“Pooh,” said Leon, “how about the fortifications?”
“Pie-crust; we can swallow them,” replied Masson.
“In the first place, we sha’n’t let the cannon in, and, in the second, we’ve got a little machine more powerful than all the forts in the world,—a machine, due to a doctor, which cured more people during the short time we worked it than the doctors ever killed.”
“How you talk!” exclaimed Gazonal, whose flesh began to creep at Publicola’s air and manner.
“Ha! that’s the thing we rely on! We follow Saint-Just and Robespierre; but we’ll do better than they; they were timid, and you see what came of it; an emperor! the elder branch! the younger branch! The Montagnards didn’t lop the social tree enough.”
“Ah ca! you, who will be, they tell me, consul, or something of that kind, tribune perhaps, be good enough to remember,” said Bixiou, “that I have asked your protection for the last dozen years.”
“No harm shall happen to you; we shall need wags, and you can take the place of Barere,” replied the corn-doctor.
“And I?” said Leon.
“Ah, you! you are my client, and that will save you; for genius is an odious privilege, to which too much is accorded in France; we shall be forced to annihilate some of our greatest men in order to teach others to be simple citizens.”
The corn-cutter spoke with a semi-serious, semi-jesting air that made Gazonal shudder.