Fortunately, Lengaigne came in. At first he had resolved not to attend the meeting, as the question of the road did not interest him, and he had even hoped that his absence would hamper the voting. Later on, the arrival of Monsieur de Chédeville throwing him into a fever of curiosity, he had decided to go upstairs to find out all about it.
"Good! There are six of us now, and we shall be able to vote," cried the mayor.
Lequeu—who acted as secretary—having made his appearance, with a snappish, surly air, and with the minute-book under his arm, there was no further impediment in the way of opening the meeting. Delhomme, however, had begun to whisper to his neighbour, Clou, the farrier, a tall, withered fellow, very dark. As the others began to listen to them, they suddenly became silent. One name had, however, been caught—that of the independent candidate, Monsieur Rochefontaine—and then the rest of them, after sounding each other, fell with a word, a sneer, or a simple grimace upon this candidate, whom nobody even knew. They were on the side of order; in favour of keeping things as they were, and of remaining submissive to the authorities who ensured the sale of produce. Did that gentleman think himself stronger than the Government? Did he imagine that he could raise corn to eighty-eight francs a quarter? It was bold, indeed, for a man without a vestige of support to send out circulars and promise more butter than bread. They ended by dubbing him an adventurer and a rogue, who went on the stump through the villages for the sake of robbing them of their votes, just as he would have robbed them of their coppers. Hourdequin—who might have explained to them that Monsieur Rochefontaine, a free-trader, really shared the Emperor's ideas—wilfully let Macqueron display his Bonapartist zeal, and Delhomme propound his opinion in his strong, limited, common-sense way; while Lengaigne, whose official position kept his mouth shut, sat growling in a corner, inaudibly repeating his vague Republican views. Although Monsieur de Chédeville had not once been mentioned, he was alluded to in every sentence that was uttered; they all grovelled, as it were, before his title of official candidate.
"Come, gentlemen," resumed the mayor; "suppose we commence."
He had seated himself at the table in his presidential broad-backed arm-chair.
The assessor was the only one who sat down by his side. Two of the councillors remained standing upright, and two leaned upon a window-sill. Lequeu had handed the mayor a sheet of paper, and whispered in his ear. Then he left the room in a dignified way. "Gentlemen," said Hourdequin, "here is a letter addressed to us by the schoolmaster."
It was read aloud, and proved to be a request for an increase of thirty francs in the master's yearly salary, the application being based upon the energy he displayed. Every face had grown dark. They were always very close with the public money, as if it came out of their own pockets, especially in the matter of the school. There was not even a discussion; they refused the application point-blank.
"Good! we'll tell him to wait. The young man is in too much of a hurry. And now let's deal with this matter of the road."
"Beg pardon!" interrupted Macqueron, "I want to say a word or two about church matters."
Hourdequin, surprised, now understood why the Abbé Godard had breakfasted with the innkeeper. What ambition was urging the latter to push himself to the front like this? However, his propositions met with the same fate as the schoolmaster's request. It was in vain he argued that they were rich enough to pay for a priest of their own, and that it was scarcely respectable to have to put up with the leavings of Bazoches-le-Doyen. They all shrugged their shoulders, and asked if the Mass would be any better for it. No, no! They would have to repair the parsonage; it would cost too much to have a priest to themselves, and half an hour of the other's time each Sunday was sufficient.