Well, one day, two years later, as I was looking after my Saint-Martial laboratory in the midst of the steam from my vats, with my hands the colour of boiled lobster-claws from constant dipping in the indelible red of my dyes, there walked in, unexpectedly, a person whose features straightway seemed familiar. I was right; it was the very man, the chief-inspector whose speech had once stirred me. M. Duruy was now Minister of Public Instruction. He was styled “Your Excellency”; and this style, usually an empty formula, was well-deserved in the present case, for our new minister excelled in his exalted functions. We all held him in high esteem. He was the workers’ minister, the man for the humble toiler. “I want to spend my last half-hour at Avignon with you,” said my visitor with a smile. “That will be a relief from the official bowing and scraping.” Overcome by the honour paid me, I apologised for my costume—I was in my short-sleeves—and especially for my lobster-claws, which I had tried, for a moment, to hide behind my back. “You have nothing to apologise for. I came to see the worker. The working-man never looks better than in his overall, with the marks of his trade on him. Let us have a talk. What are you doing just now?” I explained, in a few words, the object of my researches; I showed my product; I executed under the minister’s eyes a little attempt at printing in madder-red. The success of the experiment and the simplicity of my apparatus, in which an evaporating dish, maintained at boiling-point under a glass funnel, took the place of a steam-chamber, caused him some surprise. “I will help you,” he said. “What do you want for your laboratory?” “Why, nothing, Monsieur le Ministre, nothing! With a little application, the plant I have is ample.” “What, nothing! You are unique there! The others overwhelm me with requests; their laboratories are never well enough supplied. And you, poor as you are, refuse my offers!” “No, there is one thing which I will accept.” “What is that?” “The signal honour of shaking you by the hand.” “There you are, my friend, with all my heart. But that’s not enough. What else do you want?” “The Paris Jardin des Plantes is under your control. Should a crocodile die, let them keep the hide for me. I will stuff it with straw and hang it from the ceiling. Thus adorned, my workshop will rival the wizard’s den.” The minister cast his eyes round the nave and glanced up at the Gothic vault: