WHEREVER Catherine chose to reside, either in Paris or in Touraine, an observatory for the stars was always at hand, and Cosmo Ruggiero, who had attended her from Italy, never left her. Cosmo was the Queen’s familiar demon; he was both astrologer, alchemist, and philosopher. He fed the glowing furnaces with gold and silver, sometimes with dead men’s bones; concocted essences, powders, and perfumes; drew horoscopes, and modelled wax figures in the likeness of those who had incurred the Queen’s enmity. These were supposed to suffer pangs from each stab inflicted on their images, and to waste away as their wax similitudes melted in the flames. Cosmo was also purveyor of poisons to her Majesty, and dealt largely in herbs and roots fatal to life. His apartments and the observatory were always near those of the Queen and connected with them by a secret stair.

We are at the Tuileries.[10] It stands on a plot of ground outside Paris—where tiles were baked and rubbish shot—given by Francis I. to his mother, Louise de Savoie. Charles IX., who has succeeded his brother—Francis II.—inhabits the Louvre, now entirely rebuilt by Francis I. The Queen-mother desired to live alone. She therefore commanded Philippe de Lorme to erect a new palace for her use, consisting of a central pavilion, with ample wings. Catherine is now middle-aged; her complexion is darker, the expression of her face sterner and more impassive. She seldom relaxes into a smile except to deceive an enemy. In her own person she dislikes and despises the luxury of dress, and principally wears black since the death of her husband. But on fitting occasions of state she, too, robes herself in royal apparel. She stands before us in a long black dress, tightly fitting her shape. She has grown much stouter though she is still upright and majestic. Her active habits and her extraordinary capacity for mental labour are the same. A stiff ruff is round her neck and a black coif upon her head. Jewels she rarely uses. Her suite of rooms at the Tuileries, hung with sombre tapestry or panelled with dark wood, are studiously plain. She loves artists and the arts, but pictures and statues are not appropriate to the state business she habitually transacts. There is a certain consistent grandeur in her plain, unadorned entourage; a sense of subdued power—hidden yet apparent—that makes those who approach her tremble. Her second son Charles, now King of France, is wholly under her influence. He was only ten years old when he ascended the throne at the death of his brother Francis, and his mother has carefully stamped out every good quality in his naturally frank and manly nature. Now he is rough and cruel, loves the sight of blood, and has become a perfect Nimrod. He blows the horn with such violence, so often and so loud, that he has injured his lungs. Charles knows much more about the bears, wolves, deer, and wild boars of France, than of his Christian subjects.

The Princess Marguerite is now grown into a woman, “a noble mind in a most lovely person,” says the flattering BrantÔme. Her mother encourages Marguerite’s taste for intrigue, and throws her into the company of women, such as Madame de Sauve, the court Ninon de l’Enclos of that day. Catherine contemplates her beauty, not with the profound affection of a mother, but as a useful bait to entrap those whom she desires to gain. When she was young herself the Queen never allowed any tender passion to stand in her way, but ruthlessly sacrificed all who were either useless or troublesome.

When the palace is quiet, and the sighing of the winter wind without, as it sweeps along the quays and ruffles the surface of the river, is only broken by the challenge of the sentinels on the bastion bordering the Seine, Catherine rises from her chair. She passes over her black dress a long white mantle, puts her feet into silken slippers, lights a scented bougie, takes from her girdle a golden key—which is hid there along with a poisoned dagger in case of need—draws aside the tapestry, unlocks a hidden door, and mounts a secret stair. Cosmo Ruggiero is seated on a folding stool in a small laboratory under the roof. He is reading an ancient manuscript. A lamp illuminates the page, and he is, or affects to be, so profoundly absorbed that he does not hear his terrible mistress enter. She glides like a ghost beside him and laying her hand on his shoulder rouses him. Ruggiero rises hastily and salutes her. Catherine draws a stool beside him, seats herself, and signs him to do so also.

“Well, Cosmo! always studying; always at work in my service,” says she, in a low metallic voice.

“Yes, madame, I have no other pleasure than in your Majesty’s service.”

“Yes, yes! you serve the Queen for love, and science out of interest—I understand. Disinterestedness is the custom of our country, my friend.”

“Your Majesty mistakes; I serve her as a loyal servant and countryman should.”

“La! la!” says Catherine, “we know each other, Cosmo,—no professions. Is the poison ready I ordered of you, the subtle powder to sprinkle on gloves or flowers? It is possible I may want it shortly.”

Ruggiero rises and hands a small sealed packet, enclosed in satin, to the Queen, who places it in her bosom.

“Madame,” he says, “beware! this poison is most powerful.”

“So much the worse for those for whom it is destined,” replied Catherine; and a cruel smile lights up her face for a moment. “It will serve me the quicker. But to business, Cosmo. What say the stars? Have you drawn the horoscopes?”

“Here, madame, are the horoscopes”; and he draws from his belt a bundle of papers. “Here are the celestial signs within the House of Life of all the royal persons concerned, traced by the magic pencil from the dates you furnished me.”

Catherine glances at the papers. “Explain to me their import,” says she, looking at him with grave attention.

“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.

“Madame,” replies Ruggiero, quite unmoved by her violence, rising from his stool, and moving towards the wall, “you yourself shall see the future that awaits them.” He withdraws a black curtain covering an arched recess and revealed a magic mirror. “The kings your sons, madame, shall pass before you. Each shall reign as many years as he makes the circuit of that dark chamber you see reflected on the polished steel. There is your eldest son, Francis. See how feebly he moves, how pale he looks. He never lived to be a man. Twice he slowly passes round, and he is gone. The next is Charles, ninth of that name. Thirteen times he turns around, and as he moves a mist of blood gathers about him. Look, it thickens—it hides him. He shall reign thirteen years, and die a bloody death, having caused much blood to flow. Here is Henri, Duc d’Anjou, who shall succeed him. A few circuits, and then behold—a muffled figure—a monk, springs on him from behind. He falls and vanishes.”

There is a pause.

“What! Cosmo,” whispers Catherine, who stood supporting herself on the back of a high chair opposite the magic mirror. “Francis, Charles, Henry are gone, but do they leave no child?”

“None, madame.”

“Where, then, is D’AlenÇon, my youngest boy? Let me see him.”

“Madame,” falters Ruggiero, “his highness is not destined to reign. The successor of your sons is before you”; and on the magic glass rises up, clear and distinct, the image of the King of Navarre. With strong, firm steps he circles the mystic chamber of life twenty times. As he passes on the twenty-first round, a mist gathers round him; he falls and vanishes.

At the sight of Henry of Navarre, the Queen’s composure utterly forsakes her. She trembles from head to foot and sinks into a chair. A sombre fire shoots from her eyes.

“I will take care that shall never be!” gasps she, unable to speak with rage.

After a few moments she rose, took up her light, and without one other word descended as she had come.