The town is greatly upset because the prophetess cannot give the logarithm of nine. (Another case of celestial mathematics?) Madame de Gromance passes, and Bergeret reflects that to see a pretty woman is a stroke of luck for an honest man. He is “grateful to her for dressing with art and discretion.” But tragedy invades the Bergeret household, for Roux, a pupil, becomes the lover of Madame Bergeret ... in circumstances which make it impossible for the professor to doubt his eyes. After a murderous moment Bergeret decides that this is all really very trifling, throws the wickerwork figure through the window, and goes out to talk to Paillot, the bookseller; he reflects vaguely on adultery and its meaninglessness. Guitrel and the archdeacon hold an earnest discussion on omelettes. Inspired by Marcus Aurelius, Bergeret concludes that the art of life is a benevolent contempt for man: all Anatole France is there. For him those lovers were chimpanzees, and he feels a little superior because he is “a meditative chimpanzee.” The conversations continue to develop. Fremont, inspector of fine arts, is “patriotic, even in art”; Worms-Clavelin states that he loathes the Empire, but adds: “Still we make wine, grow corn, as under the emperor ... we work on the Stock Exchange, eat, drink, make love as under the emperor.” The upshot is: “Don’t touch the machine, for it will be all the same whatever you do.” The execution of the murderer of the old lady enables Bergeret to state his views, which are, as usual, exceedingly unpopular, for he will not have it that the murderer was a degenerate: had not Mithridates a double row of teeth? Nor shall tattooing prove the crime, for are not fashionable travellers tattooed? And then he wanders off on the fiction of the aristocratic type in woman, which is entirely derived from the smart shopgirl and the plebeian actress. The shady senator is arrested, but released, says his wife, owing to the intervention of the Almighty. Meanwhile Bergeret refuses to speak to his unfaithful wife, which causes great trouble in the house, because the cook, disliking the goings-on, gives notice again; the new cook can make only one kind of soup, which is very annoying. And so the book rambles on until Madame Bergeret, unable to bear dumb disdain, leaves with her two daughters.