CHAPTER XXXIII.
"THE END."
ON St. Louis day, 25th of August, 1715, the King, then seventy-seven years old, felt seriously indisposed. The disease from which he suffered was at first called sciatica. On the 15th he dined in his bedroom at one o'clock. Later he was able to rise and was carried into the saloon of Madame de Maintenon, where he met his ministers. Next day he presided at the council of state held in a room adjoining his bedroom. On the 25th he was sensibly worse. On the 28th, in consequence of fatal symptoms, his surgeon Maréchal proposed to amputate his leg. The aged King scanned the surgeon's face attentively.
"How long should I last then?" he asked.
Maréchal's hand was on Louis's wrist. His pulse did not vary while he waited for an answer.
"In that case," returned Maréchal, "your Majesty might hope to survive some days, perhaps some weeks longer."
"Then it is not worth while," was the reply in a steady voice. "How long can I live now, Maréchal? Tell me the truth."
"Till Wednesday most probably, your Majesty."
"Ah! my death is to be on Wednesday. It is well. It is not so hard to die as I had thought."