346 THE LIFE OF PASTEUR 



first night at a theatre; a special public is interested days' 

 beforehand in every coming detail. Wives, daughters, sisteu 

 of Academicians, great ladies interested in coming candidates, 

 widows of deceased Academicians, laureates of various 

 Academy prizes — the whole literary world agitates to obtain 

 tickets. Pasteur's reception promised to be full of interest, 

 some even said piquancy, for it fell to Kenan to welcome him. 



In order to have a foretaste of the contrast between the two 

 men it was sufficient to recall Renan's opening speech three 

 years before, when he succeeded Claude Bernard. His thanks 

 to his colleagues began thus — 



''Your cenaculum is only reached at the age of Ecclesiastes, 

 a delightful age of serene cheerfulness, when after a laborious 

 prime, it begins to be seen that all is but vanity, but also that 

 some vain things are worthy of being lingeringly enjoyed." 



The two minds were as different as the two speeches; 

 Pasteur took everything seriously, giving to words their abso- 

 lute sense; Renan, an incomparable writer, with his supple, 

 undulating style, slipped away and hid himself within the 

 sinuosities of his own philosophy. He disliked plain state- 

 ments, and was ever ready to deny when others affirmed, even 

 if he afterwards blamed excessive negation in his own followers. 

 He religiously consoled those whose faith he destroyed, and, 

 whilst invoking the Eternal, claimed the right of finding fault 

 even there. When applauded by a crowd, he would willingly 

 have murmured Noli me tang ere, and even added with his joyful 

 mixture of disdain and good-fellowship, ''Let infinitely witty 

 men come unto me." 



On that Thursday, April 27, 1882, the Institute was crowded. 

 When the noise had subsided, Renan, seated at the desk as 

 Director of the Academy between Camille Doucet, the Per- 

 manent Secretary, and Maxime du Camp, the Chancellor, 

 declared the meeting opened. Pasteur, looking paler than 

 usual, rose from his seat, dressed in the customary green- 

 embroidered coat of an Academician, wearing across his breast 

 the Grand Cordon of the Legion of Honour. In a clear, grave 

 voice, he began by expressing his deep gratification, and, with 

 the absolute knowledge and sincerity which always compelled 

 the attention of his audience, of whatever kind, he proceeded 

 to praise his predecessor. There was no artifice of composi- 

 tion, no struggle after effect, only a homage to the man, fol- 

 lowed almost immediately by a confession of dissent on 



