A taper, stuck on
a piece of wood, illumined the strange scene with a flickering glimmer.
When Rougon had removed the covers of the three boxes, the spectacle
became weirdly grotesque. Above the fire-arms, whose barrels shown with
a bluish, phosphorescent glitter, were outstretched necks and heads that
bent with a sort of secret fear, while the yellow light of the taper
cast shadows of huge noses and locks of stiffened hair upon the walls.
However, the reactionary forces counted their numbers, and the smallness
of the total filled them with hesitation. They were only thirty-nine all
told, and this adventure would mean certain death for them. A father
of a family spoke of his children; others, without troubling themselves
about excuses, turned towards the door. Then, however, two fresh
conspirators arrived, who lived in the neighbourhood of the Town
Hall, and knew for certain that there were not more than about twenty
Republicans still at the mayor's. The band thereupon deliberated afresh.
Forty-one against twenty--these seemed practicable conditions. So the
arms were distributed amid a little trembling. It was Rougon who took
them from the boxes, and each man present, as he received his gun, the
barrel of which on that December night was icy cold, felt a sudden chill
freeze him to his bones. The shadows on the walls assumed the clumsy
postures of bewildered conscripts stretching out their fingers. Pierre
closed the boxes regretfully; he left there a hundred and nine guns
which he would willingly have distributed; however, he now had to divide
the cartridges.
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