VI. 



ANTHR AX, CHICKEN-CHOLERA, ROUGET 



IN 1870, the year of the Franco-German War, 

 Pasteur was forty -eight years old, and had before him 

 twenty-five years of life. The War broke his heart : it 

 is pitiful, to read of his misery. They got him, that 

 September, out of Paris to Arbois. His letters are 

 wild with pain Ne faut il pas s'ecrier, Heureux 

 les morts ! and again, Chacun de mes travauxjusqu'a 

 mon dernier jour porter a pour epigraphe, Haine a la 

 Prusse. Vengeance, vengeance. He was helpless 

 and useless ; he had to watch his country tortured, 

 her army defeated, her kingdom divided. Arbois, 

 Geneva, Lyon, Clermont, he was now here, now 

 there, wretched everywhere. The University of 

 Pisa offered him a refuge and a professorship, but 

 he would not leave France ; he must console her 

 by his work, he must write her name, in Science, 

 above the name of her enemy. That should be 

 his revenge on Germany, to give himself, body and 

 soul, to the service of France, and to exalt her by 

 his discoveries. To begin with, he might improve 



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