Albéric Profitendieu had just had an unusually heavy day at the law-courts; an uncomfortable sensation in his right side was causing him some uneasiness; fatigue in his case usually went to his liver, which was his weak point. He was thinking of his bath; nothing rested him better after the cares of the day than a good bath—with an eye to which he had taken no tea that afternoon, esteeming it imprudent to get into any sort of water—even warm—with a loaded stomach. Merely a prejudice, perhaps; but prejudices are the props of civilisation. Oscar Molinier walked as quickly as he could and made every effort to keep up with his companion; but he was much shorter than Profitendieu and his crural development was slighter; besides which there was a little fatty accumulation round his heart and he easily became short-winded. Profitendieu, who was still sound at the age of fifty-five, with a well-developed chest and a brisk gait, would have gladly given him the slip; but he was very particular as to the proprieties; his colleague was older than he and higher up in the career; respect was due to him. And besides, since the death of his wife’s parents, Profitendieu had a very considerable fortune to be forgiven him, whereas Monsieur Molinier, who was Président de chambre, had nothing but his salary—a derisory salary, utterly disproportionate to the high situation he filled with dignity, which was all the more imposing because of the mediocrity it cloaked. Profitendieu concealed his impatience; he turned to Molinier and looked at him mopping himself; for that matter, he was exceedingly interested by what Molinier was saying; but their point of view was not the same and the discussion was beginning to get warm.

“Have the house watched, by all means,” said Molinier. “Get the reports of the concierge and the sham maid-servant—very good! But mind, if you push the enquiry too far, the affair will be taken out of your hands.… I mean there’s a risk of your being led on much further than you bargained for.”

“Justice should have no such considerations.”

“Tut, tut, my dear sir; you and I know very well what justice ought to be and what it is. We’re all agreed that we act for the best, but, however we act, we never get nearer than an approximation. The case before us now is a particularly delicate one. Out of the fifteen accused persons—or persons who at a word from you will be accused to-morrow—nine are minors. And some of these boys, as you know, come of very honourable families. In such circumstances, I consider that to issue a warrant at all would be the greatest mistake. The newspapers will get hold of the affair and you open the door to every sort of blackmail and calumny. In spite of all your efforts you’ll not prevent names from coming out.… It’s no business of mine to give you advice—on the contrary—it’s much more my place to receive it. You’re well aware how highly I’ve always rated your lucidity and your fair-mindedness.… But if I were you, this is what I should do: I should try to put an end to this abominable scandal by laying hold of the four or five instigators.… Yes! I know they’re difficult to catch; but what the deuce, that’s part of our trade. I should have the flat—the scene of the orgies—closed, and I should take steps for the brazen young rascals’ parents to be informed of the affair—quietly and secretly; and merely in order to avoid any repetition of the scandal. Oh! as to the women, collar them by all means. I’m entirely with you there. We seem to be up against a set of creatures of unspeakable perversity, and society should be cleansed of them at all costs. But, let me repeat, leave the boys alone; content yourself with giving them a fright, and then hush the matter up with some vague term like ‘youthful indiscretion’. Their astonishment at having got off so cheaply will last them for a long time to come. Remember that three of them are not fourteen years old and that their parents no doubt consider them angels of purity and innocence. But really, my dear fellow, between ourselves, come now, did we think of women when we were that age?”

He came to a stop, breathless rather with talking than with walking, and forced Profitendieu, whose sleeve he was holding, to stop too.

“Or if we thought of them,” he went on, “it was ideally—mystically—religiously, if I may say so. The boys of to-day, don’t you think, have no ideals—no! no ideals … A propos, how are yours? Of course, I’m not alluding to them when I speak so. I know that with your careful bringing-up—with the education you’ve given them, there’s no fear of any such reprehensible follies.”

And indeed, up to that time, Profitendieu had had every reason to be satisfied with his sons. But he was without illusions—the best education in the world was of no avail against bad instincts. God be praised, his children had no bad instincts—nor Molinier’s either, no doubt; they were their own protectors against bad companions and bad books. For of what use is it to forbid what we can’t prevent? If books are forbidden, children read them on the sly. His own plan was perfectly simple—he didn’t forbid bad books, but he so managed that his children had no desire to read them.