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.”