Dangeau sat at a table spread with papers, wrote on for a space, and then—
"Citizen Mayor, I require, on behalf of the National Army, five hundred (or it might be a thousand) pairs of boots, so many beds, such and such provisions."
"But, Citizen Commissioner, we have them not."
Dangeau consulted a notebook.
"I can give you twenty-four hours to produce them, not more."
"But, Citizen, these are impossibilities. We cannot produce what we have not got."
"And neither can our armies save your throats from being cut if they are unprovided. Twenty-four hours, Citizen Mayor."
According to his nature, the Mayor swore or cringed.
"It is impossible."
Dangeau drew out a list. The principal towns of the South figured on it legibly. Setting a thick mark against one name, he fixed his eyes upon the man before him.