Coulomb walked out of the South Hall of the Tuileries Palace alone, the desolation on his face all the more conspicuous beneath the dazzling glow of the gas streetlamps.
Inside the hall behind him, festivities were still underway; bursts of music and words of praise for the award winners drifted out from time to time, but to Coulomb, every sound was a ruthless mockery directed at him.
"Mr. Monge shouldn't have lied to independently…"
He muttered as he pulled up his collar, signaling to the servant waiting outside: "Martin, bring around the carriage."
Half a month ago, Monge, the French mathematician and a member of the judging committee, had privately informed him that this year's physics prize would almost certainly be awarded to him.
But earlier, when Mr. Le Roy announced "Physics Prize," he'd already stood up, only to hear that Englishman's name instead!
Hoofbeats approached.
