“You may well say that,” replied Brujon, pompously, “not only is he of one of the oldest families, but he has here—” and he tapped his empty forehead—“what all the others have not got. I, who know him so well, and whom he trusts, can speak of that.”
“Ma foi!” said Lavenne, in an awed voice, “is it a fact, then, that he is an alchemist?”
Brujon pursed out his lips as he closed the door of the dining-room, having shown the place to his companion. “It is not for me to say anything of his secrets, but I can tell you this, he is clever enough to put Monsieur Mesmer in his pocket.”
“Mon Dieu! but he must be even a greater man than I thought, and to think that you have seen him at work, perhaps. Why, it would frighten me to death—and where does he do these wonderful things?”
“Come here,” said Brujon.
He led the way down the corridor, leading from the dining-room, paused at a door, took a bunch of keys from his pocket, and, choosing a key, opened the door.
The lamp which he was carrying disclosed a room lined with shelves containing bottles, glass cupboards containing bottles and flasks stood in the corners, and in the centre, on a heavy bench-like table, were more bottles, some retorts, and a lamp. Heavy red curtains hung before the window.
It was a chemist’s laboratory.
“This is the room where my master works,” said Brujon, “he and I only have access to it. I am exceeding my duties, even, in showing it to you; though, indeed, he has never given me orders on that matter. Now you may see the truth of what I say—but never say that you have seen it.”
“Oh, mon Dieu, no! The place frightens me. You see, I am not clever like you, Monsieur Brujon; indeed, all my schooling taught me was just to repeat the Credo, and to read a few words of print.”