The bishop of Chateau-Thierry and the Cardinal de Joyeuse repeated the prayers for the dying, which were joined in by all who were present, kneeling, and with their hands clasped reverently together.  Toward mid-day, the dying man opened his eyes; the sun’s rays broke through a cloud and inundated the bed with a flood of light.  Francois, who, up to that moment, had been unable to move a single finger, and whose mind had been obscured like the sun which had just re-appeared, raised one of his arms toward heaven with a horror-stricken gesture.

He looked all round the room, heard the murmuring of the prayers, grew conscious of his illness as well as of his weakness, became aware of his critical position, perhaps because he already caught a glimpse of that unseen and terrible future, the abode of certain souls after they have quitted their earthly prison.

He thereupon uttered a loud and piercing cry, and struck his forehead with a force which made every one tremble.

Then, knitting his brows, as if one of the mysterious incidents of his life had just recurred to him, he murmured: 

“Bussy!  Diana!”

This latter name had been overheard by none but Catherine, so weakened had the dying man’s voice become before pronouncing it.

With the last syllable of that name Francois d’Anjou breathed his last sigh.

At this very moment, by a singular coincidence, the sun, which had gilded with its rays the royal arms of France, and the golden fleurs-de-lis, was again obscured:  so that the fleurs-de-lis which had been so brilliantly illumined but a moment before, became as dark and gloomy as the azure ground which they had but recently studded with constellations almost as resplendent as those whereon the eye of the dreamer rests in his upward gaze toward heaven.

Catherine let her son’s hand fall.

Henri III. shuddered, and leaned tremblingly on Chicot’s shoulder, who shuddered too, but from a feeling of awe which every Christian feels in the presence of the dead.

Miron placed a golden spatula on Francois’ lips; after a few seconds, he looked at it carefully and said: 

“Monseigneur is dead.”

Whereupon a deep prolonged groan arose from the antechamber, like an accompaniment to the psalm which the cardinal murmured:  “Cedant iniquitates meae ad vocem deprecationis meae.”

“Dead,” repeated the king, making the sign of the cross as he sat in his fauteuil; “my brother, my brother!”

“The sole heir of the throne of France,” murmured Catherine, who, having quitted the bed whereon the corpse was lying, had placed herself beside the only son who now remained to her.

“Oh!” said Henri, “this throne of France is indeed large for a king without issue; the crown is indeed large for a single head.  No children! no heirs!  Who will succeed me?”

Hardly had he pronounced these words when a loud noise was heard on the staircase and in the apartments.