“It is his wound,” said one of the officers.
“His wound!” cried M. de Suffren; “he never was wounded in his life.”
“Oh, excuse me,” said the officer, opening the shirt, covered with blood, “but I thought——”
“Well,” said the doctor, who began to see the state of the case, “do not let us lose time disputing over the cause, but see what can be done to cure him.”
“Is it dangerous, doctor?” asked M. de Suffren, with anxiety.
“Not at all,” replied he.
M. de Suffren took his leave, and left Charny with the doctor. Fever commenced, and before long he was delirious. Three hours after the doctor called a servant, and told him to take Charny in his arms, who uttered doleful cries. “Roll the sheet over his head,” said the doctor.
“But,” said the man, “he struggles so much that I must ask assistance from one of the guards.”
“Are you afraid of a sick man, sir? If he is too heavy for you, you are not strong enough for me. I must send you back to Auvergne.” This threat had its effect. Charny, crying, fighting, and gesticulating, was carried by the man through the guards.
Some of the officers questioned the doctor.