onsieur, that to give me glory is
bringing water to the Seine. I had so little need of Monsieur Felix
Phellion to make me a position in the scientific world that I turned him
out of my house long ago."

"Then it isn't the first star," said Colleville, flippantly, "that he
dared to put upon you?"

"He did worse than that," roared the old man; "he ruined my reputation,
he tarnished my name. My 'Theory of Perpetual Motion,' the printing of
which cost me every penny I owned, though it ought to have been printed
gratis at the Royal Printing-office, was calculated to make my fortune
and render me immortal. Well, that miserable Felix prevented it. From
time to time, pretending to bring messages from my editor, he would say,
the young sycophant, 'Papa Picot, your book is selling finely;
here's five hundred francs--two hundred francs--and once it was two
thousand--which your publisher charged me to give you.' This thing went
on for years, and my publisher, who had the baseness to enter into the
plot, would say to me, when I went to the shop: 'Yes, yes, it doesn't
do badly, it _bubbles_, that book; we shall soon be at the end of this
edition.' I, who didn't suggest anything, I pocketed my money, and
thought to myself: 'My book is liked, little by little its ideas are
making their way; I may now expect, from day to day, that some great
capitalist will come to me and propose to apply my system--'"

"--of 'Absorption of Liquids'?" asked Colleville, who had been steadily
filling the old fellow's glass.

"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 Min