“What made you believe that I might be interested or that I might possess such funds?”

“Ah, señor, I have an eye that sees, an ear that hears, and a nose that smells.”

“Take me to Don Ricardo.”

Don Ricardo’s castle, situated upon a hill, was smothered by pine trees. He had suffered from lung trouble in his youth, Abraham explained, and the physicians had advised him to breathe the pure air of the pine.

“You could never tell now that he had ever been ill. He is stronger than one of his trees.”

Don Ricardo received us in his study. He was tall, straight as a tree indeed, and wore a short pointed beard, black as ink.

Abraham kissed his hand and remained bent during his entire stay.

“Don Ricardo, this is the señor, the foreign nobleman who is desirous to see Her Majesty’s jewels.”

I introduced myself.

Don Ricardo asked me how I liked Spain and Granada in particular; what I thought of one thing or another. We spoke at random for some time. Don Ricardo made a sign to Abraham who walked out, his back to the door.

Don Ricardo showed me a map and a plan of the trip. I was delighted to see to what extent my mathematical calculations coincided with the new conception of the earth’s geography.

Don Ricardo continued. “The Queen is convinced, and the Admiral certain of the outcome of the enterprise. Besides, he who buys the jewels has nothing to risk. They are worth much more than the sum demanded.”

He unlocked an iron box and took out two cases of jewels—diamonds, pearls, emeralds, sapphires, rubies. Among them, I recognized a necklace and a pair of earrings that I had sold some centuries previously to the mistress of a Cardinal.

Don Ricardo mentioned a price. I raised my hands and laughed a little. “Don Ricardo,” I said, “thinks me Midas himself.”

He praised the jewels, bade me examine them closely, related the history of some, including the necklace which he attributed to a Moorish Empress.

“Señor,” he said, “I am not capable of bargaining. Abraham, the Jew, will conduct the negotiations.”

“Very well, señor. I need at least a week or two to dispose of certain properties before I can even propose a sum.”

We exchanged greetings.

For three weeks, Abraham pitted his wits against mine. He sweated, breathed heavily, swore in Hebrew and in Spanish, cringed and threatened. I was determined to vanquish him.

“Señor, you are cleverer than a hundred Jews combined!” he exclaimed.

I smiled. “The cleverness of the Jew is largely an illusion and a Christian superstition. By the way, Abraham, is it true that the Queen intends to drive all Jews out of her dominions?”

“Her Majesty knows best what is just.”

“Where could the Jews go if they are driven out?”

He sighed. His small eyes glistened with tears. “The Lord of Israel will discover new lands for His People. Perhaps India—if Colón is right.”

‘This is still another reason why I must buy these jewels,’ I thought.

“The country which drives out her Jews does not fare well, señor. Egypt perished, and other nations too. We may be hated and made slaves. We have sinned in the sight of God, but to be driven out– —” He sighed. “Her Majesty knows best.”

‘And I shall know still better,’ I thought. ‘I shall see whether in truth a country can prosper without its Jews.’

The negotiations were finally terminated and Cristóbal Colón was provided with funds.

“Meanwhile, Kotikokura, we must continue our travels. We shall hear of the Admiral’s success or his failure when the time is ripe.”

LVI: GILLES DE RETZ IN PARIS—TREVISAN DOES A MIRACLE—I DISCUSS THE ELIXIR OF LIFE WITH GILLES DE RETZ—“YOU ARE MY BROTHER”—BLUEBEARD’S WIFE—MY PUPIL ANNE

CHARLES VI was no longer seated precariously upon the edge of his throne, the English no longer menaced France with an invasion, and the ashes of the Maid of Arc were cold and sparkless. The Parisians could devote themselves to the brewing of the elixir which would give them eternal youth and the Philosopher’s Stone. Everybody toyed with magic. Thirty thousand sorcerers were reputed to be in Paris.

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 barrel: “Retire, Winter! Release thy grip! Retire! Let it be Summer!”