I made her, by way of jest, two magic squares, which delighted her.  In return, she spewed me some trifles with which I was well acquainted, but which I pretended to think very astonishing.  My good genius then inspired me with the idea of trying divination by the cabala.  I told her to ask a question in writing, and assured her that by a certain kind of calculation a satisfactory answer would be obtained.  She smiled, and asked why I had returned to Amsterdam so soon.  I shewed her how to make the pyramid with the proper numbers and the other ceremonies, then I made her extract the answer in numbers, translating it into French, and greatly was she surprised to find that the cause which had made me return to Amsterdam so soon was—­love.

Quite confounded, she said it was very wonderful, even though the answer might not be true, and she wished to know what masters could teach this mode of calculation.

“Those who know it cannot teach it to anyone.”

“How did you learn it, then?”

“From a precious manuscript I inherited from my father.”

“Sell it me.”

“I have burnt it; and I am not empowered to communicate the secret to anyone before I reach the age of fifty.”

“Why fifty?”

“I don’t know; but I do know that if I communicated it to anyone before that age I should run the risk of losing it myself.  The elementary spirit who is attached to the oracle would leave it.”

“How do you know that?”

“I saw it so stated in the manuscript I have spoken of.”

“Then you are able to discover all secrets?”

“Yes, or I should be if the replies were not sometimes too obscure to be understood.”

“As it does not take much time, will you be kind enough to get me an answer to another question?”

“With pleasure; you can command me in anything not forbidden by my familiar spirit.”

She asked what her destiny would be, and the oracle replied that she had not yet taken the first step towards it.  Esther was astonished and called her governess to see the two answers, but the good woman saw nothing wonderful in them whatever.  Esther impatiently called her a blockhead, and entreated me to let her ask another question.  I begged her to do so, and she asked,

“Who loves me most in Amsterdam?” The oracle replied that no one loved her as well as he who had given her being:  Poor Esther then told me that I had made her miserable, and that she would die of grief if she could not succeed in learning the method of calculation.  I gave no answer, and pretended to feel sad at heart.  She began to write down another question, putting her hand in front so as to screen the paper.  I rose as if to get out of her way, but while she was arranging the pyramid I cast my eyes on the paper whilst walking up and down the room, and read her question.  After she had gone as far as I had taught her, she asked me to extract the answer, saying that I could do so without reading the question.  I agreed to do so on the condition that she would not ask a second time.