“Besides,” added Niklausse, “the town cannot be deprived of light much longer.”
“But,” urged Doctor Ox, “a town which has been un-lighted for eight or nine hundred years—”
“All the more necessary is it,” replied the burgomaster, emphasizing his words. “Times alter, manners alter! The world advances, and we do not wish to remain behind. We desire our streets to be lighted within a month, or you must pay a large indemnity for each day of delay; and what would happen if, amid the darkness, some affray should take place?”
“No doubt,” cried Niklausse. “It requires but a spark to inflame a Fleming! Fleming! Flame!”
“Apropos of this,” said the burgomaster, interrupting his friend, “Commissary Passauf, our chief of police, reports to us that a discussion took place in your drawing-room last evening, Doctor Ox. Was he wrong in declaring that it was a political discussion?”
“By no means, Monsieur the burgomaster,” replied Doctor Ox, who with difficulty repressed a sigh of satisfaction.
“So an altercation did take place between Dominique Gustos and André Schut?”
“Yes, counsellor; but the words which passed were not of grave import.”
“Not of grave import!” cried the burgomaster. “Not of grave import, when one man tells another that he does not measure the effect of his words! But of what stuff are you made, monsieur? Do you not know that in Quiquendone nothing more is needed to bring about extremely disastrous results? But monsieur, if you, or any one else, presume to speak thus to me—”
“Or to me,” added Niklausse.