t printing of the stuffs, a much quicker and more artistic
method than the old dyeing process.

Nothing could be simpler than this problem, once the solution was known;
but how tremendously obscure while it had still to be solved! I dare
not call to mind all the imagination and patience spent upon endless
endeavors which nothing, not even the madness of them, discouraged. What
mighty meditations in the somber church! What glowing dreams, soon to be
followed by sore disappointment, when experiment spoke the last word and
upset the scaffolding of my plans. Stubborn as the slave of old amassing
a peculium for his enfranchisement, I used to reply to the check of
yesterday by the fresh attempt of tomorrow, often as faulty as
the others, sometimes the richer by an improvement, and I went on
indefatigably, for I too cherished the indomitable ambition to set
myself free.

Should I succeed? Perhaps so. I at last had a satisfactory answer. I
obtained, in a cheap and practical fashion, the pure coloring matter,
concentrated in a small volume and excellent for both printing and
dyeing. One of my friends took up my process on a large scale in
his works; a few calico factories adopted the produce and expressed
themselves delighted with it. The future smiled at last; a pink rift
opened in my gray sky. I should possess the modest fortune without which
I must deny myself the pleasure of teaching in a university. Freed of
the torturing anxiety about my daily bread, I should be able to live at
ease among my insects.

In the midst of the joys of seeing these problems solved by chemistry,
yet another ray of sunshine was reserved for me, adding its gladness
to that of my success. Let us go back a couple of years. The chief
inspectors visited our grammar school. These personages travel in pairs:
one attends to literature, the other to science. When the inspection was
over and the books checked, the staff was summoned to the principal's
drawing room, to receive the parting admonitions of the two luminaries.
The man of science began. I should be sadly put to it to remember what
he said. It was cold professional prose, made up of soulless words
which the hearer forgot once the speaker's back was turned, words merely
boring to both. I had heard enough of these chilly sermons in my time;
one more of them could not hope to make an impression on me.

The inspector in literature spoke next. At the first words which he
uttered, I said to myself: '