noses like trumpets, crucibles, cupels, matrasses, cucurbits and
vases of all forms.

My dear old tutor wiping his face shining like live coals said:

"Oh, sir, we were afraid that the castle was alight like straw.
Thank God, the library is not burning. But are you practising the
spagyric art, sir?"

"I do not want to conceal from you," said M. d'Asterac, "that I have
made great progress in it, but withal I have not found the theorem
capable of rendering my work perfect. At the moment you knocked at
the door I was picking up the Spirit of the World, and the Flower of
Heaven, which are the veritable Fountains of Youth. Have you some
understanding of alchemy, Monsieur Coignard?"

The abbe replied that he had got some notions of it from certain
books, but that he considered the practice of it to be pernicious
and contrary to religion. M. d'Asterac smiled and said:

"You are too knowing a man, M. Coignard, not to be acquainted with
the Flying Eagle, the Bird of Hermes, the Fowl of Hermogenes, the
Head of a Raven, the Green Lion and the Phoenix."

"I have been told," said my good master, "that by these names are
distinguished the philosopher's stone in its different states. But I
have doubts about the possibility of a transmutation of metals."

With the greatest confidence M. d'Asterac replied: