“Work like a mole, but don’t let your paws be seen in anything, no matter what,” said the wary Italian.  “To-morrow will, no doubt, prove a decisive day.  Judging by my observations, you may, perhaps, recover your son to-morrow, or the day after.”

“May God hear you—­you who are thought to traffic with the devil!”

“Come to my place,” said the astrologer, smiling.  “I live in the tower of Sieur Touchet de Beauvais, the lieutenant of the Bailliage, whose daughter the little Duc d’Orleans has taken such a fancy to; it is there that I observe the planets.  I have drawn the girl’s horoscope, and it says that she will become a great lady and be beloved by a king.  The lieutenant, her father, is a clever man; he loves science, and the queen sent me to lodge with him.  He has had the sense to be a rabid Guisist while awaiting the reign of Charles IX.”

The furrier and the astrologer reached the house of the Sieur de Beauvais without being met or even seen; but, in case Lecamus’ visit should be discovered, the Florentine intended to give a pretext of an astrological consultation on his son’s fate.  When they were safely at the top of the tower, where the astrologer did his work, Lecamus said to him:—­

“Is my son really living?”

“Yes, he still lives,” replied Ruggiero; “and the question now is how to save him.  Remember this, seller of skins, I would not give two farthings for yours if ever in all your life a single syllable should escape you of what I am about to say.”

“That is a useless caution, my friend; I have been furrier to the court since the time of the late Louis XII.; this is the fourth reign that I have seen.”

“And you may soon see the fifth,” remarked Ruggiero.

“What do you know about my son?”

“He has been put to the question.”

“Poor boy!” said the old man, raising his eyes to heaven.

“His knees and ankles were a bit injured, but he has won a royal protection which will extend over his whole life,” said the Florentine hastily, seeing the terror of the poor father.  “Your little Christophe has done a service to our great queen, Catherine.  If we manage to pull him out of the claws of the Guises you will see him some day councillor to the Parliament.  Any man would gladly have his bones cracked three times over to stand so high in the good graces of this dear sovereign,—­a grand and noble genius, who will triumph in the end over all obstacles.  I have drawn the horoscope of the Duc de Guise; he will be killed within a year.  Well, so Christophe saw the Prince de Conde—­”

“You who read the future ought to know the past,” said the furrier.