brook the idea. Then returning to the Syndic's side, he took up his
story in a different tone. "The _remedium_," he said, "my good friend,
is in the Grand Duke's Treasury at Turin. It is in a steel box, it is
true, but in one with three locks and three keys, sealed with the Grand
Duke's private signet and with mine; and laid where the Treasurer
himself cannot meddle with it."

The Syndic sat up straight, and with his eyes fixed sullenly on the
floor fingered his beard. He was almost persuaded, but not quite. Could
it be, could it really be that the thing still existed? That it was
still to be obtained, that life by its means was still possible?

"Well?" Basterga said, when the silence had lasted some time.

"The proof!" Blondel retorted, excitement once more over-mastering him.
"Let me have the proof! Let me see, man, if the woman be mad."

But the scholar, leaning Atlas-like, against the wall beside the long
low window, with his arms crossed, and his great head sunk on his
breast, did not move. He saw that this was his hour and he must use it.
"To what purpose?" he answered slowly: and he shrugged his shoulders.
"Why go to the trouble? The _remedium_ is in Turin. And if it be not, it
is the Grand Duke's affair only, and mine, since you will not come to
his terms. I would, I confess," he continued, in a more kindly tone,
"that it were your affair also, Messer Blondel. I would I could have
made you see things as they are and as I see them. As, believe me,
Messer Petitot would see them were he in your place; as Messer Fabri and
Messer Baudichon--I warrant it--do see them; as--pardon me--all who rank
themselves among the wise and the illuminate, see them. For all such,
believe me, these are times of enlightening, when the words which past
generations have woven into shackles for men's minds fall from them, and
are seen to be but the straw they are; when men move, like children
awaking from foolish dreams, and life----"

The Syndic's eyes glowed dully.

"Life," Basterga continued sonorously, "is seen to be that which it is,
the one thing needful which makes all other things of use, and without
which all other things are superfluities! Bethink you a minute, Messer
Blondel! Would Petitot give his life to save yours?"

The Syndic smiled after a sickly fashion. Petitot? The stickling pedant!
The thin, niggling whipster!

"Or Messer Fabri?"

Blondel shook his head.

"Or Messer Baudichon?"

"I called him but now--a f