“Calm yourself, my dear St. Luc; really, I am better off than you would think; it is the duke whom he suspects, and of whom he is jealous. I am his dear Bussy—his precious friend. That is only natural, for it was that fool of a Rémy who cured him.
“What an idiot he must have been!”
“He has an idea that, as an honest man and a doctor, it is his duty to cure people. However, Monsoreau says he owes his life to me, and confides his wife to my care.”
“Ah! I understand that this makes you wait more patiently for his death. However, I am quite thunderstruck at the news.”
“But, now, my friend, let us leave Monsoreau.”
“Yes, let us enjoy life while he is still ill; but once he is well, I shall order myself a suit of mail, have new locks put on my doors, and you must ask the Duc d’Anjou if his mother has not given him some antidote against poison. Meanwhile, let us amuse ourselves.”
“Well, my dear friend, you see you have only rendered me half a service.”
“Do you wish me to finish it?”
“Yes, in another way.”
“Speak.”