two thousand years, is converted into rock crystal; lead is the progenitor of all metals (for gold is not a metal, gold is light); lead requires but four periods of two hundred years each to pass successively from the condition of lead to that of red arsenic, from red arsenic to tin, from tin to silver. Are these facts, or are they not? But to believe in the clavicula, in the mystic significance of the junction of two lines, in the stars, is as ridiculous as to believe, like the inhabitants of Cathay, that the oriole changes into a mole, and grains of wheat into carp-like fish.”

“I have studied hermetics,” cried Coictier, “and I affirm—”

The impetuous Archdeacon would not let him finish. “And I—I have studied medicine, astrology, and hermetics. Here alone is truth” (and as he spoke he took up one of those phials of glass of which mention has been made), “here alone is light! Hippocrates—a dream; Urania—a dream; Hermes—a phantasm. Gold is the sun; to make gold is to be God. There is the one and only science. I have sounded medicine and astrology to their depths—null, I tell you—null and void! The human body—darkness! the stars—darkness!”

He sank into his chair with a compelling and inspired gesture. Tourangeau observed him in silence; Coictier forced a disdainful laugh, shrugging his shoulders imperceptibly while he repeated under his breath, “Madman.”

“Well,” said Tourangeau suddenly, “and the transcendental result—have you achieved it? Have you succeeded in making gold?”

“If I had,” answered the Archdeacon, dropping his words slowly like a man in a reverie, “the name of the King of France would be Claude and not Louis.”

Tourangeau bent his brow.

“Pah, what am I saying?” resumed Dom Claude with a disdainful smile. “What would the throne of France be to me when I could reconstruct the Empire of the East?”

“Well done!” exclaimed Tourangeau.

“Poor ass!” murmured Coictier.

“No,” the Archdeacon went on, as if in answer to his own thoughts, “I am still crawling, still bruising my face and my knees against the stones of the subterranean path. Fitful glimpses I catch, but nothing clear. I cannot read—I am but conning the alphabet.”

“And when you have learned to read, will you be able to make gold?”

“Who doubts it?” answered the Archdeacon.

“In that case—Our Lady knows I am in dire need of money—I would gladly learn to read in your books. Tell me, reverend master, is not your science inimical and displeasing to Our Lady, think you?”

To this question of Tourangeau’s Dom Claude contented himself by making answer with quiet dignity, “Whose priest am I?”

“True, true, master. Well, then, will it please you to initiate me? Let me learn to spell with you?”

Claude assumed the majestic and saceidotal attitude of a Samuel.

“Old man, it would require more years than yet remain to you to undertake this journey across the world of mystery. Your head is very gray! One emerges from the cave with white hair, but one must enter it with black. Science knows very well how to furrow and wither up the face of man without assistance; she