‘It is well, my friends,’ said I, ‘we are all in accord; and the good God has permitted us again to see these towers. I have called you together to collect your ideas. This change must have a meaning. It has been suggested to me that we might send an ambassador—a messenger, if that is possible, into the city—’
Here I stopped short; and a shiver ran through me—a shiver which went over the whole company. We were all pale as we looked in each other's faces; and for a moment no one ventured to speak. After this pause it was perhaps natural that he who first found his voice should be the last who had any right to give an opinion. Who should it be but Jacques Richard? ‘M. le Maire,’ cried the fellow, ‘speaks at his ease—but who will thus risk himself?’ Probably he did not mean that his grumbling should be heard, but in the silence every sound was audible; there was a gasp, a catching of the breath, and all turned their eyes again upon me. I did not pause to think what answer I should give. ‘I!’ I cried. ‘Here stands one who will risk himself, who will perish if need be—’
Something stirred behind me. It was Agnès who had risen to her feet, who stood with her lips parted and quivering, with her hands clasped, as if about to speak. But she did not speak. Well! she had proposed to do it. Then why not I?
‘Let me make the observation,’ said another of our fellow-citizens, Bordereau the banker, ‘that this would not be just. Without M. le Maire we should be a mob without a head. If a messenger is to be sent, let it be some one not so indispensable——’
‘Why send a messenger?’ said another, Philip Leclerc. ‘Do we know that these Messieurs will admit any one? and how can you speak, how can you parley with those—’ and he too, was seized with a shiver—‘whom you cannot see?’
Then there came another voice out of the crowd. It was one who would not show himself, who was conscious of the mockery in his tone. ‘If there is any one sent, let it be M. le Curé,’ it said.
M. le Curé stepped forward. His pale countenance flushed red. ‘Here am I,’ he said, ‘I am ready; but he who spoke speaks to mock me. Is it befitting in this presence?’
There was a struggle among the men. Whoever it was who had spoken (I did not wish to know), I had no need to condemn the mocker; they themselves silenced him; then Jacques Richard (still less worthy of credit) cried out again with a voice that was husky. What are men made of? Notwithstanding everything, it was from the cabaret, from the wine-shop, that he had come. He said, ‘Though M. le Maire will not take my opinion, yet it is this. Let them reopen the chapel in the hospital. The ladies of St. Jean—’
‘Hold thy peace,’ I said, ‘miserable!’ But a murmur rose. ‘Though it is not his part to speak, I agree,’ said one. ‘And I.’ ‘And I.’ There was well-nigh a tumult of consent; and this made me angry. Words were on my lips which it might have been foolish to utter, when M. de Bois-Sombre, who is a man of judgment, interfered.
‘M. le Maire,’ he said, ‘as there are none of us here who would show disrespect to the Church and holy things—that is understood—it is not necessary to enter into details. Every restriction that would wound the most susceptible is withdrawn; not one more than another, but all. We have been indifferent in the past, but for the future you will agree with me that everything shall be changed. The ambassador—whoever he may be—’ he added with a catching of his breath, ‘must be empowered to promise—everything—submission to all that may be required.’