ived Justin's head just above the wall,
at the very spot where Miette had been wont to leap over.

Justin had been at the Porte de Rome, among the crowd, when the gendarme
had led the prisoners away. He had set off as fast as he could by way of
the Jas-Meiffren, in his eagerness to witness the execution. The thought
that he alone, of all the Faubourg scamps, would view the tragedy at
his ease, as from a balcony, made him run so quickly that he twice fell
down. And in spite of his wild chase, he arrived too late to witness the
first shot. He climbed the mulberry tree in despair; but he smiled when
he saw that Silvere still remained. The soldiers had informed him of
his cousin's death, and now the murder of the wheelwright brought his
happiness to a climax. He awaited the shot with that delight which the
sufferings of others always afforded him--a delight increased tenfold by
the horror of the scene, and a feeling of exquisite fear.

Silvere, on recognising that vile scamp's head all by itself above the
wall--that pale grinning face, with hair standing on end--experienced a
feeling of fierce rage, a sudden desire to live. It was the last revolt
of his blood--a momentary mutiny. He again sank down on his knees,
gazing straight before him. A last vision passed before his eyes in
the melancholy twilight. At the end of the path, at the entrance of the
Impasse Saint-Mittre, he fancied he could see aunt Dide standing erect,
white and rigid like the statue of a saint, while she witnessed his
agony from a distance.

At that moment he felt the cold pistol on his temple. There was a smile
on Justin's pale face. Closing his eyes, Silvere heard the long-departed
dead wildly summoning him. In the darkness, he now saw nothing save
Miette, wrapped in the banner, under the trees, with her eyes turned
towards heaven. Then the one-eyed man fired, and all was over; the lad's
skull burst open like a ripe pomegranate; his face fell upon the stone,
with his lips pressed to the spot which Miette's feet had worn--that
warm spot which still retained a trace of his dead love.

And in the evening at dessert, at the Rougons' abode, bursts of laughter
arose with the fumes from the table, which was still warm with the
remains of the dinner. At last the Rougons were nibbling at the
pleasures of the wealthy! Their appetites, sharpened by thirty years
of restrained desire, now fell to with wolfish teeth. These fierce,
insatiate wild beasts, scarcely e