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.”