“Ah,” sighed the boy, “I have a pain in the belly, monseigneur my father.”
“The wine of Paxaretos,” said Charles, “is a sovereign cure.”
“I do not like wine; my head aches, monseigneur my father.”
“Son,” said Charles, “thou must run and leap and romp as do other boys of thine own years.”
“My legs are stiff, monseigneur my father.”
“How,” said Charles, “how can they be otherwise if thou usest them no more than if they were legs of wood? I will have thee fastened on some nimble steed.”
“Do not so,” said he, “I have a pain in my loins, monseigneur my father.”
“But,” said Charles, “you have a pain everywhere then?”
“I would not be ill at all if I were left in peace,” replied the child.