M. Bergeret’s affairs were worrying him; he was beginning to fear
he might be asked to resign his position at the Faculté, when, to
his surprise, he received the intimation that he had been appointed
honorary professor there.
The news came to him one day, after his removal to his new rooms in
the Place Saint-Exupère, at the very moment when he least expected it.
His joy at the event was greater than his progress in ataraxy should
have allowed. Vague and flattering hopes arose within him, and when M.
Goubin, who had become his favourite pupil since the betrayal of M.
Roux, came that same evening to take him for their usual stroll to the
Café de la Comédie, he found him beaming all over with smiles.
The night was bright with stars, and as he went along the uneven
pavements, M. Bergeret studied the sky. He was interested in the
lighter side of astronomy, and pointed out to M. Goubin a beautiful red
star over against Gemini.
“That is Mars,” he said. “I wish there were such things as glasses
strong enough to see its inhabitants and their industries.”
“But, dear Master,” said M. Goubin, “were you not telling me some short
time ago that the planet Mars was not inhabited, that none of the
celestial bodies were inhabited, and that life, such as we conceive it,
was a disease confined to our planet alone, a kind of decay spread over
the surface of our rotting world?”
“Did I say that?” asked M. Bergeret.
“As far as I can remember that is what you said, dear Master,” replied
M. Goubin.
And his memory had not played him false. After the betrayal of M.
Roux, M. Bergeret had asserted that organic life was but decay eating
into the surface of our diseased world. He had also added that he
hoped for the greater glory of the heavens that life in the distant
worlds produced itself normally, by means of the geometrical forms of
crystallization. “Otherwise,” he had added, “I could derive no pleasure
from the contemplation of the star-spangled sky.” Now, however, he was
of a different opinion.
“You surprise me,” he said to M. Goubin. “There are several reasons for
concluding that all those stars now sparkling overhead contain life and
thought. Even on this earth of ours, life occasionally has its pleasant
side, and thought is divine. I should much like to know something
about yon sister star floating in thin ether in the face of the sun.
She is our neighbour, and only separated from us by fourteen millions
of leagues, which, astronomically speaking, is a very small distance
indeed. I should like to know if the living beings upon the planet Mars
are more beautiful than we humans are, and whether their intellect is
vaster than our own.”
“That is a thing we shall never know,” replied M. Goubin, wiping his
glasses.
“At any rate,” went on M. Bergeret, “astronomers have studied the shape
of that red planet by means of powerful telescopes, and they all agree
in saying that they are able to distinguish innumerable canals upon
its surface. Now, the hypotheses taken as a whole, hypotheses that
are closely interdependent and form a great cosmic system, lead us to
believe that this near neighbour of ours is older than the earth, from
which we may deduce that her inhabitants, with a longer experience
behind them, are wiser than ourselves. The canals of which I was
speaking give to the huge tracts of land they traverse the appearance
of Lombardy. To be quite correct, we can see neither the water nor the
banks, but only the vegetation that grows along them, and which, to the
observer, appears as a thin scattered line, pale or dark according to
the season of the year. It is especially to be remarked at the equator
of the planet. We give the canals the earthly names of Ganges, Euripus,
Phison, Nile, and Orcus. They appear to be irrigating canals, like
those at which, it is said, Leonardo da Vinci worked with the skill
of an excellent engineer. Their undeviating course, and the circular
basins in which they terminate, are sufficient proof that they are
both artificial and the result of mathematical calculation. Nature is
mathematical, it is true, but not in the same manner.
“The canal which we call Orcus is very wonderful. Its course lies
through a number of little round lakes, set at equal distances from one
another, which give it the appearance of a rosary. We cannot doubt but
that the canals of Mars have been constructed by intelligent beings.”
Thus did M. Bergeret people the universe with seductive forms and
sublime thoughts. He filled the empty spaces of the boundless heavens
because he had been made an honorary professor. He was very wise, but
also very human.
When he returned home, he found the following letter awaiting him:
“MILAN.
“DEAR FRIEND,
“You have relied too much upon my knowledge. I am sorry not to
be able to satisfy the curiosity which you tell me stirred you
during the funeral of M. Cassignol.
“The only interest I have taken in the old Church liturgies
lies in their connection in one way and another with the
writings of Dante, and I can tell you nothing upon the subject
that you do not already know.
“The oldest mention of the chant is made about 1401 by
Bartolommeo Pisano. Maroni attributes the _Dies Iræ_ to
Frangipani Malabranca Orsini, who was cardinal in 1278.
Wadding, the biographer of the Franciscan Order Séraphique,
ascribes it to Fra Tomaso da Celano, _qui floruit sub anno_
1250. Such attributions are altogether destitute of proof, but
it is at any rate probable that it was composed in Italy during
the twelfth century.
“In the seventeenth century the defective text of the Roman
Missal was further impaired. A marble tablet preserved in the
church of San Francesco at Mantua offers an older and more
perfect version of the poem. If you would like me to do so, I
will have the _Marmor Mantuanum_ copied for you. I shall be
delighted if you will make use of me in this as in other ways;
nothing would give me more pleasure than to be able to serve
you.
“In return, please be good enough to copy for me a letter,
written by Mabillon and preserved in the town library; it is
one of the Joliette bequest, collection B, No. 3715^8, folio
70. The passage that particularly interests me refers to the
_Anecdota_ of Muratori. Coming from you I shall value it still
more.
“It is my opinion, by the way, that Muratori did not believe
in God. It has always been my wish to write a book on the
atheist-theologians, the number of whom is considerable.
Forgive me for the trouble to which I am putting you by asking
you to visit the public library; I trust that you may be
rewarded by a meeting with the golden-haired fairy who guards
the entrance, and whose dainty ears listen to your flattering
remarks the while she swings in her fingers the huge keys that
lock away the ancient treasures of your town. Speaking of this
fairy reminds me that my days of love are over, and that it is
high time for me to cultivate some favourite vice. Life would
be sad indeed if the rosy swarm of errant thoughts did not come
sometimes to console the old age of the most respectable folk.
I am safe in sharing such sound wisdom with a mind as rare and
capable of comprehension as your own.
“When you come to Florence I will introduce you to a nymph who
guards the house of Dante, and who is well worth your fairy.
You will admire her chestnut hair, her black eyes, her full
bust, and her nose you will consider a miracle of loveliness.
It is of medium size, straight and fine, with delicate
nostrils. I mention this particularly because you know that
nature is not good at noses, and too often spoils a pretty face
by her clumsiness in that direction.
“Mabillon’s letter, which I have asked you to copy for me,
commences thus: ‘Ni les fatigues de l’âge, monsieur....’
Forgive me for worrying you, and believe me to be your sincere
friend,
“CARLO ASPERTINI.
“P.S.--Why will the French persist in upholding an error of
justice which is now beyond all question, and which they
could quite easily set right without harming anyone? I can
find no solution to their conduct in this matter. All my
countrymen, all Europe, and the whole world share my amazement.
I should very much like to have your opinion regarding this
extraordinary affair.”
“C. A.”