“Exactly!” replied M. Bergeret. “But you would not be in a state of perpetual astonishment if you would only remember that the passions of the mob are simple and violent, and that it is impossible to reason with such people. Few men are clever enough to keep control of their minds during difficult investigations, and it has required sustained attention on our part to discover the truth of the matter. It has required sustained attention, and the force of minds trained to the examination of facts with method and sagacity. Advantages such as these, and the satisfaction of knowing oneself in possession of them are well worth a few contemptible insults.” “When will it all end?” asked M. Leterrier. “In six months, perhaps, or twenty years--or never,” replied M. Bergeret. “Where will they draw the line?” asked M. Leterrier. “_Scelere velandum est scelus._ It is killing me, my friend, it is killing me!” It was true. His sense of right and wrong had gone awry, he was feverish and his liver was out of order. For the hundredth time he expounded the proofs which he had amassed, with all the prudence of his mind and all the zeal of his heart. He exposed the first causes of the error, which slowly but surely appeared behind the masses of untruth which had veiled it. Then, strong in the conviction of right, he vigorously demanded: “What answer can they give?” At this point of the conversation the two professors heard a great clamour rising from the street. Riquet lifted up his head and listened anxiously. “What is it now?” asked M. Leterrier. “It is nothing,” replied M. Bergeret, “only Pecus!” It was, indeed, as he had said a crowd of people uttering loud cries. “I think I hear ‘_Conspuez Leterrier!_’” said the rector. “They must have heard that I am here!”