Billot heard the meanings of his daughter, shut up in the room above his own, and he remembered her prophetic words; for there could not be a doubt that the persecution to which the farmer had been subjected had for its cause the doctor’s book.
At length the clock struck nine, and Billot through his grated window could count his laborers as they returned to the farm-house to get their breakfast. On seeing this, he reflected that, in case of any conflict, might, if not right, was not on his side. This conviction made the blood boil in his veins. He had no longer the fortitude to restrain his feelings; and seizing the door with both hands, he shook it so violently, that with two or three efforts of the same nature he would have burst the lock.
The police-agents immediately opened the door, and they saw the farmer standing close by it, with threatening looks. All was confusion in the house.
“But finally,” cried Billot, ” what is it you are seeking for in my house? Tell me, or, zounds! I will make you tell me.”
The successive return of the laborers had not escaped the experienced eye of such a man as the exempt. He had counted the farm-servants, and had admitted to himself that in case of any combat he would not be able to retain possession of the field of battle. He therefore approached Billot with a demeanor more honeyed even than before, and bowing almost to the ground, said:—
“I will tell you what it is, dear Monsieur Billot, although it is against our custom. What we are seeking for in your house is a subversive book, an incendiary pamphlet, placed under ban by our royal censors.”
“A book!—and in the house of a farmer who cannot read?”
“What is there astonishing in that, if you are a friend of the author, and he has sent it to you?”
“I am not the friend of Doctor Gilbert; I am merely his humble servant. The friend of the doctor, indeed!—that would be too great an honor for a poor farmer like me.”
This inconsiderate outbreak, in which Billot betrayed himself by acknowledging that he not only knew the author, which was natural enough, he being his landlord, but that he knew the book, insured the agent’s victory. The latter drew himself up, assumed his most amiable air, and touching Billot’s arm, said, with a smile which appeared to extend transversely over his face:—
“”Tis thou hast named him.’ Do you know that verse, my dear Monsieur Billot?”
“I know no verses.”
“It is by Racine, a very great poet.”
“Well, what is the meaning of that line?” cried Billot.
“It means that you have betrayed yourself.”
“Who—I?”
“Yourself.”
“And how so?”
“By being the first to mention Monsieur Gilbert, whom we had the discretion not to name.”
“That is true,” said Billot.
“You acknowledge it, then?”
“I will do more than that.”
“My dear Monsieur Billot, you overwhelm us with kindness: what is it you will do?”
“If it is that book you are hunting after, and I tell you where that book is,” rejoined the farmer, with an uneasiness which he could not altogether control, “you will leave off turning everything topsy-turvy here, will you not?”
The exempt made a sign to his two assistants.
“Most assuredly,” replied the exempt, “since it is that book which is the object of our perquisition. Only,” continued he, with his smiling grimace, “you may perhaps acknowledge one copy of it when you may have ten in your possession.”
“I have only one, and that I swear to you.”
“But it is this we are obliged to ascertain by a most careful search, dear Monsieur Billot,” rejoined the exempt. “Have patience, therefore; in five minutes it will be concluded. We are only poor sergeants obeying the orders of the authorities, and you would not surely prevent men of honor,—there are men of honor in every station of life, dear Monsieur Billot,—you would not throw any impediment in the way of men of honor when they are doing their duty.”
The gentleman in black had adopted the right mode: this was the proper course for persuading Billot.