“Your present design, madame, to marry Madame Marguerite to the King of Navarre appears favourable to the interests of France. A cloud now rests upon the usually brilliant star of the King of Navarre, but another night, madame, perhaps----” “This is all very vague, Ruggiero, I want an absolute prediction,” says Catherine, fixing her black eyes full upon the soothsayer. “Among all these illustrious personages is there not one whose horoscope is clear and defined?” “Assuredly, madame; will your Majesty deign to interrogate me as to the future? I will unfold the purposes of the stars as I have read them.” “You have spoken of the Princess. Does she love the young Duc Henri de Guise?” “Madame, her highness affects the Duke; but she is unstable in her affections.” “The Queen of Navarre--will she still forward this marriage?” “It will cause her death.” “How?” “By poison.” “Where?” “At Paris.” “That is well,” answers the Queen, and deep thought darkens her swarthy face. “Her son, the King of Navarre--what of him?” “He, madame, is safe for awhile, though he will shortly be exposed to extreme peril.” “But is he destined to die violently?” “Perhaps; but long years hence. His hair will be gray before the poniard I see hovering over him strikes. But, as I have said to-night, there is a cloud upon his star. Long he will certainly escape steel, fire, illness, or accident; he will bear a charmed life. Madame, the King of Navarre will be a proper husband for Madame Marguerite.” “But how of that bold man, the Duc de Guise, who dares without my leave to aspire to the hand of the Princess?” asked Catherine. “Henri de Guise, madame, will die a violent death, as will his father and Coligni. The Admiral will be stabbed in his own house. This is certain.” The Queen smiles, and for a time is silent. “Tell me,” at length she almost whispers, “have you discovered anything more about myself and my sons?” “Madame, I tremble to reply,” replies Ruggiero, hesitating. “Speak, I command you, Cosmo.” Catherine rises, and lays her hand heavily upon his arm. Her eyes meet his. “If I must reveal the future of your Majesty and the royal princes, well, let it be done. Your Majesty can but kill me. I fear not death.” “Fool, your life is safe!” “You, madame, will live; but the Princes, your sons----” and he stops and again hesitates. “Speak!” hisses Catherine between her set teeth. “Speak, or, _pardieu_! I will force you,” and she raises her hand aloft, as if to strike him.