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Updated: June 27, 2025
Arrived at the archways, we chose a place in the recess of a porch distinguished by an image of St. Nicholas, and established ourselves all three on a stone step, on which M. l'Abbé Coignard took the precaution of spreading his cloak before he let his young charge sit down.
The proprietor of this engraving inspired me with a consideration which grew afterwards when I took, thanks to M. Coignard, a great liking for books. At the age of sixteen I knew Latin pretty well, and also a little Greek. My good teacher said to my father: "Do you not think, my dear host, that it is rather an indecency to let a young Ciceronian go about dressed as a scullion?"
Not as M. Jerome Coignard used to say, to give ourselves in the manner of gentlemen and valets a paltry spectacle, but to listen to the sublime, if contradictory, dialogues of the ancient authors. In this way the reading and translating of the Panopolitan advanced quickly. I hardly contributed to it.
I admire them, I enjoy the least of their words. But not one, to my thinking, is equal in genius to my dear master, whom I had the misfortune to lose on the road to Lyons; not one reminds me of that incomparable elegance of thought, that sweet sublimity, that astonishing wealth of a soul always expanding and flowering, like the urns of rivers represented in marble in gardens; not one gives me that never-failing spring of science and of morals, wherein I had the happiness to quench the thirst of my youth, none give me more than a shadow of that grace, that wisdom, that strength of thought which shone in M. Jerome Coignard.
M. le Prefet de Police is on slippery ground; he has enemies. They would take advantage of any mistake. There would be a fine outcry and fuss made by the Opposition, and he would be sent packing. We must set about this just as we did about the Coignard affair, the sham Comte de Sainte-Helene; if he had been the real Comte de Sainte-Helene, we should have been in the wrong box.
Is not a robbery of this nature the chef-d'oeuvre of its kind, and can it do otherwise than, make its perpetrator a hero in the eyes of his admirers? Who should dare to compare with him? Beaumont had robbed the police! Hang yourself, brave Crillon! hang yourself, Coignard! hang yourself, Pertruisard! hang yourself, Callet! to him, you are but of Saint-Jean.
On your threshold I smelt delicious odours. I came in, and now, my dear host, you have the history of my life." "I have become aware that it is the life of a good man," said my father, "and with the exception of Colas' cow there is hardly anything to complain of. Give me your hand! We are friends, what's your name?" "Jerome Coignard, doctor of divinity, master of arts."
"Tournebroche," he said, "I've made two verses only, and I am not quite sure that they are good. They run as follows: 'Ci-dessus git monsieur Coignard II faut bien mourir tot ou tard." I replied that the best of it was, that he had noi written a third one. And I passed the night composing the following epitaph in Latin: D. O. M. HIC JACET
The Abbe Jerome Coignard, having come to the end of his discourse, emptied a big glass of wine, while Catherine sang: "Par l'epee ou par le fourreau Devenir due est toujours beau Il n'importe le maniere Laire lan laire." "Abbe," said M. d'Anquetil, "you do not drink, and in spite of such abstinence you lose your reason.
And they astonished these beautiful but ignorant creatures by speaking to them of the stars with a knowledge acquired by seafaring. That's clear, I think, and I should like to know in what M. Mosaide could contradict me." Mosaide kept mute and M. d'Asterac, smiling again, said: "M. Coignard, you do not reason so badly, ignorant as you still are of gnosticism and the Cabala.
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