"A double crown!" said the Queen musingly. "Henry of Anjou, my son, is king of Poland, and on his brother's death is rightful king of France. Yes, and he _shall_ be king of France, and wear its crown. Henry never thwarted his mother's will, he was ever pliant as a reed to do her bidding; and when he is king, Catherine of Medicis may again resume the reins of power. You had predicted that he would soon return to France; and I promised him he should return, when unwillingly he accepted that barbarian crown, which Charles' selfish policy forced upon him, in order to rid himself of a brother whom he hated as a rival--hated because I loved him. Yes, he shall return to resume his rightful crown--a double crown! But Henry of Navarre also wears a crown, although it be a barren one--although the kingdom of Navarre bestow upon him a mere empty title. Shall it be his--the double crown? Oh! no! no! The stars cannot surely say it. Should all my sons die childless, it is his by right. But they shall not die to leave _him_ their heir. No! sooner shall the last means be applied, and the detested son perish, as did his hated mother, by one of those incomprehensible diseases for which medicine has no cure. A double crown! Shall his be the crown of France also? Never! Ah! little did I think, Ruggieri, when I bestowed upon him my daughter Margaret's hand, and thus lured him and his abhorred party to the court to finish them with one blow, that Margaret of Valois would become a traitress to her own mother, and protect a husband whom she accepted so unwillingly! But Margaret is ambitious for her husband, although she loves him not, although she loves another: the two would wish to thwart her brothers of their birthright, that she might wear their crown on her own brow. Through her intervention, Henry of Navarre has escaped me. He has outlived the massacre of that night of triumph, when all his party perished; and now Charles loves him, and calls him 'upright, honest Henry,' and if I contend not with all the last remnants of my broken power, my foolish son, upon his death-bed, may place the regency in his hands, and deprive his scorned and ill-used mother of her rights. The regency! Ah! lies there the double crown? Ah! Ruggieri, Ruggieri, why can you only tell me thus far and no further?" "Madam," replied the wary astrologer, "the stars run in their slow unerring course. We cannot compel their path; we can only read their dictates." Catherine de Medicis rose and approached the window, through which she contemplated the face of the bright heavens. "Mysterious orbs of light," she said, stretching forth her arms--"ye who rule our destinies, roll on, roll on, and tarry not. Accomplish your great task of fate; but be it quickly, that I may know what awaits me in that secret scroll spread out above on which ye write the future. Let me learn the good, that I may be prepared to greet it--the ill, that I may know how to parry it."