"Pooh! it's you priests who are the cause of all the trouble. It was you who preached and got the three year service law voted."
The poor Curate was fairly suffocated with surprise and indignation. He was so ruffled he could hardly find a word. In the meantime the travelling salesman taking advantage of his silence, continued:
"Yes, it was you and the financiers, and it's nothing to brag about either!"
The man with the upturned nose now wheeled about sharply. His blood was up and he strangely resembled a little bantam cockerel.
"Monsieur," he snapped, and his voice was clear and cutting, "if any one had a right to express a complaint on any subject whatsoever, it would certainly be the soldiers who are seated in this compartment. Now as they have said nothing, I cannot admit that you, a civilian, should take such liberties."
"But, Monsieur——"
"Yes, Monsieur, that's exactly what I mean, and as to the sentiments to which you have given voice they are as stupid as they are odious. We all know now that war was inevitable. The Germans have been preparing it for forty years."
"Monsieur!"
"Monsieur!"
The two glared fixedly at each other for an instant; the one was very red, the other extremely pale. Then they turned about and resumed their places in each corner. The priest produced his breviary, the soldiers finished a light repast composed of bread and cheese.