At the thought of death M. Mazure, who was a freethinker, felt a sudden longing come over him to possess an immortal soul.
“I do not believe a word of what is taught by the different churches that share in the spiritual guidance of the people,” he said. “I know, none better, how dogma is formed, transformed, and elaborated. But why should we not possess a thinking principle, and why should not that principle survive the association of organic elements that we call life?”
“I should like,” replied M. Bergeret, “to ask you what you mean by a thinking principle, but no doubt you would find it difficult to define.”
“Not at all,” returned M. Mazure. “I give the name to the cause of thought, or, if you prefer it, to thought itself. Why should not thought be immortal?”
“Yes, why not?” returned M. Bergeret.
“The supposition is by no means absurd,” said M. Mazure, warming to his subject.
“And why,” returned M. Bergeret, “should not a certain house in the Tintelleries, bearing the number 38, be inhabited by a M. Dupont? Such a supposition is by no means absurd. The name of Dupont is common enough in France, and the house of which I am speaking is divided into three parts.”
“Now, of course, you’re joking!” said M. Mazure.
“In a way I’m a spiritualist,” said Dr. Fornerol. “Spiritualism is a therapeutic agent which must be reckoned with in the present state of medical science. All my patients believe in the immortality of the soul, and dislike hearing it ridiculed. The good people of the Tintelleries quarter and elsewhere insist on being immortal, and it would grieve and wound them if anyone were to suggest anything to the contrary. Madame Péchin, to wit, coming out of the greengrocer’s over there with a basketful of tomatoes—if you were to go to her and say: ‘Madame Péchin, you will taste the joys of heaven for hundreds of millions of centuries, but you are not immortal. You will live longer than the stars, you will still exist when the nebulæ have turned into suns, and after the light of those suns has died; you will live on in perfect happiness and glory during inconceivable ages, but you are not immortal, Madame Péchin!’ If you were to say such things to her, she would not look upon them as good tidings, and if, by chance, your words were backed up by proofs infallible enough to convince her, she would be miserable; the poor old thing would be in despair, and would mingle tears with her tomatoes. Madame Péchin insists on being immortal; all my patients have a similar craving. You, M. Mazure, and you, too, M. Bergeret, have the same desire. Now I will confess to you that instability is the essential characteristic of the combined elements that go to form life. Shall I give you a scientific definition of life? It’s a damned callous mystery!”
“Confucius,” said M. Bergeret, “was a very sensible man. One day his disciple, Ki-Lou, asked him how to serve the demons and the spirits, to which the master replied, ‘Man is not yet in a fit state to serve humanity, so how can he serve the demons and the spirits?’ ‘Permit me,’ went on the disciple, ‘to ask you what is death.’ And Confucius replied, ‘We do not know the meaning of life, how, then, can we understand death?’”