_ Dom Claude's fame had spread far and wide. It procured
for him, at about the epoch when he refused to see Madame de
Beaujeu, a visit which he long remembered.
It was in the evening. He had just retired, after the office,
to his canon's cell in the cloister of Notre-Dame. This cell,
with the exception, possibly, of some glass phials, relegated
to a corner, and filled with a decidedly equivocal powder,
which strongly resembled the alchemist's "powder of projection,"
presented nothing strange or mysterious. There were,
indeed, here and there, some inscriptions on the walls, but they
were pure sentences of learning and piety, extracted from
good authors. The archdeacon had just seated himself, by the
light of a three-jetted copper lamp, before a vast coffer
crammed with manuscripts. He had rested his elbow upon the
open volume of _Honorius d'Autun_, ~De predestinatione et libero
arbitrio~, and he was turning over, in deep meditation, the
leaves of a printed folio which he had just brought, the
sole product of the press which his cell contained. In the
midst of his revery there came a knock at his door. "Who's
there?" cried the learned man, in the gracious tone of a
famished dog, disturbed over his bone.
A voice without replied, "Your friend, Jacques Coictier."
He went to open the door.
It was, in fact, the king's physician; a person about fifty
years of age, whose harsh physiognomy was modified only by a
crafty eye. Another man accompanied him. Both wore long
slate-colored robes, furred with minever, girded and closed,
with caps of the same stuff and hue. Their hands were
concealed by their sleeves, their feet by their robes, their eyes
by their caps.
"God help me, messieurs!" said the archdeacon, showing
them in; "I was not expecting distinguished visitors at such
an hour." And while speaking in this courteous fashion he
cast an uneasy and scrutinizing glance from the physician to
his companion.
"'Tis never too late to come and pay a visit to so considerable
a learned man as Dom Claude Frollo de Tirechappe," replied
Doctor Coictier, whose Franche-Comté accent made all his
phrases drag along with the majesty of a train-robe.
There then ensued between the physician and the archdeacon
one of those congratulatory prologues which, in accordance
with custom, at that epoch preceded all conversations
between learned men, and which did not prevent them from
detesting each other in the most cordial manner in the world.
However, it is the same nowadays; every wise man's mouth
complimenting another wise man is a vase of honeyed gall.
Claude Frollo's felicitations to Jacques Coictier bore reference
principally to the temporal advantages which the worthy
physician had found means to extract, in the course of his
much envied career, from each malady of the king, an operation
of alchemy much better and more certain than the pursuit
of the philosopher's stone.
"In truth, Monsieur le Docteur Coictier, I felt great joy
on learning of the bishopric given your nephew, my reverend
seigneur Pierre Verse. Is he not Bishop of Amiens?"
"Yes, monsieur Archdeacon; it is a grace and mercy of God."
"Do you know that you made a great figure on Christmas
Day at the bead of your company of the chamber of accounts,
Monsieur President?"
"Vice-President, Dom Claude. Alas! nothing more."
"How is your superb house in the Rue Saint-André des
Arcs coming on? 'Tis a Louvre. I love greatly the apricot
tree which is carved on the door, with this play of words:
'A L'ABRI-COTIER--Sheltered from reefs.'"
"Alas! Master Claude, all that masonry costeth me dear.
In proportion as the house is erected, I am ruined."
"Ho! have you not your revenues from the jail, and the
bailiwick of the Palais, and the rents of all the houses,
sheds, stalls, and booths of the enclosure? 'Tis a fine breast
to suck."
"My castellany of Poissy has brought me in nothing this year."
"But your tolls of Triel, of Saint-James, of Saint-Germainen-Laye
are always good."
"Six score livres, and not even Parisian livres at that."
"You have your office of counsellor to the king. That is fixed."
"Yes, brother Claude; but that accursed seigneury of Poligny,
which people make so much noise about, is worth not sixty gold
crowns, year out and year in."
In the compliments which Dom Claude addressed to Jacques
Coictier, there was that sardonical, biting, and covertly
mocking accent, and the sad cruel smile of a superior and
unhappy man who toys for a moment, by way of distraction, with
the dense prosperity of a vulgar man. The other did not
perceive it.
"Upon my soul," said Claude at length, pressing his hand,
"I am glad to see you and in such good health."
"Thanks, Master Claude."
"By the way," exclaimed Dom Claude, "how is your royal patient?"
"He payeth not sufficiently his physician," replied the
doctor, casting a side glance at his companion.
"Think you so, Gossip Coictier," said the latter.
These words, uttered in a tone of surprise and reproach,
drew upon this unknown personage the attention of the
archdeacon which, to tell the truth, had not been diverted from
him a single moment since the stranger had set foot across
the threshold of his cell. It had even required all the
thousand reasons which he had for handling tenderly Doctor
Jacques Coictier, the all-powerful physician of King Louis XI.,
to induce him to receive the latter thus accompanied. Hence,
there was nothing very cordial in his manner when Jacques
Coictier said to him,--
"By the way, Dom Claude, I bring you a colleague who has
desired to see you on account of your reputation."
"Monsieur belongs to science?" asked the archdeacon, fixing
his piercing eye upon Coictier's companion. He found
beneath the brows of the stranger a glance no less piercing
or less distrustful than his own.
He was, so far as the feeble light of the lamp permitted
one to judge, an old man about sixty years of age and of
medium stature, who appeared somewhat sickly and broken in
health. His profile, although of a very ordinary outline, had
something powerful and severe about it; his eyes sparkled
beneath a very deep superciliary arch, like a light in the
depths of a cave; and beneath his cap which was well drawn
down and fell upon his nose, one recognized the broad expanse
of a brow of genius.
He took it upon himself to reply to the archdeacon's question,--
"Reverend master," he said in a grave tone, "your renown
has reached my ears, and I wish to consult you. I am but a
poor provincial gentleman, who removeth his shoes before
entering the dwellings of the learned. You must know my
name. I am called Gossip Tourangeau."
"Strange name for a gentleman," said the archdeacon to himself.
Nevertheless, he had a feeling that he was in the presence
of a strong and earnest character. The instinct of his own
lofty intellect made him recognize an intellect no less lofty
under Gossip Tourangeau's furred cap, and as he gazed at
the solemn face, the ironical smile which Jacques Coictier's
presence called forth on his gloomy face, gradually
disappeared as twilight fades on the horizon of night.
Stern and silent, he had resumed his seat in his great
armchair; his elbow rested as usual, on the table, and his brow
on his hand. After a few moments of reflection, he motioned
his visitors to be seated, and, turning to Gossip Tourangeau
he said,--
"You come to consult me, master, and upon what science?"
"Your reverence," replied Tourangeau, "I am ill, very ill.
You are said to be great AEsculapius, and I am come to ask
your advice in medicine."
"Medicine!" said the archdeacon, tossing his head. He
seemed to meditate for a moment, and then resumed: "Gossip
Tourangeau, since that is your name, turn your head, you will
find my reply already written on the wall."
Gossip Tourangeau obeyed, and read this inscription engraved
above his head: "Medicine is the daughter 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.
"That is true, my master. Well! will it please you to initiate
me? Let me spell with you."
Claude assumed the majestic and pontifical attitude of a Samuel.
"Old man, it requires longer years than remain to you, to
undertake this voyage across mysterious things. Your head
is very gray! One comes forth from the cavern only with
white hair, but only those with dark hair enter it. Science
alone knows well how to hollow, wither, and dry up human
faces; she needs not to have old age bring her faces already
furrowed. Nevertheless, if the desire possesses you of putting
yourself under discipline at your age, and of deciphering
the formidable alphabet of the sages, come to me; 'tis well,
I will make the effort. I will not tell you, poor old man, to
go and visit the sepulchral chambers of the pyramids, of
which ancient Herodotus speaks, nor the brick tower of
Babylon, nor the immense white marble sanctuary of the Indian
temple of Eklinga. I, no more than yourself, have seen the
Chaldean masonry works constructed according to the sacred
form of the Sikra, nor the temple of Solomon, which is
destroyed, nor the stone doors of the sepulchre of the kings
of Israel, which are broken. We will content ourselves with
the fragments of the book of Hermes which we have here.
I will explain to you the statue of Saint Christopher, the
symbol of the sower, and that of the two angels which are
on the front of the Sainte-Chapelle, and one of which holds
in his hands a vase, the other, a cloud--"
Here Jacques Coictier, who had been unhorsed by the
archdeacon's impetuous replies, regained his saddle, and
interrupted him with the triumphant tone of one learned man
correcting another,--"~Erras amice Claudi~. The symbol is
not the number. You take Orpheus for Hermes."
"'Tis you who are in error," replied the archdeacon, gravely.
"Daedalus is the base; Orpheus is the wall; Hermes is the
edifice,--that is all. You shall come when you will," he
continued, turning to Tourangeau, "I will show you the little
parcels of gold which remained at the bottom of Nicholas
Flamel's alembic, and you shall compare them with the gold
of Guillaume de Paris. I will teach you the secret virtues
of the Greek word, ~peristera~. But, first of all, I will make
you read, one after the other, the marble letters of the alphabet,
the granite pages of the book. We shall go to the portal
of Bishop Guillaume and of Saint-Jean le Rond at the Sainte-
Chapelle, then to the house of Nicholas Flamel, Rue Manvault,
to his tomb, which is at the Saints-Innocents, to his two
hospitals, Rue de Montmorency. I will make you read the
hieroglyphics which cover the four great iron cramps on the
portal of the hospital Saint-Gervais, and of the Rue de la
Ferronnerie. We will spell out in company, also, the façade
of Saint-Come, of Sainte-Geneviève-des-Ardents, of Saint Martin,
of Saint-Jacques de la Boucherie--."
For a long time, Gossip Tourangeau, intelligent as was his glance,
had appeared not to understand Dom Claude. He interrupted.
"~Pasque-dieu~! what are your books, then?"
"Here is one of them," said the archdeacon.
And opening the window of his cell he pointed out with
his finger the immense church of Notre-Dame, which, outlining
against the starry sky the black silhouette of its two towers,
its stone flanks, its monstrous haunches, seemed an enormous
two-headed sphinx, seated in the middle of the city.
The archdeacon gazed at the gigantic edifice for some time
in silence, then extending his right hand, with a sigh, towards
the printed book which lay open on the table, and his left
towards Notre-Dame, and turning a sad glance from the book
to the church,--"Alas," he said, "this will kill that."
Coictier, who had eagerly approached the book, could not
repress an exclamation. "Hé, but now, what is there so
formidable in this: 'GLOSSA IN EPISTOLAS D. PAULI, ~Norimbergoe,
Antonius Koburger~, 1474.' This is not new. 'Tis a book of
Pierre Lombard, the Master of Sentences. Is it because it is
printed?"
"You have said it," replied Claude, who seemed absorbed
in a profound meditation, and stood resting, his forefinger
bent backward on the folio which had come from the famous
press of Nuremberg. Then he added these mysterious words:
"Alas! alas! small things come at the end of great things; a
tooth triumphs over a mass. The Nile rat kills the crocodile,
the swordfish kills the whale, the book will kill the edifice."
The curfew of the cloister sounded at the moment when
Master Jacques was repeating to his companion in low tones,
his eternal refrain, "He is mad!" To which his companion
this time replied, "I believe that he is."
It was the hour when no stranger could remain in the
cloister. The two visitors withdrew. "Master," said Gossip
Tourangeau, as he took leave of the archdeacon, "I love wise
men and great minds, and I hold you in singular esteem.
Come to-morrow to the Palace des Tournelles, and inquire for
the Abbé de Sainte-Martin, of Tours."
The archdeacon returned to his chamber dumbfounded,
comprehending at last who Gossip Tourangeau was, and recalling
that passage of the register of Sainte-Martin, of Tours:--
~Abbas beati Martini, SCILICET REX FRANCIAE, est canonicus de
consuetudine et habet parvam proebendam quam habet sanctus
Venantius, et debet sedere in sede thesaurarii~.
It is asserted that after that epoch the archdeacon had
frequent conferences with Louis XI., when his majesty came
to Paris, and that Dom Claude's influence quite overshadowed
that of Olivier le Daim and Jacques Coictier, who, as was his
habit, rudely took the king to task on that account. _