“Impossible!”

“You shall see.  This elixir of life is manufactured from Socotra aloes, little cardamom, saffron, myrrh, and a heap of other aromatics.  It’s inhumanly bitter, but it’s exquisite.”

“I am anxious to taste it.  The least we can do is fete Gevingey a little on his deliverance.”

“Have you seen him?”

“Yes.  He’s looking fine.  We’ll make him tell us about his cure.”

“I keep wondering what he lives on.”

“On what his astrological skill brings him.”

“Then there are rich people who have their horoscopes cast?”

“We must hope so.  To tell you the truth, I think Gevingey is not in very easy circumstances.  Under the Empire he was astrologer to the Empress, who was very superstitious and had faith—­as did Napoleon, for that matter—­in predictions and fortune telling, but since the fall of the Empire I think Gevingey’s situation has changed a good deal for the worse.  Nevertheless he passes for being the only man in France who has preserved the secrets of Cornelius Agrippa, Cremona, Ruggieri, Gauric, Sinibald the Swordsman, and Tritemius.”

While discoursing they had climbed the stair and arrived at the bell-ringer’s door.

The astrologer was already there and the table was set.  All grimaced a bit as they tasted the black and active liqueur which Durtal poured.

Joyous to have all her family about her, Mama Carhaix brought the rich soup.  She filled the plates.

When a dish of vegetables was passed and Durtal chose a leek, Des Hermies said, laughing, “Look out!  Porta, a thaumaturge of the late sixteenth century, informs us that this plant, long considered an emblem of virility, perturbs the quietude of the most chaste.”

“Don’t listen to him,” said the bell-ringer’s wife.  “And you, Monsieur Gevingey, some carrots?”

Durtal looked at the astrologer.  His head still looked like a sugar-loaf, his hair was the same faded, dirty brown of hydroquinine or ipecac powders, his bird eyes had the same startled look, his enormous hands were covered with the same phalanx of rings, he had the same obsequious and imposing manner, and sacerdotal tone, but he was freshened up considerably, the wrinkles had gone out of his skin, and his eyes were brighter, since his visit to Lyons.

Durtal congratulated him on the happy result of the treatment.

“It was high time, monsieur, I was putting myself under the care of Dr. Johannes, for I was nearly gone.  Not possessing a shred of the gift of voyance and knowing no extralucid cataleptic who could inform me of the clandestine preparations of Canon Docre, I could not possibly defend myself by using the laws of countersign and of the shock in return.”

“But,” said Des Hermies, “admitting that you could, through the intermediation of a flying spirit, have been aware of the operations of the priest, how could you have parried them?”