Clemenceau could only bow under this deluge of words.

“M.  Clemenceau, will you honor me with the clasp of the hand?”

The host allowed his hand to disappear from view in the enormous one presented, timidly.

“Ah! in case of the universal European War, they are talking about, France will have need of such men as you!”

The embarrassing situation for the modest inventor was altered for the better by the entrance of Antonino, who darted a keen glance upon the genial stranger.

“How do you do?” cried the latter, nodding kindly.  “Your son, I suppose, M. Clemenceau?”

“By adoption.  I am hardly of the age to have a son as old as that!”

“I beg your pardon!  I see now, that it is brain-work that has worn you out a little.  But, bless you, that will all get smoothed out when you begin to enjoy the windfall of fortune!  I dare say now you are selling out because the Emperor offers you a piece of one of his parks, wanting you to live near him.  And I presume this bright young gentleman is of the same profession?  Has he, too, invented a great gun?”

“He is the author of several not inconsiderable inventions,” replied Clemenceau for Antonino, who was not delighted with the stranger’s ways, had gone to look out of the nearest window, although it necessitated his rudely turning his back on him.

“Any cannon among them?”

“No, M. Cant—­Cant—­”

“Cantagnac—­”

“Cantagnac; only a very notable bullet of novel shape.”

“A bullet, dear me! a bullet! a novel bullet! what an age we are living in, to be sure!  I applaud you, young man, and you must allow me to say to my companions in the Cafe de la Garde at Marseilles, that I shook the hand of the inventor of the new bullet!” But as Antonino did not make a responsive movement, he had to add, unabashed:  “before I go, I mean!  But allow me to say, gentlemen, that though I am only a commonplace notary, and a retired one, at that, ha, ha! a buyer of houses to modernize, and land to improve in cultivation; though lowly, and very ill-informed on the great questions which occupy you, yet I venture to assert that I take the greatest interest in your labors.  I would give half—­aye, three-quarters of my possessions toward your success.  My life should be yours if it were useful in any way, although that would be a small gift, as it has no value in my own eyes.  I had a son, M. Clemenceau—­an only son, tall, dark, handsome and, though he took after me, bright—­like this young gentleman of talent here!” He flourished the voluminous red handkerchief again.  “In an evil hour, I let him go on a holiday excursion and he chose the Rhine.  His boyish gallantry caused him to champion a waitress on a steamboat, whom a bullying German officer of the Landsturm had chucked under the chin.  High words were exchanged—­my boy challenged the giant, who did not understand our way among gentlemen of settling such matters—­he knocked my hopeful one overboard—­no, gentlemen, he was not drowned, but he never recovered from the mortification of being laughed at.  He came home but to die—­in the following year, poor, sensitive soul!  His mother never held her head up again, and I—­” he blew his nose with a tremendous peal, “I—­I beg your pardon for forgetting my business, again.”