The man in black, for all his clerical-cut robe, had a fierce sharp face and a fiercer, sharper eye.
"To business," he said. "I am Hippolyte Gigny, commissioned by church and king to seek out the rogues and destroyers who not having the fear of God before their eyes traffic with the fiend and do sorcery as witchcraft."
"Yours is a good trade," nodded Nostradame. "And how may I, a doctor of medicine, help you to your findings?"
One of the men-at-arms cleared his throat, and Hippolyte Gigny sneered.
"Here's a cool one, and shrewd! How do I say that I know you yourself are a wizard and as such gallow's-meat in this world and hell's-meat in the next?"
"I would say back that you are sadly wrong," said Nostradame, "and that the layer of the information is sadly a liar."
Gigny's teeth and eyes gleamed mockingly. "You mischief your case when thus you insult the informant—"
"Who is the Lady Olande de la Fornaye," finished Nostradame for him.
"You know, and a demon's voice must have told you, for but now did she accuse you," cried Gigny. "Knave, you are undone. Now shall we search your house. If you prove to have books of black art, charm, and instruments—"
He took a step toward the study door, beyond which Nostradame had all three of the articles Gigny had named as damaging. Nostradame shifted position to bar the witch-finder's way, and when Gigny would have persisted, shoved him back so that he staggered and almost fell.
"I am a scholar and a person of gentle blood," said Nostradame. "I will not be treated like a rabbit-poacher or a thief of handkerchiefs. Bring a writ of law before you think to search here."
"My writs of law are of steel," snarled Gigny. "Aho, you two! Draw on this saucy challenger."
The men-at-arms drew, and Nostradame leaped quickly to the wall where hung his own straight sword with its cross hilt and brass mountings.
"Lies the wind at that door?" he said, with sudden gaiety. "Come, then, both of you. I ask only a fan-stage and no favor."
His own blade rasped out of its sheath. In a trice he had parried the stroke of the first man to reach him, then a darting threat from his point caused the second to give back. At once the pair saw that they had their hands full—Michel de Nostradame had been a strong swordsman from his student days at Montpellier, and had not let his skill rust for want of exercise.
A little of the stout German cut-and-thrust was in his method, and more than a little of the Italian school, which makes the blade both attack and defense. Two though they were against him, and mailed where he was but gowned, they strove their best and could no more than hold him in check.
But Gigny had rushed past the three battlers, to the door from which Nostradame had thrust him. He tore it open and stepped through. A moment more, and he yelled aloud in coarse laughter, then turned to emerge.
"Cease," he cried. "A truce, a truce! Put up swords, I pray!"
Obediently his servants gave back, lowering their points, but Nostradame remained on guard. His brilliant eyes were hard and angry.
"God's wounds, I see now this gentleman's wizardry, and would we all could learn from him," sniggered Gigny. "Messire Nostradame—that is your name? You had all good reason to deny us our searching. I have been precipitate here, and a little offending—"
"More than a little," growled Nostradame.
"Then I cry pardon, and do you cry forgiveness." As Nostradame, too, grounded his sword-point, Gigny came close, nudging the doctor as though to say they shared a pleasant secret. "I am a man of the world, sophisticated—I can see why the charge was placed. One lovely lady ousted from your favor by another— forgive me, I beg again, and also again—send us all such wizard powers, and eke such familiar spirits!"
And he walked out, with a last leer over his shoulder, waving his servants along with him. Nostradame leaned a trifle on his sword, so that the good steel bent springily, and frowned. Then he turned toward the open study door, to see what matter had so changed the tune of the witch-finder.
Of his books, the bronze tripod stool, the water-basin, the forked rod of laurel, his robe with the strange symbols, nothing showed. These had been gathered under his desk, over which had been thrown the cloak of Anne Poins Genelle. And on a couch in a corner she half reclined, the low-cut collar of her gown twitched down so as to reveal a bare shoulder— slim but not bony, Nostradame saw at once. She was the picture, most skillfully posed, of a luresome lady surprised in an intrigue.
"From my heart's depth do I thank you, child," said Nostradame earnestly. "They are gone—"
She rose, twitching her gown into place again.
"It was all I could think to do in that short time. To hide the things they must not find, and to appear to be your reason for secrecy. You are not angry with me?"
"I dread only that you may have brought undeserved shame on yourself. As God is my judge, I am no wizard or devil-companion. But how could you know, and be moved to help my helplessness?"
"That." She pointed to the sword he still gripped. "It's hilt—a cross, and set with a holy name. I read it cut upon the brass as it hung on your wall. And in here—" She pointed again, to the crucifix on the wall, the Madonna on a shelf. "In the presence of the true faith, how could black magic work? Surely, messire, you seek knowledge, but not evil. If you work miracles indeed, right so did the holy saints. I would be your friend."
"You are my friend and my rescuer." He laid the sword on the couch, and stooped to kiss her little hand. In France of 1547 that was a gesture no more than well-bred and admiring, but her fingers stirred in his. The heart of Nostradame, mature and mentalized scholar, was touched. "And how," he continued, "may I serve you in some small way to pay in part my great debt?"
"Be only what you are," she said.
"What do you know of what I am?"
"Perhaps," murmured Anne Poins Genelle, "I, too, have more senses than five. Perhaps I am aware of things beyond this small space and time in which we huddle."
"Child!" In his sudden blaze of feeling, he clutched her forearms. They were small in his grasp, like the forks of the ceremonial laurel rod. "Are you telling-me that you, too, know the hour of sight?"
The suddenness of his cry and movement made her shrink in his clutch, and he let go and stepped back.
"Indeed, I cannot say what I meant," she said, recovering. "I only felt what you tried to say to my cousin, Lady Olande, and could understand when she could not or would not. I'll stay a moment, if you talk to me, messire."
He smiled at her. He had not felt so comradely toward anyone in years. Standing over her in his gown of dignity, he was taller than one might think, so broad was his body and so easily did he carry its breadth.
"I think the more, and speak little," he temporized. "Would that speech were as free as thought. Some day it may come to that."
"A prophecy."
"A hope." He led her to the desk, and lifted from it her mantle. There lay his papers. "You deserve my trust, Lady Anne. And, faith, perhaps I need one to listen and believe and understand. Here. Read this first of my quatrains."
He handed the sheet to her. She read aloud, softly:
"That explains how visions come to me," he told her. "Thus I begin my record. How came I thus to study and work? Perhaps by way of my fathers—my grandfather read white magic, and urged me to the like. When I went to Montpelier, to the university founded long ago by fugitive wise Arabs, I learned foreign languages and foreign arts, along with medicine. Books of wisdom did I con in the library— Roger Bacon of England, Albertus Magnus, and certain scrolls by Eastern magi. Yet I did hesitate over their teachings. I think," and he sighed, as if weary a little, "that the hour of sight forced itself upon me."