And
thereupon he hastened at full speed along the deserted streets, fancying
that a bloody fist was pursuing him.
"There are four of them on the ground," he said, as he entered his
house.
He and his wife looked at one another as though they were astonished at
their crime.
The lamplight imparted the hue of yellow wax to their pale faces.
"Have you left them there?" asked Felicite; "they must be found there."
"Of course! I didn't pick them up. They are lying on their backs. I
stepped on something soft----"
Then he looked at his boot; its heel was covered with blood. While he
was putting on a pair of shoes, Felicite resumed:
"Well! so much the better! It's over now. People won't be inclined to
repeat that you only fire at mirrors."
The fusillade which the Rougons had planned in order that they might
be finally recognised as the saviours of Plassans, brought the whole
terrified and grateful town to their feet. The day broke mournfully
with the grey melancholy of a winter-morning. The inhabitants, hearing
nothing further, ventured forth, weary of trembling beneath their
sheets. At first some ten or fifteen appeared. Later on, when a rumour
spread that the insurgents had taken flight, leaving their dead in
every gutter, Plassans rose in a body and descended upon the town-hall.
Throughout the morning people strolled inquisitively round the four
corpses. They were horribly mutilated, particularly one, which had three
bullets in the head.
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