“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.” “No,” replied the keeper of the records. “The number of the emancipated increases from day to day, and liberty of conscience has been set up once for all. The empire of science has been established. I am not, however, without some fears of a renewed attack by the clerical party, present circumstances favouring reaction. It really worries me, for I am not, like you, a dilettante. I have a fierce and anxious love for the Republic.” Chatting thus, they reached the open space in front of the cathedral. Over the heads of the people, bald, black, or hoary, the swell of the organ and the odour of incense were wafted through the great open doors from the warm twilight within. “I’m not going inside,” said M. Mazure. “I will go in for a few minutes,” said M. Bergeret. “I have a taste for ritual.” As he entered, the _Dies Iræ_ was rolling out its spacious phrases. M. Bergeret was behind M. Laprat-Teulet. On the gospel side, in the part reserved for women, sat Madame de Gromance, lily-white in her black garments; her flower-like eyes void of all thought, which only made her all the more desirable in M. Bergeret’s mind. The cantor’s voice rang out in the great nave, singing a verse of the funeral chant: “Qui latronem exaudisti Et Mariam absolvisti Mihi quoque spem dedisti.”