Farther down the street was another line of policemen like the one that had prevented Rieux and Grand from advancing, and behind the line some of the local residents could be seen crossing and recrossing the street hastily. The street immediately in front of the house was quite empty and in the middle of the hollow square lay a hat and a piece of dirty cloth.
Looking more carefully, they saw more policemen, revolvers in hand, sheltering in doorways facing the house.
All the shutters in Grand’s house were closed, except one on the third floor that seemed to be hanging loose on one hinge only.
Not a sound could be heard in the street but for occasional snatches of music coming from the center of the town.
Suddenly two revolver-shots rang out; they came from one of the buildings opposite and some splinters flew off the dismantled shutter.
Then silence came again.
Seen from a distance, after the tumult of the day, the whole business seemed to Rieux fantastically unreal, like something in a dream.
“That’s Cottard’s window,” Grand suddenly exclaimed. “I can’t make it out. I thought he’d disappeared.”
“Why are they shooting?” Rieux asked the policeman.
“Oh, just to keep him busy.
We’re waiting for a car to come with the stuff that’s needed. He fires at anyone who tries to get in by the front door.
He got one of our men just now.”
“But why did he fire?”
“Ask me another!
Some folks were having fun in the street, and he let off at them.
They couldn’t make it out at first.
When he fired again, they started yelling, one man was wounded, and the rest took to their heels.
Some fellow out of his head, I should say.”
The minutes seemed interminable in the silence that had returned.
Then they noticed a dog, the first dog Rieux had seen for many months, emerging on the other side of the street, a draggled-looking spaniel that its owners had, presumably, kept in hiding.
It ambled along the wall, stopped in the doorway, sat down, and began to dig at its fleas.
Some of the policemen whistled for it to come away.
It raised its head, then walked out into the road and was sniffing at the hat when a revolver barked from the third-floor window.
The dog did a somersault like a tossed pancake, lashed the air with its legs, and floundered on to its side, its body writhing in long convulsions.
As if by way of reprisal five or six shots from the opposite house knocked more splinters off the shutter.
Then silence fell again.
The sun had moved a little and the shadow-line was nearing Cottard’s window.
There was a low squeal of brakes in the street, behind the doctor.
“Here they are,” the policeman said.
A number of police officers jumped out of the car and unloaded coils of rope, a ladder, and two big oblong packages wrapped in oilcloth.
Then they turned into a street behind the row of houses facing Grand’s.
A minute or so later there were signs of movement, though little could be seen, in the doorways of the houses.
Then came a short spell of waiting.
The dog had ceased moving; it now was lying in a small, dark, glistening pool.
Suddenly from the window of one of the houses that the police officers had entered from behind there came a burst of machine-gun fire.
They were still aiming at the shutter, which literally shredded itself away, disclosing a dark gap into which neither Grand nor Rieux could see from where they stood.
When the first machine-gun stopped firing, another opened up from a different angle, in a house a little farther up the street.
The shots were evidently directed into the window space, and a fragment of the brickwork clattered down upon the pavement.
At the same moment three police officers charged across the road and disappeared into the doorway. The machine-gun ceased fire.
Then came another wait.
Two muffled detonations sounded inside the house, followed by a confused hubbub growing steadily louder until they saw a small man in his shirt-sleeves, screaming at the top of his voice, being carried more than dragged out by the doorway.
As if at an expected signal all the shutters in the street flew open and excited faces lined the windows, while people streamed out of the houses and jostled the lines of police.
Rieux had a brief glimpse of the small man, on his feet now, in the middle of the road, his arms pinioned behind him by two police officers.
He was still screaming.
A policeman went up and dealt him two hard blows with his fists, quite calmly, with a sort of conscientious thoroughness.
“It’s Cottard!” Grand’s voice was shrill with excitement. “He’s gone mad!”
Cottard had fallen backwards, and the policeman launched a vigorous kick into the crumpled mass sprawling on the ground.
Then a small, surging group began to move toward the doctor and his old friend.
“Stand clear!” the policeman bawled.
Rieux looked away when the group, Cottard and his captors, passed him.