“Doctor, you remind me of my chiropodist,” replied M. de Terremondre. “He said to me one day: ‘If you were a chiropodist, sir, you would take no stock in women.’” Paillot, the bookseller, who for some moments had been glued to the wall listening intently, said: “I don’t know what is going on in Queen Marguerite’s house; I hear cries and the noise of furniture being overturned.” And he was again seized with his customary misgiving. “That old lady will set fire to her house, and the whole block of buildings will be burnt: it’s all wood.” Nobody heeded these words, nobody attempted to soothe his ridiculous apprehensions. Dr. Fornerol rose painfully to his feet, stretched the wearied muscles of his arms with an effort, and went off on his round of visits through the town. M. de Terremondre put on his gloves and took a step towards the door. Then, perceiving a tall withered figure which was crossing the square in stiff, abrupt strides: “Here,” said he, “is General Cartier de Chalmot. I hope the _préfet_ won’t meet him.” “And why not?” demanded M. Bergeret. “Because these meetings are by no means pleasant for M. Worms-Clavelin. Last Sunday our _préfet_, while driving by in a victoria, caught sight of General Cartier de Chalmot, who was walking with his wife and daughters. Lolling back in his carriage, with his hat on his head, he saluted the gallant veteran with a little wave of his hand and a ‘Good-day, good-day, general!’ The general reddened with anger. For the unassuming are always violent in their anger. General Chalmot was beside himself. He was terrible. Before all the promenaders he imitated M. Worms-Clavelin’s familiar salute and shouted at him in a voice of thunder: ‘Good-day, good-day, _préfet_!’” “There is perfect silence now in Queen Marguerite’s house,” said M. Paillot. XIII The midday sun darted its clear white rays. Not a cloud in the sky, not a breath in the air. The solitary orb swung across the vast repose in which everything was wrapped and urged its blazing course towards the horizon. On the deserted Mall the shadows lay still and heavy at the foot of the elms. A road-mender slept in the bottom of the ditch that bounds the ramparts. The birds were silent. Seated at the shady end of a bench three parts steeped in sunlight, M. Bergeret forgot, under these classic trees, in the friendly solitude, his wife and his three daughters, his cramped life and his cramped home; like Æsop he revelled in the freedom of his mind, and his analytical imagination roved irresponsibly among the living and the dead.