“The blood-money! the blood-money!” she again and again repeated.  “I heard the gold.  And it is they, they who sold him.  Ah! the murderers!  They are a pack of wolves.”

Then she pushed her hair aback, and passed her hand over her brow, as though seeking to collect her thoughts.  And she continued:  “Ah!  I have long seen him with a bullet-hole in his forehead.  There were always people lying in wait for him with guns.  They used to sign to me that they were going to fire. . . .  It’s terrible!  I feel some one breaking my bones and battering out my brains.  Oh!  Mercy!  Mercy!  I beseech you; he shall not see her any more—­never, never!  I will shut him up.  I will prevent him from walking out with her.  Mercy!  Mercy!  Don’t fire.  It is not my fault.  If you knew——­”

She had almost fallen on her knees, and was weeping and entreating while she stretched her poor trembling hands towards some horrible vision which she saw in the darkness.  Then she suddenly rose upright, and her eyes opened still more widely as a terrible cry came from her convulsed throat, as though some awful sight, visible to her alone, had filled her with mad terror.

“Oh, the gendarme!” she said, choking and falling backwards on the bed, where she rolled about, breaking into long bursts of furious, insane laughter.

Pascal was studying the attack attentively.  The two brothers, who felt very frightened, and only detected snatches of what their mother said, had taken refuge in a corner of the room.  When Rougon heard the word gendarme, he thought he understood her.  Ever since the murder of her lover, the elder Macquart, on the frontier, aunt Dide had cherished a bitter hatred against all gendarmes and custom-house officers, whom she mingled together in one common longing for vengeance.

“Why, it’s the story of the poacher that she’s telling us,” he whispered.

But Pascal made a sign to him to keep quiet.  The stricken woman had raised herself with difficulty, and was looking round her, with a stupefied air.  She remained silent for a moment, endeavouring to recognise the various objects in the room, as though she were in some strange place.  Then, with a sudden expression of anxiety, she asked:  “Where is the gun?”

The doctor put the carbine into her hands.  At this she raised a light cry of joy, and gazed at the weapon, saying in a soft, sing-song, girlish whisper:  “That is it.  Oh!  I recognise it!  It is all stained with blood.  The stains are quite fresh to-day.  His red hands have left marks of blood on the butt.  Ah! poor, poor aunt Dide!”

Then she became dizzy once more, and lapsed into silent thought.

“The gendarme was dead,” she murmured at last, “but I have seen him again; he has come back.  They never die, those blackguards!”

Again did gloomy passion come over her, and, shaking the carbine, she advanced towards her two sons who, speechless with fright, retreated to the very wall.  Her loosened skirts trailed along the ground, as she drew up her twisted frame, which age had reduced to mere bones.