Bishop (whispers). ’Ssh! Monseigneur is waking. (Goes to the bed and draws the curtains.) But how is this, Doctor? The boy is not undressed?
Doctor. He refused. He said that if he had to die he would die as his father did, in his clothes.
Bishop. Brave lad! (So he seats himself on the edge of the bed, outside of which the little Monseigneur lies, fully dressed, propped up by pillows. And after a while, as the Bishop leans forward and gently places his large peasant’s hand on the poor child’s small and scorching palm, Monseigneur turns towards him, feebly and languidly, and looks at him with wide-open, frightened eyes. Soothingly.) Well, Monseigneur? And how are we?
Monseigneur (murmurs). Bishop of Langres! Tell me—am I really going to die?
Bishop (gently). To die! After all, what is it to die? It is only to go from one room to another. And to another, better!
Monseigneur (fretfully). I would rather stay here. Here are all my friends, and my soldiers, and my new cannon. Besides, to die in spring! So early in the year, when there is so much to do; when my people want me. (Raising himself slightly.) Where is Beppo?
Bishop. He will be here directly. He is only being washed.
Monseigneur (smiles faintly). Poor Beppo! That is not one of his favourite amusements.
Bishop. You are fond of Beppo? Is it not so, Monseigneur?
Monseigneur. Very fond.