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"Monsieur le Cure," I said, "the Abbe Coignard, my good master, does not wander in his mind, and it is but too true that he has been murdered by a Jew of the name of Mosaide." "In that case," replied the vicar, "he has to see a special favour of God, who willed that he perishes by the hand of a nephew of those who crucified His Son. The behaviour of Providence is always admirable.
I'll return this very night to Paris with that great Mosaide whom you have accused so unjustly." I promised him all he wanted, and crawled into my miserable bed, where I fell asleep, weighed down as I was by fatigue and suffering. Illness of M. Jerome Coignard
At these words Mosaide, like a goat god, smiled in a hideous manner, and said to my dear tutor, in a slow and musty voice sounding as from far away: "The Masorah has not confided to thee her secrets and the Mischna has not revealed to thee her mysteries."
"What's the matter, my son?" asked the alchemist. "Help me, sir," I replied, "the Abbe Coignard is dying. Mosaide has killed him." "It is true," said M. d'Asterac, "that Mosaide has come here in an old chariot in pursuit of his niece, and that I have accompanied him to exhort you, my son, to return to your employment with me.
Looking from whence the voice came, we could see Mosaide on the threshold of his house, standing erect, his arms raised, his hands in the form of fangs, with nails crooked, appearing inflamed by the fiery light of the sun. His head was covered with his dirty tiara, and he was enveloped in his gorgeous gown, showing when flying open his meagre bow-legs in ragged breeches.
Since yesterday we came near your coach, which we saw break down just now in a rut. At that very moment Mosaide alighted from the carriage, and it may be that he wanted to take a walk, or perhaps he made himself invisible, as he can do. I have not seen him again. It is possible that he has already found his niece to curse her; such is the intention. But he has not killed M. Coignard.
"What!" broke out my good master. "Mosaide has killed a Christian? He is dangerous, my dear Tournebroche. You'll have to come to the same conclusion that I have arrived at myself about this adventure. It is quite certain that his niece is the mistress of M. d'Asterac, whose room she doubtless had just left when I met her on the stairs.
Released, alas! from that delicious embrace, we looked at one another with surprise. Occupied to get up again decently she put her dress in order and remained silent. "I love you," I said. "What is your name?" I did not think her to be a Salamander, and to say the truth never did think so. "My name is Jahel," she said. "What! you're the niece of Mosaide?" "Yes; but keep quiet. If he should know "
That old spagyric raven is not the man fit for such a beauty, and I am rather inclined to take an interest in her myself. "Mosaide will have to hide her very secretly and carefully; should she show herself once only at the promenade or the theatre, she would have all the world at her feet on the following morning. Don't you wish to see her, Tournebroche?" I replied that I wished it very much.
And kneeling close to my good tutor, she raised his head and made him inhale the smell of her salts. "Mademoiselle," I said to her, "you're the cause of his death, which is the vengeance for your abduction. Mosaide has killed him." From my dying master she lifted up her face pale with horror and shining with tears.
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