“Gentlemen,” continued the duke, taking something from behind him, “here is the present that in your name I place at the feet of the prince.” “A crown!” cried the prince, scarcely able to stand, “a crown to me, gentlemen?” “Long live François III.!” cried all the gentlemen, drawing their swords. “I! I!” cried the Duke, trembling with joy and terror. “It is impossible! My brother still lives; he is the anointed of the Lord.” “We depose him,” said the duke, “waiting for the time when God shall sanction, by his death, the election which we are about to make, or rather, till one of his subjects, tired of this inglorious reign, forestalls by poison or the dagger the justice of God.” “Gentlemen!” said the duke, feebly. “Monseigneur,” then said the cardinal, “to the scruple which you so nobly expressed just now, this is our answer. Henri III. was the anointed of the Lord, but we have deposed him; it is you who are going to be so. Here is a temple as venerable as that of Rheims; for here have reposed the relics of St Geneviève, patroness of Paris; here has been embalmed the body of Clovis, our first Christian king; well, monseigneur, in this holy temple, I, one of the princes of the Church, and who may reasonably hope to become one day its head, I tell you, monseigneur, that here, to replace the holy oil, is an oil sent by Pope Gregory XIII. Monseigneur, name your future archbishop of Rheims, name your constable, and in an instant, it is you who will be king, and your brother Henri, if he do not give you up the crown, will be the usurper. Child, light the altar.” Immediately, the lad, who was evidently waiting, came out, and presently fifty lights shone round the altar and choir. Then was seen on the altar a miter glittering with precious stones, and a large sword ornamented with fleur-de-lis. It was the archbishop’s miter and the constable’s sword. At the same moment the organ began to play the Veni Creator. This sudden stroke, managed by the three Lorraine princes, and which the Duc d’Anjou himself did not expect, made a profound impression on the spectators. The courageous grew bolder than ever, and the weak grew strong. The Duc d’Anjou raised his head, and with a firmer step than might have been expected, walked to the altar, took the miter in the left hand and the sword in the right, presented one to the cardinal and the other to the duke. Unanimous applause followed this action. “Now, gentlemen,” said the prince to the others, “give your names to M. de Mayenne, grand Master of France, and the day when I ascend the throne, you shall have the cordon bleu.” “Mordieu!” thought Chicot, “what a pity I cannot give mine; I shall never have such another opportunity.” “Now to the altar, sire,” said the cardinal. “Monsieur de Monsoreau my colonel, MM. de Ribeirac and d’Antragues my captains, and M. Livarot, my lieutenant of the guards, take your places.”