'Listen，Messire Jacques.I speak in all good faith.I am not physician to the King，and his Majesty did not give me a Labyrinth in which to observe the constellations.Nay，be not angry，but listen to what I say：what truths have you extracted from the study—I will not say of medicine，which is too foolish a matte—but from astrology？Explain to me the virtues of the vertical boustrophedon，3 or the treasures contained in the numeral ziruph，and in those of the numeral zephirod.'
'Will you deny，'said Coictier，'the sympathetic influence of the clavicula，and that it is the key to all cabalistic science？'
'Errors，Messire Jacques！None of your formulas have anything definite to show，whereas alchemy has its actual discoveries.Can you contest such results as these，for instance—ice，buried underground for 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 has no need that age should bring to her faces that are already wrinkled.Nevertheless，if you are possessed by the desire to put yourself under tutelage at your age，and to decipher the awful alphabet of Wisdom，well and good，come to me，I will do what I can.I will not bid you，poor graybeard，go visit the sepulchral chambers of the Pyramids，of which the ancient Herodotus speaks，nor the brick tower of Babylon，nor the vast marble sanctuary of the Indian Temple of Eklinga.I have not seen，any more than you have，the Chaldean walls built in accordance with the sacred formula of Sikra，nor the Temple of Solomon which was destroyed，nor the stone doors of the sepulchres of the Kings of Israel which are broken in pieces.Such fragments of the Book of Hermes as we have here will suffice us.I will explain to you the statue of Saint-Christopher，the symbol of the Sower，and that of the two angels in the door of the Sainte-Chapelle，of whom one has his hand in a stone vessel，and the other in a cloud.'
Here Jacques Coictier，who had been quite confounded by the Archdeacon's tempestuous flow of eloquence，recovered his composure and struck in with the triumphant tone of one scholar setting another right：
'Erras，amice Claudi—there you are in error.The symbol is not the numeral.You mistake Orpheus for Hermes.'
