“Upon my invitation? I beg you will not refuse,” returns Andoche, with mock politeness. “As a soldier and gentleman, however, I will have the grace to excuse you should you insist.”
The Mayor, Parjeau, and others refuse, and the blacksmith turns to join his companion, Fadard. The fair progresses, the business transactions being concluded with more celerity as the heat becomes more intense. The sun tortures the animals like the close heat of a furnace fire. Those that by fortunate chance are near wells or ponds can leap in and cool themselves in the water, but the rest—that is to say, ninety per cent. of them—raise their parched heads toward heaven as if seeking some rain-cloud to refresh themselves. Besides, the flies, the mosquitoes, and especially the gnats exasperate them to desperation.
There is perhaps no person on the face of the earth more invulnerable to the sun’s rays than the French peasant. To-day, however, there is a general admission that it is intolerably hot. Some, fearing that even their cattle may die of sunstroke, place them under shelter without reference to whether they can be sold. But many poor beasts are left to suffer, and their piteous lowing is distinctly heard above the hum and din of the fair.
The Mayor, with his experienced eye, surveys the scene on all sides. Like a mariner who feels a coming storm before any sign is evident to his eyes, Father Jerome has the air of a man who foresees danger. Walking in the shade of the great trees, he touches his neighbor’s elbow and says: “My friend, this heat is going to play bad pranks on us.”
“What makes you think so?” demands Parjeau.
“Mon Dieu! It is not well to predict evil, but do you see those eight or ten yoke of oxen down there by Simmonet’s mill? Well, there it will begin—the stampede, I mean. Do you see that great ox rearing in the air and——”
The sense of danger makes him silent, and rushing to the nearest house he shouts at the top of his voice: “A stampede! A stampede! Call the women and children in quickly!”
“What! Is old Father Jerome crazy?” cries Andoche, who remains seated at a table, half overcome by his potations. Others at once realize the danger, and shouts of “A stampede!” resound in the ears of the peasants like the peals of a tocsin.
Among marching armies as well as sleeping camps sometimes a terrible fright takes possession of soldiers. The horror-stricken men, without a moment’s pause, throw down their arms and run here and there in mad confusion. How many times has a general, sure of his campaign, seen victory vanish because of a sudden panic without reason and for which nobody (?) is responsible.
So with these cattle that a moment since were quiet and under control. Some nameless terror, like an insidious simoom, has seized the herd. The fury spreads like magic, and they madly plunge and rear, and turn the market-place into a scene of wild and noisy chaos. The danger is supreme. “A stampede!” The appalling announcement echoes like a peal of thunder throughout the startled fair.