we have been unwilling to give them, and it is there they go, to become filled with sentiments of hatred against us! It is alcohol which is their master, and he is a pitiless tyrant who will give them no mercy!”
The end of the column had just passed. Whether it was that they had seen the two men in the garden, or they simply wished to fling to the winds their cries of rebellion and rancour, these latter, the most intoxicated and miserable of them all, screamed forth in a shrill chorus, “Down with the masters! Down with exploiters!” Then silence was restored by degrees. Uncle Graff sadly shook his head, and said—
“Come along, exploiter, let us turn in!”
And they made their way towards the house.
The following morning Uncle Graff was up early. He hunted up Cardez, to come to some arrangement with him; Marcel made his way to the laboratory. He had promised the powder formula, and he wished to draw it up at his leisure, As he entered he found Baudoin arranging the chemical utensils. He admired the unwonted order reigning in the capharnaum.
“Ah, that is better!” said he; “here is a room which has not been so clean for several weeks. The dust cannot know what it all means to be disturbed in this way. But you must take care, Baudoin, not to touch a single product. There are some very dangerous ones here.”
“Ah, sir, I know all about them; I handled any quantity of products during my poor General’s lifetime. I always obeyed the orders he gave me. And after what has taken place at Vanves, I am not likely to risk handling them.”
“You have been sleeping in the summer-house, Baudoin?”