After the dessert Tour d’Auvergne left us to go and see the Prince de Turenne, who was in a high fever, and after he was gone Madame d’Urfe began to discuss alchemy and magic, and all the other branches of her beloved science, or rather infatuation.  When we got on to the magnum opus, and I asked her if she knew the nature of the first matter, it was only her politeness which prevented her from laughing; but controlling herself, she replied graciously that she already possessed the philosopher’s stone, and that she was acquainted with all the operations of the work.  She then shewed me a collection of books which had belonged to the great d’Urfe, and Renee of Savoy, his wife; but she had added to it manuscripts which had cost her more than a hundred thousand francs.  Paracelsus was her favourite author, and according to her he was neither man, woman, nor hermaphrodite, and had the misfortune to poison himself with an overdose of his panacea, or universal medicine.  She shewed me a short manuscript in French, where the great work was clearly explained.  She told me that she did not keep it under lock and key, because it was written in a cypher, the secret of which was known only to herself.

“You do not believe, then, in steganography.”

“No, sir, and if you would like it, I will give you this which has been copied from the original.”

“I accept it, madam, with all the more gratitude in that I know its worth.”

From the library we went into the laboratory, at which I was truly astonished.  She shewed me matter that had been in the furnace for fifteen years, and was to be there for four or five years more.  It was a powder of projection which was to transform instantaneously all metals into the finest gold.  She shewed me a pipe by which the coal descended to the furnace, keeping it always at the same heat.  The lumps of coal were impelled by their own weight at proper intervals and in equal quantities, so that she was often three months without looking at the furnace, the temperature remaining the same the whole time.  The cinders were removed by another pipe, most ingeniously contrived, which also answered the purpose of a ventilator.

The calcination of mercury was mere child’s play to this wonderful woman.  She shewed me the calcined matter, and said that whenever I liked she would instruct me as to the process.  I next saw the Tree of Diana of the famous Taliamed, whose pupil she was.  His real name was Maillot, and according to Madame d’Urfe he had not, as was supposed, died at Marseilles, but was still alive; “and,” added she, with a slight smile, “I often get letters from him.  If the Regent of France,” said she, “had listened to me he would be alive now.  He was my first friend; he gave me the name of Egeria, and he married me to M. d’Urfe”