‘Be more explicit, ma mie,’ he said, with an inscrutable face.
‘You know, you know. Oh, husband, my Lord, you do not believe it. Say you do not believe it. Send the whispering fiend away. He has hidden my sisters.’
‘She raves,’ said Louis. ‘Has the chirurgeon been with her?’
‘He is even now about to bleed her, my Lord,’ said Madame de Craylierre, ‘and so I have sent for the King’s own physician.’
Louis’s barber-surgeon (not yet Olivier le Dain) was a little, crooked old Jew, at sight of whom Margaret screamed as if she took him for the whispering fiend. He would fain have cleared the room and relieved the air, but this was quite beyond his power; the ladies, knights, pages and all chose to remain and look on at the struggles of the poor patient, while Madame de Craylierre and Lady Drummond held her fast and forced her to submit. Her husband, who alone could have prevailed, did not or would not speak the word, but shrugged his shoulders and left the room, carrying off with him at least his own attendants.
When she saw her blood flow, Margaret exclaimed, ‘Ah, traitors, take me instead of my father—only—a priest.’
Presently she fainted, and after partly reviving, seemed to doze, and this, being less interesting, caused many of the spectators to depart.
When she awoke she was quite herself, and this was well, for the King came to visit her. Margaret was fond of her father-in-law, who had always been kind to her; but she was too ill, and speech hurt her too much, to allow her to utter clearly all that oppressed her.
‘My sisters! my poor sisters!’ she moaned.
‘Ah! ma belle fille, fear not. All will be well with them. No doubt, my good brother Rene has detained them, that Madame Eleanore may study a little more of his music and painting. We will send a courier to Nanci, who will bring good news of them,’ said the King, in a caressing voice which soothed, if it did not satisfy, the sufferer.