The mere fact of bearing arms and handling guns excited people who hitherto had only handled weighing scales, and made them formidable to the first comer, without reason. They even executed a few innocent people to prove that they knew how to kill; and, in roaming through country places as yet innocent of Prussians, they shot stray dogs, cows chewing the cud in peace, or sick horses put out to pasture. Every man believed himself called upon to play a great role in military affairs. The cafés of the smallest villages, full of tradesmen in uniform, resembled barracks or field hospitals.
Now, the town of Canneville did not yet know the news of the army and the Capital, but a violent agitation had been disturbing it for a month, and the rival parties had confronted each other. The mayor, Vicomte de Varnetot, a small, thin man, already old, a Legitimist who had rallied recently to the Empire, spurred by ambition, had seen rising up against him a powerful adversary in Doctor Massarel, a stout, full-blooded man, head of the Republican party in the district, venerable chief of the Masonic lodge in the county town, president of the Society of Agriculture, chairman of the Fire Department banquet, and organizer of the rural militia which was to save the country.
In two weeks he had induced sixty-three married men and fathers of families to volunteer in defence of their country, prudent farmers and merchants of the town, and he drilled them every morning on the square in front of the town hall.
Whenever the mayor happened to appear at the local government building, Commander Massarel, covered with pistols, sword in hand, passing proudly up and down in front of his troops, would make them shout, “Long live our country!” And this, they noticed, disturbed the little Vicomte, who no doubt heard in it menace and defiance, and perhaps some odious recollection of the great Revolution.
On the morning of the fifth of September, in uniform, his revolver on the table, the doctor was giving a consultation to an old peasant couple of whom the husband had suffered with varicose veins for seven years, but who had waited until his wife had the same complaint before coming to see the doctor, when the postman arrived with the newspaper.
Doctor Massarel opened it, grew pale, straightened himself abruptly and, raising his arms to heaven in a gesture of exaltation, cried out with all his might, in the face of the amazed rustics:
“Long live the Republic! Long live the Republic! Long live the Republic!”
Then he dropped into his armchair weak with emotion.
When the peasant explained again that this sickness had begun with a feeling as if ants were running up and down in his legs, the doctor exclaimed: “Leave me in peace. I have no time to waste on such nonsense. The Republic is proclaimed! The Emperor is a prisoner! France is saved! Long live the Republic!” And, running to the door, he bellowed: “Céleste! Quick! Céleste!”
The frightened maid hastened in. He stuttered, so rapidly did he try to speak: “My boots, my sword—my cartridge box—and—the Spanish dagger, which is on my night table. Hurry now!”
The obstinate peasant, taking advantage of the moment’s silence, began again: “They became like knots that hurt me when I walked.”
The exasperated doctor shouted: “Shut up, for heaven’s sake! If you had washed your feet oftener, it would not have happened.” Then, seizing him by the neck, he hissed in his face: “Can’t you understand that we are living in a Republic, idiot?”
But a sense of his profession calmed him suddenly, and he let the astonished old couple out of the house, repeating:
“Come back tomorrow, come back tomorrow, my friends; I have no time today.”
While equipping himself from head to foot, he gave another series of urgent orders to the maid:
“Run to Lieutenant Picart’s and to Sublieutenant Pommel’s and tell them that I want them here immediately. Send Torchebeuf to me, too, with his drum. Quick, now! Quick!” And when Céleste was gone, he collected his thoughts and prepared to overcome the difficulties of the situation.
The three men arrived together. They were in their working clothes. The Commander, who had expected to see them in uniform, gave a start of surprise.
“Good Lord! You know nothing, then? The Emperor has been taken prisoner. A Republic is proclaimed. We must take action. My position is delicate, I might almost say perilous.”
He reflected for some minutes in the presence of his astonished subordinates and then continued:
“We must act without hesitation. Minutes now are worth hours in times like these. Everything depends upon promptness of decision. You, Picart, go and find the priest and order him to ring the bell to bring the people together, so that I can inform them. You, Torchebeuf, beat the call in every part of the district, as far as the hamlets of Gerisaie and Salmare, to assemble the militia in arms, in the square. You, Pommel, put on your uniform at once, that is, the jacket and cap. We, together, are going to take possession of the town hall and summon M. de Varnetot to transfer his authority to me. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Act, then, and promptly. I will accompany you to your house, Pommel, since we are to work together.”
Five minutes later, the Commandant and his subaltern, armed to the teeth, appeared in the square, just at the moment when the little Vicomte de Varnetot, wearing hunting gaiters, and with his rifle on his shoulder, came along by another street, walking rapidly and followed by three gamekeepers in green jackets, each carrying a knife at his side and a gun over his shoulder.
While the doctor stopped in amazement, the four men entered the town hall and the door closed behind them.
“We have been forestalled,” murmured the doctor. “Now we shall have to wait for reinforcements; nothing can be done for the time being.”
Lieutenant Picart reappeared: “The priest
