As I look at M. Pasteur in his library, however, I see only the old model of Bonnat. I have difficulty in believing, indeed, as I watch him bending smilingly over the old album, now and then laughing aloud at the discovery of some forgotten picture, that this man, over fifty years ago, for the sake of an education, made himself a jack-of-all-trades in the college of Besancon, and was aroused every morning at four o'clock with the night-watchman's cry: "_Come, Pasteur, chase the demon of laziness._" It is difficult to picture him in the intoxication of scientific enthusiasm and discovery, sacrificing health, leisure, pleasure, to the passion of learning which had taken possession of him. He is so gentle, it seems incredible that he has had to meet coldness, contempt, opposition of every species, in his life; that, when he asked the most modest of appropriations from the government, he met the contemptuous reply that "there was no rubric in the budget for allowing three hundred dollars a year for experiments;" that for every step in his discoveries he has had literally to fight, contending with Pouchet and Joly on the subject of spontaneous generation, with Liebig on fermentations, with the Germans and Italians on the attenuation of virus, with the popular opinion of his own compatriots when he dared vaccinate for hydrophobia, and when his supporters dared erect the present Institute to facilitate his work. One cannot picture him _tete-a-tete_ with mad dogs. It is hard to believe him capable of that astonishing self-mastery which made him withhold for months, and sometimes even years, the results of incomplete investigations, and of the equal hardihood which, when he was convinced of a truth, led him to accept the most severe and most public tests of its exactness. I make an attempt to find the scientist and venture a question. "Oh," says M. Pasteur, "if you want to know that, you must go and see M. Roux. You will find him in the laboratory." We rise and go into the long hall. At the opposite end from the library two large doors open into the spacious vestibule which occupies the centre of the main building. "You can go out by the main hall and directly into the laboratory, or down the private stairs." I hesitated. No, I would not spoil my impression of M. Pasteur at home. I would keep laboratory and home separate. I descended to the private entrance, and, as I went down, two kindly faces looked over at me, and the gentle, hesitating voice of the great savant said: "Take care, it is dark. Don't slip. Take care." On the last step I stopped and looked up. The two friendly faces were still looking down. [Illustration: THE HOUSE AT DOLE, WHERE M. PASTEUR WAS BORN.] I had come to see the destroyer of the theory of spontaneous generation, the demonstrator of the microbe origin of disease, the conqueror of hydrophobia. I had found something greater, perhaps, than them all--a perfectly gentle soul. IN M. PASTEUR'S WORKSHOP.