The twelfth stroke of midnight was sounding on the factory clock when a terrible explosion was heard, and the house, full of light and the odours of the entertainment so rudely interrupted, was blown into the air and fell in a heap of ruins.
There was a frightful panic and flight. The street, but a few moments before so full of cheerful sounds, became suddenly silent, as if death had taken the place of life there.
At a short distance, one woman alone remained—a woman with an infant in her arms and three other children clinging to her skirt.
This woman, followed by her children, advanced.
One gaslight only was burning in the street, lighting the immense hecatomb and casting its trembling rays upon the body of a man.
She wished to reach this body, to see whether she recognised it—praying to God that it might be him, preferring rather to know that he was dead than a living assassin.
A glance sufficed, and, hiding her face, forcing back the tears that were swelling her bosom to bursting, she drew her children to her and fell upon her knees.
Through its windows the little workmen's church of the quarter seemed to be on fire, and the bells pealed out with their utmost power of sound, calling the faithful to the midnight service. But in the higher part of the town the news of the explosion had spread with immense rapidity, and presently an ever-growing crowd gathered from all points, manifesting terror and indignation.
The body of the man was examined and identified.
"Jacques Houdaille, the Anarchist!" was cried on all sides.