ry chemist, when at work, should have had a magic wand in his
hand and the wizard's pointed, star studded cap on his head.

An important personage who sometimes visited the school, in his capacity
as an honorary lecturer, was not the man to rid me of those foolish
notions. He taught physics and chemistry at the grammar school. Twice a
week, from eight to nine o'clock in the evening, he held a free public
class in an enormous building adjacent to our schoolhouse. This was
the former Church of Saint-Martial, which has today become a Protestant
meeting house.

It was a wizard's cave certainly, just as I had pictured it. At the top
of the steeple, a rusty weathercock creaked mournfully; in the dusk,
great Bats flew all around the edifice or dived down the throats of the
gargoyles; at night, Owls hooted upon the copings of the leads. It was
inside, under the immensities of the vault, that my chemist used to
perform. What infernal mixtures did he compound? Should I ever know?

It is the day for his visit. He comes to see us with no pointed cap:
in ordinary garb, in fact, with nothing very queer about him. He bursts
into our schoolroom like a hurricane. His red face is half-buried in the
enormous stiff collar that digs into his ears. A few wisps of red hair
adorn his temples; the top of his head shines like an old ivory ball. In
a dictatorial voice and with wooden gestures, he questions two or three
of the boys; after a moment's bullying, he turns on his heel and goes
off in a whirlwind as he came. No, this is not the man, a capital fellow
at heart, to inspire me with a pleasant idea of the things which he
teaches.

Two windows of his laboratory look out upon the garden of the school.
One can just lean on them; and I often come and peep in, trying to make
out, in my poor brain, what chemistry can really be. Unfortunately,
the room into which my eyes penetrate is not the sanctuary but a mere
outhouse where the learned implements and crockery are washed. Leaden
pipes with taps run down the walls; wooden vats occupy the corners.
Sometimes, those vats bubble, heated by a spray of steam. A reddish
powder, which looks like brick dust, is boiling in them. I learn that
the simmering stuff is a dyer's root, known as madder, which will
be converted into a purer and more concentrated product. This is the
master's pet study.

What I saw from the two windows was not enough for me. I wanted to see
farther, into the very classroom. My w