“Ah, let me see; where?”
“Below the shoulder bone.”
“The steel must have come against a bone.” And he began to examine. “No, I am wrong,” said he, “the sword came against nothing, but passed right through.” Monsoreau fainted after this examination.
“Ah! that is all right,” said Rémy, “syncope, low pulse, cold in the hands and legs: Diable! the widowhood of Madame de Monsoreau will not last long, I fear.”
At this moment a slight bloody foam rose to the lips of the wounded man.
Rémy drew from his pocket his lancet case; then tearing off a strip from the patient’s shirt, bound it round his arm.
“We shall see,” said he, “if the blood flows. Ah, it does! and I believe that Madame de Monsoreau will not be a widow. Pardon, my dear M. de Bussy, but I am a doctor.”
Presently the patient breathed, and opened his eyes.
“Oh!” stammered he, “I thought all was over.”
“Not yet, my dear monsieur; it is even possible——”