“Silence, sir! I am calling you back to your duty,” whispered the doctor, as he guided Francis quickly along the passage, still holding him tightly by the wrist, “for once more I pray you to prove yourself our country’s greatest son.”
Francis made no reply, no sign, but, yielding helplessly, allowed himself to be led to the door of his ante-chamber, where the door opened without being touched, and, once inside, closed behind them, Saint Simon having been waiting, while Denis, who looked pale and excited by the light of the two candles that illumined the room, rose up from where he had been kneeling, securing the straps of a valise.
No one spoke a word, for Leoni raised his hand as if commanding silence, as he still held the wrist of Francis, who gazed vacantly from one to the other as if he were in a dream.
“Is the Comte ill?” said Denis anxiously.
“A little over-excited,” said Leoni quickly. “A cup of water, boy.” And as he spoke, without leaving his grasp of the King’s wrist, Leoni thrust the hand at liberty into his breast and drew forth a little golden flacon, which glistened in the light.
“Set down the cup,” said Leoni quickly, as Denis returned from the bedchamber with the water. “Now, boy, unscrew the top of this, and hold it in your hand.”
Leoni held out the little glistening flask, retaining it tightly, while Denis twisted off the tiny, cup-like top.
“Not that way, boy; turn it up so that I can fill it to the brim. Now,” he whispered, “empty it into the water, and screw on the top once more.”
This was quickly done, and the flacon replaced.
“Now,” continued Leoni, “hand the cup to the Comte. The ballroom was overheated, and the wine he has drunk to-night has affected him.—Drink, sir; you will be better then.”