“But see,” said Felix, offering Minard the “Constitutionnel,” “here’s the paper; not only does it announce that Monsieur Picot is the maker of the discovery, but it mentions the rewards which, without losing a moment, the government has bestowed upon him.”
“Felix is right,” said Phellion; “that journal is to be trusted. On this occasion I think the government has acted very properly.”
“But, my dear commander, I repeat to you that the truth of the affair has got wind, and your son is shown to be a most admirable fellow. To put his own discovery to the credit of his old professor so as to obtain for him the recognition and favor of the authorities—upon my word, in all antiquity I don’t know a finer trait!”
“Felix!” said Phellion, beginning to show some emotion, “these immense labors to which you have devoted so much time of late, these continual visits to the Observatory—”
“But, father,” interrupted Felix, “Monsieur Minard has been misinformed.”
“Misinformed!” cried Minard, “when I know the whole affair from Monsieur Picot himself!”
At this argument, stated in a way to leave no possible doubt, the truth began to dawn upon Phellion.
“Felix, my son!” he said, rising to embrace him.
But he was obliged to sit down again; his legs refused to bear his weight; he turned pale; and that nature, ordinarily so impassible, seemed about to give way under the shock of this happiness.
“My God!” said Felix, terrified, “he is ill; ring the bell, I entreat you, Monsieur Minard.”