"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.
"A book of your writing, Monsieur Professeur, does not require much help from documentary evidence, since your personal authority is sufficient. It might, if you were one of those fools who invent narratives having neither head nor tail, but the fact of your being a scholar and a collector of historical manuscripts imparts the strength of credibility to your productions. The test of your ability shall consist in imparting stability to a monument without a pedestal. We have unfortunately lost the pedestal."
"I am told," said the professor, "that there exists in the Hospital for Incurables a woman capable of throwing light on this chapter of history. She is the widow of the shoemaker who tortured the wretched little prince. I have decided to interview this woman."
The baron's fist dealt the table a fearful blow.
"With what instrument must I inject into your brain the idea that you are to interview nobody except the person or persons to whom I direct you? Is your book to be the recital of old women's garrulities or a dignified exposition?"
The savant drooped his head. The magic charm of membership in the Academy constrained him into a meek submission. Nevertheless, he timidly stammered:
"If only I might possess the death certificate! Resting upon that solitary document, the book would have a basis of adamant. It would suffice to refute conclusively those vile impostors, the cobbler of Rouen, the lackey of Versailles, and the mechanic of Prussia."
Lecazes again assumed his habitual smile in order to restrain himself from flinging the Laocoön inkstand at the savant's head,—the old imbecile, seeking Jerusalem artichokes in the depths of the sea! Then he amiably remonstrated:
"Refrain, my dear Professor, from desiring such evidence, or—renounce your seat in the Academy. You must convince yourself that the aforesaid death certificate has not yet been unearthed, and that it is not yet expedient to record the facsimile. But what does this matter to a sage like yourself?"