"My head in danger? Shall I not reign a queen?"
"Yes—but would to God you never did."
The princess smiled disdainfully.
"Hearken, and remember," proceeded Balsamo. "Did you remark the subject on the tapestry of the first room you entered on French ground? The Massacre of the Innocents; the ominous figures must have remained in your mind. During that storm, did you see that the lightning felled a tree on your left, almost to crush your coach? Such presages are not to be interpreted but as fatal ones."
Letting her head fall upon her bosom, the princess reflected for a space before asking:
"How will those three die?"
"Your husband the king will die headless; Count Provence, legless; and Artois heartless."
"But myself? I command you to speak, or I shall hold all this as a paltry trick. Take care, my lord, for the daughter of Maria Theresa is not to be sported with—a woman who holds in hand the destinies of thirty millions of souls. You know no more, or your imagination is exhausted."
Balsamo placed the saucer and the decanter on a bench in the darkest nook of the arbor, which thus resembled a pythoness' cave; he led her within the gloom.
"Down on your knees," he said, alarming her by the action; "for you will seem to be imploring God to spare you the terrible outcome which you are to view."