“I made a mistake, sir,” said the mathematician, with a penitent expression; “we ought to have subjected that peculiar skin to the action of a rolling machine. Where could my eyes have been when I suggested compression!”
“It was I that asked for it,” Raphael answered.
The mathematician heaved a sigh of relief, like a culprit acquitted by a dozen jurors. Still, the strange problem afforded by the skin interested him; he meditated a moment, and then remarked:
“This unknown material ought to be treated chemically by re-agents. Let us call on Japhet—perhaps the chemist may have better luck than the mechanic.”
Valentin urged his horse into a rapid trot, hoping to find the chemist, the celebrated Japhet, in his laboratory.
“Well, old friend,” Planchette began, seeing Japhet in his armchair, examining a precipitate; “how goes chemistry?”
“Gone to sleep. Nothing new at all. The Academie, however, has recognized the existence of salicine, but salicine, asparagine, vauqueline, and digitaline are not really discoveries——”
“Since you cannot invent substances,” said Raphael, “you are obliged to fall back on inventing names.”
“Most emphatically true, young man.”
“Here,” said Planchette, addressing the chemist, “try to analyze this composition; if you can extract any element whatever from it, I christen it diaboline beforehand, for we have just smashed a hydraulic press in trying to compress it.”