And now, in the room upstairs, Rougon ordered Macquart’s hands to be bound with the bands of the large green curtains which hung at the windows.  At this, Macquart, wild with rage, broke into scornful jeers.  “All right; go on,” he muttered.  “This evening or to-morrow, when the others return, we’ll settle accounts!”

This allusion to the insurrectionary forces sent a shudder to the victors’ very marrow; Rougon for his part almost choked.  His brother, who was exasperated at having been surprised like a child by these terrified bourgeois, who, old soldier that he was, he disdainfully looked upon as good-for-nothing civilians, defied him with a glance of the bitterest hatred.

“Ah!  I can tell some pretty stories about you, very pretty ones!” the rascal exclaimed, without removing his eyes from the retired oil merchant.  “Just send me before the Assize Court, so that I may tell the judge a few tales that will make them laugh.”

At this Rougon turned pale.  He was terribly afraid lest Macquart should blab then and there, and ruin him in the esteem of the gentlemen who had just been assisting him to save Plassans.  These gentlemen, astounded by the dramatic encounter between the two brothers, and, foreseeing some stormy passages, had retired to a corner of the room.  Rougon, however, formed a heroic resolution.  He advanced towards the group, and in a very proud tone exclaimed:  “We will keep this man here.  When he has reflected on his position he will be able to give us some useful information.”  Then, in a still more dignified voice, he went on:  “I will discharge my duty, gentlemen.  I have sworn to save the town from anarchy, and I will save it, even should I have to be the executioner of my nearest relative.”

One might have thought him some old Roman sacrificing his family on the altar of his country.  Granoux, who felt deeply moved, came to press his hand with a tearful countenance, which seemed to say:  “I understand you; you are sublime!” And then he did him the kindness to take everybody away, under the pretext of conducting the four other prisoners into the courtyard.

When Pierre was alone with his brother, he felt all his self-possession return to him.  “You hardly expected me, did you?” he resumed.  “I understand things now; you have been laying plots against me.  You wretched fellow; see what your vices and disorderly life have brought you to!”

Macquart shrugged his shoulders.  “Shut up,” he replied; “go to the devil.  You’re an old rogue.  He laughs best who laughs last.”

Thereupon Rougon, who had formed no definite plan with regard to him, thrust him into a dressing-room whither Monsieur Garconnet retired to rest sometimes.  This room lighted from above, had no other means of exit than the doorway by which one entered.  It was furnished with a few arm-chairs, a sofa, and a marble wash-stand.  Pierre double-locked the door, after partially unbinding his brother’s hands.  Macquart was then heard to throw himself on the sofa, and start singing the “Ca Ira” in a loud voice, as though he were trying to sing himself to sleep.