They glided away one by one, each anxious
to have the glory of being the first to know and relate everything, and
Felicite, as she leaned out of the window, on being left alone, saw
them dispersing in the Rue de la Banne, waving their arms in an excited
manner, eager as they were to diffuse emotion to the four corners of the
town.
It was ten o'clock, and Plassans, now wide awake, was running about the
streets, wildly excited by the reports which were circulating. Those who
had seen or heard the insurrectionary forces, related the most foolish
stories, contradicting each other, and indulging in the wildest
suppositions. The majority, however, knew nothing at all about the
matter; they lived at the further end of the town, and listened with
gaping mouths, like children to a nursery tale, to the stories of how
several thousand bandits had invaded the streets during the night and
vanished before daybreak like an army of phantoms. A few of the most
sceptical said: "Nonsense!" Yet some of the details were very precise;
and Plassans at last felt convinced that some frightful danger had
passed over it while it slept. The darkness which had shrouded this
danger, the various contradictory reports that spread, all invested the
matter with mystery and vague horror, which made the bravest shudder.
Whose hand had diverted the thunderbolt from them? There seemed to
be something quite miraculous about it. There were rumours of unknown
deliverers, of a handful of brave men who had cut off the hydra's head;
but no one seemed acquainted with the exact particulars, and the whole
story appeared scarcely credible, until the company from the yellow
drawing-room spread through the streets, scattering tidings, ever
repeating the same narrative at each door they came to.
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