But he went quickly away, keeping his fingers apart, without thinking of washing them at the pump which he passed.  Since he had felt Rengade’s warm blood on his skin, he had been possessed by one idea, that of running to Aunt Dide’s and dipping his hands in the well-trough at the back of the little yard.  There only, he thought, would he be able to wash off the stain of that blood.  Moreover, all his calm, gentle childhood seemed to return to him; he felt an irresistible longing to take refuge in his grandmother’s skirts, if only for a minute.  He arrived quite out of breath.  Aunt Dide had not gone to bed, a circumstance which at any other time would have greatly surprised Silvere.  But on entering he did not even see his uncle Rougon, who was seated in a corner on the old chest.  He did not wait for the poor old woman’s questions.  “Grandmother,” he said quickly, “you must forgive me; I’m going to leave with the others.  You see I’ve got blood on me.  I believe I’ve killed a gendarme.”

“You’ve killed a gendarme?” Aunt Dide repeated in a strange voice.

Her eyes gleamed brightly as she fixed them on the red stains.  And suddenly she turned towards the chimney-piece.  “You’ve taken the gun,” she said; “where’s the gun?”

Silvere, who had left the weapon with Miette, swore to her that it was quite safe.  And for the very first time, Adelaide made an allusion to the smuggler Macquart in her grandson’s presence.

“You’ll bring the gun back?  You promise me!” she said with singular energy.  “It’s all I have left of him.  You’ve killed a gendarme; ah, it was the gendarmes who killed him!”

She continued gazing fixedly at Silvere with an air of cruel satisfaction, and apparently without thought of detaining him.  She never asked him for any explanation, nor wept like those good grandmothers who always imagine, at sight of the least scratch, that their grandchildren are dying.  All her nature was concentrated in one unique thought, to which she at last gave expression with ardent curiosity:  “Did you kill the gendarme with the gun?”

Either Silvere did not quite catch what she said, or else he misunderstood her.

“Yes!” he replied.  “I’m going to wash my hands.”

It was only on returning from the well that he perceived his uncle.  Pierre had turned pale on hearing the young man’s words.  Felicite was indeed right; his family took a pleasure in compromising him.  One of his nephews had now killed a gendarme!  He would never get the post of receiver of taxes, if he did not prevent this foolish madman from rejoining the insurgents.  So he planted himself in front of the door, determined to prevent Silvere from going out.

“Listen,” he said to the young fellow, who was greatly surprised to find him there.  “I am the head of the family, and I forbid you to leave this house.  You’re risking both your honour and ours.  To-morrow I will try to get you across the frontier.”