The Life of the Fly 



dived down the throats of the gargoyles; at 

 night, Owls hooted upon the copings of the 

 leads. It was inside, under the immensities of 

 the vault, that my chemist used to perform. 

 What infernal mixtures did he compound? 

 Should I ever know? 



It is the day for his visit. He comes to see 

 us with no pointed cap: in ordinary garb, in 

 fact, with nothing very queer about him. He 

 bursts into our schoolroom like a hurricane. 

 His red face is half-buried in the enormous 

 stiff collar that digs into his ears. A few 

 wisps of red hair adorn his temples; the top of 

 his head shines like an old ivory ball. In a 

 dictatorial voice and with wooden gestures, he 

 questions two or three of the boys; after a 

 moment's bullying, he turns on his heel and 

 goes off in a whirlwind as he came. No, this 

 is not the man, a capital fellow at heart, to in- 

 spire me with a pleasant idea of the things 

 which he teaches. 



Two windows of his laboratory look out 

 upon the garden of the school. One can just 

 lean on them; and I often come and peep in, 

 trying to make out, in my poor brain, what 

 chemistry can really be. Unfortunately, the 

 room into which my eyes penetrate is not the 

 sanctuary but a mere outhouse where the 



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