Buried in studious solitude, the old savant weighed and estimated sovereigns, most of whom were worn out by the perpetual turmoil of politics, the crises of which at this period came so suddenly and were so keen, so intense, so unexpected.  He knew their ennui, their lassitude, their disgust with things about them; he knew the ardor with which they sought what seemed to them new or strange or fantastic; above all, how they loved to enter some unknown intellectual region to escape their endless struggle with men and events.  To those who have exhausted statecraft, nothing remains but the realm of pure thought.  Charles the Fifth proved this by his abdication.  Charles IX., who wrote sonnets and forged blades to escape the exhausting cares of an age in which both throne and king were threatened, to whom royalty had brought only cares and never pleasures, was likely to be roused to a high pitch of interest by the bold denial of his power thus uttered by Lorenzo.  Religious doubt was not surprising in an age when Catholicism was so violently arraigned; but the upsetting of all religion, given as the basis of a strange, mysterious art, would surely strike the king’s mind, and drag it from its present preoccupations.  The essential thing for the two brothers was to make the king forget his suspicions by turning his mind to new ideas.

The Ruggieri were well aware that their stake in this game was their own life, and the glances, so humble, and yet so proud, which they exchanged with the searching, suspicious eyes of Marie and the king, were a scene in themselves.

“Sire,” said Lorenzo Ruggiero, “you have asked me for the truth; but, to show the truth in all her nakedness, I must also show you and make you sound the depths of the well from which she comes.  I appeal to the gentleman and the poet to pardon words which the eldest son of the Church might take for blasphemy,—­I believe that God does not concern himself with human affairs.”

Though determined to maintain a kingly composure, Charles IX. could not repress a motion of surprise.

“Without that conviction I should have no faith whatever in the miraculous work to which my life is devoted.  To do that work I must have this belief; and if the finger of God guides all things, then—­I am a madman.  Therefore, let the king understand, once for all, that this work means a victory to be won over the present course of Nature.  I am an alchemist, sire.  But do not think, as the common-minded do, that I seek to make gold.  The making of gold is not the object but an incident of our researches; otherwise our toil could not be called the GREAT WORK.  The Great Work is something far loftier than that.  If, therefore, I were forced to admit the presence of God in matter, my voice must logically command the extinction of furnaces kept burning throughout the ages.  But to deny the direct action of God in the world is not to deny God; do not make that mistake.  We place the Creator of all things far