“I don’t deny it. Only it isn’t necessary that you should put yourself out about it. A Mayor is not at everybody’s beck and call. When a Mayor bestirs himself it is the State which acts. You send a deputy, or even a councillor, where enemies of the Republic are concerned. Devil take it! One is either a republican or one isn’t, Mr. Mayor!” “Mélanie, fetch us a pint!” cried the Mayor, torn between his natural duty and his duty as a republican which was being instilled into him. “And send the boy to look for Randon, Pitet, and Détraz.” These three were the most influential councillors in the place. Pitet, with his red, freckled face, which gained him the nickname of Pitet le Rouge, was the first to arrive. “I heard the news at the Fountain,” he declared as he came in. “I can’t do anything. What do you want of me?” He always spoke in a coarse, aggressive tone. He had been a tenant at Le Maupas, and suddenly had to leave his farm. Nobody ever understood why he was sent away from an estate where the tenants and servants “took root,” as was currently said. In reality it was on account of a theft, about which Dr. Guibert had never told anyone. Till the doctor’s death Pitet had kept quiet. When he was quite certain he could do so with impunity, he raised his head and played a vigorous part in all the elections. He began by making money out of politics and ended by getting dignity--which people were the less ready to refuse him because he needed it so much. The whole community was afraid of him, and everyone knows the power of fear over the peasants. He turned the scale at once in favor of the schoolmaster Maillard. The Mayor could not put himself out for the “aristocrats.” “The Mayor must put himself at the service of everybody,” said Simon, whose face shone like a burning log. “And, besides, a man’s death isn’t a matter of politics.” Pitet the Red would not hear of it. “There you are! You must bow and scrape to the nobility and the church! Then you will say it isn’t a matter of politics. Your daughters go to Mass, Mr. Mayor. Take care, it won’t be forgotten.” “But _I_ don’t go to their church! Our deputy knows that,” cried Simon. “You don’t go to Cognin, but you go to Bissy.” Bissy was the neighboring parish. While the Mayor was defending himself, Randon and Détraz entered the room. “Now, Mélanie, two pints of wine, one red and one white. And see that it’s good stuff!” The newcomers asked together: “He’s dead then?” “The whole place knows about it!” cried Simon, raising his arms to heaven. “We must hurry up or Madame Guibert will hear of it.” Randon, old and broken down, had to thank the size of his estate for the electors’ regard. He was an honest man, but as shy and nervous as a hare. He gave a timid vote for the Mayor’s visit in person. As to Détraz, the boorish and vulgar, he admitted at once that he took no interest whatever in the question.