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.