“Doctor, I am the mayor of Canneville, duly appointed, and I shall
remain mayor of Canneville until I have been dismissed by a decree from
my superiors. As mayor, I am in my place in the townhall, and here I
stay. Anyhow, just try to get me out.”
He closed the window.
The commandant returned to his troop. But before giving any information,
eyeing Lieutenant Picart from head to foot, he exclaimed:
“You're a great one, you are! You're a fine specimen of manhood! You're
a disgrace to the army! I degrade you.”
“I don't give a----!”
He turned away and mingled with a group of townspeople.
Then the doctor hesitated. What could he do? Attack? But would his men
obey orders? And then, did he have the right to do so?
An idea struck him. He ran to the telegraph office, opposite the
town-hall, and sent off three telegrams:
To the new republican government in Paris.
To the new prefect of the Seine-Inferieure, at Rouen.
To the new republican sub-prefect at Dieppe.
He explained the situation, pointed out the danger which the town would
run if it should remain in the hands of the royalist mayor; offered his
faithful services, asked for orders and signed, putting all his titles
after his name.
Then he returned to his battalion, and, drawing ten francs from his
pocket, he cried: “Here, my friends, go eat and drink; only leave me a
detachment of ten men to guard against anybody's leaving the town-hall.”
But ex-Lieutenant Picart, who had been talking with the watchmaker,
heard him; he began to laugh, and exclaimed: “By Jove, if they come out,
it'll give you a chance to get in. Otherwise I can see you standing out
there for the rest of your life!”
The doctor did not reply, and he went to luncheon.
In the afternoon, he disposed his men about the town as though they were
in immediate danger of an ambush.
Several times he passed in front of the town-hall and of the church
without noticing anything suspicious; the two buildings looked as though
empty.
The butcher, the baker and the druggist once more opened up their
stores.
Everybody was talking about the affair. If the emperor were a prisoner,
there must have been some kind of treason. They did not know exactly
which of the republics had returned to power.
Night fell.
Toward nine o'clock, the doctor, alone, noiselessly approached the
entrance of the public building, persuaded that the enemy must have
gone to bed; and, as he was preparing to batter down the door with a
pick-axe, the deep voice of a sentry suddenly called:
“Who goes there?”
And M. Massarel retreated as fast as his legs could carry him.
Day broke without any change in the situation.
Armed militia occupied the square. All the citizens had gathered around
this troop awaiting developments. Even neighboring villagers had come to
look on.
Then the doctor, seeing that his reputation was at stake, resolved to
put an end to the matter in one way or another; and he was about to
take some measures, undoubtedly energetic ones, when the door of the
telegraph station opened and the little servant of the postmistress
appeared, holding in her hands two papers.
First she went to the commandant and gave him one of the despatches;
then she crossed the empty square, confused at seeing the eyes of
everyone on her, and lowering her head and running along with little
quick steps, she went and knocked softly at the door of the barricaded
house, as though ignorant of the fact that those behind it were armed.
The door opened wide enough to let a man's hand reach out and receive
the message; and the young girl returned blushing, ready to cry at being
thus stared at by the whole countryside.
In a clear voice, the doctor cried:
“Silence, if you please.”
When the populace had quieted down, he continued proudly:
“Here is the communication which I have received from the government.”
And lifting the telegram he read:
Former mayor dismissed. Inform him immediately, More orders
following.
For the sub-prefect:
SAPIN, Councillor.
He was-triumphant; his heart was throbbing with joy and his hands were
trembling; but Picart, his former subordinate, cried to him from a
neighboring group:
“That's all right; but supposing the others don't come out, what good is
the telegram going to do you?”
M. Massarel grew pale. He had not thought of that; if the others did not
come out, he would now have to take some decisive step. It was not only
his right, but his duty.
He looked anxiously at the town-hall, hoping to see the door open and
his adversary give in.
The door remained closed. What could he do? The crowd was growing and
closing around the militia. They were laughing.
One thought especially tortured the doctor. If he attacked, he would
have to march at the head of his men; and as, with him dead, all strife
would cease, it was at him and him only that M. de Varnetot and his
three guards would aim. And they were good shots, very good shots, as
Picart had just said. But an idea struck him and, turning to Pommel, he
ordered:
“Run quickly to the druggist and ask him to lend me a towel and a
stick.”
The lieutenant hastened.
He would make a flag of truce, a white flag, at the sight of which the
royalist heart of the mayor would perhaps rejoice.
Pommel returned with the cloth and a broom-stick. With some twine they
completed the flag, and M. Massarel, grasping it in both hands and
holding it in front of him, again advanced in the direction of the
town-hall. When he was opposite the door, he once more called: “Monsieur
de Varnetot!” The door suddenly opened and M. de Varnetot and his three
guards appeared on the threshold.
Instinctively the doctor stepped back; then he bowed courteously to his
enemy, and, choking with emotion, he announced: “I have come, monsieur,
to make you acquainted with the orders which I have received.”
The nobleman, without returning the bow, answered: “I resign, monsieur,
but understand that it is neither through fear of, nor obedience to, the
odious government which has usurped the power.” And, emphasizing every
word, he declared: “I do not wish to appear, for a single day, to serve
the Republic. That's all.”
Massarel, stunned, answered nothing; and M. de Varnetot, walking
quickly, disappeared around the corner of the square, still followed by
his escort.
The doctor, puffed up with pride, returned to the crowd. As soon as
he was near enough to make himself heard, he cried: “Hurrah! hurrah!
Victory crowns the Republic everywhere.”
There was no outburst of joy.
The doctor continued: “We are free, you are free, independent! Be
proud!”
The motionless villagers were looking at him without any signs of
triumph shining in their eyes.
He looked at them, indignant at their indifference, thinking of what he
could say or do in order to make an impression to electrify this calm
peasantry, to fulfill his mission as a leader.
He had an inspiration and, turning to Pommel, he ordered: “Lieutenant,
go get me the bust of the ex-emperor which is in the meeting room of the
municipal council, and bring it here with a chair.”
The man presently reappeared, carrying on his right shoulder the plaster
Bonaparte, and holding in his left hand a cane-seated chair.
M. Massarel went towards him, took the chair, placed the white bust on
it, then stepping back a few steps, he addressed it in a loud voice:
“Tyrant, tyrant, you have fallen down in the mud. The dying fatherland
was in its death throes under your oppression. Vengeful Destiny has
struck you. Defeat and shame have pursued you; you fall conquered, a
prisoner of the Prussians; and from the ruins of your crumbling empire,
the young and glorious Republic arises, lifting from the ground your
broken sword----”
He waited for applause. Not a sound greeted his listening ear. The
peasants, nonplussed, kept silent; and the white, placid, well-groomed
statue seemed to look at M. Massarel with its plaster smile,
ineffaceable and sarcastic.
Thus they stood, face to face, Napoleon on his chair, the physician
standing three feet away. Anger seized the commandant. What could he do
to move this crowd and definitely to win over public opinion?
He happened to carry his hand to his stomach, and he felt, under his red
belt, the butt of his revolver.
Not another inspiration, not another word cane to his mind. Then, he
drew his weapon, stepped back a few steps and shot the former monarch.
The bullet made a little black hole: like a spot, in his forehead. No
sensation was created. M. Massarel shot a second time and made a second
hole, then a third time, then, without stopping, he shot off the three
remaining shots. Napoleon's forehead was blown away in a white powder,
but his eyes, nose and pointed mustache remained intact.
Then in exasperation, the doctor kicked the chair over, and placing one
foot on what remained of the bust in the position of a conqueror, he
turned to the amazed public and yelled: “Thus may all traitors die!”
As no enthusiasm was, as yet, visible, the spectators appearing to be
dumb with astonishment, the commandant cried to the militia: “You may go
home now.” And he himself walked rapidly, almost ran, towards his house.
As soon as he appeared, the servant told him that some patients had been
waiting in his office for over three hours. He hastened in. They
were the same two peasants as a few days before, who had returned at
daybreak, obstinate and patient.
The old man immediately began his explanation:
“It began with ants, which seemed to be crawling up and down my
legs----”