St. Luc held out his hand with visible ill-humor.
“Oh!” said the king, “intermittent—agitated.”
“Yes, sire, I am very ill.”
“I will send you my doctor.”
“Thank you, sire, but I hate Miron.”
“I will watch you myself. You shall have a bed in my room, and we will talk all night.”
“Oh!” cried St Luc, “you see me ill, and you want to keep me from sleeping. That is a singular way to treat your patient, doctor.”
“But you cannot be left alone, suffering as you are.”
“Sire, I have my page, Jean.”
“But he sleeps.”