These were Rondelet’s palmy days.  He had got a theatre of anatomy built at Montpellier, where he himself dissected publicly.  He had, says tradition, a little botanic garden, such as were springing up then in several universities, specially in Italy.  He had a villa outside the city, whose tower, near the modern railway station, still bears the name of the “Mas de Rondelet.”  There, too, may be seen the remnants of the great tanks, fed with water brought through earthen pipes from the Fountain of Albe, wherein he kept the fish whose habits he observed.  Professor Planchon thinks that he had salt-water tanks likewise; and thus he may have been the father of all “Aquariums.”  He had a large and handsome house in the city itself, a large practice as physician in the country round; money flowed in fast to him, and flowed out fast likewise.  He spent much upon building, pulling down, rebuilding, and sent the bills in seemingly to his wife and to his guardian angel Catherine.  He himself had never a penny in his purse:  but earned the money, and let his ladies spend it; an equitable and pleasant division of labour which most married men would do well to imitate.  A generous, affectionate, careless little man, he gave away, says his pupil and biographer, Joubert, his valuable specimens to any savant who begged for them, or left them about to be stolen by visitors, who, like too many collectors in all ages, possessed light fingers and lighter consciences.  So pacific was he meanwhile, and so brave withal, that even in the fearful years of the troubles, he would never carry sword, nor even tuck or dagger; but went about on the most lonesome journeys as one who wore a charmed life, secure in God and in his calling, which was to heal, and not to kill.

These were the golden years of Rondelet’s life; but trouble was coming on him, and a stormy sunset after a brilliant day.  He lost his sister-in-law, to whom he owed all his fortunes, and who had watched ever since over him and his wife like a mother; then he lost his wife herself under most painful circumstances; then his best-beloved daughter.  Then he married again, and lost the son who was born to him; and then came, as to many of the best in those days, even sorer trials, trials of the conscience, trials of faith.

For in the mean time Rondelet had become a Protestant, like many of the wisest men round him; like, so it would seem from the event, the majority of the university and the burghers of Montpellier.  It is not to be wondered at.  Montpellier was a sort of half-way resting-place for Protestant preachers, whether fugitive or not, who were passing from Basle, Geneva, or Lyons, to Marguerite of Navarre’s little Protestant court at Pau or at Nerac, where all wise and good men, and now and then some foolish and fanatical ones, found shelter and hospitality.  Thither Calvin himself had been, passing probably through Montpellier, and leaving—­as such a man was sure to leave—­the