“It is true!” exclaimed Philip, as much in looks as in words.
“To-day,” continued Tito, observing the king’s expression, “to-day that you are nearer to the throne of France than that of Spain, you are about to expose yourself to the same disappointment. The two infant kings, Louis I. and Louis XV., are ill; you might be able to succeed both; but it is necessary for you to know a few hours in advance which of the two will die first. Louis I. is in the greater danger, but the crown of France is the more beautiful. Here lies your difficulty. You appreciate the situation. You dare not stretch your hand toward the sceptre of Ferdinand, apprehensive that your son may live, that your French partisans might abandon you, and that history would ridicule you. In fact you dare not drop the bit that you hold between your teeth, fearful that the other may be a mere shadow or illusion.”
“Speak! speak!” said Philip, eagerly, fearing that Tito had concluded. “Say what you have to say, for from here you go direct to a dungeon, where only the walls will hear you. Speak! I should like to hear what the world has to say regarding my thoughts.”
The ex-shoemaker smiled derisively.
“Dungeon! Gallows!” he exclaimed. “I know all that kings can do, still I am not alarmed. Listen a little longer; I am about to conclude. Sire, I must be appointed Physician to the Court, obtain the title of Duke, with thirty thousand dollars, this very day. Your Majesty laughs; but I need all this as much as your Majesty needs to know whether Louis I. will succumb to his illness.”
“And you know that?” asked the king in a low voice, unable to overcome the terror which the boy caused him.
“I shall know it to-night.”
“How?”
“I have already told you that I am the Friend of Death.”