“I told you so,” remarked old Randon, who insisted on reminding them of his sagacity.
“And so did I,” said the Mayor, not to be outdone. “It is the fault of the schoolmaster and of Pitet.”
Détraz, who had no idea of politeness, said rude things about the Mayor.
“So you,” he said, “are not the master here then. What do you do at the town hall? Why, you are as limp as a rag. The schoolmaster leads you by the nose, like the smallest boy in his class.”
“I!” roared Simon. “I let myself be led by the nose! Just come and see if the schoolmaster is master or not!”
Followed by his two councillors, the Mayor still gesticulating, burst into the municipal school. Before Maillard, the sly and wheedling, however, he felt all his zeal grow cold. But Détraz had already pushed himself to the front.
“Aha!” he cried, “you have made a nice mess of it, you dirty, shameless wretch! Here are the prefect and the general sending deputations. And the corporation in the dead man’s town sends a policeman, just as if it was serving a writ. With your devil of a brain you’ll have a fine score to pay!” And he spat on the ground as a sign of contempt.
“I am not answerable to you for anything,” murmured the schoolmaster with a dignified air.
“Yes, you are. And what about you, Mayor? Have you nothing to say?”
In his rage he had no respect for anyone. Simon was obliged to intervene.