‘Yes, read the letter too,’ said Epinchard. But after a phrase or two there were cries of ‘Enough, enough, that will do!’ They were ashamed of such a letter of Rotrou. It was a crying forgery, a mere schoolboy’s imitation, the sentences misshapen, and half the words not known at the supposed date. How could they have been so blind? ‘You see, gentlemen, that we could scarcely throw the whole burden upon our unfortunate colleague,’ said Epinchard; and turning to the Permanent Secretary begged him to abandon proceedings which could bring nothing but discredit upon the whole Society and the great Cardinal himself. But neither the fervour of the appeal nor the magnificence of the orator’s attitude, as he pointed to the insignia of the Sacred Founder, could prevail over the stubborn resolution of Astier-Réhu. Standing firm and upright before the little table in the middle of the room, which was used as a desk for the reading of communications, with his fists clenched, as if he feared that his decision might be wrung out of his hands, he repeated that ‘Nothing, I assure you, nothing’ would alter his determination. He struck the hard wood angrily with his big knuckles, as he said, ‘Ah, gentlemen, I have waited, for reasons like these, too long already! I tell you, my “Galileo” is a bone in my throat! I am not rich enough to buy it up, and I see it in the shop windows, advertising me as the accomplice of a forger.’ What was his object! Why, to tear out the rotten pages with his own hand and burn them before all the world! A trial would give him the opportunity. ‘You talk of ridicule? The Académie is above the fear of it; and as for me, a butt and a beggar as I must be, I shall have the proud satisfaction of having protected my personal honour and the dignity of history. I ask no more.’ Honest Crocodilus! In the beat of his rhetoric was a sound of pure probity, which rang strangely where all around was padded with compromise and concealment. Suddenly the usher announced, ‘Four o’clock, gentlemen.’ Four o’clock! and they had not finished the arrangements for Ripault-Babin’s funeral. ‘Ah, we must remember Ripault-Babin!’ observed Danjou in a mocking voice. ‘He has died at the right moment!’ said Laniboire with mournful emphasis. But the point of his epigram was lost, for the usher was crying, ‘Take your places’; and the President was ringing his bell On his right was Desminières the Chancellor, and on his left the Permanent Secretary, reading quietly with recovered self-possession the report of the Funeral Committee, to an accompaniment of eager whispers and the pattering of sleet on the glass. ‘How late you went on to-day!’ remarked Coren-tine, as she opened the door to her master. Corentine was certainly to be reckoned with those who had no great opinion of the Institute. ‘M. Paul is in your study with Madame. You must go through the library; the drawing-room is full of people waiting to see you.’