For France had been brought more nearly to anarchy and utter decomposition than ever.

Henry III., after his fatal forgiveness of the deadly offence of Guise, felt day by day more keenly that he had transferred his sceptre--such as it was--to that dangerous intriguer.
Bitterly did the King regret having refused the prompt offer of Alphonse Corse on the day of the barricades; for now, so long as the new generalissimo should live, the luckless Henry felt himself a superfluity in his own realm.

The halcyon days were for ever past, when, protected by the swords of Joyeuse and of Epernon, the monarch of France could pass his life playing at cup and ball, or snipping images out of pasteboard, or teaching his parrots-to talk, or his lap-dogs to dance.

His royal occupations were gone, and murder now became a necessary preliminary to any future tranquillity or enjoyment.

Discrowned as he felt himself already, he knew that life or liberty was only held by him now at the will of Guise.