“May it please monseigneur,” the valet whispers into the Count’s ear, “the reverend father knows how to travel in these stormy times. He has not forgotten to bring a goodly dagger with him; though perhaps the breviary, being less useful, is forgotten.”
“Not so, brother,” answers the monk who, overhearing his whisper, draws out a missal from his bosom; “I never travel without the one and the other—defences for the body and the soul—whichever may most need it.”
But the garrulous old servant, once set talking, is not to be silenced. He begins a long account, in a low voice, addressed to the Count, of how the monk, on arriving, had entertained him and his fellows in the courtyard with a history of the death of Holofernes the tyrant, by the hands of a Jewish maiden Judith, the saviour of her country.
“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!”