“Two against two; it’s a tie,” shouted Pitet the Red, exultantly, throwing all his long-cherished rancor into the argument. In a weak voice Randon muttered that the schoolmaster had no say in the matter and that the Mayor’s voice was the important one. But nobody listened to his prudent words. The Mayor was derided for the lukewarmness of his democratic opinions and was at last reduced to silence. “Now then, you’re the oldest, you must go,” said Pitet to Randon. “Oh, no, not I!” cried the latter, terrified. And he kept on repeating “Not I!” as if the message of death threatened his own life. He was thinking of his own peace of mind above all things. “Well then, you, Détraz.” “It isn’t my business.” “Then _I_ shall go,” said the Mayor, taking on an offensive manner. Randon expressed a mild approval. They both remembered how Dr. Guibert had attended and saved their children. They strove hard to reconcile their opinions and their prospects of re-election. Furious at this reverse which followed his victory, and also excited by the wine he had drunk, Pitet shouted: “Haven’t you been told that it is too much honor? Can’t you hear? I tell you, don’t argue!” “What?” exclaimed the Mayor, purple in the face. The schoolmaster interrupted in honeyed tones: “The logical thing is to give the message to the police. They carry the Mayor’s orders in the town. A policeman can take the telegram and explain that the Mayor has sent him in person.” “That, of course, is the only right way,” said Pitet approvingly. No sooner said than done. Faroux, the policeman, was sent for, and the schoolmaster gave him the Mayor’s instructions with the telegram. A few more glasses were drunk and the party broke up. Old Randon, who was waiting for his cart, was left alone in Simon’s bar. For a few minutes the two men found nothing more to say. They were thinking of the effect of the message, which they had forgotten in their discussion. “We are cowards,” the Mayor admitted at last, and the councillor heartily agreed. As a matter of fact, they were no more cowardly than the average man. They simply represented the attitude of honest men confronted by bullies. After a long silence--for a countryman moves in the world of ideas at the pace of a plough-ox among the furrows--old Randon suggested: “Do you think we ought to go up to Le Maupas together?” “I was thinking about it,” rejoined the Mayor. And they encouraged each other with all kinds of good reasons. “Nobody will see us.” “It is dark.” “We will go up privately, as fellow citizens.” “Just in ordinary clothes, unofficially.” “The doctor saved my little one.” “And my two daughters. Mélanie, my hat!”