That same evening M. Leterrier came to see M. Bergeret.

At the sound of the bell Riquet leapt down from the couch he was sharing with his master, and, with one eye on the door, set up a terrific barking. When M. Leterrier came into the room, the dog received him with hostile growls; the portly form and full, grave countenance fringed with grey beard, were not familiar to him.

“You too!” murmured the rector gently.

“Please excuse him,” said M. Bergeret. “He is a domesticated animal. When men undertook the training of his forefathers, and, in so doing, formed the characteristics he has inherited, they themselves regarded a stranger as an enemy. They did not inculcate in dogs charity towards the human race. Thoughts of universal brotherhood have not entered the soul of Riquet; he stands for the old order of things.”

“And a very ancient one,” replied the rector, “for it is, of course, clear that nowadays we live in unity, peace and concord, with one another!”

He spoke these words with a bitterness not natural to him, but for some time past his thoughts and speech had changed.

However, Riquet continued to bark and growl; he was evidently doing his best to scare away the stranger by his voice and fearsome appearance, but, as fast as the enemy advanced, he retreated. He was a faithful house-dog, but cautious withal.

At last his master, growing impatient, picked him up by the scruff of the neck, and gave him two or three taps on his nose, whereupon Riquet immediately stopped barking, wriggled, and put out a pink, curling tongue to lick the hand that had chastised him, his beautiful eyes full of gentle sadness the while.

“Poor Riquet,” sighed M. Leterrier, “that is all you get for your zeal.”

“I must drive things into his head,” replied M. Bergeret, pushing him behind him at the back of his chair. “Now he knows he was wrong to greet you in such fashion. Riquet conceives of one evil only, physical suffering, and of but one happiness, the absence of suffering. He identifies crime and punishment, inasmuch as for him a misdeed is a deed that is punished. If by accident I step on his paw, he feels himself to be the guilty party, and begs my pardon; justice and injustice do not trouble his infallible wisdom.”

“Such philosophy spares him the mental anguish some of us are experiencing to-day,” said M. Leterrier.

Since the day he had signed the protest of the “Intellectuals” M. Leterrier lived in a state of perpetual astonishment. He had set forth his reasons in a letter to the local newspapers, and could not understand his opponents who called him a Jew, a Prussian, an “Intellectual,” and said that he had been bought. What also surprised him was that EusÈbe Boulet, the editor of the Phare, referred to him daily as a disloyal citizen and an opponent of the Army.

“Would you believe it?” he cried. “They have dared to put in the Phare that I insult the Army! I insult the Army! I who have a son serving with the colours!”

The two professors spoke at length of the Affair, and M. Leterrier, of the still guileless soul, repeated:

“I cannot understand why political considerations and party passions should be brought into the affair at all. It is a question of moral right, and far above such things!”

“Exactly!” replied M. Bergeret. “But you would not be in a state of perpetual astonishment if you would only remember that the passions of the mob are simple and violent, and that it is impossible to reason with such people. Few men are clever enough to keep control of their minds during difficult investigations, and it has required sustained attention on our part to discover the truth of the matter. It has required sustained attention, and the force of minds trained to the examination of facts with method and sagacity. Advantages such as these, and the satisfaction of knowing oneself in possession of them are well worth a few contemptible insults.”

“When will it all end?” asked M. Leterrier.

“In six months, perhaps, or twenty years—or never,” replied M. Bergeret.

“Where will they draw the line?” asked M. Leterrier. “Scelere velandum est scelus. It is killing me, my friend, it is killing me!”

It was true. His sense of right and wrong had gone awry, he was feverish and his liver was out of order.

For the hundredth time he expounded the proofs which he had amassed, with all the prudence of his mind and all the zeal of his heart. He exposed the first causes of the error, which slowly but surely appeared behind the masses of untruth which had veiled it. Then, strong in the conviction of right, he vigorously demanded:

“What answer can they give?” At this point of the conversation the two professors heard a great clamour rising from the street. Riquet lifted up his head and listened anxiously.

“What is it now?” asked M. Leterrier.

“It is nothing,” replied M. Bergeret, “only Pecus!”

It was, indeed, as he had said a crowd of people uttering loud cries.

“I think I hear ‘Conspuez Leterrier!’” said the rector. “They must have heard that I am here!”

“I think so too,” said M. Bergeret, “and I believe that they’ll soon be shouting ‘Conspuez Bergeret!’ Pecus is fed on ancient ideas, and his aptitude for error is considerable. Feeling himself incapable of bringing reason to bear upon hereditary prejudices, he prudently sticks to the heritage of nursery tales, handed down by his forefathers. This particular kind of wisdom preserves him from errors that would otherwise do him harm. He keeps to the old and tried errors. He is imitative, and would be more so, were it not that he involuntarily deforms everything he imitates, such deformations going by the name of progress. Pecus never thinks, and it is unjust to say that he deceives himself. To his unhappiness, be it said, everything combines to deceive him. He knows not the meaning of doubt, for doubt springs from thought. Yet his ideas are ever changing, and at times his stupidity turns to violence. He excels in nothing, for everything that is in any way excellent flies before him, and ceases to be his. He wanders and languishes and suffers. We must give him deep, sorrowful sympathy; we must even venerate him, for it is from him that all virtue, all beauty, and all human glory spring. Poor Pecus!”

As M. Bergeret was pronouncing these words, a stone came hurtling through the window and fell upon the floor.

“There is an argument!” said the rector, picking up the stone.

“And rhomboid in shape,” said M. Bergeret.

“It bears no inscription,” said the rector.

“That is a pity!” answered M. Bergeret. “Commander Aspertini found at Modena some sling stones used by the soldiers of Hirtius and of Pansa against the followers of Octavius, in the year 43 B.C. These stones bore inscriptions, indicating whom they were intended to strike. M. Aspertini showed me one destined for Livy. I leave you to guess in what form the soldier’s humour couched the terms of the inscription.”

His voice was drowned at this point by cries of “Conspuez Bergeret! Mort aux juifs!” which rose from the square.

Taking the stone from the hands of the rector, M. Bergeret placed it upon his table to serve as a letter-weight, and as soon as he could hear himself speak, went on with his remarks:

“Horrible cruelties were committed after the defeat of the two consuls at Modena. It cannot be denied that society has improved since then.”

The crowd went on yelling, however, and Riquet replied to it with heroic barks.