“Insulted?” exclaimed Marcel.
“Listen.”
A vague sound was heard breaking the silence of the night. The harsh untrained voices of the mob were heard singing a kind of workmen’s Marseillaise—
“Les patrons, les damnés patrons,
Un beau matin, nous les verrons
Accrochés au bout d’une branche!
En se sentant morts a moitié,
C’est alors qu’ils crieront pitié!
Mais nous leur repondrons: Dimanche!
Retroussez vos manches, luron!
Bientôt va commencer la danse.
Ayons la victoire, ou mourons
Pour notre indépendance!
Ayons la victoire, ou mourons
Pour notre indépendance!”
A shrill clamour, mingled with the shrieks of women and children, followed this threatening refrain; then came a formidable hooting—
“Down with Cardez! Down with the manager! To the gallows with him!”
“Do you hear them?” said Cardez. “The gallows, indeed! And what have I done to them? Simply exact from them a conscientious amount of work, and respect for the regulations. The gallows! If they think they can frighten me with their threats they are mistaken. An old soldier like myself cannot be intimidated so easily. Besides, these are nothing but idle cries; no deeds will follow!”
“Have you written to my father and uncle?” asked Marcel.
“I have telephoned to them. They must, by this time, have entered into relations with the prefect to insure the protection of the works, and respect for the rights of labour. But for that troops will be needed, and no one can tell how far things will go with people of the character of these Champagne fools. We have a loyal police at Ars, who are well known and respected. I think that ought to be sufficient.”
“Are you afraid of a conflict?”