~ANArKH~.
It chanced that upon a fine morning in this same month of March， I think it was on Saturday the 29th， Saint Eustache's day， our young friend the student， Jehan Frollo du Moulin， perceived， as he was dressing himself， that his breeches， which contained his purse， gave out no metallic ring. "Poor purse，"he said， drawing it from his fob， "what！ not the smallest parisis！ how cruelly the dice， beer-pots， and Venus have depleted thee！ How empty， wrinkled， limp， thou art！ Thou resemblest the throat of a fury！ I ask you， Messer Cicero， and Messer Seneca， copies of whom， all dog's-eared， I behold scattered on the floor， what profits it me to know， better than any governor of the mint， or any Jew on the Pont aux Changeurs， that a golden crown stamped with a crown is worth thirty-five unzains of twenty-five sous， and eight deniers parisis apiece， and that a crown stamped with a crescent is worth thirty-six unzains of twenty-six sous， six deniers tournois apiece， if I have not a single wretched black liard to risk on the double-six！ Oh！ Consul Cicero！ this is no calamity from which one extricates one's self with periphrases， ~quemadmodum~， and ~verum enim vero~！"He dressed himself sadly. An idea had occurred to him as he laced his boots， but he rejected it at first； nevertheless， it returned， and he put on his waistcoat wrong side out， an evident sign of violent internal combat. At last he dashed his cap roughly on the floor， and exclaimed： "So much the worse！
Let come of it what may. I am going to my brother！ Ishall catch a sermon， but I shall catch a crown."Then be hastily donned his long jacket with furred half-sleeves， picked up his cap， and went out like a man driven to desperation.
He descended the Rue de la Harpe toward the City. As he passed the Rue de la Huchette， the odor of those admirable spits， which were incessantly turning， tickled his olfactory apparatus， and he bestowed a loving glance toward the Cyclopean roast， which one day drew from the Franciscan friar， Calatagirone， this pathetic exclamation： ~Veramente， queste rotisserie sono cosa stupenda~！* But Jehan had not the wherewithal to buy a breakfast， and he plunged， with a profound sigh， under the gateway of the Petit-Chatelet， that enormous double trefoil of massive towers which guarded the entrance to the City.
* Truly， these roastings are a stupendous thing！
He did not even take the trouble to cast a stone in passing， as was the usage， at the miserable statue of that Périnet Leclerc who had delivered up the Paris of Charles VI. to the English， a crime which his effigy， its face battered with stones and soiled with mud， expiated for three centuries at the corner of the Rue de la Harpe and the Rue de Buci， as in an eternal pillory.
The Petit-Pont traversed， the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Geneviève crossed， Jehan de Molendino found himself in front of Notre-Dame. Then indecision seized upon him once more， and he paced for several minutes round the statue of M. Legris， repeating to himself with anguish： "The sermon is sure， the crown is doubtful."He stopped a beadle who emerged from the cloister，--"Where is monsieur the archdeacon of Josas？""I believe that he is in his secret cell in the tower，" said the beadle； "I should advise you not to disturb him there， unless you come from some one like the pope or monsieur the king."Jehan clapped his hands.
"~Bécliable~！ here's a magnificent chance to see the famous sorcery cell！"This reflection having brought him to a decision， he plunged resolutely into the small black doorway， and began the ascent of the spiral of Saint-Gilles， which leads to the upper stories of the tower. "I am going to see，" he said to himself on the way. "By the ravens of the Holy Virgin！ it must needs be a curious thing， that cell which my reverend brother hides so secretly！ 'Tis said that he lights up the kitchens of hell there， and that he cooks the philosopher's stone there over a hot fire. ~Bédieu~！ I care no more for the philosopher's stone than for a pebble， and I would rather find over his furnace an omelette of Easter eggs and bacon， than the biggest philosopher's stone in the world."'
On arriving at the gallery of slender columns， he took breath for a moment， and swore against the interminable staircase by I know not how many million cartloads of devils；then he resumed his ascent through the narrow door of the north tower， now closed to the public. Several moments after passing the bell chamber， he came upon a little landing-place， built in a lateral niche， and under the vault of a low， pointed door， whose enormous lock and strong iron bars he was enabled to see through a loophole pierced in the opposite circular wall of the staircase. Persons desirous of visiting this door at the present day will recognize it by this inscription engraved in white letters on the black wall： "J'ADORECORALIE， 1823. SIGNE UGENE." "Signé" stands in the text.
"Ugh！" said the scholar； "'tis here， no doubt."The key was in the lock， the door was very close to him；he gave it a gentle push and thrust his head through the opening.
The reader cannot have failed to turn over the admirable works of Rembrandt， that Shakespeare of painting. Amid so many marvellous engravings， there is one etching in particular， which is supposed to represent Doctor Faust， and which it is impossible to contemplate without being dazzled. It represents a gloomy cell； in the centre is a table loaded with hideous objects； skulls， spheres， alembics， compasses， hieroglyphic parchments. The doctor is before this table clad in his large coat and covered to the very eyebrows with his furred cap. He is visible only to his waist. He has half risen from his immense arm-chair， his clenched fists rest on the table， and he is gazing with curiosity and terror at a large luminous circle， formed of magic letters， which gleams from the wall beyond， like the solar spectrum in a dark chamber.
