“I did not know,” said my mother. “But what you say, sir, does not surprise me; I have remarked that people of condition have always more names than the lower people. I am a native of Auneau, near the town of Chartres, and I was but a child when the lord of our village left this world for another. I remember very well when the herald proclaimed the demise of the late lord, he gave him nearly as many names as you find in the All Saints litany. I willingly believe that God has more names than the Lord of Auneau had, as His condition is a much higher one. Learned people are very happy to know them all, and if you will advance my son Jacques in this knowledge I shall, my dear sir, be very much obliged to you.” “Well, the matter is understood,” said the philosopher, “and you, reverend sir, I trust it will please you to translate from the Greek, for salary, let it be understood.” My good tutor, who was collecting all this while the few thoughts in his brain which were not already desperately mixed up with the fumes of wine, refilled his goblet, rose and said: “Sir Philosopher, I heartily accept your generous offer. You are one of the splendid mortals; it is an honour, sir, for me to be yours. If there are two kinds of furniture I hold in high esteem, they are the bed and the table. The table, filled up by turns with erudite books and succulent dishes, serves as support to the nourishment both of body and spirit; the bed propitious for sweet repose as well as for cruel love. He certainly was a divine fellow who gave to the sons of Deucalion bed and table. If I find with you, sir, those two precious pieces of furniture, I’ll follow your name, as that of my benefactor, with immortal praise, and I’ll celebrate you in Greek and Latin verses of all sorts of metres.” So he said, and drank deeply. “That’s well,” replied the philosopher. “I’ll expect both of you to-morrow morning at my house. You will follow the road to St Germain till you come to the Cross of the Sablons, from that cross you’ll count one hundred paces, going westward, and you’ll find a small green door in a garden wall. You’ll use the knocker which represents a veiled figure having a finger in her mouth. An old follower will open the door to you; you’ll ask to see M. d’Asterac.” “My son,” said my good tutor, pulling my coat sleeve, “put all that in your memory, put cross, knocker, and the rest, so that we’ll be able to find, to-morrow, the enchanted door. And you, Sir Mæcenas----” But the philosopher was gone. No one had seen him leaving. CHAPTER VI Arrival at the Castle of M. d’Asterac and Interview with the Cabalist.