In these threats the mayor saw the extent of the Revolution and the priest martyrdom.
“We want some of the arms here,” said the former, to conciliate everybody.
“They are not mine but belong to the Duke of Orleans,” was the reply.
“Granted,” said Pitou, “but that does not prevent us asking for them all the same.”
“I will write to the prince,” said the pedagogue loftily.
“You forget that the delay will avail nothing,” interposed the mayor; “the duke is for the people and would reply that they ought to be given not only the muskets but the old cannon.”
This probability painfully struck the priest who groaned in Latin: “I am surrounded by foes.”
“Quite true, but these are merely political enemies,” observed Pitou; “we hate in you only the bad patriot.”
“Absurd and dangerous fool,” returned the priest, in excitement which gave him eloquence of a kind, “which is of us the better lover of his country, I who wish to keep cruel weapons in the shade, or you demanding them for civil strife and discord? which is the true son, I who seek palms to decorate our common mother, or you who hunt for the steel to rend her bosom?”
The mayor turned aside his head to hide his emotion, making a slight nod as much as to say: “That is very neatly put.” The deputy mayor, like another Tarquin, was cropping the flowers with his cane. Ange was set back, which caused his two companions to frown.