Whilst saying this, he felt the pulse of his patient. This pulse was full of such fatal indications, that the physician continued, notwithstanding the interruptions of the patient: “Put down the years of the Fronde at four each, and you have lived eighty-two years.”
“Are you speaking seriously, Guenaud?”
“Alas! yes, monseigneur.”
“You take a roundabout way, then, to inform me that I am very ill?”
“Ma foi! yes, my lord, and with a man of the mind and courage of your eminence, it ought not to be necessary to do.”
The cardinal breathed with such difficulty that he inspired pity even in a pitiless physician. “There are diseases and diseases,” resumed Mazarin. “From some of them people escape.”
“That is true, my lord.”
“Is it not?” cried Mazarin, almost joyously; “for, in short, what else would be the use of power, of strength of will? What would the use of genius be—your genius, Guenaud? What would be the use of science and art, if the patient, who disposes of all that, cannot be saved from peril?”
Guenaud was about to open his mouth, but Mazarin continued:
“Remember,” said he, “I am the most confiding of your patients; remember I obey you blindly, and that consequently——”