e mass, philosophers, poets, historians, or philologists, and
pronounced them all unworthy of attention. I defended them with the
confidence of conviction and youth; when M. de Fontanes, turning to his
neighbour on the other side, said to him, with a smile, "We can never
make these Protestants give in." But, instead of taking offence at my
obstinacy, he was cordially pleased with the frankness of this little
debate. His toleration of my independence was, not long after, subjected
to a more delicate trial.

When I was about to commence my course, in December, 1812, he spoke to
me of my opening address, and insinuated that I ought to insert in it a
sentence or two in praise of the Emperor. It was the custom, he said,
particularly on the establishment of a new professorship, and the
Emperor sometimes demanded from him an account of these proceedings. I
felt unwilling to comply, and told him, I thought this proposal scarcely
consistent. I had to deal exclusively with science, before an audience
of students; how then could I be expected to introduce politics, and,
above all, politics in opposition to my own views? "Do as you please,"
replied M. de Fontanes, with an evident mixture of regard and
embarrassment; "if you are complained of, it will fall upon me, and I
must defend you and myself as well as I can."[3]

He displayed as much clear penetration and good sense as generosity, in
so quickly and gracefully renouncing the proposition he had suggested.
In regard to the master he served, the opposition of the society in
which I lived had in it nothing of practical or immediate importance. It
was purely an opposition of ideas and conversation, without defined plan
or effective influence, earnest in philosophic inquiry, but passive in
political action; disposed to be satisfied with tranquil life, in the
unshackled indulgence of thought and speech.

On entering the University, I found myself in contact with another
opposition, less apparent but more serious, without being, at the
moment, of a more active character. M. Royer-Collard, at that time
Professor of the History of Philosophy, and Dean of the Faculty of
Letters, attached himself to me with warm friendship. We had no previous
acquaintanceship; I was much the younger man; he lived quite out of the
world, within a small circle of selected associates; we were new to each
other, and mutually attractive. He was a man, not of the old system, but
of the old times, whose charac