“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?”