Every morning someone whispered into someone’s ear that by nightfall, his formula would be perfected, that the last and thinnest veil that separated mankind from the Great Truth would be pierced.
Meanwhile, the Seine flowed on.—At night, the stars slumbered upon it; at noon, the sun sprawled upon it; and from time to time, barges and boats cut across its breast, like long blunt knives.
Riding on a black charger, Monsieur Gilles de Laval, Lord of Retz and Maréchal de France, arrived in Paris. Two hundred horsemen followed him. A bishop, a dean, vicars, arch-deacons, and chaplains preceded. They were dressed luxuriously in robes of scarlet and furs, according to rank, and carried crucifixes of gold and silver, encrusted with jewels. Twenty-five choristers sang litanies and triumphant marches.
The snow fell steadily, and Gilles de Retz, either unwilling to wet his face, or deep in meditation, kept his head upon his chest. Only his beard was visible,—a magnificent growth of hair, metallic in its blueness and combed like an Assyrian monarch’s.
Bernard Trevisan, of Padua, magician and alchemist, had invited the Lord to his castle, on the outskirts of the capital, situated so close to the shore of the Seine, that its shadow head downward forever bathed in its waters.
Gilles de Retz came to Paris to sell the seignory of Ingrande, in spite of the protest of his presumptive heirs, to obtain funds for his experiments and his household. But perhaps more important to the Maréchal was the promise of Trevisan to perform the famous miracle of Albertus Magnus—the change of seasons; also his desire to meet me. I had introduced myself to Trevisan, to Nicholas Flamel, whose real age no one knew, and to Francis Prelati, a countryman of Trevisan, deeply versed in black magic, as an adept from India.
The guests were invited into the garden where the table was set for the banquet. The snow had stopped falling, but the ground and the trees were thickly covered with it. The Count of Raymond was indignant and threatened to leave.
Trevisan smiled. “Everything will be well, Count. May I ask you for a little patience?” The guests, shivering, seated themselves,—the Maréchal at the head of the table, Trevisan at his right, and I at his left.
Gilles de Retz was sad. His face, pale and devastated by thought and debauchery, retained traces of an almost unearthly beauty, and his eyes still possessed a child-like wonderment. At moments, they darted a curious, almost maniacal light. His proximity pleased me. Was it his animal magnetism or was it some forlorn memory of the past? He had not uttered a word. His voice might have solved the riddle for me. The voice revealed to me at times, like lightning, the whole personality.
Bernard Trevisan rose, closed his eyes in meditation, and stretched slowly his right arm. Suddenly a scepter, studded at intervals with rubies and emeralds, rose from the depths of the earth, balancing itself gently, until his hand grasped it.
He opened his eyes, and smiled enigmatically. The guests applauded, whispering words of admiration to one another.
Trevisan raised the staff above his head and waved it three times to each of the cardinal points of the compass. Then he stamped the ground with it nine times in measured beats, uttering words of the Kabala mingled with sounds whose origin I could not guess for the moment.
The guests riveted their attention upon his movements, breathless.
‘A little hypnotism,’ I thought, ‘is always a serviceable thing.’
Bernard Trevisan exclaimed in a commanding voice, that seemed to come from the depths of a barreclass="underline" “Retire, Winter! Release thy grip! Retire! Let it be Summer!”
The snow disappeared. The trees grew heavy with green leaves. Birds perched upon the bushes. A breeze charged with perfume floated about our faces.
The guests rose, applauded vehemently, and shouted: “Long live Bernard Trevisan! Long live Bernard Trevisan!”
Gilles de Retz embraced the magician. “Bernard Trevisan, you are indeed the Supreme Master of the greatest Art!”
The voice of the Maréchal was mellow and gentle, tinged a little with sorrow.
Nicholas Flamel congratulated the host. “But, master, I notice that not one bird either chirps or sings. In the summer, the birds are pleasantly noisy.”
Bernard was nonplussed. He pulled at his short beard, and waved nervously his staff. The guests became impatient. A few coughed significantly.
I moved away from the rest, clapped my hands several times and commanded—“Birds, sing! Birds, sing!”
The birds began to chirp and sing. The guests stared at me in astonishment. Gilles de Retz grasped my hands and looked intently into my eyes, as if seeking something within them that he had lost or forgotten.
Bernard bowed before me. “Prince, you are the master of us all.” Turning to the rest, be extolled the esoteric wisdom of India, compared to which all Occidental knowledge was child’s play. He drank to my health. The banquet became a celebration in my honor.
The next day, at the side of Gilles de Retz I rode triumphantly through the city of Paris.
To prevent Kotikokura from inadvertently betraying his ignorance of India, I introduced him as a Buddhist high priest under an oath of silence for a twelvemonth. He walked amid the priests as an honored guest.
“Prince,” Gilles addressed me, “your ability to make the birds sing proves the superiority of your magic.”
“My lord exaggerates. Bernard Trevisan is world-famous. One of his former disciples at Marseilles recounted to me marvels performed by the master that I cannot hope to equal.”
“Fame increases in proportion to distance, Prince. Bernard’s most striking accomplishment is the change of seasons, which we witnessed last night, and you added the final, the supreme magic ingredient from the treasure trove of the East.”
“And Nicholas Flamel, Monsieur le Maréchal? I hear he has discovered the Philosopher’s Stone…”
Gilles de Retz laughed. “He is an old scoundrel, and his Philosopher’s Stone is a charming fiction.”
“Fiction?”
“He acquired immense wealth by exorbitant usury, and to account for it, that the courts might not prosecute him, he spread the rumor that he possessed the Philosopher’s Stone.”
“That was ingenious. And what they say about his great age—is it also fiction, monsieur?”
“That I do not know.” Gilles looked at me, his eyes darting the strange light.
“And what of Francis Prelati?”
The Maréchal’s eyes darkened and blazed, but he made no answer.
We rode in silence.
“Prince, have your wise men discovered the Philosopher’s Stone?”
“Our wise men are not interested in wealth. Poverty, they say, is the crown of truth.”
“I don’t agree with them. Poverty is colorless and breeds monotony. I love luxury and joy and constant change. I must hear the clatter of horses’ hoofs preceding me. I must see the glitter of jewels and gold. I must hear delectable music. My fingers must be thrilled with the smoothness of silk and velvet. I seek not only truth but pleasure—unendurable pleasure indefinitely prolonged…”
“Monsieur le Maréchal,” I said, “beauty and truth are one…”
His face lit up with joy.
“There must be,” he said a little later, “somewhere a magic formula that renews our youth. The Philosopher’s Stone, which at a touch turns base metals to gold, is but a means, not an end. I need vast fortunes to procure—Eternal Youth…”
His face clouded again and the two long premature wrinkles deepened.
“Is it possible to discover the formula, Prince?”
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps,” he repeated sadly, “it is always perhaps. And meanwhile, life slips by and youth withers. I am already thirty-four years old, Prince.”