“Madame, her highness affects the Duke; but she is unstable in her affections.”
“The Queen of Navarre—will she still forward this marriage?”
“How?”
“By poison.”
“Where?”
“At Paris.”
“That is well,” answers the Queen, and deep thought darkens her swarthy face. “Her son, the King of Navarre—what of him?”
“He, madame, is safe for awhile, though he will shortly be exposed to extreme peril.”
“But is he destined to die violently?”