Upon these words Nostradamus vanished, and somebody plucking me behind, I turned my face upon the most meagre, melancholic wretch that ever was seen, and covered all in white. “For pity’s sake,” says he, “and as you are a good Christian, do but deliver me from the persecution of these impertinents and babblers that are now tormenting me, and I’ll be your slave for ever” (casting himself at my feet in the same moment; and crying like a child). “And what art thou,” quoth I, “for a miserable creature?” “I am,” says he, “an ancient, and an honest man, although defamed with a thousand reproaches and slanders: and in fine, some call me another, and others somebody, and doubtless ye cannot but have heard of me. As somebody says, cries one, that has nothing to say for himself; and yet till this instant, I never so much as opened my mouth. The Latins call me Quidam, and make good use of me to fill up lines, and stop gaps. When you go back again into the world, I pray’e do me the favour to own that you have seen me, and to justify me for one that never did, and never will either speak or write anything, whatever some tattling idiots may pretend. When they bring me into quarrels and brawls, I am called forsooth, a certain person; in their intrigues, I know not who; and in the pulpit, a certain author; and all this, to make a mystery of my name, and lay all their fooleries at my door. Wherefore I beseech ye help me;” which I promised to do. And so this vision withdrew to make place for another.