“Sire, it is not given to any man to foresee what will happen when thousands of men are gathered together.  We can tell what one man will do, how long he will live, whether he will be happy or unhappy; but we cannot tell what a collection of wills may do; and to calculate the oscillations of their selfish interests is more difficult still, for interests are men plus things.  We can, in solitude, see the future as a whole, and that is all.  The Protestantism that now torments you will be destroyed in turn by its material consequences, which will turn to theories in due time.  Europe is at the present moment getting the better of religion; to-morrow it will attack royalty.”

“Then the Saint-Bartholomew was a great conception?”

“Yes, sire; for if the people triumph it will have a Saint-Bartholomew of its own.  When religion and royalty are destroyed the people will attack the nobles; after the nobles, the rich.  When Europe has become a mere troop of men without consistence or stability, because without leaders, it will fall a prey to brutal conquerors.  Twenty times already has the world seen that sight, and Europe is now preparing to renew it.  Ideas consume the ages as passions consume men.  When man is cured, humanity may possibly cure itself.  Science is the essence of humanity, and we are its pontiffs; whoso concerns himself about the essence cares little about the individual life.”

“To what have you attained, so far?” asked the king.

“We advance slowly; but we lose nothing that we have won.”

“Then you are the king of sorcerers?” retorted the king, piqued at being of no account in the presence of this man.

The majestic grand-master of the Rosicrucians cast a look on Charles IX. which withered him.

“You are the king of men,” he said; “I am the king of ideas.  If we were sorcerers, you would already have burned us.  We have had our martyrs.”

“But by what means are you able to cast nativities?” persisted the king.  “How did you know that the man who came to your window last night was King of France?  What power authorized one of you to tell my mother the fate of her three sons?  Can you, grand-master of an art which claims to mould the world, can you tell me what my mother is planning at this moment?”

“Yes, sire.”

This answer was given before Cosmo could pull his brother’s robe to enjoin silence.

“Do you know why my brother, the King of Poland, has returned?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Why?”

“To take your place.”

“Our most cruel enemies are our nearest in blood!” exclaimed the king, violently, rising and walking about the room with hasty steps.  “Kings have neither brothers, nor sons, nor mothers.  Coligny was right; my murderers are not among the Huguenots, but in the Louvre.  You are either imposters or regicides!—­Jacob, call Solern.”

“Sire,” said Marie Touchet, “the Ruggieri have your word as a gentleman.  You wanted to taste of the fruit of the tree of knowledge; do not complain of its bitterness.”