The town of Canneville was still in ignorance of the maddening news from the army and the capital; nevertheless, great excitement had prevailed for the last month, the opposing parties finding themselves face to face.

The mayor, Viscount de Varnetot, a thin, little old man, a conservative, who had recently, from ambition, gone over to the Empire, had seen a determined opponent arise in Dr. Massarel, a big, full-blooded man, leader of the Republican party of the neighborhood, a high official in the local masonic lodge, president of the Agricultural Society and of the firemen’s banquet and the organizer of the rural militia which was to save the country.

In two weeks, he had managed to gather together sixty-three volunteers, fathers of families, prudent farmers and town merchants, and every morning he would drill them in the square in front of the town-hall.

When, perchance, the mayor would come to the municipal building, Commander Massarel, girt with pistols, would pass proudly in front of his troop, his sword in his hand, and make all of them cry:  “Long live the Fatherland!” And it had been noticed that this cry excited the little viscount, who probably saw in it a menace, a threat, as well as the odious memory of the great Revolution.

On the morning of the fifth of September, the doctor, in full uniform, his revolver on the table, was giving a consultation to an old couple, a farmer who had been suffering from varicose veins for the last seven years and had waited until his wife had them also, before he would consult the doctor, when the postman brought in the paper.

M. Massarel opened it, grew pale, suddenly rose, and lifting his hands to heaven in a gesture of exaltation, began to shout at the top of his voice before the two frightened country folks: 

“Long live the Republic! long live the Republic! long live the Republic!”

Then he fell back in his chair, weak from emotion.

And as the peasant resumed:  “It started with the ants, which began to run up and down my legs—–­” Dr. Massarel exclaimed: 

“Shut up!  I haven’t got time to bother with your nonsense.  The Republic has been proclaimed, the emperor has been taken prisoner, France is saved!  Long live the Republic!”

Running to the door, he howled: 

“Celeste, quick, Celeste!”

The servant, affrighted, hastened in; he was trying to talk so rapidly, that he could only stammer: 

“My boots, my sword, my cartridge-box and the Spanish dagger which is on my night-table!  Hasten!”

As the persistent peasant, taking advantage of a moment’s silence, continued, “I seemed to get big lumps which hurt me when I walk,” the physician, exasperated, roared: 

“Shut up and get out!  If you had washed your feet it would not have happened!”

Then, grabbing him by the collar, he yelled at him: 

“Can’t you understand that we are a republic, you brass-plated idiot!”