As they were discussing the Affair at Paillot’s library, in a corner devoted to old books, M. Bergeret, who was of a speculative turn of mind, gave expression to ideas upon the subject that were not in accord with popular sentiment.

“This hearing of cases in camera is a detestable practice,” he said.

And as M. de Terremondre offered in defence reasons of State, he replied:

“We have no State. We have administrations. What we call reasons of State are simply the reasons of government departments. We are told that such reasons are sacred; as a matter of fact, they afford the department the opportunity to hide its errors, and at the same time to aggravate their consequences.”

“I am a republican, a Jacobin, a terrorist—and a patriot,” remarked M. Mazure solemnly. “I am quite willing to send the generals to the guillotine, but I allow no one to dispute the decisions of military justice.” “And you are right,” replied M. de Terremondre, “for if any justice is worthy of respect, it is that above all others. And, knowing the army as I do, I can assure you that there are no judges so indulgent or so merciful as military judges.”

“I am very glad to hear you say so,” replied M. Bergeret. “But as the army is a department just the same as agriculture, finance or public instruction, one cannot conceive of there being such a thing as military courts, when there are neither agricultural, financial, nor university courts. Any peculiar form of justice is directly opposed to the fundamental principles of modern law. The military provostships will appear as old-fashioned and barbarous to our descendants as seigniorial and ecclesiastical courts appear to us to-day.”

“You are joking!” said M. de Terremondre.

“That is what has been said of every prophet,” replied M. Bergeret.

“But if you attack the courts martial,” cried M. de Terremondre, “it means the end of the Army, and therefore the end of the country.”

M. Bergeret’s reply was as follows:

“When the priests and seigniors were deprived of the right of hanging their serfs, people thought it meant the end of all law and order. Soon, however, a new order of government sprang up, better than the old one. What I say is this: in times of peace let the soldier be judged by a civil court. Do you imagine that since the time of Charles VII, or even since Napoleon, the Army has not survived more drastic innovations than that?”

“I am an old Jacobin,” repeated M. Mazure. “I am in favour of courts martial, and would have the heads of the Army subject to the authority of a committee of public safety. There is nothing more calculated to keep them up to the mark.”

“That’s another matter altogether,” said M. de Terremondre. “I return to our original subject and ask M. Bergeret whether he honestly believes it possible that seven officers could make a mistake?”

“Fourteen!” cried M. Mazure.

“Fourteen,” repeated M. de Terremondre.

“I do believe it possible,” said M. Bergeret.

“Fourteen French officers!” ejaculated M. de Terremondre.

“Oh, well,” said M. Bergeret, “they might have been Swiss, Belgian, Spanish, German, or Dutch, and have made just as bad a blunder.”

“Impossible!” cried M. de Terremondre.

The librarian Paillot shook his head, thereby meaning to express the fact that he also considered it impossible. And his clerk, LÉon, looked at M. Bergeret with indignant surprise. “I do not know whether you will ever be enlightened,” went on M. Bergeret sweetly. “I do not think so, although all things are possible, even the triumph of truth.”

“You mean the Revision,” said M. de Terremondre. “That, never! You will never succeed in getting the Revision; I have been told as much by three Ministers and twenty deputies.”

“The poet Bouchor,” replied M. Bergeret, “teaches us that it is better to endure the horrors of war than to commit an unjust action. But such an alternative does not confront you, gentlemen, and you are being scared with lies.”

Just as M. Bergeret was saying this a great noise was heard in the square outside. A band of little boys was marching past and shouting, “A bas Zola! Mort aux juifs!” They were on their way to break the windows of Meyer, the bootmaker, who was supposed to be a Jew, and the townsmen indulgently watched them go by.

“Fine little chaps!” cried M. de Terremondre, when the demonstrators had filed by.

M. Bergeret, with his nose buried in a ponderous volume, slowly remarked:

“The cause of liberty had only the very smallest minority of educated people upon her side. The clergy almost to a man, the generals and the ignorant and fanatical mob clamoured for a master.” “What is that you are saying?” asked M. Mazure excitedly.

“Nothing,” replied M. Bergeret. “I am reading a chapter of Spanish history which describes the manners and customs of the people at the time of the restoration of Ferdinand VII.”

The bootmaker, Meyer, was half killed, nevertheless. He did not complain, for fear of being killed outright, and also because the justice of the people, together with that of the Army, filled him with mute admiration.