“Yes, M. de Charny, who fortunately arrived in time to procure you assistance.”
“A mere scratch, sire,” stammered Charny, “an old wound.”
“Old or new,” replied Louis, “it has shown me the blood of a brave man.”
“Whom a couple of hours in bed will quite restore,” continued Charny, trying to rise; but his strength failed him, his head swam, and he sank back again.
“He is very ill,” said the king.
“Yes, sire,” said the doctor, with importance, “but I can cure him.”
The king understood well that M. de Charny wished to hide some secret from him, and determined to respect it. “I do not wish,” said he, “that M. de Charny should run the risk of being moved; we will take care of him here. Let M. de Suffren be called, this gentleman recompensed, and my own physician, Dr. Louis, be sent for.”
While one officer went to execute these orders, two others carried Charny into a room at the end of the gallery. Dr. Louis and M. de Suffren soon arrived. The latter understood nothing of his nephew’s illness. “It is strange,” said he; “do you know, doctor, I never knew my nephew ill before.”
“That proves nothing,” replied the doctor.
“The air of Versailles must be bad for him.”