“I am a Red. We do not waste words on the shopkeepers.”
It is doubtful whether Clemenceau heard him. He had risen from his chair. His eyes flashed; that sturdy figure of his seemed to dilate and to give a sudden impression of immense strength and passion. His right hand shot out as though he was striking a blow; he pointed at Bibi.
“That man is evil; he is a bad Frenchman; I condemn him. Hatred destroys; love builds up. What shall be done with him?”
There were cries from the crowd.
“We will not have him in Beaucourt.”
For a moment the street was in an uproar. Clemenceau had beckoned to Manon, and he was speaking to her and to the three men, Lefèbre, Durand and Philipon. The people saw Manon shaking her head. Philipon interposed, moving that heavy and emphatic jaw of his, and beating the air with his right fist as though spacing out the rhythm of his blunt sentences. No one in the street could hear what he said, but they saw the “Tiger’s” face light up.
He patted Philipon on the shoulder.
“Solomon! Let Beaucourt make its own laws and carry them out to-day. But the man has property here?”
“He will sell it,” said the smith; “he will be glad to sell it. Yes.”
Anatole Durand had brought out his inevitable note-book.