The news was at Versailles, he told her; but no one thought her dying–she was not dying.
Monsieur came to her bedside. M. Vallot, he said, had come to him four times and assured him on his life that there was no danger; the other doctors had agreed with him, and he had returned to Versailles.
Madame looked at the pink figure of her husband and the jasmine drooping in his buttonhole.
“I know my state better than the doctors,” she said; “and I think there is no remedy.”
Her husband moved away with M. le Prince. Every one in the room seemed talking together; their voices echoed in her head horribly. She tried to compose her thoughts, but could not. If she might only have some respite from her pain! Why did not the King come?
Mme d’Epernon brought her a draught of senna that M. Vallot had ordered.
She drank it, and Mme Gamaches, approaching, said that the King had sent for news.
“Tell his Majesty I am dying,” said Madame. Not content with that, she asked them to send M. de Crequi to Versailles to say that she was in great peril.
Meanwhile no remedy had given her any ease; she asked if they could not bring her something to assuage her anguish.
M. Vyelen answered that she must wait; in two hours the senna would relieve her.