ary arch, like a light in the
depths of a cave; and beneath his cap which was well drawn down and fell
upon his nose, one recognized the broad expanse of a brow of genius.

He took it upon himself to reply to the archdeacon's question,--

"Reverend master," he said in a grave tone, "your renown has reached my
ears, and I wish to consult you. I am but a poor provincial gentleman,
who removeth his shoes before entering the dwellings of the learned. You
must know my name. I am called Gossip Tourangeau."

"Strange name for a gentleman," said the archdeacon to himself.

Nevertheless, he had a feeling that he was in the presence of a strong
and earnest character. The instinct of his own lofty intellect made him
recognize an intellect no less lofty under Gossip Tourangeau's furred
cap, and as he gazed at the solemn face, the ironical smile which
Jacques Coictier's presence called forth on his gloomy face, gradually
disappeared as twilight fades on the horizon of night. Stern and silent,
he had resumed his seat in his great armchair; his elbow rested as
usual, on the table, and his brow on his hand. After a few moments
of reflection, he motioned his visitors to be seated, and, turning to
Gossip Tourangeau he said,--

"You come to consult me, master, and upon what science?"

"Your reverence," replied Tourangeau, "I am ill, very ill. You are said
to be great AEsculapius, and I am come to ask your advice in medicine."

"Medicine!" said the archdeacon, tossing his head. He seemed to meditate
for a moment, and then resumed: "Gossip Tourangeau, since that is your
name, turn your head, you will find my reply already written on the
wall."

Gossip Tourangeau obeyed, and read this inscription engraved above his
head: "Medicine is the daughter of dreams.--JAMBLIQUE."

Meanwhile, Doctor Jacques Coictier had heard his companion's question
with a displeasure which Dom Claude's response had but redoubled. He
bent down to the ear of Gossip Tourangeau, and said to him, softly
enough not to be heard by the archdeacon: "I warned you that he was mad.
You insisted on seeing him."

"'Tis very possible that he is right, madman as he is, Doctor Jacques,"
replied his comrade in the same low tone, and with a bitter smile.

"As you please," replied Coictier dryly. Then, addressing the
archdeacon: "You are clever at your trade, Dom Claude, and you are no
more at a loss over Hippocrates than a monkey is over a nut. Medicine
a dream! I suspect t