He took a great interest in the development of their twin careers, both of which were devoted to teaching, and, judging his own fortune by another’s, he created for himself continual and futile anxieties which obscured the natural clearness of his vision. The fact that Monsieur Bergeret was a professor at the University, while he himself taught grammar in a suburban lycée was not, to his mind, in conformity with the idea of divine justice engraven upon his heart. He was too fair-minded a man to bear a grudge against his friend; but when the latter was appointed lecturer at the Sorbonne Jumage felt it keenly.
A curious effect of this comparative study of their two lives was that Jumage formed an inveterate habit of thinking and acting, on every possible occasion, in a manner diametrically opposed to Monsieur Bergeret’s way of thinking and acting; not that he had not a sincere and upright character, but he could not help suspecting that some malign influence was at work to ensure the success of careers which were of greater importance and merit than his own, and were therefore unrighteous. And thus, when he found that the professor was in favour of the Revision, he at once joined the ranks of the Nationalists, because he conceived all manner of perfectly genuine reasons for doing so, and also because he had to be the antithesis, in a sense, the inverted self, of Monsieur Bergeret. He entered his name as a member of the League of the Agitation française, and even made speeches at its meetings. In the same way he opposed his friend on every topic under the sun, from systems of economical heating to the rules of Latin Grammar, and as, after all, Monsieur Bergeret was not always wrong, Jumage was not always right.
This contrariety, which with years had assumed the exactitude of a rational system, did not in any way interfere with their life-long friendship. Jumage was really concerned at the misfortunes that dogged Bergeret in the course of his sometimes troubled career. He went to see him every time he heard of a fresh calamity. He was no fair-weather friend.
On this particular occasion, he came to his old friend with the worried and bewildered expression, the look of mingled pain and pleasure, that Lucien knew so well.
“You are quite well, Lucien? I’m not in your way, am I?”
“No. I was reading the story of the porter and the young girls in The Arabian Nights, newly translated by Dr. Mardrus. It is a literal translation and very different from The Arabian Nights of our old friend Galland.”
“I came to see you,” said Jumage, “because I wanted to speak to you about something. But it’s of no consequence. So you were reading The Arabian Nights?”
“Yes,” replied Monsieur Bergeret, “and for the first time too. For the worthy Galland gives one no idea of the real thing. He is an excellent story teller who has carefully corrected the morals of the Arabs. His Scheherazada, like Coypel’s Esther, has her value; but here we have Arabia with all its perfumes.”
“I’ve brought you an article to read,” continued Jumage. “But, as I said before, it’s of no consequence.”
And he drew from his pocket a newspaper which Monsieur Bergeret slowly extended his hand to take. Jumage replaced it in his pocket. Monsieur Bergeret’s hand dropped to his side; then, with fingers that trembled slightly, Jumage spread the paper on the table.