"If the Wolves want to see the Devourers," said Morok, "why not go and howl round the factory of the miscreant atheists? At the first howl of the Wolves they will come out, and give you battle."
"They will give you--battle," repeated Sleepinbuff, mechanically.
"Unless the Wolves are afraid of the Devourers," added Morok.
"Since you talk of fear, you shall go with us, and see who's afraid!"
cried the formidable blaster, and in a thundering voice, he advanced towards Morok.
A number of voices joined in with, "Who says the Wolves are afraid of the Devourers?"
"It would be the first time!"
"Battle! battle! and make an end of it!"
"We are tired of all this.Why should we be so miserable, and they so well off?"
"They have said that quarrymen are brutes, only fit to torn wheels in a shaft, like dogs to turn spits," cried an emissary of Baron Tripeaud's.
"And that the Devourers would make themselves caps with wolf-skin," added another.
"Neither they nor their wives ever go to mass.They are pagans and dogs!" cried an emissary of the preaching abbe.
"The men might keep their Sunday as they pleased; but their wives not to go to mass!--it is abominable.
"And, therefore, the curate has said that their factory, because of its abominations, might bring down the cholera to the country."
"True? he said that in his sermon."
"Our wives heard it."
"Yes, yes; down with the Devourers, who want to bring the cholera on the country!"
"Hooray, for a fight!" cried the crowd in chorus.
"To the factory, my brave Wolves!" cried Morok, with the voice of a Stentor; "on to the factory!"
"Yes! to the factory! to the factory!" repeated the crowd, with furious stamping; for, little by little, all who could force their way into the room, or up the stairs, had there collected together.
These furious cries recalling Jacques for a moment to his senses, he whispered to Morok: "It is slaughter you would provoke? I wash my hands of it."
"We shall have time to let them know at the factory.We can give these fellows the slip on the road," answered Morok.Then he cried aloud, addressing the host, who was terrified at this disorder: "Brandy!--let us drink to the health of the brave Wolves! I will stand treat." He threw some money to the host, who disappeared, and soon returned with several bottles of brandy, and some glasses.
"What! glasses?" cried Morok."Do jolly companions, like we are, drink out of glasses?" So saying, he forced out one of the corks, raised the neck of the bottle to his lips, and, having drunk a deep draught, passed it to the gigantic quarryman.
That's the thing!" said the latter."Here's in honor of the treat!--None but a sneak will refuse, for this stuff will sharpen the Wolves' teeth!"
"Here's to your health, mates!" said Morok, distributing the bottles.
"There will be blood at the end of all this," muttered Sleepinbuff, who, in spite of his intoxication, perceived all the danger of these fatal incitements.Indeed, a large portion of the crowd was already quitting the yard of the public-house, and advancing rapidly towards M.Hardy's factory.
Those of the workmen and inhabitants of the village, who had not chosen to take any part in this movement of hostility (they were the majority), did not make their appearance, as this threatening troop passed along the principal street; but a good number of women, excited to fanaticism by the sermons of the abbe, encouraged the warlike assemblage with their cries.At the head of the troop advanced the gigantic blaster, brandishing his formidable bar, followed by a motley mass, armed with sticks and stones.Their heads still warmed by their recent libations of brandy, they had now attained a frightful state of frenzy.Their countenances were ferocious, inflamed, terrible.This unchaining of the worst passions seemed to forbode the most deplorable consequences.
Holding each other arm-in-arm, and walking four or five together, the Wolves gave vent to their excitement in war-songs, which closed with the following verse:
"Forward! full of assurance!
Let us try our vigorous arms!
They have wearied out our prudence;
Let us show we've no alarms.
Sprung from a monarch glorious,[28]
To-day we'll not grow pale, Whether we win the fight, or fail, Whether we die, or are victorious!
Children of Solomon, mighty king, All your efforts together bring, Till in triumph we shall sing!"
Morok and Jacques had disappeared whilst the tumultuous troop were leaving the tavern to hasten to the factory.
[27] Let it be noted, to the working-man's credit, that such outrageous scenes become more and more rare as he is enlightened to the full consciousness of his worth.Such better tendencies are to be attributed to the just influence of an excellent tract on trades' union written by M.Agricole Perdignier, and published in 1841, Paris.This author, a joiner, founded at his own expense an establishment in the Faubourg St.
Antoine, where some forty or fifty of his trade lodged, and were given, after the day's work, a course of geometry, etc., applied to wood-
carving.We went to one of the lectures, and found as much clearness in the professor as attention and intelligence in the audience.At ten, after reading selections, all the lodgers retire, forced by their scanty wages to sleep, perhaps, four in a room.M.Perdignier informed us that study and instruction were such powerful ameliorators, that, during six years, he had only one of his lodgers to expel."In a few days, he remarked, "the bad eggs find out this is no place for them to addle sound ones!" We are happy to here reader public homage to a learned and upright man, devoted to his fellow-workmen.
[28] The Wolves (among others) ascribe the institution of their company to King Solomon.See the curious work by M.Agricole Perdignier, from which the war-song is extracted.
