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:
“Qui latronem exaudisti
Et Mariam absolvisti
Mihi quoque spem dedisti.”
“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.