"By giving you a throne, poor, unhappy crowned head!"
"Oh, no, mother," said Henry in agony, "I do not wish to go away. I, a son of France, brought up in the refinement of polite society, near the best of mothers, loved by one of the dearest women in the world, must I go among snows, to the ends of the earth, to die by inches among those rough people who are intoxicated from morning until night, and who gauge the capacity of their king by that of a cask, according to what he can hold? No, mother, I do not want to go; I should die!"
"Come, Henry," said Catharine, pressing her son's hands, "come, is that the real reason?"
Henry's eyes fell, as though even to his mother he did not dare to confess what was in his heart.
"Is there no other reason?" asked Catharine; "less romantic, but more rational, more political?"
"Mother, it is not my fault if this thought comes to me, and takes stronger hold of me, perhaps, than it should; but did not you yourself tell me that the horoscope of my brother Charles prophesied that he would die young?"
"Yes," said Catharine, "but a horoscope may lie, my son. Indeed, I myself hope that all horoscopes are not true."
"But his horoscope said this, did it not?"
"His horoscope spoke of a quarter of a century; but it did not say whether it referred to his life or his reign."
"Well, mother, bring it about so that I can stay. My brother is almost twenty-four. In one year the question will be settled."