The tortured bitten people of the world began to pour into the laboratory of the miracle-man of the Rue d’Ulm. Research for a moment came to an end in the messy small suite of rooms, while Pasteur and Roux and Chamberland sorted out polyglot crowds of mangled ones, babbling in a score of tongues: “Pasteur--save us!” And this man who was no physician--who used to say with proud irony: “I am only a chemist,”--this man of science who all his life had wrangled bitterly with doctors, answered these cries and saved them. He shot his complicated, illogical fourteen doses of partly weakened germs of rabies--unknown microbes of rabies--into them and sent these people healthy back to the four corners of the earth. From Smolensk in Russia came nineteen peasants, moujiks who had been set upon by a mad wolf nineteen days before, and five of them were so terribly mangled they could not walk at all, and had to be taken to the Hotel Dieu. Strange figures in fur caps they came, saying: “Pasteur--Pasteur,” and this was the only word of French they knew. Then Paris went mad--as only Paris can--with excited concern about these bitten Russians who must surely die--it was so long since they had been attacked--and the town talked of nothing else while Pasteur and his men started their injections. The chances of getting hydrophobia from the bites of mad wolves are eight out of ten: out of these nineteen Russians, fifteen were sure to die.... “Maybe,” said every one, “they will all die--it is more than two weeks since they were attacked, poor fellows; the malady must have a terrible start, they have no chance....” Such was the gabble of the Boulevards. Perhaps, indeed, it was too late. Pasteur could not eat nor did he sleep at all. He took a terrible risk, and morning and night, twice as quickly as he had ever made the fourteen injections--twice a day to make up for lost time--he and his men shot the vaccine into the arms of the Russians. And at last a great shout of pride went up for this man Pasteur, went up from the Parisians, and all of France and all the world raised a pæan of thanks to him--for the vaccine marvelously saved all but three of the doomed peasants. The moujiks returned to Russia and were welcomed with the kind of awe that greets the return of hopeless sick ones who have been healed at some miraculous shrine. And the Tsar of All the Russias sent Pasteur the diamond cross of Ste. Anne, and a hundred thousand francs to start the building of that house of microbe hunters in the Rue Dutot in Paris--that laboratory now called the Institut Pasteur. From all over the world--it was the kind of burst of generosity that only great disasters usually call out--from every country in the earth came money, piling up into millions of francs for the building of a laboratory in which Pasteur might have everything needed to track down other deadly microbes, to invent weapons against them....