“Yes. That’s the Monas Hieroglyphica. Designed by John Dee in the sixteenth century as part of his mystical symbolic language. It’s the emblem of the philosopher’s stone.”
“Alchemy?” I asked.
“Yes. It’s a wonderful design that actually encompasses seven others.” He pointed them out. “This V is the sign of Aries, for fire. The cross represents the four elements. The circle with the dot in the middle is the symbol of the sun. And the sliver on top is the lunar crescent.”
“What is that one?” I pointed to another symbol that incorporated one form I was familiar with—a six-sided Jewish star.
“The Sigil of Ameth. It has the name of God and the angels inscribed on it. Also used by Dr. Dee.”
I asked about the rest, curious about them all. Julien knew what most of them were and what they stood for.
“You know so much about all of this. Are you a student of these ancient arts, too?”
“No, but in order to direct the painters and sculptors I hired, I needed to understand what everything we were representing meant.”
I heard the door shut. The proprietor had just escorted his customer out. He bustled over to us with a quick step.
“Julien! How good to see you.” The owner embraced him.
Julien introduced us. “Pierre Dujols, this is Mademoiselle Verlaine.”
The gray-haired publisher took my hand and bent over it.
“Beware, Mademoiselle, Dujols is something of a showman. Don’t be taken in by everything he says.”
“Monsieur Dujols, how nice to meet you.”
“Yes, yes, you as well. Are you by any chance related to the Madame Verlaine who lives on rue des Saints-Pères?”
“Yes, she’s my grandmother.”
“A charming woman,” he said.
I wondered if that was his way of telling me he visited her salon, but of course I didn’t ask.
“And are you also a student of occult disciplines? A believer?” he asked.
Was my grandmother? Wasn’t that what he was implying? But my grandmother had never mentioned the occult to me.
When I didn’t respond right away, he asked, “Or are you more like my friend Julien here, a skeptic to the core and just here to see his handiwork?”
His gestures were exaggerated, almost as if he were on a stage, performing for us, but in a totally engaging way.
“I did ask to see something he’d built, yes, but I also have some interest in esoteric knowledge, though I’m afraid I’m not the student my father was.”
“Oh, was he? Did he favor one school of thought over another? Was he a Mason by chance?”
“No. His focus was on the Kabala, but as fascinated as he was by secret societies and hidden knowledge, he was interested only as a scholar.”
“I have quite a few ancient artifacts and rare books a Kabalistic scholar would find fascinating. Would you like me to show you around a bit?”
“Yes, please.”
Did Julien look dismayed? I couldn’t be sure.
“Dujols is quite the spellbinder,” Julien said as if answering my unspoken question. “If you let him, he’ll keep you all day and we won’t make our prior commitment.”
“Don’t worry, Julien. I have an appointment myself in a little while.” He smiled at me and then pulled out a heavy leather-bound book. “This is one of my prized possessions, an extremely rare fourteenth-century manuscript of a major work of Jewish mysticism called the Sepher Yetzirah. The Book of Formation. Do you know it?”
“Yes, my father had a copy, but not nearly this old.” I bent over the tome, and when I looked up to ask Monsieur Dujols a question, I caught him staring at my neck with consternation.
When he saw that I’d noticed, he glanced away. “Can I offer either of you coffee?”
“Why were you looking at my necklace?” Even though such boldness wasn’t done, I wanted to know.
“It’s most unusual,” he said. “I was just admiring it.”
But he was lying. I could tell. Something about the ruby necklace disturbed the man. I looked at Julien, and his eyes told me he knew it, too.
“What is it, Dujols? Why be coy? What is it about Mademoiselle Verlaine’s necklace?”
“The rubies appear to be cinquefoils. Five-petal roses.”
“Yes?” Julien asked.
“You didn’t recognize the symbol?”
“I’m a neophyte when it comes to all this—you know that. Knowledge doesn’t equal interest,” Julien said.
“What is the significance of a five-petal rose?” I asked.
“It’s an ancient Hermetic symbol that signifies closed lips, sexual secrets, and hidden messages. Queen Elizabeth’s spymaster used one on his seal. The cinquefoil’s association with the worship of the Great Goddess in ancient times spilled over to worship of Mary in Christianity. You can see it on many Gothic churches here and in England.”
I fingered one of the flowers, feeling the petals on each of the round discs as he described them. I knew it was my fingers trembling, but it really felt as if the necklace itself was vibrating, almost humming against my skin.
But he wasn’t finished. “And the clasp is a gold Ouroboros. The symbol of eternal return and rebirth. Of a life that exists with so much force and power that it cannot be extinguished.”
Chills ran up my back. His words resonated within me. I knew these things but hadn’t been aware that I’d known them. How was it possible for them to be familiar to me but at the same time something I’d neither read nor heard before? Had my father told me about them when I’d only half been paying attention and I’d forgotten?
“One of the things so fascinating about the Ouroboros is how many cultures used it in some form or another. From ancient Egyptians, to alchemists, to heretics. Where did you find such an unusual piece?” he asked.
“It’s a family heirloom,” I told him.
“Yes, yes, of course. It would have to be,” he said.
The bell rang out as the front door opened, and two gentlemen entered before I could ask him what he meant.
Dujols looked over, and they greeted him. “Are we early?” one asked.
“No, no, not at all,” Dujols said to them.
The two men walked to the back of the library and took a seat in one of the alcoves.
“I’m sorry,” Dujols said to us. “My appointment.”
“That’s quite all right, we did just drop by,” Julien said.
Dujols ushered us to the door. “Please just drop by again whenever it suits you.” He bowed to me. “And if you have any more family treasures, Mademoiselle, please feel free to bring them with you. The original owner of that necklace probably possessed other pieces of Hermetic interest. There is, after all, the legend of the mystical treasure hidden in your grandmother’s house.”
“What legend is that?” I asked.
“You don’t know of it?”
“Clearly she doesn’t, Dujols, or she wouldn’t have asked. Enough of your theatrics. What’s the legend?”
Dujols glanced over at his visitors, who were examining the book I’d been looking at and seemed quite preoccupied.
“All throughout recorded time there have been allusions to a special drink that imparted immortality. From ancient Greek references to ambrosia that only gods were allowed to imbibe, to Egyptian stories of Thoth and Hermes Trismegistus drinking liquid gold in order to live forever, to Sumerian and Hindu texts mentioning a similar elixir. Have you heard of the philosopher’s stone?”