‘The poor young man,’ said Philippe’s kind voice, ‘he is fainting. Ah! no wonder it overcame any kind heart.
‘How is the King?’ Berenger tried to say, but his own voice still sounded unnatural and far away.
‘He is better for the time, and will sleep,’ said Pare, administering to his other patient some cordial drops as he spoke. ‘There, sir; you will soon be able to return to the carriage. This has been a sore trial to your strength.
‘But I have gained all—all I could hope,’ said Berenger, looking at his precious papers. ‘But, alas! the poor King!
‘You will never, never let a word of blame pass against him,’ cried Philippe earnestly. ‘It is well that one of our people should have seen how it really is with him. All I regret is that Maitre Rene thrust himself in and saw you.
‘Who?’ said Berenger, who had been too much engrossed to perceive any one.
‘Maitre Rene of Milan, the Queen-mother’s perfume. He came with some plea of bringing a pouncet-box from her, but I wager it was as a spy. I was doing my best to walk him gently off, when the Queen’s cry called me, and he must needs come in after me.
‘I saw him not,’ said Berenger; ‘perhaps he marked not me in the confusion.
‘I fear,’ said Pare gravely, ‘he was more likely to have his senses about him than you. M. le Baron; these bleedings of the King’s are not so new to us familiars to the palace. The best thing now to be done is to have you to the carriage, if you can move.
Berenger, now quite recovered, stood up, and gave his warm thanks to the old nurse for her kindness to him.