“What do you do?” said the young priest.
“We burn them.”
Lecamus was forced to lean on the astrologer’s arm, for his legs gave way beneath him; he thought it probable that on the morrow his son would hang from one of those gibbets. The poor old man was thrust between two sciences, astrology and surgery, both of which promised him the life of his son, for whom in all probability that scaffold was now erecting. In the trouble and distress of his mind, the Florentine was able to knead him like dough.
“Well, my worthy dealer in minever, what do you say now to the Lorraine jokes?” whispered Ruggiero.
“Alas! you know I would give my skin if that of my son were safe and sound.”
“That is talking like your trade,” said the Italian; “but explain to me the operation which Ambroise means to perform upon the king, and in return I will promise you the life of your son.”
“Faithfully?” exclaimed the old furrier.
“Shall I swear it to you?” said Ruggiero.
Thereupon the poor old man repeated his conversation with Ambroise Pare to the astrologer, who, the moment that the secret of the great surgeon was divulged to him, left the poor father abruptly in the street in utter despair.
“What the devil does he mean, that miscreant?” cried Lecamus, as he watched Ruggiero hurrying with rapid steps to the place de l’Estape.