In the meantime, Rougon’s triumph was beginning to embarrass him.  Alone in Monsieur Garconnet’s office, hearing the buzzing of the crowd, he became conscious of a strange feeling, which prevented him from showing himself on the balcony.  That blood, in which he had stepped, seemed to have numbed his legs.  He wondered what he should do until the evening.  His poor empty brain, upset by the events of the night, sought desperately for some occupation, some order to give, or some measure to be taken, which might afford him some distraction.  But he could think about nothing clearly.  Whither was Felicite leading him?  Was it really all finished now, or would he still have to kill somebody else?  Then fear again assailed him, terrible doubts arose in his mind, and he already saw the ramparts broken down on all sides by an avenging army of the Republicans, when a loud shout:  “The insurgents!  The insurgents!” burst forth under the very windows of his room.  At this he jumped up, and raising a curtain, saw the crowd rushing about the square in a state of terror.  What a thunderbolt!  In less than a second he pictured himself ruined, plundered, and murdered; he cursed his wife, he cursed the whole town.  Then, as he looked behind him in a suspicious manner, seeking some means of escape, he heard the mob break out into applause, uttering shouts of joy, making the very glass rattle with their wild delight.  Then he returned to the window; the women were waving their handkerchiefs, and the men were embracing each other.  There were some among them who joined hands and began to dance.  Rougon stood there stupefied, unable to comprehend it all, and feeling his head swimming.  The big, deserted, silent building, in which he was alone, quite frightened him.

When he afterwards confessed his feelings to Felicite, he was unable to say how long his torture had lasted.  He only remembered that a noise of footsteps, re-echoing through the vast halls, had roused him from his stupor.  He expected to be attacked by men in blouses, armed with scythes and clubs, whereas it was the Municipal Commission which entered, quite orderly and in evening dress, each member with a beaming countenance.  Not one of them was absent.  A piece of good news had simultaneously cured all these gentlemen.  Granoux rushed into the arms of his dear president.

“The soldiers!” he stammered, “the soldiers!”

A regiment had, in fact, just arrived, under the command of Colonel Masson and Monsieur de Bleriot, prefect of the department.  The gunbarrels which had been observed from the ramparts, far away in the plain, had at first suggested the approach of the insurgents.  Rougon was so deeply moved on learning the truth, that two big tears rolled down his cheeks.  He was weeping, the great citizen!  The Municipal Commission watched those big tears with most respectful admiration.  But Granoux again threw himself on his friend’s neck, crying: 

“Ah! how glad I am!  You know I’m a straightforward man.  Well, we were all of us afraid; it is not so, gentlemen?  You, alone, were great, brave, sublime!  What energy you must have had!  I was just now saying to my wife:  ‘Rougon is a great man; he deserves to be decorated.’”