Complete Works of Emile Zola (83 page)

While these murmurs were increasing, four delegates left the ranks and asked to be taken to the Commissary of the Government, as had been arranged the day before. They had hardly disappeared behind the line of soldiers when an irreparable event occurred attended by most sanguinary consequences.

When those at the tail of the column heard talk of troops under arms, bayonets and massacre, they apparently thought that those on ahead were being slaughtered, and began to push furiously forward.

Under the impulse of the irresistible movement of this mass of men, the group surrounding Philippe were compelled to advance a few steps. With their arms crossed over their breasts, to show they had no intention of making an attack, and that they were simply yielding to pressure from behind, the workmen arrived in this way before the soldiers. An officer seeing them approach lost his head and abruptly gave the command to lower bayonets. And the bright sharp weapons came down and faced the people.

A desperate attempt was made to retire. Philippe and those around him threw themselves backward endeavouring to stem the enormous, crushing crowd that were pushing them on to death. But this living wall could not be resisted. It advanced solid as a wall of stone. The workmen forcibly, fatally, reached the points of the bayonets which the soldiers held ready for them. They saw these points at their breasts and felt them enter, little by little, into their flesh.

It is related that while the general commanding made a despairing gesture and ordered the bayonets to be raised a clear voice was heard to shout from the Place Saint Ferréol: “Stick those ruffians! Stick them!” And, from the windows of a neighbouring aristocratic club, well dressed gentlemen applauded at the sight of the people’s blood flowing, as if they had been in a box at a theatre and were amused at the by-play of an actor.

The workmen, at the first bayonet wounds, uttered cries of rage and terror. This crowd which had hitherto been silent, became mad at being attacked without any legal warning. It had only its fists to protect it against the muskets by which it was threatened.

Philippe was not wounded thanks to Marius, who held him back at the moment when he was committing the folly of throwing himself forward with clenched fists. A few workmen around him were slightly hurt. One only had his arm run through.

At the general’s word of command, the soldiers had raised their bayonets and retired step by step, but the crowd had suddenly stopped on realizing the fact that it was without arms. A shudder ran through the column from one end to the other. All at once it disbanded, rushing into the cross streets with the cry: “Vengeance! Vengeance! They are murdering our brothers!”

For an instant there was a terrible noise; then the clamour died away: the workmen went off in search of arms, calling for assistance, spreading terror and anger in each street and always uttering the painful and formidable cry: “They are murdering our brothers! Vengeance! Vengeance!”

At that moment M. de Cazalis and Mathéus were descending the Cours Bonaparte. The sullen rumble that they heard was the rush of the mob. Mathéus understood that here was a rupture and joyfully rubbed his hands. To ascertain the truth he stopped a peaceful bourgeois who was flying in terror, impatient to shut himself up at home.

“Oh! sir,” he stammered out in answer to the inquiry, “they are killing one another over there. The soldiers have charged the people, and the people will set fire to the city, that’s sure.”

And he fled, fancying he saw the flames behind him.

“Well! What did I tell you?” said Mathéus to M. de Cazalis, “I knew very well we should be able to take advantage of circumstances. Here we are in the midst of a revolution. We must attend to our little business.”

“What are you going to do?” asked the ex-deputy in an undertone.

“Oh! what I am going to do is very simple. Now the people are mad, I can lead them along as I like. It will suffice if they fight at the place I shall take them to.”

And as M. de Cazalis did not understand but gave him an inquiring look, the spy added:

“Trust to me. I have not time to explain all to you. A final word: I advise you to take advantage of your disguise to mix with a company of National Guards. If you see a barricade anywhere, march with the troops that attack it.”

“Why?”

“Didn’t you tell me you were impatient and curious? Then do what I tell you: you will be in the first row.”

Mathéus chuckled and looking his master straight in the face, continued:

“You understand, you might find Philippe at the end of the barrel of your musket. Don’t go and miss him; and no bad joke, don’t fire at me so as to free yourself of my personality. That’s understood. When the barricade is taken I’ll show you how I work.”

Mathéus hurried rapidly away. He was impatient to go and embroil matters. As he followed the Rue Grignan to enter the Rue Saint Ferréol and mix with the retiring workmen, he saw two men talking together on the pavement, and recognised Marius and Philippe.

“Wait, wait,” he murmured as he ran along, “I think I shall be able to make you come and fight with us.”

Marius was beseeching Philippe not to compromise himself any further. He reminded him of his son, of the happiness of all of them, and as his brother showed signs of impatience he exclaimed:

“Well! So let it be! let us not speak of ourselves. But do you not see that the insurrection which is about to break out cannot succeed? The desire of a good patriot should be to avoid the effusion of blood, when fighting is contrary to the interests of all. I think I serve the country better than you, by preaching peace.”

“They have tried to murder our brothers,” answered Philippe, in a sullen voice, “we must have vengeance. We did not commence. Look here, shall I tell you? We don’t want any more of this bourgeois Republic; we want a Republic of our own, a Republic of the people. Don’t answer, it’s useless. If the people fight, I shall fight.”

“But, unfortunate being that you are! you are ruining yourself and your friends themselves by encouraging them with your presence, by leading them to certain imprisonment. Remember what M. Martelly told you.”

Marius, for more than a quarter of an hour, endeavoured to influence his brother with arguments such as these, but the latter stood there with cloudy brow and sparkling eyes, and hardly listened to him. All at once Philippe seized his arm and compelled him to be silent. The sharp crack of musketry was heard at the bottom of the Rue Saint Ferréol.

“Do you hear?” he exclaimed, excitedly, “they’re firing on unarmed men who ask for justice! And you wish me to stand by quietly, while that is going on, you want me to be a coward!”

He went a few steps; then, turning round, continued more softly.

“If I’m killed you’ll watch over Joseph. Adieu!”

Marius hastened to join him.

“I’ll go with you,” he said quietly.

The two young men descended the Rue Saint Ferréol in all haste. On reaching the Rue Vacon, they heard the firing on their right and proceeded rapidly to the Rue de Rome. There, they were in the midst of the battle.

Mathéus, on mixing with the workmen had begun to shout for vengeance louder than the others, and thus gathered a group of the most hot-headed round him. This party descended the Rue Saint Ferréol singing the Marseillaise, and ended by stopping at the corner of the Rue Pizançon, to listen to Mathéus, who demanded silence with a motion of the hand.

“My friends,” he said, “it’s stupid to sing, we must act. If we run about the streets in this way we shall meet with soldiers who will either kill us or make us prisoners.”

The crowd uttered a cry of rage.

“Let us avenge our brothers,” resumed Mathéus. “Blood calls for blood.”

“Yes, yes!” howled the workmen. “To the barricades! to the barricades!”

At that moment Mathéus glanced towards the upper part of the street and perceived a company of National Guards advancing with a heavy tread.

“You see, brothers,” he exclaimed, “they are sending these men to massacre us. We will defend ourselves to the last!”

The people were intoxicated, they shook their fists at the National Guards and looked for stones to throw at them.

“No, not here, we could not hold out for five minutes,” said Mathéus. “Come!”

The workmen followed him. They wanted a chief and they chose this man because he spoke of massacre. They ran to the Rue de Rome. Just then three large empty carts were passing along the street. The spy sprang to the head of the first horse, and notwithstanding the carter’s cries ordered his men to unharness it. Then, when that was done, he said to the driver:

“Take away your horses. The people want the carts. They’ll pay you if they conquer.”

Turning towards the crowd he pointed to the Rue de la Palud which faced them and added:

“Quick, shove these carts along and turn them over on the side, across this street. Search in the adjoining shops and see if you can’t find something to add to the barricade.”

In five minutes the obstruction was raised. It was only composed of three carts and a few empty barrels which had been found in a neighbouring cellar. It was foolish to think seriously of defending themselves there. But the rioters were mad with irritation, they did not even trouble to reflect that they had no arms, and were about to be riddled with bullets without being able to respond.

Mathéus silently enjoyed the fun. At the bottom of his heart he was not sorry to get some of his good friends, the workmen, killed, for they had been wearying him profoundly during the past four months with their humanitarian speeches. Besides, there must be at least one corpse in order for his plans to be successful, and for that reason he had taken care that the barricade should be full of holes so that the bullets might pass through it.

A deathlike silence reigned around. The workmen, lying flat on the ground, waited. All of a sudden, they heard the heavy, measured tread of a company advancing in the Rue de Rome. Then only did they remember that they had no arms. Furiously they, commenced tearing the stones out of the road: flat, sharp stones that would play terrible havoc.

The heavy, measured tread became more and more distinct. At last, the company which the workmen had already seen behind them, appeared at the corner of the Rue de Rome. Captain Sauvaire who was marching at the head, stopped anxiously before the barricade. At the same moment a shower of stones fell on the National Guards. Men were wounded and the captain’s shako was smashed in with a large flint.

The company retreated a few steps at this sudden attack. Stones continued to arrive falling one by one into the body of men with dull thuds. Then a police commissary left the ranks and read aloud the three, legal summonses to disperse, amidst profound silence. The rioters, who had expended all their store of stones were again lying down tearing up the road and preparing for the struggle, without even listening to the summonses.

As they rose, the police commissary withdrew, the muzzles of the muskets were lowered and a shower of bullets passed over the barricade. They had only just time to stoop down, to hide in the recesses of the doorways, anywhere, in fact, where they could find shelter. None of them were wounded. Their rage was such that they did not think of flight; they continued throwing stones, hiding themselves as best they could. The badly-aimed shots passed over their heads or were lost at the base of the barricade.

Mathéus had prudently found shelter behind a huge cask. From there he encouraged his men, furious at the clumsiness of the National Guards and endeavouring to place the workmen in the line of fire.

He murmured between his teeth:

“You’ll see that not one of those wretches will get killed!”

He was not without feeling a certain terror. He knew better than anyone that the barricade would be captured as soon as the National Guards chose, and he disliked falling into their hands, as that would have put a sudden stop to the exploits he meditated. He wanted a corpse, nothing more: after that he would fly as fast as his legs could carry him. The misfortune was that none of the rioters seemed disposed to get killed.

For five long minutes he remained behind his cask, sweating with fear and anxiety. The firing continued, causing splinters of wood to fly about and riddling the carts with bullets. The workmen did not dare leave their hiding place. At last one of them decided to risk his presence in the middle of the street to gather a new lot of stones. He slid along behind the barricade, taking advantage of every bit of shelter.

Mathéus followed his movements with glittering eyes. He felt this man would be the victim he so much desired.

“Here’s my man,” he thought. “If he passes in front of that gap, which I took care to leave open, he will be shot down.”

He had noticed that during the last few moments, bullets had been pouring through the aperture in question. As the workman had quietly set about tearing up paving stones, he beckoned him with energetic gestures to approach. The man, without the least distrust, thinking the chief had something important to tell him, began crawling along slowly behind the barricade. The time came when he found himself opposite the breach. Eight or ten bullets entered his body and laid him low. He struggled atrociously, then remained quiet, with his face towards the earth.

Then, Mathéus uttered a terrible cry, and all the rioters dashed into the middle of the street howling with exasperation. The National Guards ceased firing, thinking that those who were at the barricade yielded. The spy took advantage of that circumstance to carry off the corpse. He called for assistance, placed the dead body on the workmen’s shoulders and crying aloud for vengeance, put himself at their head.

“To arms! let the people know that the Guard fires upon unarmed men. To arms! to arms! They are murdering our brothers!”

And in a low undertone he said to himself:

“I have my corpse, the people will fight.”

The party he was leading fled by the Rue de la Palud, and their retreat was marked by their cries, as they bore away the body of their dead brother like a standard of horror and revolt.

It was at that moment that Marius and Philippe arrived at the scene of the encounter. They found the company of National Guards stationed in the middle of the Rue de Rome among the remains of the three carts, looking very much embarrassed at their victory; for they had imagined they had to deal with at least a hundred men, and were quite confused on ascertaining that for nearly a quarter of an hour, they had been keeping up a brisk fire against only about a dozen poor wretches. They felt the horrible and sanguinary absurdity of their mistake.