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.

"It's you who fired!" she cried. "I heard the gold. . . . Wretched woman
that I am! . . . I brought nothing but wolves into the world--a whole
family--a whole litter of wolves! . . . There was only one poor lad,
and him they have devoured; each had a bite at him, and their lips are
covered with blood. . . . Ah! the accursed villains! They have robbed,
they have murdered. . . . And they live like gentlemen. Villains!
Accursed villains!"

She sang, laughed, cried, and repeated "accursed villains!" in strangely
sonorous tones, which suggested a crackling of a fusillade. Pascal, with
tears in his eyes, took her in his arms and laid her on the bed
again. She submitted like a child, but persisted in her wailing cries,
accelerating their rhythm, and beating time on the sheet with her
withered hands.

"That's just what I was afraid of," the doctor said; "she is mad. The
blow has been too heavy for a poor creature already subject, as she is,
to acute neurosis. She will die in a lunatic asylum like her father."

"But what could she have seen?" asked Rougon, at last venturing to quit
the corner where he had hidden himself.

"I have a terrible suspicion," Pascal replied. "I was going to speak to
you about Silvere when you came in. He is a prisoner. You must endeavour
to obtain his release from the prefect, if there is still time."

The old oil-dealer turned pale as he looked at his son. Then, rapidly,
he responded: "Listen to me; you stay here and watch her. I'm too busy
this evening. We will see to-morrow about conveying her to the lunatic
asylum at Les Tulettes. As for you, Macquart, you must leave this
very night. Swear to me that you will! I'm going to find Monsieur de
Bleriot."

He stammered as he spoke, and felt more