"If I might venture in this presence to say so," murmured Simon, "I have often asked the same question. A feather-bed, yes—and it would be softer and quieter to kick than that arrangement of wood and nails!" He muttered the last sentence between his teeth with an amused grin, for General Ratoneau, striding round the room in a whirlwind of kicks and oaths, was making far too much noise to hear him.
At last, his wrath having exploded, the General flung himself back on his sofa and said, "The Prefect is a fool, and I hate him."
"Tiens!" Simon whistled softly and long. "This is something new—and serious!" he murmured.
The General turned upon him instantly, with a severe air.
"What is your grievance against the Prefect?"
"Ah—well, monsieur, when you come to grievances—a grievance is a valuable thing—yes, sometimes a small fortune lies in a grievance."
"I believe you are a liar!"
"Pardon, monsieur—what lie have I told?"
"You said you had had provocations. You called Monsieur le Préfet a feather-bed, meaning that he had smothered and stifled you. I don't believe a word of it!"
"Oh! Monsieur le Général is very clever!" Simon ventured on a small laugh.