The truth was
plain enough: the alchemist was mad--what alchemist was there ever
who was not?--and his insanity had taken this terrible shape. I
felt an inexpressible pity move my heart for this poor girl, whose
youth was burdened with such an awful sorrow.
"What is your name?" I asked the old man, taking his tremulous,
fevered hand in mine.
"William Blakelock," he answered. "I come of an old Saxon stock,
sir, that bred true men and women in former days. God! how did it
ever come to pass that such a one as that girl ever sprung from our
line?" The glance of loathing and contempt that he cast at her
made me shudder.
"May you not be mistaken in your daughter?" I said, very mildly.
"Delusions with regard to alchemy are, or have been, very common--"
"What, sir?" cried the old man, bounding in his bed. "What? Do
you doubt that gold can be made? Do you know, sir, that M. C.
Theodore Tiffereau made gold at Paris in the year 1854 in the
presence of M. Levol, the assayer of the Imperial Mint, and the
result of the experiments was read before the Academy of Sciences
on the sixteenth of October of the same year? But stay; you shall
have better proof yet.
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