"My son," asked the Florentine, "do you believe in charms and magic?"
Charles repressed a smile of scorn and incredulity.
"Fully," said he.
"Well," said Catharine, quickly, "from magic comes all your suffering. An enemy of your Majesty who would not have dared to attack you openly has conspired in secret. He has directed against your Majesty a conspiracy much more terrible in that he has no accomplices, and the mysterious threads of which cannot be traced."
"Faith, no!" said Charles, aghast at such cunning.
"Think well, my son," said Catharine, "and recall to mind certain plans for flight which would have assured impunity to the murderer."
"To the murderer!" cried Charles. "To the murderer, you say? Has there been an attempt to kill me, mother?"
Catharine's changing eye rolled hypocritically under its wrinkled lid.
"Yes, my son; you doubt it, perhaps, but I know it for a certainty."
"I never doubt what you tell me, mother," replied the King, bitterly. "How was the attempt made? I am anxious to know."