“No, monsieur, my ‘Theory of Perpetual Motion,’ 4 vols. in quarto with plates.  But no! days, weeks went by and nobody came; so, thinking that my publisher did not put all the energy he should into the matter, I tried to sell the second edition to another man.  It was that, monsieur, that enabled me to discover the whole plot, on which, as I said before, I turned that serpent out of my house.  In six years only nine copies had been sold!  Kept quiet in false security I had done nothing for the propagation of my book, which had been left to take care of itself; and thus it was that I, victim of black and wicked jealousy, was shamefully despoiled of the value of my labors.”

“But,” said Minard, making himself the mouthpiece of the thoughts of the company, “may we not see in that act a manner as ingenious as it was delicate to—­”

“To give me alms! is that what you mean?” interrupted the old man, with a roar that made Mademoiselle Minard jump in her chair; “to humiliate me, dishonor me—­me, his old professor!  Am I in need of charity?  Has Picot (Nepomucene), to whom his wife brought a dowry of one hundred thousand francs, ever stretched out his palm to any one?  But in these days nothing is respected.  Old fellows, as they call us, our religion and our good faith is taken advantage of so that these youths may say to the public:  ’Old drivellers, don’t you see now they are good for nothing?  It needs us, the young generation, us, the moderns, us, Young France, to bring them up on a bottle.’  Young greenhorn! let me see you try to feed me!  Old drivellers know more in their little finger than you in your whole brain, and you’ll never be worth us, paltry little intriguer that you are!  However, I know my day of vengeance will come; that young Phellion can’t help ending badly; what he did to-day, reading a statement to the Academy, under my name, was forgery, forgery! and the law will send him to the galleys for that.”

“True,” said Colleville, “forgery of a public star.”

Brigitte, who quaked for her glasses, and whose nerves were exacerbated by the monstrous consumption of cakes and wine, now gave the signal to return to the salon.  Besides, she had heard the door-bell ring several times, announcing the arrival of guests for the evening.  The question then was how to transplant the professor, and Colleville politely offered him his arm.

“No, monsieur,” he said, “you must allow me to stay where I am.  I am not dressed for a party, and besides, a strong light hurts my eyes.  Moreover, I don’t choose to give myself as a spectacle; it will be best that my interview with Felix Phellion should take place between ‘four-eyes,’ as they say.”

“Well, let him alone, then,” said Brigitte to Colleville.

No one insisted,—­the old man having, unconsciously, pretty nigh discrowned himself in the opinion of the company.  But before leaving, the careful housewife removed everything that was at all fragile from his reach; then, by way of a slight attention, she said:—­