“Father!”—just as the professor was putting a spoonful of salt into his coffee—“what are you thinking about?”
“Well, Anna, dear, I was investigating the subject of monads, or rather the nature of these simple inorganic forms, twelve months before birth, and I come to the conclusion that”——
“That my dear father, if you succeed in introducing one of these ridiculous creatures to the scientists of Paris, you will both be decorated. But who, tell me, is this Prince Jarpeado?”
“Prince Jarpeado is the last of the dynasty of the Cactriane,” replied the worthy professor, who employed allegory in addressing his daughter, forgetful that her mind had matured, and she had ceased to play with dolls; “a large country, basking in the sun’s rays, and having a longitude and latitude—matters these you do not comprehend. The country is populous as China, and like that unhappy land, subject to periodical inundations, not of cold water, but of hot water, let loose by the hand of man. This depopulates the land, but nature has so provided that a single prince may alone repair the damage. This reminds me of something I discovered ten years ago in connection with Infusoria, the Rotafera of Cuvier, they”——
“Yes. But the prince, the prince!” cried Anna, fearing lest her father should fall into a reverie and she would hear nothing more.
“The prince,” replied the old professor, giving a touch to his wig, “escaped—thanks to the French Government—from the destroying flood, and he has been brought up without consulting his future, away from his fair realm. He was transported in his undeveloped form to my illustrious predecessor Sacrampe—the inventor of Ducks.
“Jarpeado came here at the request of the Government on a bed of dust, made up of millions of his father’s subjects, embalmed by the Indians of Gualaca, not one of the nymphs of Rubens, not one of Miéris’ pretty girls has been able to dispense with the mummies of this race. Yes, my child, whole populations deck the lips which smile upon or defy you from each canvas. How would you like the freak of some giant painter who would take generations of human beings on his palette, crushing them to produce the colours of an immense fresco? Heaven forbid that it should be so!” Here the professor fell into a profound reverie as was his wont after uttering the word heaven.
The pupil of Granarius, Jules Sauval, entered. If you have ever met one of those modest young fellows devoted to science, knowing much, yet possessing a certain simplicity, which, although charming, does not prevent him from being the most ambitious creature in the world, an innocent who would turn the earth upside down about a hyoïde bone, or a univalve shell. If you have seen a youth of this type, then you know Jules Sauval. He was as candid as he was poor—candour goes when fortune comes.—He venerated Professor Granarius as a father, and admired in him the disciple of the great Geoffroy St. Hilaire. Blessed be science, Jules Sauval would have just been the same, even supposing the professor had no pretty daughter Anna. He was a second Jarpeado alive among the dry bones and débris of antiquity. Just as the Coccus cacti—the subjects of Jarpeado—had been crushed to lend a glow of life to the finest works of art, so the young student identified himself with defunct organisms in order that science might all the more faithfully picture the forms and colours of pre-historic life. Like Jarpeado, Jules Sauval had his loves, he admired the fair Anna as a perfect type of a highly-organised sensitive animal—so he said.
In common with the professor he was intent upon uniting this red prince to some analogous creature. The men of science had come down to the level of the members of the Chamber of Deputies, and talked them into erecting a spacious hothouse to contain the finest plants of the tropics. Within its glass walls the illustrious professor has found a solitary living specimen of the Coccus cacti—Cochineal—Jarpeado, whose habits they had studied so profoundly as to discover that the prince was endowed with pride of race, and passion of sentiment, opposed to his union with any partner saving a princess of his own vermilion blood.