LITMIR.BIZ

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of dreams.—JAMBLIQUE.”

      Meanwhile, Doctor Jacques Coictier had heard his companion’s question with a displeasure which Dom Claude’s response had but redoubled. He bent down to the ear of Gossip Tourangeau, and said to him, softly enough not to be heard by the archdeacon: “I warned you that he was mad. You insisted on seeing him.”

      “‘Tis very possible that he is right, madman as he is, Doctor Jacques,” replied his comrade in the same low tone, and with a bitter smile.

      “As you please,” replied Coictier dryly. Then, addressing the archdeacon: “You are clever at your trade, Dom Claude, and you are no more at a loss over Hippocrates than a monkey is over a nut. Medicine a dream! I suspect that the pharmacopolists and the master physicians would insist upon stoning you if they were here. So you deny the influence of philtres upon the blood, and unguents on the skin! You deny that eternal pharmacy of flowers and metals, which is called the world, made expressly for that eternal invalid called man!”

      “I deny,” said Dom Claude coldly, “neither pharmacy nor the invalid. I reject the physician.”

      “Then it is not true,” resumed Coictier hotly, “that gout is an internal eruption; that a wound caused by artillery is to be cured by the application of a young mouse roasted; that young blood, properly injected, restores youth to aged veins; it is not true that two and two make four, and that emprostathonos follows opistathonos.”

      The archdeacon replied without perturbation: “There are certain things of which I think in a certain fashion.”

      Coictier became crimson with anger.

      “There, there, my good Coictier, let us not get angry,” said Gossip Tourangeau. “Monsieur the archdeacon is our friend.”

      Coictier calmed down, muttering in a low tone,—

      “After all, he’s mad.”

      “Pasque-dieu, Master Claude,” resumed Gossip Tourangeau, after a silence, “You embarrass me greatly. I had two things to consult you upon, one touching my health and the other touching my star.”

      “Monsieur,” returned the archdeacon, “if that be your motive, you would have done as well not to put yourself out of breath climbing my staircase. I do not believe in Medicine. I do not believe in Astrology.”

      “Indeed!” said the man, with surprise.

      Coictier gave a forced laugh.

      “You see that he is mad,” he said, in a low tone, to Gossip Tourangeau. “He does not believe in astrology.”

      “The idea of imagining,” pursued Dom Claude, “that every ray of a star is a thread which is fastened to the head of a man!”

      “And what then, do you believe in?” exclaimed Gossip Tourangeau.

      The archdeacon hesitated for a moment, then he allowed a gloomy smile to escape, which seemed to give the lie to his response: “Credo in Deum.”

      “Dominum nostrum,” added Gossip Tourangeau, making the sign of the cross.

      “Amen,” said Coictier.

      “Reverend master,” resumed Tourangeau, “I am charmed in soul to see you in such a religious frame of mind. But have you reached the point, great savant as you are, of no longer believing in science?”

      “No,” said the archdeacon, grasping the arm of Gossip Tourangeau, and a ray of enthusiasm lighted up his gloomy eyes, “no, I do not reject science. I have not crawled so long, flat on my belly, with my nails in the earth, through the innumerable ramifications of its caverns, without perceiving far in front of me, at the end of the obscure gallery, a light, a flame, a something, the reflection, no doubt, of the dazzling central laboratory where the patient and the wise have found out God.”

      “And in short,” interrupted Tourangeau, “what do you hold to be true and certain?”

      “Alchemy.”

      Coictier exclaimed, “Pardieu, Dom Claude, alchemy has its use, no doubt, but why blaspheme medicine and astrology?”

      “Naught is your science of man, naught is your science of the stars,” said the archdeacon, commandingly.

      “That’s driving Epidaurus and Chaldea very fast,” replied the physician with a grin.

      “Listen, Messire Jacques. This is said in good faith. I am not the king’s physician, and his majesty has not given me the Garden of Daedalus in which to observe the constellations. Don’t get angry, but listen to me. What truth have you deduced, I will not say from medicine, which is too foolish a thing, but from astrology? Cite to me the virtues of the vertical boustrophedon, the treasures of the number ziruph and those of the number zephirod!”

      “Will you deny,” said Coictier, “the sympathetic force of the collar bone, and the cabalistics which are derived from it?”

      “An error, Messire Jacques! None of your formulas end in reality. Alchemy on the other hand has its discoveries. Will you contest results like this? Ice confined beneath the earth for a thousand years is transformed into rock crystals. Lead is the ancestor of all metals. For gold is not a metal, gold is light. Lead requires only four periods of two hundred years each, to pass in succession from the state of lead, to the state of red arsenic, from red arsenic to tin, from tin to silver. Are not these facts? But to believe in the collar bone, in the full line and in the stars, is as ridiculous as to believe with the inhabitants of Grand-Cathay that the golden oriole turns into a mole, and that grains of wheat turn into fish of the carp species.”

      “I have studied hermetic science!” exclaimed Coictier, “and I affirm—”

      The fiery archdeacon did not allow him to finish: “And I have studied medicine, astrology, and hermetics. Here alone is the truth.” (As he spoke thus, he took from the top of the coffer a phial filled with the powder which we have mentioned above), “here alone is light! Hippocrates is a dream; Urania is a dream; Hermes, a thought. Gold is the sun; to make gold is to be God. Herein lies the one and only science. I have sounded the depths of medicine and astrology, I tell you! Naught, nothingness! The human body, shadows! the planets, shadows!”

      And he fell back in his armchair in a commanding and inspired attitude. Gossip Touraugeau watched him in silence. Coictier tried to grin, shrugged his shoulders imperceptibly, and repeated in a low voice,—

      “A madman!”

      “And,” said Tourangeau suddenly, “the wondrous result,—have you attained it, have you made gold?”

      “If I had made it,” replied the archdeacon, articulating his words slowly, like a man who is reflecting, “the king of France would be named Claude and not Louis.”

      The stranger frowned.

      “What am I saying?” resumed Dom Claude, with a smile of disdain. “What would the throne of France be to me when I could rebuild the empire of the Orient?”

      “Very good!” said the stranger.

      “Oh, the poor fool!” murmured Coictier.

      The archdeacon went on, appearing to reply now only to his thoughts,—

      “But no, I am still crawling; I am scratching my face and knees against the pebbles of the subterranean pathway. I catch a glimpse, I do not contemplate! I do not read, I spell out!”

      “And when you know how to read!” demanded the stranger, “will you make gold?”

      “Who doubts it?” said the archdeacon.

      “In that case Our Lady knows that I am greatly in need of money, and I should much desire to read in your books. Tell me, reverend master, is your science inimical or displeasing to Our Lady?”

      “Whose archdeacon I am?” Dom Claude contented himself with replying, with tranquil hauteur.

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