Then, in the morning he began to gather pebbles and plants along the high road.  He regretted that he had not brought his geologist’s hammer and botanical wallet with him.  His pockets were now so full of stones that they were almost bursting, while bundles of long herbs peered forth from the surgeon’s case which he carried under his arm.

“Hallo!  You here, my lad?” he cried, as he perceived Silvere.  “I thought I was the only member of the family here.”

He spoke these last words with a touch of irony, as if deriding the intrigues of his father and his uncle Antoine.  Silvere was very glad to meet his cousin; the doctor was the only one of the Rougons who ever shook hands with him in the street, and showed him any sincere friendship.  Seeing him, therefore, still covered with dust from the march, the young man thought him gained over to the Republican cause, and was much delighted thereat.  He talked to the doctor, with youthful magniloquence, of the people’s rights, their holy cause, and their certain triumph.  Pascal smiled as he listened, and watched the youth’s gestures and the ardent play of his features with curiosity, as though he were studying a patient, or analysing an enthusiasm, to ascertain what might be at the bottom of it.

“How you run on!  How you run on!” he finally exclaimed.  “Ah! you are your grandmother’s true grandson.”  And, in a whisper, he added, like some chemist taking notes:  “Hysteria or enthusiasm, shameful madness or sublime madness.  It’s always those terrible nerves!” Then, again speaking aloud, as if summing up the matter, he said:  “The family is complete now.  It will count a hero among its members.”

Silvere did not hear him.  He was still talking of his dear Republic.  Miette had dropped a few paces off; she was still wrapped in her large red pelisse.  She and Silvere had traversed the town arm-in-arm.  The sight of this tall red girl at last puzzled Pascal, and again interrupting his cousin, he asked him:  “Who is this child with you?”

“She is my wife,” Silvere gravely answered.

The doctor opened his eyes wide, for he did not understand.  He was very shy with women; however, he raised his hat to Miette as he went away.

The night proved an anxious one.  Forebodings of misfortune swept over the insurgents.  The enthusiasm and confidence of the previous evening seemed to die away in the darkness.  In the morning there were gloomy faces; sad looks were exchanged, followed by discouraging silence.  Terrifying rumours were now circulating.  Bad news, which the leaders had managed to conceal the previous evening, had spread abroad, though nobody in particular was known to have spoken.  It was the work of that invisible voice, which, with a word, throws a mob into a panic.  According to some reports Paris was subdued, and the provinces had offered their hands and feet, eager to be bound.  And it was added that a large party of troops, which had left Marseilles