Doctor (angrily). Seeing that all diseases enter by the mouth!
Bishop (amused). What? In springtime? In Provence?
Doctor (grumbles). Especially in springtime. Always! (Mumbling, with cloak drawn over his mouth.) Plague and fever!
Bishop. At any rate, Doctor, you will agree with me that if Monseigneur dies it means ruin for the Duchy.
Doctor (scornfully). If?
Bishop. There will infallibly be civil war here all through the summer. There will be neither harvest nor vintage!
Doctor (shortly). I agree.
Bishop. And in the autumn, here, in the very palace of Monseigneur, will most surely be found securely seated that dangerous ruffian, the Comte de Poix. An infidel; a pronounced foe to Holy Church! While you and I, my good friend⸺
Doctor (drily). All the more reason, Bishop, for you to set to work at once with your miracle. You have my full permission—plena auctoritas—to begin.
Bishop (with a glance at the bed). After all, Beppo is Monseigneur’s brother. You knew that, Doctor?