“A bloody tale, forsooth,” says M. de la Guesle, eying the monk. “Ay, blood, blood!” mutters Osman who is seated below the salt, next the Comte d’Auvergne. “See you not, my lord,” he continues, half aloud to the Count, holding up his hand warningly, “that this monk is a mad fanatic? Admit him to no speech with the King, I entreat you; he is mad, monseigneur.” “Oh,” answers the Count, in low voice, “I will watch over his Majesty. As the bearer of letters of importance I cannot refuse him an audience, but I will answer that no mischief comes of the meeting.” Soon after, supper being ended, the party separates. The monk is conducted to a bed; and Osman, heaving many heavy sighs, retires to the room appropriated to him, where he consults the stars, until the dawn of day obliterates them and ends his labour. The next day is the 2d of August, and the King, who has been informed of the arrival of a monk with letters over night, commands his early attendance in his bed-chamber. The Comte d’Auvergne conducts Jacques Clément into the presence of Henry, who sits in an arm-chair, only partially dressed, close to the bed. As the communication is to be private, the King signs to D’Auvergne, Clermont, and the other attendants present, to retire to the farther end of the room; then he stretches out his hand to receive the packet from Jacques Clément, who in presenting it bows his head, and stands motionless, his arms crossed on his breast. As Henry’s attention is absorbed and his eyes are bent upon the page, Jacques Clément suddenly draws out the dagger he carried concealed in his sleeve, springs forward, and plunges it up to the hilt in the King’s abdomen. “Help!” groans the King, with difficulty plucking out the weapon and flinging it on the floor. “Help! the wretch has stabbed me. I am killed--kill him!” D’Auvergne rushes forward. The pages and gentlemen in attendance, the guards outside, and Monsieur de la Guesle, who is waiting for an audience, all burst into the room. The King is lying back in the arm-chair; a pool of blood stains the floor from a deep wound; Jacques Clément still stands immovable before him. Swords flash in the air; some fly to support the dying monarch, some to raise an alarm over the palace; others, transported with fury, fall upon the monk, who offers no resistance. He is speedily despatched. Osman, hearing the uproar, enters. “What!” cries he, “is the King dead?” “Not quite,” is the reply. “Who did it?” “Jacques Clément.” “Sainte Marie!” groans the astrologer, wringing his hands, “if you had listened to me this would never have happened. Did I not say there was blood on that monk? Did I not say that the star of the House of Valois had fallen? Alas! alas! If you had but listened!” At this moment M. d’O and the Comte d’Auvergne leave the King’s room to send for a surgeon.