THE ASTROLOGER’S CHAMBER.
Wherever Catherine chose to reside, either in Paris or in Touraine, an
observatory for the stars was always at hand, and Cosmo Ruggiero, who
had attended her from Italy, never left her. Cosmo was the Queen’s
familiar demon; he was both astrologer, alchemist, and philosopher. He
fed the glowing furnaces with gold and silver, sometimes with dead men’s
bones; concocted essences, powders, and perfumes; drew horoscopes, and
modelled wax figures in the likeness of those who had incurred the
Queen’s enmity. These were supposed to suffer pangs from each stab
inflicted on their images, and to waste away as their wax similitudes
melted in the flames. Cosmo was also purveyor of poisons to her
Majesty, and dealt largely in herbs and roots fatal to life. His
apartments and the observatory were always near those of the Queen and
connected with them by a secret stair.
We are at the Tuileries.[10] It stands on a plot of ground outside
Paris--where tiles were baked and rubbish shot--given by Francis I. to
his mother, Louise de Savoie. Charles IX., who has succeeded his
brother--Francis II.--inhabits the Louvre, now entirely rebuilt by
Francis I. The Queen-mother desired to live alone. She therefore
commanded Philippe de Lorme to erect a new palace for her use,
consisting of a central pavilion, with ample wings. Catherine is now
middle-aged; her complexion is darker, the expression of her face
sterner and more impassive. She seldom relaxes into a smile except to
deceive an enemy. In her own person she dislikes and despises the luxury
of dress, and principally wears black since the death of her husband.
But on fitting occasions of state she, too, robes herself in royal
apparel. She stands before us in a long black dress, tightly fitting her
shape. She has grown much stouter though she is still upright and
majestic. Her active habits and her extraordinary capacity for mental
labour are the same. A stiff ruff is round her neck and a black coif
upon her head. Jewels she rarely uses. Her suite of rooms at the
Tuileries, hung with sombre tapestry or panelled with dark wood, are
studiously plain. She loves artists and the arts, but pictures and
statues are not appropriate to the state business she habitually
transacts. There is a certain consistent grandeur in her plain,
unadorned _entourage_; a sense of subdued power--hidden yet
apparent--that makes those who approach her tremble. Her second son
Charles, now King of France, is wholly under her influence. He was only
ten years old when he ascended the throne at the death of his brother
Francis, and his mother has carefully stamped out every good quality in
his naturally frank and manly nature. Now he is rough and cruel, loves
the sight of blood, and has become a perfect Nimrod. He blows the horn
with such violence, so often and so loud, that he has injured his lungs.
Charles knows much more about the bears, wolves, deer, and wild boars of
France, than of his Christian subjects.
The Princess Marguerite is now grown into a woman, “a noble mind in a
most lovely person,” says the flattering Brantôme. Her mother encourages
Marguerite’s taste for intrigue, and throws her into the company of
women, such as Madame de Sauve, the court Ninon de l’Enclos of that day.
Catherine contemplates her beauty, not with the profound affection of a
mother, but as a useful bait to entrap those whom she desires to gain.
When she was young herself the Queen never allowed any tender passion to
stand in her way, but ruthlessly sacrificed all who were either useless
or troublesome.
When the palace is quiet, and the sighing of the winter wind without, as
it sweeps along the quays and ruffles the surface of the river, is only
broken by the challenge of the sentinels on the bastion bordering the
Seine, Catherine rises from her chair. She passes over her black dress a
long white mantle, puts her feet into silken slippers, lights a scented
bougie, takes from her girdle a golden key--which is hid there along
with a poisoned dagger in case of need--draws aside the tapestry,
unlocks a hidden door, and mounts a secret stair. Cosmo Ruggiero is
seated on a folding stool in a small laboratory under the roof. He is
reading an ancient manuscript. A lamp illuminates the page, and he is,
or affects to be, so profoundly absorbed that he does not hear his
terrible mistress enter. She glides like a ghost beside him and laying
her hand on his shoulder rouses him. Ruggiero rises hastily and salutes
her. Catherine draws a stool beside him, seats herself, and signs him to
do so also.
“Well, Cosmo! always studying; always at work in my service,” says she,
in a low metallic voice.
“Yes, madame, I have no other pleasure than in your Majesty’s service.”
“Yes, yes! you serve the Queen for love, and science out of interest--I
understand. Disinterestedness is the custom of our country, my friend.”
“Your Majesty mistakes; I serve her as a loyal servant and countryman
should.”
“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?”
“Madame, her highness affects the Duke; but she is unstable in her
affections.”
“The Queen of Navarre--will she still forward this marriage?”
“It will cause her death.”
“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?”
“Perhaps; but long years hence. His hair will be gray before the poniard
I see hovering over him strikes. But, as I have said to-night, there is
a cloud upon his star. Long he will certainly escape steel, fire,
illness, or accident; he will bear a charmed life. Madame, the King of
Navarre will be a proper husband for Madame Marguerite.”
“But how of that bold man, the Duc de Guise, who dares without my leave
to aspire to the hand of the Princess?” asked Catherine.
“Henri de Guise, madame, will die a violent death, as will his father
and Coligni. The Admiral will be stabbed in his own house. This is
certain.”
The Queen smiles, and for a time is silent.
“Tell me,” at length she almost whispers, “have you discovered anything
more about myself and my sons?”
“Madame, I tremble to reply,” replies Ruggiero, hesitating.
“Speak, I command you, Cosmo.”
Catherine rises, and lays her hand heavily upon his arm. Her eyes meet
his.
“If I must reveal the future of your Majesty and the royal princes,
well, let it be done. Your Majesty can but kill me. I fear not death.”
“Fool, your life is safe!”
“You, madame, will live; but the Princes, your sons----” and he stops
and again hesitates.
“Speak!” hisses Catherine between her set teeth. “Speak, or, _pardieu_!
I will force you,” and she raises her hand aloft, as if to strike him.
“Madame,” replies Ruggiero, quite unmoved by her violence, rising from
his stool, and moving towards the wall, “you yourself shall see the
future that awaits them.” He withdraws a black curtain covering an
arched recess and revealed a magic mirror. “The kings your sons, madame,
shall pass before you. Each shall reign as many years as he makes the
circuit of that dark chamber you see reflected on the polished steel.
There is your eldest son, Francis. See how feebly he moves, how pale he
looks. He never lived to be a man. Twice he slowly passes round, and he
is gone. The next is Charles, ninth of that name. Thirteen times he
turns around, and as he moves a mist of blood gathers about him. Look,
it thickens--it hides him. He shall reign thirteen years, and die a
bloody death, having caused much blood to flow. Here is Henri, Duc
d’Anjou, who shall succeed him. A few circuits, and then behold--a
muffled figure--a monk, springs on him from behind. He falls and
vanishes.”
There is a pause.
“What! Cosmo,” whispers Catherine, who stood supporting herself on the
back of a high chair opposite the magic mirror. “Francis, Charles, Henry
are gone, but do they leave no child?”
“None, madame.”
“Where, then, is D’Alençon, my youngest boy? Let me see him.”
“Madame,” falters Ruggiero, “his highness is not destined to reign. The
successor of your sons is before you”; and on the magic glass rises up,
clear and distinct, the image of the King of Navarre. With strong, firm
steps he circles the mystic chamber of life twenty times. As he passes
on the twenty-first round, a mist gathers round him; he falls and
vanishes.
At the sight of Henry of Navarre, the Queen’s composure utterly forsakes
her. She trembles from head to foot and sinks into a chair. A sombre
fire shoots from her eyes.
“I will take care _that_ shall never be!” gasps she, unable to speak
with rage.
After a few moments she rose, took up her light, and without one other
word descended as she had come.