THE days went on, and nothing more was said of the proposal, it being understood that, as soon as Félise had wrought order out of chaos for a second time, Martin should consult with Fortinbras, his bankers, his solicitors and other eminent advisers. They resumed their evening visits to the Café de l’Univers, where Bigourdin and Monsieur Viriot sat as far apart as was consonant with membership of the circle. On meeting they saluted each other with elaborate politeness and addressed each other as “Monsieur” when occasion required interchange of speech. Every one knew what had happened, and, as every one was determined that the strained relations between them should not interfere with his own personal comfort, nobody cared. The same games were played, the same arguments developed. A favourite theme was the probable action of the Socialists on the outbreak of war. Some held, Monsieur Viriot among them, that they would refuse to take up arms and would spread counsels of ignominy among the people. The Professor at the Ecole Normale, allowed to express latitudinarian views on account of his philosophic position, was of opinion that the only safeguard against a European war lay in the solidarity of the International Socialist Brotherhood. “The Prussian drill-sergeant,” said the Mayor, “will soon see that there is no solidarity as far as Germany is concerned.” “We have no drill-sergeants. The _sous-officier_ is under the officer who is under the general who is bought by the men we are so besotted as to put into power to play into the hands of the enemy. Our Socialists will cleave to their infamous principles.” Thus declared Monsieur Viriot, who was a reactionary republican and regarded Socialism and Radicalism and Anti-clericalism as punishments inflicted by an outraged Heaven on a stiff-necked generation. “The Socialist will betray us,” he cried. “Monsieur,” replied Bigourdin loftily, “you are wrong to accuse the loyalty of your compatriots. I am not a socialist. I, as every one knows, hold their mischievous ideas in detestation. But I have faith in the human soul. There’s not a Socialist, not an Anarchist, not even an Apache, who, when the German cannon sounds in his ears, will not rush to shed his blood in the defence of the sacred soil of France.” “Bravo!” cried one. “_C’est bien dit!_” cried another. “After all, the soil is in the blood,” said a third. Monsieur Cazensac, the landlord, who stood listening, said with a certain Gascon mordancy: “Scratch even a Minister and you will find a Frenchman.” And so the discussion—and who shall say it was a profitless one?—went on evening after evening, as it had gone on, in some sort of fashion conditioned by circumstances for over forty years.