She was told that they had sent to Paris for a doctor, to Versailles for the King’s physician.
“Versailles,” she repeated; her eyes lit.
Madame de la Fayette put her arm about her and held her up in bed; she seemed for the moment a little eased of her agony.
M. Vyelen roused her as she lay in this half swoon to bleed her arm.
All her poor vanity was roused; there was a great ballet on Thursday–she might be there yet–and her arms were her especial beauty.
“My foot!” she pleaded; “Monsieur, bleed my foot.”
He insisted; her husband came and added his authority; she must be bled in the arm if M. Vyelen commanded it.
She protested still and moaned; Monsieur helped to support her while the doctor bared her arm.
She looked so pale, so worn with pain, so patient, she lifted her eyes with such a look of dumb helplessness that Monsieur was troubled and turned his face away.
The doctor opened a vein; she shuddered to see the blood run into the basin; she began to make complaint when all his bandaging would not stop the bleeding and her pillow began to be stained with the quick-spreading red.