It was said that these defenders of the traitor had been bribed by the rich Jews; they were stigmatized by the name of Pyrotists and the patriots swore to exterminate them.  There were only a thousand or twelve hundred Pyrotists in the whole vast Republic, but it was believed that they were everywhere.  People were afraid of finding them in the promenades, at meetings, at receptions, in fashionable drawing-rooms, at the dinner-table, even in the conjugal couch.  One half of the population was suspected by the other half.  The discord set all Alca on fire.

In the mean time Father Agaric, who managed his big school for young nobles, followed events with anxious attention.  The misfortunes of the Penguin Church had not disheartened him.  He remained faithful to Prince Crucho and preserved the hope of restoring the heir of the Draconides to the Penguin throne.  It appeared to him that the events that were happening or about to happen in the country, the state of mind of which they were at once the effect and the cause, and the troubles that necessarily resulted from them might—­if they were directed, guided, and led by the profound wisdom of a monk—­overthrow the Republic and incline the Penguins to restore Prince Crucho, from whose piety the faithful hoped for so much solace.  Wearing his huge black hat, the brims of which looked like the wings of Night, he walked through the Wood of Conils towards the factory where his venerable friend, Father Cornemuse, distilled the hygienic St. Orberosian liqueur, The good monk’s industry, so cruelly affected in the time of Emiral Chatillon, was being restored from its ruins.  One heard goods trains rumbling through the Wood and one saw in the sheds hundreds of orphans clothed in blue, packing bottles and nailing up cases.

Agaric found the venerable Cornemuse standing before his stoves and surrounded by his retorts.  The shining pupils of the old man’s eyes had again become as rubies, his skull shone with its former elaborate and careful polish.

Agaric first congratulated the pious distiller on the restored activity of his laboratories and workshops.

“Business is recovering.  I thank God for it,” answered the old man of Conils.  “Alas! it had fallen into a bad state, Brother Agaric.  You raw the desolation of this establishment.  I need say no more.”

Agaric turned away his head.

“The St. Orberosian liqueur,” continued Cornemuse, “is making fresh conquests.  But none the less my industry remains uncertain and precarious.  The laws of ruin and desolation that struck it have not been abrogated, they have only been suspended.”

And the monk of Conils lifted his ruby eyes to heaven.

Agaric put his hand on his shoulder.