“Oh, we wizards change our names for every generation, my lord. In 1725, the fashion for us was to end in us, os or as, and there is no ground for astonishment that I should have worn a name either in Greek or Latin. But, Althotas or Balsamo, or Fenix, I am at your orders, countess—and at yours, duke.”
“Count, the marshal and I have come to consult you.”
“It is doing me much honor, but it is natural that you should apply to me.”
“Most naturally, for your prediction that I should become a queen is always trotting in my brain: still I doubt its coming true.”
“Never doubt what science says, lady.”
“But the kingdom is in a sore way—it would want more than three drops of the elixir which sets a duellist on his legs.”
“Ay, but three words may knock a minister off his!” retorted the magician. “There, have I hit it? Speak!”
“Perfectly,” replied the fair visitress trembling. “Truly, my lord duke, what do you say to all this?”
“Oh, do not be wonderstricken for so little,” observed Balsamo, who could divine what troubled so the favorite and the court conspirator without any witchcraft.
“The fact is I shall think highly of you if you suggest the remedy we want,” went on the marshal.