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It is certain that the archdeacon often visited the cemetery of the Saints-Innocents, where, it is true, his father and mother had been buried, with other victims of the plague of 1466; but that he appeared far less devout before the cross of their grave than before the strange figures with which the tomb of Nicolas Flamel and Claude Pernelle, erected just beside it, was loaded.
In 1407, Nicolas Flamel caused to be built on the vaults of Saint-Jacques de la Boucherie, a chamber which cost him four livres six sous, sixteen farthings, parisis.
He handed it back. "You can tell me about it his hand's so illegible." He wandered to the other end of the room and then turned and stood before her. "I've been thinking of writing to Flamel," he said. She looked up. "There's one point," he continued, slowly, "that I ought to clear up. I told him you'd known about the letters all along; for a long time, at least; and I saw it hurt him horribly.
His wife and Flamel had turned to other topics, and coming out on the veranda, he handed the cigars to Flamel, saying, cheerfully and yet he could have sworn they were the last words he meant to utter! "Look here, old man, before you go down to Newport you must come out and spend a few days with us mustn't he, Alexa?"
The writings of Albertus Magnus, Arnaud de Villeneuve, and Raymond Lully were in the hands of the hermetics. The manuscripts of Nicolas Flamel circulated, and there is no doubt that Gilles had acquired them, for he was an avid collector of the rare.
He was tall, serious and rather stout, and wore a black frock coat, and pointed to a chair with his hand. Francois Tessier sat down, and then said, with choking breath: "Monsieur monsieur I do not know whether you know my name whether you know " Monsieur Flamel interrupted him. "You need not tell it me, monsieur, I know it. My wife has spoken to me about you."
"Oh, just the letters a woman would write to a man she knew well. They were tremendous friends, he and she." "And she wrote a clever letter?" "Clever? It was Margaret Aubyn." A great silence filled the room. It seemed to Glennard that the words had burst from him as blood gushes from a wound. "Great Scott!" said Flamel, sitting up. "A collection of Margaret Aubyn's letters?
To use Flamel as a shield against his wife's scrutiny was only a shade less humiliating than to reckon on his wife as a defence against Flamel. He felt a contradictory movement of annoyance at the latter's ready acceptance, and the two men drove in silence to the station.
"That's a bit of Stendhal one of the Italian stories and here are some letters of Balzac to Madame Commanville." Glennard took the book with sudden eagerness. "Who was Madame Commanville?" "His sister." He was conscious that Flamel was looking at him with the smile that was like an interrogation point. "I didn't know you cared for this kind of thing." "I don't at least I've never had the chance.
"May Touchett was right it IS like listening at a key-hole. I wish I hadn't read it!" Flamel returned, in the leisurely tone of the man whose phrases are punctuated by a cigarette, "It seems so to us, perhaps; but to another generation the book will be a classic." "Then it ought not to have been published till it had become a classic.
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