Then the shambles began. Gamaléia and the other members of Metchnikoff’s practical staff began to fight among themselves and mix up vaccines; microbes spilled out of tubes; the doctors of the town--naturally a little jealous of this new form of healing--started to snoop into the laboratory, to ask embarrassing questions, to start whispers going through the town: “Who is this Professor Metchnikoff--he hasn’t even a doctor’s certificate. He is only a naturalist, a mere bug-hunter--how can he know anything about preventing diseases?” “Where are those cures?” demanded the people. “Give us our preventions!” shouted the farmers--who had gone down into their socks for good roubles. Metchnikoff came out of the fog of his theory of phagocytes for a moment, and tried to satisfy them by sowing chicken cholera bacilli among the meadow mice which were eating up the crops. But, alas, a lying, inflammatory report appeared in the daily paper, screaming that this Metchnikoff was sowing death--that chicken cholera could change into human cholera.... “I am overwhelmed with my researches,” muttered Metchnikoff. “I am a theoretician--my researches need a peaceful shelter in which to be developed....” So he asked for a vacation, got it, packed his bag, and went to the Congress of Vienna to tell everybody about phagocytes, and to look for a quiet place in which to work. He _must_ get away from that dreadful need to prove that his theories were true by dishing out cures to impatient authorities and peasants who insisted on getting their money’s worth out of research. From Vienna he went to Paris to the Pasteur Institute, and there a great triumph and surprise waited for him. He was introduced to Pasteur, and at once Metchnikoff exploded into tremendous explanations of his theory of phagocytes. He made a veritable movie of the battle between the wandering cells and microbes.... The old captain of the microbe hunters looked at Metchnikoff out of tired gray eyes that now and then sparkled a little: “I at once placed myself on your side, Professor Metchnikoff,” said Pasteur, “for I have been struck by the struggle between the divers microörganisms which I have had occasion to observe. I believe you are on the right road.” Although the struggles Pasteur mentioned had nothing to do with phagocytes gobbling up microbes, Metchnikoff--and this is not unnatural--was filled with a proud joy. The greatest of all microbe hunters really understood him, believed in him.... Olga’s father had died, leaving them a modest income, here in Paris his theory of phagocytes would have the prestige of a great Institute back of it. “Is there a place for me here?” he asked. “I wish only to work in one of your laboratories in an honorary capacity,” begged Metchnikoff.