“Why should not the Creator have ordered that everything should be subject to, and dependent upon, one universal law?” said Marmus.
“You see,” said his friend in a whisper to the professor, “he is as profound as Newton. Why do you not present him to the Minister of Public Instruction?”
“I shall do so at once,” rejoined the professor, happy to make himself master of the owner of the Zebra. “Perhaps the minister would be pleased to see our curious animal before any one else, and you will of course accompany him.”
“I thank you.”
“He would then be able to appreciate the service which such a journey has rendered to science,” continued our friend. “Mr. Marmus has not visited the Mountains of the Moon for nothing. You shall see this for yourself; the animal walks like a giraffe. As to the yellow bands, they are caused by the temperature, which was found to be several degrees Fahrenheit, and many degrees Reaumur.”
“Perhaps it is your intention to engage in public instruction?”
“Splendid career!” cried the journalist starting.
“I do not allude to the profession of noodles, which consists in taking the students out for an airing, and neglecting them at home; but to teaching at the Athenæum, which leads to nothing, save to securing a professorship and pupils, which pave the way to all sorts of good things. We will talk of that again. All this took place early in the nineteenth century, when ministers felt the need of making themselves popular.”
The partizans of zoological unity learned that a minister was about to inspect the precious Zebra, and fearing intrigue, the worthy disciples of our great opponent flocked to see the illustrious Marmus. My masters obstinately refused to exhibit me, as I had not acquired my giraffe step, and the chemical application to my Zebra bands had not yet completed the illusion. A young disciple discoursed on the new discovery with eloquence and force, and my cunning masters profited by his learning.”