Rougon, having ordered
some food to be taken to him, went downstairs, quite worried by the
earnestness with which the rascal spoke of the return of the insurgents.
When he reached the street, his disquietude increased. The town seemed
to him quite altered. It was assuming a strange aspect; shadows were
gliding along the footpaths, which were growing deserted and silent,
while gloomy fear seemed, like fine rain, to be slowly, persistently
falling with the dusk over the mournful-looking houses. The babbling
confidence of the daytime was fatally terminating in groundless panic,
in growing alarm as the night drew nearer; the inhabitants were so weary
and so satiated with their triumph that they had no strength left but to
dream of some terrible retaliation on the part of the insurgents. Rougon
shuddered as he passed through this current of terror. He hastened his
steps, feeling as if he would choke. As he passed a cafe on the Place
des Recollets, where the lamps had just been lit, and where the petty
cits of the new town were assembled, he heard a few words of terrifying
conversation.
"Well! Monsieur Picou," said one man in a thick voice, "you've heard the
news? The regiment that was expected has not arrived."
"But nobody expected any regiment, Monsieur Touche," a shrill voice
replied.
"I beg your pardon. You haven't read the proclamation, then?"
"Oh yes, it's true the placards declare that order will be maintained by
force, if necessary.
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