A MOUNTAIN VILLAGE, THE SAME EVENING
The telegram from the Prefecture was posted up at the door. It was still daylight, I lingered to gaze at it. My cousin took me by the arm.
"I say, come along in."
There was no one there but Alfred Lecomte, the town clerk, a still youthful peasant of a thoughtful cast of countenance, and in a corner, the deputy mayor, an infirm old man who kept in the background.
"Well, what the deuce are you doing, Alfred?" said the doctor.
The other had got up, his pen behind his ear.
"Good heavens, man!" continued my cousin, "can't you realise that there's anything to be done?"
"What should there be?"
"What should there be? You must send word first to La Ferrière and Tarins!"
Lecomte tossed his head: "Send word! That would mean a nice lot of running about! They've had the bells rung: it is up to the people to come and find out what it is about."