This omission is certainly to be regretted. If only history, or in default of history the chronicles, or in default of chronicles the traditions of the country, made mention of Quiquendone! But no; neither atlases, guides, nor itineraries speak of it. M. Joanne himself, that energetic hunter after small towns, says not a word of it. It might be readily conceived that this silence would injure the commerce, the industries, of the town. But let us hasten to add that Quiquendone has neither industry nor commerce, and that it does very well without them. Its barley-sugar and whipped cream are consumed on the spot; none is exported. In short, the Quiquendonians have no need of anybody. Their desires are limited, their existence is a modest one; they are calm, moderate, phlegmatic—in a word, they are Flemings; such as are still to be met with sometimes between the Scheldt and the North Sea. CHAPTER II. IN WHICH THE BURGOMASTER VAN TRICASSE AND THE COUNSELLOR NIKLAUSSE CONSULT ABOUT THE AFFAIRS OF THE TOWN. “You think so?” asked the burgomaster. “I—think so,” replied the counsellor, after some minutes of silence. “You see, we must not act hastily,” resumed the burgomaster. “We have been talking over this grave matter for ten years,” replied the Counsellor Niklausse, “and I confess to you, my worthy Van Tricasse, that I cannot yet take it upon myself to come to a decision.” “I quite understand your hesitation,” said the burgomaster, who did not speak until after a good quarter of an hour of reflection, “I quite understand it, and I fully share it. We shall do wisely to decide upon nothing without a more careful examination of the question.” “It is certain,” replied Niklausse, “that this post of civil commissary is useless in so peaceful a town as Quiquendone.” “Our predecessor,” said Van Tricasse gravely, “our predecessor never said, never would have dared to say, that anything is certain. Every affirmation is subject to awkward qualifications.” The counsellor nodded his head slowly in token of assent; then he remained silent for nearly half an hour. After this lapse of time, during which neither the counsellor nor the burgomaster moved so much as a finger, Niklausse asked Van Tricasse whether his predecessor—of some twenty years before—had not thought of suppressing this office of civil commissary, which each year cost the town of Quiquendone the sum of thirteen hundred and seventy-five francs and some centimes. “I believe he did,” replied the burgomaster, carrying his hand with majestic deliberation to his ample brow; “but the worthy man died without having dared to make up his mind, either as to this or any other administrative measure. He was a sage. Why should I not do as he did?” Counsellor Niklausse was incapable of originating any objection to the burgomaster’s opinion. “The man who dies,” added Van Tricasse solemnly, “without ever having decided upon anything during his life, has very nearly attained to perfection.”