"What is it, pray, Master?"
"You know, Monseigneur," Nostradamus began, "that I do not occupy myself entirely with men's illnesses. I have presumed to look farther and higher. I have tried to read their destinies,—a task full of uncertainty and obscurity; but in default of light, I have sometimes, I think, caught glimpses of the truth. God, I am convinced, has written twice over, in advance of his birth, the vast and mighty scheme of each man's destiny; in the stars of heaven, his native land, to which he raises his eyes so often, and in the lines of his hand,—an intricate conjuring book which he carries always with him, but which he cannot even begin to spell except at the cost of unwearying study. During many days and nights, Monseigneur, I have dug and delved away at these two sciences, as fathomless as the cask of the Danaïdes,—chiromancy and astrology. I have summoned before me all future ages; and a thousand years from now, those who are then alive may be sometimes amazed at my prophecies. But I know that the truth only shines in streaks, for although I sometimes see clearly, often, alas! I am in doubt. Nevertheless I am certain that I have now and then hours of clairvoyance which almost frighten me, Monseigneur. In one of these infrequent hours, I saw, twenty-five years ago, the destiny of a gentleman attached to the court of King François clearly written in the stars which watched over his birth and in the complicated lines of his hand. This extraordinary, curious, and perilous destiny made a strong impression on me. Fancy my astonishment, then, when in your hand and in the stars which presided over your birth, I seemed to read a horoscope like that which had so surprised me long ago; but I could not distinguish it so clearly as before and the lapse of twenty-five years had confused my memory. Last of all, Monseigneur, last month, in the height of your fever, you pronounced a name; I heard only the name, but it caught my attention at once. It was the name of the Comte de Montgommery."
"Of the Comte de Montgommery?" Gabriel cried in alarm.
"I tell you again, Monseigneur, that I heard nothing but the name; and the rest is of little importance, for that name was the name of the man whose destiny had been made as clear to me as the noonday sun. I hastened home and hunted among my old papers until I found the Comte de Montgommery's horoscope. But a most singular circumstance, Monseigneur, and one which I have never met with before in more than thirty years of study, is that there must be some mysterious connection, some strange affinity, between you and the Comte de Montgommery; and God, who never ordained the same destiny for two men, must have reserved both of you for the same fate. For I was not mistaken; the lines of the hand and the constellations had the same aspect for both. I should not dare to say that there was to be no difference in the details of your two lives; but the predominating feature of both horoscopes is the same. I long ago lost sight of the Comte de Montgommery; but I ascertained that one of my predictions in his regard was fulfilled. He wounded François I. in the face with a red-hot brand. Has the remainder of his destiny been fulfilled? That is what I cannot say. I can only be sure that the same misfortune and the same violent death which threatened him are impending over you."
"Can it be?" said Gabriel.
"Here, Monseigneur," said Nostradamus, handing to Vicomte d'Exmès a roll of parchment, "here is the horoscope which I drew off at the time for the Comte de Montgommery. I should make no changes in it were I to write yours to-day."
"Give it me, Master, give it me!" said Gabriel. "This is indeed an inestimable gift; and you cannot imagine how precious it is to me."
"One word more, Monsieur d'Exmès," said Nostradamus; "one last word to put you on your guard, though God be supreme, and one can hardly turn aside His plans. The nativity of Henri II. presaged that he would die in a duel or in single combat."
"But," asked Gabriel, "what connection?"
"When you read this scroll, you will understand me, Monseigneur. Meanwhile it remains only for me to take my leave of you, and to hope that the catastrophe with which God menaces your life may at least be not sought by you."