“That old lady will set fire to her house, and the whole block of buildings will be burnt: it’s all wood.”
Nobody heeded these words, nobody attempted to soothe his ridiculous apprehensions. Dr. Fornerol rose painfully to his feet, stretched the wearied muscles of his arms with an effort, and went off on his round of visits through the town.
M. de Terremondre put on his gloves and took a step towards the door. Then, perceiving a tall withered figure which was crossing the square in stiff, abrupt strides:
“Here,” said he, “is General Cartier de Chalmot. I hope the préfet won’t meet him.”
“And why not?” demanded M. Bergeret.
“Because these meetings are by no means pleasant for M. Worms-Clavelin. Last Sunday our préfet, while driving by in a victoria, caught sight of General Cartier de Chalmot, who was walking with his wife and daughters. Lolling back in his carriage, with his hat on his head, he saluted the gallant veteran with a little wave of his hand and a ‘Good-day, good-day, general!’ The general reddened with anger. For the unassuming are always violent in their anger. General Chalmot was beside himself. He was terrible. Before all the promenaders he imitated M. Worms-Clavelin’s familiar salute and shouted at him in a voice of thunder: ‘Good-day, good-day, préfet!’”
“There is perfect silence now in Queen Marguerite’s house,” said M. Paillot.
XIII
