IN WHICH THE COMMISSARY PASSAUF ENTERS AS NOISILY AS UNEXPECTEDLY.
When the interesting conversation which has been narrated began, it was
a quarter before three in the afternoon. It was at a quarter before
four that Van Tricasse lighted his enormous pipe, which could hold a
quart of tobacco, and it was at thirty-five minutes past five that he
finished smoking it.
All this time the two comrades did not exchange a single word.
About six o’clock the counsellor, who had a habit of speaking in a very
summary manner, resumed in these words,—
“So we decide—”
“To decide nothing,” replied the burgomaster.
“I think, on the whole, that you are right, Van Tricasse.”
“I think so too, Niklausse. We will take steps with reference to the
civil commissary when we have more light on the subject— later on.
There is no need for a month yet.”
“Nor even for a year,” replied Niklausse, unfolding his
pocket-handkerchief and calmly applying it to his nose.
There was another silence of nearly a quarter of an hour. Nothing
disturbed this repeated pause in the conversation; not even the
appearance of the house-dog Lento, who, not less phlegmatic than his
master, came to pay his respects in the parlour. Noble dog!— a model
for his race. Had he been made of pasteboard, with wheels on his paws,
he would not have made less noise during his stay.
Towards eight o’clock, after Lotchè had brought the antique lamp of
polished glass, the burgomaster said to the counsellor,—
“We have no other urgent matter to consider?”
“No, Van Tricasse; none that I know of.”
“Have I not been told, though,” asked the burgomaster, “that the tower
of the Oudenarde gate is likely to tumble down?”
“Ah!” replied the counsellor; “really, I should not be astonished if it
fell on some passer-by any day.”
“Oh! before such a misfortune happens I hope we shall have come to a
decision on the subject of this tower.”
“I hope so, Van Tricasse.”
“There are more pressing matters to decide.”
“No doubt; the question of the leather-market, for instance.”
“What, is it still burning?”
“Still burning, and has been for the last three weeks.”
“Have we not decided in council to let it burn?”
“Yes, Van Tricasse—on your motion.”
“Was not that the surest and simplest way to deal with it?”
“Without doubt.”
“Well, let us wait. Is that all?”
“All,” replied the counsellor, scratching his head, as if to assure
himself that he had not forgotten anything important.
“Ah!” exclaimed the burgomaster, “haven’t you also heard something of
an escape of water which threatens to inundate the low quarter of Saint
Jacques?”
“I have. It is indeed unfortunate that this escape of water did not
happen above the leather-market! It would naturally have checked the
fire, and would thus have saved us a good deal of discussion.”
“What can you expect, Niklausse? There is nothing so illogical as
accidents. They are bound by no rules, and we cannot profit by one, as
we might wish, to remedy another.”
It took Van Tricasse’s companion some time to digest this fine
observation.
“Well, but,” resumed the Counsellor Niklausse, after the lapse of some
moments, “we have not spoken of our great affair!”
“What great affair? Have we, then, a great affair?” asked the
burgomaster.
“No doubt. About lighting the town.”
“O yes. If my memory serves me, you are referring to the lighting plan
of Doctor Ox.”
“Precisely.”
“It is going on, Niklausse,” replied the burgomaster. “They are already
laying the pipes, and the works are entirely completed.”
“Perhaps we have hurried a little in this matter,” said the counsellor,
shaking his head.
“Perhaps. But our excuse is, that Doctor Ox bears the whole expense of
his experiment. It will not cost us a sou.”
“That, true enough, is our excuse. Moreover, we must advance with the
age. If the experiment succeeds, Quiquendone will be the first town in
Flanders to be lighted with the oxy—What is the gas called?”
“Oxyhydric gas.”
“Well, oxyhydric gas, then.”
At this moment the door opened, and Lotchè came in to tell the
burgomaster that his supper was ready.
Counsellor Niklausse rose to take leave of Van Tricasse, whose appetite
had been stimulated by so many affairs discussed and decisions taken;
and it was agreed that the council of notables should be convened after
a reasonably long delay, to determine whether a decision should be
provisionally arrived at with reference to the really urgent matter of
the Oudenarde gate.
The two worthy administrators then directed their steps towards the
street-door, the one conducting the other. The counsellor, having
reached the last step, lighted a little lantern to guide him through
the obscure streets of Quiquendone, which Doctor Ox had not yet
lighted. It was a dark October night, and a light fog overshadowed the
town.
Niklausse’s preparations for departure consumed at least a quarter of
an hour; for, after having lighted his lantern, he had to put on his
big cow-skin socks and his sheep-skin gloves; then he put up the furred
collar of his overcoat, turned the brim of his felt hat down over his
eyes, grasped his heavy crow-beaked umbrella, and got ready to start.
When Lotchè, however, who was lighting her master, was about to draw
the bars of the door, an unexpected noise arose outside.
Yes! Strange as the thing seems, a noise—a real noise, such as the town
had certainly not heard since the taking of the donjon by the Spaniards
in 1513—terrible noise, awoke the long-dormant echoes of the venerable
Van Tricasse mansion.
Some one knocked heavily upon this door, hitherto virgin to brutal
touch! Redoubled knocks were given with some blunt implement, probably
a knotty stick, wielded by a vigorous arm. With the strokes were
mingled cries and calls. These words were distinctly heard:—
“Monsieur Van Tricasse! Monsieur the burgomaster! Open, open quickly!”
The burgomaster and the counsellor, absolutely astounded, looked at
each other speechless.
This passed their comprehension. If the old culverin of the château,
which had not been used since 1385, had been let off in the parlour,
the dwellers in the Van Tricasse mansion would not have been more
dumbfoundered.
Meanwhile, the blows and cries were redoubled. Lotchè, recovering her
coolness, had plucked up courage to speak.
“Who is there?”
“It is I! I! I!”
“Who are you?”
“The Commissary Passauf!”
The Commissary Passauf! The very man whose office it had been
contemplated to suppress for ten years. What had happened, then? Could
the Burgundians have invaded Quiquendone, as they did in the fourteenth
century? No event of less importance could have so moved Commissary
Passauf, who in no degree yielded the palm to the burgomaster himself
for calmness and phlegm.
On a sign from Van Tricasse—for the worthy man could not have
articulated a syllable—the bar was pushed back and the door opened.
Commissary Passauf flung himself into the antechamber. One would have
thought there was a hurricane.
“What’s the matter, Monsieur the commissary?” asked Lotchè, a brave
woman, who did not lose her head under the most trying circumstances.
“What’s the matter!” replied Passauf, whose big round eyes expressed a
genuine agitation. “The matter is that I have just come from Doctor
Ox’s, who has been holding a reception, and that there—”
[Illustration: I have just come from Doctor Ox’s]
“There?”
“There I have witnessed such an altercation as—Monsieur the
burgomaster, they have been talking politics!”
“Politics!” repeated Van Tricasse, running his fingers through his wig.
“Politics!” resumed Commissary Passauf, “which has not been done for
perhaps a hundred years at Quiquendone. Then the discussion got warm,
and the advocate, André Schut, and the doctor, Dominique Custos, became
so violent that it may be they will call each other out.”
“Call each other out!” cried the counsellor. “A duel! A duel at
Quiquendone! And what did Advocate Schut and Doctor Gustos say?”
“Just this: ‘Monsieur advocate,’ said the doctor to his adversary, ‘you
go too far, it seems to me, and you do not take sufficient care to
control your words!’”
The Burgomaster Van Tricasse clasped his hands—the counsellor turned
pale and let his lantern fall—the commissary shook his head. That a
phrase so evidently irritating should be pronounced by two of the
principal men in the country!
“This Doctor Custos,” muttered Van Tricasse, “is decidedly a dangerous
man—a hare-brained fellow! Come, gentlemen!”
On this, Counsellor Niklausse and the commissary accompanied the
burgomaster into the parlour.