The person who entered wore a black gown and a morose air.What at the first glance struck our friend Jehan（who，as may be supposed，so placed himself in his retreat as to be able to see and hear all at his ease）was the utter dejection manifest both in the garments and the countenance of the new-comer.There was，however，a certain meekness diffused over that face；but it was the meekness of a cat or of a judge—a hypocritical gentleness.He was very gray and wrinkled，about sixty，with blinking eye-lids，white eye-brows，a pendulous lip，and large hands.When Jehan saw that it was nothing more—that is to say，merely some physician or magistrate，and that the man's nose was a long way from his mouth，a sure sign of stupidity—he ensconced himself deeper in his hole，desperate at being forced to pass an indefinite time in such an uncomfortable posture and such dull company.
The Archdeacon had not even risen to greet this person.He motioned him to a stool near the door，and after a few moments'silence，during which he seemed to be pursuing some previous meditation，he remarked in a patronizing tone：
'Good-day to you，Mre Jacques.'
'And to you greeting，Mre，'responded the man in black.
There was between these two greetings—the offhand M re Jacques of the one，and the obsequious M re of the other—the difference between'Sir'and'Your Lordship，'of domne and domine.It was evidently the meeting between master and disciple.
'Well，'said the Archdeacon，after another interval of silence which M re Jacques took care not to break，'will you succeed？'
'Alas，master，'replied the other with a mournful smile，'I use the bellows assiduously—cinders and to spare—but not a spark of gold.'
Dom Claude made a gesture of impatience.'That is not what I allude to，Mre Jacques Charmolue，but to the charge against your sorcerer—Marc Cenaine，you call him，I think—butler to the Court of Accounts.Did he confess his wizardry when you put him to the question？'
'Alas，no，'replied M re Jacques，with his deprecating smile.'We have not that consolation.The man is a perfect stone.We might boil him in the pig-market，and we should get no word out of him.However，we spare no pains to arrive at the truth.Every joint is already dislocated on the rack；we have put all our irons in the fire，as the old comic writer Plautus has it：
'Advorsum stimulos，laminas，crucesque，compedesque，Nervos，catenas，carceres，numellas，pedicas，boias.'
But all to no purpose.That man is terrible.'Tis love's labour lost！'
'You have found nothing fresh in his house？'
'Oh，yes，'said M re Jacques，fumbling in his pouch，'this parchment.There are words on it that we do not understand.And yet，monsieur，the criminal advocate，Philippe Lheulier，knows a little Hebrew，which he learned in an affair with the Jews of the Rue Kantersten，at Brussels.'So saying，M re Jacques unrolled a parchment.
'Give it to me，'said the Archdeacon.'Magic pure and ******，M re Jacques！'he cried，as he cast his eyes over the scroll.''Emen-Hétan！'that is the cry of the ghouls when they arrive at the witches'Sabbath.'Per ipsum，et cum ipso，et in ipso！'that is the conjuration which rebinds the devil in hell.'Hax，pax，max！'that refers to medicine—a spell against the bite of a mad dog.M re Jacques，you are King's attorney in the Ecclesiastical Court；this parchment is an abomination.'
'We will put him again to the question.Then here is something else，'added M re Jacques，fumbling once more in his bag，'which we found at Marc Cenaine's.'
It was a vessel of the same family as those which encumbered the furnace of Dom Claude.'Ah，'said the Archdeacon，'an alchemist's crucible.'
'I don't mind confessing to you，'M re Jacques went on，with his timid and constrained smile，'that I have tried it over the furnace，but succeeded no better than with my own.'
The Archdeacon examined the vessel.'What has he inscribed on his crucible？'Och！och！'—the word for driving away fleas？Your Marc Cenaine is an ignoramus！I can well believe that you could not make gold with this！It will be useful to put in your sleeping alcove in the summer，but for nothing more.'
'Since we are on the subject of errors，'said the King's attorney，'before coming up I was studying the doorway down below；is your Reverence quite sure that the beginnings of Nature's workings are represented there on the side towards the Htel-Dieu，and that among the seven naked figures at the feet of Our Lady，that with wings to his heels is Mercurius？'
'Yes，'answered the priest；'so Augustin Nypho writes—that Italian doctor who had a bearded familiar which taught him everything.But we will go down，and I will explain it to you from the text.'
'Thank you，master，'said Charmolue，bending to the ground.'By-the-bye，I had forgotten！When do you wish me to arrest the little witch？'
'What witch？'
'That gipsy girl，you know，who comes and dances every day in the Parvis，in defiance of the prohibition.She has a familiar spirit in the shape of a goat with devil's horns—it can read and write and do arithmetic—enough to hang all Bohemia.The charge is quite ready and would soon be drawn up.A pretty creature，on my soul，that dancing girl！—the finest black eyes in the world—two Egyptian carbuncles.When shall we begin？'
The Archdeacon had grown deadly pale.
'I will let you know，'he stammered in almost inaudible tones，then added with an effort：'Attend you to Marc Cenaine.'
'Never fear，'answered Charmolue smiling.'As soon as I get back he shall be strapped down again to the leather bed.But it is a very devil of a man.He tires out Pierrat Torterue himself，who has larger hands than I.As says our good Plautus—
‘Nudus vinctus，centum pondo，es quando pendes per pedes.'1
The screw—that is our most effectual instrument—we shall try that.'
Dom Claude seemed sunk in gloomy abstraction.He now turned to Charmolue.'M re Pierrat—M re Jacques，I should say—look to Marc Cenaine.'