“Grease _your_ neck, that the knife may slip the easier through it, unless you bring it within a decade of minutes.” “Too much honor by half,” exclaimed Philippe. “I will slip to the curé as rapidly as if I slid the whole way on the precious ointment itself. Meanwhile, here is a bottle of Burgundy--” “Which I shall have finished within the time specified. So, despatch; and let us have t’other bottle, too!” When Philippe Hourelle had communicated the request to the curé, Monsieur Seraine, with a quickness of thought that did justice to his imagination, exclaimed, “We will take the rogues in, and give them a false article for the real one.” But the time was so short; there was no second ancient-looking vial at hand; there was not a pinch of pomatum, nor a spoonful of oil in the house, and the curé confessed, with a sigh, that the genuine relic must needs be surrendered. “But we can save some of it!” cried M. Seraine; “here is the vial, give me the consecrating spoon.” And with the handle of the spoon, having extracted some small portions, which the curé subsequently wrapped up carefully, and rather illegibly labelled, the vial was delivered to Philippe, who surrendered it to Citizen Rhull, who carried the same to the front of the finest cathedral in France, and at the foot of the statue of Louis XV. Citizen Rhull solemnly hammered the vial into powder, and, in the name of the Republic, trod the precious ointment underfoot till it was not to be distinguished from the mud with which it was mingled. “And so do we put an end to princes and pomatum,” cried he. Philippe coughed evasively; smiled as if he was of the same way of thinking with the republican, and exclaimed, very mentally indeed, “Vivent les princes et la pommade.” Neither, he felt assured, was irrevocably destroyed. The time, indeed, did come round again for princes, and Napoleon was to be crowned at Notre Dame. He cared little as to what had become of the Heaven-descended ointment, and he might have anointed, as well as crowned, himself. There were some dozen gentlemen who hoped that excuse might be discovered for creating the usual order of the Knights of the Ampoule; but the Emperor did not care a fig for knights or ointment, and, to the horror of all who hoped to be chevaliers, the imperial coronation was celebrated without either. But then Napoleon was discrowned, as was to be expected from such profanity; and therewith returned the Bourbons, who, having forgotten nothing, bethought themselves of the Saint Ampoule. Monsieur de Chevrières, magistrate at Rheims, set about the double work of discovery and recovery. For some time he was unsuccessful. At length, early in 1819, the three sons of the late Philippe Hourelle waited on him. They made oath that not only were they aware of a portion of the sacred ointment having been in the keeping of their late father, but that his widow succeeded the inheritance, and that she reckoned it as among her choicest treasures.