“Again, I repeat, it’s of no importance, but I thought it better—perhaps it’s better for you to know—you have enemies, many enemies.”
“Flatterer!” said Monsieur Bergeret.
And picking up the paper he read the following lines marked in blue pencil:
“A common usher and a Dreyfusard, the intellectual Bergeret, who has been stagnating in the provinces, has just been appointed lecturer at the Sorbonne. The students of the faculty of letters have lodged an energetic protest against the appointment of this anti-French Protestant, and it does not surprise us to hear that many of them have decided to greet as he deserves, with howls of execration, the dirty German Jew whom the Minister of Treason has had the impudence to foist upon them as a teacher.”
And when Monsieur Bergeret had finished reading, Jumage said eagerly:
“Don’t read it, it’s not worth it. It’s so trivial.”
“Trivial, I admit,” replied Monsieur Bergeret. “Yet you must not deprive me of this token, obscure and insufficient, but at the same time truthful and creditable, of what I did during a difficult period. I didn’t do a great deal; but I ran some risks. Stapfer, the Dean, was suspended for having spoken of justice during a funeral oration, in the days when Monsieur Bourgeois was Grand Master of the University. And we have known worse times than those for which Monsieur Bourgeois was responsible. If it hadn’t been for the generous firmness of my chiefs I should have been turned out of the University by an unwise Minister. I didn’t think about it then, but I can think of it now, and claim the reward of my actions. Now tell me what more worthy, what nobler, what more finely austere reward could I attain than the insults of the enemies of justice? I could wish that the writer who, despite himself, has given me this testimonial, had expressed his thought in a more memorable fashion. But that would be asking too much.”
Having thus spoken, Monsieur Bergeret placed the blade of his ivory paper-knife between the pages of The Arabian Nights. He enjoyed cutting the pages of his books, being a wise man who suited his pleasures to his condition. The austere Jumage envied him this innocent pastime. He pulled his sleeve.
“Listen, Lucien. I share none of your opinions with regard to the Affair. I have blamed and still blame your conduct. I fear it may have the most deplorable results upon your future. No true Frenchman will ever find it in his heart to forgive you. I should like to say, however, that I most forcibly disapprove of the style of controversy employed against you by certain newspapers. I condemn them. You believe that, do you not?”
“Yes.”