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Updated: June 18, 2025
You are said to be great AEsculapius, and I am come to ask your advice in medicine." "Medicine!" said the archdeacon, tossing his head. He seemed to meditate for a moment, and then resumed: "Gossip Tourangeau, since that is your name, turn your head, you will find my reply already written on the wall."
Stern and silent, he had resumed his seat in his great armchair; his elbow rested as usual, on the table, and his brow on his hand. After a few moments of reflection, he motioned his visitors to be seated, and, turning to Gossip Tourangeau he said, "You come to consult me, master, and upon what science?" "Your reverence," replied Tourangeau, "I am ill, very ill.
As soon as the caleche stopped, a head covered with a foraging cap was put out of the window, and soon afterwards an impatient military man flung open the carriage door and sprang down into the road to pick a quarrel with the postilion, but the skill with which the Tourangeau was repairing the trace restored Colonel d'Aiglemont's equanimity.
Balzac says in one of his tales that the real Tourangeau will not make an effort, or displace himself even, to go in search of a pleasure; and it is not difficult to understand the sources of this amiable cynicism. He must have a vague conviction that he can only lose by almost any change.
I do not believe in Astrology." "Indeed!" said the man, with surprise. Coictier gave a forced laugh. "You see that he is mad," he said, in a low tone, to Gossip Tourangeau. "He does not believe in astrology." "The idea of imagining," pursued Dom Claude, "that every ray of a star is a thread which is fastened to the head of a man!" "And what then, do you believe in?" exclaimed Gossip Tourangeau.
Three persons, of whom the author of these lines was one, spent the greater part of a perfect Sunday morning in looking at it. It was astonishing, in the course of the rainiest season in the memory of the oldest Tourangeau, how many perfect days we found to our hand.
"And in short," interrupted Tourangeau, "what do you hold to be true and certain?" "Alchemy." Coictier exclaimed, "Pardieu, Dom Claude, alchemy has its use, no doubt, but why blaspheme medicine and astrology?" "Naught is your science of man, naught is your science of the stars," said the archdeacon, commandingly. "That's driving Epidaurus and Chaldea very fast," replied the physician with a grin.
Three persons, of whom the author of these lines was one, spent the greater part of a perfect Sunday morning in looking at it. It was astonishing, in the course of the rainiest season in the memory of the oldest Tourangeau, how many perfect days we found to our hand.
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