Towards one o’clock the three thousand men began to eat, squatting on the ground, with their weapons between their legs.  The market-place and the neighbourhood of the town-hall were turned into vast open-air refectories.  In spite of the bitter cold, humorous sallies were exchanged among the swarming multitude, the smallest groups of which showed forth in the brilliant moonlight.  The poor famished fellows eagerly devoured their portions while breathing on their fingers to warm them; and, from the depths of adjoining streets, where vague black forms sat on the white thresholds of the houses, there came sudden bursts of laughter.  At the windows emboldened, inquisitive women, with silk handkerchiefs tied round their heads, watched the repast of those terrible insurgents, those blood-suckers who went in turn to the market pump to drink a little water in the hollows of their hands.

While the town-hall was being invaded, the gendarmes’ barracks, situated a few steps away, in the Rue Canquoin, which leads to the market, had also fallen into the hands of the mob.  The gendarmes were surprised in their beds and disarmed in a few minutes.  The impetus of the crowd had carried Miette and Silvere along in this direction.  The girl, who still clasped her flagstaff to her breast, was pushed against the wall of the barracks, while the young man, carried away by the human wave, penetrated into the interior, and helped his comrades to wrest from the gendarmes the carbines which they had hastily caught up.  Silvere, waxing ferocious, intoxicated by the onslaught, attacked a big devil of a gendarme named Rengade, with whom for a few moments he struggled.  At last, by a sudden jerk, he succeeded in wresting his carbine from him.  But the barrel struck Rengade a violent blow in the face, which put his right eye out.  Blood flowed, and, some of it splashing Silvere’s hands, quickly brought him to his senses.  He looked at his hands, dropped the carbine, and ran out, in a state of frenzy, shaking his fingers.

“You are wounded!” cried Miette.

“No, no,” he replied in a stifled voice, “I’ve just killed a gendarme.”

“Is he really dead?” asked Miette.

“I don’t know,” replied Silvere, “his face was all covered with blood.  Come quickly.”

Then he hurried the girl away.  On reaching the market, he made her sit down on a stone bench, and told her to wait there for him.  He was still looking at his hands, muttering something at the same time.  Miette at last understood from his disquieted words that he wished to go and kiss his grandmother before leaving.

“Well, go,” she said; “don’t trouble yourself about me.  Wash your hands.”