A project of much consequence agitated his mind, for his hand shook nervously as he took up his pen, and deep furrows lined his brow. Two clocks, standing upon artistic brackets at his right and left respectively, joined their crystalline voices in musical precision. It was two o'clock in the afternoon--time to stop reflecting and go to acting. He struck the bell and inquired of the attendant, who immediately appeared: "What person waits?" "Professor Beauliège is in the anteroom." "Show him in." A moment later there appeared a man who was a type of the literary-scientific proletariat, such as may always be found in Parisian bookstores, lingering before shelves containing antique works marked at extravagant prices. A greasy looking hat, uncombed hair, coat collar soiled with dandruff, tattered gloves pierced by dirty fingernails, a faded portfolio (apparently full of manuscripts) beneath his arm; a shaven face with a peaked nose and myopic eyes which seemed to peer through a dusty web--such were the unpleasing features of Monsieur Beauliège's exterior. The baron, scarcely looking up, motioned him to a seat. Active and practical himself, he professed for litterateurs a disdain which he made no effort to conceal. "How does the book come on?" he asked. "Monsieur le Baron," faltered the poor old fellow, "I make little advance because, as you are well aware, I absolutely lack basis. I have no corroborating documents for establishing the boy's demise. I am in ignorance of what transpired during the latter part of his imprisonment and my labor is most arduous since, thanks to the spirit of the age, history seems to be taking on new methods and insisting on indisputable evidences. When I received your summons, I jumped for joy, for I thought you had important documents to entrust to me." "Monsieur Beauliège" replied Lecazes, in slightly repressed irony, "if we possessed the papers that you wish, we should have no need of you. Le diable! In that case I should transfer them to the columns of Le Moniteur. What I expect of your genius and erudite pen is a compilation--do you follow me?--a compilation of, well, of materials conjectural and plausible, tender, affecting, poetic, descriptive of the unhappy prince's life in prison. The theme is pregnant. You have a virgin field and an ample horizon. You are not asked for a romance. Beware! You must bring forth a historic revelation to serve as a beacon for the future. 'Tis an enterprise which, above all, if believed to have been spontaneously undertaken, will redound to your literary glory. A seat in the Academy shall not be deemed too lofty an honor by way of reward for your distinguished merit." The word "Academy" caused the savant to leap from his seat and grasp the railing. Lecazes eyed him astutely. This man was not purchasable in money. He had wisely held to him the bait of literary eminence.