The man of science smiled and rose; the perfumer and Popinot rose also.
“Anselme, look well at this room. You permit it, monsieur? Your time is precious, I know, but he will never have another opportunity.”
“Well, have you got all you wanted?” said Vauquelin to Birotteau. “After all, we are both commercial men.”
“Pretty nearly, monsieur,” said Birotteau, retreating towards the dining-room, Vauquelin following. “But to launch our Comagene Essence we need a good foundation—”
“‘Comagene’ and ‘Essence’ are two words that clash. Call your cosmetic ‘Oil of Birotteau’; or, if you don’t want to give your name to the world, find some other. Why, there’s the Dresden Madonna! Ah, Monsieur Birotteau, do you mean that we shall quarrel?”
“Monsieur Vauquelin,” said the perfumer, taking the chemist’s hand. “This treasure has no value except the time that I have spent in finding it. We had to ransack all Germany to find it on China paper before lettering. I knew that you wished for it and that your occupations did not leave you time to search for it; I have been your commercial traveller, that is all. Accept therefore, not a paltry engraving, but efforts, anxieties, despatches to and fro, which are the evidence of my complete devotion. Would that you had wished for something growing on the sides of precipices, that I might have sought it and said to you, ‘Here it is!’ Do not refuse my gift. We have so much reason to be forgotten; allow me therefore to place myself, my wife, my daughter, and the son-in-law I expect to have, beneath your eyes. You must say when you look at the Virgin, ‘There are some people in the world who are thinking of me.’”
“I accept,” said Vauquelin.
Popinot and Birotteau wiped their eyes, so affected were they by the kindly tone in which the academician uttered the words.
“Will you crown your goodness?” said the perfumer.
“What’s that?” exclaimed Vauquelin.