“Frederick Barbarossa is still asleep. In the crypt beneath a ruined castle, in the midst of a dense forest, he is seated before a table round which his beard has twisted seven times. He will awake to drive away the crows which croak around the mountain.
“These, madame, are the greatest sleepers of whom History has kept a record.”
“They are all exceptions,” answered the Queen. “You, Monsieur Gastinel, who practise medicine, have you ever seen people sleep a hundred years?”
“No, madame,” replied the accoucheur, “I have not exactly seen any such, nor do I ever expect to do so; but I have seen some curious cases of lethargy, which, if you desire, I will bring to Your Majesty’s notice.
“Ten years ago a demoiselle Jeanne Caillou, being admitted to the Hôtel-Dieu, there slept for six consecutive years. I myself observed the girl Léonide Montauciel, who fell asleep on Easter Day in the year ‘61, and did not awake until Easter Day of the following year.”
“Monsieur Gastinel,” demanded the King, “can the point of a spindle cause a wound which will send one to sleep for a hundred years?”
“Sire, it is not probable,” answered Monsieur Gastinel, “but in the domain of pathology, we can never say with certainty, ‘This will or will not happen.’”
“One might mention Brunhild,” said Monsieur Gerberoy, “who was pricked by a thorn, fell asleep, and was awakened by Sigurd.”
“There was also Guenillon,” said the Duchess of Cicogne, first lady-in-waiting to the Queen. And she hummed:
She was sent to the wood
To gather some nuts,
The bush was too high,
The maid was too small.
The bush was too high,
The maid was too small,
She pricked her poor hand
With a very sharp thorn.
She pricked her poor hand
With a very sharp thorn,
From the pain in her finger
The maid fell asleep.