Conscience | Page 5

Brigard by birth, he began by
renouncing his title, which made him a vassal of the respect of men and
of social conventions; an instructor of law, he could easily have made a
thousand or twelve hundred francs a month, but he arranged the
number and the price of his lessons so that each day brought him only
ten francs in order that he might not be a slave to money; living with a
woman whom he loved, he had always insisted, although he had two
daughters, on living with her 'en union libre', and in not acknowledging
his children legally, because the law debased the ties which attached
him to them and lessened his duties; it was conscience that sanctioned
these duties; and nature, like conscience, made him the most faithful of
lovers, the best, the most affectionate, the most tender of fathers. Tall,
proud, carrying in his person and manners the native elegance of his
race, he dressed like the porter at the corner, only replacing the blue
velvet by chestnut velvet, a less frivolous color. Living in Clamart for
twenty years, he always came to Paris on foot, and the only concessions
that he made to conventionality or to his comfort were to wear sabots in
winter, and to carry his vest on his arm in summer.
Thus organized, he must have disciples, and he sought them
everywhere-- in the streets, where he buttonholed those he was able to
snatch under the trees of the Luxembourg Gardens, and on Wednesday
at the house of his old comrade Crozat. How many he had had! But,
unfortunately, the greater number turned out badly. Several became
ministers; others accepted high government positions for life; some
handled millions of francs; two were at Noumea; one preached in the
pulpit of Notre Dame.

One afternoon in October the little parlor was full; the end of the
summer vacation had brought back the habitues, and for the first time
the number was nearly large enough to open a profitable discussion.
Crozat, near the door, smiled at the arrivals on shaking hands, and
Brigard, his soft felt hat on his head, presided, assisted by his two
favorite disciples of the moment, the advocate Nougarede and the poet
Glady, neither of whom would turn out badly, he was certain.
To tell the truth, for those who knew how to look and to see, the pale
face of Nougarede, his thin lips, restless eyes, and an austerity of dress
and manners which clashed with his twenty-six years, gave him more
the appearance of a man of ambition than of an apostle. And when one
knew that Glady was the owner of a beautiful house in Paris, and of
real estate in the country that brought him a hundred thousand francs a
year, it was difficult to imagine that he would long follow Father
Brigard.
But to see was not the dominant faculty of Brigard; it was to reason,
and reason told him that ambition would soon make Nougarede a
deputy, as fortune would one day make Glady an academician; and in
that case, although he detested assemblies as much as academies, they
would then have two tribunes whence the good word would fall on the
multitude with more weight. They might be counted on. When
Nougarede began to come to the Wednesday reunions he was as empty
as a drum, and if he spoke brilliantly on no matter what subject with an
imperturbable eloquence, it was to say nothing. In Glady's first volume
were words learnedly arranged to please the ears and the eyes. Now,
ideas sustained the discourse of the advocate, as the verses of the poet
said something--and these ideas were Brigard's; this something was the
perfume of his teaching.
For half an hour the pipes burned fiercely, the smoke slowly rose to the
ceiling, and as in a cloud Brigard might be seen like a bearded god,
proclaiming his law, his hat on his head; for, if he had made a rule
never to take it off, he manipulated it continually while he spoke,
frequently pushing it forward, sometimes to the back of his head, to the
right, to the left, raising it, and flattening it, according to the needs of

his argument.
"It is incontestable," he said, "that we scatter our great force when we
ought to concentrate it."
He pressed down his hat.
"In effect," he raised it, "the hour has arrived for us to assert ourselves
as a group, and it is a duty for us, since it is a need of humanity--"
At this moment a new arrival glided into the room quietly, with the
manifest intention of disturbing no one; but Crozat, who was seated
near the door, stopped him and shook hands.
"'Tiens', Saniel! Good-day, doctor."
"Good-evening, my dear