English
DomClaude'sfamehadspreadfarandwide.Itprocuredforhim,atabouttheepochwhenherefusedtoseeMadamedeBeaujeu,avisitwhichhelongremembered.
Itwasintheevening.Hehadjustretired,aftertheoffice,tohiscanon'scellinthecloisterofNotre–Dame.
Thiscell,withtheexception,possibly,ofsomeglassphials,relegatedtoacorner,andfilledwithadecidedlyequivocalpowder,whichstronglyresembledthealchemist's"powderofprojection,"presentednothingstrangeormysterious.
Therewere,indeed,hereandthere,someinscriptionsonthewalls,buttheywerepuresentencesoflearningandpiety,extractedfromgoodauthors.
Thearchdeaconhadjustseatedhimself,bythelightofathree–jettedcopperlamp,beforeavastcoffercrammedwithmanuscripts.
HehadrestedhiselbowupontheopenvolumeofHonoriusd'Autun,~Depredestinationeetliberoarbitrio~,andhewasturningover,indeepmeditation,theleavesofaprintedfoliowhichhehadjustbrought,thesoleproductofthepresswhichhiscellcontained.
Inthemidstofhisreverytherecameaknockathisdoor."Who'sthere?"
criedthelearnedman,inthegracioustoneofafamisheddog,disturbedoverhisbone.
Avoicewithoutreplied,"Yourfriend,JacquesCoictier."Hewenttoopenthedoor.
Itwas,infact,theking'sphysician;apersonaboutfiftyyearsofage,whoseharshphysiognomywasmodifiedonlybyacraftyeye.Anothermanaccompaniedhim.
Bothworelongslate–coloredrobes,furredwithminever,girdedandclosed,withcapsofthesamestuffandhue.
Theirhandswereconcealedbytheirsleeves,theirfeetbytheirrobes,theireyesbytheircaps.
"Godhelpme,messieurs!"saidthearchdeacon,showingthemin;"Iwasnotexpectingdistinguishedvisitorsatsuchanhour."
Andwhilespeakinginthiscourteousfashionhecastanuneasyandscrutinizingglancefromthephysiciantohiscompanion.
"'TisnevertoolatetocomeandpayavisittosoconsiderablealearnedmanasDomClaudeFrollodeTirechappe,"repliedDoctorCoictier,whoseFranche–Comtéaccentmadeallhisphrasesdragalongwiththemajestyofatrain–robe.
Therethenensuedbetweenthephysicianandthearchdeacononeofthosecongratulatoryprologueswhich,inaccordancewithcustom,atthatepochprecededallconversationsbetweenlearnedmen,andwhichdidnotpreventthemfromdetestingeachotherinthemostcordialmannerintheworld.
However,itisthesamenowadays;everywiseman'smouthcomplimentinganotherwisemanisavaseofhoneyedgall.
ClaudeFrollo'sfelicitationstoJacquesCoictierborereferenceprincipallytothetemporaladvantageswhichtheworthyphysicianhadfoundmeanstoextract,inthecourseofhismuchenviedcareer,fromeachmaladyoftheking,anoperationofalchemymuchbetterandmorecertainthanthepursuitofthephilosopher'sstone.
"Intruth,MonsieurleDocteurCoictier,Ifeltgreatjoyonlearningofthebishopricgivenyournephew,myreverendseigneurPierreVerse.IshenotBishopofAmiens?"
"Yes,monsieurArchdeacon;itisagraceandmercyofGod."
"DoyouknowthatyoumadeagreatfigureonChristmasDayatthebeadofyourcompanyofthechamberofaccounts,MonsieurPresident?"
"Vice–President,DomClaude.Alas!nothingmore."
"HowisyoursuperbhouseintheRueSaint–AndrédesArcscomingon?'TisaLouvre.
Ilovegreatlytheapricottreewhichiscarvedonthedoor,withthisplayofwords:'AL'ABRI–COTIER—Shelteredfromreefs.'"
"Alas!MasterClaude,allthatmasonrycostethmedear.Inproportionasthehouseiserected,Iamruined."
"Ho!haveyounotyourrevenuesfromthejail,andthebailiwickofthePalais,andtherentsofallthehouses,sheds,stalls,andboothsoftheenclosure?'Tisafinebreasttosuck."
"MycastellanyofPoissyhasbroughtmeinnothingthisyear."
"ButyourtollsofTriel,ofSaint–James,ofSaint–Germainen–Layearealwaysgood."
"Sixscorelivres,andnotevenParisianlivresatthat."
"Youhaveyourofficeofcounsellortotheking.Thatisfixed."
"Yes,brotherClaude;butthataccursedseigneuryofPoligny,whichpeoplemakesomuchnoiseabout,isworthnotsixtygoldcrowns,yearoutandyearin."
InthecomplimentswhichDomClaudeaddressedtoJacquesCoictier,therewasthatsardonical,biting,andcovertlymockingaccent,andthesadcruelsmileofasuperiorandunhappymanwhotoysforamoment,bywayofdistraction,withthedenseprosperityofavulgarman.Theotherdidnotperceiveit.
"Uponmysoul,"saidClaudeatlength,pressinghishand,"Iamgladtoseeyouandinsuchgoodhealth."
"Thanks,MasterClaude."
"Bytheway,"exclaimedDomClaude,"howisyourroyalpatient?"
"Hepayethnotsufficientlyhisphysician,"repliedthedoctor,castingasideglanceathiscompanion.
"Thinkyouso,GossipCoictier,"saidthelatter.
Thesewords,utteredinatoneofsurpriseandreproach,drewuponthisunknownpersonagetheattentionofthearchdeaconwhich,totellthetruth,hadnotbeendivertedfromhimasinglemomentsincethestrangerhadsetfootacrossthethresholdofhiscell.
IthadevenrequiredallthethousandreasonswhichhehadforhandlingtenderlyDoctorJacquesCoictier,theall–powerfulphysicianofKingLouisXI.,toinducehimtoreceivethelatterthusaccompanied.
Hence,therewasnothingverycordialinhismannerwhenJacquesCoictiersaidtohim,—
"Bytheway,DomClaude,Ibringyouacolleaguewhohasdesiredtoseeyouonaccountofyourreputation."
"Monsieurbelongstoscience?"askedthearchdeacon,fixinghispiercingeyeuponCoictier'scompanion.
Hefoundbeneaththebrowsofthestrangeraglancenolesspiercingorlessdistrustfulthanhisown.
Hewas,sofarasthefeeblelightofthelamppermittedonetojudge,anoldmanaboutsixtyyearsofageandofmediumstature,whoappearedsomewhatsicklyandbrokeninhealth.
Hisprofile,althoughofaveryordinaryoutline,hadsomethingpowerfulandsevereaboutit;hiseyessparkledbeneathaverydeepsuperciliaryarch,likealightinthedepthsofacave;andbeneathhiscapwhichwaswelldrawndownandfelluponhisnose,onerecognizedthebroadexpanseofabrowofgenius.
Hetookituponhimselftoreplytothearchdeacon'squestion,—
"Reverendmaster,"hesaidinagravetone,"yourrenownhasreachedmyears,andIwishtoconsultyou.
Iambutapoorprovincialgentleman,whoremovethhisshoesbeforeenteringthedwellingsofthelearned.Youmustknowmyname.IamcalledGossipTourangeau."
"Strangenameforagentleman,"saidthearchdeacontohimself.
Nevertheless,hehadafeelingthathewasinthepresenceofastrongandearnestcharacter.
TheinstinctofhisownloftyintellectmadehimrecognizeanintellectnolessloftyunderGossipTourangeau'sfurredcap,andashegazedatthesolemnface,theironicalsmilewhichJacquesCoictier'spresencecalledforthonhisgloomyface,graduallydisappearedastwilightfadesonthehorizonofnight.
Sternandsilent,hehadresumedhisseatinhisgreatarmchair;hiselbowrestedasusual,onthetable,andhisbrowonhishand.
Afterafewmomentsofreflection,hemotionedhisvisitorstobeseated,and,turningtoGossipTourangeauhesaid,—
"Youcometoconsultme,master,anduponwhatscience?"
"Yourreverence,"repliedTourangeau,"Iamill,veryill.YouaresaidtobegreatAEsculapius,andIamcometoaskyouradviceinmedicine."
"Medicine!"saidthearchdeacon,tossinghishead.
Heseemedtomeditateforamoment,andthenresumed:"GossipTourangeau,sincethatisyourname,turnyourhead,youwillfindmyreplyalreadywrittenonthewall."
GossipTourangeauobeyed,andreadthisinscriptionengravedabovehishead:"Medicineisthedaughterofdreams.—JAMBLIQUE."
Meanwhile,DoctorJacquesCoictierhadheardhiscompanion'squestionwithadispleasurewhichDomClaude'sresponsehadbutredoubled.
HebentdowntotheearofGossipTourangeau,andsaidtohim,softlyenoughnottobeheardbythearchdeacon:"Iwarnedyouthathewasmad.Youinsistedonseeinghim."
"'Tisverypossiblethatheisright,madmanasheis,DoctorJacques,"repliedhiscomradeinthesamelowtone,andwithabittersmile.
"Asyouplease,"repliedCoictierdryly.
Then,addressingthearchdeacon:"Youarecleveratyourtrade,DomClaude,andyouarenomoreatalossoverHippocratesthanamonkeyisoveranut.Medicineadream!
Isuspectthatthepharmacopolistsandthemasterphysicianswouldinsistuponstoningyouiftheywerehere.
Soyoudenytheinfluenceofphiltresupontheblood,andunguentsontheskin!
Youdenythateternalpharmacyofflowersandmetals,whichiscalledtheworld,madeexpresslyforthateternalinvalidcalledman!"
"Ideny,"saidDomClaudecoldly,"neitherpharmacynortheinvalid.Irejectthephysician."
"Thenitisnottrue,"resumedCoictierhotly,"thatgoutisaninternaleruption;thatawoundcausedbyartilleryistobecuredbytheapplicationofayoungmouseroasted;thatyoungblood,properlyinjected,restoresyouthtoagedveins;itisnottruethattwoandtwomakefour,andthatemprostathonosfollowsopistathonos."
Thearchdeaconrepliedwithoutperturbation:"TherearecertainthingsofwhichIthinkinacertainfashion."
Coictierbecamecrimsonwithanger.
"There,there,mygoodCoictier,letusnotgetangry,"saidGossipTourangeau."Monsieurthearchdeaconisourfriend."
Coictiercalmeddown,mutteringinalowtone,—
"Afterall,he'smad."
"~Pasque–dieu~,MasterClaude,"resumedGossipTourangeau,afterasilence,"Youembarrassmegreatly.Ihadtwothingstoconsultyouupon,onetouchingmyhealthandtheothertouchingmystar."
"Monsieur,"returnedthearchdeacon,"ifthatbeyourmotive,youwouldhavedoneaswellnottoputyourselfoutofbreathclimbingmystaircase.IdonotbelieveinMedicine.IdonotbelieveinAstrology."
"Indeed!"saidtheman,withsurprise.
Coictiergaveaforcedlaugh.
"Youseethatheismad,"hesaid,inalowtone,toGossipTourangeau."Hedoesnotbelieveinastrology."
"Theideaofimagining,"pursuedDomClaude,"thateveryrayofastarisathreadwhichisfastenedtotheheadofaman!"
"Andwhatthen,doyoubelievein?"exclaimedGossipTourangeau.
Thearchdeaconhesitatedforamoment,thenheallowedagloomysmiletoescape,whichseemedtogivethelietohisresponse:"~CredoinDeum~."
"~Dominumnostrum~,"addedGossipTourangeau,makingthesignofthecross.
"Amen,"saidCoictier.
"Reverendmaster,"resumedTourangeau,"Iamcharmedinsoultoseeyouinsuchareligiousframeofmind.Buthaveyoureachedthepoint,greatsavantasyouare,ofnolongerbelievinginscience?"
"No,"saidthearchdeacon,graspingthearmofGossipTourangeau,andarayofenthusiasmlighteduphisgloomyeyes,"no,Idonotrejectscience.
Ihavenotcrawledsolong,flatonmybelly,withmynailsintheearth,throughtheinnumerableramificationsofitscaverns,withoutperceivingfarinfrontofme,attheendoftheobscuregallery,alight,aflame,asomething,thereflection,nodoubt,ofthedazzlingcentrallaboratorywherethepatientandthewisehavefoundoutGod."
"Andinshort,"interruptedTourangeau,"whatdoyouholdtobetrueandcertain?"
"Alchemy."
Coictierexclaimed,"Pardieu,DomClaude,alchemyhasitsuse,nodoubt,butwhyblasphememedicineandastrology?"
"Naughtisyourscienceofman,naughtisyourscienceofthestars,"saidthearchdeacon,commandingly.
"That'sdrivingEpidaurusandChaldeaveryfast,"repliedthephysicianwithagrin.
"Listen,MessireJacques.Thisissaidingoodfaith.
Iamnottheking'sphysician,andhismajestyhasnotgivenmetheGardenofDaedalusinwhichtoobservetheconstellations.Don'tgetangry,butlistentome.
Whattruthhaveyoudeduced,Iwillnotsayfrommedicine,whichistoofoolishathing,butfromastrology?
Citetomethevirtuesoftheverticalboustrophedon,thetreasuresofthenumberziruphandthoseofthenumberzephirod!"
"Willyoudeny,"saidCoictier,"thesympatheticforceofthecollarbone,andthecabalisticswhicharederivedfromit?"
"Anerror,MessireJacques!Noneofyourformulasendinreality.
Alchemyontheotherhandhasitsdiscoveries.Willyoucontestresultslikethis?
Iceconfinedbeneaththeearthforathousandyearsistransformedintorockcrystals.Leadistheancestorofallmetals.Forgoldisnotametal,goldislight.
Leadrequiresonlyfourperiodsoftwohundredyearseach,topassinsuccessionfromthestateoflead,tothestateofredarsenic,fromredarsenictotin,fromtintosilver.Arenotthesefacts?
Buttobelieveinthecollarbone,inthefulllineandinthestars,isasridiculousastobelievewiththeinhabitantsofGrand–Cathaythatthegoldenorioleturnsintoamole,andthatgrainsofwheatturnintofishofthecarpspecies."
"Ihavestudiedhermeticscience!"exclaimedCoictier,"andIaffirm—"
Thefieryarchdeacondidnotallowhimtofinish:"AndIhavestudiedmedicine,astrology,andhermetics.Herealoneisthetruth."
(Ashespokethus,hetookfromthetopofthecofferaphialfilledwiththepowderwhichwehavementionedabove),"herealoneislight!
Hippocratesisadream;Uraniaisadream;Hermes,athought.
Goldisthesun;tomakegoldistobeGod.Hereinliestheoneandonlyscience.
Ihavesoundedthedepthsofmedicineandastrology,Itellyou!Naught,nothingness!Thehumanbody,shadows!theplanets,shadows!"
Andhefellbackinhisarmchairinacommandingandinspiredattitude.
GossipTouraugeauwatchedhiminsilence.
Coictiertriedtogrin,shruggedhisshouldersimperceptibly,andrepeatedinalowvoice,—
"Amadman!"
"And,"saidTourangeausuddenly,"thewondrousresult,—haveyouattainedit,haveyoumadegold?"
"IfIhadmadeit,"repliedthearchdeacon,articulatinghiswordsslowly,likeamanwhoisreflecting,"thekingofFrancewouldbenamedClaudeandnotLouis."
Thestrangerfrowned.
"WhatamIsaying?"resumedDomClaude,withasmileofdisdain."WhatwouldthethroneofFrancebetomewhenIcouldrebuildtheempireoftheOrient?"
"Verygood!"saidthestranger.
"Oh,thepoorfool!"murmuredCoictier.
Thearchdeaconwenton,appearingtoreplynowonlytohisthoughts,—
"Butno,Iamstillcrawling;Iamscratchingmyfaceandkneesagainstthepebblesofthesubterraneanpathway.Icatchaglimpse,Idonotcontemplate!Idonotread,Ispellout!"
"Andwhenyouknowhowtoread!"demandedthestranger,"willyoumakegold?"
"Whodoubtsit?"saidthearchdeacon.
"InthatcaseOurLadyknowsthatIamgreatlyinneedofmoney,andIshouldmuchdesiretoreadinyourbooks.Tellme,reverendmaster,isyourscienceinimicalordispleasingtoOurLady?"
"WhosearchdeaconIam?"DomClaudecontentedhimselfwithreplying,withtranquilhauteur.
"Thatistrue,mymaster.Well!willitpleaseyoutoinitiateme?Letmespellwithyou."
ClaudeassumedthemajesticandpontificalattitudeofaSamuel.
"Oldman,itrequireslongeryearsthanremaintoyou,toundertakethisvoyageacrossmysteriousthings.Yourheadisverygray!
Onecomesforthfromthecavernonlywithwhitehair,butonlythosewithdarkhairenterit.
Sciencealoneknowswellhowtohollow,wither,anddryuphumanfaces;sheneedsnottohaveoldagebringherfacesalreadyfurrowed.
Nevertheless,ifthedesirepossessesyouofputtingyourselfunderdisciplineatyourage,andofdecipheringtheformidablealphabetofthesages,cometome;'tiswell,Iwillmaketheeffort.
Iwillnottellyou,pooroldman,togoandvisitthesepulchralchambersofthepyramids,ofwhichancientHerodotusspeaks,northebricktowerofBabylon,northeimmensewhitemarblesanctuaryoftheIndiantempleofEklinga.
I,nomorethanyourself,haveseentheChaldeanmasonryworksconstructedaccordingtothesacredformoftheSikra,northetempleofSolomon,whichisdestroyed,northestonedoorsofthesepulchreofthekingsofIsrael,whicharebroken.
WewillcontentourselveswiththefragmentsofthebookofHermeswhichwehavehere.
IwillexplaintoyouthestatueofSaintChristopher,thesymbolofthesower,andthatofthetwoangelswhichareonthefrontoftheSainte–Chapelle,andoneofwhichholdsinhishandsavase,theother,acloud—"
HereJacquesCoictier,whohadbeenunhorsedbythearchdeacon'simpetuousreplies,regainedhissaddle,andinterruptedhimwiththetriumphanttoneofonelearnedmancorrectinganother,—"~ErrasamiceClaudi~.Thesymbolisnotthenumber.YoutakeOrpheusforHermes."
"'Tisyouwhoareinerror,"repliedthearchdeacon,gravely.
"Daedalusisthebase;Orpheusisthewall;Hermesistheedifice,—thatisall.
Youshallcomewhenyouwill,"hecontinued,turningtoTourangeau,"IwillshowyouthelittleparcelsofgoldwhichremainedatthebottomofNicholasFlamel'salembic,andyoushallcomparethemwiththegoldofGuillaumedeParis.
IwillteachyouthesecretvirtuesoftheGreekword,~peristera~.
But,firstofall,Iwillmakeyouread,oneaftertheother,themarblelettersofthealphabet,thegranitepagesofthebook.
WeshallgototheportalofBishopGuillaumeandofSaint–JeanleRondattheSainte–Chapelle,thentothehouseofNicholasFlamel,RueManvault,tohistomb,whichisattheSaints–Innocents,tohistwohospitals,RuedeMontmorency.
IwillmakeyoureadthehieroglyphicswhichcoverthefourgreatironcrampsontheportalofthehospitalSaint–Gervais,andoftheRuedelaFerronnerie.
Wewillspelloutincompany,also,thefaadeofSaint–Come,ofSainte–Genevive–des–Ardents,ofSaintMartin,ofSaint–JacquesdelaBoucherie—."
Foralongtime,GossipTourangeau,intelligentaswashisglance,hadappearednottounderstandDomClaude.Heinterrupted.
"~Pasque–dieu~!whatareyourbooks,then?"
"Hereisoneofthem,"saidthearchdeacon.
AndopeningthewindowofhiscellhepointedoutwithhisfingertheimmensechurchofNotre–Dame,which,outliningagainstthestarryskytheblacksilhouetteofitstwotowers,itsstoneflanks,itsmonstroushaunches,seemedanenormoustwo–headedsphinx,seatedinthemiddleofthecity.
Thearchdeacongazedatthegiganticedificeforsometimeinsilence,thenextendinghisrighthand,withasigh,towardstheprintedbookwhichlayopenonthetable,andhislefttowardsNotre–Dame,andturningasadglancefromthebooktothechurch,—"Alas,"hesaid,"thiswillkillthat."
Coictier,whohadeagerlyapproachedthebook,couldnotrepressanexclamation.
"Hé,butnow,whatistheresoformidableinthis:'GLOSSAINEPISTOLASD.PAULI,~Norimbergoe,AntoniusKoburger~,1474.'Thisisnotnew.
'TisabookofPierreLombard,theMasterofSentences.Isitbecauseitisprinted?"
"Youhavesaidit,"repliedClaude,whoseemedabsorbedinaprofoundmeditation,andstoodresting,hisforefingerbentbackwardonthefoliowhichhadcomefromthefamouspressofNuremberg.
Thenheaddedthesemysteriouswords:"Alas!alas!
smallthingscomeattheendofgreatthings;atoothtriumphsoveramass.
TheNileratkillsthecrocodile,theswordfishkillsthewhale,thebookwillkilltheedifice."
ThecurfewofthecloistersoundedatthemomentwhenMasterJacqueswasrepeatingtohiscompanioninlowtones,hiseternalrefrain,"Heismad!"
Towhichhiscompanionthistimereplied,"Ibelievethatheis."
Itwasthehourwhennostrangercouldremaininthecloister.Thetwovisitorswithdrew.
"Master,"saidGossipTourangeau,ashetookleaveofthearchdeacon,"Ilovewisemenandgreatminds,andIholdyouinsingularesteem.
Cometo–morrowtothePalacedesTournelles,andinquirefortheAbbédeSainte–Martin,ofTours."
Thearchdeaconreturnedtohischamberdumbfounded,comprehendingatlastwhoGossipTourangeauwas,andrecallingthatpassageoftheregisterofSainte–Martin,ofTours:—~AbbasbeatiMartini,SCILICETREXFRANCIAE,estcanonicusdeconsuetudineethabetparvamproebendamquamhabetsanctusVenantius,etdebetsedereinsedethesaurarii~.
ItisassertedthatafterthatepochthearchdeaconhadfrequentconferenceswithLouisXI.,whenhismajestycametoParis,andthatDomClaude'sinfluencequiteovershadowedthatofOlivierleDaimandJacquesCoictier,who,aswashishabit,rudelytookthekingtotaskonthataccount.
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