Monsieur Le Premier PrÉsident Cassignol died in his ninety-second year, and, in accordance with his expressed wish, was carried to his grave upon a pauper’s hearse. This clause in his will was silently condemned. All present were inwardly offended, as though the injunction were intended as a slur upon that object of universal respect, money, and as the ostentatious relinquishment of a privilege appertaining to the bourgeois class. They called to mind that M. Cassignol had always lived in very good style, observing, even in extreme old age, a punctilious nicety with regard to his personal habits, and, although he had been unceasingly employed in charitable works, none would ever have dreamed of saying, in the words of a Christian orator, “He loved the poor even to becoming as one of them.” They did not believe the thing was done out of religious zeal, and looked upon it as a paradoxical piece of pride, the elaborate display of humility being received with the utmost coldness. They regretted, too, that the deceased, who had been an officer of the Legion of Honour, had directed that no military honours should be paid him. The state of the public mind, inflamed by the nationalist papers, was such, that open complaints at the absence of the military were heard among the crowd. General Cartier de Chalmot, who came in civilian attire, was greeted with profound respect by a deputation of lawyers. A great number of magistrates and clergy thronged around the house of mourning, and when, preceded by the Cross, and to the sound of bells and liturgical chants, the hearse moved slowly towards the cathedral accompanied by twelve white-coiffed nuns, and followed by a long grey and black line of boys and girls from the church schools, which stretched as far as the eye could see, the meaning of this long life entirely consecrated to the triumph of the Catholic Church was at once revealed. The whole town was there. M. Bergeret was among the stragglers following the procession, and M. Mazure, coming up to him, whispered in his ear:

“I knew that old Cassignol had been a fanatical zealot all his life, but I didn’t know he was such a prig. He called himself a Liberal!”

“And so he was,” answered M. Bergeret. “He had to be, because his ambition was to govern. Is it not through liberty that we progress along the road to domination? My dear M. Mazure, I am indeed sorry for you!”

“Why?” asked the keeper of the records.

“Because, being in sympathy with the mob, you constantly display the same pathetic faculty for being deceived, and zealously march along in the procession of triumphant dupes.”

“Oh, if you mean the Affair,” replied M. Mazure, “I may as well warn you that we shall not agree at all.”

“Bergeret, do you know that parson?” inquired Dr. Fornerol, glancing at a fat and agile priest who was sidling in among the crowd.

“AbbÉ Guitrel,” exclaimed M. Bergeret. “Who does not know of Guitrel and his servant? Adventures recounted in days of yore by La Fontaine and Boccaccio are attributed to them. As a matter of fact, the AbbÉ’s servant is of the age stipulated by the canons of the Church. A little while ago this priest, who will soon be a bishop, said something which was retailed to me, and which I in turn repeat to you. He said, ‘If the eighteenth century may be called the century of crime, perhaps the nineteenth will be spoken of as the century of atonement.’ What do you think of that? Suppose Guitrel were right.”

“No,” replied the keeper of the records. “The number of the emancipated increases from day to day, and liberty of conscience has been set up once for all. The empire of science has been established. I am not, however, without some fears of a renewed attack by the clerical party, present circumstances favouring reaction. It really worries me, for I am not, like you, a dilettante. I have a fierce and anxious love for the Republic.”

Chatting thus, they reached the open space in front of the cathedral. Over the heads of the people, bald, black, or hoary, the swell of the organ and the odour of incense were wafted through the great open doors from the warm twilight within.

“I’m not going inside,” said M. Mazure.

“I will go in for a few minutes,” said M. Bergeret. “I have a taste for ritual.”

As he entered, the Dies IrÆ was rolling out its spacious phrases. M. Bergeret was behind M. Laprat-Teulet. On the gospel side, in the part reserved for women, sat Madame de Gromance, lily-white in her black garments; her flower-like eyes void of all thought, which only made her all the more desirable in M. Bergeret’s mind. The cantor’s voice rang out in the great nave, singing a verse of the funeral chant:

“You hear, Fornerol,” said M. Bergeret, “‘Qui latronem exaudisti—— Thou, who didst pardon the thief, and absolve the adulteress, hast given hope to me also.’ No doubt the recital of such words to a large assembly of people is not without its impressive side, and the praise is due to those untutored and gentle visionaries of the Abruzzi, those humble servants of the poor, those amiable enthusiasts who renounced riches in order to escape from the hatred and ill-will that they engender. They were bad economists, these companions of St. Francis; M. MÉline would show his contempt for them, if by any chance he ever heard them spoken about.”

“Ah,” said the doctor, “the companions of St. Francis were able to look ahead and to see of what material an assembly such as this of to-day would be composed.”

“I believe the Dies IrÆ was written during the thirteenth century in a Franciscan convent,” replied M. Bergeret. “I must consult my friend, Commander Aspertini, on the subject.”

In the meanwhile the burial service was drawing to a close.

While they followed the hearse that bore the magistrate’s remains to the cemetery, M. Mazure, Dr. Fornerol, and M. Bergeret continued their conversation. As they were passing the house of Queen Marguerite, M. Mazure remarked: “The agreement is signed. M. de Terremondre is owner of the ancient dwelling of Philippe Tricouillard, and intends to house his collection there, in the secret hope of selling it at a tremendous price some day to the town, whose benefactor he will thus become. By the way, Terremondre has made up his mind; he is going to offer himself as progressive republican candidate for Seuilly, but every one knows in what direction his progress will tend. He is a turncoat from the Royalists.”

“Hasn’t he got the Government behind him?” asked M. Bergeret.

“He is supported by the prÉfet, and opposed by the sous-prÉfet,” replied M. Mazure. “The sous-prÉfet of Seuilly is led by the President of the Council, and Worms-Clavelin, the prÉfet, acts upon the instructions of the Minister of the Interior.”

“Do you see that shop?” asked the doctor.

“The dyer’s and cleaner’s shop that belongs to the widow Leborgne?” said M. Mazure.

“Yes,” replied Dr. Fornerol. “Her husband died six weeks ago in the most extraordinary way. He literally died of fright and nervous shock at sight of a dog which he believed to be mad, and which was as healthy as I am myself.”

At the thought of death M. Mazure, who was a freethinker, felt a sudden longing come over him to possess an immortal soul.

“I do not believe a word of what is taught by the different churches that share in the spiritual guidance of the people,” he said. “I know, none better, how dogma is formed, transformed, and elaborated. But why should we not possess a thinking principle, and why should not that principle survive the association of organic elements that we call life?”

“I should like,” replied M. Bergeret, “to ask you what you mean by a thinking principle, but no doubt you would find it difficult to define.”

“Not at all,” returned M. Mazure. “I give the name to the cause of thought, or, if you prefer it, to thought itself. Why should not thought be immortal?”

“Yes, why not?” returned M. Bergeret.

“The supposition is by no means absurd,” said M. Mazure, warming to his subject.

“And why,” returned M. Bergeret, “should not a certain house in the Tintelleries, bearing the number 38, be inhabited by a M. Dupont? Such a supposition is by no means absurd. The name of Dupont is common enough in France, and the house of which I am speaking is divided into three parts.”

“Now, of course, you’re joking!” said M. Mazure. “In a way I’m a spiritualist,” said Dr. Fornerol. “Spiritualism is a therapeutic agent which must be reckoned with in the present state of medical science. All my patients believe in the immortality of the soul, and dislike hearing it ridiculed. The good people of the Tintelleries quarter and elsewhere insist on being immortal, and it would grieve and wound them if anyone were to suggest anything to the contrary. Madame PÉchin, to wit, coming out of the greengrocer’s over there with a basketful of tomatoes—if you were to go to her and say: ‘Madame PÉchin, you will taste the joys of heaven for hundreds of millions of centuries, but you are not immortal. You will live longer than the stars, you will still exist when the nebulÆ have turned into suns, and after the light of those suns has died; you will live on in perfect happiness and glory during inconceivable ages, but you are not immortal, Madame PÉchin!’ If you were to say such things to her, she would not look upon them as good tidings, and if, by chance, your words were backed up by proofs infallible enough to convince her, she would be miserable; the poor old thing would be in despair, and would mingle tears with her tomatoes. Madame PÉchin insists on being immortal; all my patients have a similar craving. You, M. Mazure, and you, too, M. Bergeret, have the same desire. Now I will confess to you that instability is the essential characteristic of the combined elements that go to form life. Shall I give you a scientific definition of life? It’s a damned callous mystery!”

“Confucius,” said M. Bergeret, “was a very sensible man. One day his disciple, Ki-Lou, asked him how to serve the demons and the spirits, to which the master replied, ‘Man is not yet in a fit state to serve humanity, so how can he serve the demons and the spirits?’ ‘Permit me,’ went on the disciple, ‘to ask you what is death.’ And Confucius replied, ‘We do not know the meaning of life, how, then, can we understand death?’”

The procession skirted the Rue Nationale, and passed in front of the college. Dr. Fornerol, being thereby reminded of his youthful days, began:

“That is where I studied. It is a long time ago now. I am much older than either of you. In a week I shall be fifty-six!”

“And so Madame PÉchin really insists on being immortal?” asked M. Bergeret.

“She is convinced that she is immortal,” answered the doctor. “If you told her that she was not, she would take a dislike to you, and disbelieve you all the same.”

“And the idea of having to go on for ever amid the universal passing of things does not astonish her? She does not tire of nourishing such exaggerated hopes? Perhaps she has not given much thought to the nature of man and the conditions of life?”

“What does that matter?” replied the doctor. “I cannot understand your surprise, my dear M. Bergeret. This good lady is a religious woman; religion, indeed, is her only possession. Having been born in a Catholic country, she is a Catholic, and she believes what she has been taught. It’s only nature!”

“Doctor, you are talking like ZaÏre,” said M. Bergeret—— “Had I lived on the banks of the Ganges. Besides, the belief in immortality is common in Europe, America, and a part of Asia; it spreads in Africa with the wearing of clothes.”

“So much the better,” replied the doctor, “for it is necessary to civilization. Without it the unfortunate would never resign themselves to their fate.”

“Yet,” retorted M. Bergeret, “the Chinese coolies work for paltry wages. They are patient and resigned, and they are not spiritualists.”

“That is because they are yellow,” replied the doctor. “The white races have far less resignation. They have conceived an ideal of justice, and formed great hopes. General Cartier de Chalmot is quite right in saying that belief in a future life is necessary to an army. It is also very useful with regard to social intercourse; people would be worse than they are but for the fear of hell.”

“Doctor,” demanded M. Bergeret, “do you believe you will rise again?”

“It’s different for me,” replied the doctor. “I do not find it necessary to believe in God in order to be an honest man. As a scientist I know nothing; as a citizen I believe everything. I am a Catholic by policy, and consider that religious belief is essentially an improving element that helps to humanize the masses.”

“That is a very widespread opinion,” said M. Bergeret, “and its general acceptance renders it suspect in my eyes. Popular opinions hold good as a matter of course, without analysis, and if they were inquired into, generally speaking they would not pass muster. They are like the theatre-lover who for thirty years was able to attend the plays at the ComÉdie-FranÇaise by simply muttering ‘feu Scribe’ as he went in, to the man at the ticket-office. If investigated, his right of entry would never have been allowed to pass, but it never was investigated. How can one really believe religion to have a moralizing effect when one reads the history of the Christian nations, and realizes it to be a succession of wars, massacres and tortures. You cannot expect people to be more pious than cloistered monks, and yet monks of every order, black, white, brown, and pied, have been guilty of the most abominable crimes. The agents of the Inquisition and the priests of the League were pious, yet they were cruel. I do not mention the popes who drowned the world in blood, for it is by no means certain that they really believed in a future life. The truth of the matter is that men are evil animals, and remain evil, even when they expect to go from this world into another, which is somewhat unreasonable, when one comes to think of it. All the same, I do not want you to imagine, doctor, that I deny Madame PÉchin the right to believe herself immortal. I will even go so far as to say that she will not be disappointed when she departs this life, for a lasting illusion has some of the attributes of truth, and a person who is never disabused is never deceived.”

By this time the head of the cortÈge had entered the cemetery, and the three gossips slackened their pace.

“If you were in my position, M. Bergeret,” said the doctor, “and visited each morning a dozen or so of sick folk, you would realize, as I do, the power of the clergy. Come now, do you never find yourself desiring, if not believing in, immortality?”

“Doctor,” replied M. Bergeret, “my thoughts on this subject are the same as those of Madame Dupont-Delagneau. Madame Dupont-Delagneau was very old when my father was very young. She was fond of him, and used to enjoy a chat with him; she was a link with the eighteenth century. I have heard him quote her again and again, and this, amongst others, is an anecdote I have heard him relate. Once, when she was ill in the country, her parish priest went to visit her, and began to talk of a future life. With a little disdainful grimace, she retorted that she had her misgivings about the next world. ‘You tell me,’ she said, ‘that the Creator of this world made the next too. All I can say is that I am already too well acquainted with His handiwork!’ Thus, doctor, I am at least as mistrustful of the next world as was Madame Dupont-Delagneau.”

“But,” asked the doctor, “have you never dreamed of immortality achieved by science, or life on another star?”

“I always come back to the saying of Madame Dupont-Delagneau,” replied M. Bergeret. “I should be too much afraid that the systems of Altair or Aldebaran would resemble our solar system, and that it would not be worth while changing. And as for being born again on this terrestrial globe—I think not, doctor, thank you!”

“But come now, really!” persisted the doctor. “Would you not, like Madame PÉchin, like to be immortal, somehow or other?” “All things considered,” replied M. Bergeret, “I am content with being eternal, and, in my essence, I am that. As for the consciousness I enjoy, that is a mere accident, doctor, a momentary phenomenon, like a bubble formed on the surface of the waters.”

“Agreed! But it is better not to say so,” replied the doctor.

“Why?” asked M. Bergeret.

“Because such notions are not suited to the masses, with whom you must agree outwardly, though inwardly you hold other views. It is community of belief that makes strong nations.”

“The truth is,” replied M. Bergeret, “that men of a common faith have no more urgent desire than to exterminate those who think differently, particularly if the difference is very slight.”

“We are going to hear three speeches,” said M. Mazure.

He was mistaken. Five speeches were made and no one heard a word. Cries of “Vive l’armÉe!” broke out as General Cartier de Chalmot went by, while Messieurs Leterrier and Bergeret were pursued by the hooting of the youthful Nationalists of the place.