“I am M. de Bussy himself.”
“Bussy,” cried the butcher, “the brave Bussy, the scourge of the minions!” And raising him, he was quickly carried home, whilst the monk went away, murmuring, “If it was that Bussy, I do not wonder he would not confess!”
When he got home, Bussy sent for his usual doctor, who found the wound not dangerous.
“Tell me,” said Bussy, “has it not been already dressed?”
“Ma foi,” said the doctor, “I am not sure.”
“And was it serious enough to make me delirious?”
“Certainly.”
“Ah!” thought Bussy, “was that tapestry, that frescoed ceiling, that bed, the portrait between the windows, the beautiful blonde woman with black eyes, the doctor blindfolded, was this all delirium? Is nothing true but my combat? Where did I fight? Ah, yes, I remember; near the Bastile, by the Rue St. Paul. I leaned against a door, and it opened; I shut it—and then I remember no more. Have I dreamed or not? And my horse! My horse must have been found dead on the place. Doctor, pray call some one.”
The doctor called a valet. Bussy inquired, and heard that the animal, bleeding and mutilated, had dragged itself to the door of the hotel, and had been found there.
“It must have been a dream,” thought he again: “how should a portrait come down from the wall and talk to a doctor with a bandage on his eyes? I am a fool; and yet when I remember she was so charming,” and he began to describe her beauties, till he cried out, “It is impossible it should have been a dream; and yet I found myself in the street, and a monk kneeling by me. Doctor,” said he, “shall I have to keep the house a fortnight again for this scratch, as I did for the last?”