“Sire, I see one star shining brightly in the firmament.” “Where?” asks the King. “Just over the Camp of Meudon, where Henry of Navarre lies this night. But look, your Majesty, at that other star there over the woods. It blazes for a moment; and now, see--it falls; it has disappeared behind the palace!” “By the mother of God,” says the King, reddening either with terror or passion, “I have had enough of this gibberish. Hark ye, you wandering Jew! no more of these ugly portents, or, by St. Louis, the guardian of our race, we will hold you warrant for all that may happen to our person.” Osman shrunk back from the window, trembling with fright. He does not wait for permission to depart, but as the King rises to address some gentlemen he glides from the gallery. “If ever I heard a voice hoarse with blood, it is his,” mutters the astrologer, pointing to the King as he crept away. “By the brightness of the celestial bodies, there will be evil this night. I will never draw horoscope more, if to-morrow’s sun finds Henry of Valois alive. There is blood on him, but he sees it not. His star has fallen, he beheld it; but he understood not the portent.” As Osman crosses the circular hall opening from the gallery and leading to the principal staircase, he meets the Comte d’Auvergne[18] conversing with a Dominican monk, whose sinister countenance expressed every evil passion. A crowd of attendants had assembled and are listening to the conversation. “Good father,” says M. d’Auvergne, addressing the Dominican, “you must not, at this late hour, insist on seeing his Majesty; he is engaged.” “But, indeed, monseigneur, I do insist upon seeing him without a moment’s delay, and alone. It is on a matter of life and death.” The monk’s bold words and determined bearing evidently impress M. d’Auvergne in his favour. “Are you the bearer of any despatches for his Majesty?” he asks. “Those might be delivered, although his Majesty has just retired and is at this moment in his oratory, busy with his devotions.” As he spoke, D’Auvergne scans him curiously; the monk perceives the look, draws his cowl closer over his face, and withdraws from the full glare of the lights on the staircase. “I am the bearer of letters of the greatest importance, monseigneur--letters from the President Harlay, now a prisoner of the League; but I am charged to deliver them in person, and into the hand of his Majesty alone. Nor is that all; I have a secret communication to make, which it behoves the King to hear without delay. Good gentlemen,” and he faces round to the courtiers who are gathered about him, “I pray you, one of you, go to the King and tell him what I say.” “Impossible,” replies the Count d’O, who came from the gallery at that moment, and hears the last few words; “impossible. His Majesty is now alone; I have just left him. He is fatigued, and desired not to be disturbed.”