‘If M. le Maire will excuse me,’ said M. Barbou, ‘I think I will go home. It is a little cold, and you are aware that I am always afraid of the damp.’ In fact, our coats were beaded with a cold dew as in November, and I could not but acknowledge that my respectable colleague had reason. Besides, we were close to his house, and he had, no doubt, the sustaining consciousness of having done everything that was really incumbent upon him. ‘Our ways lie together as far as my house,’ he said, with a slight chattering of his teeth. No doubt it was the cold. After we had walked with him to his door, we proceeded to the Porte St. Lambert. By this time almost everybody had re-entered their houses. The streets were very dark, and they were also very still. When we reached the gates, at that hour of the night, we found them shut as a matter of course. The officers of the octroi were standing close together at the door of their office, in which the lamp was burning. The very lamp seemed oppressed by the heavy air; it burnt dully, surrounded with a yellow haze. The men had the appearance of suffering greatly from cold. They received me with a satisfaction which was very gratifying to me. ‘At length here is M. le Maire himself,’ they said.
‘My good friends,’ said I, ‘you have a cold post to-night. The weather has changed in the most extraordinary way. I have no doubt the scientific gentlemen at the Musée will be able to tell us all about it—M. de Clairon—’
‘Not to interrupt M. le Maire,’ said Riou, of the octroi, ‘I think there is more in it than any scientific gentleman can explain.’
‘Ah! You think so. But they explain everything,’ I said, with a smile. ‘They tell us how the wind is going to blow.’
As I said this, there seemed to pass us, from the direction of the closed gates, a breath of air so cold that I could not restrain a shiver. They looked at each other. It was not a smile that passed between them—they were too pale, too cold, to smile but a look of intelligence. ‘M. le Maire,’ said one of them, ‘perceives it too;’ but they did not shiver as I did. They were like men turned into ice who could feel no more.
‘It is, without doubt, the most extraordinary weather,’ I said. My teeth chattered like Barbou's. It was all I could do to keep myself steady. No one made any reply; but Lecamus said, ‘Have the goodness to open the little postern for foot-passengers: M. le Maire wishes to make an inspection outside.’
Upon these words, Riou, who knew me well, caught me by the arm. ‘A thousand pardons,’ he said, ‘M. le Maire; but I entreat you, do not go. Who can tell what is outside? Since this morning there is something very strange on the other side of the gates. If M. le Maire would listen to me, he would keep them shut night and day till that is gone, he would not go out into the midst of it. Mon Dieu! a man may be brave. I know the courage of M. le Maire; but to march without necessity into the jaws of hell: mon Dieu!’ cried the poor man again. He crossed himself, and none of us smiled. Now a man may sign himself at the church door—one does so out of respect; but to use that ceremony for one's own advantage, before other men, is rare—except in the case of members of a very decided party. Riou was not one of these. He signed himself in sight of us all, and not one of us smiled.
The other was less familiar—he knew me only in my public capacity—he was one Gallais of the Quartier St. Médon. He said, taking off his hat: ‘If I were M. le Maire, saving your respect, I would not go out into an unknown danger with this man here, a man who is known as a pietist, as a clerical, as one who sees visions—’
‘He is not a clerical, he is a good citizen,’ I said; ‘come, lend us your lantern. Shall I shrink from my duty wherever it leads me? Nay, my good friends, the Maire of a French commune fears neither man nor devil in the exercise of his duty. M. Paul, lead on.’ When I said the word ‘devil’ a spasm of alarm passed over Riou's face. He crossed himself again. This time I could not but smile. ‘My little Riou,’ I said, ‘do you know that you are a little imbecile with your piety? There is a time for everything.’
‘Except religion, M. le Maire; that is never out of place,’ said Gallais.