His costume consisted of a huge frock-coat, something between a paletot and a dressing-gown, between which an immense waistcoat of iron-gray cloth, fastened from the throat to the pit of the stomach with two rows of buttons, hussar fashion, formed a sort of buckler.  The trousers, though October was nearing its close, were made of black lasting, and gave testimony to long service by the projection of a darn on the otherwise polished surface covering the knees, the polish being produced by the rubbing of the hands upon those parts.  But, in broad daylight, the feature of the old savant’s appearance which struck the eye most vividly was a pair of Patagonian feet, imprisoned in slippers of beaver cloth, the which, moulded upon the mountainous elevations of gigantic bunions, made the spectator think, involuntarily, of the back of a dromedary or an advanced case of elephantiasis.

Once installed in a chair which was hastily brought for him, and the company having returned to their places at table, the old man suddenly burst out in thundering tones, amid the silence created by curiosity:—­

“Where is he,—­that rogue, that scamp?  Let him show himself; let him dare to speak to me!”

“Who is it that offends you, my dear monsieur?” said Thuillier, in conciliating accents, in which there was a slight tone of patronage.

“A scamp whom I couldn’t find in his own home, and they told me he was here, in this house.  I’m in the apartment, I think, of Monsieur Thuillier of the Council-general, place de la Madeleine, first story above the entresol?”

“Precisely,” said Thuillier; “and allow me to add, monsieur, that you are surrounded with the respect and sympathy of all.”

“And you will doubtless permit me to add,” said Minard, “that the mayor of the arrondissement adjoining that which you inhabit congratulates himself on being here in presence of Monsieur Picot, —­the Monsieur Picot, no doubt, who has just immortalized his name by the discovery of a star!”

“Yes, monsieur,” replied the professor, elevating to a still higher pitch the stentorian diapason of his voice, “I am Picot (Nepomucene), but I have not discovered a star; I don’t concern myself with any such fiddle-faddle; besides, my eyes are very weak; and that insolent young fellow I have come here to find is making me ridiculous with such talk.  I don’t see him here; he is hiding himself, I know; he dares not look me in the face.”

“Who is this person who annoys you?” asked several voices at once.

“An unnatural pupil of mine,” replied the old mathematician; “a scamp, but full of ideas; his name is Felix Phellion.”

The name was received, as may well be imagined, with amazement.  Finding the situation amusing, Colleville and la Peyrade went off into fits of laughter.

“You laugh, fools!” cried the irate old man, rising.  “Yes, come and laugh within reach of my arm.”

So saying, he brandished a thick stick with a white china handle, which he used to guide himself, thereby nearly knocking over a candelabrum on the dinner-table upon Madame Minard’s head.