Janicot hid excellently the disappointment he must have felt. “Then suppose we fix it that she is yours until you have had a child by her? And that then she will vanish, and that then the child is to be given me, as my honorarium, by”—Janicot explained,—“the old ritual.”
“Well,” Florian replied, “I may logically take this to be a case of desperate necessity, since all my happiness depends upon it. Now in such cases Paracelsus admits the lawfulness of seeking aid from—if you will pardon the technical term, Monsieur Janicot,—from unclean spirits. He is supported in this, as I remember it, by Peter Ærodius, by Bartolus of Sassoferato, by Salecitus, and by other divines and schoolmen. So I have honorable precedents, I do not offend against convention. Yes, I accept the offer; and the child, whatever my paternal pangs, shall be given, as your honorarium, by the old ritual.”
“Of course,” said Janicot, reflectively, “if there should be no child—”
“Monsieur, I am Puysange. There will be a child.”
“Why, then, it is settled. Now I think of it, you will need the sword Flamberge with which to perform this rite, since Melior is of the Léshy, and that sword alone of all swords may spill their blood—”
“But where is Flamberge nowadays?”
“There is one at home, in an earthen pot, who could inform you.”
“Let us not speak of that,” said Florian, hastily, “but do you tell me where is this sword.”
“I have no notion as to the present whereabouts of Flamberge. Nor, since you stickle for etiquette, is it etiquette for me to aid you in finding this sword until you have made me a sacrifice.”
“Why, but you offered Melior as a free gift!” said Florian, smiling to see how obvious were the traps this Janicot set for him. “Is a princess of smaller importance than a sword?”