sketched them, hinted at them, but never fully uttered them.

And, indeed, his great end in life seemed to be the concoction of
sirups and liqueurs. "A good sirup or a good liqueur is enough to make a
fortune," he would often say.

He had compounded hundreds of these sweet mixtures without ever
succeeding in floating one of them. Pierre declared that Marowsko always
reminded him of Marat.

Two little glasses were fetched out of the back shop and placed on the
mixing-board. Then the two men scrutinized the colour of the fluid by
holding it up to the gas.

"A fine ruby," Pierre declared.

"Isn't it?" Marowsko's old parrot-face beamed with satisfaction.

The doctor tasted, smacked his lips, meditated, tasted again, meditated
again, and spoke:

"Very good--capital; and quite new in flavour. It is a find, my dear
fellow."

"Ah, really? Well, I am very glad."

Then Marowsko took counsel as to baptizing the new liqueur. He wanted
to call it "Extract of currants," or else "_Fine Groseille_" or
"_Groselia_," or again "_Groseline_." Pierre did not approve of either
of these names.