We are at Saint-Cloud. The time, the wars of the League. At the head of the Leaguers is the Duc de Mayenne, only living brother of the Guises. Henry III. commands the royal forces. With him is Henry of Navarre. Since the Queen-mother’s death the King of France has become reconciled to his brother-in-law. He shows himself almost a hero. They are both defending the Crown to which Mayenne aspires. Eight months have passed since the murder of the Balafré. That treacherous deed has done the King no good; Mayenne lives to avenge his brother’s death, and the Catholic party is still more alienated from the King since he has called a heretic into his councils. The royal troops are lying encamped among the hilly woodlands of the park towards Ville d’Avray and Meudon, then, as now, pleasant to the eye. On the 1st August, 1589, Henry sat in the long gallery of the palace (until lately lined with pictures and gorgeously decorated), playing at cards with his attendants. He holds himself so upright, that he moves neither his head nor his feet, and his hands as little as possible. A hood hangs upon his shoulders; a little cap, with a flower stuck in it, is placed over one ear; round his neck, suspended by a broad blue ribbon, is a basket of gold wickerwork, full of little puppies. Monsieur d’O, Seigneur of Fiesnes and Maillebois, first gentleman of the bed-chamber, and Governor of Paris, has been joking him about the predictions of an astrologer, named Osman, who has arrived that evening at Saint-Cloud in company with some noblemen. “By our Ladye-mother! let us have him in and hear what he can say,” cries the King. “These fellows are diverting. I will question him myself.” Osman is sent for; but startled at so sudden and unexpected an interview with the King himself in such a whimsical attire, scarcely knows how to reply to the gibes his Majesty addressed to him. “Come, come,” says the King, “let us hear what you can do. They tell me you draw horoscopes. Let me have a specimen of your skill.” “Sire,” replies Osman, somewhat recovered from his confusion, “I will obey you; but, as sure as fate, the heavens this night are unpropitious. The light of the moon is veiled; there are signs of mourning among the stars; lamentations and woe are written in the planets; a great misfortune hangs over you--Beware!” “By St. Denis!” cries the King, “the fellow is glib enough with his tongue; but tell me, good heathen, are the stars in mourning for a king or for an emperor?” “Sire, they mourn over the approaching extinction of your race.” “Heaven preserve us!” answers the King, with affected consternation, caressing his puppies. “But tell me now, if you have any knowledge, what do the celestial powers think of those accursed rebels, the Leaguers, and their chief, the Duc de Mayenne? Is that bold traitor in favour among the stars?” Osman does not at once reply; but, advancing to the window, throws open the sash, and silently observes the heavens.