“Look at that,” said Barbet, handing the document to la Peyrade, his customary assurance beginning to forsake him.
“A summons to appear at once before the court of assizes,” said la Peyrade, after reading a few lines of the sheriff’s scrawl.
Thuillier had turned as pale as death.
“Didn’t you fulfil all the necessary formalities?” he said to Barbet, in a choking voice.
“This is not a matter of formalities,” said la Peyrade, “it is a seizure for what is called press misdemeanor, exciting contempt and hatred of the government; you probably have the same sort of compliment awaiting you at home, my poor Thuillier.”
“Then it is treachery!” cried Thuillier, losing his head completely.
“Hang it, my dear fellow! you know very well what you put in your pamphlet; for my part, I don’t see anything worth whipping a cat for.”
“There’s some misunderstanding,” said Barbet, recovering courage; “it will all be explained, and the result will be a fine cause of complaint—won’t it, messieurs?”
“Waiter, pens and ink!” cried one of the journalists thus appealed to.
“Nonsense! you’ll have time to write your article later,” said another of the brotherhood; “what has a bombshell to do with this ‘filet saute’?”