"Do not weep, Mary," said the king. "We shall meet again above. I regret nothing in this world but you. If I could carry you with me, I should be glad to die. The journey to heaven is even more beautiful than that to Italy; and then, too, I fear that without me you will never know any joy. They will make you suffer,—you will be cold and lonely; they will kill you, my poor dear heart! It is that which afflicts me much more than death."
The king sank back upon his pillow exhausted, and maintained a dejected silence.
"But you shall not die; you shall not die, Sire!" cried Mary. "Listen, I have a great hope. One chance in which I have faith is left us."
"What do you mean?" Catherine de Médicis, drawing near in her amazement, interrupted her.
"Yes," continued Mary Stuart, "the king may yet he and shall be saved. Something within me tells me that all these physicians by whom he is surrounded and wearied to death are ignorant and blind. But there is a skilful man, learned and famous,—a man who preserved my uncle's life at Calais—"
"Master Ambroise Paré?" suggested the cardinal.
"Master Ambroise Paré!" Mary repeated. "They say that this man ought not to have the king's life in his hands, and would himself prefer not to; that he is a heretic and accursed; and that even if he would accept the responsibility of such a case, it ought not to be intrusted to him."
"That is very certain," said the queen-mother, scornfully.
"What! if I intrust it to him myself?" cried Mary. "Can a man of genius be a traitor! A great man, Madame, is always a good man."
"But," said the cardinal, "my brother has not delayed thinking of Ambroise Paré until to-day. He has already been approached."