“Sire, in the name of all the saints, what is the matter with you?” exclaimed the Doctor.
“Wretch!” answered the King, “why do you construct such traps that one cannot find the way out of them?”
Now it was Louis himself who, in his youth, had constructed the maze, but the Doctor could not venture to tell him so. Therefore he spoke soothingly.
“Sire, you are ill. Why do you not remain in Tours? How have you come here?”
“I cannot sleep, and I cannot eat. The last few days I have passed in Vincennes, in Saint-Pol, in the Louvre, but I find peace nowhere. At last I came here, in order to be safe in the place which only you and I know; I came yesterday morning, and would have stayed longer, but I was hungry, and when I wanted to get out, I could not find the way. I have been here, freezing, last night. Take me away; I am ill; feel my pulse, and see whether it is not the quartan ague.” The Doctor tried to feel his pulse, but did so with difficulty for it was hardly beating at all; but he dared not tell the King so.
“Your pulse is regular and strong, sire; let us get home!”
“I will eat at your house; you only can prepare food properly; all the rest spoil it with their everlasting condiments; they spice all my dishes, and the spices are bad. Jacob, help me to get away from here—help me. Did you see the star last night? Is there anything new in the sky? There is certain a comet approaching. I feel it before it comes.”
“No, sire; no comet is approaching....”
“Do you answer impertinently? Then you believe I am sick—perhaps incurably.”
“No, sire, you are healthier than ever; but follow me—I will make you a bed, and prepare you a meal.”