“Nine things!” cried Birotteau. “What! are there metals and oils in hair? Unless I heard it from you, a man I venerate, I could not believe it. How amazing! God is great, Monsieur Vauquelin.”
“Hair is produced by a follicular organ,” resumed the great chemist,—“a species of pocket, or sack, open at both extremities. By one end it is fastened to the nerves and the blood vessels; from the other springs the hair itself. According to some of our scientific brotherhood, among them Monsieur Blainville, the hair is really a dead matter expelled from that pouch, or crypt, which is filled with a species of pulp.”
“Then hair is what you might call threads of sweat!” cried Popinot, to whom Cesar promptly administered a little kick on his heels.
Vauquelin smiled at Popinot’s idea.
“He knows something, doesn’t he?” said Cesar, looking at Popinot. “But, monsieur, if the hair is still-born, it is impossible to give it life, and I am lost! my prospectus will be ridiculous. You don’t know how queer the public is; you can’t go and tell it—”
“That it has got manure upon its head,” said Popinot, wishing to make Vauquelin laugh again.
“Cephalic catacombs,” said Vauquelin, continuing the joke.
“My nuts are bought!” cried Birotteau, alive to the commercial loss. “If this is so why do they sell—”
“Don’t be frightened,” said Vauquelin, smiling, “I see it is a question of some secret about making the hair grow or keeping it from turning gray. Listen! this is my opinion on the subject, as the result of my studies.”
Here Popinot pricked up his ears like a frightened hare.