“That is what has been said of every prophet,” replied M. Bergeret. “But if you attack the courts martial,” cried M. de Terremondre, “it means the end of the Army, and therefore the end of the country.” M. Bergeret’s reply was as follows: “When the priests and seigniors were deprived of the right of hanging their serfs, people thought it meant the end of all law and order. Soon, however, a new order of government sprang up, better than the old one. What I say is this: in times of peace let the soldier be judged by a civil court. Do you imagine that since the time of Charles VII, or even since Napoleon, the Army has not survived more drastic innovations than that?” “I am an old Jacobin,” repeated M. Mazure. “I am in favour of courts martial, and would have the heads of the Army subject to the authority of a committee of public safety. There is nothing more calculated to keep them up to the mark.” “That’s another matter altogether,” said M. de Terremondre. “I return to our original subject and ask M. Bergeret whether he honestly believes it possible that _seven_ officers could make a mistake?” “Fourteen!” cried M. Mazure. “Fourteen,” repeated M. de Terremondre. “I do believe it possible,” said M. Bergeret. “Fourteen French officers!” ejaculated M. de Terremondre. “Oh, well,” said M. Bergeret, “they might have been Swiss, Belgian, Spanish, German, or Dutch, and have made just as bad a blunder.” “Impossible!” cried M. de Terremondre. 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.