"Docre's?" he asked, studying the handwriting, minute, pointed, twisted, aggressive. "Yes, and he wants this declaration, not dated, to be made in the form of a letter from you to a person consulting you on the subject." "Your canon distrusts me." "Of course. You write books." "It doesn't please me infinitely to sign that," murmured Durtal. "What if I refuse?" "You will not go to the Black Mass."
"And he probably has. I should not like to be in the astrologer's shoes." "You believe in Docre's potency, then. Tell me, how does he operate, with the blood of mice, with broths, or with oil?" "So you know about that! He does employ these substances. In fact, he is one of the very few persons who know how to manage them without poisoning themselves. It's as dangerous as working with explosives.
That time past, the ill is incurable. So when Docre announced to me that he condemned me to death by his own authority and when, two hours later, on returning home, I felt desperately ill, I lost no time packing my grip and starting for Lyons." "And there?" asked Durtal. "There I saw Dr. Johannès. I told him of Docre's threat and of my illness. He said to me simply.