Thus ignominiously ordered out, they rebelled, and poured invectives upon their persecutor, who, I must admit, was not mute.
An infernal uproar arose. The rope dancer yelled, beating her sides. At last I resolved to intervene in behalf of my friends, Nazzarena’s friends. Suddenly, at the very moment when I was about to quit my post of observation to fly to the fray, my father, no doubt drawn by the uproar, appeared upon the scene. Without so much as opening his lips, with a single gesture—but how unanswerable!—he pointed to the entrance. And the whole roaring troop retreated, crowding between the two pillars that supported the gate, and fled, immediately and most astonishingly.
I was furious at so sudden and complete a rout. Since it was thus, I, by myself alone, would resist that authority which no one ever dared to brave. All my new-found enthusiasm again sweeping over me, I rushed to the stairs, flew down four steps at a time at the risk of carabossing myself, to overtake my beloved.
“Where are you going?” asked father, still at his post, and barring my way.
I was silent. My enthusiasm was already falling flat.
“Go back at once,” he went on. “I forbid you to go out.”
Unhesitatingly, but swelling with wrath, I went upstairs, gnawing my fists with rage. Was no one to resist him, then? I, too, like those others, had been immediately vanquished, overthrown, petrified, merely by having faced him. People think it is easy to revolt against the powers that be: I had just learned that that depends upon the character of the government. Again and again I went over Martinod’s insinuations. How true they were! He understood; he was a true friend!
I had only obeyed in appearance. I had hardly reached the tower when I began to listen for the sound of closing doors, and no sooner was I convinced that my father had gone back to his study than I furtively crept down and slipped out of the house. Once beyond the gate new courage inspired me: I straightened up and breathed freely. This time, I had no thought of taking a roundabout way, putting on airs of indifference, deceiving any whom I might meet, but ran by the shortest road to the Market Square. The gipsies were rolling up the tent, piling up the benches, the Sunday loiterers looking on with interest. This raising of the camp boded ill—I saw Nazzarena at last; she was gathering together the scattered household utensils. This was no time to be bashful: it called for heroic resolution. In the very face of all the spectators, most of whom doubtless knew the Rambert boy, I flew to my beloved, like one of the knights of my ballads. When she saw me she cast a heart-broken glance upon me.
“They drove us out of your garden,” she said before I had spoken a word.
How reply to this grievous statement? No doubt she included me among her persecutors.