"I—I am better, Guénaud—much better, now; I had fatigued myself among my pictures. But I did much, Guénaud—I did too much. I even crawled to my stables—to my garden; I am gaining strength. To-morrow——"
Mazarin stops; a severe fit of coughing almost suffocates him. Again the ashy hue—grey as the shadows of departing day when the sun has set—overcasts his features. Guénaud does not reply, but still contemplates his patient attentively. The Cardinal looks up; a hectic colour flushes his cheeks.
"Come," says he, "speak; be honest with me. I am better?" Guénaud bows.
"I trust so," replies he.
"Sangue di Dio!"—and the Cardinal grows crimson, and clenches his thin fingers with nervous agony—"speak. Your silence agitates me. What have you to tell me? How long have I to live? Shall I recover?"
Guénaud shakes his head. Mazarin's face again becomes of a sudden deadly pale. He leans back on his pillows, and sniffs a strong essence in a filigree bottle lying by his side. "Guénaud," says he, "I dread death, but I am no coward. I am prepared for the worst."
"I rejoice to hear it," answers the physician solemnly, feeling his pulse. "You will have need of all your fortitude."
"Is it so? Well, then, let me hear my fate!"
"Your eminence cannot live long. Nothing can save you."