The door opened and Dr. Albant, a handsome old man, entered with smiles and nods. He removed his coat and tied on a large apron. Trying the edge of his scalpel on his nail, he turned to the students and physicians, and began to talk of the German method of conducting a post mortem.
"We French, however, begin here," he said, lightly placing his scalpel on the tender flesh.
"Dr. Albant!" cried a stentorian voice.
The surgeon turned. A messenger in the king's livery stood in the doorway.
"Gentlemen, excuse me—the king communicates with me!"
A close observer would have thought it singular that the king should send a letter by an ordinary servant, like a simple bourgeois. But this did not seem to strike Dr. Albant, who, with a face beaming with smiles, turned to the students, saying:
"Excuse me, gentlemen, but the king demands my presence."
"But the autopsy?"
"Oh! that may be given up. This man died from cerebral congestion—I see it as plain as day!"