Night came on. Toward nine o’clock, the doctor returned quietly and alone to the entrance to the town hall, persuaded that his adversary had retired. And, as he was trying to force an entrance with a few blows of a pickaxe, the loud voice of a sentry demanded suddenly: “Who goes there?” Monsieur Massarel beat a retreat at top speed.
Another day dawned without any change in the situation. The militia in arms occupied the square. The inhabitants stood around them, awaiting the solution. People from neighbouring villages came to look on. Finally, the doctor, realizing that his reputation was at stake, resolved to settle the thing in one way or another. He had just decided that it must be something energetic, when the door of the telegraph office opened and the little servant of the postmistress appeared, holding in her hand two papers.
First she went to the Commandant and gave him one of the dispatches; then, crossing the deserted centre of the square, intimidated by so many eyes fixed upon her, with lowered head and running steps, she rapped gently at the door of the barricaded house, as if unaware that a party of men in arms was concealed there.
The door opened slightly; the hand of a man received the message, and the girl returned, blushing and ready to weep, from being stared at by the whole countryside.
In vibrating tones the doctor shouted: “Silence, please.” And, when the populace became quiet, he continued proudly:
“Here is a communication which I have received from the Government.” And raising the telegram, he read:
“Old mayor recalled. Please attend to urgent matters. Instructions will follow.
“For the Subprefect,
He had triumphed. His heart was beating with joy. His hands were shaking. But Picart, his old subaltern, cried out to him from a neighbouring group: “That’s all right; but if the others in there won’t get out, that piece of paper will not do you much good.” M. Massarel turned pale. Supposing the others would not get out? He would now have to take the offensive. It was not only his right, but his duty. And he looked anxiously at the town hall, hoping that he might see the door open and his adversary retreat. But the door remained closed. What was to be done? The crowd was increasing, surrounding the militia. People were laughing.
One thought, especially, tortured the doctor. If he should make an assault, he must march at the head of his men; and as, once he were killed, there would be no opposition, it would be at him, and at him alone that M. de Varnetot and the three gamekeepers would aim. And their aim was good, very good! Picart had reminded him of that.
But an idea occurred to him, and turning to Pommel, he said: “Go, quickly, and ask the chemist to lend me a napkin and a pole.”
The Lieutenant hurried off. The doctor was going to make a political banner, a white one, that would, perhaps, rejoice the Legitimist heart of the old mayor.
Pommel returned with the piece of linen required, and a broom handle. With some pieces of string, they improvised a flag, which Massarel seized in both hands. Again, he advanced towards the town hall, bearing the standard before him. When in front of the door, he called out: “Monsieur de Varnetot!”
The door opened suddenly, and M. de Varnetot and his three gamekeepers appeared on the threshold. The doctor recoiled, instinctively. Then, he saluted his enemy courteously, and announced, almost strangled by emotion: “I have come, sir, to communicate to you the instructions I have just received.”
That gentleman, without any salutation whatever, replied: “I am going to withdraw, sir, but you must understand that it is not because of fear, or in obedience to an odious government that has usurped power.” And, biting off each word, he declared: “I do not wish to have the appearance of serving the Republic for a single day. That is all.”
Massarel, amazed, made no reply; and M. de Varnetot, walking off at a rapid pace, disappeared around the corner, followed closely by his escort. Then the doctor, mad with pride, returned to the crowd. When he was near enough to be heard, he cried: “Hurrah! Hurrah! The Republic triumphs all along the line!”
But no emotion was manifested. The doctor tried again: “The people are free! You are free and independent! Do you understand? Be proud of it!”
The listless villagers looked at him with eyes unlit by glory. In his turn, he looked at them, indignant at their indifference, seeking for some word that could make a grand impression, electrify this placid country and make good his mission. The inspiration came, and turning to Pommel, he said: “Lieutenant, go and get the bust of the ex-Emperor, which is in the Municipal Council Hall, and bring it to me with a chair.”
And soon the man reappeared, carrying on his right shoulder, Napoleon III in plaster, and holding in his left hand a straw-bottomed chair.
Massarel met him, took the chair, placed it on the ground, put the white image upon it, fell back a few steps and called out, in sonorous voice:
“Tyrant! Tyrant! At last you have fallen! Fallen in the dust and in the mire. An expiring country groaned beneath your foot. Avenging fate has struck you down. Defeat and shame cling to you. You fall conquered, a prisoner to the Prussians, and upon the ruins of the crumbling Empire the young and radiant Republic arises, picking up your broken sword.”
He awaited applause. But not a shout was raised, not a hand clapped. The bewildered peasants remained silent. And the bust, with its pointed moustaches extending beyond the cheeks on each side, the bust, as motionless and well groomed as a hairdresser’s sign, seemed to be looking at M. Massarel with a plaster smile, an ineffaceable and mocking smile.
They remained thus face to face, Napoleon on the chair, the doctor in front of him about three steps away. Suddenly the Commandant grew angry. What was to
