Pasteur saw now that the little globule, the cause of the _pébrine_, came from outside the worm--it did not rise by itself inside the worm--and he went everywhere, showing the farmers how to keep their healthy worms away from all contact with leaves that sick worms had soiled. Then suddenly he fell a victim of a hemorrhage of the brain--he nearly died, but when he heard that work of building his new laboratory had been stopped, frugally stopped in expectation of his death, he was furious and made up his mind to live. He was paralyzed on one side after that--he never got over it--but he earnestly read Dr. Smiles’ book, “Self Help,” and vigorously decided to work in spite of his handicap. At a time when he should have stayed in his bed, or have gone to the seaside, he staggered to his feet and limped to the train for the South, exclaiming indignantly that it would be criminal not to finish saving the silkworms while so many poor people were starving! All Frenchmen, excepting a few nasty fellows who called it a magnificent gesture, joined in praising him and adoring him. For six years Pasteur struggled with the diseases of silkworms. He had no sooner settled _pébrine_ than another malady of these unhappy beasts popped up, but he knew his problem and found the microbe of this new disease much more quickly. Tears of joy were in the voice of old Dumas now as he thanked his dear Pasteur--and the mayor of the town of Alais talked enthusiastically of raising a golden statue to the great Pasteur. VII He was forty-five. He wallowed in this glory for a moment, and then--having saved the silkworm industry, with the help of God and Gernez--he raised his eyes toward one of those bright, impossible, but always partly true visions that it was his poet’s gift to see. He raised his artist’s eyes from the sicknesses of silkworms to the sorrows of men, he sounded a trumpet call of hope to suffering mankind: “It is in the power of man to make parasitic maladies disappear from the face of the globe, if the doctrine of spontaneous generation is wrong, as I am sure it is.” The siege of Paris in the bitter winter of 1870 had driven him from his work to his old home in the Jura hills. He wandered pitifully around battlefields looking for his son who was a sergeant. Here he worked himself up into a tremendous hate, a hate that never left him, of all things German; he became a professional patriot. “Every one of my works will bear on its title page, ‘Hatred to Prussia. Revenge! Revenge!’” he shrieked, good loyal Frenchman that he was. Then with a magnificent silliness he proceeded to make his next research a revenge research. Even he had to admit that French beer was much inferior to the beer of the Germans. Well--he would make the beer of France better than the beer of Germany--he must make the French beer the peer of beers, no, the emperor of all beers of the world!