"If you want me to--draw her horoscope," the astrologer replied, with a cunning smile, "I must have something to go upon." "Diane de Martinbault," the young man answered sullenly; and then, in a fresh burst of rage, he muttered, "Diane! _Diable!_" "She inherited her estates from her father?" "Yes." "Who had a son? A child who died young?" the astrologer continued coolly. M. de Vidoche looked at him. "That is true," he said sulkily. "But I do not see what it has to do with you." For answer, the man in black began to laugh, at first silently, then aloud--a sly devil's laugh, that sounded more like the glee of fiends sporting over a lost soul than any human mirth, so full was it of derision and mockery and insult. He made no attempt to check or disguise it, but rather seemed to flout it in the other's face; for when the young noble asked him, with fierce impatience, what it was, and what he meant, he did not explain. He only cried, "In a moment! In a moment, noble sir, I swear you shall have what you want. But--ha! ha!" And then he fell to laughing again, more loudly and shrilly than before. M. de Vidoche turned white and red with rage. His first thought was that a trap had been laid for him, and that he had fallen into it; that to what he had said there had been witnesses; and that now the astrologer had thrown off the mask. With a horrible expression of shame and fear on his countenance he stood at bay, peering into the dark corners, of which there were many in that room, and plumbing the shadows. When no one appeared and nothing happened, his fears passed, but not his rage. With his hand on his sword, he turned hotly on his confederate. "You dog!" he said between his teeth, and his eyes gleamed dangerously in the light of the lamp, "know that for a farthing I would slit your throat! And I will, too, if you do not this instant stop that witch's grin of yours! Are you going to do what I ask, or are you not?" "Chut! chut!" the astrologer answered, waving his hand in deprecation. "I said so, and I am always as good as my word." "Ay, but now--now!" the young man retorted furiously. "You have played with me long enough. Do you think that I am going to spend the night in this charnel-house of yours?" M. Nôtredame began to fear that he had carried his cruel amusement too far. He had enjoyed himself vastly, and made an unexpected discovery: one which opened an endless vista of mischief and plunder to his astute gaze. But it was not his policy to drive his customer to distraction, and he changed his tone. "Peace, peace," he said, spreading out his hands humbly. "You shall have it now; now, this instant. There is only one little preliminary." "Name it!" the other said imperiously. "The price. A horoscope, with the House of Death in the ascendant--the Upper Portal, as we call it--is a hundred crowns, M. de Vidoche. There is the risk, you see." "You shall have it. Give me the--the stuff!"