"But I thought you fired," interrupted Felicite, recognising that the
story was wretchedly deficient in dramatic interest.
"Yes, yes, three shots," resumed the old hosier. "The pork-butcher
Dubruel, Monsieur Lievin, and Monsieur Massicot discharged their guns
with really culpable alacrity." And as there were some murmurs at this
remark; "Culpable, I repeat the word," he continued. "There are quite
enough cruel necessities in warfare without any useless shedding of
blood. Besides, these gentlemen swore to me that it was not their fault;
they can't understand how it was their guns went off. Nevertheless, a
spent ball after ricocheting grazed the cheek of one of the insurgents
and left a mark on it."
This graze, this unexpected wound, satisfied the audience. Which cheek,
right or left, had been grazed, and how was it that a bullet, a spent
one, even, could strike a cheek without piercing it? These points
supplied material for some long discussions.
"Meantime," continued Rougon at the top of his voice, without giving
time for the excitement to abate; "meantime we had plenty to do
upstairs. The struggle was quite desperate."
Then he described, at length, the arrival of his brother and the four
other insurgents, without naming Macquart, whom he simply called "the
leader." The words, "the mayor's office," "the mayor's arm-chair,"
"the mayor's writing table," recurred to him every instant, and in the
opinion of his audience imparted marvellous grandeur to the terrible
scene.
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